Who Dat Whodunnit

by Greg Herren

  “Sex tape?” Frank’s eyebrows went up.

  “A sex tape of Tara’s surfaced—it was all over the news this morning,” I answered. “Go on.”

  “So, you know, I got kind of pissed.” Jared looked at me. “You know, she’s playing this whole ‘I wanna wait till I get married’ virgin shit in public all this time—I mean, I knew that was all bullshit”—he gave me a leer that made me want to throw up—“but you know, I took her to meet my family, and she’s out making sex tapes? I wanted some answers, and damn it, I was going to get some, you know? So I went over there and let myself in with my key and there she was.” He gulped. “Lying on the floor in the living room, blood everywhere. Someone shot her dead. And the gun was just lying there. I could see the initials on the handle.” He gestured toward the gun. “And I thought, holy shit, Aunt Cecile came over here and killed her! So, I went in the kitchen and got a grocery bag and picked up the gun with it and hauled ass over here.”

  “Did you call the police?” Frank said in the dangerously quiet voice that I knew meant he was about to explode.

  “Why would I do that?” Jared looked at him like Frank was insane. “Sure, I know the neighbors had to hear us yelling at each other last night, and I mean, there was Aunt Cecile’s gun, and I figured the police might think, you know, that I did it, so I got the hell out of there.”

  “Okay, let’s see what we have so far.” Frank closed his eyes. “Tampering with evidence, contaminating a crime scene, hindering a criminal investigation—am I forgetting anything, Scotty?”

  “Not reporting a crime,” I added.

  “Yes, thanks—I forgot that one.” Frank turned his head to stare at Jared. “Those are the crimes you just confessed to us, Jared. Even if they don’t charge you with murder, you can go to jail for any or all of those. I mean, what were you thinking?”

  “You got to help me.” Jared’s eyes went from Frank to me. “That’s why I came here.”

  I got up before Frank could say anything else. “Okay, I’ll call Storm.”

  Chapter Four

  The Magician, Reversed

  The use of power for destructive ends

  “You don’t think Mom—” Frank whispered, looking down into his mug of coffee.

  “I can’t believe you can even ask that,” I snapped, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear us.

  Frank and I were in the coffee shop on the first floor of our building, Café Levee. Other than a young girl frowning at her laptop a few tables away and the dreadlocked girl with the nose ring behind the counter, we were the only people in the place.

  As soon as Storm had arrived, he’d told us to make ourselves scarce. Rightly, Storm wanted us gone when he conferred with Jared. Besides, if the district attorney decided to press any charges against Jared—including murder—we were already on the hook as accessories after the fact since we hadn’t called the police.

  Jared was such an unbelievable dumbass.

  Granted, he didn’t have as much experience with stumbling over dead bodies as Frank and I did, nor was he a criminal attorney, like Storm. But had he never watched any movies or television shows about crime? What kind of idiot do you have to be to find a body, leave without calling the police, AND take the murder weapon with you?

  I’ve stumbled over more than my fair share of bodies in my life, and it’s never a pleasant experience. But not once—not once—had it ever crossed my mind to touch anything at the crime scene or not call the police or, heaven forbid, not report the body.

  But maybe that was unfair. Jared thought he was shielding Mom somehow by taking the gun, so I should probably cut him some slack.

  “Maybe he’s taken too many hits to the head,” Frank said, echoing my thoughts as he spread cream cheese on a toasted bagel. “Surely he wasn’t born that stupid.”

  “He’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “He’s always had this phobia about getting in trouble, even when we were kids. Why, I don’t know.” I stirred my coffee vigorously. “He was always the favored grandchild on that side of the family. He couldn’t do any wrong as far as Papa Bradley and MiMi are concerned.” I sighed. “I mean, at least with Uncle Skipper, you figure alcohol has killed most of his brain cells. I don’t know what Jared’s excuse is.” I rolled my eyes. “Skipper. What man in his sixties still goes by Skipper?”

  Frank laughed. “It’s something straight out of Tennessee Williams.”

