A few minutes later, Broussard saw a great blue heron stab at the water and come up with a silver fish far too large for it to swallow. But magically the fish disappeared down the bird’s gullet, distending the heron’s neck as it slid down into the bird’s stomach.
Bubba guided the boat confidently through a maze of waterways that sometimes connected with each other by small channels that didn’t look passable. Eventually, they rounded a spit of land, and a wide, marshy lake opened before them. Looking to the left, Broussard saw, several hundred yards away, the picnic area where Uncle Joe had been shot earlier that day. He held up his hand. “This is it.”
Bubba cut the motor.
Broussard stood up and stared at the distant shore. It had always seemed to him that violent acts continue to echo through time, ethereal remnants persisting long after all the participants are gone. As he stood there now, he felt the shadowy ripples of the morning’s horrors washing over him.
He looked back at Bubba. “This is just about where the shooter’s boat was positioned.” He scanned the shore, then studied the water on all sides of them.
“What you lookin’ for?” Bubba asked.
“I’m not sure. The shooter supposedly killed himself and then fell out of his boat, right over there.”
“What you mean supposedly? Didn’ dey recover da body?”
“I just finished workin’ on it before I called you.”
“An somethin’ you saw brought you out here.”
“Yes.”
“It don’ seem like bein’ here is helpin’ you any.”
Broussard shook his head. “I was hopin’ just seein’ it all again close up would give me an idea. But it’s not. Maybe what I’m lookin’ for is under the water.”
Bubba stood up and dropped an anchor over the side. “Why didn’ you say so sooner?” He threw his cap on the seat beside him, then sat down and took off his shoes and socks.
Seeing what Bubba was about to do, Broussard said, “I’m not sure that’s a wise move.”
“When my mama’s birth sac broke everybody said it was filled with bayou water. Dis is my home.”
“I was thinkin’ of gators.”
“No gators aroun’ here. Never have been. Somethin’ about it dey don’ like.”
In seconds, Bubba had his coveralls off. After decades of seeing human bodies in various states of decay, there wasn’t much in life that made Broussard squeamish. But this did. Averting his eyes and swatting at a dragonfly that was pestering him, he said, “You know, there may be chipmunk germs in there.”
“If dere are, dey better stay of my way.”
Bubba went overboard with surprising little splash. “Now what am I lookin’ for?” he said, only his head showing. “I heard dere was a handgun an’ a rifle involved. Are dey down here?”
“No. Only the shooter went overboard. Both weapons remained in the boat. You gonna open your eyes under there?”
“Always do.”
“Look for anything unusual.”
Bubba silently disappeared. Broussard checked his watch so he’d know when to start worrying if Bubba didn’t come up. At about a minute and ten seconds, Broussard became concerned. But five seconds later, the little Cajun bobbed to the surface and wiped the water from his face and beard. “So far it jus’ looks like a normal swampy bottom. Lemme try over dere.”
He dog paddled to the opposite side of the boat and sank from sight. He came up forty-five seconds later about fifteen feet away from the boat, back in the direction they’d come in.
“Anything?” Broussard asked.
“Dere’s a steel rebar driven into da mud right by da boat, and another one where I am now. I also foun’ one between dose two.”
“Follow the line of those three and see if there are more.”
Bubba slipped from view.
Forty seconds later, he emerged, fifteen feet farther away.
“Foun’ three more.”
“Can you go again?”
For an answer, he did.
When he surfaced this time, he was out of sight around the spit of land jutting toward the boat. “Three more.”
“That’s enough,” Broussard shouted. “Come on back.”
Broussard took out his phone and tapped Gatlin’s number. “This is Andy. Stop whatever you’re doin’. It’s a waste of time. Meet me in my office in forty minutes and I’ll tell you why.”
Chapter 7
This time it was Gatlin perched on the arm of Broussard’s sofa. “Okay, what have you got?”
Trying to keep a pile of journal articles from toppling into her lap from the sofa cushion next to her, Kit too, waited for Broussard’s answer.
“Martin Hartley is not our shooter.”
Gatlin stood up. “Yeah, I figured you were gonna say that. Get to the meat, ‘cause I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Broussard rocked back in his chair and laced his fingers over his belly. “Hartley has a contact gunshot wound on his temple . . . textbook example . . . skin split in a star-shape from the gunpowder gasses, bone around the entrance hole stained with soot.”
Gatlin turned his palms to the ceiling and leaned forward in an ‘okay, so what’, gesture.
“I was watchin’ through binoculars when the shooter apparently killed himself,” Broussard said, “and I distinctly saw light between the gun muzzle and his head. His wound shouldn’t have shown contact features.”
“Jesus,” Gatlin said, then crossed himself for blaspheming. “You were what . . . 200 yards away?”
Broussard nodded, “Probably.”
“Those must have been some pretty great binoculars.”
“They were. I’m convinced the space between the muzzle and his head was obvious because the gun wasn’t in a direct line with his head, but was several inches behind it. That would also explain why, when I examined the weapon I didn’t find any tissue blowback in the muzzle.”
“That’s not all is it?”
