Murder in the Marsh

by Ramsey Coutta

  Murder in the Marsh

  Ramsey Coutta

  © 2016 by Ramsey Coutta

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means with the prior written permission of the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

  Dedicated To Jenny

  Who Spent Countless Hours Patiently Reviewing Numerous Drafts

  And To Micah, Elijah, and Jonathan

  Who Came To Us as a Wonderful Gift from God

  Prologue

  Hurricane Katrina struck a devastating blow to Plaquemines Parish in southeast Louisiana on the morning of August 29, 2005. Heavy rains, winds in excess of 125 mph, and a powerful storm surge, resulted in the overtopping and failure of federal levees. The storm surge of more than twenty feet poured into the lower two-thirds of the parish flooding and destroying everything within. The long and narrow parish towns, lay crammed between two levees and are highly vulnerable to flooding. While the world’s attention focused on the chaos and devastation just north in New Orleans, towns and communities within Plaquemines Parish, including Port Sulphur, Pointe a la Hache, Buras-Triumph, Empire, Boothville, and Venice, virtually disappeared from the map. The level of destruction was total. Homes, churches, stores, farms, roads, and fishing marinas all vanished. Lush groves of sweet oranges, satsumas, and pecan trees were either toppled and broken or died turning brittle and brown by the surging marsh saltwater.

  In Port Sulphur, a town of 3,500, the storm surge blew out a concrete levee wall forty yards wide and another section of earthen levee twenty-five yards wide. The town remained under floodwaters for weeks. During the flooding, the levee walls that still stood became a refuge for the living and the dead. Cattle that survived roamed the narrow embankments, the only dry land for miles. The levee also became the resting place for carcasses of numerous dead animals. Racoons, pelicans, small birds, nutria, fish, dogs, cats, cattle, and snakes littered the protective barrier.

  Sheriff of Plaquemines Parish, I. F. ‘Jiff’ Hingle and his deputies undertook heroic efforts to evacuate the populace, rescue any survivors, and secure the parish for the eventual return of residents. The Sheriff’s office went door-to-door, urging people to evacuate. They achieved a ninety-eight percent evacuation rate of the 27,000 residents. Hours after the storm had passed, Hingle and his deputies launched air boats and picked up the first of fifty-two survivors that day. They moved them to the safety of a levee and signaled for a helicopter to pick them up. At one point, they pulled the airboat up into a church in Port Sulphur and rescued five people in a choir loft. The next day, they pulled out 300 more survivors. With the potential for hundreds of deaths, Plaquemines Parish had only three confirmed fatalities.

  It is estimated that nearly five hundred to a billion dollars in infrastructure damages occurred in Plaquemines Parish alone and fifty-seven square miles of marsh land was washed away.

  One

  December 1968

  The mood in the small, white columned auditorium quickly turned sour. A pale blue cloud of smoke hung over the thickly packed crowd in the cramped assembly hall, while the stale air and rising temperature did little to cool the tempers of those inside. The wooden floor creaked and groaned under the mass of people, while drops of sweat from the overheated church parishioners caked the dirt on the floor. The December holiday season in Belle Chasse, Louisiana would not be remembered as a particularly joyful time.

  Reverend Clarence Mayer, pastor of Our Lady of Holiness church, finished reading Archbishop Joseph Rongel’s letter threatening to excommunicate the entire parish should they not accept a Negro priest as their next minister. Sweating from the tension and the heat as he read, Mayer sensed the murmurs from the crowd grow into jeers, and with the last few words, the jeers exploded into personal insults. The priest slowly retreated backwards from the angry crowd, but he had one final statement to pronounce at the Archbishop’s prior direction. With an unsteady voice he asked for silence. Holding up a blank sheet of paper he stated, “I would like to ask the faithful members of our church to sign this statement of submission to the Archbishop’s wishes.”

  Before he even finished uttering the last word, the crowd exploded. Voices screamed out in anger, threatening the Archbishop should he dare come to the parish in person. The parishioners pushed in closer to the priest, as he edged toward the rear exit.

  Just when it seemed the crowd could no longer be contained, the booming voice of Rennes Lauzon—church member, parish district attorney, and long-time political boss of Plaquemines Parish—hushed the crowd and saved the priest from further abuse. Immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, burgundy tie, and puffing a stout cigar, Lauzon strolled his compact frame from the edge of the wooden platform to its center. The wry smile on his face was his personal content that the parishioners were responding just as he hoped. Brilliant gray hair and light gold-rimmed glasses added to his look of brains, authority, and power all rolled into one. The perception was more than just visual. In fact, most residents in the parish feared Lauzon, and few dared oppose him. Bad things happened to those who did, though nothing could ever be traced back to him. The fact he was a millionaire only further magnified his influence and patronage over his parish “subjects.” His power extended outside of parish lines as well. With one phone call, he could influence the actions of congressmen, senators, and governors, making him a true political boss in every sense of the word.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please. Let’s avoid taking our anger out on our beloved Father Mayer,” the words poured smoothly from his lips. “He’s just doing what he’s told? Isn’t that right Father Mayer?”

