by Tony Dunbar
“Trina Tessier,” she said, and gave his fingers a quick touch. “Come to my office when you’re finished,” she told Swincter, and was on her way out the door. A bit of red skirt flew below her white coat, and there was a quick flash of pale ankle.
Tubby watched Swincter take in the view.
“Thanks for seeing me,” he said, breaking the doctor’s reverie.
“Oh, sure. I guess you’re trying to get Cletus off.”
“Well, I’m trying to find out what happened. Do you know Cletus well?”
“Seen him around.” Dr. Swincter had a funny way of talking, like scissors neatly trimmed every word. And yet his soft lips barely moved. But his blue eyes jumped around the room. Tubby would have judged him to be more than forty-five years old had he not known him to be about a decade younger.
“And of course you knew Dr. Valentine.”
“He and I worked together for almost three years.”
“I don’t know very much about what kind of work Dr. Valentine did. Some sort of research on disease prevention?”
Dr. Swincter looked like he was being confronted with a soda-slurping seven-year-old on a field trip.
“A little more complicated than that, actually. It has to do with isolating viruses or toxins, and developing medicines or antidotes to treat them.”
“How is the research funded?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“Gosh, Doctor, I don’t know. I’ve got a man charged with murder who may be executed with an injection of an extremely deadly toxin unless I can cast doubt on his guilt. I’m starting with a clean slate – just looking for information. Have you got any reason to believe that Cletus Busters did it and that I’m just wasting my time?”
“The police arrested him, didn’t they?”
“So what?”
“He stole drugs from the hospital. He was unbalanced. He tampered with our experiments.”
“You mean he played with the mice.” Tubby nodded at the wall of cages from which small rustling and scratching noises came.
“Yeah, he played with the mice, and probably touched them, exposing them to uncontrolled bacteria. He possibly fed them, jeopardizing the entire sample in some experiments and months of work.”
“But why would he kill Dr. Valentine?”
“Maybe because he’s a deranged, violent man. I don’t know.”
“Would you grant the possibility that someone else might have done it?”
“I suppose so, but I think it unlikely.”
“Okay, but you’re a scientist and you know that the truth often lies in unlikely places. Sometimes you find it by expanding your search.”
“All right, Mr. Lawyer. Our funding comes from many sources. The National Institutes of Health, pharmaceutical companies, some private foundations, some from the hospital itself.”
“What was Dr. Valentine working on at the time of his death?”
“Several things, like all of us. We were working together on a long-term research project involving the outbreak of a new stomach-eating bacterium that struck several blackjack dealers in Las Vegas about a year ago and then disappeared. We’re also testing a viral inhibitor that shows some promise in the treatment of AIDS. And, of course, we always have a couple of check-ins.”
“Check-ins?”
“Term of art. People dead and the coroner can’t figure out why. They’re sent here to see if we can point the pin to the cause of death. Never know, we might find a new bubonic plague.” He looked hopeful.
“Was Dr. Valentine looking at any check-ins at the time of his death?”
Yep.
“Can you tell me about them?”
“In a general sense, sure. We had two, I think, when Whitney was here. A woman who passed out driving on Highway 11 with predictable results and a Texas turista who flew in on Taco Airlines and died in a taxicab on her way from the airport to Bourbon Street.”
“What was strange about those deaths?”
“The local woman was in the peak of health, fifty-two years old, a young grandmother. No reason for her heart to stop. She had systemic palpable petechial rash covering her extremities. The tourist had erythematous bullae, red blisters full of pus, to you, on her chest and stomach. The medical examiner didn’t want to touch her, even with gloves on. Other than that, what can I say? They were both female, both were having their periods, and they both died for an unknown reason. That’s our clientele.”
“Sounds interesting. What happened to all of his work?”
“I’ve taken it over as best I can. Dr. Tessier, whom you just met, is covering some of it. We have been interviewing some good people for the vacancy Dr. Valentine left.”
“Dr. Valentine also taught at the medical school?”
“Oh, yes, we all teach.”
“What were his subjects?”
“Forensics and virology.”
“How many students did he teach?”
“About twenty in each course. They are advanced seminars.”
“Was he a good teacher?”
“That’s not really relevant in medical school,” Swincter said curtly. “We expect students to learn what’s being taught. The teacher grades how well the students are doing their job.”
“Sounds pretty stressful.”
“That’s the point. I guess law school is like a kindergarten version of that.”
And you are a pompous butt-head, Tubby thought.
“Was Valentine well liked?” he asked.
“I suppose,” Dr. Swincter said, as if it mattered.
“Did you know Dr. Valentine’s wife?”
“Sure. Ruby. She’s a survivor type. Won’t stay down long.”
“Were they happily married?”
“Can’t say as I know. Look, I’ve got a class in just about three minutes.”
“Okay. But as a scientist, can you think of any avenue of inquiry I’m overlooking?”
Swincter seemed intrigued. He smiled slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then he compressed his pink lips and said, “Nope.”
“Thanks anyway,” Tubby said. “You may see me or my people poking around over the next few days. Have you been asked to testify for the prosecution?”
