by Jimmy Fox
“‘Tribal president,’ Nick said. “They’re organizing things according to the Chitiko-Tiloasha model. Decisions democratically voted on, the president or chairman basically first among equals. Lots of checks and balances.”
Nick and the sheriff waved as the Shawes drove off in their old truck.
“Is that right?” said Big John. “You sure know an awful lot about Indian stuff, Nick.” The admiration in his tone sounded devious.
Without apology, the sheriff had slid easily into familiarity. Clearly he was used to directing conversations toward destinations he chose, Nick concluded. How many criminals had he cracked with that disarming affability?
“I can do a competent Indian ancestor search. You interested in hiring me? Lots of black and white Americans have Indian blood and don’t even know it. Especially around here, I would imagine.”
“No, thank you just the same. But let me ask you, how much you know about ancient Indian hunting methods?”
Odd question. This wasn’t a genealogical inquiry; it was detective work. The sheriff studied Nick’s face intently as he waited for the reply.
“Only what I’ve read in passing,” Nick said. “Anything specific on your mind?”
“How about the atlatl, the old Indian spear thrower?”
“Oh, you mean the weapon that killed Carl Shawe?”
Big John shook his head and scratched one stubbled brown cheek. “Should’ve known you’d pick up on details of the case. The NOPD detectives I talked to warned me about you. But they said I could probably trust you, call on you to help. And that’s what I’m doing.”
So, he’d vetted him. Nick wondered if the sheriff had talked with Shelvin Balzar, a newly minted detective on the New Orleans force and a friend of Nick’s. They’d met a few years before during a case involving deadly secrets lurking within the history of Shelvin’s family.
“Yep,” the sheriff continued, “Carl Shawe was nailed to a cypress knee with an atlatl spear. Went right through his neck. Just like that.” Big John snapped thick fingers. “I tell you, though, that wasn’t the worst way to check out, even if it was one of the strangest. I seen some pretty bad deaths in my uniform and detective days, down in Baton Rouge and over in Armageddon. Drownings, burnings, beatings, shootings, stabbings, overdoses, a couple of lynchings, even.”
A one-eyed pickup ambled down the road, mud tires thrumming loudly. Conversation would have to wait for a few seconds. Big John’s attention turned inward. Nick’s thoughts turned to the sheriff.
This man had seen the most awful aspects of human nature, but he fought on, determined to make a difference. His heroism lay in knowing that he could never truly win against evil. Nick had already learned that Big John earned a law degree while working on the force in Baton Rouge. And though Nick was fonder of flesh-eating bacteria than lawyers, he couldn’t help admiring the sheriff ’s drive. Sheriff Higbee’s political ambition was not an end in itself, Nick suspected, but a means to do good. A rare bird in Louisiana.
The noise of the truck tires diminished into the omnivorous night.
Big John drew in and slowly released a titanic breath. “When we want to be, we are truly disgusting animals, you know that? Well, at least Carl’s exit was quick. . . . You able to shed some light on my predicament, here?”
Time to clear the air.
“If you’re asking whether I had anything to do with Carl’s death—no. If you’re asking me do I know who did—not yet. But I intend to find out.”
Though Nick felt a growing respect for the sheriff, he still didn’t appreciate being treated like a suspect or being prodded like an informant who could be shunted out of the loop when he was no longer needed. Either we work together as equals, or we each chase the killer separately.
“Not much gets past you, I’ll admit that,” Big John said. “Ever consider a career in law enforcement?”
“Never. I’ve had my radical days, too. Misguided silliness, most of it, but I retained a healthy distrust of the establishment.”
“I hear you, man.” The steely glint of suspicion had left Big John’s dark eyes. “In Louisiana, you best be looking over your shoulder for the little man with a lot of power; slavery may be dead, but you can still wind up in bondage for a handful of cash. . . . Tell you the truth, I don’t think you’re the murdering type. But I had to feel you out, you know what I’m saying? I didn’t get where I am today being fooled by too many folks. I can usually see a lie coming from a mile away. Nope, I got you pegged as more your petty-criminal type, white-collar perpetrator of so-called victimless crimes and such.”
