Free Baton Rouge Bingo by Greg Herren

slightly ajar, and I could feel cold air coming through the crack. I was probably right—she’d probably come outside when she heard the car pull up. She hadn’t shut the door all the way—it looked like the wood of the door and its frame had been swollen by humidity so many times they both were a little warped, so the door had to be slammed in order to shut. I couldn’t see anything through the small opening—it was dark inside. I resisted the temptation to go in and poke around—the cops wouldn’t appreciate that—so I turned my attention back to the crime scene itself.
    The porch itself needed painting, as did the cabin, and the screens had rusted. The wooden planks, once painted a pale blue, were rotted through in places and warped in others. There were some solid metal chairs, the kind that sit on metal pipes and can rock a little, placed at regular intervals. They too had rusted in the heavy swamp air over the years, and looked like they hadn’t been moved since they were put there—sometime during the Eisenhower administration, if not earlier.
    I got out my phone. Trying to move as little as possible, I took pictures of everything I could see on the porch from every conceivable angle before pushing the screen door open with my foot and walking down the steps.
    Mom was still bent over, her hands on her knees. The remnants of her breakfast lay in the tall grass in front of her.
    “You okay, Mom?” I said softly, putting my hand on her lower back.
    She straightened up and nodded. She turned and wiped her mouth with her left forearm. She gave me a weak smile. She still looked pale and clammy, her eyes bloodshot and watery. “I can’t swear to it without taking a better look, but I hope you don’t mind if I don’t take another look, okay?” She breathed in deeply. “I’m pretty sure that’s Veronica, though.” She shook her head and gave me a pleading look. “Damn. I don’t suppose we can just get in the car and just head back to Storm’s and pretend we were never here?”
    “I wish we could do that, believe me.” I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “But someone may have seen us come out here, and if we don’t call the cops, they’ll want to know why. It won’t look good.”
    “We could say we never went up to the porch at all.”
    I looked at her. This wasn’t like Mom. “Is there something you aren’t telling me, Mom?” I asked. She didn’t answer, and I kept looking at her. Then it dawned on me. “You knew she was here, didn’t you?”
    She bit her lower lip and nodded. “Yeah, I knew she was staying out here.” She took another deep breath. “Damn, I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth.” She looked back toward the cabin. “You don’t think the cops’ll care if I rinse my mouth out with that hose, do you?”
    “They’ll probably consider the whole place a crime scene, Mom.” I sighed. “But go ahead.” And then you’re going to answer me some questions.
    I watched her walk over to the side of the cabin and turn the spigot on the side of the building. She picked up the hose and rinsed her mouth out.
    I checked my phone. I didn’t have much of a signal, but I figured I couldn’t just call 911 out here. I pulled up my web browser and did a search for the Tangipahoa Parish sheriff’s office.
    I didn’t know whose jurisdiction this would fall under—state or parish or the town of Ponchatoula, but figured calling the parish sheriff was the safest bet—better to let them sort out jurisdiction. It took a lot longer than I would have liked for the information to come up, but finally it did and I called. After I told the dispatcher my name, our location, and that we’d found a dead body, I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket.
    “So, you want to tell me what this little trip was all about, Mom?” I asked.
    She wiped sweat from her forehead and squinted at me in the bright afternoon light. “I saw Veronica on Saturday. She