Outside, the crime scene tech that everyone called, Bluefin or sometimes just Blue, because he always had a tuna sandwich for lunch, noticed a reddish brown stain on the driver’s carpet in Karpis’s truck. Using a scalpel, he cut out a small section of the stained fabric and took it to the lowered tailgate of the truck. There, he got out a dropper bottle of phenolphthalein, the reagent he’d occasionally add to a detective’s coffee to give the guy the runs if he didn’t like him. He put a drop of the reagent on the piece of carpet, then quickly followed with a drop of hydrogen peroxide. The carpet promptly turned pink, proving that the stain was blood. Was it human? No way to tell in the field. He’d have to take a bigger sample back to the lab and do another test.
Back in Karpis’s home, having found nothing of official interest yet, Gatlin walked into the master bedroom and whistled at the gorgeous king sized bed, which had a magnificent piece of walnut burl for the headboard, and another at the foot. The bedclothes were a mess and Gatlin now caught a distinct whiff of semen and lady secretions, his knowledge of the latter of course, drawing only on distant memories.
Wrinkling his nose at the odor, he went to the closet and began to prowl through the contents. He emerged five minutes later with nothing to show for his trouble. And so it went for another fifteen minutes. Then, at the back of the house, he entered a room that was paneled like all the others, but on the far wall was a huge picture of Joe Broussard, which looked like a color photo of an oil painting. And it was full of holes.
Looking to his right, Gatlin saw a comfortable looking red leather chair. On the tree-branch table to the right of the chair was a 9mm semiautomatic.
Chapter 33
“A condom?” Gatlin said. “In his mouth? Wrapped or unwrapped?”
“Wrapped,” Broussard said, shaking his head at Gatlin’s question.
They were all sitting around the conference table in the room next to Broussard’s office.
“Coupled with the shots to Julien’s groin, looks like the killer’s motive involves some sexual issue,” Kit said. “The only relevancy I can think of is maybe the Deuteronomy quote from Karpis. That had to do with family lineage and reproduction.”
“Not sure that’s it.” Broussard said.
Kit’s brow furrowed. “Well, what then?”
Believe me, if I knew, I’d have told you already.”
“Speaking of Karpis, I found a 9mm semiautomatic at his home,” Gatlin said. “He was using a big picture of Uncle Joe on a homemade bullet trap for target practice. I took the gun and a box of rounds I found there over to the NOPD firing range to see if they can match breech marks the gun makes to marks on the casings from Julien’s garage. I also stopped by Tulane and dropped off a saliva sample I took from him.” He focused on Kit. “Find out anything about how Julien’s death will affect distribution of Joe’s estate?”
“I did. Dr. B gave me the phone number of Joe’s executor, his daughter, Amelia. The will states that any of the four beneficiaries who die within 120 hours of Joe’s death will be considered to have predeceased him and that beneficiary’s portion would be shared among the other three.”
“That seems weird,” Gatlin said.
“I did some research on it. A hundred and twenty hours is the number used in what’s known as ‘The Uniform Simultaneous Death Act,’ which says that if two people die within 120 hours from each other, each is considered to have predeceased the other. The act was created primarily to deal with couples that both die in a car or plane crash but it can’t be determined who died first. It provides a way to settle squabbles over who gets the money. It would go equally to claimants on both sides.”
“What does that have to do with this case?” Gatlin said.
“I was just explaining where the 120 days came from. In Joe’s situation, the lawyer who drew up the will was trying to simplify estate administration by preventing money from being transferred twice. Two transactions would increase legal expenses and double the taxes on the estate.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” Gatlin said. “What’s important is, did Lewis know that provision was in there?”
Kit said, “Amelia didn’t want to tell me this, but on Sunday afternoon, the day after Joe was killed, Lewis came by her house and asked to see the will.”
“She never told me any of that,” Broussard said. “And we had discussed the will and Lewis’s financial problems that mornin’. So when I spoke to her again on Monday, she could have mentioned it.”
“Put yourself in her place,” Kit said. “To tell either of us the things she did must have made her feel like she was selling out her brother.”
Broussard nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Crucial point in all this is that Julien was killed within the 120 hours mentioned in the will,” Gatlin said. “So Lewis benefits.”
Johnny Cash and “Ring Of Fire” suddenly filled the conference room. Gatlin pulled out his phone and looked at the caller ID. Switching on speakerphone, he answered. “Gatlin.”
“This is Dr. Cummins at Tulane. I’ve got the typing results on that sample you dropped off an hour ago.”
He was referring to the one from Howard Karpis.
“Good. What did you find?”
“I’m afraid the results were inconclusive.”
“Why’s that?”
“The test involves an antibody against either the A, B or H blood proteins. We dry several tiny spots of the sample on a piece of nitrocellulose then treat those spots with each of the three antibodies. If the sample only binds the antibody specific for the A protein, then the blood type is A. If it binds only anti B, the type is B. If it binds both anti A and anti B, it’s type AB. If it binds only anti H, it’s type O. The most recent sample you left didn’t bind any of our antibodies.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t there only four possibilities?”
