by Jerry Brown
He moved his chair and crossed his legs. "I won't be bored. I promise. Would you have any charts just so I can get my bearings?"
"Scads of 'em, but they're all pretty dated. They belonged to my daddy. They'll do for an overview."
"Fine, then that's what I want to do."
She looked at him with her head slightly cocked. "You know, I think you just like to keep people off balance."
"Yvonne, you're the second person to say that to me in this young day. There's usually a method to my madness, once one accepts the madness. Now quit talkin' and let's enjoy the characters.
Chapter 34
Bowman watched as Yvonne darted through the sparse Sunday traffic. Once outside the city, heavy marsh grass growth dominated his view, then brief shots of water, houses on stilts in the distance, a long bridge suddenly ascending --- water all around --- then houses crammed together as they neared Slidell. The traffic swelled, then slacked, as the view changed from lowland pines to stands of large hardwood trees. He memorized each turn as she swung from the highway to a service road, then to a gravel road and finally to a sandy lane. She stopped at a driveway gate joined on both sides by honeysuckle covered fencing. He moved to open his door. "No, I'll get it," Yvonne shouted. "The key is on the same ring as the car keys and only I know how to jiggle the key in the lock." Bowman stood by the car studying her technique with the lock. He filled his lungs with the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle. Exhaling fully, he took another deep breath. A rank odor intruded. "What in the hell is that?" He grasped his nostrils. "That's swamp gas," Yvonne chuckled. "It's a result of the rotting vegetation. Some days are worse than others. You get used to it." They returned to the car and passed through the gates, leaving them open. She parked between rows of creosoted pilings supporting the cabin eight feet off the ground. He waited outside as she hustled to unlock the front door. The cabin was small with freshly painted white lap siding and powder blue trim. As he entered, a musty smell hit him. Yvonne threw open windows and a sliding glass door. She turned and said: "Let's go on the deck while the house airs."
She seated herself in one of two gray plastic chairs. He walked past to view a canal behind the cabin. A metal flat bottom boat was overturned on a small pier that protruded into the dark brown water. "Whatta ya think of my place?" she asked. "I can see how you and your daddy could love it so much. It's quaint and compact and so isolated." "Actually, it's not really that isolated. There are houses all up and down this side of the canal. You just can't see them until you get on the water." He turned and leaned against the deck railing. "How far do you have to travel down the canal to reach the swamp?" "Only about a quarter mile. Let me get you a chart so you can see where we are." She walked through the sliding glass door and returned with a white rolled bundle. She spread it on the deck and weighted the four corners with plastic coasters. Bowman knelt by her side. "This is a chart of the northwestern section of the swamp." She pointed to a dot on the bottom left and said, "The dot is this house." "If it's okay with you, why don't you put on some jeans or something while I right the boat and hook up the motor. Then we can go for a ride." "Fine, I'll change, but wait for me and we'll carry the motor and turn the boat together." She turned without waiting for his response. He pored over the chart. The waterways showed clearly, but land topography information was absent. Yvonne returned wearing loose-fitting jeans, a long sleeve pink button down shirt tied at the waist, and white tennis shoes. "You wouldn't have a map of this area, would you? Something that provides more details on the land areas." She looked at him quizzically. "What particular area are you interested in?" He pointed to the chart and sketched with his finger a jetty of land bordered to the north and east by the Pearl River, to the west by dry land and to the south by a lagoon and swampland. She walked over to a chair and seated herself, folded her arms, and looked away in a pout. "I want to know what you're up to and why the sudden interest in this swamp." "Yvonne, don't get your bowels in an uproar. I fully intended to tell you, but I wanted to wait until we were leavin'. I didn't want to frighten you, if there's no need. Flint told me they think the perp has moved into this area." She jumped to her feet and stomped into the house. She returned almost at once carrying two holstered pistols, a weathered .357-caliber with a six inch barrel and an obviously new snub nosed .32-caliber. She handed him the older, heavier gun.