“Hey, thanks a million,” Nick said.
Big John leaned back against the Chevy, his arms crossed over his expansive torso. “Tell me something, Nick: anything you know of in this ancestor-hunting game might give a person cause to kill Carl Shawe? I mean, speaking hypothetically. That Carl, he was a man with barbed wire wrapped tight around his soul. One difficult son-of-a-gun. But I never knew anyone around here wishing him any worse than a day in my jail to sleep it off.” A deep bass chuckle rumbled from Big John. “He sure had his share of those.”
The sheriff appeared to understand the difference between foibles and felonies. He seemed to share Nick’s belief that the truly scary malefactors—other than the fifty or so serial killers wandering the U.S. on any given day—were the grass-mowing, car-pooling, burger-grilling citizens who exploded into violence with unpredictable ferocity.
“Genealogical motives are relatives of the kind you handle every day,” Nick said. “Greed, pride, fear, love, hate, only with a slower burn—centuries, sometimes. The fuse gets lit when a cherished identity is threatened.”
“Identity. I can just hear the DA bust out laughing over that motive. But go on. I want to hear what you got to say.”
Nick kicked absently at rocks in the dark red dirt. One rolled over and for a moment he imagined a miniature skull’s face in the shadowy lumps and gouges, leering at him. He shivered, looked away, and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.
“Genealogy is a magnifying glass over the past. That’s how the hobbyist and the professional see it, at least. Normal people.”
Nick pretended not to hear the sheriff ’s skeptical harrumph. He seemed to have a jaundiced opinion of addicts of family history.
“Normal people,” Nick repeated, slightly piqued at the unstated slur. “We search for the truth in the historical record, whatever it is, pleasant or disturbing—you have to take the bad with the good. That’s a major part of the fun. Trouble starts when people use genealogy as a mirror. A distorted mirror. They try to bend it, warp it. They insist on seeing the image of the mask they wear.”
“Mask?” Big John asked. “I hope you’re speaking figuratively. All I need is masked killers running around my parish. We been through that phase already, with white sheets, too, and I hope to God it’s through for good.”
“The mask I’m referring to may be a hallowed family tradition or a more recent delusion. The point is, it’s what the individual thinks of himself, his identity.”
“Now I’m catching on. You’re saying genealogy turns into an obsession for people like that. An unhealthy one. And what we see on the outside isn’t what they think of themselves.”
“Yeah. And they’ll fight to the death for the family lie.”
“Or kill?”
Nick nodded. “I’ve seen it happen before. What makes you so sure this involves genealogy?” As usual when dealing with law enforcement, Nick had the feeling the sheriff held back more than he was revealing.
“I’m not sure of anything,” Big John said, holding out his arms to embrace the confusing universe. “The murder went down not long after the tribe got word of federal recognition; that’s what put me onto genealogy. Maybe somebody’s trying to hide something in their family tree.”
“Possibly,” Nick allowed. “There’s going to be increased scrutiny of everyone’s family history, especially during the initial enrollment period.”
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The sheriff began to count off on his fingers: “But Carl’s murder also happened at the start of this big argument over the casino, after Tadbull Mill closed down, right in the middle of hunting season, and during one of our periodic surges in dope running through this area. Shoot, man, I could name you a dozen suspects, from the mob, to the Mexican and Colombian cartels, to Louisiana legislators, to poachers—I mean other poachers, besides Carl—to these here Indians or ones from another tribe, to the man’s own family! The murder weapon—the business part of it, at least—belonged to Tommy.”
“So I’ve heard,” Nick said.
Big John nodded, casting a narrow-eyed glance down his wide nose at Nick. “I figured you did. The atlatl was a family heirloom, pretty old, I understand. His granddaddy gave it to him. He says somebody stole it and an unknown number of spears and shorter darts from his garage storage closet. He identified the spear as one of his. But I just can’t believe Tommy did that murder, any more than you did. He and Carl had their run-ins, like most brothers, no doubt about that. But I’ve known those two since we were all kids.
