River of Secrets

by Roger Johns

  Wallace had worked as a messenger in the Capitol during one of her college summers and seen a lot of the offices in the building. Most were nice, but not this nice.

  She spent nearly an hour interviewing the senator’s intern, as well as Coy Asber, the secretary-receptionist. The intern was new and had nothing of interest to offer. Asber, on the other hand, had witnessed or overheard lots of tense encounters between the senator and his fellow legislators and between the senator and people from the community and around the state, but he felt that none of it was a cause for concern.

  “I’ve only been with Senator Marioneaux for two years, but I’ve had one sort of clerical job or another here in the Capitol for going on ten years and I can tell you, we’ve got a lot of big egos and quick tempers in this building. That’s just the way it goes around here.”

  “Was there anyone in particular that came off as always being at odds with Senator Marioneaux?”

  “No, not really,” Coy said, fiddling with the cord on his desk phone.

  “Anybody who nursed a grudge longer than seemed reasonable?”

  “No. People who operate that way don’t last long in this business. He’d fight with somebody one day and they’d be best buds the next.”

  “Let’s look at his appointment calendar,” Wallace said.

  Coy hesitated. “I’m not sure I have the authority to hand that over,” he said. “I’ll be glad to respond to a subpoena, though. Or, if you don’t want to do the paper chase and you’re not in a super hurry, you can wait for Garrett Landry, the senator’s legislative aide—he’s really the guy who runs the show around here. If he says okay, then it’s okay.”

  “Where is Mr. Landry?”

  “Out of the country on some kind of trade mission. He won’t be back until Thursday.”

  Coy opened the middle drawer of his desk and extracted a business card with Landry’s contact information on it and handed it to Wallace.

  “Why don’t you call him now and ask him?” Wallace suggested. “Maybe we can save some time? And then I’d like you to make a list of the people who seemed to get crosswise with the senator. Especially if it was someone it happened with more than once. I appreciate that this is a contentious place, but it’s always possible that somebody ended up keeping their true feelings hidden.”

  “Sure. I guess I can do that.”

  “And I’d like to schedule a meeting with Mr. Landry, as soon as he gets back.”

  “I can put you down for Friday afternoon,” Coy said, consulting a calendar book on his desk. “He’s booked until then.”

  Coy called and left a message when Landry didn’t answer. After a few minutes of scribbling, he handed Wallace the list she had asked him to make.

  “I have to be honest, I feel strange about this,” he said as she took the list from him. “It feels kind of like I’m accusing these people of something. They’re going to know you got their names from me, and probably feel the same way. If the senator’s replacement doesn’t want me, my name will be Mudd, around here. I’ll probably have to look elsewhere for a job.”

  “What if I tell them you gave me a list of people the senator spoke with recently and not mention the other stuff?”

  “You’re alright, Detective. What else can I do for you?”

  “You can help me look for the senator’s laptop and his cell phone.”

  “Sure, we can look, but—”

  “I know. You want a subpoena before you let me take them away.”

  He smiled, sheepishly, and gave her a one-shoulder shrug. “But you know what? I don’t think we’re going to find anything. I distinctly remember he put the laptop into his briefcase when he left here on Friday. And when he walked out the door, he had his briefcase in one hand and the phone stuck between his shoulder and his ear, yakking with somebody.”

  “You’re quite certain of that?”

  “Absolutely. The reason I remember is that he waved good-bye, as he was going out the door, and the phone slipped loose. He kind of juggled it and chased after it with his free hand for a couple of steps.”

  “You don’t mind if we look, anyway, do you? He might have come back to the office after you left for the day.”

  “Sure. We can have a look around.”

  They spent the next fifteen minutes scouring the office suite, but, just as Coy had predicted, they found neither the laptop nor the telephone.

  “One more thing,” Wallace said as they returned to the front room. “What can you tell me about the press conference that was scheduled for yesterday morning?”

  “Nothing. I mean I know one was scheduled, but he never mentioned what it would be about. Originally, it was going to be in the middle of the week, but he moved it to Monday, at the last minute. I have no idea why.”

  “Is that normal, that you wouldn’t know?”

  “Sometimes he told me. Sometimes he didn’t. Really, all I needed to know was when it was happening, so I could update his calendar. Garrett would know. He can be hard to get ahold of, but keep trying. He knew everything about everything going on in this office.”

  * * *

  Wallace exited through the front entrance of the building, onto the broad limestone plaza that eventually gave way to the long, low steps that led to the street below. Several women clustered a few steps below the plaza, looking up at the Art Deco spire that rose more than four hundred feet above them

  “There she is,” one of the women said as Wallace neared the edge of the plaza. The speaker pointed in Wallace’s direction. Wallace looked back toward the building, to see who the woman was pointing at, but no one was behind her.

  “We’re here for you, Detective Hartman,” another of the women said.

  The group came up the steps onto the plaza and moved into Wallace’s path. They looked angry.

  “Detective, my daughter was raped over a year ago.”

