by DJ Donaldson
What the critics said about Blood On The Bayou:
“The bayou atmosphere is redolently captured…”
–LOS ANGELES TIMES BOOK REVIEW
“Donaldson combines an insiders knowledge with a real flair for making the reader’s skin crawl.”
–BOOKLIST
“It’s hard to beat his combination of cool science and explosive passion in the heart of humid Louisiana”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)
What the critics said about No Mardi Gras for the Dead:
“Likeable protagonists, abundant forensic lore and vivid depictions of colorful New Orleans and its denizens…
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Kit and Andy make a formidable team.”
–WASHINGTON TIMES
“Donaldson’s genre gumbo keeps you coming back for more.”
–BOOKLIST
What the critics said about Louisiana Fever:
“Delivers .... genuinely heart-stopping suspense.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Sleek, fast moving.”
–KIRKUS
“Broussard tracks the virus… with a winning combination of common sense and epidemiologic legerdemain.”
–NEW ORLEANS TIMES PICAYUNE
“This series has carved a solid place for itself. Broussard makes a terrific counterpoint to the Dave Robicheaux ragin’ Cajun school of mystery heroes.”
–BOOKLIST
“A dazzling tour de force... sheer pulse-pounding reading excitement.”
–THE CLARION LEDGER (JACKSON, MS)
“A novel of… terrifying force.... utterly fascinating... His best work yet.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)
“The autopsies are detailed enough to make Patricia Cornwell fans move farther south for their forensic fixes. ...splendidly eccentric local denizens, authentic New Orleans and bayou backgrounds... a very suspenseful tale.”
–LOS ANGELES TIMES
“A fast moving, ... suspenseful story. Andy and Kit are quite likeable leads ...The other attraction is the solid medical background against which their story plays out.”
–DEADLY PLEASURES
“If your skin doesn’t crawl with the step-by-step description of the work of the (medical) examiner and his assistants, it certainly will when Donaldson reveals the carrier of the fever.”
–KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL
“Keep(s) the reader on the edge of his chair and likely to finish in one sitting.”
–BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“Exciting reading… well planned… fast paced.”
–MYSTERY NEWS
“Tight and well-paced… Andy (Broussard) is a hugely engaging character… (the) writing is frequently inspired.”
–THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE
What the critics said about Sleeping With The Crawfish:
“Streamlined thrills and gripping forensic detail.”
–KIRKUS
“Action-packed, cleverly plotted topnotch thriller. Another fine entry in a consistently outstanding series.”
–BOOKLIST
“With each book, Donaldson peels away a few more layers of these characters and we find ourselves loving the involvement.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (MEMPHIS)
“The pace is pell-mell.”
–SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS-NEWS
“Exciting and… realistic. Donaldson... starts his action early and sustains it until the final pages.”
–BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)
“A roller-coaster ride... Thoroughly enjoyable.”
–BRAZOSPORT FACTS
“The latest outing of a fine series which never disappoints.”
–MERITORIOUS MYSTERIES
What the critics said about New Orleans Requiem:
“Lots of Louisiana color, pinpoint plotting and two highly likable characters… smart, convincing solution.”
–PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)
“An…. accomplished forensic mystery. His New Orleans is worth the trip.”
–NEW ORLEANS TIMES PICAYUNE
“Andy and Kit are a match made in mystery heaven.”
–THE CLARION LEDGER (JACKSON, MS)
“Nicely drawn characters, plenty of action, and an engaging… storytelling style.”
–THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel
are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
BLOOD ON THE BAYOU
Astor + Blue Editions
Copyright © 2014 by Don Donaldson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States by:
Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10003
www.astorandblue.com
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
DONALDSON, DON. BLOOD ON THE BAYOU.—2nd ed.
Originally published St. Martin’s Press, 1991
ISBN: 978-1-941286-34-0 (epdf)
ISBN: 978-1-941286-33-3 (epub)
1. Mystery—Thriller—Fiction. 2. Mutilation murder investigation—Fiction 3. Paranormal mystery—Fiction 4. Mid-life—Mystery—Fiction 5. Detective duo—Fiction 6.Police and medical investigation—Fiction 7. Louisiana I. Title
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the following people for their kind assistance: Dr. O. C. Smith, Assistant Medical Examiner for Shelby County, Tennessee; Betty, Skeet, and Terry Rogers of the Bayou Pierre Alligator Farm; Dr. Allen O. Battle; Tim Jones; and Paulette Sutton.
