Assassination at Bayou Sauvage

by D. J. Donaldson

  Broussard closed his eyes, his mind turning inward where it was dark and easier to think. Had he been at his desk and not wearing soiled rubber gloves, he would have helped the process along by stroking the bristly hairs on the end of his nose. Unable to do that, it took him a second or two longer to arrive at the question he now asked Minoux.

  “Guy, how would you judge the fit of this guy’s clothes?”

  Confusion at the purpose of the question evident in his furrowed brow, Guy said, “Everything was a little big for him.”

  Giving a grunt that sounded to Minoux like Broussard had expected him to say something like that, the old pathologist, picked up the camera and took a shot of the soot-marked bone.

  While that picture was developing, Broussard again picked up his scalpel, made a deep cut behind the cadaver’s left ear, then carried the incision across the top of the head to the same place behind the other ear. As Broussard freed the front half of the scalp from the underlying bone, he couldn’t imagine that he would find anything inside the skull that was as interesting as what he’d already seen, but who knows? In any event, since there was no exit wound on the opposite side of the head from the entrance wound, he was sure he would at least find the bullet in there. And most likely, considering its limited penetrating power, it would probably be a .22 caliber round.

  He draped the front half of the scalp over the cadaver’s forehead and eyes.

  Working precisely, with all the dexterity of a pianist Mozart would have envied, Broussard freed the back half of the scalp from the skull and let it dangle so it partially covered the edge of the wooden block supporting the head. He then picked up the electric motor-driven Stryker saw, flicked it on, and plunged its oscillating blade into the skull just above the right ear. With smoke and wet bone meal accompanying movement of the saw blade Broussard made an equatorial cut all around the skull, being careful to keep the blade from penetrating the underlying brain.

  It was now time to remove the bony cap he’d freed from the rest of the skull. It came loose with a bit of effort and a sucking sound that always reminded him of walking through swamp muck in rubber boots when he was a kid in Bayou Coteau. Looking at the brain inside, with its lacework of blood vessels covering the rolling hills of white matter, he thought of the old phrase, “He learned it by heart.” A mistaken notion by the ancient Greeks that memory and intelligence were centered in the heart. And yet the phrase persists. He shook his head at how much of the past continues into the present. He’d been trying not to think about Uncle Joe, who was being worked on next door by Charlie Franks, the assistant medical examiner. But how could he put aside the sight he’d seen mere hours ago of Joe’s brain being blown into a frothy mist? What part of Joe’s past had led to his death this morning?

  Letting this question percolate for future consideration, Broussard’s eyes now went to the large blood clot that covered the right side of the killer’s brain, where the bullet had entered the skull and obviously hit a large vessel, most likely a branch of the internal carotid. He then briefly surveyed the lesser clot on the other side, where as the bullet emerged from the brain, it had damaged some smaller vessels. If the slug had pursued a straight course from right to left as it now appeared, it could not have damaged the critical areas that controlled basic body functions such as breathing, heart rate, and blood pressure. Death had almost certainly been caused by overall brain death secondary to blood loss.

  “Guy, get a picture of these clots will you please?”

  After the requested picture was taken, Broussard stepped in with an aspirator and began to suck out the clots. Removal of the skullcap had also taken with it the adherent dura, the tough fibrous covering of the brain. Peripheral to the cranial saw cut the dura still remained. With the clots removed and the field now clear, Broussard deftly dissected down around the dura and severed the few structures that held the brain in the cranial cavity: the optic nerves, the attachment to the pituitary gland, and the spinal cord.

  With the brain now free, Broussard turned it carefully in his hands, checking for any other projectile damage that might have occurred if the bullet had ricocheted after hitting the skull on the side opposite where it had gone in. He found none.

  The fresh brain is extremely soft and cannot be sectioned immediately after removal. It must first be hardened in formalin for several days. Broussard therefore, handed the organ to Minoux for further processing.

