No Mardi Gras for the Dead

by D. J. Donaldson

  “When somebody drowns, they usually take water into their lungs. Since seawater has a higher chloride concentration than blood, the chloride will enter the blood and be carried from the lungs to the left ventricle. Death occurs before this high-chloride blood can be distributed through the body. Hence a chloride difference on the right and left.”

  “You just said you already know he drowned,” Gatlin said. “Why bother with all that?”

  “I said he was alive when he went into the water, but I didn’t say he was alive when he went into the shark tank. He could have been drowned in one of the freshwater tanks and then been dumped in the shark tank.”

  “He likely to have enough blood left for you to test?”

  “I think so.”

  “You also said something about looking at his brain.”

  “If the evidence indicates he was alive when he went in with the sharks, the question is, was it an accident, suicide, murder, or did he have a stroke and fall in? A look at the brain will tell us about the latter.”

  “Lot of choices,” Gatlin said.

  “That’s where you come in.”

  Kit leaned forward and grabbed the front seat with both hands. “I don’t see but one choice. Weren’t you listening to what I said?”

  “I was listening,” Gatlin replied. “What I heard was that your caller never gave you his name. You don’t even know that Jarrell was who you were going to meet.”

  “If it wasn’t him, where was the one who agreed to meet me?”

  “You were late. He might have gotten cold feet and left, or just got tired of waiting and left, or he was watching from a distance to see if you’d come alone and he saw you get out of the patrol car at the Hilton.”

  “That last one seems pretty farfetched,” Kit said disgustedly. “But forget all that. What are the chances Jarrell’s death and my flat tire were simply coincidence?”

  “Look it up,” Gatlin said. “A coincidence is the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection. If it never happened, we wouldn’t need a word for it.”

  Kit flounced back in her seat and folded her arms. “You’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong, because I haven’t decided anything yet. We’re merely discussing the possibilities. But I’ll tell you what… why don’t you do a little background check on Jarrell. Then we’ll compare your findings with Andy’s and see where we are. Don’t worry about Bobby Poag. I’m going to run him down tonight and see what he knows. As for Jarrell’s wife, I’ll inform her of her husband’s death and leave it at that. You can follow up with her tomorrow.”

  12

  The next morning instead of changing the tire herself, Kit called the gas station where she usually did business and they sent a man over who put on the miniature spare. She then drove to the station and sat by the candy machine in an old black chair whose stuffing showed through three splits in the vinyl, reminding her of the gill slits on a shark.

  Ordinarily, she would have been vexed at the wait, but the two things she wanted to do today both required that she not begin too early. The lab would need some time to get the chloride and alcohol results Broussard had mentioned and she wanted to give Mrs. Jarrell a little time to herself before questioning her.

  She got out of the gas station at 9:45 and dropped by a different vet to see whether they had the kind of heartworm pills Lucky liked. Thankfully, they did. When she arrived at the hospital, she went directly to Broussard’s office, where she also found Charlie Franks.

  “I can come back,” she said apologetically.

  Broussard waved her in. “No need. Charlie was just tellin’ me a Babe Ruth story. Go ahead, Charlie.”

  “Well,” Franks began, “you know how Ruth was not very adept socially….”

  Broussard nodded.

  “He and the team owner were invited to dinner at the home of an influential couple the owner wanted to impress. So he gave Ruth specific instructions to behave himself and act like a gentleman—to say thank you and please and simply be polite. Everything went fine. The server would offer Ruth something and he’d take a modest portion… and he’d say thank you and he didn’t talk too loud or tell any risqué stories, really trying to fit in. Then the server offered Ruth some asparagus. Ruth looked at what it was and said, ’No thank you,’ then, turning to the hostess, he explained, ’Asparagus makes my urine smell.’”

  Franks grinned mischievously, showing his widely spaced teeth.

  “Inspirational story, Charlie,” Broussard said earnestly. “Believe I’ll have that quote embroidered on a pillow.”

  On his way out, Franks looked at Kit and winked happily.

  Broussard shifted the lemon drop in his mouth to the other cheek, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands over his belly. “Chloride levels say he was alive when he went into the shark tank. His blood alcohol was point o four. Even allowin’ for the fact there might have been time for some concentration of his blood from water movin’ toward the seawater in his lungs before the sharks got him, that level makes it possible he was enough under the influence to have simply lost his balance and fallen into the tank. Grossly, the brain looked normal. Won’t have the sections until late today. Highly unlikely, though, that anything there’ll support your view.”

  “If you had to put money on it, which would you back, coincidence or murder?”

  “At this point, I might just try to protect myself and bet both possibilities.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me that where there’s smoke, there’s fire?”

  “I’ll admit to the sentiment, but not the cliché.”

  “So there you are.”

  “Except that the physical evidence gives no appearance of murder, no evidence of trauma to suggest he was physically forced into the tank, no—”

  “But it’s not as though you had all of him to study. Suppose someone shot him in the stomach and carried him to the shark tank.”

  “Where are the bloodstains on the floor? Why didn’t the security guard hear a shot?”

  “A silencer on the gun… he didn’t bleed much—I don’t know. Maybe he was pushed into the tank by someone he trusted. That wouldn’t leave any evidence on the body.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So why are you fighting me?”