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for D.J. Donaldson
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Title Page
Introduction to this Edition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
Blood on the Bayou
D. J. DONALDSON
Introduction to this Edition
This is the second book in my series featuring Andy Broussard and Kit Franklyn, but is the sixth to be reissued by Astor+Blue. And the only reason it’s now available again is because a new generation of readers has given the series a collective thumbs-up. For that, Andy and Kit, and I are extremely grateful. Broussard’s long-time friend, Homicide detective, Phil Gatlin, on the other hand, doesn’t see the point.
Thinking back, I can remember distinctly how this book came about. After the first novel with Andy and Kit had been out for a few months, I got a call from my agent, Oscar Collier, who said that my editor at St. Martins wanted another book featuring the same characters. In fact, my editor wanted more than one more book. At the time I wrote that first story, I wasn’t even thinking about a series. I was so shocked at the idea, I asked Oscar what I should do? (I know… it’s hard to believe I could have been that dumb.) Oscar said a real writer would give the editor what he wanted. Well, I certainly didn’t create that first book thinking I wanted to be a fake writer. So, within a year, I had a new manuscript that, after a lot of discuss
ions about title, became Blood On The Bayou.
In this one, Broussard confronts a series of killings that bring back memories of a murder he heard about when he was a child. All the evidence points to the same culprit, but that was over fifty years ago. And there had been similar murders in his home town long before that… even before Broussard was born. With Kit’s considerable assistance, Broussard unravels the secret behind an ancient scourge. But his success comes at a great price. Kit, though, acquires something that will become a big asset in her life. (Here’s a hint about that asset: his first name is Teddy.)
–D.J. Donaldson, 2014
CHAPTER 1
Dawn was more than three hours away. Under cover of darkness, a sheet of thin gray clouds had crept over the city, bringing with it a steady drizzling rain. A rat with water drops glistening on its fur like crystal pearls stood on the curb at the deserted corner of Canal and Rampart as though waiting for the light to change. Behind it, water gurgled down a copper drainpipe on the side of the Maison Blanche building and spread over the sidewalk. Overhead, in a gray metal box, traffic-light relays clicked and tripped as busily as they had at rush hour. In numbers surrounded by a hazy wet halo, the illuminated marquee on the First American Bank alternately gave the time and temperature to no one. Abruptly, the rat turned and scuttled into the shadows. Seconds later, a silent ambulance sped by, its lights turning.
Across the Mississippi, in an antique bed equipped with extra slats to support his great bulk, Andy Broussard, chief medical examiner for Orleans Parish, sucked in air and blew it out in rhythmic contentment. Broussard was traveling. He was between his own sheets, but he was also in Brussels, seated at a long table covered with an immaculate white tablecloth. Spread before him were all his favorites: tiny whole lamb’s tongues in a gossamer herb sauce; a mousse of Ardennes ham served in china thimbles with little spoons; sea urchins stuffed with mussels, scallops, and roe; slim trout fillets steamed in cream and arranged around a delicate spinach custard. He reached out with his fork for a small piece of calves’ brains dusted with flour, and everything disappeared in the jangle of his telephone.
His small hand emerged from the bedclothes and groped over the nightstand. “Broussard,” he muttered into the receiver. He listened quietly as the voice on the other end dispassionately recited the address where he was needed. “On my way,” he said, hanging up.
He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up in one continuous motion. Noticing the rain on his bedroom window, he grunted unhappily and padded into the bathroom, where he combed his unruly gray hair with his fingers and sent his toothbrush on a quick trip over his small, even teeth. Back in the bedroom, he cycled by the glass bowl of lemon drops on his dresser and popped one into each cheek.
The closets of most fat men contain two sets of clothes, one for the size the owners are, the other for the size they used to be or wish they were. The clothes in Broussard’s closet all fit him perfectly. Not wanting the lifeless victim that awaited him to lie in the rain a second more than was necessary, he omitted his usual bow tie while dressing.
After putting on his yellow rain slicker and grabbing his bag, he went out through the kitchen to his gymnasium-like garage and turned on the lights, setting the timer for five minutes. Stretching before him was a row of mint-condition 1957 T-Birds, each of the six a different color, all with the original paint. From the moment he saw that it was raining, he knew he would be taking the red one, because it was the only one that was already dirty.
Princess, his Abyssinian cat, was asleep in her basket by the door. She had a little food left in her bowl, but not enough to last the day if he should get tied up and not make it back until evening. As he added to her food from the bag nearby, her whiskers twitched but she didn’t open her eyes.
Never a simple matter to get behind the wheel of such a small car, the extra fabric of even a rain slicker made the chore more difficult than usual. Nevertheless, he was out of the garage a full two minutes before the lights went out.
There were practically no cars on the road and he had the eight-lane Mississippi River bridge nearly all to himself, an exhilarating feeling considering how often he had sat on it mired in traffic. The dispatcher had given him an address on Royal. Since Royal was a one-way street running in the wrong direction, he went down Burgundy and cut over to Royal on St. Philip. With the twisting blue lights of a police car and the orange lights of an ambulance raking the buildings on each side of the narrow street, it wasn’t hard to tell he’d come to the right place.
