by A. C. Mason
A red-haired waitress arrived at their booth carrying a glass coffee server and a cup. Her name tag read Pamela. “Coffee?” she asked Jim.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m ready for some caffeine.”
She laughed. Steam rose from the coffee as she filled his cup. Turning to Phil, she said, “I know you want a refill.”
He pushed his cup closer to her. She promptly refilled it with the dark brew.
“I know he’s NOPD,” Pamela gave Phil a big smile. “But what department do you work for?” She squinted at the insignia on Jim’s navy blue polo shirt. “Cypress Lake? Where’s that?”
“Allemand Parish.”
The waitress shot him a teasing and flirtatious look. “Ah, out in the country.”
Jim laughed. “Hey, Allemand Parish is not so country. It’s growing almost as fast as St. Tammany.”
“Then y’all are in for a whole lot a trouble. I live in Slidell.”
Unfortunately Jim had to agree. “I’m afraid we’re already there.”
Pamela looked sympathetic. “That’s a shame. You can’t go anyplace nowadays without crime.
“You fellows want anything else? How about some ham and eggs?” She glanced from one man to the other.
“No thanks, I’m fine.” Jim blew on the hot coffee before taking a sip.
Phil moved his hand over the cup. “I’m good.” He turned to Jim after the waitress left. “I have bad news about the file.”
“Let me guess. That file was part of the records destroyed during Katrina by the flooding.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“That’s disappointing.”
The conversation turned to talk about old times in NOPD. Phil gave a brief summary of the latest department politics and scuttlebutt.
“Nothing’s changed, I gather,” Jim said.
“Did you think it would?”
“Not really. But there was always the chance the department would get itself together.”
“Yeah, I’m going to miss being on the job, but since Katrina, crime has escalated so much. The wife really pushed for me to go ahead and retire.”
“Even with the sudden crime wave in Cypress Lake, I’m glad I left.” Jim motioned with his head toward the exit. “You ready to get out of here?”
“I’m ready.”
They left money on the table for the coffee and a tip for the waitress and headed outside to the parking lot.
“You want to follow me over to the nursing home?”
Jim agreed and went to his vehicle. The disappointment about the file and frustration at not being able to solve either murder weighed heavily on him. He hoped Mac Watts would be able to give him more insight into the case—something personal maybe.
The nursing home was only a few blocks away. In minutes he drove into the parking lot behind Phil and parked his car. He wasn’t certain what to expect. His only experience with visiting a nursing home had been when his mother made him go with her to visit his great-aunt Mildred. He had just turned nine at the time and he didn’t like seeing all those old people. In fact some of their actions scared the devil out of him.
The dark interior of the nursing home and a somber-looking receptionist did nothing to diminish his concerns. Nevertheless he smiled at the woman.
“We’re looking for Mac Watts. What room is he in?” He couldn’t decipher the odd look on her face until she spoke.
“I’m sorry. Mr. Watts suffered a stroke yesterday and he passed away last night.”
~ * ~
Pharmacist George King started not to come into work that day—his doctor advised him to get some rest for a few more days. He wasn’t getting any younger, Dr. Plauche had informed him. As if he didn’t know that himself. Well, he’d taken enough days off, but today at nine o’clock in the morning he wished he would have stayed home at least one more day. He really felt his age.
He absolutely had to return to the store. There was no one to replace him behind the drug counter, so he forced himself to come into work.
Last Sunday had been the worst day of his life except for when his wife passed away. With the parade crowd running wild inside the store and short one cashier, he didn’t know what merchandise was paid for and what had been shoplifted.
However, the horde of people rummaging through his store didn’t compare to his discovery of the man’s body behind the dumpster. He would never get the image out of his mind.
George automatically looked up when he heard the bell on the door jangle. Even though his employees were there to take care of any customers who came in, he liked to personally greet anyone who walked through the door. That is except when he had a large rambunctious crowd like the mob Sunday night.
From his position in the pharmacy, he watched a young man walk past the front register and stop in front of the liquor display. Strangely, he kept one hand in the pocket of his jacket. Did he have a gun? This could be a robbery waiting to happen. George placed his hand on the telephone in case he had to call 911.
Using his free hand, the man chose a pint of either vodka or gin—George couldn’t tell which from this distance. He placed the bottle on the counter at the register and spoke to the cashier, Linda Ruiz. He pointed to the cigarettes located on the shelves behind her.
George gave a silent approval as he noted the man present his identification to Linda. Everyone who worked in this store followed the notice on the sign sitting on the counter. “We card everyone who looks 40 and under.”
With his purchase complete, the man left the store, his hand still stuffed in his pocket.
Heaving a sigh of relief, George removed his hand from the phone. Finding that dead body the other night had made him jumpy. Pretty soon he would be suspecting everyone in town of some imagined crime.
The young fellow looked so familiar, but George couldn’t place him. He appeared to be about thirty-five or so, which to him was a youngster. He stepped out from the pharmacy and strolled over to the cashier.
“Linda, do you remember the name on his driver’s license?”
“Sure do. Jason Bordelon. If I remember right, his address was a post office box in Oklahoma.” She looked at him with curiosity. “Do you know him?”