"Where's he supposed to be?" she asked, dropping to her knees on the deck beside him. "He's believed to have burglarized a store on the east side of the highway, just inside the state line." Yvonne pointed to a dot near the land area Bowman referred to earlier. "The store would be here. You're right. If he robbed the store, and if he's still in the swamp, he'd likely be in this section. Wait a minute, let me get you something." She walked back unzipping a leather case. Sitting herself in the chair, she sorted through a stack of papers, selected one, then returned to the chart on the deck and carefully positioned the sheet over the land area in question.
Bowman picked it up and studied it. "Good Lord, this shows the trees and the topography. Where in the world did you get this?" "My daddy recorded it. From the time I was seven or eight, we went fishing together almost every weekend. Mother didn't care for the water so she would putter around here. Anyway, we'd fish and when he'd get tired, or more likely when I got restless, we'd go to some land area and he'd work on what he called his treasure maps." Bowman looked up from the charts and wrinkled his brow. "They weren't really treasure maps. I think he came up with that to make it exciting to me. Probably just an excuse to piddle in the swamp. He'd talk about some pirate with a French name who operated out of the swamp and supposedly buried his booty somewhere in here." "Jean LaFitte?" Bowman asked. "No, Daddy said La Fitte was smalltime compared to this guy. Listen Bowman, he could've made all this up. Looking back, he probably did. I mean, he never took anything to dig with. He just composed maps of all the high ground in this section for a hobby." She moved from her knees and lay on her side, propping herself on an elbow. "I remember asking him once if he really thought he'd find any treasure here. He answered, 'probably not'. He explained that the water table was much higher when the treasure was buried and, if it existed, it would likely be on the main track of the river and further north. When I'd ask him why he was spending his time here rather than there, he'd just say, 'you gotta start somewhere' and he'd pat me on the head." Bowman's attention returned to the tracing. Eventually he looked over and handed the sheet to her. "That water area, Manney's Lagoon, bordering the southern side of the land area, is shown on the government chart, but isn't identified." "It probably has many names. Daddy probably named it after a friend." "Would you be frightened to show me the way to that lagoon?" "That depends. Are you planning to go on land?" "Hell no! I just wanted to tour the swamp and see the land from the water. Then, when I read they've captured the guy, I'll be able to picture it all in my mind." "Okay," Yvonne said, rising to her feet. "Come help me with the motor." Bowman followed her to a closet in the kitchen and moved ahead of her to jerk up the motor. She flashed a frown at him and grabbed the propeller end. "To be the old man like you claim to be, you sure are macho." He smiled. "I'm sorry, Yvonne. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself."
"Who do you think usually carries the damn thing down by herself? Do you want me to carry the heavy end?" "No, I've got it, Let's move." They descended the steps from the deck, each carrying an end; then they placed the engine on the pier. He took the stern, leaving her the bow, as they righted the boat and launched it.
Bowman clamped the motor to the stern and shifted to the center of the boat facing forward, waiting for Yvonne to return from underneath the cabin with a fuel tank. She connected the fuel line and pulled the crank rope. The motor fired immediately. He steadied himself with both hands. Suddenly, she snapped: "Hold the boat against the pier." She scampered up the stairs and returned with life vests and the two pistols, once again handing him the larger weapon. He snapped open the cylinder, confirming it was loaded, then returned it to the holster and
placed it next to his right hip.
They glided through the dark brown water which blackened as they neared the end of the canal. He listened to the rumble of the outboard. Circles formed on the water ahead from movement just below the surface. Large, thin, blue and white birds with long dark and yellow legs, startled by the boat, took short flights ahead of them, as frogs and turtles dipped beneath the surface to avoid the boat. A snake, his head above the surface, wiggled to the protection of overhanging brush.