“No. The degree of rigor in the body when I started work on it was too advanced for the time that had elapsed since it hit the water.”
Gatlin’s mind raced with the implications of what Broussard had told them. “So the shooter’s suicide was—”
Not wanting Gatlin to say it before he could, Broussard quickly said, “All an act.”
But the old pathologist wasn’t quick enough, so that he and Gatlin said those three words exactly in unison.
“You’re telling us the real shooter killed Hartley earlier and had the body in the water beside the boat when he pretended to shoot himself,” Gatlin said.
“When I called and told you to meet me, Bubba and I were at the spot where it all happened. We found a series of rebars pounded into the bayou where they couldn’t be seen from a boat. I’m sure that after the shooter went into the water, he used those rebars to guide him as he swam unseen around the point to where he’d hidden another boat. He never intended his charade to fool us for long, only until he’d escaped.”
“Which he did while everyone was focused on retrieving Hartley’s body,” Gatlin said. Then he thought of something. “Hartley’s wife said her husband had been fishing every day this week. I’ll bet the shooter cased the location for several days before the picnic and decided to use Hartley because there was a good chance the guy would be there on the big day. My question is, where’d he kill him . . . on the water or somewhere before?”
“On the water would be risky because the sound could attract a ranger’s boat,” Broussard said, “but—”
“What if he used a subsonic round,” Kit said from the sofa.
Both men looked at her in surprise. “How do you know about that?” Gatlin asked.
“I saw someone at the gun range using them.”
“That would definitely make the shot quieter,” Broussard said, impressed with her contribution.
Over on the sofa, Kit felt less like a useless observer.
Gatlin rubbed his chin. “Wonder if there are surveilla
nce cameras at the public boat ramps.”
“There weren’t any where Bubba and I put in,” Broussard said. He looked at Kit. “Give us a picture of what kind of man we’re lookin’ for.”
Kit got up and stood by Gatlin. “You said the shot that killed your uncle was made from 200 yards away?”
Broussard nodded.
“And he did it on the first try?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think an amateur could do that. And the use of a subsonic round to kill Hartley, both those things suggest you’re looking for someone with firearms training, maybe with a military background.” She looked at Gatlin. “I assume the serial numbers on both guns were obliterated.”
“Completely.”
“And he’s a planner,” Kit said. She turned to Broussard. “Philip said it happened at a birthday picnic for your Uncle. How long ago was the event planned?”
“I got my invitation two weeks ago.”
“Delivered how?”
“By mail.”
“I’d like to see a list of people who were invited and another one containing the names of those who weren’t there.”
“You realize you’re suggesting the shooter might be a relative,” Gatlin said.
“Isn’t that always the best place to start looking?” Kit said.
Gatlin looked at Broussard. “I’m satisfied. You willing to give her the release time?”
“Already said I would.”
Kit had no idea what had happened to the conversation, because they seemed to have suddenly started a new one that didn’t include her. “Am I supposed to understand what just occurred?” She said, shaking her head.
“I’ve got a proposal for you,” Gatlin said.
Kit held out the hand with her new ring on it. “Sorry I’m already engaged. But thanks for the offer.”
“I saw the ring and was gonna ask you about it later,” Broussard said. “When did that happen?”
“Last night. Teddy was planning to ask me Sunday, but couldn’t wait.” She wanted Broussard to stand up, come around the desk, and hug her, but he didn’t.
As Broussard looked at her fondly, he wished he was capable of expressing his delight at the news by giving her a hug, but a public demonstration like that was just not in him. Grandma O had once told him, someone must have put so much starch in his shirts, it got into his brain. Whatever the cause, that’s simply who he was. There would be no hug this day or any other. An honest spoken sentiment would have to do. “It’s reassuring to know that sometimes good things happen to good people.”
Having known him long enough to be fully aware of both his astounding intellect and his rudimentary ability to show affection, Kit accepted his verbal offering of congratulations with complete understanding. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She turned to Gatlin. “You were saying . . .”
“You know we’re shorthanded on the force because of the sick out . . . And nobody thought to make a deal with the creeps in this city to slack off until we get our senses back. What I’m saying is we need help. A call came in this morning about a missing young woman named Betty Bergeron. If you’d be willing to look into it, I’m prepared to make you a temporary homicide detective.” Gatlin reached in his jacket pocket and took out what looked like a leather wallet. He flipped it open. “Here’s your badge and ID.”
“So I’ve been auditioning this morning?”
“Kind of. I already knew you were good. I just wanted to see once again how you handle yourself.”
“That’s why you let me take the lead with Terry Hartley.”
“Obviously.”
“Did you clear this with NOPD command?”
“No, I always run around doing this kind of thing. Makes life interesting to get called up on charges by internal affairs every few months.”
Kit looked at Broussard. “Did I hear you say you were willing to give me release time to do this?”
“If it’s what you want.”
