by John Case
“You do understand I’d like to do more,” Anderton says. He’s still behind me, still hitting the “my hands are tied” note as I head down the steps and push out through the big front door.
CHAPTER 29
I wait twenty minutes in the tiny Port Sulfur library for a shot at one of their three computers – which are occupied by kids checking their e-mail. I try chatting up the woman at the front desk, but she turns out to be not chatty. I ask her if she remembers the case involving Charley Vermillion.
“No,” she says.
I expand on it, identify him as a former patient at the asylum down the road.
“No,” she repeats, and returns to her magazine.
When time’s up for one of the kids, I use my allotted twenty minutes to snag a bargain room at the Crescent City Omni. Then I e-mail Muriel Petrich to request that photographs of the origami rabbit be either sent to me at the hotel, or scanned and e-mailed. In the few minutes left before the library closes, I use the copying machine to copy the listings for attorneys in the Plaquemines Parish telephone book, and I establish that the parish seat is in Pointe a La Hache.
Which is across the river. That’s where the courthouse is, and that’s likely where the petition for Charley Vermillion’s release was filed. When I ask one of the kids waiting to check out a book how to get to Pointe a la Hache, he tells me there’s a free ferry that goes across the river every half hour. I can catch it a few miles north. Look for the signs.
I sit in my car, cell phone in hand, and look at the list of attorneys-at-law. It may not be a good idea to pick a lawyer from the yellow pages, but I don’t have much choice. I call three of them before I get to Hawes, Halliday, and Flood. Lester Flood can fit me in at three forty-five tomorrow afternoon at his office in Belle Chasse. My intention is to petition the court for release of the identity of the man who made the origami rabbit in Peyton Anderton’s display case.
I head north toward the ferry, but once I get there, I realize there’s no point in making the crossing today. It’s too late. The courthouse will be closed. I drive back to New Orleans and check into the Omni.
My room is on an air shaft, but the price is right and the parking is free. Once I’ve checked into the hotel, I call Petrich. I don’t really expect her to be in, but I want to leave a phone message to reinforce my e-mail request for a copy of the photos of the rabbit. Turns out, she’s working late.
“Where are you, Alex? What’s up?”
“New Orleans.”
“New Orleans? You find something?”
I don’t know why, but I’m reluctant to tell her about Vermillion or the rabbit in the display case. It reminds me of how Liz didn’t want to tell anyone she was pregnant before she got past the three-month mark. As if announcing the news might tempt fate and put the pregnancy in jeopardy. “Maybe. I’ll let you know if anything pans out.”
“You do that,” she says. She promises to scan the photo and send it as a JPEG before she leaves work.
I head out for gumbo at a sandwich place down the block, watching my budget, and then take a walk through the Quarter. I end up on Bourbon Street. It’s very crowded and the heavy air smells faintly of decades of whiskey and vomit. I stand outside one club, and the music spilling out sounds so great I go inside. What the hell. A beer.
The blues. The guy up front is hunched into the microphone, his body a coiled instrument of woe. Oh, my heart it starts a-hammerin’, and my eyes fill up with tears.
It ought to be the perfect music for me, a conduit for my misery, but it isn’t. I sit there and drink, but nothing happens. I can’t feel the music. I can’t even taste my beer. I last about ten minutes and then I’m out the door.
When I get back to the hotel, it takes me a long time to fall asleep, and when I do, I have a dream in which everything I touch disappears.
In the morning, I grab some free coffee from the lobby, plug in my laptop, and log on using Liz’s AOL account. Her password is the twins’ birthday, 010497 and that stops me cold for a second. I check off five New Orleans area telephone numbers for AOL to try. It takes almost twenty minutes before the server finds a connection.