Yvonne chattered, but Bowman could hear little over the sound of the motor. Quietly, he anticipated the turns to be taken. He was invariably wrong. But he concentrated on setting the route to memory. Soon realizing he was hopelessly lost, he eased back to enjoy the ride. A swamp is at once a spooky yet wondrous place. From above or a distance, it appears a desolate, dying wasteland incapable of giving or sustaining life. From within and up close, it is precisely the opposite. Beneath the dying and moss draped treetops, a new and vibrant plant life grows in such abundance and in such variety that there is constant competition among leaves, vines, and root systems for sunlight and sustenance. The swamp and the grass lands above and in it are the spawning grounds for aquatic life. Wildlife and insects abound there. What is such a harsh environment for man is a paradise for forms of life more adapted to it.
The boat eased through a twenty foot opening fronted by a dark sandbar jutting from the north side and swamp growth to the south and west. Yvonne steered well south of the land before slowing the motor and kicking it out of gear. "This is Manny's Lagoon," she said. "Your guy should be in that area off to the right." She reached down and blindly unsnapped the holster lying next to her. Bowman scanned the roughly circular body of water, which was a little larger in diameter than a football field. Surveying the land area, the scant foliage at water's edge devolved gradually to patches of undergrowth and forest. His eyes followed his body in all directions. He drew in deep breaths of the sweetly fetid air. "It's glorious, Yvonne," he said turning and responding to her expectations. "But, thank goodness you're here to show it to me. I'd of been lost after the second turn."
"No, you wouldn't. Not with the charts. Just watch the water flow and follow it to the main arteries. You'd find your way out." "Well, I've enjoyed the visit." "You ready to go back?" "Yeah, but take it slow so I can absorb all the scenery."
Her face glowed. She adjusted the shift lever forward, then moved in a short circle, sliding through the lagoon passage at the farthest point from the land. The return trip passed too quickly for him; soon he was able to distinguish variety in the trees and undergrowth. The giant cypress trees, heavily laden with long drapes of Spanish moss, were particularly inspiring to him.
After helping store the boat and motor, Yvonne placed the charts and pistols in drawers while coffee perked. They relaxed, leaning back in their chairs while sipping coffee.
Bowman placed his mug on the table and looked at Yvonne. "Do you think you should move from here for awhile? Just until this situation with the guy is settled."
"Why would I want to do that? You've seen the charts. There's an awful lot of swamp between here and where he is."
"Yes, I know. But where will he go if a posse moves on him and he eludes them. There's no way to know and there'll likely be no warnin', if that should occur."
She shuddered. "I guess you're right. I could visit my mother's sister, for a little while, anyway."
"Where does she live?"
In Metairie."
"You mean not far from my apartment?"
"Bowman, give me a break!"
He nodded and grinned at her blush.
Chapter 35
Joni entered her office and reached over her desk to grab the ringing telephone. "Mayor's office," she answered.
"Hello Joni, this is Rene Aubrian with the police department. I met you a couple of weeks ago."
"Of course, Captain, what can I do for you?"
"I wondered if it might be possible for me to speak with the mayor. I've had a little problem come up."
She drummed the pencil eraser on her desk. "Is it something I can handle for him?"
"It's pretty delicate."
"For me or for you?"
"For me," he answered.
She paused a few seconds before answering. "I just arrived. I see he's on the other line. Let me see how long he'll be." Joni walked through the door and waved to Robert as he looked up from his telephone conversation. She held her fist to her cheek and thumb to her ear, then held two fingers. Robert nodded.
He ended his conversation as she watched. She walked away when she saw him pop a button on his phone. "Robert Kingwood," he answered.
"Mayor, this is Rene Aubrian. I apologize for calling, and I want to admit up front that I'm way out of order to be crossing lines of authority. It's just that..."
"Just tell me what it is, Captain, we'll deal with the proprieties later."
"This is my problem," Aubrian began. "As you know, Bowman and his associate solved this case for us. His helper was even injured in the process. They're leaving either this afternoon or in the morning. I know Bowman is coming to my office this morning. I'd made a commitment to pay him fifteen thousand dollars, if the perp was identified through his efforts."
"So, what's the problem?" Robert raised his hand to the back of his neck.
"Bowman asked that I pay the sum in two checks, half to him and half to his friend."
"Yes?"
"Well, I went by the administrative offices this morning and told the superintendent's secretary what I needed. She just called me back and said there was a problem. Apparently the superintendent has refused to authorize the expenditure. Sir, I know I'm out of line, but I'm up to my neck with problems here. Bowman gave us a helluva effort. I know he'll get his money eventually and I know he would never say a word to me if I told him there is a problem. But he doesn't deserve this kind of treatment and it could be we may have need of his services in the future."
Robert paused and studied the ceiling. "Captain, I'm very grateful for your call. What is the name of the second payee?"
"Emrick T. Powell, that's E-m-r-i-c-k T. P-o-w-e-l-l."
"I'll have the checks in my office after ten o'clock. If Mr. Bowman could drop by before noon, I would love to thank him personally. Captain, no one will know that you called me unless you tell them. I'm truly grateful. This would have been embarrassing to me, as well," he said as he again thanked Aubrian and hung up the phone.
He scratched instructions on a sheet of letterhead and strode from his desk to the reception area. "Joni, you know I don't usually ask you to run errands for me, but this is a little sensitive. I want you to go, in person, to Landry's office and deliver this note which instructs him, under my signature, to make out two checks in the amount of seven thousand five hundred dollars each. Wait and bring the checks back with you. While you are there, set up an appointment for Landry to be in my office at two o'clock this afternoon." His jaws clenched.
"Is this it?"
"This is it."
"Good for you." Joni smiled and stood to walk to the door with the mayor's note.
"Oh, and Joni, be sure to be back before ten o'clock. Bowman is coming by after then. I'd like for you to meet him and tell me what you think of him."
"Yeah, I'd like that."
The reception for Bowman in the squad room was quite different from the treatment he experienced previously. The detectives crowded around him and introduced themselves. This time it was not necessary for him to wait in the chair outside the captain's office. Rene Aubrian came up to him as he entered the squad room and escorted him toward a conference room where Flint conversed with a small group of detectives. "Thankfully, you don't have to hold your nose," Aubrian continued. "The lab guys took the canvas bag away to run checks on all the spots. Damnest odor I ever smelled. They just called to tell me that some samples were human blood of the same type as the Powell boy. They're running other tests to try to establish a closer match. I'm going to l
eave because I don't want to steal Flint's thunder. I know he's excited about showing you some things. I plan to see you before you leave, but in case I get pulled away, I wanted to thank you, personally. I wish we had the guy in custody, but just knowing this wasn't a racial thing removes much of the pressure we have been under. You just can't know how crippling that can be." His eyes narrowed and he took on a tired look.
"Thank you, Captain, I appreciate your takin' the time."
"Not at all. By the way, the mayor wants you to drop by his office. He'll have your checks after ten o'clock. He asked if you could come by this mornin'."
"Thank you, Captain," Bowman responded and then turned to Flint. "Well, Bill Ed, what have we got here?" He placed his hands on the gray metal table as he scanned the items displayed on it.
"First let me show you a picture," he said holding up a photo. "Does this figure look familiar to you? It's identical to the one carved in the middle of the kid's back. They took this photo from a spray painting on a column of the bridge right where he set up camp."
"Good Lord, it is a match isn't it." Bowman's face brightened. "That's bizarre. Look at the head. Flint, I know you haven't seen the guy either, but you think this may be a self portrait?" he asked. "It looks just the way Emrick described him. See the little patches of beard and those eyes -- look at the pain. The guy has talent, in a primitive sort of way. Sorta reminds me of Picasso, if he had used spray paint. You know the economy of strokes."
"Picasso? Bowman, do I strike you as an art critic?"
"No, an art critic would probably be incensed by my comparison. I take it this is the infamous pickle jar. That's huge to be carryin' around. I take it back, he might have been able to stuff me in there after all."
"Give me a break, Bowman," Flint countered, but he actually smiled. "You wouldn't believe the names given this little item -- Maiden's Delight, Dickle Jar, a new one every hour."
"How about: 'A Peck of Pickled Peckers'," Bowman volunteered.