by DJ Donaldson
“I think the son of a bitch has moved.” He rubbed his big hand back and forth across one eyebrow, making it look like the fur on a frightened cat. “You know what the worst part of this job is? It’s doing crap that you know has practically a zero chance of accomplishing anything. But you do it because of the stakes.”
“You plannin’ to spend the night up here?”
Gatlin responded with the gesture trapeze artists use at the end of their act. “The thing that burns my butt is that I must have walked past that scaffolding dozens of times in the last week or so and it never registered.”
“Maybe because it was at night. If it had been during the day, you probably would have noticed the broken window just like I did.”
“Yeah, right.” He surveyed his surroundings. “Wonder if the weapon is stashed up here somewhere?”
Broussard said nothing.
“Well, I can’t afford to toss the place now,” Gatlin said. “It’ll just have to wait.”
The two men went downstairs and located the security guard, who lost his bored expression the instant Gatlin flashed his badge. In hushed tones, Gatlin explained the situation, then said, “No fuss, no bother. You give me a key so I can get out if I have to, then tonight, just lock up as usual.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed into a squint. “How do I know this ain’t a con?”
“Look, this is Dr. Broussard, the Orleans Parish Medical Examiner. Would he be involved in a con?”
The man relaxed. “No sir, it don’t seem likely.”
“The key?”
The old man sorted through the ring hanging from his belt and removed two keys. “This one’s to the front door and this one’s to the outside gates.”
“I’ll be back before closing,” Gatlin said, pocketing the keys.
“By the way,” Broussard added, “you can bill me for the broken statue in the attic.”
“And they say security guards are poorly trained,” Gatlin whispered as they headed for the street.
*
When Broussard got back to his office, he found a string of pink message slips taped to his desk lamp. The first was from the guy heading up the Pathophysiology course at LSU, wanting to remind him that his lectures were coming up next week. Seeing that the second one was from Woodsy Newsome, he first called Charlie Franks in the morgue to see how he was coming on the floater that Newsome was working, figuring that was almost certainly what the detective was calling about.
After relaying what he got from Franks, he pulled the third message off the lamp: PLEASE CALL GEORGE BURKE. URGENT.
George Burke?
He tried to place the name but couldn’t. It was the area code accompanying the phone number that finally jarred the answer loose. Of course. Burke was the young fellow that had taken over old Doc McKenzie’s practice in Bayou Coteau after McKenzie died. He was also the closest thing to a medical examiner they had over there. As much as he personally liked Burke, it was clear that the man was barely up to the job.
He punched in the number on the message slip and got Burke’s wife, who doubled as his nurse. Her name? What the devil was her name?
Patsy.
“Hello, Patsy. This is Andy Broussard over in New Orleans. I got a message here to call George.”
“Hi, Andy. George told me you’d be calling. I’ll get him. How are you?”
Patsy had a deep sultry voice that didn’t go at all with her petite frame and schoolgirl look. “A little older and a little smarter, I hope.”
“Sound’s like a good trade-off. Hold on.”
A few seconds later, Burke came on the line. “Andy. Good of you to return my call. Sorry, though, that you’re the one that has to pay.”
For the first time, Broussard realized that George’s voice would have better suited his wife and vice versa. “I think our budget can handle it. What’s up?”
“Patsy and I just got back from a little vacation. While I was catching up on the papers we missed, I read about the murders you’ve been having. I was particularly struck by the fact that all the victims had throat wounds made by human teeth.”
“We would have preferred that those details not be made known, but somehow they got out.”
“Might be good that they did. Shortly before we left on vacation, we had a murder over here. Not a slasher type like yours, but a beating—one so bad, you couldn’t tell who the victim was by looking at the face. And there were throat wounds.”
Never go boo-lie during a full moon.
Broussard sat up in his chair and hunched over the desk. “Made by human teeth?”
