Mardi Gras Gris Gris

by A. C. Mason

  “Tell me why so many people disliked our victim,” Jim said, eying LeBlanc with interest.

  LeBlanc thought a moment. “The Berthelots, but Teddy in particular, think they’re better than anybody else. Rumor has it Teddy has been involved in some political shenanigans.”

  “Like vote buying?”

  “Yeah, among other things. Whatever it takes to get the candidate he wants into office.”

  “So contenders like Carl Hymel might have a legitimate complaint against Teddy.”

  LeBlanc laughed. “Well, if the candidate was anyone except Carl, I’d agree. Not many people think Hymel is fit to serve in any office.”

  “He almost took the mayor’s race two years ago,” Jim noted, frowning. “A lot of folks must have thought Hymel would make a good parish official.”

  “Rumors at the time were somebody wanted Kaufman out as mayor.”

  “I do recall hearing a few innuendos to that effect. But what’s your take on Hymel?”

  “He’s a know-it-all, but he really doesn’t know a damn thing.”

  LeBlanc’s cell phone rang. Jim could tell by the officer’s expression when he checked the digital display, the call was personal. He nodded to LeBlanc and headed into his office, leaving the man to his telephone conversation while there was no crisis to deal with at the moment. However, he made a mental note to hold a staff meeting first thing Monday morning and discuss procedure during this serious case.

  His tiny police force wasn’t accustomed to handling major crimes like who-done-it murders. He’d been lenient with them because Cypress Lake was virtually crime free. Personal phone calls and visitors were always the norm around the station. Now, every officer would be needed to complete various tasks like interviewing witnesses and checking out alibis.

  He couldn’t do it all by himself. No doubt Berthelot’s family would be pushing for an arrest. He needed to come up with something… soon.

  A few minutes after Jim sat at his desk, LeBlanc appeared in the doorway of his office.

  “There’s a TV reporter and a photographer from one of the New Orleans stations out here. She wants an interview about the murder for the ten o’clock show.”

  Jim groaned. “I should have expected this. The local papers in the parish got to me at the scene.” He motioned with his hand. “Send them in.”

  LeBlanc stepped aside to allow the duo into the office. A twenty-something woman with perfectly coifed blond hair strode into the room, her high heel boots clicking on the hardwood floor. A curly-headed guy toting a camera and a tripod followed directly behind her. He immediately began setting up his equipment.

  Flashing a dazzling smile like someone in a teeth-whitening ad, the blond stepped forward and extended her hand to Jim. “I’m Sharon Webster from Channel Seven.”

  The blue turtleneck sweater she wore matched her eyes, and with her gray skirt covering the top of her boots, she looked and sounded more like New York City than New Orleans. Then again, some New Orleans natives referred to as yats spoke with a Brooklyn or Jersey-like accent.

  Jim stood and shook her hand. “Jim Foret. Nice to meet you.”

  “And you are the department’s PR person?”

  “I guess you could say that. I’m the chief of police.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking down at her notepad. “How do you spell your last name?”

  “F.O.R.E.T.” Jim figured from her accent and her lack of knowledge about the area she was fresh out of a journalism school from somewhere up north.

  She recovered nicely and continued. “I understand there was a murder in town this morning, a murder that was said to be a voodoo ritual. Can you give me a comment on camera?”

  The photographer practically rolled his eyes at her voodoo comment.

  “Yes, I agree to say a few words,” Jim said. “But first let me clarify. The murder was not a voodoo ritual or anyway connected to voodoo.”

  Webster seemed disappointed. “Really? I understood there was some kind of ritualistic bag attached to the murder weapon.”

  “There was a gris-gris bag attached.” Jim shot her an annoyed look. “If your camera man is ready, I’ll make a statement.”

  “Certainly,” she said with a huff and turned to the photographer. “Tom, is everything set to go?”

  “Just need to clip this mike on the chief.” He proceeded around the desk and attached a tiny microphone to Jim’s shirt. Returning to his camera, he signaled Webster to go ahead.

  Jim lowered himself back into his chair and tried to look relaxed. He’d never spoken to a television reporter in all his years as a police officer. NOPD had its own PR people who did all the talking.

  Webster clutched her microphone and began her introduction. “I’m here with Cypress Lake Chief of Police, Jim Foret. Chief, what can you tell us about the murder that occurred here this morning after your town’s Mardi Gras parade?”

  “The victim has been identified as Teddy Berthelot, a resident of this parish. He was stabbed about eleven-thirty this morning and died at the scene. At this time we have no suspects or motive for his murder.”

  “I understand there was a bag of some kind attached to the body. You referred to it as a gris-gris bag. Can you explain what that is?”

  “Generally speaking, it’s a small pouch containing herbs and other items used as a cure for health issues or maybe to cast a spell, but there’s no black magic or voodoo involved.”

  “Do you know what the bag means in relation to this case?”

  “I can’t comment on that at this time.”

  “What did this bag contain?”