  Returning to the empty cranial cavity, it took only a few seconds for Broussard to find the bullet, which, as he’d expected, looked like a .22 caliber. It was so flattened, it must have been a hollow point, a modification that causes the lead to mushroom when it hits any resistance, thereby greatly increasing the diameter of the bullet. And yes, with closer examination he could see a vague remnant of the pit that made it a hollow point.

  Nothing he’d seen since opening the skull had been unexpected. But that didn’t change the peculiarities he’d noticed earlier as he examined the entry wound. Because of those circumstances he now wanted to see something that didn’t sit on the table in front of him.

  A thunderous rumble suddenly drowned out the Mozart piece playing on the stereo. Over by a big jar of formalin that now contained the removed brain hanging by a string, Minoux turned to Broussard, a look of apprehension on his face. “Lordy, Dr. B. I think the buildin’ just collapsed.”

  As Broussard’s considerable stomach grumbled again, Broussard said, “Remember that raise we discussed for you last week? I think we may need the money to rebuild.”

  Laughing at Broussard’s comeback, Minoux returned to work.

  Broussard stripped off his gloves, washed his hands, and pulled out the drawer where he kept his morgue supply of cellophane-wrapped lemon balls. He unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth, then reached for another.

  A few seconds later, with one lemon ball in each cheek so that he looked like a contented hamster, he picked up his cell phone and navigated to a familiar number.

  Chapter 4

  “How are you?” Kit said, getting into Gatlin’s ancient Pontiac, which he preferred over a departmental car.

  “Can’t complain,” Gatlin said, the bags under his eyes and overall tired appearance making him look like anything but the skilled detective he was. “Actually I could complain,” he added, pulling out of the restaurant parking lot. “And I want to, but I’m trying to be more positive, which ain’t exactly easy considering how I make my living.”

  “So what are we doing?”

  “Earlier today, the Broussard clan had a birthday picnic for Andy’s Uncle Joe at Bayou Sauvage.”

  “Where?”

  “The wildlife refuge out east. Anyway, Andy and Uncle Joe are having a nice talk and somebody puts a bullet in Uncle Joe’s brain. Shooter was in a boat out in the swamp.”

  “Oh my God . . . and Andy saw it happen?”

  “Up close and in living color . . . well, not living . . . but the guy used an M16, so there was a lot of color. There’s a ranger station right next to the picnic area and the rangers see it happen. They go after the guy, but weirdly, he doesn’t try to run. Instead, he kills himself. That’s where you come in.”

  From where it sat in a holder on the dash, Gatlin’s cell phone suddenly blared the voice of Johnny Cash singing “Ring of Fire.”

  Glancing at the name of the caller as he put the phone to his ear, he said to Kit, “It’s Andy.” Then, after a couple of seconds, he said to the phone, “Yeah, I found her. She’s in the car right now. We’re on our way to the guy’s address.”

  Gatlin pulled to a stop behind a queue of cars waiting for the light to change, then put the phone on speaker so Kit could hear.

  “I need to see the pistol the shooter used on himself,” Kit heard Broussard say.

  “It’s in the evidence room,” Gatlin said.

  “I don’t care where it is at the moment.”

  “Why do you want to see it?”

  “I’m curious about somethin’.”
>
  “Me too. So . . .?”

  “No deal,” Broussard said. “If I learn anything from it, you’ll be the first to know, actually, you’ll be second because I’ll be the first.”

  “You’re just worried that if you tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll figure out the rest for myself.”

  “If we weren’t such good friends I’d hit that one over the fence. How soon can I expect it?”

  “I’ll have to make a call or two.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “It hasn’t been fully processed. Be careful with it.”

  “You worried I’ll shoot myself?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Good to know you care. Tell Kit hello for me.” He hung up.

  Gatlin closed out the call on his end and put the phone in his lap. Shaking his head, he looked at Kit. “Old codger just won’t loosen up until he decides it’s time.”

  “So why do you still push him?”

  “Keeps me young.”

