The Kingfish Commission

by Hal M. Harrison

  A truckload of chickens had slammed into an overpass guardrail. Chickens were everywhere. A man was out of the truck, frantically chasing the birds, as if he could corral them one by one and put them back in the cages from which they had escaped.

  Already, Ashton Brocata could detect the putrid stench that would soon overwhelm his leather-scented interior.

  He closed the air conditioning’s outside vents.

  Traffic was finally beginning to maneuver past the accident and gain speed.

  Brocata saw an opening between the Accord, a pickup truck in the lane to the left and a half dozen stunned chickens in between. He may have to sacrifice a bird or two, but he was going for it, before the space closed.

  He punched the accelerator — birds flew as the Mercedes darted for the hole like an LSU tailback thrilling the fans in Tiger Stadium.

  Brocata waved to the kid in the Accord as he passed.

  The kid was holding his nose.

  Alright. Free at last. I’ll be back at the office in minutes.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sheriff Dub Perot turned out to be much more accommodating than the deputy. Rob learned that Perot had, in fact, been a life-long friend of Clarence Menard and was anxious to learn of anything that might suggest foul play.

  “Mr. Baldwin, let me tell you something,” the Sheriff said, deep voice slow and deliberate. “If someone killed Clarence Menard, I’ll find them. If there’s even the hint of suspicion in his death, I’ll look into it.”

  “I appreciate that Sheriff.” Rob was Mr. Nice Guy again.

  “But — I’ve got to tell you. I’m just going by what the coroner told me. Clarence’s death was ruled an accidental electrocution. Plain and simple.”

  Rob thought for a moment.

  “Can I take a look at the coroner’s report, Sheriff?”

  “Sure. It’s kept on file.” The sheriff walked over to a wall of dented and dusty, drab-green filing cabinets.

  Rob noticed that the deputy was now sitting up, carefully monitoring the radio, which had remained silent.

  “Here we go,” the Sheriff said. He pulled out a file and brought it over to the desk where he and Rob had been sitting. “It’s all in there.”

  Rob had never seen a coroner’s report, so he didn’t know what he was looking for. He hoped something apparent would jump out at him, but, if the Sheriff had already reviewed the case...

  “So, everything checked-out when you reviewed the file, huh, Sheriff?” Rob was trying to find something to say while attempting to appear as if he knew what he was reading.

  “Oh, well sure,” the Sheriff said as he sat back. “You know, Buddy — Buddy Mouton is the Clay Parish coroner — he said it was just a simple case. I never had to really look at the file. Buddy said Clarence received a bad jolt from the high voltage inside the transmitter — it threw him back against the wall of the building.”

  Rob looked up from the pages of unintelligible medical terms and descriptions.

  “You didn’t look at the file?” He was cautious, but incredulous.

  The Sheriff’s smile faded. He looked nonchalant — and just a bit confused.

  “Well, no,” he downplayed. “Buddy Mouton’s been our coroner around here since I was a kid. He knows what he’s doing.” The sheriff pointed to the file as he spoke. “That’s just all the paperwork that’s required. Hell, I shuffle enough paperwork around here without chasing the mounds of reports that come out of the Coroner’s office.”

  Rob proceeded carefully. He wanted to keep the Sheriff on his side.

  “Well, Sheriff. Would you mind just glancing over this file with me — just to make sure I don’t miss anything?”

  The sheriff had a blank expression. He looked at his watch and then shrugged.

  “Hell, all right,” he said. “It’s still early. If I get home before six, my wife’ll just be sittin’ in front of the tube watching ‘Wheel of Fortune,’ anyway. No reason to hurry home to that!” The sheriff laughed and walked around the desk to stand behind Rob, reading over his shoulder.

  Rob thumbed through the pages, pausing now and again in an attempt to decipher what he was reading. It was hopeless. He began to realize that he wouldn’t find anything of use in the report to build a suspicion of murder.

  “Huh.”

  Rob looked over his shoulder. The sheriff was tugging at the jowls under his chin.