“Just to be sure you understand what you might be getting into, let me tell you all the reasons you should say no,” Gatlin said. “Mostly you’ll be working alone, at least during your initial inquiries. I don’t want you intentionally going into dangerous situations without backup, which would be me. But here’s the thing, sometimes you don’t know you’re in trouble until it’s too late. Also, and I’m not proud of this, but even though the force is not officially on strike, some of the other detectives might consider you a union scab. This kind of thing sometimes brings out behavior in people you didn’t think they had in them. And a lot of what you’ll be doing will be mundane and boring. It ain’t a lot of fun to talk to a hundred people that didn’t see anything and don’t even know what day it is.”
“You make it sound so attractive.”
His expression now darkened “And the case is time-sensitive.”
In Kit’s work for Broussard as a death investigator, there was always a need to complete her analysis in a timely fashion. But if things got bogged down, it was just an inconvenience. The subject of her inquiries was never worse off for the delay. The assignment Gatlin was offering her was different. Even the general public knows that when a young woman disappears, her life is most likely in danger. In a high percentage of cases, by the time the victim is missed by someone, they are already dead. But sometimes they aren’t. This latter possibility was what Gatlin meant when he called the case time-sensitive.
She nodded, letting him know she understood the stakes.
“I should also mention that a junior homicide detective makes less than you do working for Andy,” Gatlin said. “But for compensation you’ll stay on the ME payroll.”
Kit looked at Broussard. “What should I do?”
“Only what your heart tells you.”
After that time she had put her life at risk by running directly toward a guy with an automatic shotgun and disarmed him with only her Ladysmith, there wasn’t much she was afraid of. So fear didn’t factor into her decision. But the missing young woman did. If the department was shorthanded and couldn’t work the case, the girl would almost certainly end up dead. She looked at Gatlin and held out her hand. “I’ll need that badge.”
Chapter 8
After giving Kit her new badge, Gatlin spent a few minutes with her discussing the fine points of probable cause. Then he turned to Broussard and said, “I don’t see any point in hiding the fact the real killer escaped. If we try, we could miss some useful information that people calling in might offer. Besides, to do a decent job of grilling any suspects, I’ll have to say what actually happened.”
“Will you call Terry Hartley and tell her what we’ve learned?” Kit asked.
“Yeah. I might as well let the press know too.”
When Kit left Broussard’s office, it was five o’clock. She and Teddy had reservations for dinner Sunday night at Commander’s Palace to celebrate their engagement, and she had planned to spend today looking for a new dress to wear. But there was no time for shopping now. She had to find Betty Bergeron.
She moved quickly down the hall to her office and went inside. There, she turned on her computer and entered the password Gatlin had given her to access the NOPD network. A few more keystrokes and she was looking at Bergeron’s meager file.
The young woman had been reported missing by her parents, Acadia and Paul. According to them, the girl that Betty shared an apartment with had called them that morning, saying Betty had not come home for two consecutive nights. The report therefore, was actually a second-hand account. Even so, it was important to begin with the parents.
Acadia and Paul Bergeron lived in Metairie, touted as the first suburb of New Orleans. Lying just to the west of the crescent city, Metairie is built on a ridge of land created by silt and sediment deposited by the Mississippi over thousands of years as the river changed course. After confirming by a quick phone call that both parents were home and weren’t planning on going out, Kit headed for her car.
Back in Broussard’s office,
Gatlin returned to his sofa-arm perch and said, “Okay, let’s talk about Uncle Joe. Before you complicated things all I had to do was come up with a motive for what happened. Now, I don’t even have the shooter.”
Gatlin waited expectantly for a comeback, because that’s the way the two friends had been talking to each other for decades. But Broussard simply sat there fiddling with a pen and looking at nothing.
Realizing now that his comment had been in poor taste, Gatlin said. “I’ve never heard you talk about your uncle. Were you close?”
“Used to be. After my parents were killed and I came to live with my grandmother, Joe would take me fishin’ whenever he and his boys would go. And if they had a cookout in the backyard, he’d come and get me. He had two daughters and two sons of his own, already a big family. He sure didn’t need anybody else around.
“I remember one time Joe and his boys and I were out on Lake Pontchartrain after dark fishin’ for speckled trout. And we weren’t catchin’ anything. Then the moon peeked over the horizon. Joe pointed at the moon and said, ‘Boys, when the moon clears the water, those fish are gonna start hittin’ like crazy.’ And they did. I’ve never seen anything like it since. Most likely it was just a lucky guess, but he had us all thinkin’ he was a genius.
“Then . . . after I got older, we just seemed to drift apart. I don’t know what happened. There was no reason that I know of. This mornin’ at the picnic is the first time I’ve talked to him in years.”
“His wife still living?”
“Died a few years back. I sent some flowers and a card, but had to miss the funeral because of that triple murder at the Lagniappe Mart on Airways.”
“Why’d he need a bodyguard?”
“He was an important man before he retired. Had to have made a few people mad through the years. Talk to the bodyguard and ask him.”
“Top of my ‘To-Do list,’ which I need to start working on. I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Yeah, me too.”
After Gatlin left, Broussard sat in his chair and tried to figure out why he hadn’t stayed in touch with Uncle Joe. He didn’t even know anything about Joe’s kids. Why was that?
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 4
