Death of the Innocent

by Karl Tutt

  I took a gulp of air and the word’s tumbled out of my mouth.

  “I guess you know the police picked up Chris Foster. They found some things on his boat that seem incriminating.”

  Billy nodded. Monique looked toward the window. She had yet to meet my eyes.

  “I spoke to Detective Beamon and then to Chris after they released him. He wants me to assure you that he had nothing to do with it. He was crazy about Alexis just like the rest of us. No one wants the killer found any more than him. He hopes you realize that.”

  Billy spoke first.

  “What does Beamon say?”

  I started to answer, but Monique interrupted quietly.

  “Is no difference, Billy. You tell Chris, Dr. Fleming. We know he don’t hurt Alexis. The police will find no more than evidence of circumstances. They can leave him alone. The one who bears the curse will be punished. Evil knows no escape. It happens as we speak. You tell Chris don’t worry. We hold nothing to him.”

  She withered as every word burned into her flesh.

  “What you think, Mister T.K.?” Billy asked.

  “Monique is right. It is not Chris, but I don’t know who did this thing. If the killer is human, he is in his own private hell. It will prod and suck at him until he makes a mistake. The police will be watching and waiting. When the time is right, they’ll pounce.”

  “Is not enough,” he said. “My baby cries. I hear her voice in the dark wind. I see her in the blue water. You see her, too. You tell me with your eyes. They no lie. Ghostcatcher must do what he does. Bring killer to me. Blood will have blood.”

  “Yes, I have seen her, but they’re only dreams. It’s the pain, the loss, that’s haunting us all. It won’t go away for a long time. But you mustn’t think about violence, revenge. The killer will get what’s coming to him.”

  Monique began to tremble. Billy tried to put his arm around her shoulders and pull her to him, but she grabbed his wrist and forced him away. Her face was slate gray, the muscles taut with fear and rage. She spit the words through clenched teeth.

  “Can’t you see? It’s done. The loa goes and the evil with it. She meets Baron Samedi and the voodoo. Nothing brings her back. Blood runs into the dust. All we can do is beg God that her spirit is free.”

  The breath rushed from her lips. She rose quickly from the sofa and left the room. I could hear the sobbing from deep in the house. I got up slowly and headed for the door. Billy followed me out into the yard.

  “I sorry, Mister T.K. She mean no harm. The grief make her crazy. Healing will be long time for both of us.”

  He focused his sad, brown eyes on mine and fixed an iron grip on my forearm.

  “Please. You don’t stop. I told you my baby come to you. She did. This not for police. It’s voodoo, evil as the darkness and old as the night. Great power. No one believe me. I understand this. You the only one who can help. You got to do it.”

  My brain screamed. Just tell him what he wants to hear. I wanted to reach into his chest and snatch the black hole from his heart. But I couldn’t.

  Maybe he was right. Alexis was “the kid”. She belonged to all of us. I had to do whatever I could do. Or at least, I had to try.

  On the way home, I decided to try to see Marcuse Durant. There was nothing to lose. I heard the music and laughter as I neared Schooner’s. It echoed and clawed at me. I hesitated for a moment at the entrance. Then I turned away. I walked alone for a long time, the pieces of the puzzle shifting through the shadows of my mind.

  Chapter 20

  Key West is a place where nothing much shocks you. The tone was set over a hundred years ago by the pirates, rum runners, and rascals of all descriptions. In the darkness the wreckers built fires on the beach to confuse unsuspecting mariners and lure them onto the reefs. The ships laden with rich cargo were wrecked. Then the brigands took their long boats into the surf and looted their helpless prey, leaving a trail of treachery and bloodshed. Their ancestors still make up much of the local population. The legacy has not been lost.

  In Key West anything goes. The rogue who operates just outside the law is as much revered as the banker or the congressman. An old Woody Guthrie song popular with the folkies says, “Some rob you with a six-gun, some with a fountain pen”. A lot of the boys in Key West have taken that as the gospel.

  The would-be writers, artists, dropouts and high rollers would like to disavow any kinship with their harried mainland brethren. This is the fabled Conch Republic which grudgingly recognizes the rest of the country as distant relations poor in spirit. “Manana” is the by-word and people live and die in Jimmy Buffett’s “three-quarter time”.

  Despite it all, I wasn’t quite ready for Marcuse Durant.

  I had no trouble finding the old conch house. Its unpainted cypress boards were weathered a deep gray, but it still looked like it could handle any cauldron of storms nature might brew. I stepped onto the creaky porch and knocked on the red door. A Latin radio station was blaring inside.

  The door swung open. A swarthy needle-thin man stood before me. His cadaverous face was etched in deep furrows. He wore a faded t-shirt and khakis stained with dried blood. His feet were brown and bare. His arms were thin and hairless, but the sinew bulged and strained at his dry skin. In his right hand was a bone-handled butcher knife, the keen edge of its blade gleaming even in the shadows. I stared at the knife for a moment. It seemed a natural extension of his bony fingers. He looked at me with no trace of guilt, but when he realized I felt threatened, he put it behind his back.

  “I am T.K. Fleming. I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I would like to see Reverend Durant if it is not inconvenient.”

  “You wait,” he rasped. Then he abruptly closed the door and disappeared into the back of the house. He returned quickly, the knife still in his hand.

  “The Reverend will see you. Follow me.” He led me off the porch and around to a whitewashed gate that opened into a small courtyard fully enclosed by a 6 foot wooden fence. There were blooming pink Hibiscus and a bank of Oleander along the left side. A simple birdbath sat in the center of a small fish pond full of bright, active Koi.

  Durant was sprawled over a white plastic chaise longue. A bundle of letters lay in his lap. A glass of green liquid sat on a folding table at his right hand. He wore the same white shirt I had seen him in at the funeral. As I got closer, he squinted at me through a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals. His face was a dusky mask of wrinkles, the hair close cropped and white as the sand on the beach. I could tell he was a large man, but when he rose he towered over me like Goliath over the boy David.

  “Thank you, Joseph.” I thought he was being dismissed, but he stood at attention like a centurion guarding the emperor.

  The Reverend smiled and offered a hand like a huge meat hook. His fingers swallowed mine. His grip was fierce and dry.

  “Dr. Fleming, what a pleasure. I knew you were coming.”

  He noticed my unease and said, “Don’t mind the knife. Joseph handles sharp implements with remarkable skill. It’s all right, Joseph.” He waved and the man disappeared like a wraith whose duty was done.

  “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment, Reverend Durant.”

  “Of course. But it was not necessary. A man in my position must often entertain the devotees. Besides, an unannounced guest often brings sun to what might have been a cloudy day. Please sit. Some lemonade, perhaps. Its preparation is one of Joseph’s unheralded talents.”

  I declined with a turn of my head.

  “Well then, Doctor. The pleasantries are done. As your people say, shall we cut to the chase? I understand you have developed a recent fascination with voodoo.”

  “Yes,” I said, not surprised that he knew, “I am trying to learn everything that I can. I know that you are familiar with the details of the murder of the child, Alexis Lavalier. You certainly have the reputation of any expert in these dubious arts.”

  “An interesting choice of words, my good Doctor, but I fea
r you assign me credit where it is not due.” His face unfolded in a smile of mass amusement.

  “They say you are a Tonton Macoute.”

  His laughter exploded like a land mine and reverberated through the small stockade.

  “Well, Doctor, I’m not sure who “they” are, but they certainly flatter me. You see before you a humble “hougan,” a voodoo priest. I assure you I can neither fly nor change my shape. I control no evil spirits nor do I conference with Baron Samedi. I merely try to minister to the needs of those few followers here in the Keys. Some of the locals would assign me those magic powers that I could exercise only in my dreams. Magic, indeed. No, Doctor Fleming. I hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then beamed at me, “You want magic? LeBron had 28 in the first half against the Knicks last night. This is a man that can fly.”

  His smile grew larger as he folded his hands in front of his huge chest. I waited.

  “The death of the child?” I said quietly.

  “Of course. A very sad affair. The child was dear to me and to many others. You among them, so I am informed. Despite her mother’s unfortunate infatuation with Catholicism, Monique is one of my people. But I am certain you know that. I assure you, Doctor Fleming, I listen very carefully. Little that occurs among my congregation escapes me. None of my followers know anything of the murder.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I understand your wife . . .”

  His dark hand snaked out at me, commanding silence. He removed his glasses and glowered. He leaned toward me until his face almost touched mine. His eyes were hot and black like steaming tar. Something powerful and frightening burned within them. I could feel his fiery breath on my cheek as he spoke. Suddenly I realize that Joseph lurked behind me.

  “My wife is dying as we speak, Doctor Fleming. That is well known, but rest assured that it is no concern of yours, nor will it become so.”

  It was spoken as a threat. Joseph and the knife seemed barely contained as his master glared.

  “Of course, Reverend. I am sorry, but I am wondering . . . “

  “Yes, Doctor Fleming, you are wondering, aren’t you?”

  He fell back in his chair, but the specter of his presence was no smaller.

  “You must excuse me, Doctor, if I am direct. You are most recently a resident of academia, a man of research. It tells you that the faithful believe my wife may be invested with an evil spirit, a demon of some sort. Perhaps she has been cursed by a witch. Voodoo has methods to deal with this phenomenon, spells, incantations. You believe one of them may involve the sacrifice of a child. You think that Alexis may have been offered to exorcise this devil from my wife. Something like that, eh, Doctor Fleming?”

  I didn’t speak. He went on.

  “Please understand, Doctor. For the devout, Voodoo is a religion, not some bloody cult of demon worshippers. No, it’s not the religion you know, not the bland Sunday morning variety your Christian nation clings to so fervently. We don’t ask our followers to take communion, then be “generous with their gifts” so that we may build a new sanctuary. All for the glory of God, of course. But Voodoo does provide strength and solace to those who practice our ancient rituals. Oh, we may dispose of a miserable chicken now and then. But I assure you we do not murder the innocent.”

  His eyes hooked into me and held me for several seconds. Then he balanced his glasses on his nose and began to shuffle his papers.

  “Please don’t think me rude, Doctor, but I am quite busy. You are welcome to return when your mind is more open. If you want magic, read of Merlin or watch LeBron this weekend. I can promise you that either provides a spectacle that you will find quite satisfying.”

  I had been dismissed. I thanked him and turned to go. Joseph’s eerie presence moved me toward the gate. Durant was much more than I expected. During our short interview, I had been welcomed, amused, manipulated, and even intimidated. At the same time I felt a vague sense of shame.

  Chapter 21

  I decided to check the post office on the way back to the boat. There was a Publix circular, an invitation to apply for a VISA Goldcard, and a letter-sized envelope. No return address. Just a barely recognizable scrawl with my name and box number. I tucked it in my back pocket, determined to open it on the boat.

  I stopped at the Raw Bar on the way home for an Irish coffee and a little information. Louis Moulet was the daytime bartender. He is a graduate of LSU and speaks the perfect English that you’d expect from a communications major. Still he affects that accent that the tourists expect from anyone on the island with dark skin. He told me once about an experiment he’d conducted. For one entire day at the bar he had used nothing but the exquisite diction that came so naturally to him. His tips were down 36%.

  “Hey, T.K. Why you tink dat Susan Lucci didn’t never win no Emmy?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t know, Louis.”

  “Maybe still, if she be patient.” He grinned and put down a frothy cup in front of me.

  “Louis, tell me what you know about Marcuse Durant.”

  The grin disappeared. He shook his head and looked around to see who was in listening range. Then he leaned over the bar and lowered his voice.

  “Hey, ‘Mon. Dat’s powerful medicine. Probably more of dose voodoo types in Key West than you know. Dey go to him for all sorts of tings. I meet him once. Very much the gentleman, but don’t let dat fool you. He see tings. Big mistake to mess with the Reverend. I hear some stories ‘bout people who cross him. De ones dat still around? Dey very, very sorry. Believe me, ‘Mon, you don’t need to know nothing else.”

  I asked him about Joseph.

  “Some tink he a zombie. Back from the dead. Do anything dat the Reverend say. His people all devoted to him, either dat or scared shitless. Dey don’t ask no questions. He say. Dey do.”