There was a pause. “Look, you know I don’t particularly like serving as the medical examiner over here. I haven’t got the training for it. But since there’s no one else, I do it… as well as I can. What I’m trying to say is, I don’t know for sure if the wounds were made by human teeth, but I think so.”
“You take any photographs?”
Another pause. “No. I was planning to, but the Latiolais boy caught his hand in his combine, the Bergeron baby came early, and—”
“How about I come over there and kick the grass a bit.”
“Might be a good idea. When?”
“I’ll leave first thing tomorrow mornin’.”
*
Kit was in her office wondering what her next move should be when Broussard came by. “Thought you’d like to know that we found your lycanthrope’s hideway a little while ago.”
Kit leaped to her feet. “And you got him?”
Broussard shook his head. “It was empty. Looked like maybe he hadn’t been there since the last murder.”
Just as Kit was about to tell him what she had discovered about Henry Guidry, Broussard said, “You and Charlie are gonna have to hold the fort by yourselves tomorrow. I’m goin’ over to Bayou Coteau to check on a murder they had a few days before ours started. The local ME thinks their case and ours might be related.”
“I’d like to go, too,” Kit said eagerly.
Broussard thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “It’s all right with me. But I was plannin’ on usin’ the opportunity to show Bubba the engine knock my yellow bird develops after it’s been on the road for awhile. Already set it up with him.”
“That’s okay. I can drive, too.” This was actually better than riding with Broussard. This way, she would be free to pursue her own agenda, one that might even include Teddy LaBiche.
“Since I’m not sure what we’ll get into over there, can’t say how long we’ll be gone. To be safe, you should take your toothbrush. I’ll pick up Bubba and swing by your place about eight.”
“I’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 13
The next morning, the little caravan got under way a little after eight. Bubba pointed out that if they took the southern loop of Highway 90, they’d get a chance to see some shipyards. But that plan lost two to one and they set out instead on Interstate 10, which would take them through Baton Rouge to Lafayette, where they would pick up the southern leg of 90, in all, about a two-and-a-half-hour trip.
With Broussard setting the pace, they drove a little over the speed limit and made no pit stops. A few miles after they had turned off the interstate for the final ten miles to their destination, Broussard began to signal that he was about to apply the brakes, which he did without pulling onto the shoulder. From ten yards back, Kit saw him open his door and scoop something off the pavement. A few seconds later, Bubba got out and walked down to the swamp that ran beside the road. He disappeared for a moment in the weeds, then came back to the car.
As they resumed their trip, the swamp on the left receded and the oaks opposite the spot where she’d first met Teddy appeared. A mile farther on, she saw a road angling gently off to the right that she hadn’t noticed on her first trip. A few feet in front of the turnoff was a sign for the Bayou Coteau Alligator Farm. A half mile more and the swampy shoulder on the right was also displaced by a line of oaks.
In the heart of town, Broussa
rd turned onto one of the side streets and pulled into a parking bay in front of a sprawling one-story antebellum with a pretty wraparound porch decorated with a dozen huge hanging ferns. In the well-tended lawn was a black wrought-iron sign with white letters: GEO. BURKE, M.D. Probably the ME that Broussard had mentioned.
She pulled in between Broussard’s T-Bird and the BMW already there, got out, and took a good stretch. Down the street, a big man in a ragged blue sweatshirt was walking behind a power mower that filled the air with the wet, sweet smell of newly cut grass. Nice town. Now, if she could just find a ladies’ room. She walked over to where Broussard and Bubba were also loosening up after the long drive.
“What was all that about back there when you stopped in the middle of the street?” she asked.
“Bubba saw a turtle in the road and was afraid it might get run over.” Broussard said from around a fresh lemon ball.
She looked at Bubba, who shook his head slowly and pointed his finger silently at Broussard. His left cheek looked as full as Broussard’s.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you,” Broussard said. He took her hand and put two wrapped lemon balls in it. “Let’s go see Burke.”
“Andy, Ah’m gonna stay out here and see can Ah figure out what’s causin’ dat noise,” Bubba said.