  The light changed and they started moving again. At the first place Gatlin could pull over, he did and again picked up the phone. He scrolled through some numbers and tapped the screen with his finger. With the speaker now off he said, “This is Gatlin. Got anybody who can run the pistol from that Bayou Sauvage deal this morning over to Andy Broussard for me? I know you’re shorthanded . . . Okay, thanks. I’ll buy you a Twinkie some day.” He put the phone back in its rack and once again got the car underway.

  “I guess you’re shorthanded because of the blue flu?” Kit said.

  Gatlin nodded. “This time it’s even affecting the detectives.”

  “How come you’re still working?”

  “I noticed that our motto, To Protect And Serve, doesn’t say anything about taking time off during compensation squabbles.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  Not looking at her, Gatlin said, “So if you were me, you’d do the same thing?”

  Kit smiled. “If I were you, I’d have to because you’re doing it. It’s a given.”

  Gatlin rubbed his face with his hand, fuzzing his ample gray eyebrows. “I think you been hanging around Andy too long. But we’ll see.”

  Kit waited for him to explain what he meant by his last comment, but he didn’t continue. Rather than press him about it, she let it go. When Gatlin was talking to Broussard on the phone, the old detective said they were headed for the shooter’s home, most likely, she thought, to try and figure out why this had happened. Willing to let Gatlin talk or not as he saw fit, she tried to relax and not get too keyed up about what her role in all this might be.

  Gatlin made his way to the Crescent City Connection, the name given to the Mississippi River Bridge that led from New Orleans to the small city of Gretna on the other side. As they drove, Kit recalled how Gretna had become infamous during hurricane Katrina. Unable to provide any services for the army of refugees fleeing New Orleans after it flooded and afraid of having thousands of desperate people roaming his streets, the Gretna mayor ordered the city police to turn everyone back. This was accomplished by a row of uniformed officers carrying shotguns, one cop firing a round over the heads of the crowd. Kit knew that some in New Orleans still held a grudge.

  They followed the west-bank leg of I-90 to Belle Chase Highway, where Gatlin took a left, now heading away from the river. They were only a few miles from the French Quarter, but might as well have been a thousand, for they were on a typical urban street lined by fast food joints and other commercial ventures that either didn’t bother with any landscaping or thought, once installed, the plants wouldn’t need any more care than the asphalt.

  A few minutes later, Gatlin turned onto a residential side street where pickup trucks outnumbered cars, and there were far more vehicles than trees. The older houses on the street were up on cement blocks so there was a visible space under them. On the right was a home with a For Sale sign in the yard. Like the other newer homes on the street this one was built on a slab. Gretna hadn’t flooded during Katrina, but it was protected by levees just like the regions of New Orleans that had been inundated. Kit wondered if there was anyone within five hundred miles who would buy that house.

  Gatlin drove slowly down the street so he could check addresses. He pulled to a stop in front of a newer one-story brick home with a dense strip of banana trees planted along the property line on each side. In the driveway was a blue pickup.

  Gatlin pulled into the drive and shut off the engine. “Okay, this is where the shooter lived. If anyone’s home, you take the lead.”

  “Why me?”

  “I want to see how you handle yourself as first chair.”

  “I don’t usually work with an audience.”

  “Me neither, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

  Kit had no idea what he was talking about, but rather than prolong the discussion she said, “Guess it’s too soon for you to have a file on the guy.”

  “You and I are writing it now.”

  “Do we at least know his name?”

  “Martin Hartley.”

  “Driver’s license?”

  “Yeah . . . Oh-oh time to get on with it.”

  Kit looked through the windshield and saw a woman with a suitcase come out of the house. She carried her bag to the back of the truck and put it down in the driveway, then, with a mixed expression of confusion and irritation, watched Gatlin and Kit walk toward her.

  The woman was wearing a black one-piece fishnet dress with a mini skirt hemline and sandals. Her choice of attire showed a lot of skin, all of it unblemished and shockingly white. Her face was only moderately attractive and she was a shade overweight, but had nice legs and was so impeccably groomed, Kit imagined that most men would find her worth a look.

