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Wade hesitated, knowing this was going to be an issue for Tate.
“Queens Crossing.”
A muscle jerked at the side of Tate’s mouth. “Son of a bitch. How many?” he asked.
Wade glanced at the report. “Seven so far. The victims are male and female, no specific ages, and each of them dead from a single gunshot. The ballistics reports aren’t in yet, but it’s our man.”
Cameron Winger ended his phone call and looked at Tate. “What’s the issue with Queens Crossing?”
Tate’s expression was grim. “I grew up there. Still have friends and family there. Do you have the names of the deceased?”
Wade glanced at his notes. “Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
Tate took the list and scanned it quickly, relieved there was no one named Landry or Benton.
“How bad is the flooding?” he asked.
“At last count, twenty feet above flood level, and the river has yet to peak,” Wade said.
Tate knew the location of Nola Landry’s home and knew without question, it would be gone. It was bad enough that she and her mother would have lost everything. He didn’t even want to think that they could have drowned. The last memory he had of her, she’d been crying and he’d been the cause. He sat down with a thump.
Wade frowned. “What?”
Tate shook his head, unwilling to get into specifics.
“I was just thinking about what-all has been lost and who might have died with it. So when are we leaving?”
“As soon as we can pack up,” Wade said.
Cameron began gathering up his notes.
“I’ll tell the Natchez police we’re leaving,” Wade said.
“We’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Tate said.
Two hours later they were on their way south to Queens Crossing and getting a firsthand look at the spreading devastation. It was midafternoon when they arrived to find a town in disaster mode.
The Red Cross was set up in the high school gymnasium. People who had been displaced by the flooding had not only lost their belongings but their homes, as well. Most of them had escaped with only what they could carry, and there were cars and trucks in a line outside the building, dropping off donations of what appeared to be food and clothing.
Tate searched the faces as they drove past, startled that there were so few he recognized, then remembered the place would be full of volunteers—one of whom could possibly be their killer.
“Hey, Tate, where is the police department, and will it be local or county?” Cameron asked.
“You’re in Louisiana, remember? So it’s parish, not county, and the law here will be local. Unless he’s been replaced, the chief’s name is Beaudry. Take a left at the bank and go down two blocks. It’ll be the gray two-story building on the right.”
“Two stories? That’s a big building for a small town.”
“It used to be the courthouse. The morgue is in the basement. The jail is on the first floor and offices are on the second.”
“Got it,” Cameron said.
A couple of minutes later they pulled up in the parking lot. When they got out, Tate led the way inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the desk and pulled out his ID.
“Special Agent Benton, FBI, and these are my partners, Luckett and Winger. We need to speak to the chief.”
“Chief Beaudry is downstairs in the morgue,” the officer said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