  He knew this question was coming. “I’m not at liberty to comment on the contents of the bag at this time or anything else regarding this homicide.”

  “Another parade is scheduled for tomorrow night,” Webster said, giving him a smug look. “This seems to have the characteristics of a serial killer homicide. Are you worried there might be another such ritualistic murder?”

  Her question hit him like a punch in the gut. He recalled Danny’s remark about a second murder on the heels of this one, plus his own thoughts about the same situation.

  “Certainly not. There’s nothing to indicate another murder, or that this is the beginning of a serial killer spree.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

  Seven

  A brunette woman stormed into Jim’s office, almost colliding with the TV news photographer who had just packed up his gear. Officer LeBlanc appeared in the doorway. He raised his hands palms up as if to say there was no way of putting her off.

  Jim mentally groaned, recognizing Denise Berthelot. Hell, the family is after me already.

  She marched up to the desk and confronted Jim, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. “I want to speak to you about my brother’s murder.” She threw a piercing look at Sharon Webster. “In private.”

  Jim turned to the reporter. “Officer LeBlanc will show you and your camera man out.”

  Webster slowly walked toward the door, obviously not anxious to leave. The appearance of the victim’s sibling presented a new possibility for a scoop. Jim suspected the television twosome would hang around in the parking lot to try for an interview with Denise Berthelot. LeBlanc ushered the reporter and photographer toward the door.

  Jim signaled the officer to close the door behind him. “Now how can I help you, Ms. Berthelot?”

  She clenched her fists at her sides, looking as though she might explode any minute. “How dare you give out all the gory details to the news media without our permission! We are not some backwoods trash selling drugs for a living. I’m sure drug dealers were the only kind of people you dealt with working for NOPD.”

  Jim rose from his chair. “I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to make a statement to the media. The family has been notified and no one asked me not to say anything. The information I gave the newspaper reporters this morning and to the television station just now was minimal.”

  “Chief Hebert would h
ave kept the murder completely out of the news,” she countered.

  “I’m not Chief Hebert.” She must be the sister Tank was fond of. If the former chief would’ve kept the news from the public, maybe his open dislike for Teddy and his family was only for show. Not that Tank could’ve kept the news a secret in this case.

  “You didn’t have to tell them about the stupid gris-gris bag left on him.”

  Jim found it difficult to control his growing irritation with this woman. “Ms. Berthelot, your brother died in the middle of a large crowd of people. Under those circumstances, the gris-gris bag was in plain view and hard to keep out of the news. Even though Teddy wore a mask, everyone around there knew his identity.”

  “Those swamp people, the Romaines, had something to do with Teddy’s murder,” she stated emphatically.

  “You sound pretty certain. Do you have any proof?”

  She exhaled. “It’s obvious. Gibb Romaine was just released from Angola where he served time for attempted murder, and his sister makes those bags. The old hag says she’s a healer. I think she’s a witch. You need to arrest one or both of them so this mess will be out of the news.”

  “Every point you made sounds good, but it’s all circumstantial,” he said. “Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on whose side you’re on, I need physical evidence to show their participation in this crime.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “Right now I don’t have any. Both of the Romaines have alibis for the time of the murder.” He didn’t tell her their alibis were suspect. “I already asked the other members of your family, but since you weren’t present at the time, I’ll ask you. Do you know of anyone, besides the Romaines, who might want to kill your brother?”

  “A lot of people in this parish had it out for him,” she said without hesitation.

  “And what did all these people have against him?”

  Denise shrugged with indifference. “They’re jealous of his success in life, I guess.”

  “Can you give me some names?”

  “They should be easy to locate. You’re the detective. You figure it out.” She whirled around and strode out of the room.

  Now what the hell was that all about? Jim sank back in his chair. A remark about Tank Hebert by Officer LeBlanc popped into his head. At least he claimed he couldn’t stand him.

  Then a conversation he had with Susan shortly before he accepted the position as chief of police came to mind. He remembered bragging to her about his knowledge of all the nuances of small town politics since he’d grown up here. He might have to eat those words.

  LeBlanc appeared in the doorway and interrupted his musings. “Marty Scardina is here. He says he has some information about Berthelot’s murder.”

  Marty was the third generation owner of a department store in the older part of Cypress Lake. Although not filthy rich like the Berthelots, he was well off and a respected member of the community.

  Jim’s hopes rose. “Send him in.” He stood when the man entered the room.

  Scardina walked closer and shook hands with him over the desk. “I may have some information related to Teddy’s murder. It’s something I saw. ” He gave a slight shrug. “Don’t know if it’s important or not, but I thought I’d run it by you.”

  Jim smiled. “You never know when the least little bit of info will solve the case.” He motioned with his hand. “Pull up a chair and tell me what you witnessed.”

  After seating himself, Scardina cleared his throat. He hesitated a while before speaking. “Sorry, this murder has got me and the whole town upset. It’s been many years since we had one here. The last murder I remember took place in the early nineties.”

  “I understand. Just take your time.”