While Bubba looked under the T-Bird’s hood, Kit and Broussard went onto the porch and followed the neat sign near the front door that directed them to the office entrance around to the side.
The waiting room was done in brown rattan with peach walls. At eye level, the room was ringed with Audubon prints. At the far end, behind a pass-through, a pretty young woman with short red hair looked tickled to death to see them.
“Look who’s here,” she gushed genuinely. “Y’all must have left home right early.”
While she came out to the waiting room, Kit considered making a dash for the rest room she saw, but she could imagine the ensuing conversation: “Where’s the lady who was with you?” “Oh, she’s in the toilet.” And then both of them watching when she emerged. Too late now, anyway.
“Andy, you are lookin’ so good,” the woman said, coming out the door that led to the examining rooms. From somewhere in the back, Kit heard a high-pitched whine that suddenly dropped in tone and began to labor.
Noticing her interest in the back room, the woman looked at her and said, “Isn’t that just awful? Makes it sound like a wood shop instead of a doctor’s office. Once, I had to chase a patient all the way to Main Street to convince her that it was just the saw George uses to remove casts. Hi, I’m Patsy Burke.”
Kit took Patsy’s outstretched hand and introduced herself. “I love your ferns,” she added.
From the look on Patsy’s face, Kit could see that she had said the right thing. “Sphagnum moss,” Patsy said. “That’s the secret. You plant them in pure sphagnum. World ever runs out of sphagnum, I’m in big trouble. George’ll be through in a few minutes. Would y’all like some lemonade?”
“That’d be wonderful,” Kit said.
“Andy?”
“Never could turn down anything made with lemons,” Broussard said. “Could we make it for three? We’ve got a friend outside.”
“Three it is.”
While Patsy got the refreshments and Broussard examined the Audubon prints, Kit slipped away. She emerged just as Olivia Duhon came out the door that led to the examining rooms. Behind her, without his cast, was Claude.
There were exclamations of surprise and some vigorous handshaking. Olivia gave Kit a big hug.
“How’d you find us?” Claude said. “Martin send you over here?”
“Actually, we’re here on business… to see George,” Broussard said apologetically.
“And you didn’t let us know you were coming?” Olivia said. “Shame on you, Andrew.”
“I didn’t want you fussin’ over us,” Broussard said. “I know how you are. And there’s three of us.”
“I don’t care if there’s a dozen, you’re coming to lunch at least,” Olivia said.
“I’m not sure when we’ll be—”
“We’ll set it tentatively for noon. If you’re going to be late, call.”
“I guess that was you we heard getting his cast removed,” Kit said to Claude.
“And good riddance,” Claude replied. “Seems like I been hobbling around with that thing for a year.”
“What happened?” Broussard asked. “Olivia find you flirtin’?”
“He’d have had more than a broken ankle if that was the case,” Olivia said seriously.
“Did it trying to save my dog from a gator,” Claude said.
“Did you ever get him?” Kit asked.
“No. It’s like he can read minds. He won’t take poisoned bait and by the time you get a gun to your shoulder, he’s on the bottom and out of sight. The day he killed my dog, he wasn’t even hungry. I know because I found the dog’s body later.”
“Claude, that’s enough,” Olivia cautioned, touching his arm.
“It’s just that every time I think of it—”
“Claude.”
“You’re right.” Claude’s face brightened. “I guess then we’ll see you around noon.”
Even though his cast was gone, Claude still walked with a slight limp. As the door closed behind them, George Burke came into the room.
“Hi, Andy. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Burke had the kind of face that would make him look twenty years old forever. He had pink lips and intelligent eyes that looked out from behind glasses with thin wire frames. Dressed in sturdy olive twills and a white shirt open at the collar, he looked like someone who had spent the morning doing some serious doctoring. Kit liked him instantly.