  “What do you see, Sheriff?”

  “Huh?” The sheriff looked at Rob for a minute, squinted, and then looked back at the folder in Rob’s hand. “Oh, nothing.”

  Rob looked at the page. He scanned the columns of data, trying to find what had caught the Sheriff’s interest.

  Midway down the page was a list of categories containing autopsy test results. Most of the findings were ‘negative,’ but Rob saw one category that might have been what the Sheriff had noticed.

  “What’s this, Sheriff?” Rob pointed to a column that said, “Toxicology: Trace.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know.” The sheriff sounded as if he were deep in thought. “Let me see that file.”

  Rob handed the Sheriff the folder, careful not to lose the page.

  “Let me check the addendum.” The Sheriff crossed back around the desk and sat down across from Rob.

  “Does that mean that a trace of some toxic chemical was found in Clarence’s body, Sheriff?”

  “Hold on, hold on. Let’s not get excited,” the Sheriff said. He was thumbing through the folder, his finger running down columns of data and notes. Rob tried to read the information upside down, to no avail.

  “I’ll be damned,” the Sheriff said.

  “What?” Rob found it hard to contain his anxiousness.

  “Well, Buddy did find a trace of ethoxyethane in Clarence’s body.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A combination of ethyl alcohol and sulfuric acid. Ether.”

  “Ether? Why—?” Rob didn’t know how to interpret the information.

  “It can be used as an anesthetic.”

  “So, you mean Clarence was knocked-out before he died?” Rob’s voice was rising in excitement again. The deputy in front of the radio looked back in concern.

  “Maybe. Just maybe,” the Sheriff admitted. “But regardless, Buddy should have told me. That changes everything.” The Sheriff picked up the telephone. “I’ll call him right now and find out what the hell he was thinking.”

  While the Sheriff got the medical examiner on the line, Rob reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the printout he’d made from the information that was on Clarence’s flash drive. He also patted his coat pocket to make sure he still had the memory stick. He did.

  Rob put his name and the station’s phone number at the top and then scrawled, in big block letters, “EXCLUSIVE.” He wrote a lead paragraph and added some additional notes to the information included in Clarence’s message. He would fax the pages to KLOM and also leave copies at KAGN. On the drive back home to Magnolia he would call the story in to the Associated Press, with a release time one hour after the two radio stations broke the story.

  Clarence had wanted the stations to scoop the big boys — and they would.

  Rob heard the sheriff talking to Mouton.

  “Buddy, I’ve got a guy here named Rob Baldwin — from a radio station in Magnolia — asking questions about Clarence Menard’s death. I told him that you said it was accidental — plain and simple…”

  The Sheriff’s face was taking on a slight glow. His blood pressure must be rising.

  “…That’s what you told me, right Buddy? Uh-huh. No foul play, right? Uh-huh. Well, why didn’t you tell me that you found traces of ether in Clarence’s body? Uh-huh.” The Sheriff was listening intently to the coroner on the other end of the line. His face was getting redder. “Well, now that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it Buddy? Ether for God’s sake? You didn’t miss it, it’s right here in the file! How could you forget to tell me about that, Buddy?”

  Rob decided he would
give the Sheriff a little room to handle the situation. He looked at the deputy, who was frozen in front of the radio, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. Rob walked over to him.

  “Can I borrow your copier?” Rob asked quietly.

  “Sure,” the deputy now had a very accommodating tone. “Would you like me to make the copies for you?”

  “No, I can do it, thanks,” Rob answered with a smile. The deputy pointed to a small room across the hall.

  When Rob returned from making the copies of his makeshift news story, the Sheriff was practically yelling at the coroner. Perot’s face was now sunburn red, his knuckles white from his death grip on the phone.

  “Fax machine?” Rob said to the deputy, whose head was now hung low, cowering like a scared puppy, his face close to the two-way radio console.

  “Right there,” the deputy replied as quickly and as quietly as possible.