“If it’s a blood sample, yes. But not necessarily for saliva. Are you familiar with the secretor vs non-secretor concept?”
“I am, but it wouldn’t hurt me to hear it explained again.”
In about 80% of the population, their blood group proteins aren’t found only on their red blood cells, but are also secreted into their body fluids, like saliva. But 20% aren’t secretors. The subject who provided the saliva sample we just tested is apparently a non-secretor.”
“So he could be any of the four primary blood types.”
“Yes.”
“Are non-secretors more likely to have one blood type over another?”
“Well, based on the percentages of the various blood types in the population and the fact type O has the lowest percentage of non-secretors, I’d put my money on type A.”
“Okay, thanks for doing that.” Gatlin put his phone away and looked at Broussard. “That sample from under Betty Bergeron’s nails . . . Would we consider that as secretor or non-secretor-derived? Because if it was secretor-derived, we can eliminate Karpis as her killer.”
“No way to tell,” Broussard said. “There were probably some red blood cells in there as well as the fluid parts of blood.”
“So we can’t exclude him based on his secretor status,” Gatlin said. “Which still leaves us with the most likely possibility that he’s blood type A, and therefore remains a viable suspect.”
“We need to get a blood sample from him,” Kit said.
“Based on what we have now, I’ll never be able to get a warrant for one.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“A blood draw is an invasive procedure. It falls into a different category than a cheek swab. I know these judges. They’ll say a DNA profile is the ultimate way to determine guilt in Betty’s murder and we can get that from the cheek swab we already took. But even his DNA won’t prove he killed Joe. We need something else, like the ballistics results from the gun I found. We get a breech match, I’ll arrest him.”
Shortly after Kit and Gatlin left, Broussard received a call from the main office on the floor below sayin
g there was a man named Lewis Broussard asking to see him.
Not letting his surprise show in his voice, Broussard said, “Send him up to the conference room.”
A few minutes later, dressed in his Marksman Arms work outfit, Lewis walked into the meeting room, where Broussard welcomed him with a hearty handshake.
Broussard gestured to a chair near the head of the table. “Have a seat.”
While Lewis got settled, Broussard took the facing chair on the other side and said, “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”
Hands folded on the table, Lewis said, “Hard to believe we grew up together . . . I mean because we’ve both done so much since then. Look at you, Chief Medical Examiner.”
“Never figured you for a career military man.”
“Why not?”
“As a boy, you were very sensitive. Remember what you did when you saw that kid down the street burning ants with a magnifying glass?”
“Did I smash the glass?”
“Yes you did.”
“The military doesn’t just consist of insensitive louts,” Lewis said, indignantly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that. I was —”
“You of all people should know that some lives need to be forcibly terminated.” Realizing what he’d just said and the implications it had for him as a possible suspect in his father’s murder, Lewis batted at the air. “You know what I mean . . . purveyors of evil and those who serve them.”
Silence hung heavily in the air for a few seconds then Lewis said, “I understand you were talking to my father when it happened.”
“That’s true.”
“I assume you’ve spoken with that detective who came to see me and therefore know about my financial problems.”
“It’s been discussed.”
“When you were talking to my father, did he say anything about that? My sister Amelia knows, but promised she’d never mention it to him.”
“Even if he knew, why would he say anything to me about it, which he didn’t by the way.”
“I just wanted to be sure.”
“Why didn’t you tell him yourself? I’m sure he would have helped you out.”
“You didn’t know him. He would have viewed my problems as a sign of weakness. And would have told me to clean up my own mess. That was one of his favorite expressions. He certainly said it to me enough growing up so I didn’t need to hear it again. He respected me for being a marine captain. And I was not going to tell him anything that would devalue that.”
Lewis looked down at the table. “This was a mistake . . . coming here . . . worrying that you two talked about me – self-centered bullshit.”
He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Thanks for seeing me.”
Then he was gone.
Left to reflect on their conversation, Broussard mostly remembered Lewis’s comment about some lives needing to be forcibly terminated. Was this something Gatlin should know about?
He ruminated on it for nearly a minute, then decided that considering the context, He wouldn’t bother passing it along.
Chapter 34
Kit woke the next morning with Fletcher’s nose in her armpit. Gently disengaging herself from him, she slid her feet over the opposite side of the bed and sat for a moment, getting her mind in order. She glanced at the clock; 6:14 a.m. She reached over and shut off the alarm before it could ring. She now had no idea who had killed Uncle Joe and the others. Maybe they were wrong about one person being responsible for it all. But she wasn’t going to think about any of that for the next hour.
She rounded the bed, lifted Fletcher to the floor, and pulled open a dresser drawer to get her jogging clothes, which consisted of a sports bra, a pair of loose shorts, a long Tulane T shirt, athletic socks, and running shoes. The T-shirt served three purposes. It covered her breasts and her butt, none of which she wanted on display, and also concealed her jogging holster, which firmly held her Ladysmith, her keys, and her phone.
She fed Fletcher, but skipped any breakfast for herself, having learned from experience that running immediately after eating is a bad idea. Fletcher had to stay home because terriers in general would rather smell anything than trot along beside you. And he got plenty of exercise through the day going up and down the steps to her apartment. Even so, after her run, she’d take him for a smell around the block.