“No, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him.” George shook his head. “If he’s from out of state, I suppose I don’t know him.”
“He was weird.”
“In what way?”
“His hair color looked like it came out of a bottle of cheap dye.” She tucked a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. “I thought he looked about thirty-five, but according to his license he was ten years younger.”
“What was his date of birth?” George asked.
“I don’t remember the month, but the year was nineteen-eighty-eight, which would make him about twenty-five, right?”
George agreed.
“Wonder what was wrong with his hand,” Linda said.
“I wondered the same myself.”
She gave a nervous chuckle “For a moment there, I thought he might have a gun in his pocket.”
“Yes indeed. I had my hand on the phone ready to call the law.”
George walked back to the pharmacy still thinking about Jason Bordelon—the name didn’t ring a bell. There had been a Bordelon family that lived in Foretville years ago. Maybe he was related to them and in town visiting for Carnival.
Something about that young fellow bothered George. He just couldn’t put his finger on the reason. Jason Bordelon reminded him of someone he’d met before. It annoyed him that he couldn’t think of the person he favored.
~ * ~
I rummaged through the closet in the guest bedroom and finally found the yearbook for my freshman year of high school. Hopefully those Whitehall girls would all be in this volume. The other three years’ worth of books seemed to be lost in the wilds of the junk closet.
Flipping the pages to the end of the senior class photos, I spotted the oldest sister, Sara, and noted the activities she participated in duri
ng her years at Saint Theresa High School. Honor Society, the Math Club. Smart girl. I made good grades in school, especially in English and Social Studies, but never made the Honor Society. Math was always my worst subject.
The second sister, Janice, appeared in the sophomore class and finally in my class I found Megan. I jotted down their names on the always-handy notepad and then returned to the den where I had set up my laptop.
Now came the hard part. Most likely all three were married, but I kept my fingers crossed for luck in locating at least one of them using their maiden name.
I Googled the name Sara Whitehall and came up empty. Janice was a no-show also. The third time turned out to be the charm. Jim was right about which one of the three would be easiest to locate. As usual I didn’t listen to his advice. That would’ve been too easy.
Megan Whitehall was a defense attorney employed by Lissten, Boyd, Guerin and Meyer, a large and very prestigious law firm in New Orleans. They usually handled high profile cases. Jim should be able to get some good information about her father’s murder on the personal level if he got in touch with her.
How strange she became a defense attorney. If our situations were reversed, I would certainly have joined the District Attorney’s Office to prosecute people like the guy who killed my father. Thankfully I’m not her. My father is still very much alive. Even though I was not on good terms with my mother, I would always remain close to Dad.
Curious about the murder of Megan’s father, I went to the Picayune’s website and delved into the archives. After searching for what seemed like an eternity, I came across an article about the murder. A picture of Malcolm Whitehall accompanied the piece.
The scene as described in the article eerily resembled the two Allemand Parish murders. Even though a man had been convicted of the New Orleans murder, there had to be some kind of connection among the three killings.
Surprisingly, Jerome Macaluso, the defense attorney for Francino, happened to be another high profile lawyer who didn’t come cheap. How could a common criminal like Johnny Francino afford him? Maybe Macaluso worked pro bono. Or the state paid the fee. Could Francino be the connection to the other two victims?
The thought of the man convicted of killing Malcolm Whitehall made me question whether Gibb Romaine and Johnny Francino knew each other from prison. Too bad there was no chance of getting that information. I couldn’t very well slide up to his house in a boat and knock on his door. But I might just happen to take our small boat for a pleasant ride down the bayou.
No, I can’t do any such thing. The only reason I have for putting my life in danger this time would be curiosity. The old saying “curiosity killed the cat” might well apply to me.
Sixteen
Jim ended his phone call with the warden at Angola and sat pondering the conversation. The information didn’t help much in his quest to determine a connection between the Allemand Parish homicides and the 1989 New Orleans murder of Malcolm Whitehall, or any link between Romaine and Francino. Lifers have been known to hire convicts who are being released to commit a crime for them. But the Angola warden basically shot his theory down.
Since Gibb Romaine and Johnny Francino were housed in different units, it didn’t seem likely they knew each other, nor did the possibility of a previous connection before Gibb’s imprisonment. Yet all the evidence pointed to Romaine as the killer and perhaps even Patia as an accessory.
He noted the time on the wall clock and left his office for the squad room to chair the task force meeting originally scheduled for this morning.
Standing at the head of the table, he gazed at the members of the Gris-Gris Task Force, as they jokingly referred to their group. He wanted to start the meeting off on a light note, even though his earlier disappointment and the inability to solve these homicides weighed heavily on him.
“Before I tell y’all why I requested a later meeting today, I’d like to advise you gentlemen about the two ladies in our midst.” He grinned and pointed to the women seated at the rear of the room. “ADA Theriot and Lieutenant Sherry Gordon from LSP are joining us today, so let’s watch the language.”
A rumble of chuckles echoed around the room.