  “I’ll use my credit card for the long-distance call,” Rob offered.

  The deputy just nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders, almost imperceptibly. His eyes were riveted to the silent radio, his face etched with lines of intense concentration. Rob figured that the deputy must be trying to will himself into invisibility.

  Rob dialed his long distance code and the number to the KLOM fax. He began feeding the story outline into the machine. Even if Rob didn’t make it back to the station by morning, or, more likely, decided to sleep in late, the story would be ready to air by Gordon, his must reliable employee, who had been filling-in while Rob was out of town.

  Sheriff Perot slammed the phone down.

  “Dammit! If that just don’t beat all!” The sheriff was livid. “He says he forgot to tell me! Didn’t think it was all that important, anyway!”

  Rob knew the investigation had just been re-opened.

  “Sheriff, I’ve got to get home, but I’d like to check back with you later on all of this, if you don’t mind.”

  “Son, you do that,” the Sheriff said. “And I guarantee you, I’ll get some answers. We may have to find us a new M.E., in the meantime.”

  Rob shook the Sheriff’s hand and left — fast. Sheriff Dub Perot was yelling at the deputy as Rob was heading down the narrow corridor and out the hall.

  It didn’t sound like a long-distance phone line. My, how things have changed. When he first started placing long-distance calls, they were always accompanied by crackling static, and people nearly always sounded like they were talking from the bottom of a deep well.

  Now, it sounded almost like they were in the next room.

  Things had really changed in the seventy-eight years he had been around.

  When the party answered, he could speak in a normal voice and not yell to be heard. The line was that clear.

  But back to business.

  He had to let them know about this Rob Baldwin fella, from some radio station in — where was it? — oh yes, Magnolia.

  That’s right. Rob Baldwin. He was sure. Like the piano — that’s how he had remembered. Yes, he was asking about the Clarence Menard ‘accident.’ Yes. Well, now the Sheriff knew about the little detail that he had ‘forgotten’ to tell. That’s right.

  He was so sorry that all this had come out, but he thought it was important to pass it along. Sure. Well, it was the least he could do, he had been so happy to help someone so important — and you know, he just hadn’t been able to save much money through the years, what with his wife’s burial expenses and all a few years back. And — sure, he did like to play poker on the boats, now and then, he laughed. They shared that hobby for sure! No, his luck was still running kind of low. Well, that’s so nice.

  You’re very generous.

  Clay Parish Coroner Buddy Mouton hung up the phone.

  The governor and his people were so nice.

  Rob wished he had left the door to KAGN unlocked during his visit to the Sheriff’s department, but he hadn’t. He tried the front door, just to make sure. It was locked, just as he had left it. Rob knocked on the door, just in case one of the part-timers had returned to the station during his absence. He looked through the slits in the closed blinds of the front studio. It was dark and empty inside.

  He had placed the story in an envelope and marked it “IMPORTANT — OPEN IMMEDIATELY.” Now, he had to leave it for whomever would open up the station in the morning.

  He stepped back and surveyed the front of the station. He could leave it in the mailbox, but then anyone could come by and take it. Or, perhaps no one at the station would see it until the postal carrier made her rounds. Or, the envelope might be picked up, mistaken for outgoing mail.

  Rob slipped it under the front door.

  The biggest news story in the state was on the floor, hopefully to be found by someone that would know what to do with it. Rob would set his alarm for early in the morning, and tell whomever was working at KAGN what the story was all about. It was the best he could do.

  He turned around and got in his truck. Rob looked at his watch. It was nearly six. He needed to call in the story to the Associated Press, but first he wanted to talk to Sherry, who should still be at the agency making copies of all the files they had reviewed yesterday. Maybe she would recognize one of the names on the list of Pelican Gaming stockholders, a name that would help make a connection between Ashton Brocata, the Tropical Treasures riverboat and the application for the New Orleans casino.

  He pulled his cellphone off its charger/cradle mounted on his SUV’s dash and punched in her cell number as he began the drive home.