  “At least Papa Bradley doesn’t make us call him Big Daddy and MiMi Big Mama.” I grinned back at him. “Skipper’s real name is Elwyn—so I guess you can’t blame him for going by Skipper.”

  “Elwyn? Yikes.” Frank made a face. “Why did they name him that?”

  I laughed. “It’s a family name. It’s Papa’s middle name, actually.” I shuddered. “Makes Milton Bradley sound good, doesn’t it?”

  “Or Franklin Stanislaus Sobieski.” Frank laughed, but got serious. “But what I really want to know is how Mom’s gun got in Tara’s apartment.”

  “Well, anyone could have lifted it—she just keeps it in the junk drawer in the kitchen.” I sighed, idly stirring my coffee. “You know what it’s like at Mom and Dad’s—a revolving door of people all the time. And Mom probably doesn’t even know it’s gone.” I shook my head. “You would think she’d be better about it, given her stance on responsible gun ownership, but there you go.”

  While Mom defended the Second Amendment right to gun ownership, she also believed in restrictions on ownership (“I seriously doubt the Founding Fathers thought everyone had a right to a semiautomatic”). She also didn’t think it was out of line to hold gun owners responsible for the use of their guns in criminal activities. She was an excellent shot but had never kept a gun in the house until Papa Diderot gave her a Glock after the levee failure to protect us all from looters and criminals.

  “What time did we leave there last night anyway?” Frank scratched his head and yawned. “Depending on what time Tara was killed, Mom might have a really strong alibi.”

  “I have no idea—I was hoping you’d know,” I admitted. “I was pretty wasted.”

  “We both were—that was some serious pot,” Frank reminded me. “I don’t even remember how we got back home. Obviously, we walked, but after about two in the morning everything’s a blank.” He shivered as someone opened the front door, letting in a blast of cold air.

  “Yeah—wine and pot are a lethal combination.” I closed my eyes and tried to remember. The last time I remembered checking the time was around two thirty in the morning. “But if we don’t know what time we left, Father Dan will. He doesn’t drink.”

  “He doesn’t?” Frank frowned at me. “He was sure drinking a lot of wine last night.”

  “Yeah, he was, wasn’t he? I guess I meant to say he doesn’t get drunk. At least I’ve never seen him drunk.” I shook my head. “Maybe. I don’t know. Should I call him?”

  “Maybe.” Frank yawned. “Sorry, my brain is full of cobwebs today.”

  I sighed. “I guess we need to go talk to Mom, find out when the last time was she saw her gun—and who’s been in the apartment since.”

  “And who else knew she had the gun. That’s the part that gets me the most about this, Scotty.” He shivered again. “Whoever killed Tara knows Mom well enough to know she has a gun, and where she keeps it. Someone wanted to frame her.”

  That thought had occurred to me, too. “I know,” I replied, sipping from my coffee. “Someone we know. But who? Who would want to do that to Mom?”

  “Mom has made enemies,” Frank replied, not meeting my eyes. “She doesn’t exactly have a problem with speaking her mind.”

  “But to frame her?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so.” Mom’s activism had undoubtedly pissed off any number of people over the years—polluters, politicians, racists, among others—but I couldn’t believe they would kill someone and frame her for it.

  Besides, they couldn’t have known Tara was go
ing to show up at Papa Bradley’s and have an altercation with Mom.

  “No, I don’t think whoever killed Tara was really trying to frame Mom,” I said slowly. “I think the killer just needed a gun…and somehow had access to Mom’s…but it definitely has to be someone she knows.” I felt a chill.

  We looked into each other’s eyes. It wasn’t that long ago we’d thought—no, believed—Colin had murdered my half uncles. We’d believed it for two years, until he finally came back to New Orleans and revealed the truth about that horrible Mardi Gras season to us, having finally gotten clearance from Angela to be honest with us. It had torn us both apart emotionally—followed a mere six months later by the levee failure, it had been a one-two punch I’d had doubts we’d survive.

  “It’s almost Mardi Gras again,” Frank said, examining his fingernails.