I go to my Yahoo! account and see that Petrich came through. I hit the key to download the JPEG file she attached to her message and wait for it to come up. The blue bar expands across the bottom of my screen, and then, there it is. Even in two dimensions, the rabbit is impressive and powerful. I made no mistake – it’s identical to the one in the display case in Anderton’s office. There’s an evidence tag affixed to the rabbit. A stamped rectangle on the page bears the words: Anne Arundel County Police Department Evidence Room. There’s a signature (Sgt. David Ebinger) and date (June 1, 2003).
At nine, when the hotel’s “office suite” is available to guests (for a fee), I print out a few copies of the photo of the rabbit.
My plan is to give one copy to the lawyer, Lester Flood, in hopes that he’ll be able to use the photo as evidence, that he’ll be able to compel the release of information from the Port Sulfur facility.
I’m about to leave when I decide to e-mail Judy Jones at the FBI. Maybe the Bureau can help. It takes me twenty minutes to hammer together a message about what I’ve learned, explaining how I came to discover a rabbit identical to the one found on my son Sean’s dresser in the display case of a Louisiana asylum.
When I’m finished, I look over what I’ve written. I’m dissatisfied. I know that the connections linking the Ramirez murders to the abduction of my sons (by way of the Gablers and the Sandling boys) are solid. I know that the “anonymous tip” was bogus, that the man held responsible for the murders of the Ramirez boys was not the man who actually killed them. I know that the man who made the rabbit in the Port Sulfur display case took my sons. But on paper, no matter how much I tighten and clarify my account, it all seems… insubstantial.
I fire off my final version, but in the end I know it doesn’t make it. Showgirls? Magic? Calling into question a double murder that was solved to everyone’s satisfaction? The little folded rabbit doesn’t seem strong enough to support the weight of all that.
In the car, I take a look at the map. Plaquemines Parish is a peninsula divided by the Mississippi River. The courthouse in Pointe a La Hache is on the west bank. I plan to go there first, looking for the petition for release that freed Charley Vermillion. I’ve done courthouse document searches before. It’s time-consuming work, and tedious. It can take days. But I should be able to get a few hours in before it’s time for my appointment with the lawyer.
My guidebook confirms what the kid in the Port Sulfur library told me: Ferryboats run back and forth across the river. I head for the one that crosses from Belle Chasse to Dalcour.
My guidebook also noted that the courthouse in Pointe a la Hache is more than a hundred years old, having survived any number of hurricanes. Old as the courthouse is, I just hope the place has air-conditioning.
It takes me less than an hour to get to Belle Chasse, and I’m lucky, catching the ferry five minutes before it leaves. Every other vehicle on board is a pickup truck. The river is wide, the water a turbulent roil of chop and current. The ferryboat’s powerful engines point the craft upstream against the drag as it muscles its way toward the far shore.
The houses on this bank seem older and more refined, but otherwise the drive is much like yesterday’s. Small towns remarkable mainly because the speed limit plummets for a mile or so. A levee concealing the river. Citrus groves. And not much else.
In twenty-four minutes, I arrive in Pointe a la Hache. It ’s not hard to find the courthouse – which is by far the largest structure I’ve seen in Plaquemines. But it’s a burned-out shell, surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape, much of which is lying around on the ground tangled in the weeds. A grove of skeletonized live oaks hulk above the ruined building like so many demons, their ropy trunks and gnarled branches charred black.
A construction trailer sits to the side, bearing a sign that reads PLAQUEMINES PARISH PUBLIC
WORKS. A rap on the door summons a red-faced man in a battered yellow hard hat.
He looks me up and down as if I’m from another planet. “Yup?”
“What happened to the courthouse?”
He fails to keep the smirk off his face. “Burned down.”
“When did that happen?”
“January twelve, two thousand three.”
“What a shame.” The sight of the fine old building in ruins depresses me. Where are the records now? Did they survive?
“Shame and a half is what it was,” Hardhat says. “Stood more’n one hundred years. Lasted through I don’t know how many hurricanes. Served its citizens well. Betsy came through here at a hundred forty miles an hour and that wind brought half the river with it when it got to this bank. Lots of folks rode out the storm in the courthouse, up top there. It was the high ground, you understand. A hundred years and then-” He snaps his fingers. “Gone.”