  “Hello?”

  “Sherry, it’s Rob.”

  “Hey! Did you find anything?” Sherry spoke as she keyed in commands to print out the records of payments to Brocata. She had found two very substantial payoffs, so far.

  “Yeah. Clarence had evidence of just what we suspected.” He chose his words carefully, just in case someone could listen in, somehow. “More than one ‘consultant’ may be on the payroll. They’re working to get a specific application approved and Clarence had a list of stockholders in that company.”

  “Anybody familiar on the list?”

  He could hear a copier and computer printer running in the background.

  “Not to me. I thought maybe you might know somebody on it.” The printout was sitting on the passenger seat. He balanced the cell on his left shoulder while driving with one hand and reaching for the printout with the other. The Explorer left the road’s pavement for a second or two, until Rob adjusted his course. He checked his rearview mirror to make sure no one, particularly a law enforcement officer, saw his lapse. There was little traffic, just a dark-colored sedan a half-mile or so behind him.

  He resumed speed and balanced the list on the steering wheel. Rob noticed the KAGN transmitter tower to his right and made a mental note not to miss the junction to the interstate this time. If he paid attention, he could be home in a couple of hours, possibly before eight. He’d call Abby next, then the Associated Press.

  “O.K., let’s see. I’ll skip the stockholders from Las Vegas, unless you have connections I’m not aware of,” Rob said.

  “Oh, I’m sure I do, but that’s OK. Give me the local folks.” Rob was pleased that her mood had brightened a bit and she was getting back to her usual caustic wit.

  Rob began reading aloud the names of Louisiana stockholders.

  “Wait!”

  He had only gotten as far as the third name.

  “Say that again!” She was definitely excited.

  Maybe they had found a connection.

  Sometimes, on weekends or after hours, Ashton Brocata would park on one of the streets near the Petroleum Tower, take a leisurely stroll from his car to the building and then walk up the three flights of stairs to the mezzanine level elevators. It made him feel as if he was getting a little exercise.

  But today, Brocata was in a hurry. He drove into the building’s parking garage and jammed his access card into the automated entrance barricade. The flimsy orange and white wooden bar rose up slo
wly. Brocata didn’t wait until it was all the way up to race past. The tires of the Mercedes screeched loudly as he rounded one tight corner after another. The garage was practically vacant and he found an empty space adjacent to the mezzanine entrance.

  Brocata rushed through the outer pair of swinging glass doors, slid his security card through the slot beside the interior set of doors and briskly strode to the elevators.

  He would be in his office in just a couple of moments, retrieve phone, and once again be on his way.

  “Did you say June Ferrer?” Sherry asked.

  “Yeah. June Ferrer. J-U-N-E. Who is it?”

  “The governor’s wife!”

  “The governor’s —” Rob’s words were cut off. He had driven off the road again. He also noticed that he had once again missed the junction to I-49.

  “It’s her maiden name! I met her at the fundraiser the other night—” Now her words stopped short.

  “Sherry? Hello?” Rob looked at the front display of his phone to see if they had been disconnected.

  “I’m here.”

  “What were you saying?” Rob noticed that the same sedan that had been behind him earlier was still there, and had seemed to slow when he did. Probably some little old lady driver. He re-focused on his conversation with Sherry.

  “Rob, the governor is involved!” Sherry said. Her words were coming slowly, as if thoughts were forming as she spoke. “I met his wife the other night. We started talking and she said she knew some LeVasseurs back in her hometown, Natchitoches. She wondered if I was related to any of them. I told her that I had a few cousins in the area, and she told me to ask them if they knew June Ferrer the next time I saw them. She said that was her maiden name when she grew up there.”

  “Does it have an address with the name?” Sherry added.

  “4355 Lakeside,” Rob read aloud, moving the page closer to get a better look. Then he added: “— Natchitoches!”

  “It is her!” Sherry nearly shrieked the words. “And Ashton Brocata and Governor Clayton have been friends since grade school! They grew up together!”