Bayou Venom: An O'Malley Family Mystery, #1

By J. J. Cagney

When Ash Jones stumbled upon her potential boss's lifeless body in New Orleans' murky swamps, she knew nothing would ever be the same. With a long list of suspects and a web of secrets lurking in the bayou, Ash will need all her cunning and intellect to unravel the truth and catch the killer before they strike again—or her newest nemeses at the NOPD find a way to pin the murder on her.

Danger lurks around every corner, and Ash must stay one step ahead of a killer who seems willing to hurt anyone to maintain secrecy. Will Ash bring the killer to justice, or will she become the next victim of the bayou's deadly venom?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sidecar Press, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224223282

Book preview

Chapter 1

8:58 am, Monday

A faint splash echoed to her right, followed by another. Ash caught a glimpse of something falling and turned to look. The snake’s open mouth showcased its white, cottony interior, which hid its flesh-piercing fangs. A moment later, the sinuous, shadowy coil landed in the water with a plop.

That splat triggered a flock of crows into the air, and they circled overhead, cawing their displeasure.

Cottonmouths. Why’d it have to be cottonmouths? She smiled at her poor version of Indiana Jones’ joke, but her skin still crawled. Her work in the swamp on a couple of college class projects had given her a respect for the reptiles, but that plop into the water made her want to go bury her head under the covers.

Ash paused, listening. She heard nothing outside the expected faint hum of insects and ripple of water. In the distance, car tires sped over asphalt of Highway 45 as they headed into New Orleans. The air sat still, heavy, taut—as if its belly were overfilled.

Ash’s shirt stuck to her back, thanks not only to nerves but also the high humidity. Her unmanageable dirty-blond hair was pulled up in its usual short ponytail—she left her hair just long enough to keep it off her neck. Unable to find a good reason to turn around, Ash continued traipsing along the path, using her long legs to sidestep over a puddle. The scent of organic decay filled her nose as she pushed aside a thick rope of Spanish moss with a stick she’d picked up—only after she’d studied and poked it to assure herself another snake wasn’t lying in wait. Spanish moss was grosser than snakes, and she refused to touch a large spider or any of the other insects that called the tree-parasite home.

She walked a little farther, in and out of shadow created by the surrounding cypresses. Something had drawn those cottonmouths to this spot…

Oh, rats. Swamp rats. Not the nutria she might have expected, but real rats. Huge, black, aggressive. Yuck. They hissed as she approached, skittering in all directions. Stick held out like a sword, she danced back and felt a snap. The sudden squishy footing under her boot alerted her to a situation just as she realized something wasn’t right.

As she lifted her foot, her stomach curdled.

A face—blank eyes open, skin pasty and puffy, covered in a thin layer of dirt and debris—stared back. Her horrified gaze swept downward, and she nearly lost her balance as she registered the raw, exposed viscera rats had been enjoying before she’d managed to step—Oh…uh, no! She’d crushed his nose.

And not just any nose. Dr. Cockcroft’s. She’d just stepped on Dr. Cockcroft.

As in, the director of the Swamp Life Society. As in the man who was supposed to sign off on the last few credits she needed via internship so she could complete her graduate degree.

"No. This is not happening." Her voice rose as hysteria built.

His nose, his entrails…

She stumbled back a step. Dr. Cockcroft lay partially buried in a shallow ditch, bruised and bloody. And his mangled scalp… He’d been hit with something heavy to cause that much damage. Scavengers usually started with the guts, which was why the rats had torn through his button-down dress shirt, a sweater vest, and a sport coat, to expose his soft belly.

She turned, her stomach protesting violently, and rested her palm against the rough, warm bark of the nearby cypress. Deep breaths didn’t help. Ash retched up the chicken and sausage gumbo she’d eaten that morning as a breeze brushed her overheated skin and the sounds of sluggish water siphoned through the stillness.

She wiped her mouth and slid down the tree trunk, its short, painful barbs digging through her blouse and into her skin. Her butt hit the hard dirt and harder roots, yet she was unable to take her eyes off the dead man. 

Fumbling for her phone, she pressed 9-1-1. Her breath broke on a sob as the operator answered.

A—a b-body. There’s a dead body… She gave her location, forehead to her knees and phone mashed to her ear, ignoring the hum of gathering insects. She closed burning eyes, unwilling to watch the bugs light on Dr. Cockcroft’s exposed face. A faint trickle of blood seeped from his nostrils.

She adjusted her position and stared at a leaf, a perfect specimen, as her fingertips tingled and her body grew heavy. All biological responses—normal, nothing to worry about. With a bachelor’s degree in biology, she understood the whole circle-of-life thing, but that didn’t mean she wanted to witness it this close up.

Before she could process further, boots crunched over the dried foliage and someone stifled a gasp. A scream rent the air, sending birds cawing and crashing upward. 