  I wanted more, but he picked up a towel and began to polish glasses. Louis was an easy 6’4”, 220 or so. When the occasion called for it, I’d known him to wade into the thick of a brawl and deposit some Florida roughneck on his butt in the parking lot. When he spoke of Durant, his words carried something else. Respect. And a healthy dose of fear.

  Before I could get anything else, a half-dozen sunburned tourists came in off a charter. They were caked with salt and loaded with tales about the monster dolphin that had snapped the line. I waited for a moment, but they planted themselves at the bar and got noisy. Louis was grinning and hustling drinks while the fish got bigger and bigger. I put a ten on the bar and headed for the dock.

  There was a note on the boat announcing a meeting of Buffett’s Roundtable at the Parrot later that evening. Things had been too quiet since the death of Alexis. I missed the camaraderie and the laughter. I decided to be there for a little attitude adjustment.

  It was an enthusiastic crowd. Everyone was ready to cut loose. Harry was already lit when he arrived and insisted on buying drinks for everyone at the table. Chris and Sal were in the corner sizing up prospects for an evening boat tour. Fritz had come out of his computer cave for a parade of Diet Cokes and Marlboros. Whipsaw and Miss Julianne sat the end of the table in their customary finery whispering mysteries to each other. Cy Watts was his usual scowling self, but no one paid any attention. Sunny kept the mugs brimming with foamy liquids.

  Chris got up to speak to a young redhead at the bar. I went over and sat down with Sal.

  “How are Billy and Monique holding up?” I asked.

  “It’s hard to say, T.K. How do you handle something like the death of the kid? Billy’s kind of okay, I guess. But Monique, there’s not enough downers in the world to shut up the voices in her head. It’s like she’s somehow responsible. Billy doesn’t say much, but I know he’s worried. Maybe time will take care of it. Who the hell knows? You gonna help?”

  “Come on, Sal. What can I do?”

  “I don’t know, but Billy thinks you can. Thinks you got some kind of insight or power. Called you the Ghostcatcher. Where the hell did
he get that?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t time for me to talk. I had decided to keep my visit with Durant to myself, knowing that nothing stays quiet for very long in Key West.

  I felt a clap on my back. It was Chris.

  “No midnight boat tours?” I said.

  “I never have any luck with the redheads.”

  Things broke up around ten. I asked Sunny to come to KAMALA when she got off, but she said she was tired and she looked it. I headed back.

  I was emptying my pockets when I found the letter. I sat at the navigation table and pried open the envelope. I unfolded a faint copy of a snapshot. “This is what the cops got,” was scratched in pencil on the bottom.

  The image was rough, the lines blurred in shades of gray and white. But there was no question about the subject.

  It was Alexis. She was sitting beside a bed. Her legs were crossed Indian-style and a faint patch of dark hair showed in her pelvic region. Her breasts were small mounds, the nipples just beginning to blossom. She was grinning, the tip of her tongue licking something from her upper lip.

  She had her small hands around the erection of a man who sat on the bed next to her. His fingers gripped the curls on the back of her head as if he was going to put his penis in her mouth. His upper body was lost out of the top of the frame.

  At first I couldn’t move. Then I got sick.

  Chapter 22

  I didn’t want to be alone. It was paranoia. There are moments of darkness in all of our lives when you think there’s nothing left to trust. The icy waters pitch and rise, threatening to drown you, longing to choke off your last breath. You struggle and search, desperate to grasp anything that will hold you up, a quick source of strength. Just one thing to steel you so you can snatch a few more seconds of survival. For me, that was Sunny.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table in her apartment when she came in from the Parrot.

  “I know you’re tired. I’m sorry,” I said.

  She looked at me and tilted her head to one side. Then she came over and kissed me on the forehead.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll take odds you need something strong. Bourbon or black coffee?”

  “Maybe a little of both.”

  She pulled a glass and a bottle of Evan Williams Black from the cabinet and placed them side by side in front of me. I poured enough to paint the bottom of the glass brown. She measured four scoops of coffee from the canister while I told her about the letter. I put the photocopy on the table. She sat down while the coffee maker popped and spat. There was something comforting about the rich aroma, but the pain didn’t go. It pounded its omnipotence into my brain.