“No, Nick, I’m not sure of anything at all. I was just hoping if I could get your help on this genealogy angle, I could pursue a few others. My chief of detectives is at a doggoned forensics conference in Miami.”
Nick didn’t buy Big John’s whining. Louisiana sheriffs seldom left the courthouse, except for the occasional fund-raiser or speech to take credit for something good. Most were paper-pushers, accountants with sidearms, or slick political climbers, demi-dukes of patronage. Not this one. Big John liked to get his hands dirty in real law enforcement, whenever he could find the excuse.
“This isn’t a garden-variety murder, Sheriff. Something weird’s going on here, something ritualistic, with roots deep in Katogoula identity. At least, that’s what some of the tribe members I spoke with tonight think. A few are even whispering about angry spirits roaming the woods.”
Big John didn’t laugh. “I’ve known the Katogoula a long time. They’re scared, all right.” He raised an eyebrow as his mind focused on concrete details. “But excuse me if I keep looking for a human suspect. The atlatl isn’t all that hard to use. We could be talking about an Indian of any tribe around these parts; most of ’em used it before the bow and arrow. Even a non-Indian could figure it out. And it doesn’t take much muscle, either.”
Nick walked a few steps toward the road. He looked into the black wall of longleaf, loblolly, and slash pines on the other side. The radio in Big John’s car warbled as voices began and ended pithy coded messages. He returned to face the sheriff.
“How familiar are you with the ancient traditions of the tribe?”
“Not very. Got my hands full just trying to be a good Baptist. What ancient tradition might you be talking about?” Big John asked, displaying the keen interest of an open-minded detective.
“Twins,” Nick said. “Tommy and Carl were twins.”
“Yep, I’m aware of that fact. So?”
“According to the mythology of many American Indian tribes, and of the Katogoula in particular, twins are figures of special significance.”
In many ancient Indian belief systems, Nick explained, twins were either beneficent or evil. If judged a manifestation of good, they were honored during festivals or given ceremonial duties during planting, harvesting, and war. If evil, they were seen as perversions of the natural order, bad luck, scapegoats. The whole tribe suffered when nature was in an unbalanced state. A ceremonial, or actual, purging was necessary. Sometimes a twin was cast out into the wilderness, sometimes parents killed one twin outright at birth.
After Nick briefly sketched the Twins of the Forest Story, Big John meditatively rubbed his bulbous forehead at the line where his short black-and-gray coils were eroding backward.
“You’re saying one of the Katogoula believed killing the evil twin—that would be Carl—could ward off something bad that’s been happening or is about to happen to the tribe?”
“Maybe someone believed that, or wanted others to believe it,” Nick said. “According to the myth, it’s the chief ’s responsibility either to perform the deed himself or to officiate. But you’ve already told me you don’t think Tommy did it.”
“So far. . . . I guess you go in for that voodoo stuff in New Orleans, too, huh?”
“I believe in the human urge to believe. No investigator should dismiss that out of hand. . . . Hey, at least you have a human suspect according to my theory. The message could be: no more outsiders, no more tribal organization, no casino.” Nick was thinking of what Brianne and Nooj had said, of the grumbling opposition that had made the casino vote so close. “Money isn’t everything, Sheriff.”
“Who you tellin’! I’m the one in public service. . . . Why kill Carl? Why not Tommy?”
“The killer bagged two birds with the atlatl spear. First, he emotionally hobbled the leader of the Katogoula, slowing the tribe’s momentum toward becoming a soulless corporate entity rather than a group of spiritually linked people; and two, he—or she—called on the traditional beliefs to inspire fear among the others. Carl’s death was a symbol, a warning from someone who doesn’t want change, for some pathological reason. Our killer may actually think he’s protecting the Katogoula. After all, Carl’s death wasn’t a great loss to the tribe.”
“A murderer with heart. That’s awful comforting.”
“Or maybe Carl was simply an easier target. Tommy’s a family man, active in tribal politics. He’s surrounded by other people most of the time.”
“Now hold on,” Big John objected, “things have never been this good for the tribe. Federal recognition. Legislators, casinos, financial people knocking on the door with contracts and wads of money. I’d take a little of that kind of bad luck. These Katogoula are in high cotton, man!”