  “Right before the parade ended, we started to leave. I spotted two masked men having what appeared to be a heated conversation.”

  “Both men wore masks?”

  “Yes, those rubber monster-looking masks. I didn’t realize at the time that one of the men was Teddy. After several people later told me Teddy had a mask on when he collapsed in the street, I decided to come in and tell you.” He forced a laugh. “I thought wearing masks was a little odd, because hardly anyone masks anymore here. I mean, every year there might be one or people around town who go all out, but these two seemed like they just didn’t want anyone to recognize them.”

  Jim agreed. “In New Orleans, masking is pretty common, but not here. What about the other man? Did you recognize him?”

  “No, I couldn’t place him.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Scardina thought a moment. “Tall, about six feet. He was muscular like he really kept in shape. He had dark hair from what I could tell.”

  Jim gave him a questioning look. “You couldn’t see his hair?”

  “Not exactly. He wore a black baseball cap with the bill turned backwards. His back was to me and the bill covered part of his head so that’s about all I can tell you about him. Otherwise he wore black pants and a black sweatshirt.”

  “Where were these men when you saw them arguing?”

  Scardina wrinkled his forehead. “I didn’t pay too much attention to their location. I simply zoned in on the men themselves. Seems like they were standing near Lucky Jack’s jambalaya stand.”

  Great. Any evidence that was in the area has been compromised. Not that there was any when they had searched the area earlier. Too bad the surveillance camera installed at the rear of the café no longer operated. “Do you remember if the man in black wore gloves?”

  “Come to think of it, he was wearing black gloves. I couldn’t tell whether they were leather or knit.”

  Jim gave a silent sigh of disappointment. There won’t be any fingerprints. “How well did you know Teddy Berthelot?”

  Scardina appeared cautious. “Only socially, no business involvement. Adele and I have socialized a few times with him and his wife… We attended a couple of the same parties,” he added quickly. “Growing up I went to public school; he went to a private school in New Orleans.”

  “So you wouldn’t know who his enemies were.”

  “People with money always have enemies. I got the impression Teddy ascribed to the old adage—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” He pushed the chair back and stood. “I know what I told you isn’t much, but I hope it helps.”

  Scardina kept edging toward the door. Jim figured the man was anxious to leave, but his police instincts told him there might be more info he could squeeze out of him. “In other words, he kept people around him who didn’t like him.”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Scardina said. “You might want to check out some of his tenants.”

  “He owned rental property?”

  “Some land he leased out; other pieces of property he’s sold but held on to the mineral rights.” Scardina turned and started for the door, indicating the conversation had ended.

  “You did the right thing coming in,” Jim said. “If you think of something else, give me a call or come by the office.”

  “I will.”

  The information Scardina gave was not so informative, but what Jim did get proved to be very interesting. Berthelot’s murder could be a land dispute. But why the gris-gris bag? Unless the whole business was meant to throw the police off. To top it all off, the appearance of the stranger arguing with the victim only added another suspect to the list—an unidentified suspect.

  Rachel’s interpretation of the drawing placed in the gris-gris bag popped into his mind—the Greek god of death dressed in black. Whoever he struck with his sword went directly to Hades.

  Hold on a minute. Scardina’s description of the stranger could very easily fit Gibb Romaine. The ex-con had been away for quite a while. Maybe after all those years people didn’t recognize him. Prison can change a man both mentally and physically. All he had to do was break Romaine’s alibi. Easier said than done.

  Eight

  February 17

  About five o’clock that evening, Jim parked h
is unit at the corner of 5th Street and Oak Avenue, Beau Chen’s main artery. He was due to meet up with Danny in a few minutes to help with crowd control at the parade.

  Located on the opposite side of the lake, the city of Beau Chene was much larger in population than Cypress Lake, even though the latter claimed the distinction of being the parish seat. Many of the Beau Chene residents had moved there from New Orleans or Jefferson Parish and the area had begun to take on many of the characteristics of Slidell, a slightly larger city located on the North Shore of Lake Ponchartrain.

  Dozens of subdivisions had sprung up, seemingly overnight, in the formerly rural area around the original town and were annexed into the town limits. For financial reasons, the police department had not been able to grow in response to the population increase so the Allemand Parish Sheriff’s Department held a heavy presence in the area, patrolling parts of the city in addition to its normal territory outside city limits.

  Despite the stately French name, which meant handsome or beautiful oak, the rowdy Beau Chene Krewe practically invited a boisterous response from the parade spectators. A more apt description of the crowd might be “unruly.” People came from all over the parish, and even some from New Orleans, to view this parade. He didn’t have much hope of a run of the mill evening.

  Jim surveyed the crowds lining the parade route. His gaze settled on a familiar face—Carl Hymel. He made a mental note to call on the political wannabe tomorrow and question him about his whereabouts during yesterday’s parade.

  One of his officers chosen for parade duty diverted his attention with a mundane question related to float breakdowns. A deputy standing nearby agreed to handle the situation. The two officers jogged off down the street.