What was that? the dispatcher asked. 

The second of my would-be bosses has showed up, Ash said, her tone as dulled as her emotions.

"Would-be bosses? You’re at a job interview?" The dispatcher clucked, but it was dark and without humor. 

It’s not going well, Ash said. She’d been so hopeful—just four months left; she could’ve weathered anything for sixteen weeks, even a sleazy boss. Against her will, her eyes drifted toward Dr. Cockcroft’s body again. Then she would have had her degree and some options.

The dispatcher snorted. Guess not. A patrol car’s on its way.

She’s about to puke, Ash said, her tone almost conversational. She felt as if she was watching the scene on television.

Don’t let her contaminate the area, the dispatcher exclaimed. 

Ash shoved her phone into her pocket and bolted to her feet, moving toward Dr. Lisa Delmerico. The older woman heaved, her hand pressed to her mouth. Ash directed her toward the same bush she’d just used. She gathered Dr. Delmerico's dark, curly hair, and the woman emptied the contents of her stomach on top of Ash’s. 

Ash’s mind buzzed erratically. At least bile was organic waste, and it shouldn’t impact the wildlife. She already worried over the dwindling numbers of piping plovers that returned to the area since storms had ravaged their breeding grounds. The species grew scarcer each year, so protecting their coastal habitat was imperative. She’d hoped to work on that eventually…

Thanks, Dr. Delmerico muttered.

Ash stepped back, and Dr. Delmerico wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her khaki work shirt, which included the small green logo of the Swamp Life Society. 

Ash’s stomach lurched again. Who would hire her after this kind of experience? 

Dr. Delmerico swayed a bit, and she kept her back to Dr. Cockcroft’s partially buried body.

Ash tilted her head at the faint sound of sirens. I made use of the same bush, she said, unable to stop herself from speaking. I scared a bald eagle that had just caught a speckled trout. The only one happy about the situation was the trout, which fell back into the water. Ash frowned. At least I think it was happy. I⁠—

Dr. Delmerico chuckled as she straightened. She shoved her dark hair off her forehead as she eyed the road. Is that the police? 

Should be.

The older woman glanced over at the pale, fleshy face of her former colleague. Dirt and debris dribbled off the dead man’s rounded cheeks and weak chin.

What happened to his nose? she asked.

I… Ash pressed her trembling palms against her stomach. "I stepped on it. Him. Her voice quavered. I didn’t expect… Her voice turned pleading. He’s mostly buried in the leaves. I didn’t see him. I didn’t know."

Dr. Delmerico wiped her palm down her cheek. No, no. How could you? She focused on Ash. And you could tell me more about the bald eagle and speckled trout?

Heat raced up Ash’s neck. I, ah… Well, I’m trying to process. I didn’t think either species was in abundance in the area. She bit her lip. Crises weren’t her strong suit. She overcompensated.

Dr. Delmerico’s gaze turned assessing, and Ash stepped forward clumsily to greet the two officers exiting their SUV. One was a freckle-faced woman with a tight blond bun, the other a tall, lanky man. The man introduced himself as Officer Dustin Greenwood, but Ash didn’t hear the woman’s name. She was too busy sliding into shock.

This was definitely not the first impression she’d planned for this interview. But then again, this was New Orleans, where things were always lagniappe—a little extra.

And today, that extra had walloped Ash straight into the middle of a high-profile murder.

Chapter 2

Nine Days Before Ash Found Dr. Cockcroft

New Orleans Police Detective John O’Malley hung up the phone and let his chin fall forward to his chest. He’d worn a nice button-down, and traipsing through the bayou wouldn’t do much for the shirt’s current starched neatness.

Bad news? asked his partner, Jay Cordone, from the other side of their pushed-together desks.

Phones trilled all around them in the bullpen of the New Orleans police headquarters. The room smelled of strong, stale coffee and industrial cleaning supplies, scents that almost overpowered other less-savory ones. A few officers in blue uniforms clacked away on computer keyboards. Here and there, nervous witnesses or fidgety loved ones, faces pinched with fear, huddled in wooden chairs next to the cheap metal desks, answering questions.

Jay, his lover of five years and partner of even longer, rose from his chair to lean against John’s desk. Jay was about five eleven and fit, with a head of thick, dark hair and a constant five o’clock shadow. His dark eyes, usually so intense, now softened.

John splayed his hands out on his thighs. His mother had bought him these slacks when he made detective. She’d said he needed to look the part in order to achieve success. More gunshot victims in the swamp. Both dead. His voice turned gruff with emotion.

Wow, Jay said softly. That’s what? Eight in the last five months? That’s a lot of bodies.

