The Empowered

by Craig Parshall

  I asked how Zaduck assigned cases to the AUSAs under him, like Forester.

  “Zaduck assigned certain kinds of cases,” he explained, “like cases involving minors—endangerment, pornography, abduction, and child exploitation—to Jason Forester for day-to-day handling. Apparently had a lot of trust in him. Then Zaduck had those files supervised directly by the upper levels of the Department of Justice. By an assistant attorney general at DOJ.”

  “Let me guess. The assistant AG was Paul Pullmen.”

  “You got it,” Dick said. “The same guy who I heard met his very terrible, very messy end in your hotel room.”

  “True,” I said. “But Zaduck just happened to be down here in New Orleans, and he helped to clear me.”

  “I heard that too, so congratulations, I guess. Though I’m not sure that’s the right word to use, considering how it ended for that poor Pullmen fellow. What was he doing in your room anyway?”

  “I didn’t invite him. My guess is somebody else did, posing as me. Then they waited for him to arrive.”

  I thanked Dick for everything, but before I clicked off, I had one more request. “If you get a chance, I would love to find out more about those child abduction and pornography prosecutions that Jason Forester was working when he died.”

  18

  After hanging up with Dick Valentine, I was faced with a dilemma. Should I risk getting close to Vance Zaduck? Even though I had been released from custody after the FBI interrogation, what prosecutor in his right mind wouldn’t still harbor deep suspicions about me after a man had been murdered in my hotel room?

  But the risk was worth taking. Something infernal was going on. Maybe I could help to stop it. At the same time, with Heather still out there somewhere, a fact constantly echoing in my head, I was prone to freeze into useless anxiety. I had to fight it almost every minute.

  I punched in the number for Zaduck’s DC office, figuring he might be back from New Orleans by then, and I was right.

  His secretary said Zaduck had a stack of calls to return. I pushed harder, saying it was time critical and that Zaduck would know what I was calling about.

  I was on hold for close to ten minutes. Then Vance Zaduck answered. I talked quickly, explaining that this was a matter of urgency and concerned a family member, although I couldn’t give details. But it would be very helpful if he could tell me anything he might know about these seemingly unrelated crimes: First, a string of young female abductions in the greater New Orleans area. Second, the Paul Pullmen death. I belabored the obvious: that I knew how an investigation into the vicious killing of an assistant attorney general was ultrasensitive, and that I understood the restraints he was under, particularly in discussing it with a disbarred criminal defense lawyer who was operating way outside the tight circle of the DOJ and FBI.

  I said, “Vance, I’m in this for the public good. If I uncover leads, particularly on the Pullmen case, I will be happy to send them your way.”

  “This family member of yours,” Zaduck asked, “is there any way she could be implicated in the Pullmen death?”

  “How’d you know that my family member was a she?”

  “Remember, I was behind the mirror during your interrogation in New Orleans, Trevor.”

  “Right. But no, my daughter couldn’t possibly be involved. At the time of Pullmen’s death, Heather was in the front row at the ABA while I was giving my speech.”

  A pause on Vance’s end. Then a surprise.

  “Trevor,” he said, “many years ago, I quoted Nietzsche to you. In the DA’s office in New York. Discussing the case against that client of yours, the boxer. Well, in retrospect, my quote was unfortunate. Nihilism is a dead end. We need to aspire to higher things in this world. I’d say, maybe even a need to aspire to the spiritual.”

  Here was a different Vance Zaduck, it seemed.

  Vance proceeded to tell me that he had to be careful because a grand jury might soon be impaneled. No surprise there, but unusual for someone on the prosecution side to hand me that bit of helpful news.

  “Understood,” I said.

  But Vance said he could give me the name of a New Orleans man who might be able to lead me in the right direction. “I withheld some evidence from you and your client years ago,” he said, “and that was a mistake. Maybe it’s time to make amends.”