  “We’re sorry to bother you,” Kit said. “This is Lieutenant Gatlin from the New Orleans Homicide division and I’m Dr. Franklyn from the Orleans Parish medical examiner’s office. Do you know Martin Hartley?”

  Her eyes widened, “I’m Mrs. Hartley. Or am I the widow Hartley?”

  The woman’s correct assessment of the situation made Kit’s job a bit easier. “I’m afraid it’s the latter. Your husband shot someone this afternoon at Bayou Sauvage, then killed himself.”

  “The woman shook her head. “No, none of that is possible. You’ve made some kind of mistake.”

  “We found his driver’s license on the body.” Kit glanced at Gatlin, hoping he had it with him. He did.

  Mrs. Hartley examined it then said, “Yeah, that’s his, but he doesn’t even own a gun. Fishing is his thing. This is the sixth day of his vacation and he’s been fishing every day . . . every damn day. We were supposed to go somewhere . . . he promised, but instead he bought a new boat and now I can’t get him out of it. He doesn’t give a shit for me. Why should I care about him? A couple more minutes and you wouldn’t have even found me. Me and my suitcase would have been gone for good.” Then her anger seemed to melt away. Her eyes grew misty. “He’s dead? Really? It couldn’t have been someone else with Martin’s license on him?”

  That wasn’t a question Kit could answer. She looked at Gatlin. “No ma’am, the deceased and the man pictured on the license were the same.”

  When Kit had first walked up the driveway, she’d thought the woman’s normal color was as pale as a person could be. But with Gatlin’s answer to her question, something vital drained from her face so she now looked almost translucent.

  “I wasn’t really leaving for good,” she said. “Just for a few days, to get Marty’s attention – show him he has to change – that our marriage isn’t just about him.” She looked at Kit, her eyes devoid of hope. “What am I gonna do now?”

  Kit stepped forward and took the woman in her arms. She hugged Kit tightly with both hands and pressed her cheek against Kit’s hair.

  After a few seconds, feeling the woman’s grip relax, Kit released her.

  “You said Marty shot someone?” the woman asked. “I’m sure he didn’t, but who are you
talking about?”

  “His name was Joe Broussard,” Kit said. “Is that someone you know?”

  Seemingly more composed now, the woman said, “That’s not a name I’ve ever heard before.”

  “He was the retired CEO of Seabed Petroleum.”

  The woman shook her head. “Means nothing to me.”

  “Did you see Martin leave this morning?”

  “Yes. I warned him he better not go, tried to give him one last chance. But he just kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘next week we’ll go to Biloxi for a couple days,’ but we wouldn’t have gone. That’s just how he is, makes promises he never keeps.”

  “He stores his boat here?”

  “Right over there, beside the garage. Had the driveway widened to hold it. Could have gone to Disney World for what that cost.”

  “Is it possible he hid some guns in the boat when you weren’t looking?”

  “I suppose, but I told you he’s not a gun person. Ever watch The Simpsons? They had this one episode where Homer tries to buy a gun. When he finds out he’ll have to wait a few days for a background check before he can take possession of it he says, ‘But I’m mad now.’ Marty pointed at the TV and said, ‘That’s why all guns should be banned’." She hugged herself with both arms and shuddered. “My God. Marti’s . . . and here I am talking about some damn TV show.”

  Kit put her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry for putting you through this. And I don’t even know your first name.”

  “It’s Terry.”

  “Terry, does Martin have a desk inside the house where he pays the bills or does other work?”

  “Yes, a small one.”

  “Would you mind if we looked at it.”

  “What for?”

  “It might help us all understand what happened today.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s actually the quickest way for you to get rid of us.”

  “Okay . . .” Forgetting her bag, she turned and led them inside.

  Chapter 5

  Andy Broussard sat rocked back in his desk chair, his chubby fingers folded over his big belly, thinking about what he’d seen so far on the autopsy of the shooter from the picnic. Something was very wrong there. A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie.