“What about it?”
Sean nudged a claw hammer on the linoleum with the tip of his shoe. “Whoever done it went at it like he was driving a tent peg.”
Helen and Bailey came through the hallway. Both of them stared silently at Devereaux’s profile. Neither showed any expression.
“The back door was locked from the outside,” I said. “Sean found the key in the backyard.”
“You saw somebody leave in a black SUV?” Helen said to Sean.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Hauling ass.”
“You didn’t get a number?”
“No, ma’am, the headlights was off.”
“You didn’t go after it or call it in?” she said.
“I didn’t have no reason to at that point.” He lowered his head, his cheeks coloring.
“What’d you think the hat is about?” Helen said.
“He’s the Fool in the tarot,” Bailey said.
“The tarot again?” Helen said.
“Bailey is right,” I said.
“I didn’t say she wasn’t,” Helen replied. “But what the hell does Devereaux have to do with fortune-telling cards?”
“The Fool represents pride, arrogance, and presumption,” I said. “He’s portrayed whistling as he’s about to step off a cliff. He has a staff over his shoulder. Joe Molinari had a walking cane plunged through his chest.”
“I have a hard time buying in to this symbolism crap, Dave,” she said.
“Know a better explanation?” I said.
She stared at nothing. “Do the knots mean anything?”
“Our killer probably had commando training of some kind,” I said. “The knots are to break the larynx and silence the victim.”
“Or maybe he’s just a sadist,” Bailey said. “The Internet is full of information that Jack the Ripper couldn’t have thought up.”
Cormac Watts had been standing in the background. “Can I have a look?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said, and stepped aside.
He leaned down and studied Axel’s face and the garrote and the baton. He straightened his back and looked at us.
“What is it?” I said.
“The garrote is cosmetic,” he said. “It’s there to mislead us.”
“I’m not following you,” I said.
“Look at the discharge on the shank of the baton,” he said. “Devereaux was alive when it went down his throat. He looked straight into the eyes of the guy who did this to him. There’s a tear sealed in one eye. The killer isn’t just a ritualist. He enjoyed this one.”
A fly was buzzing on the ceiling. Helen turned to Sean. “You saw a woman run outside?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“White or black, fat or thin, what?” she said.
“I couldn’t make her out, Miss Helen.”
“That’s great,” she said.
“Pardon?” he said.
“We look like the dumbest fucks on the planet,” she said. “We can’t even protect our own.”
Sean’s face seemed to shrink and the blood to go out of his cheeks.
“Devereaux wasn’t one of our own,” I said.
I felt her eyes on the side of my face. I walked out to the front yard. The medics were wheeling in the gurney, a body bag folded on top. Helen followed me. “Don’t ever correct me in front of others again, Pops.”
“You were too hard on Sean,” I said.
Her head seemed to wobble like a balloon on a string, her eyes blazing. “He blew it. He has to man up and take his medicine.”
“You’re putting this in his jacket?”
“He should have called it in. We could have had this lunatic in custody.”
“We should have flushed Devereaux from the department years ago. The onus is on us.”
“I can’t help what happened ‘years ago.’ The guy who killed Devereaux is going to kill again, and we could have had him, but now we have nothing. Excuse me if I’m not as charitable as you. You not only piss me off, Dave, you disappoint me.”
“Sean went back after he passed the house,” I said. “Had he gone in earlier, thinking Devereaux was involved in a domestic argument, he’d probably be dead, too.”
Her face was pinched, her fists balled on her hips. “All right.”
“All right, what?” I said.
“I’ll talk with Sean. No paperwork.”
The forensic team was dusting the house, the medics bagging up Devereaux, the fog breaking up on the bayou. It was a new day for everyone except Devereaux. I almost felt sorry for him. But I suspected his own victims were many and that most of them would never tell others of the degradation he had put them through. Anyway, have a good trip to the other side, I thought, and walked to my truck.
“Where you going?” Helen said.
“To work,” I replied.
• • •
I WASN’T SURPRISED BY Hugo Tillinger’s phone call to my office later that day. There is a subculture in this country that seems to have no antecedent—a conflation of reality television, National Enquirer journalism, fundamentalist religion, militarism, and professional football. At the center is an adoration of celebrity, no matter how it is acquired or in what form it comes. Women line up to marry Richard Ramirez and the Menendez brothers; the Jerry Springer clientele will degrade themselves and their families and destroy any modicum of dignity in their lives for ten minutes in front of the camera. Tillinger had probably stumbled into his role as the innocent man on death row, then decided after a few headlines that a frolic in the limelight might be worth the grief. Check out the story of Caryl Chessman.
“What do you want this time?” I asked him.
“Y’all gonna try to put the Devereaux job on me?”
“You’d be a logical candidate.”
“On what grounds?”
“You already burglarized his house?”
“I did that for Miss Lucinda.”
“Maybe you shoved a baton down his throat for the same reason.”