“Is there a new courthouse?”
But he’s not finished.
“Nature couldn’t destroy the place, but man could. And did.”
“You mean it was arson?”
“Right,” he says, with a knowing nod. “And that’s according to none other than the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. They found accelerant residue. Big-time.”
Arson. “But why?”
He wags his head. “They’s a hundred years of history in them files. Least there was. Some say that’s it, some old record somebody wanted permanently lost. Deed or some-ut.”
“But there must be electronic records.”
He laughs. “For the past few years, they is. But for the other ninety-five or whatever, nossir. Those records is solid gone.”
Maybe I can still find out the name of Vermillion’s lawyer. That case is recent enough to fall within the time frame of “the past few years.”
“Myself,” Hardhat says, “I’m partial to ’tother theory about the arson.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, they been tryin’ to move the courthouse for years, to some more convenient location. But the dang pop-u-lace keep votin’ the idea down.” A laugh. “I think it gon’ move now.”
“Move the courthouse? Why?”
“Your lawyers, judges, court reporters, and what all. Long time they been wantin’ it on the east bank, in Belle Chasse. Belle Chasse an easy drive from N’Awlins. Not like gettin’ down here where you got to hassle with the ferry and all. Rumor is, the lawyers got tired of haulin’ they ass way down here to conduct they bidness. How much money it take to get somebody throw some kerosene in there and toss a match? This is Louisiana.”
“They going to rebuild it?”
“Don’t think so.”
“So where do they conduct court business now?”
“Temporary courthouse,” he says. “Bunch of trailers.”
“Where are they?” I ask, looking around.
“Oh, that’s why I think they gon’ get their way. They didn’t even bother to put the temporary courthouse here. Those trailer – they over there in Belle Chasse,” he says with a chuckle. “It more convenient, you see, for the interim.”
CHAPTER 30
I find the temporary courthouse in Belle Chasse – a half-dozen trailers in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. Each trailer bears an identifying sign: TRAFFIC COURT, JUVENILE COURT, and so on. When I find the right trailer, the one housing records, the clerk of court tells me I’m out of luck. All the files pertaining to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility were destroyed in the fire.
“I was told there were computer records for the last few years. I’m just trying to get the name of a lawyer connected to a case.”
She’s a white-haired woman with bright brown eyes. She gives me an ironic smile. “Supposed to be electronic backup, but it never took. They got a new system now. Gentleman who installed the old system got hisself indicted.”
“I see.”
“We got four months of records and that’s about it. You might find something about your case in the newspaper, though. The Peninsula Gazette right here in Belle Chasse is the paper of record. I b’lieve they required to publish filings.”
I mull over the dates as I follow the courthouse clerk’s directions to the Gazette’s office. The Ramirez twins were abducted May 4, 2001, two weeks following Vermillion’s release from Port Sulfur. The petition for release would be earlier – and maybe a lot earlier.
I can start in late April and work my way backward. I’m not looking forward to it. Searching through newspaper morgues is about as tedious as it gets. But I’ve got three hours to kill before my appointment with Lester Flood, so I may as well make a run at it.
But not right now, it seems. As I approach the newspaper office, a young woman with dark spiky hair is locking the door. She’s wearing a halter top, cut-off jeans, and flip-flops. The halter top displays most of a large spider tattooed on one shoulder.
“Will you open again this afternoon?”
The girl cocks her head and sizes me up. “Why?” she asks, in such a way that the word has at least two syllables. “You want to place an ad?”
I explain that I want to look through the morgue.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean the old newspaper files.”
“Ohhhhh. Yeah, I knew that.” She taps her head. “I heard my daddy say that one time. He’s not here. He’s fishing. So what are you looking for?”
“I’m looking for notice of suit. The courthouse records were destroyed in the fire, so this is my only hope.”
