In Silence. Erica SpindlerЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      “The cruellest lies are often told in silence.”

      —Robert Louis Stevenson

      Acknowledgments

      I’ve become a bit of a fixture at a local coffeehouse, sitting in a quiet corner, feverishly tapping away at my laptop keyboard. I share this with you because many of the people who I intend to acknowledge here, I connected with while sitting in that corner. A friendlier bunch you won’t find; I think of us as “Cheers” for the caffeine set.

      I continue to be humbled and amazed by the enthusiasm and generosity shown me by the various professionals I approach for information, hat in hand. Thank you one and all. Without your generous contribution of time, personal insights and professional expertise, In Silence would have been much more difficult to bring to life. I hope you are pleased with the way I used the fruits of your labor.

      I begin with my fellow coffee addicts: Renee Plauché and Linda Daley, who blew me away with their generosity toward me, a total stranger. Renee, a University of New Orleans graduate student in counseling, overheard me discussing avenues to research mental illness and offered help. She went so far as to lend me her textbooks, including the DSM IV, (that I now know to be), the clinician’s guide to diagnosis. Likewise Linda, hearing that I was tackling the subject of suicide, offered to share the story of her own father’s suicide. With a master’s in psychology and couseling, she was able to give me both professional and personal insights into suicide and its emotional aftermath. Captains Ralph and Patrick Juneau, Jefferson Parish Fire Department, for the crash course on all things fire: from arson to turn-out gear. Stephanie Otto, nursing student, Charity School of Nursing, for on-the-spot medical terminology and procedure information.

      From beyond the coffeehouse walls: Michael D. Defatta, chief deputy coroner, St. Tammany Parish Coroner’s Office, for taking time out of his busy schedule to meet and answer my questions about the role of the coroner in criminal investigations and forensic pathology, particularly as it applies to burn victims. Frank Jordan, director of Emergency Medical Services, Mandeville Fire District #4, for his explanation of death by fire. Mrs. Barbara Gould, wife of West Feliciana Parish coroner Dr. Alfred Gould, for the long chat and great quote. Pat McLaughlin, friend, fellow author and journalist, for giving me a glimpse into the mind of the investigative reporter. Tom Mincher, owner of America Hunter Gun and Archery Shop, for information about hunting rifles and ammunition.

      Thanks to my friends and colleagues who not only make the journey a smooth one, but a heck of a lot of fun as well. The amazing Dianne Moggy and the entire MIRA crew. My assistant, Rajean Schulze. My agent, Evan Marshall. My publicist, Lori Ames.

      To my family, without whose love and support the days would be long, indeed.

      And last but unquestionably first, thanks to my God, the one responsible for it all.

      PROLOGUE

       Cypress Springs, Louisiana Thursday, October 17, 2002 3:30 a.m.

      The one called the Gavel waited patiently. The woman would come soon, he knew. He had been watching her. Learning her schedule, her habits. Those of her neighbors as well.

      Tonight she would learn the price of moral corruption.

      He moved his gaze over the woman’s darkened bedroom. Garments strewn across the matted carpeting. Dresser top littered with an assortment of cosmetic bottles and jars, empty Diet Coke and Miller Lite cans, gum and candy wrappers. Cigarette butts spilled from an overflowing ashtray.

       A pig as well as a whore.

      Twin feelings of resignation and disgust flowed over him. Had he expected anything different from a woman like her? An alley cat who bedded a new man nearly every night?

      He was neither prude nor saint. Nor was he naive. These days few waited for marriage to consummate their relationship. He could live with that; he understood physical urges.

      But excesses such as hers would not be tolerated in Cypress Springs. The Seven had voted. It had been unanimous. As their leader, it was his responsibility to make her understand.

      The Gavel glanced at the bedside clock. He had been waiting nearly an hour. It wouldn’t be long now. Tonight she had gone to CJ’s, a bar on the west side of town, one frequented by the hard-partying crowd. She had left with a man named DuBroc. As was her MO, they had gone to his place. To the Gavel’s knowledge, this was a first offense for DuBroc. He would be watched as well. And if necessary, warned.

      From the front of the apartment came the sound of the door lock turning over. The door opening, then clicking shut. A shudder moved over him. Of distaste for the inevitable. He wasn’t a predator, as some might label him. Predators sought the small and weak, either to sustain themselves or for twisted self-gratification.

      Nor was he a bloodthirsty monster or sadist.

      He was an honorable man. God-fearing, law-abiding. A patriot.

      But as were the other members of The Seven, he was a man driven to desperate measures. To protect and defend all he held dear.

      Women like this one soiled the community, they contributed to the moral