  The priest nodded, not sure whether he fully agreed with the statement, but fearful for more than one reason of objecting.

  “Now obviously a mistake has been made. I’m sure Archbishop Rongel did not knowingly intend to send a Negro priest to the good and decent people of Plaquemines Parish. I have no doubt he has simply overlooked the greater need of the Negroes of the Mississippi Delta. Father Mayer, I want you to convey to the Archbishop that the people have spoken. Their voice has been heard, as you yourself have witnessed tonight. Find us another priest. If this continues, I can only believe that our church leadership is falling under the sway of communists, and the communist plot of using integration to destroy our fair country. Now I know this proposed Negro priest is originally from here in Plaquemines Parish, but it’s widely known that he’s a man of questionable character. Do we really want a man of dubious reputation and a Negro pastoring us and leading us in worship?”

  “No!” the crowd in unison responded loudly. Some booed and some whistled, while others laughed along with the farcical monologue of Lauzon.

  Enjoying the uproar, Lauzon was prepared to further incite the crowd when suddenly a voice called out from the back corner of the auditorium, “Not true!”

  Caught off guard, Lauzon halted in mid-sentence leaving his mouth gaping wide open. Peering through the smoke and the mass of sweaty parishioners, he tried to make out who spoke.

  “What? Who said that?”

  The crowd grew silent and turned toward the back of the auditorium, making an opening for Lauzon to see.

  “I said, that your words are not true. Father Ancar has nothing questionable or dubious about his reputation.”

  A dark skinned man wearing a blue short sleeve shirt and worn tan slacks spoke from the corner. Neither identifiably black nor white,
he appeared to be in his late twenties. He had close-cropped curly hair, and an attractive yet determined face. He had the lean musculature of one used to physical labor, and the poise of someone accustomed to speaking in front of people.

  “Well, well, well. I see we have a mulatto who thinks he has something to say,” Lauzon smiled condescendingly. “And a mulatto who casts doubt on my word. Furthermore, a mulatto I’ve never seen at our church that I can recall. What’s your name boy?”

  “My name is James Trahan, and no I’m not a member of your church,” the man said taking a step in the direction of Lauzon. “But I’m a life long friend of Father Ancar. We grew up together in Port Sulphur and have continued to be friends as adults. I can say from knowing him personally, that Father Ancar has nothing questionable about his character. I have never known him to do anything to bring disrepute on his name or to the name of our Lord.”

  Lauzon was noticeably disturbed. “Well I happen to know you’re wrong. And since you’re not a member of this church, you don’t have a say about the decisions of this church!”

  “True, I am not a member, but I ask each of you here to consider what I’ve said concerning Father Ancar. He’s a good man and will faithfully serve the Lord and you. You have nothing to fear or worry about. Please don’t believe any of the lies about this man.”

  Silence enveloped the crowd. Some sensed Trahan was telling the truth, but they knew calling Lauzon a liar toyed with danger.

  “So, I’m a liar!” Lauzon growled, his face turning crimson red. He took off his glasses, wiped his forehead, and pointed a menacing finger at Trahan. “No one calls me a liar! Especially not some half-breed mulatto.”

  Lauzon nodded imperceptibly to the parish Sheriff and two deputies stationed near the front door. They quickly sprang in to action moving swiftly towards Trahan through the parting crowd. The two deputies grabbed his arms wrenching them behind his back, while the Sheriff grabbed his neck in a viselike grip. The trio led him briskly and unceremoniously out of the building. As they bent Trahan down to put him in a patrol car, the Sheriff delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head with a Billy club. Everything went black for Trahan.

  Two

  Trahan awoke to the steady whine of a boat motor under his right ear. He lay in the bottom of an aluminum boat with one side of his head on the floor. Hands handcuffed behind his back, his head throbbed with pain. In the full moonlight, he could make out two figures sitting ahead him. They appeared to be the two deputies. He guessed the Sheriff must be operating the boat behind him

  Having worked on the water all of his life, Trahan was familiar with boats and water. He could tell by the steering of the boat and the way it dipped and bobbed, they were moving in water with a swift current, more swift and powerful than the tidal currents of the bayous. He guessed they were crossing the Mississippi River. As he looked up out of one eye, he could see the bright moon and his breath rising in the cool air. The two deputies facing forward prepared to make contact with land.

  A minute or two later, the boat ground to a stop. The Sheriff ordered one of the deputies to tie off. Once they secured the boat, the Sheriff and the other deputy focused on Trahan.

  “Alright, let’s get him out of here and up to the fort,” the Sheriff ordered.

  “Fort?” Trahan was foggy but growing more alert. He was well aware of old Fort Jackson built on the west bank of Plaquemines Parish after the war of 1812. Plaquemines Parish was the southern most Louisiana parish, further south than even New Orleans. The parish was shaped like a long thin finger, and split like a hot dog bun by the Mississippi River down its entire length. The whole parish formed over ages by rich sedimentary deposits from the river. It rested completely below sea level, and water surrounded it on nearly all sides, including marshes, lakes, bayous, bays, and the Gulf of Mexico. Trahan remembered another fort built well before Fort Jackson, by the early Spanish explorers, almost directly across the river from Fort Jackson. Both forts experienced battle in the Civil War. While Fort Jackson was well preserved and a tourist attraction, the other fort had flooded numerous times, and was overgrown with vegetation, with no roads leading into or out of it. He thought the name might have been Fort Philip.