The doctor frowned. “Yes, I have, though it will undoubtedly be very inconvenient.”
“What did they ask you to testify about?”
“Catching your client playing with the mice, as you say.”
“Is that what they are, in these cages?”
“Yes, come on, I’ll show you.”
He led Tubby across the lab to where shoebox-sized cages stacked a dozen high ran the length of a wall. Each had a plastic label on the door, and inside were white, furry creatures. Some you’d call mice, some rats, and some were hamsters or rabbits. The sides of the gray metal cages were solid so they couldn’t see each other, but tiny pink noses wiggled through the screens of many of the hutches. The occupants made little squeaks and fluttering noises.
“Here’s the farm,” Dr. Swincter said fondly, a shepherd looking over his tiny flock by night.
“What do you do with them?”
“Basically we infect them. Some we dissect, and others we cure. We’re a mean bunch of bastards, right?”
Tubby shrugged. He noticed the freezer cabinet across the room and studied it with fascination.
Dr. Swincter looked disappointed not to get more of a reaction.
“I thought Valentine found Cletus touching the animals. What exactly did you see?” Tubby asked.
“It was Valentine who caught him. He saw Cletus tampering with some white mice.”
“Tampering?”
“He was sitting right behind you, according to poor Whitney. On the counter. He had a mouse in each hand, and he was petting them with his thumbs.”
“How did that affect your experiment?”
“Well, for one thing, we didn’t know which mouse was which. So we had to guess what cages they came from. And naturally th
e whole experiment was suspect since we didn’t know how many others he might have been taking out and switching around. We had about forty subjects then.”
“So then what did you do?”
“We had to burn them all and start over.”
Tubby’s stomach flopped over.
“Well, thanks for the interview, Doctor. I’ll be going now. Have a good class.”
Swincter appeared satisfied at having grossed out a lawyer. He shook Tubby’s hand and turned to walk away.
“Doctor,” Tubby said. Swincter looked back.
“Where do you keep the check-ins?”
“In the freezer, Mr. Dubonnet. Same place they found Dr. Valentine.”
He turned again, and Tubby left. As he walked out he noticed that there was now a guard at the security desk, a stocky Mediterranean-looking man with a policeman’s hat and a “Medical Center Security” patch on his chest. He lifted one lazy eye and nodded to Tubby as he walked past.
CHAPTER 14
Ever since their first “date” on Christmas Eve, Baxter had started showing up at Denise’s apartment unexpectedly. She found it unsettling but wasn’t sure what to do about it. He was her coach, and he was very physical.
“Hit me back,” he commanded one time, and started sparring with her. He slapped her cheek so hard it made her eyes water.
She was so surprised that she reacted automatically and gave him a shot with her left fist that put a little blood on his lip.
“God damn!” he yelled, and he socked her in the gut with such force that she fell backwards onto the floor.
He pinned her there and entered her violently.
It was the first time she had ever hit a man, and she wondered what she could accomplish if she was prepared.
It wasn’t always bad, of course. Sometimes Baxter really seemed to care.
He asked her once about how her day had gone, and she told him about a sweet note she had gotten from one of her third-graders and some other cute stories he seemed to listen to.
She told him about her dispute with her uncle over the family business, and about going to see a lawyer.
“Ever since my father died, Uncle Roger has been trying to force me out of the company. Mr. Dubonnet is trying to get me my shares back,” she explained.
“You shouldn’t fight in the family,” Baxter said.
“What about your wife?” Denise asked.
“She ain’t family,” Baxter said scornfully. “She’s just a bitch who tricked me into marrying her. Believe me, we don’t have anything going anymore. As soon as I find the right lawyer I’m gonna get a divorce.”
“What about my lawyer?”
“Yeah, I might call him. Has your uncle always been a shit?” he asked, getting back on safer ground.
Denise squirmed around in her chair. “I used to think he cared for me, but he turned out to be the biggest sicko I know.”
“Why? What did he do?” Baxter inspected his forearm and flexed it to make the veins wriggle around.
“I don’t like to talk about it. I think that’s where all my problems come from.”
“What problems have you got, babe?”
Denise stared at Baxter. His mustache twitched. One problem, she thought, is I’m always scared. Another is, I’m scared of you.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“I understand,” he said, and he put his big arms around her.
She cried softly.
“That’s my little girl,” he crooned.
“We’ve got a real Melrose Place developing here,” Flowers reported.
“What are you talking about?”
“Peyton Place for your generation, Tubby. Everybody’s cheating on everybody. Ruby, the dear doctor’s wife, is seeing a chiropractor.”
“For what?”
“For romance. I saw her go to his home last night and not come out till the wee hours. One Ira Bennett. ‘New Age Chiropractic Clinic’ on Prytania Street. And the deceased himself is mourned by at least one of his students.”
“He was dating a student?”
“Yeah, right. Dating. He was slipping around with twenty-six-year-old Magenta Reilly, second year. So says her former roommate who got fed up with the distractions in their apartment and moved out. Valentine was a lady-killer. Very full of himself. I gather Magenta wasn’t his only girlfriend.”