John snorted as he shoved to his feet. Too many, especially since we have no solid leads. If this case goes like the last couple, the vics won’t have much to show as a cause of death. He clenched his fists, hating the impotence that pulsed through him. We’re just tallying up the dead.

Any idea about age? Homeless like the last group? Jay asked. He adjusted his shoulder holster.

Young—that’s according to the officer at the scene—and found near where we found the last group. Working theory is that the kids were looking for trouble in the swamp. I’m sure there’s word on the street about the deaths out in the bayou. Probably some stupid initiation rite.

John matched Jay’s steps as they strode across the busy precinct floor. I need to get some coffee before we head out.

Jay shook his head and grinned. What? The first three cups didn’t perk you up?

No, they didn’t, John said. And I want to be sharp while we’re at the scene. He drank a lot of coffee—it was a cliché, and he knew it, but the stuff tasted great, and there was only so much water he could tolerate. He’d even read an article that said coffee reduced his chances of getting dementia. So, hell yeah, he was going to indulge whenever possible.

Why these boys would choose to join a gang and continue the cycle that puts communities at risk doesn’t compute for me, Jay said.

Their choices don’t have to make sense. We just have to solve the crimes.

Fair enough, Jay responded. Missed you at Greenwood’s poker game last night.

When Dustin Greenwood had finished his Academy training a little over a year ago, he’d been paired with John’s sister, Erin. Erin hadn’t said much to say about her partner, but John had found the kid eager to learn and eager to be part of the team. And few people took as much pride in shined shoes as Greenwood. He got teased plenty for his polished footwear, but sharp dressing might well help him in his efforts to become a detective someday.

Nonetheless, John hadn’t had free time for poker yesterday. I was sorry to miss. Erin said she won big.

Jay held open the door. She always beats Greenwood.

John chuckled.

Outside the precinct, thunderclouds built, adding to the day’s mugginess. John felt a flash of affection as Jay settled into the cloth interior of their unmarked police car. The shiny black Charger had a sweet 5.7 liter Hemi V8 that made it one of the fastest vehicles on the road—at least in the quarter mile. That was an important distance in a police chase and part of why the NOPD had continued to purchase more of these cars for its fleet, even as other states went all-in on hybrid or electric designs.

They drove to the crime scene, but it yielded the same poor results. The swamp wasn’t a forgiving place. Large cypresses lined the sides of the small, marshy island where the boys’ bodies lay. The bloated corpses spoke of hours in the elements.

Not the typical spray of bullets we tend to see with gang activity, Jay noted.

Doesn’t make sense, John said. These kids might have lain here…what? Overnight? Rigor’s set in and left.

John squatted next to the bodies. A single bullet wound sat high on the shoulder of the one closest to him, just above the clavicle. John guessed the collarbone and shoulder joint had probably shattered, but the kid should have lived through the hit—at least been able to crawl from the spot. He bent closer, checking the brachial artery that ran the length of the arm. It had been clipped, which explained the pool of blood, but it would have taken a few minutes for the kid to bleed out.

Yet he hadn’t moved. That wasn’t right.

I don’t like this, Jay said. He scrubbed at his lengthening beard.

We’re missing something. John stared at the boys’ lifeless bodies. The longer he stayed on the force, the more of these attacks he saw, and he hated every one of them. I don’t see casings, so he used a revolver, John added after a moment. No bullets near the bodies, so we’ll have to wait to see what the CSI turns up in the surrounding area.

Jay scratched his cheek and shrugged. He could have dumped the casings somewhere—the bayou’s readily available. As for bullets, the ME will check for an exit wound. If there is one, then yeah, the bullets would have passed through—into the water or hit the cypresses. Jay pointed. Maybe the kids were dumped here, shot someplace else.

That didn’t seem right, though. The spread of blood from the brachial wound was large, as he would have expected from someone who bled out at the scene. CSI will bring in metal detectors, John said. They’ll do their best over the bayou, too.

Maybe drag a section? Jay suggested. He wrinkled his nose, no doubt thinking about all the work that would be.

Did you see any footprints? John asked.

The thundercloud opened, and rain fell in large drops, like tears shed for these two boys.

Shit, Jay muttered. We better snap some more photos, fast. Before the water washes away a possible print.

He and John pulled out their work phones and began to take pictures. They had their routine; John went left and Jay went right as they worked a wide perimeter, swinging closer with each pass.

John ended up near the younger victim, the one with the bullet in his shoulder. The kid was maybe fourteen. Blood had saturated his T-shirt. His bulky jeans and high-top sneakers reminded John of his own youth. The other kid was a year, maybe two, older. His shoes were one of the newest models. John’s youngest brother, Liam, had stood in line all night to get his own pair. That had been—he searched his memory—three months ago. So the shoes were new, and they cost big bucks—money the kid had to have gotten from someone or somewhere.

