Scott is switching screens too fast for me to read what’s popping up before it’s gone again. “Oh, wait. He’s dead.”
This has me straightening up. “Dead? When?”
Within a few seconds, Scott has his obituary pulled up. “September first. Pancreatic cancer. Hold on. His Facebook account is still up and wide open.”
I watch as Scott pulls up an old post. “Diagnosed in December last year.”
We both read the entry where he details how he found out and what his prognosis is. We scroll down and see pictures of him in the hospital getting treatments, as well as links to a GoFundMe drive and a MealTrain sign-up.
Scott pulls up a picture of him from May in a fishing boat. He’s almost not recognizable as the person in the earlier images.
“Man, he looks like he’s aged ten years,” Scott says, and I have to agree.
There’s a long post with the image sharing that his cancer had spread. He had made the decision not to seek further treatment and instead enjoy his last days as much as he could. This must have been right before he decided to retire.
Scott continues to scroll through his feed, then stops on a graphic Foster posted in late May. It’s an image of Jesus in front of the pearly gates. “And here it is. He found God. Knew that was coming.”
“Sure you did,” I say as I read some of the comments.
“Seriously, my grandpa did this too. They found he had like eighty percent blockage in one of his arteries, and next thing I know he’s at daily Mass with my grandma even though he hadn’t attended in years. The docs put some stents in and told him he was going to live and he hasn’t been back to church since.”
After that first image of Jesus, Foster starts reposting nothing but religious content about salvation and Heaven and repenting for your sins and begging for forgiveness.
“Yeah, he’s freaking out about dying and going to hell. Wonder how many skeletons were hiding in his closet?” Scott asks.
“Yeah, it’s a bit dark,” I say, reading a long, rambling post that he was going to “leave this world with a clean slate and pure heart.”
“Okay, let’s move on since we’re not going to get anywhere with Foster. Who was the public defender assigned to Paul?”
Foster’s social media page disappears and we’re back to the court documents. After a few minutes, Scott says, “A guy named Mike Knox, but he’s not practicing anymore. Moved to New Orleans about five years ago.”
“And the judge on the case?”
Click, click, click.
“Judge Landis. Retired.”
I straighten up and move back to the other end of the table. “Will you go through the witness statements and make me a list of everyone the police talked to and a list of everyone who was partying at Paul’s that night?”
Scott nods. “On it.”
I dig through the file Ben had on Aubrey Price and Paul Granger again. I can’t help but feel like I’m missing something.
Rereading one of Ben’s notes stops me cold:Chief—Angola June 6th.
Chief.
Kevin Foster was the chief of police in Corbeau.
Every single file that Ben kept at home or in his briefcase makes some sort of reference to this name. The same files that detail the type of behavior that would cost him his license. I’ve been trying to figure out who was helping Ben, and Kevin Foster has jumped to the top of my list.
But why would Ben make note in Paul’s file about Foster going to Angola?
I think back to Foster’s social media posts and Scott’s comment about Foster “freaking out about dying and going to hell.” Did Foster’s visit have anything to do with repenting for his sins and asking for forgiveness? Asking Paul for forgiveness?
When I look at the rest of the notes in the file on Aubrey, I do it through the lens that “Chief” is Foster, and they take on a whole different meaning.
And then I glance at the dozen other files Ben kept at home, duplicates that show he had help tampering with evidence and intimidating witnesses. All of that help referred back to “Chief.”