“So Valentine is sleeping around. The wife is sleeping around. The husband is dead. Maybe you think this means there may be people beside Cletus with a motive to kill the good doctor.”
Flowers nodded affably.
“Have you talked to the chiropractor or the student?”
“No, and I haven’t talked to Mrs. Valentine, either.”
“Okay. Let’s make a plan.” Tubby was going to enjoy this case in spite of himself. “I want you to go see the chiropractor. I’ll see the wife. I think I’ll see if maybe Cherrylynn wants to meet the young medical student. Could you show Cherrylynn where to find her?”
“Sure, she’s mostly at the library, or in school, or at a bar behind the hospital called Mosco’s where all the nurses and doctors hook up to get blitzed. But this is really hands-on stuff. I’ve never known you to want to get so involved in the, shall we say, fieldwork.”
“Take it as a sign of desperation. Have the police spoken to any of these people?”
“Just the wife, far as I know. The officer in charge is Fred Porknoy, who, you’ll remember, isn’t too helpful. The boyfriend and girlfriend are exclusive information, just for you.”
“Damn. Isn’t Fred Porknoy the dope that Fox Lane said screwed up the Darryl Alvarez bust last year?” Fox Lane was one policeman Tubby respected without reservation, even though Fox had had the poor judgment to attend law school.
“That’s him.”
“Somehow they arrested Darryl for drug smuggling but let the smugglers sail off down the bayou unmolested.”
“I remember.”
“Well, talk to the New Age chiropractor and see what you can develop. Then I suppose we could lay it all out for Porknoy and see if we detect a pulse. And I’ll call Fox to see if there’s a way to light a fire under these guys. We need help. There’s no time for private citizens to be playing Paul Drake. Trial is in six days.”
“I’ve also learned a couple of things about your client.”
“Shoot.”
“Cletus Busters is believed to be respectable. Good family man until his wife left him. Pays his bills on time. Doesn’t curse. Except perhaps in connection with his second job as a witch doctor…”
Tubby covered his face with his hands.
“Enlighten me,” he groaned between his fingers.
“Yeah, he does voodoo cures and casts spells,” said Flowers, enjoying himself. “He has a little shrine in the water heater shed behind his house. One of the neighbors had to put out a fire with a garden hose last year when Cletus went to Time Saver and forgot he had left some candles burning. Some leaves caught on fire, and it was pure luck the neighbor saw it or the house might have burned down. The neighbor says he popped open the shed door and there was a dead chicken on a blanket, some Mardi Gras beads around it, an unlit cigar on top, and a circle of candles.”
“We’re all entitled to our personal eccentricities,” Tubby said judiciously.
“Makes you wonder what he does with mice, though.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Or heads.”
“Jesus, that’s right. What other good news do you have for me?”
“He’s not known as a drug dealer. My guess is, whatever he may have taken from the lab was for his own use.”
“Or for his religious practices.”
“That, too.”
Cherrylynn announced that Kathy Jeansonne from the Times-Picayune was on the phone requesting an interview.
Feeling the stress in the muscles of his neck, he reached for the telephone.
“How are you, Kathy?”
“Working on a deadline,” she said. “What�
�s the latest on the headless man?”
“Trial begins on Thursday. You may quote me as saying the police investigation has been superficial and shoddy. Without regard to other obvious suspects in the case they have focused on one black janitor. Why? Because he was available, and no one would complain. But now we are complaining, and I don’t believe any fair-minded jury will convict Cletus Busters.”
“Whew,” Kathy said. “Keep it up.”
“What they should do is convict the police department!” Tubby cried, outraged.
“Do you have any facts that will substantiate your statements?”
“We will present our case at trial,” Tubby said ominously.
“Assistant District Attorney Clayton Snedley says he is going for the death penalty,” Jeansonne urged.
“The time has come,” Tubby declared, “when a jury in this parish will refuse to execute a man just because of the color of his skin and the emptiness of his pocketbook.”
“Thanks a lot, counselor,” Jeansonne said happily.
“Anytime,” Tubby replied.
“Now if we only had a case,” he said to Flowers, who was grinning at him in admiration.
CHAPTER 15
Mourning doves nest in the eaves of the clay tile roofs of the Pontalba Apartments, the graceful red brick buildings that have faced each other across Jackson Square for one hundred and fifty years. Popular restaurants and shops for tourists occupy the sidewalk level. People with money who are attracted to nineteenth-century style, to ornate balconies, elegant dining rooms with tall ceilings and plaster medallions, and minuscule kitchens and baths, live on the two upper floors. A few are leased by corporations for the comfort of their clients and customers when they visit New Orleans.
Two men were drinking rum and tonic in a dim parlor. One was comfortably seated in a purple armchair beneath a portrait in oil of Judah P. Benjamin, the great Confederate, similarly posed. The other was reclining on a plush sofa facing him. Both were dressed for winter in the tropics: white linen pants, colorful shirts open at the collar, and Docksiders on their feet. The side bar was loaded with good whiskeys, setups, and ice. The French doors to the balcony were spread open, and the sounds and smells of the French Quarter floated in on the slow current of air stirred by the river.