  Before he could consider this further, the Sheriff and a deputy grabbed him under the arms and jerked him violently upwards. Trahan grimaced in pain, revealing to the Sheriff know he was awake.

  “Welcome back,” the Sheriff drawled nastily in his south Louisiana accent. “You’re going to wish you weren’t.”

  The older deputy smirked, and the two dragged Trahan over the side of the boat through ankle deep water. Trahan noticed they had indeed crossed the Mississippi and were standing on its eastern bank. The other deputy took Trahan’s right arm, while the Sheriff proceeded to lead them up the river embankment.

  Half walking and half dragged, Trahan observed a large wall like structure rise up front of them as they approached. On top of the wall grew a motley collection of small trees and overgrown bushes. In some places, the walls had collapsed, and dirt had tumbled through. Finding a breach in the wall, the Sheriff picked his way through, with the deputies and Trahan following. As they passed through the breach, Trahan noticed the wall of the fort actually amounted to two large brick retaining walls filled with tons of dirt in-between.

  Before him lay a large courtyard, which once must have been quite beautiful. Now it appeared to be in an advanced state of degradation. Water flooded the swampy courtyard with cypress trees, cottonwoods, and Chinese tallows growing wildly. Green scum lay on top of the water, and frogs croaked out their noisy songs. Several snakes slithered through the muck in search of hiding places. Mosquitoes hummed in the air as thick as wood smoke, many of which had already found a feeding place on the skin of Trahan and his captors. As he glanced around, Trahan noticed the fort had been built in the shape of a large star and almost entirely of brick. Like the breach they just came through, many of the interior walls were crumbling as well. On top of the walls, Trahan could see brick parapets from which canons once defended the fort and the upper reaches of the river. Along the interior walls, Trahan made out equally spaced doorways, which probably once led to living quarters and storage areas underneath.

  “Over here,” the Sheriff said, directing the deputies toward one of the entrances.

  As they slogged forward, the cold slimy water came up to his knees. He lost a shoe as suction from the muck drew it off his foot. They reached a rounded entrance lined throughout with old brickwork. Peering into the darkness, Trahan discerned two smaller doorways, one on the left wall and one on the right wall. The one on the right had no door, but the one on the left had a metal lattice door much like a dungeon prison.

  Once they reached the entrance, the Sheriff opened the screeching door and the two deputies pushed him in. He landed hard on his chest, and though he managed to spare his face the worst of the impact, the skin on one cheek was painfully scraped. He could only lie on the floor in pain, as he gasped to catch his breath.

  After a few moments adjusting to the dark, he noticed the room was completely bare and no more than six feet square. Like the passageway they had just come through, it had brick walls and a low rounded brick ceiling. A small three-inch wide slit about a foot tall allowed a little moonlight to shine through. Directly opposite the door, two thick metal rings shoulder high and three feet apart were securely attached to the wall. It appeared to be old prisoner’s quarters.

  The Sheriff ordered the two deputies to handcuff him to the two rings. Unfastening the handcuffs behind his back, the deputies stretched his arms out and did as the Sheriff commanded. He pulled against the rings, but it took only a second for him to realize they were firmly implanted into the wall.

  After they handcuffed him to the wall, they didn’t even speak. With a nod from the Sheriff, the deputies began pummeling him with their fists and Billy clubs. First one then another laid into him. All three had their turn. Trahan never had a chance to reply or defend himself. T
he first blow came from the butt of a Billy club to the abdomen and then ribs, followed by numerous blows to the face. After thirty minutes, the three grew weary and took a break.

  When his tormentors stopped to rest, Trahan spoke through his bloodied mouth.

  “Why…why are you doing this? For defending an innocent man?”

  “Shut up!” the Sheriff threatened, still trying to catch his breath from his exertion.

  “I’m a pastor not a criminal. What have I done wrong?”

  “You were a pastor. And I know who you are. I know everybody and everything that goes on in my parish.”

  “Sheriff, you know what you’re doing is against the law. You’ll be held accountable.”

  “You think so? I’ll give you two reasons why I won’t. First, no one will ever find out about it. Right boys?”

  “That’s right boss,” the deputies agreed.

  “Second, I’m the law here. I can do what.”

  Trahan remained quiet for a moment, then said softly, “The lamp of the wicked goes out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said ‘The lamp of the wicked goes out.’”

  “What…are you trying to put some kind of curse on me?”

  “You’re already cursed by the wickedness you’ve embraced. God’s word says that ‘The light of the righteous rejoices, but the lamp of the wicked goes out.’ Your time will come.”

  “Is that so? Well from where I stand, the only light that’s going to be extinguished is yours.”

  “It’s not too late for you Sheriff. Deputies, you either,” Trahan said looking at each individually.

  “Don’t think you can talk your way out of this with your holy mumbo jumbo. God has never done me any favors and I don’t expect him to now.”