  “That’s horrible. I’m—”

  “They still haven’t found who did it. Do you know why?”

  “No. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  “Because they haven’t processed the DNA from the rape kit. That’s why.” The woman’s voice rose in volume. “They tell us there’s a long wait because there’s so many cases in front of hers. Meanwhile the dirtbag who did this to her is still out there, going about his merry way, while my thirteen-year-old girl has had the stuffing kicked out of her life.”

  “I feel terrible for—”

  “Everybody says they feel terrible. But nobody does anything. And here you come with your case. Your victim’s already dead. He can’t suffer anymore. He doesn’t care who killed him, and he doesn’t have to face a messed-up life every day like my child does.”

  Wallace took a step back. The woman was angry, but she was also very sad.

  “How come some dead white man gets the DNA profiled in his case before my living, breathing, hurting daughter can have her case taken care of? Does that seem right to you?”

  “Do you have children, Detective?” another of the women asked.

  Questions flew at her from several women at once. They had gathered around her in a loose semicircle. No one was waiting for answers.

  “How would you feel if it was your child who was raped?” one of the woman asked.

  “How would you feel knowing she was less important than a dead man?”

  “How would your daughter feel?”

  Two members of the state police detail that provided security for the Capitol were hurrying up the steps behind the women. Their purpose was obvious from the determination on their faces. One of the troopers, a woman, opened her mouth to speak, but Wallace raised her hand.

  “We’re fine,” Wallace said to the troopers as they drew near. She showed her badge.

  The troopers continued toward her.

  “This gathering needs to disperse,” the female trooper said. “Now.”

  “We’re fine,” Wallace repeated. “These women have something important to say.”

  “Whatever n
eeds to be said will have to be said elsewhere,” the other trooper said. “Disperse immediately.”

  Onlookers gathered at the margins of the commotion.

  “We’re not leaving,” one of the women shouted at the trooper. “Not until we get some answers.” She stood her ground, her arms folded defiantly across her chest. “We have a right to be here, and we have a right—”

  The trooper stepped behind the woman and took hold of her arms. The woman struggled against the restraint. Another lady began recording the encounter with her cell phone.

  “Ma’am, put the phone away,” the female trooper said.

  “Let me go.” The woman squirmed helplessly in the trooper’s grip.

  “Please don’t do this,” Wallace said. “No one is hurting anyone.”

  “The order to disperse applies to you as well, Officer,” the trooper shouted in her command voice. “If you don’t vacate the premises immediately, you’ll be subject to arrest and detention along with everyone else involved in this protest.”

  “This isn’t a protest,” Wallace shouted back. “It’s a conversation.”

  Footsteps sounded on the plaza behind her. Wallace turned to see four more troopers approaching. Two more were coming up the steps from the street below.

  “We want answers, Detective Hartman,” one of the women called out. “All of our daughters are waiting their turn. When does justice … Let go of me,” she growled as the troopers waded into the group and began pulling the gathering apart.

  Wallace turned to face the trooper on her left. “This is a mistake,” she said evenly, not moving. “Stop making it worse.”

  One of the women was on the ground, moaning, holding her knee.

  * * *

  Wallace was sitting on a bench on the little patio just outside the east exit of the Capitol. With silent efficiency, Wallace and the group of women who had confronted her had been escorted from the plaza in front of the Capitol. The troopers had spaced themselves evenly across the sidewalk at the base of the steps, preventing the group from re-forming, although some of the women continued shouting from the street, for a while.

  After she found a quiet place to regroup, Wallace spent a few minutes subduing her anger and thinking about how similar this had been to her confrontation with Eddie Pitkin and the priest, except that today hers was one of the voices calling for the police to back off. She wondered how the women had known where to find her.

  She pulled out the list of names Coy Asber had given her and then took a picture of it with her phone and emailed it to LeAnne, with instructions to start interviewing everyone on the list.

  When her phone buzzed a few minutes later she expected it to be LeAnne calling with some sort of pushback about the assignment, but it wasn’t.

  “Detective Hartman, this is Melissa Voorhees in Cavanaugh.”

  “Please tell me Peter Ecclestone is standing right there in front of you.”

  “You’re not that lucky. A vehicle belonging to him—”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions. I called the sheriff’s departments in the surrounding parishes, places where there were areas that might interest Peter, from a shutterbug point of view. His SUV is in the lot at Lake Kilgore Park.

  “That’s south of False River. He said he’d be heading north, back toward Cavanaugh.”

  “Peter and the truth are not always on speaking terms.”

  “How long has it been there?”

  “We don’t know. But there’s no evidence whatsoever of foul play.”

  “When I saw him yesterday, there was a red kayak in a roof rack.”

  “I’ll ask about that. In any event, it’s a big lake. I’ve been out there a time or two. It has lots of swampy areas along the western edge. Cell coverage is pretty spotty. If he’s out there, that’s probably why you’re not hearing from him.”

  “Do you think he would have stayed out overnight?”