  Nice to hear that from Zaduck, considering our history together. Vance Zaduck gave me the name and address of Lawrence Rudabow, a local housing official.

  “That’s intriguing,” I said. “Not sure how a housing official could help.”

  Zaduck said, “You would be surprised at the clandestine information that a guy like that is privy to. Entering homes. Particularly in the bad sections. Personal information. Easy entrance into public buildings. Basement-level access to hotels, apartment complexes. Amusement areas. That sort of thing.” He concluded with, “This fellow has more fingers in more slime in New Orleans than anyone I know.”

  A metaphor with an unpleasant image to be sure, but I saw where he was going with it.

  Then he added, “Oh, and by the way, the local N.O. office of the FBI is already aware of the meeting that you and Canterelle had with Belle Sabatier. Thought you ought to know.”

  Apparently everyone in New Orleans knew everything, except for me.

  After hanging up with Zaduck, I called my Wisconsin detective friend, Ashley Linderman. It was a stretch, but I wanted to see if she had any inside sources in the New Orleans Police Department.

  She gave me a wry reply. “I told you that you’d be begging me for a favor before too long.” She asked how Heather was doing.

  I told her the details about Heather and how she had gone missing.

  Ashley apologized for being cavalier. “I’m sorry. I have absolutely no connections down there. Trevor, you have any leads at all on Heather?”

  “Just the name of a bayou. And it’s not the kind of place you find on a map.”

  I knew it sounded dreadful.

  Silence. Then, from Ashley, “I’ll do anything I can. Call me whenever, Trevor, okay?” She ended by saying she was so sorry that she couldn’t help me.

  With my new rental car—this time a brawny Mustang, though sadly without a stick shift—I traveled crosstown, parked, and signed in at the lobby of the Housing Authority of New Orleans, or HANO. Lawrence Rudabow was listed on the board as assistant enforcement officer and special services for HANO.

  I trotted up to the next floor, where I bumped into a tall black man in a suit who introduced himself as the chief enforcement officer. When I mentioned Mr. Rudabow and said that we were to have a meeting, he pointed down a hall to the last door on the left and told me to knock and go ahead in, which I did.

  Rudabow, a husky guy with a buzz cut and an open shirt, was sitting at a cheap desk. His laptop was open. On seeing me, he closed it immediately. “Who are you?”

  I told him my name and who had sent me.

  “Oh, Zaduck sent you? Okay. Yeah. Didn’t think you’d be here that quick.”

  “I’m sorry. Is this a good time?”

  “Good as any,” he said. “What’s this about again?”

  “About a rash of young girls being abducted. One dead. Others missing.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “An investigator. Working with Attorney Morgan Canterelle.”

  “Yeah, I know him. The heavy guy. Drives a big old antique car.”

  “Can you share anything about those child endangerment cases?”

  He scrunched up his face. “You know this office is strictly local housing enforcement in New Orleans, first of all. Not criminal.”

  “Of course, but Vance Zaduck . . .”

  “Look. Zaduck knows that I know stuff. ’Cuz I’m enforcement here in N.O. and such. I’m a liaison with local police on housing complaints. Violations. Criminal activities.”

  “Your job is just about housing violations?” I asked.

  He gave me a studied look. “I also get call
ed into some zoning inspections. And public buildings inspections.”

  “So, whether housing or zoning or public buildings, I imagine your inspections make you valuable to law enforcement.”

  “Right. ’Cuz when I have lawful authority to enter some rattrap, and I just happen to see stuff, you know, bad things ‘in plain sight’ as the law says, well, then the gig’s up. So to speak.”

  “Sure. Now, about the disappearance of young girls . . .”

  “Nothing definite, you understand.”

  “Right. Got it. But did you ever see anything? Hear anything?”

  He scratched his belly for a second. “There’s this low-life apartment I entered once. Real squalor. Cockroaches. They had voodoo paraphernalia all over the place. Which in this city is not uncommon, of course. While I was doing my inspection, I overheard the occupants. They had heard something on the news and that got them talking.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “Missing girls. There was this one name that came up.”

  Now he had my attention. “What name?”

  “The name of somebody they thought was involved.”

  “Someone who was mentioned on TV?”

  “Naw, not that. A name that, you know, they privately thought was involved. It was all sort of hush-hush, but I heard them.”

  “What was the name?”

  “That lady. The mambo. Voodoo chick. What’s-her-name . . .”

  I waited as he looked like he was searching for it.

  “Mini something . . . or Minerva, I think it was. Creole last name. Started with an S.”

  “Minerva Sabatier?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Rudabow said. “This was just after she died. And they were saying it was like bad karma or whatever, the way she went. As ‘payback’ for the bad things she did. To the young girls, they were saying.”

  Having just questioned Belle Sabatier about her dead mother and heard her plea of innocence on behalf of Minerva, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach by a horse.

  I shot back, “I need to talk to those people. The ones who mentioned her name. I need names. Addresses.”

  Lawrence Rudabow shook his head and smirked. He pointed to a long row of gray metal file cabinets that lined his office. “That’s just part of the inspections we’ve done. A ton of them. I really can’t remember names and addresses. I passed it on to the cops, though. I remember them telling me that those guys who said that, they were a bunch of junkies. Always high on dope. Unreliable in court and so forth.”

  Stymied on that key question, I headed in a new direction. I asked him how he first became acquainted with Vance Zaduck.

  Rudabow stared away, running his tongue over his teeth. “I really can’t remember.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about the disappearance of young females in New Orleans?”

  “Nope.”

  A final question. A kind of wrap-up, in case I couldn’t get another audience with this fellow.

  “Just so I understand the scope of your authority, the kinds of places that you have special access to . . . houses, apartments . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  Lawrence Rudabow nodded but wasn’t volunteering anything more, so I had to go the cross-exam route. “Businesses like restaurants?”

  He nodded yes again.

  “And hotels here in New Orleans?”

  The nodding stopped.

  Then, my real target . . . “And other public places? Like theme parks, amusement areas?”

  He sniffed. “Like I said, all kinds of places.”

  I thanked him for his time and hustled out to my car, thinking on the way how Rudabow struck me as a man who had seen the inside of a lot of dark closets and had special access to an unlimited number of places.

  Then there was Minerva Sabatier, who, according to Rudabow, clearly had a sinister voodoo reputation among the local gentry. And it also struck me how the information from the city inspector collided head-on with the story that Belle Sabatier was spinning about her mother. Both could not be true. Maybe neither. It was time to sort that out.

  More importantly, time to pursue my swamp guide. Where was he?

  19

  I called Canterelle’s office and got his secretary, who transferred me to Kevin Sanders. The clerk said Canterelle was in court but was expected back shortly. I told him that he had promised to find me a swamp guide who would take me into the bayous. But it was already early afternoon, and I still hadn’t heard. Kevin said he would put “the pink slip with your message on top of the pile” on his boss’s desk. Next, I called Turk Kavagian, got his voice mail, and left a similar message.

  Then back to the hotel. I knew I was engaged in a rarefied form of spiritual warfare. Maybe one that was way, way above my pay grade. And the sense of frustration—even oppression—was crushing down on me.

  So I put a call into my spiritual mentor, Rev. John Cannon. It was time for a halftime “chalk talk” from Coach Cannon. Ever since coming to New Orleans, and even before that—when I first saw that demonic figure walking on water at Ocracoke Island—I felt that I was in the wrong league.

  When I called the Lutheran retirement home in Wisconsin where he lived, I was routed to the nursing staff. I asked about doing a FaceTime video chat with Cannon. I was glad to hear they had the technology. They said for me to call back in fifteen minutes, which I did.