“Huh. Your only hope. The Peninsula Gazette your only hope? I wish Daddy was here.” She smiles at me. A surprisingly sweet and shy smile. “I’m Jezebel,” she says. “Jezebel Henton.”
“Alex Callahan.”
She shakes the keys. “Well, Mr. Callahan – I could let you in. Of course, I’d have to stay there with you. How long is this going to take?”
I shrug. “It could take a while.”
“Hunh.” She looks at me.
“I have an appointment at four-thirty.”
She twists a ring on her pinky. “Well, since I have to sit there, I think it’s only fair if you pay for my time, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“So you pay me ten dollars an hour,” she says, “’cause otherwise, I could just go watch TV, right?”
“Right.”
“Plus,” Jezebel says, “I’ll help you look. I’m experienced – so that’s why I’m worth ten bucks an hour. I’ve done courthouse searches for Pinky Streiber.”
“Who’s Pinky Streiber?”
“He’s a private investigator,” she says. “You’ve never heard of him?”
“No.”
“He’s legendary,” she insists. “He really is. So-” She sticks out her hand. The fingernails are a shiny black, the polish half chipped away. “Deal?”
She takes me upstairs. I explain what I’m looking for. “What I really need is the name of Charley Vermillion’s lawyer. I’d like to talk to him… or her.”
“That should be on there with the published notice, although sometimes they just list whoever in the firm took it over to file it. And right away I can save you some time,” she says, selecting a key and opening an oak door. “The paper only publishes arrests and suits once a week. Wednesday.”
Jezebel finds it at 3:48. “Binnnnnnnn-go!” she shouts, and then continues in a revved-up voice. “Am I good or am I good? January ninth, 2000. Case number four-nine-six-eight-seven Division A: Charles Jimmie Vermillion vs. Port Sulfur Forensic Facility, et. al., filed by Francis-” She stops suddenly. “Oh, shit. Pardon my mouth.”
“What’s it say?”
“Filed by Francis Bergeron,” she says. “Frankie Bergeron. I hope you don’t need to talk to him real bad.”
“Why?”
“He’s dead – that’s why. Car crash. Over by Des Allemands. Single car accident. Went flying into the bayou. Frankie was a very aggressive driver, so you can take your pick
: Some kind of road rage incident, or was he just going too fast and misjudged the curve? No witnesses ever came forward. Hey – what’s the matter?”
I shake my head. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere with this thing, I hit a dead end.”
“Well, Frankie Bergeron sure is a dead end, but Pinky says there’s always another way to find something out.”
“That would be the courthouse.”
“Oh, yeah. This was your last hope. I am so sorry, Mr. Callahan.”
“Maybe Bergeron’s firm would have records,” I say, more to myself than to Jezebel. “Do you know who he worked for?”
“Lacey and Bergeron. Right here in Belle Chasse. You could call Mr. Lacey. I’ll get you his telephone number. Don’t call him after say… oh…” She twirls a Rolodex, tapping one thumb against her lower lip and then writes the number on a Post-it. “Don’t call him after three. Maybe two. He drinks a little.”
She hands me the Post-it. Her handwriting is clear and beautiful. We spend a few minutes replacing the cartons of newspapers we’ve been going through, Jezebel locks up, and I fork over thirty-five bucks. “I almost feel bad about taking this,” she says. “I mean, Frankie Bergeron…”
“Deal’s a deal.”
She folds the money in half and then in half again, then pinches it between her thumb and forefinger. “Then again, I don’t think this thirty-five dollars would really cheer you up all that much, am I right?”
I shake my head. “Thanks for the help.”
She pushes the money into the back of her jeans, then sticks out her hand. “Well, then, good luck, Mr. Callahan. Maybe things will turn around. Pinky says they always do in an investigation if you just keep pounding it.”
“I hope he’s right.”
“Where’s your appointment?
“Tupelo Street.”
“Where you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m going to see a lawyer. Lester Flood.”