John crouched next to the second boy. This one had an arm wound. The skin around the injury was darker and redder than he expected—like it was inflamed.

Inflammation was part of the body’s immune response, but gunshot wounds tended to cauterize the surrounding skin, thanks to the friction and heat caused by the speed of the bullet. Though that wasn’t to say the wound couldn’t have festered while the boy lay there. But why would he just lie on his back? Why hadn’t he risen and fled?

Why was he dead from a gunshot wound to the flabby part of his arm?

Too big for a ten millimeter, maybe even a forty-five. John pointed at the bullet wound, and Jay squinted, edging closer.

A high-pitched scream broke the soft patter of the rain, and the men whirled. A young woman staggered into the police officer standing at the tape. Her crop top was soaked through, and her hair, darkened by the rain, was plastered to her head. Her face was pale, mascara streaking down her cheeks. No, no, no, she keened, swaying forward. Robbie…no.

John and Jay moved toward her. You know one of them? John thumbed toward the corpses.

Robbie. He—he’s my b-brother. I made sure he was safe…

What do you mean? John asked.

Her pupils looked nearly blown as she stared down at her brother, horror leeching from her very pores. I made a deal with the guy. H-he promised. He promised! She trailed off, her sobs turning into wrenching heaves.

What guy? Jay asked.

The woman threw herself into John’s arms, reminding him of Erin when she was younger. Her gasps seemed to make further talking too difficult, though Jay continued to pester her about the identity of the man.

After a moment John stepped back, putting some distance between himself and the distraught girl. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; he just worried about her reaction once she calmed. No reason to risk a problem for the department—or himself.

John patted her back, offering soft, placating noises. Being the oldest of the four O’Malleys, he’d learned how to comfort his younger siblings. Still, this… It was rare for a person to seek comfort from a police officer like this. So many of the stories about police were negative these days.

Questions swirled through his mind, and he shot his partner a sharp scowl. Jay practically growled as he stalked off, his frustration palpable.

What’s your name? he asked the teenager.

She snuffled. Clarise.

All right, Clarise. I know this is hard to do right now, but can you answer a few questions for me?

She nodded, her face scrunched up with her effort not to cry.

Why’d you come out here just now? John asked.

She blinked, tears still spilling over her lashes. I…I…saw the lights.

John frowned. Do you live nearby?

Not far. She pointed toward a street lined with small homes—more like shacks.

John sighed, hating her obvious poverty. The shoes. No kid who lived in this neighborhood could afford those shoes.

Clarise shivered, and she’d tucked her arms across her chest and bowed her head.

Want a blanket? he asked.

Nah, I’m okay.

Instinctive response. John frowned. Well, I’d feel better if you had a blanket.

He led Clarise toward his vehicle. After rooting through the trunk, he brought out a thin, silvery blanket, which he wrapped around her shoulders. Then he stepped back and settled on his bumper, trying to remain nonthreatening.

Rainwater leeched into his pants, and he returned to standing. Where did your brother get the shoes? he asked.

Clarise’s eyes shot up, her face white but closed. Don’t matter now, does it?

John cursed himself. She’d been cooperative, but something about his question had made her defensive.

I guess not, but I know how much those cost⁠—

And knowing we’re poor means he shouldn’t have had ’em. Her jaw jutted forward. How about you look for D.J.? He’s the one who’s been asking around about kids.

A thrill filled his belly. A name. A start.

Do you know D.J.? he asked. What can you tell me about him?

Yeah, I know him. He comes around to see me. Clarise frowned. Her eyes were red and puffy, but they now filled with anger and resentment. He’s tall. Wears jeans a size or two too big. Reminds me of a scarecrow.

Not much to go on. Eye color? Hair color? Skin color? Any tattoos? Birth marks?

White guy. Dark eyes and hair, she mumbled. He’s been asking about the kids, she added, her attention more on the murdered boy than the potential suspect. H-he wanted younger ones. Like R-Robbie. She pressed her face to her hands.

John knew he wouldn’t learn anything else from the young woman tonight. The tech crew had pulled up, so he offered to walk Clarise back to her house. He had questions for her family and their neighbors.

But they told him nothing.

Clarise ran back out of her small shack as he was leaving the house next door. I just remembered—D.J. said it was for an experiment, she said, trying to catch her breath.

An experiment? John asked.

The kids were part of it. Clarise gestured toward the swamp. Her eyes blazed. "Murder ain’t no experiment."

Chapter 3

Six Days Before Ash Found Dr. Cockcroft

The morning brimmed with a stifling heat and humidity usually reserved for later in the spring. Ash grunted as New Orleans’ mugginess slammed into her when she stepped out and shut the door on her third-floor apartment behind her. Her place was located a few blocks west of any quality, family-friendly street in the city. The air sat heavily against her skin as she headed down the rickety stairs toward the tiny atrium