  “At least this time we know Colin’s not involved,” I replied, putting my hand on top of his. “He’s on the other side of the world—and even if he was in town, he wouldn’t need Mom’s gun.” I laughed. “Getting a gun is certainly never a problem for him.”

  “We don’t really know where he is.” Frank shrugged. “For all we know, he could walk in the front door any minute.”

  I was saved from answering by my cell phone, which started vibrating on the table. Storm’s face grinned at me from the screen. I clicked “answer,” and picked it up. “Hey, Storm,” I said.

  “I’ve called Venus, and I’m taking Jared down to the precinct to give a statement,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve got the gun bagged—you didn’t touch it, did you?”

  “I’m not crazy,” I replied, irritated.

  “Good.” Storm sighed. “Look, I need you to go over to Mom and Dad’s—”

  “I know what to do,” I cut him off. “Find out who could have taken her gun. What time did you and Marguerite leave last night?”

  “Right after you and Frank staggered out, about three thirty,” he answered promptly. “Mom wasn’t exactly in any kind of condition to get over to Poydras Tower and shoot anyone.” He laughed. “None of us were. And Father Dan was still there when we left. So if you were worried about Mom, don’t be. I wish she hadn’t punched Tara last night, but no sense in crying over spilled milk.”

  I felt my entire body relax with relief. I’d never for one second believed Mom killed Tara—but that wouldn’t exactly carry any weight with the police. It was good to know she wouldn’t be a suspect.

  “I’m hiring you and Frank to help,” Storm was saying. “Jared doesn’t have an alibi—of course, that would be too easy—but I don’t think for a minute he killed Tara Bourgeois.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think Jared’s been to Mom and Dad’s since he was a kid—he couldn’t have taken the gun.”

  “Someone else could have taken the gun and given it to him,” I replied. Frank raised his eyebrows.

  “Scotty, I know you don’t like Jared, but he’s our client now, and he’s our cousin.” Storm’s voice was chiding. “Family. So he deserves our support, got it? Now, I’ll give you a call when we’re done at the police station.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever.” I turned the phone off and gave Frank a brittle smile. “Looks like we have a new client.”

  Frank shrugged. “I figured that much. But I can’t go with you over to Mom’s.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got practice in Biloxi.”

  I’d completely forgotten. Under the name “Frank Savage,” Frank’s a professional wrestler for the Gulf Coast Wrestling Alliance, and he had a title shot coming up on Saturday in Biloxi. “It’s okay, I’ll handle it. When you get home tonight I’ll fill you in.” I pulled on my black wool Who Dat cap and stood up, leaning down and kissing his cheek. “Have a good practice. Kick some ass, stud.”

  I stepped out onto the sidewalk of Decatur Street just in time to almost get knocked down by a cold blast of wind. I shivered and shook my head, grinning. It was one of the coldest Januarys I could remember—everyone was joking that hell had frozen over since the Saints were in the Super Bowl. I ducked my head against the wind and started walking.

  Saints mania had swept over the city since the season had started way back in September. As I walked, everywhere I looked I could see Saints flags hanging from balconies. WHO DAT or SUPER BOWL BOUND or SUPER SAINTS or GEAUX SAINTS was written in black grease pencil on every available glass surface as far as the eye could see. Parked cars had Saints flags on their roofs, snapping in the wind. The city still seemed a little subdued from the game Sunday night—kind of like everyone was on day two of a massive hangover. Just thinking about it gave me a little lift in my spirits. I started walking faster. It was really cold.

  I unlocked the gate and climbed the back stairs to Mom and Dad’s apartment. It wasn’t quite noon yet, so they might not be awake. I unlocked the back door and stepped into their kitchen. Coffee was brewing, and the heat was on. The warmth felt great. “Mom? Dad?” I called, slipping off my jacket and draping it over a chair.

  Mom stepped into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a gold Saints sweatshirt. “Scotty! What are you doing here?” She threw her arms around me. “This is a pleasant surprise!”