“Look at almost any tribe’s history,” Nick said, “at all the worthless treaties Indians have signed with the white world. These treaties meant the end of thousands of years of Indian civilization. Couldn’t someone perceive federal recognition and a gambling compact as more of the same? A few years ago, the Arizona Hopi voted not to build a casino because they felt their culture, their privacy, their spirituality would be jeopardized. Maybe we’re seeing that here. Someone could be powerfully motivated by such beliefs, don’t you think?”
“Hard for me to imagine the Katogoula would do something like that to their own folks. But I think you’re onto something about the set up. Tommy’s tires were flattened on his way home before dawn the morning of the murder. He turned up incoherent, wandering by the lake, not far from where Nooj, the wildlife agent—you meet him?—found Carl later that morning on his regular boat patrol. We found Tommy’s necklace near Carl’s body; has the date of his marriage and ‘Love, Brianne’ on the back of a little silver cross. Tommy says he remembers getting hit with a blowgun dart, but that’s it.”
“The cane blowgun. Another ancient hunting method of the Katogoula,” Nick said.
“You are up on your Indian ways,” Big John said. “Could be he was drugged by that dart. I’ve read about a trick from our Colombian friends. They mix a powder called Burundanga to turn a man into a zombie; slip it to him in a drink or food or even a cigarette, and he wakes up in some emergency room after they’ve used him as cocaine mule or cleaned out his bank account. Main ingredient is from a shrub of the nightshade family, I recall, scopolamine. But up here? Well, I just don’t know.”
The sheriff snicked his tongue in perplexed sadness. “Sure was a nice, quiet parish, till that doggoned recognition came through. Let me ask you something else. Would a big cat enter into the picture? No housecat, or bobcat even, I’m talking real big, cougar size. Reason I’m asking, we found lots of claw marks on the cypress knees around where old Carl was killed.”
Nick explained the Story of the Sacred Cougar, the story of the wandering Katogoula and the divine sign that revealed to them their new homeland in the pine forest.
“I can’t say I
agree with all your ideas,” Big John said, “supernatural or otherwise. But I thank you, sir. You’ve been a big help. Now you remember what I told Tommy. We got a murderer on the loose. You give me a call if you get a bad feeling about something you notice. And stop by my office tomorrow. I won’t take no for an answer. If you don’t, I’ll send a deputy after you. We got some good coffee. New Orleans blend. You’ll feel right at home.”
“An offer it would be wise to accept,” Nick said. “Oh, yeah, I’m supposed to deliver greetings from a mutual friend. Hawty Latimer says hello. She’s an instructor at Freret University, and manages to make herself indispensable to me in her spare time.”
“Hawty Latimer,” Big John said, smiling broadly. “Well, I’ll be. Haven’t seen her since she was this tall”—he marked a spot on a massive thigh just above the knee—“before she had her sickness. She was a fire-cracker, even in diapers. Guess I was right about you after all: you can tell a lot about a man by the company he keeps.”
The unmistakable purr of a Volkswagen engine interrupted the crickets’ responsorial calls. The van that had been parked to the right of Nick’s car lurched out at a steep angle. The front bumper crunched into his passenger door.
“Sorry!” shouted the red-haired woman who had wielded the video camera inside Three Sisters Pantry. Then she drove off, shifting unhurriedly down the highway, the van’s one functioning taillight winking with each pothole.
“Did you see that?!” Nick sputtered in anger. “She hit my car! She . . . who the hell is she?”
He raced over to his MG and looked at the dent. “Damn!” He kicked a rear tire in frustration.
“Name’s Holly Worthstone,” Big John said calmly. “Been filming some kind of video about the Katogoula for months now. I don’t know what she calls herself—amateur sociologist or anthropologist, one of them people-ologists, anyway—but she used to work for the TV station in Armageddon. My parish has to pay for every unfunded mandate Baton Rouge can think of, but they can still find the taxpayer dollars for that! It’s enough to make me want to try for ol’ Representative Girn’s seat in the legisla—”