  It was almost a year since I had last visited with John Cannon in Wisconsin. Back then, he was fairly ambulatory, getting around on his walker. This time he hummed into the room in an electric wheelchair. With a generous grin, Cannon spent the first few minutes bragging about his new ride. It had been purchased through the charity of some of his former church members, he said. I studied his face. More drooping. Paler than before. But he didn’t complain.

  Cannon asked me about myself. I told him I needed some advice.

  “About what?” he asked. “Demonic conflict?”

  “Yes. You squared off with demons in the Amazon rain forest. I don’t know anyone who knows more about dealing with the dark side.”

  “Be specific, Trevor,” he said. “Pray specific. Think specific. Study the Scriptures specific. So what’s your question . . . specifically?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I had this ability—detecting demons, I mean. . . .”

  “Yes, I remember. I’m still with it, you know.”

  I laughed.

  “Memory still pretty intact,” he added. “I recall that you could smell them coming, the demons. That burning scent. Smelled like the old garbage landfill here in Manitou. Even before you saw them.”

  “Right. You do remember.”

  Now he was the one laughing. The joke was on me.

  “Lately,” I said, “I’ve been approached by demonic forces that . . . Well, I can’t sense them coming . . . no advance warning. I feel lost.”

  “No, no, you’re not lost. You’ve been found, remember? Saved, sealed, sanctified, renewed . . .”

  “Okay. Poor choice of words. So what happened to my ability—”

  “It’s not about your ability. No, it’s not about you or that ‘gift’ you have. It’s about them. I’d say you’re encountering a higher rank of demons. These must be the captains. The majors. Not the lowly foot soldiers anymore. Not the thugs and henchmen that were coming at you with their filthy stench. No, they’re bringing the upper echelon against you, Trevor. Upper management. Take it as a compliment.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Rely on the Spirit, that’s what. Make room for faith in all this, Trevor. This isn’t like improving your golf game, you know. ‘Walk in the Spirit,’ the apostle Paul tells us. He had to learn that. You do too.”

  Then, after a pause, Cannon said, “What’s your mission statement again?”

  “I want to stop demons from doing harm.”

  “That’s fine. What else?”

  “I’m not sure. . . .”

  “You ought to be sure. These hellish creatures assault inn
ocent people. Some willingly cooperate with the devil, of course. But I’m not talking about them. Only thing you can do with those is to fight back with the spiritual weapons Paul talks about in Ephesians. No, what I’m talking about are those who are truly victims of the enemy. What are you doing about them, Trevor?”

  “You mean exorcism?”

  “I never liked that word. I preferred ‘deliverance.’ Or ‘rescue’ or ‘release.’ The point is you need to be ready for that.”

  “I’m not sure that’s in my wheelhouse.”

  “Stop talking like a stockbroker or a lawyer. You want to help people or not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then be ready.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You’ll know when the Spirit of God lets you know. Be ready. Be alert. Walk by faith, not by sight. But that doesn’t mean walk with your eyes closed, either. That’s a good way to break your nose.”

  Before we ended, I told him that my daughter had disappeared during our trip in New Orleans, and it was weighing heavy on me.

  I heard him sigh at the other end. Not like he was tired or bored, but like he was now shouldering my distress. “I’ll pray for her,” he said. “And I will pray for you, son. Every day. You can take that to the bank.”

  Just minutes after ending my FaceTime chat with Cannon, my cell started ringing. I took the call. There was a powerful Cajun accent on the other end.

  “Mista Trevor Black, y’all look’n’ for a guide into the bayou?”

  “Are you Delbert Baldou?”

  “Sho’ am.”

  “I need you to take me to Bayou Bon Coeur today.”

  “Gonna be sundown in a few hours. Y’all sho’ ’bout that?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Den best get yo’self to da dock at da place Ah’m ’bout to tell y’all.”

  He described where his swamp boat was moored, and I wrote it down. I thanked him exuberantly for calling me and for taking me into the bayous, and then I jumped into my rental and headed to the location. Things were looking up. Way up.