“That’s how he went out?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Did you mutilate Travis Lebeau before he was dragged?”
“Where in the hell did you get that?”
“You used a quote from the book of Psalms about Jehovah breaking the teeth of His enemies.”
“That doesn’t mean I go around mutilating people.”
“You’re a nuisance, Mr. Tillinger. I wish you would go away.”
“The AB probably killed Travis. But I think the order came from Devereaux.”
“Devereaux was hooked up with the AB?”
“They kept his whores in line. How come you don’t know this?”
“I’m not that smart,” I said. I looked at the second hand on my watch. Eight seconds passed before he spoke again.
“I don’t want to go back to Texas, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“That’s not an unreasonable attitude.”
“Every night I dream about being injected.”
“I don’t have the power to influence your situation, sir.”
“You could get me to the right people. Actors, celebrities, hereabouts. People are making films all over the state these days.”
“A bartender in Lafayette told me you already knew those kinds of people.”
“Miss Lucinda knew them,” he said.
My attention was starting to fade.
“She was working on her genealogy,” he said. “She was an orphan. Her foster daddy is a preacher.”
“So?”
“She thought maybe she was related to a famous guy in Hollywood. She didn’t say who.”
“When you find out, tell me, will you?” I said. “I’m done here.”
“You’re a hard-nosed bastard.”
“Just self-destructive. You stole firearms out of Devereaux’s house. What do you plan to do with them?”
“Cancel the ticket of anyone who tries to take me back to Texas.”
Spoken like a real idiot, I thought. “D
on’t call here again unless you have some useful information.”
I hung up. This time he didn’t call back. Helen opened my door. “The prints from the Devereaux crime scene are no help. The door key was clean. The killer was probably wearing gloves when he went inside. Anything on your end?”
“Tillinger called. He was on a cell phone. He’s not our guy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s a five-star peckerwood. What you see is what you get.”
“You don’t believe he burned his family to death?”
“If I’d been on the jury, I’d have reasonable doubt.”
“So we’ve got nothing.”
“There’s Antoine Butterworth,” I said.
“Why Butterworth?”
“His soul probably resembles the La Brea Tar Pits.”
“What are you going to bring him in on?”
“He’s a long way from his usual resources,” I replied. “Let’s see how he likes being one of the little people.”
Chapter Thirteen
I CALLED MY FRIEND the captain of the West Hollywood Station of the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department and asked more specifically about Butterworth’s record. Butterworth’s reputation for deviancy was ubiquitous. But legend and legal reality don’t always coincide. Prostitutes told outrageous stories about him. One claimed he hung her from a hook and beat her bloody, but she had been in Camarillo twice and hadn’t filed charges. As gross as his behavior was, most of it seemed thespian, more adolescent and obscene than criminal.
“He’s never had to register as a sex offender?” I asked.
“Twelve years ago he got nailed on a statutory,” my friend said. “She was sixteen, although she looked twenty-five. The DA was going to put him away, but the girl got a big role in a South American film and left town.”
“Butterworth got her the role?”
“That’s how it usually works.”
“What’s the status on the charge now?”
“It doesn’t have one. The case died in the file drawer.”
“That’s all I need,” I said. “Thanks for the help.”
“I don’t see how I helped.”
“This is Louisiana, Cap. The language in our sex offender registry laws would give you an aneurism.”
By noon the next day I had a warrant for Butterworth’s arrest and a warrant to search Desmond’s house. I dialed Desmond’s unlisted number, hoping he would be there. Unfortunately, Butterworth answered.
“Is Desmond there?” I said. “This is Dave Robicheaux.”
“Oh, my favorite detective,” he replied.
“I need to speak to him, please.”
“He’s taking a break today and sailing. The light is all wrong for the scene we’re shooting, anyway. Could I be of assistance?”
“I have to take some photos from your deck. I’m putting together a report on the discovery of the Arceneaux body.”
“This isn’t about the telescope again, is it?”
“No, it has to do with tidal drift. Will you be there for the next hour?”
“I’ll make a point of it,” he said. “Ta-ta, cute boy.”
Bailey and I checked out a cruiser and headed for Cypremort Point, with me driving and Sean McClain following in a second vehicle. There was a heavy chop on the bay, the moss straightening in the trees and boats rocking in their slips like beer cans in a wave.
“I’m not sure what we’re doing, Dave,” Bailey said.
“We’re on shaky ground, but Butterworth doesn’t know it.”
She looked straight ahead, thoughtful. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“You ever hear of a rich man going to the chair or gas chamber or the injection room?” I said.
“I guess that doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t happen at all.”
I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. “We cut the bad guys off at the knees, Bailey.”
“What we do is punish the people who are available,” she said.
I looked at her profile. She was one of those people whose composure and self-assurance gave no hint of arrogance or elitism. But I couldn’t forget that Ambrose Bierce, a war veteran, once defined a pacifist as a dead Quaker, and that Bailey was young for the job and I was old for it, and old for her, and on top of it I wondered if she didn’t belong in the public defender’s office.
“You’re a good fellow, Dave.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m a good judge of people.”
All my thought processes went down the drain.
As we neared the tip of the peninsula, I saw a solitary figure on the deck of Desmond’s house, the wind flattening his slacks and Hawaiian shirt against his body. He was playing his saxophone, obviously indifferent to the sounds of the surf and the wind and seagulls, the gold bell of the sax as bright as a heliograph in the sunlight.
“Why does that guy remind me of an upended lizard?” I said.
“Because he looks like one,” she replied.
• • •
I RANG THE CHIMES. When Butterworth answered, I stepped inside without being asked and held up both warrants. Bailey and Sean followed me. “You’re under arrest for failing to register as a sex offender, Mr. Butterworth,” I said. “Please turn around and place your hands behind you.”
Without pause I cuffed him and began reading him his rights.
“I’m not a sex offender,” he said. “Where do you come off with that?”
“I’m going to walk you to the couch and sit you down,” I said. “Which bedroom is yours?”
“At the end of the hall. Why are you interested in my bedroom?”
“Our search warrant is limited to part of the house,” I said.
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not a sex offender. I have never been charged with a sexual offense.”
I eased him down on the leather couch. He was barefoot. The tops of his feet were laced with green veins.
“Under Louisiana law, a sex offender in another state has to register here as soon as he takes up residence, even though the charge in the other state has fallen into limbo,” I said. “The statutory beef you skated on in California would be considered a ‘deferred’ charge in Louisiana. Deferred offenders have to register. You pissed on your shoes, Mr. Butterworth.”
“I want to call my attorney,” he said.
“You can call from lockup,” I said.
“Mr. Butterworth?” Bailey said.
He looked up. His forehead and pate were tan and greasy, the pupils of his eyes like black marbles.
“Are you high?” she said.
“Me?” he replied. “Who cares? I have prescriptions for mood modifiers.”
“You’re an intelligent man,” she said. “You know we’re not here about that statutory business of twelve years ago.”
“Then why say you are?” he asked.
“Our problem is the young woman on the cross, and an indigent man hanged like a piece of rotted meat in a shrimp net, and a deputy sheriff who had his esophagus and larynx and lungs slowly punctured and ripped apart with a baton,” she said. “Your history indicates that you have sadistic inclinations. If you were in our position, whom would you be talking to now?”
“Nice try, love,” he said.
“Don’t speak to me in that fashion,” she said. “Where were you in the early a.m. on Monday?”
“Asleep. In my bedroom. Desmond will confirm that. Was that when the deputy consummated his appointment in Samarra?”
“Stay with him,” I said to Bailey.
I stepped out on the deck and called Desmond’s cell phone. The wind was hot and full of spray and the smell of salt and seaweed. Desmond picked up on the first ring.
“This is Dave,” I said. “We’re serving two warrants at your house. One on Butterworth’s living area and one on Butterworth.”
“You’re kidding,” Desmond said.
“He says he was asleep in his
bedroom in the early morning yesterday. Is he lying?” There was no answer. I put the phone to my other ear. “Did you hear me?”
“He went to bed early Sunday night. His door was closed when I got up in the morning.”
“Did you see him?”
“I had to meet some guys with the rain tower in Lafayette. I left at about six-thirty.”
“So you don’t know if he was in the bedroom or not?”
“Not for certain.”
But there was something he was not telling me.
“Where was his Subaru when you left?”
“I didn’t see it. That doesn’t mean anything, though.”
“Does he drive a black SUV sometimes?”
“He has access to them. We rent a number of them. Look, maybe he was out. He’s got a girlfriend or two. Locals. Sometimes they drop him off and he lets them tool around in his convertible. He lives a bachelor’s life.”
“He’s hunting on the game farm?” I said.
“No. This is harassment, Dave. You’ve got the wrong guy. You may not like to hear this, but Antoine is not the evil bastard he pretends he is.”
“He fooled me.”
“He majored in sackcloth and ashes.”
“Sell it to someone else, Des.”
“This is why I don’t live here anymore. You taint every beautiful thing in your lives and put it on outsiders. Y’all would strip-mine Eden if the price was right.”
“Then why make your films here?” I said, my heart thudding.
“Louisiana is anybody’s blow job,” he replied. “You can buy it for chump change.”
I closed the phone and looked across Weeks Bay to where I had first seen the body of Lucinda Arceneaux floating with her arms spread on the cross, her hair undulating like serpents around her throat. Then I went back inside, the wind whistling in my ears.
“You’re out of luck, partner,” I said to Butterworth. “Desmond doesn’t back you up. Your bedroom door was closed when he left yesterday morning, but your car was gone.”
“Because I gave it to a lady friend to use,” he said.
“Des mentioned that as a possibility,” I said. “Who is she?”
“A lady who works in a blues joint.”
“A singer?” I said.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Bella Delahoussaye.”
The New Iberia Blues Page 12