Reaching her courtyard, she looked up and saw a sky littered with gray clouds that didn’t appear dark enough to worry about. She disliked running on the sidewalk. You could never tell when someone might lurch out at you from a doorway. So, a moment later, when she emerged onto Toulouse, she glanced to her right, made sure there was no traffic coming, then stepped into the street and took off. Heading in the direction of the Mississippi River, she ran close to the left hand curb, where no parking was allowed.
By the time she reached Royal Street and turned left, she was loose and comfortable and moving well. Whenever she was in the quarter she kept her mental state on yellow alert, not white like the blonde she saw jogging a few yards ahead, who, judging by the earphones blocking her hearing, was apparently afraid to be alone with her own thoughts for even a few minutes.
Earlier, back on Toulouse, Kit had noticed a guy dressed in dark blue shorts and a light blue T-shirt leaning on a building across the street. He too, was wearing earbuds and appeared to be picking out some tunes on his phone. Shortly after she’d started running she’d heard his footsteps as he began to jog along the opposite sidewalk. There was nothing alarming about the guy’s appearance, but being in the habit of keeping track of her surroundings, she occasionally glanced behind her to see where he was. That’s how she now saw him join her on Royal.
Kit and almost everyone else who jogged in this area of the Quarter included Jackson Square as part of their itinerary. At the next intersection, the blonde headed for the Square by taking St. Peter Street. Preferring a different route, Kit stayed on Royal. So did the guy in blue.
Half a block further down Royal, Kit turned into Pirates Alley, a traffic-free passageway about three sidewalks wide that ran along the wrought iron fence surrounding the back courtyard of the St. Louis Cathedral. She wouldn’t have become alarmed even if the guy in blue had done the same, but he didn’t.
A few minutes later, she emerged from Pirates Alley onto the promenade in front of the cathedral. The cathedral and the square with its huge bronze statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse, Duke, is the most photographed site in the city. Later in the day, the place would be filled with tourists and artists. But this early it was populated mostly by joggers and pigeons.
She quickly went up the steps to the square and followed the outermost circular walkway until it brought her back to where she’d entered. She then headed again to Pirates Alley for the return home. Alert as she was, she was not aware that far to her right, the jogger in blue was watching her intently from behind some shrubs on the edge of the square, near the Pontalba apartments. And he was no longer listening to music, he was talking on his phone.
Halfway down Pirates Alley, Kit glanced to her left, toward Cabildo Alley, the shortcut to St. Peter Street. Seeing nothing of interest, she again turned her eyes forward. As she did, a figure dressed in black and wearing a Guy Fawkes mask stepped into view from the sidewalk on Royal. He was cradling her dog, Fletcher, in one arm. His opposite hand was holding a big knife to Fletcher’s throat.
Chapter 35
Kit was consumed with anger at seeing her little dog in danger . . . and from the same guy she’d warned earlier. Stripped of reason by the situation, she pulled up her shirt, grabbed her Ladysmith, and put on a blast of speed to reach the masked creep before he could do anything that might make her kill him. But before she could take two steps, he turned and disappeared down Royal, her view of him blocked by the buildings lining the walk.
Two more strides and something caught her foot. With the sickening knowledge that she couldn’t stop herself, she pitched forward onto the pavement, the
force of the fall causing her to drop the Ladysmith, which clattered away from her. Before she could even begin to get up, two men also dressed in black and wearing Guy Fawkes masks, came running out of Cabildo Alley. The first one to reach her bent down and jammed a stun gun into her back. Jolted nearly senseless by the charge of electricity that ripped through her, she couldn’t do anything to protect herself.
The guy with the stun gun then kicked her in the side, muttering, “You were warned, but wouldn’t listen.”
The other guy now kicked her in the ribs from her other side, growling, “Mind your own damn business.”
Through sheer force of will, Kit rolled over and grabbed the first guy’s foot as he tried to strike her again. She pulled his captured leg far enough toward her so she could get her own foot below his crotch. Then she jackhammered him in the balls, the effort of all this encasing her battered torso in a cage of fire.
Howling, the attacker with the crushed scrotum toppled to the pavement. As he did, the second guy gave her another shot in the ribs.
Pain and shock stole her ability for further resistance.
Glaring at her with feral hatred, the guy she’d slammed in the crotch struggled to his feet. To get better leverage, the other one moved back, then lunged at her, one leg already swinging forward . . . more punishment coming. Her eyes focused on the blunt toe of his boot. She couldn’t stop him, but she wouldn’t make a sound. She’d absorb the blow without giving them any hint of how much they’d hurt her.
Suddenly, she saw a blur swing past her. It hit the guy standing over her in the side of the head and he fell back against the wrought iron fence behind him. In that moment, she saw that the blur was a two by four. And then, her two attackers were gone.
She heard the clatter of the two by four hit the pavement. Someone knelt beside her. A face came into view; Zachery LeBlanc, founder of the construction firm working in her courtyard.
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 19