“I’ve heard every four letter word there is and maybe a few you probably haven’t even heard before,” Kayla said. “Carry on, Jim.” Sherry Gordon echoed her sentiments.
Kayla Theriot certainly dressed the part of a successful prosecuting attorney in her black skirt, blazer and white blouse. Her excellent work as an assistant DA put her first in line to be voted into office as District Attorney in the November election when the present DA retired. Word was she planned to run.
“A couple of days ago, I received information concerning an old New Orleans murder case that happened back in nineteen eighty-nine and this morning I hoped to get more insight into that homicide and possibly connect it to ours.
“The murder shared a number of similarities with our two cases. Unfortunately the file was destroyed in the flooding during Katrina and the lead detective on the case is now deceased.”
“A cold case?” Mike Celestine asked.
“No, old but not cold. Here’s what I could find out about the case.
“To quote an NOPD buddy of mine, a two-bit crook named Johnny Francino was convicted of the crime,” Jim continued. “He’s presently serving life at Angola.”
“So our two are copy-cat murders?”
“On the surface it would seem so, but one of the items in the gris-gris bag found with NOPD’s victim was said to be the tarot card the Ace of Swords. Also in the bag allegedly were a stone and a drawing of a man wielding a sword.” Jim paused and observed the men’s reactions. Most seemed interested, but a few faces held skeptical looks. “My gut tells me there’s a larger connection to the Allemand Parish homicides.”
“If the file isn’t available, where did you get those details?” Celestine asked.
“My NOPD buddy was the partner of the lead detective, Mac Watts, for a short time before Watts retired. For some reason, Watts kept a copy of the drawing in his desk.”
“He may not have been satisfied the right man was convicted,” Danny said.
“Or else he figured there were more people involved,” Jim added.
“Who was the victim in the eighty-nine murder?” Celestine asked.
“A man with a similar background to Berthelot and Edwards named Malcolm Whitehall.”
Danny looked surprised. “Remember the property next to the Romaines’ place?”
Jim raised his eyebrows. “The one with the shack? Don’t tell me Whitehall owned that piece.”
“Presently a member of his family does,” Danny said. “The other day when I started out to check the property records, I got called away. I finally had the opportunity to check the Hall Of Records this morning. The name Whitehall didn’t sound familiar. You all know I’ve lived here all my life.”
A murmur of acknowledgement rose from the other men.
Marvin Guidry, a Beau Chene detective about Danny’s age, agreed. “The name rings a bell, but I can’t say why. He might be someone I dealt with when I did patrol back in the eighties. That fellow could’ve moved into New Orleans before any of you youngsters were even gleams in your Daddy’s eyes.”
Everyone laughed. Jokes, some off color, started circulating around the room. Despite her statement about foul language and such not bothering her, Kayla Theriot seemed uncomfortable.
Jim cleared his throat loudly and tapped on the table to get the meeting back on track. “Whose name is on the title?”
“The current name is Megan Whitehall.”
Jim alerted at the mention of this woman. “She’s a daughter of that victim.”
Now everyone in the room perked up.
Danny pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through several pages. “I went back and checked the history of the property. Before Megan, the property was listed to her, Sara Whitehall Bayard and Janice Whitehall Alexander. Just as I figured, they
inherited the land from their father, one Malcolm Whitehall. Apparently Megan Whitehall bought out the other two women’s shares. In fact, the sale was recorded last month.”
“Very interesting, indeed,” Jim said, nodding his head.
“What’s even more attention-grabbing is the land originally belonged to Aristide Berthelot, then passed on to Aristide the Second, Teddy Berthelot’s father.”
“So those two victims did have a connection.” Jim turned to Mike Celestine. “Could there also be a connection to David Edwards?”
“There was a business relationship between Teddy and David. I’ll do some more digging and see what I can come up with.”
“There is another bit of information I’d like to pass on,” Jim said. “Two witnesses reported seeing Gibb Romaine with a bandage on his hand. He explained he’d cut himself while fileting a fish.”
Celestine grinned. “Sounds like a fish tale to me.”
A few groans and guffaws followed his attempt at a joke.
“Who are these witnesses?”
Jim exchanged a knowing look with Danny. “My wife, Susan, and Danny’s wife, Rachel.”
Fred Ardoin, Danny’s second-in-command at the Sheriff’s Office, spoke up. “Hell, Romaine hasn’t been around any women in twelve years. No wonder he stopped to talk to a couple of nice-looking females.”
Everybody laughed.
“I don’t blame him for that part of the deal,” Jim said. “Nothing strange about looking and talking to a couple of beautiful women. Telling them he cut his hand fileting a fish was the odd part.”
“Maybe he was trying to gain sympathy from the ladies,” Ardoin suggested. “Or…he knew they were married to law officers.”
“Could be. The women weren’t absolutely certain he was Romaine, but their description fit. In order to confirm his identity, I had one of my officers do a little light surveillance on Romaine. Officer Hahn verified the bandage on Romaine’s hand.”
“He’s looking more and more like our suspect,” Mike Celestine said. “I wouldn’t think he’d be so anxious to be sent back to Angola, even though conditions have improved there in the last few years.”