  I hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. “Business, I’m afraid.” I tossed my wool cap onto the table. “Is Dad up?”

  “He’s in the shower.” She poured us both a cup of coffee. “Business? What do you mean? What’s happened?’ She looked into my eyes. “You’re not in trouble again, are you?”

  “Not me—Jared.” I held the steaming mug in both hands, appreciating the heat.

  “Jared?” She shook her head. “What has he done?”

  “Better wait for Dad—no sense in having to explain twice.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.” I followed her into the living room, where she curled up in a reclining chair. She picked up a remote control and clicked the big-screen TV on.

  “…has been positively identified as Marina Werner, daughter of Dick Werner, pastor of Dove Ministry of Truth, the megachurch in Kenner best known for its anti-gay stance. The police report that Ms. Werner, who worked as the treasurer for Dove Ministry and was also helping organize this weekend’s Protect Marriage rally, was shot in her apartment yesterday morning between nine a.m. and noon. Kenner Police spokesman Jack Fournier states they are following up several leads, and have set up a hotline for anyone to call if they have any information.”

  “That’s terrible,” Mom said, a grim look on her face as she changed the channel. “You know, I don’t believe anyone should be killed because of what they believe, but I’m not sorry that woman is dead. You reap what you sow, as her Bible says.”

  “Mom!” I said, my mind reeling. Tara’s murdered, and now this woman?

  “What? She was a homophobic bitch helping spread hate,” Mom replied. “It always amazes me how so-called Christians have absolutely no clue what their religion is about. Have they never read the Sermon on the Mount? They almost make me want to believe in their stupid religion—because it’s so comforting to think they’re all going to burn in hell for eternity.”

  “And those megachurches are the worst,” Dad said from behind me. He rubbed the top of my head. “Bilking people out of their money and promising salvation in return. What are you doing here so early, son?”

  I tried not to smile. Mom and Dad firmly believed no one should get up before noon. It was actually rather surprising they were up so early. I took a deep breath. Might as well get right to it. “Mom, when was the last time you saw your gun?”

  “The Glock?” Mom looked completely bewildered. She looked at Dad, who was equally puzzled. “We went to the shooting range Sunday afternoon, right? Before the playoff party—we were too tense and needed to blow off steam.” She laughed. “It’s amazing how much pretending you’re shooting Brett Favre can improve your aim.”

  “It really does, son,” Dad added.

  “I’ll have to remember that the next
time I go shooting,” I said, unable to stop myself from smiling. I was also unable to resist asking, “Are you going to pretend you’re shooting Peyton Manning the day of the Super Bowl?”

  “Of course not!” Mom looked appalled. “Peyton’s from New Orleans!”

  “What was I thinking?” I rolled my eyes. “So that was the last time you saw the Glock?”

  “Why are you asking about my gun?” Mom got up and walked into the kitchen. She opened the junk drawer and pulled out her gun case. She frowned. “That’s weird—it feels light,” she said as she opened it.

  Her jaw dropped and she turned, holding the little case open.

  It was empty.

  She swallowed. “I—I don’t understand. Where is it? I remember distinctly putting it back in the case at the range, and putting it back in the chest when we got home Sunday. Didn’t I, John?”

  Dad nodded. “I distinctly remember you putting it back when we got home.”

  “Someone stole my gun. I can’t believe it.” She sank back down into her chair. “Scotty, what’s going on? How did you know my gun was gone?”

  I filled them both in on Jared’s visit earlier that morning. Their eyes got wider and their faces whiter as I talked. Finally, I finished. “How late was Father Dan here?”

  Mom looked at Dad, who said, “Father Dan was the last to leave—around seven, wasn’t it?”

  Mom nodded. “The sun was up, I remember when he went out the back door. After you kids left, we started planning the protest.”

  I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding my breath. “Well, Jared says he got to her place around eight this morning, so that should put you both in the clear.” I grinned. “And what better alibi witness than a priest?”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that my gun killed someone,” Mom replied, rubbing her forehead. “I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not responsible, Mom,” I said as Dad sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.