He parked at the end of the block and struggled out of the car. Seeing that the drizzle had let up, he shucked off his slicker, put it on top of the car, and went around to the passenger side to get his bag, the humidity already pressing in on him.
The police cruiser was sitting angled in the street, so that the small entourage on the sidewalk was illuminated by its lights. Through its open windows, the two-way radio under the dash spit a guttural message into the night air.
“Shots fired at Sixteen-twenty Poydras… units eighteen and twenty-four… please respond.”
Broussard took a deep breath. The lights and the radio, the apprehension before he saw the victim—it was all terrible and wonderful, and the old medical examiner’s blood began to hum.
His eyes darted over the scene. Down to his left, wearing one of those flimsy raincoats that fold up into a package you can put in your shirt pocket, Lt. Phil Gatlin, ranking homicide detective in the NOPD, was measuring the distance from an open umbrella in the gutter to a gold lamé purse lying on a sidewalk grate. Over him, holding a flashlight on the tape, was a uniform, a thin guy with a round little paunch that pulled at the buttons on his crisp blue shirt. Broussard thought his name was Cavenaugh. The uniform’s partner, a young blond fellow whom Broussard had never seen before, was on the other end of Gatlin’s tape.
Shifting his eyes to the right, Broussard saw Ray Jamison, the homicide photographer, squatting at the head of a body lying in a dark ocean of blood. Thankful for the awning, which not only prevented loss of some of the evidence that would allow him to fix the time of death but also protected the unfortunate victim from further indignities by the weather, Broussard stepped onto the sidewalk and lost sight of everything in the flash of Jamison’s Polaroid.
As the blinding ripples of light behind Broussard’s eyes died away, Jamison stood up and let his camera dangle against his chest. “I’m too old to squat like that,” he said, swinging his left leg back and forth at the knee. “How you doing?”
“I been better,” Broussard said, staring at the body. “You?”
“Nose to the wheel. ‘Asses and elbows,’ as they say.”
Broussard put his bag down at the edge of the pooled blood, opened it, and took out a padded kneeling block. “Scuse me, Ray. I need your spot.” Taking the photographer’s place, Broussard looked down into the cold, unseeing eyes of what used to be a young woman. She was wearing pink shorts and a pink tube top that had been pulled down nearly to her waist. Both had dark blotches of blood spreading into the fabric like some sort of grisly camouflage. Her arms were lying palms up, each at a forty-five-degree angle to the body. The blood on the parts of them he could see was smeared. Her right leg was cocked at the knee, so her ankle lay under her left calf. Except for several red spirals around each thigh, her legs were unbloodied.
In the raking beam from the police cruiser’s headlights, he could see bits of everted flesh poking out of her blood-covered torso in dozens of places. His eyes traveled over the body, measuring… sorting… moving quickly until they settled on the gaping crater in her neck.
Death has many forms, but its repertoire is not limitless. Thus, it had been years since Broussard had run across a case that did not already have a mental pigeonhole waiting. But now, despite the poor lighting and long before he would say so aloud, he believed this one was different; this was something new. Yet if he had been listening, he might have heard the small voice within, whispering that this
was not something new. It was old… very old. And softer even than the whisper was an old warning: Never go…
“So you finally got here,” Gatlin growled.
“Main course always comes after the hors d’oeuvres,” Broussard said, slipping easily into repartee he really didn’t feel.
Gatlin’s heavily lined face showed every month of his long career. In the unflattering light, his cauliflowered nose seemed enormous. “I swear this one gets me where I live.”
“No argument there. Don’t suppose you’ve got a suspect?”
“Not one I could show you, but he might’ve left his card over here.” Gatlin pointed to the sidewalk a few feet from the body, and they moved over for a look.
Near the pale edge of the beam from the cruiser’s lights was a single perfect footprint outlined in blood. “Probably an athletic shoe,” Gatlin said.
“And fairly new, judgin’ from the sharpness of the pattern,” Broussard added.
“Triangles and squares,” Gatlin said. “Should be easy enough to figure out the brand.”
“Let’s hope not.”
“Why?… Oh, yeah. Easy to figure out means a popular brand and a million suspects.”
“How do you know it wasn’t made by somebody just passing by?” Jamison said.
“Unlikely,” Gatlin replied. “Most people wouldn’t come close enough to get blood on their shoes.”
“A bum then, three sheets to the wind.”
“No, Phillip’s right,” Broussard said. “It was the killer that left it. See those drops of blood beside the footprint?”
Jamison bent down for a closer look.