  “He’s a bit of a wuss, but you never know. In any event, I just wanted to keep you up-to-date. I’ll get back to you on the kayak, and I’ll have them keep an eye on the vehicle.”

  “Thanks, Chief Voorhees.”

  “Just call me Melissa. Nobody calls me Chief Voorhees except my kids when I’m handing out chores or nagging about schoolwork.”

  “Will do, and thanks for pitching in on this.”

  “No problem. I’m just glad it’s your case, not mine.”

  “How does this thing look from way out in Cavanaugh?”

  “Like I said, I’m glad it’s your case, and not mine.”

  Wallace stuffed the list of legislators into her satchel and looked up the number for the church where Marioneaux had led the faithful before he got into politics. The current pastor, Stewart Sutton, happened to be in Baton Rouge when Wallace finally tracked him down. He agreed to meet her at noon.

  * * *

  They met on the front steps of a church where he had come to visit a colleague. He sat on the top step. Wallace stood, facing him, a couple of steps down. He was a youthful-looking man in his sixties with sandy hair and a ready smile. After a few minutes, she pegged him as a man who could speak at length without actually saying much.

  “Well, like I said, Herbert was enormously popular—a very charismatic individual.”

  “And maybe that’s what’s got me a bit hung up.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The picture you paint makes him seem universally loved, yet he was murdered. Those two things don’t fit together.”

  “But they don’t have to be in conflict unless you’re implying that his killer was a member of my congregation?”

  “I’m just saying that congregations can be like families. From the outside, everything looks lovely. But inside the four walls of the house, there is always conflict.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you. He remained a member of the church. He attended fairly regularly. Folks appeared to like him just fine.”

  It sounded like the meaningless jibber-jabber HR departments spouted when asked for an opinion about a former employee.

  “Even though he left a career rendering unto the Lord, to seek fame and fortune in the apparatus that renders unto Caesar.” The pastor smiled at his own wordplay.

  “I appreciate that someone in your position wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead—”

  “Or the living.”

  “But surely you can see that something about this situation doesn’t add up.”

  Something in the pastor’s face changed. He sucked in his lips and bit down. “There were some who felt he had … strayed from the path.”

  “What path is that?”

  “The path of righteousness. What other worthwhile path is there?”

  Wallace didn’t need to get sidetracked into a theological debate.

  “Did you ever hear anyone express a desire to commit violence against the senator?”

  “No, Detective, I did not.”

  “Then, what did you hear? What led you to conclude that some felt he had strayed?”

  “Well, I can’t say, exactly.”

  “You can’t or you won’t?” She held her hands wide.

  “Take your pick. My interpretation of other people’s words and actions is just speculation, and I might be wrong. Maybe somebody had a sour expression at the mention of the man’s name, or someone turned away too quickly from an opportunity to engage Herbert in conversation. I’m not about to put people under suspicion because of how I feel about their body language. Surely you can see I would quickly lose the trust of the entire congregation. And these people need to be able to trust me. That’s a critical understanding that comes with belonging to a pastored congregation.”

  “What about you, Reverend Sutton?”

  “What about me?”

  Wallace waited.

  “I may not have agreed with all of Herbert’s positions—in fact, I was strongly opposed to some of them—but I’m not in the business of
violence, if that’s what you’re asking. I would willingly suffer violence before I would commit it.”

  Something about the way the pastor spoke made Wallace believe him. Something about him reminded her of Lex, her younger brother, who was a Catholic priest. Vehement and rigorous in defense of his ideals but relentlessly gentle in his actions.

  “Let’s say I wanted to get my own reading on how Herbert Marioneaux was regarded by his former flock. Who would I speak to?”

  “Well, anybody who’ll speak to you.” The pastor tilted his head to one side as if he was considering whether to continue. “You’re free to speak to anybody in the congregation who’ll talk to you.”

  * * *

  After her meeting with the pastor, Wallace returned to her cubicle in the Homicide Division. LeAnne was in the next cubicle, working the phone like a seasoned telemarketer. Wallace saw the list she had emailed LeAnne sitting on the desk, with notes scribbled all over it.

  “Any luck?” Wallace asked when LeAnne hung up her phone.

  “Nobody’s ever the right person to talk to. I’ve spent all day getting passed around like a porn magazine at scout camp.” LeAnne leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. “It just all seems too petty to matter—squabbling over things like alternative wording in some amendment to the statute on llama farming, or griping about how Marioneaux kept somebody’s pet project bottled up in committee instead of letting it come to the floor for a vote.”

  “Let’s split up the rest of the list.” Wallace pulled the original of the list from her satchel. “How far down have you gotten?”

  “Really?” LeAnne asked. “You’re actually going to do some of the scut work for a change?” She reached over and drew a line under the last name she had called.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how things went with Glenn Marioneaux, yesterday?” She was learning productive ways to ignore LeAnne’s endless sniping and griping.

  LeAnne looked as if she might give Wallace the eye roll that meant she knew she was being patronized.

  “So, how did things go with the son?”