“Bet you thought I was never comin’ back,” Patsy said, maneuvering past Burke with a trayful of slim glasses made to look as though they were covered with frost. She handed each of them a glass and a napkin and then headed outside to find Bubba.
“Why don’t we talk back here,” Burke said.
He led them to a room containing a huge old rolltop desk sitting against the far wall. The placement of the desk meant that Burke’s back would be to the door when he sat there, an indication to Kit that he had an open, trusting personality. Above and around the desk, the wall was crowded with framed documents, including an M.D. degree from Bowman Gray and a certificate indicating that he was board-certified in family practice. Against the near wall, under another Audubon print, was a blue vinyl sofa.
“What a beauty,” Broussard said, crossing the room and running his hand over the desk.
“Belonged to Doc McKenzie,” Burke said. “His heirs let it go with the house. Funny how young folks have no appreciation for the past. They talked about it as if it were junk.”
“Comes with youth,” Broussard said. “Takes somebody who’s had a past to appreciate one.”
Burke opened one of the deep side drawers and pulled out a pile of thin ledgers held together with a rubber harness. “They didn’t even want these—McKenzie’s notes about all the cases he saw over the years. It’s fascinating to see how little he had to work with in the way of medicines when he first started out and how his clinical skills grew over the years. I read a few pages every night to relax. But that’s not why you’re here.” He put the ledgers away, waved Kit and Broussard to the sofa, and spun his desk chair around to face them.
Sitting next to Broussard was like sitting on a steep hill, and Kit had to brace her feet against the floor and overbalance in the opposite direction to keep from tumbling into him.
“This murder you had,” Broussard said, “who was the victim?”
“Homer Benoit,” Burke said, trying his lemonade. “Ran the hardware in town. Nice fellow, but small in stature. Couldn’t have done much to defend himself. He and his nephew, Marc Babinaux, worked until about eleven-thirty rearranging some things in the store. When Marc left, Homer stayed behind to finish. He must have locked up around midnight, because he was killed in th
e parking lot behind the store at twelve-o-five A.M.”
“What makes you so sure of the time?”
“His watch. It was smashed like he’d thrown up his arm to ward off a blow. I found pieces of bark in some of his wounds, so he was probably bludgeoned with a rough piece of lumber or a hefty piece of a fallen tree branch. As I told you on the phone, he also had throat wounds that could have come from human teeth.”
Broussard looked at Kit. From his expression, it was clear that he remembered her earlier comment about their killer being capable of using a knife or a club. He turned back to Burke. “Anybody find the weapon?”
“No.”
“Benoit have any enemies?”
Burke shook his head. “Small place like this, there’s not much you can keep private. Patsy always says the whole town knows it every time we…” Burke paused. “Well, you get the idea. If he had any enemies, it’d be common knowledge.”
“I hope the body wasn’t cremated,” Broussard said, taking a sip of his lemonade.
“It’s in the cemetery you passed on the way in.”
“Who’s the sheriff in Bayou Coteau these days?”
“Name’s Guidry, Lawless Guidry. Great name, huh?”
“Any relation to Henry Guidry?” Kit asked.
“Which Henry Guidry?”
“The cattle rancher. Friend of the Duhons.”
Burke shrugged. “You go back far enough, they’re probably all related. But if those two are, I’ve never seen any sign of it.” He looked at Broussard. “You going to talk to him?”
“Thought I would.”
“He’s kind of a strange fellow. Owns the Texaco station where you turned off the interstate. Does all of his law-enforcement work out of a room in the back.”
“What does he do when he needs to lock someone up?” Kit asked.
“Takes them to Breaux Bridge.”
“Be a dull world without the strange ones,” Broussard said, finishing off his lemonade. Kit did the same, and Patsy arrived to collect the glasses. After a round of departing pleasantry, Burke accompanied his guests as far as the porch, where he watched them walk to their cars. When they reached the sidewalk, he said, “By the way, watch out if Guidry offers you his hand. He’s got a grip like a vise and he loves to humiliate people with it.”