  Broussard chuckled. “Because that’s what we do here. We argue… and try to punch holes in other people’s positions. And if we do it well enough, the truth will eventually emerge. Remember, I said I’d put half my money on your theory. Now go out and prove it. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Don’t put yourself at risk anymore, like you did last night.”

  Kit was surprised. Though he had often shown fatherly concern for her welfare by his actions, he had never before expressed it in words. “I’m touched,” she said, unable to pass up the opportunity to see how far he’d go.

  Broussard dropped his eyes and reached for some reports on his desk. “You wouldn’t be if you knew how much paperwork it’d take to replace you. Go on now, and prove your point.”

  His forehead and the part of his cheeks she could see above his beard were tinged with pink. As she turned to go, he added, “Dinner tonight is at seven. Come about six forty-five so everybody can meet you.”

  “How should I dress?”

  “We’ll all be in tuxes. It’s in the bylaws.”

  *

  * *

  The Jarrells lived in a zero lot-line yellow brick two-story. The woman Kit had seen in a picture on Jarrell’s desk at the aquarium was washing a car in the driveway. Even when Kit approached, the woman didn’t look up.

  “Mrs. Jarrell, I’m Kit Franklyn. We spoke a few minutes ago.”

  “Paula—call me Paula,” the woman said, pushing and pulling a soapy sponge over the trunk with both hands, still not looking at Kit. She paused briefly to wipe the sweat from her forehead with her arm and went back to work. She was a blonde, not so overweight as to be plump but enoug
h that it showed, especially in her face. Wisely, she wore her hair in a poodle cut. She was dressed in cutoff jeans and a short-sleeved red knit blouse with a white collar. Both were splotched with soapy water. Her feet were bare.

  “Paul says that the similarity of our names shows how right we are for each other,” Paula said. “We even have matching jackets, but Paul won’t wear his if I wear mine.”

  Kit noticed that Paula was still referring to her husband in the present tense. Not good. But then, she hadn’t had much time to get used to the idea that he was gone. “Paula… we don’t exactly know what happened to Paul….”

  “That’s what the detective said last night.”

  With a sinking feeling, Kit realized that Gatlin had probably not mentioned the sharks. Knowing she was being a real coward, she decided that it probably wouldn’t come up in this conversation, either.

  “Paula, would you say Paul was a happy man?”

  Still not looking at her, Paula picked up the hose and rinsed the soap off the trunk. Some of the spray drifted over Kit. “I asked him that once,” Paula said. “After thinking about it for a few seconds, he said happiness was too strong a word. He said he was content, and that was better than being happy, because happiness is an acute emotion. Contentment, he said, was chronic.”

  “Was he moody?”

  “Like everybody, he has periods when he needs to be left alone.” She dipped the sponge in the bucket and went at the trunk again even though it was perfectly clean.

  “When was the last time he had one of those moods?”

  “Few days ago.”

  “When exactly?”

  “I dunno…. Started Thursday, I guess. Usually, I just act like nothing is wrong and eventually he comes around.”

  “Did he drink?”

  “Not even wine with dinner. Alcohol always gives him indigestion.”

  Kit didn’t know which was worse, talking to a widow who was so weepy she could barely express herself or someone like Paula, who was cruising on automatic. “Could you give me the name of some of Paul’s friends?” Kit opened her spiral pad.

  Paula dropped the sponge into the bucket and picked up the hose. “He doesn’t have many friends. Just the people he works with, and none of them are close. Paul says that friends are a liability.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  Paula shrugged, reached for the sponge, and started again on the trunk. Kit wanted to stop her but was afraid to.

  Instead, she asked another question. “When did you and Paul meet?”

  “Nineteen seventy-five. He was teaching biology at Dillard and I was running the bookstore. He came in one day to order a copy of Fishes of the World.” The sponge came to a stop. Paula looked off in the distance. “I remember wondering why it was called Fishes and not Fish of the World. Odd how things come back to you when—” Abruptly, she went back to work, with even more vigor than before.

  “How was Paul’s health?”

  Paula did not answer and, in fact, seemed not to have heard the question. Kit repeated it.

  “His health?” Paula said blankly. “His health… it’s good. But sometimes he throws his knee out and needs to take it easy for a day or two. Banged it on a cement block when he was a kid. You can still see the scar.”

  Not even Broussard could see that scar, Kit thought. She had no more questions but was concerned about leaving Paula by herself. “Paula, do you have any family here?”

  “Not right here. My parents live in Morgan City.”

  “Would you like for me to call them?”

  For the first time, Paula looked directly into Kit’s eyes. “Call them? No need. I did that already. They should be here soon. And if there’s one thing Daddy insists on, it’s a clean car. Won’t ride in a dirty one. So I have work to do… lots of work to do.”

  While Paula turned her attention back to the trunk, Kit quietly withdrew. She drove downtown and parked in a lot at the foot of Canal. It was a short walk to the aquarium, which was doing a brisk business.

  Receiving more than one hostile look from those waiting to get in, Kit went to the head of the line and spoke to the young woman taking tickets. “Hi, I’m with the medical examiner’s office, here to do a follow-up on the problem from last night, and I need to see Mr. Thomas.”

  “You should go to the administrative entrance,” the girl said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Toward the French Quarter, about forty yards.”

  “Hey, lady.” A balding guy wearing a gold chain around his neck leaned in so that his face was between Kit and the girl. “Hows about you two havin’ this tête-à-tête on your own time. I gotta be back in Scranton week from today, and at this rate, I ain’t gonna make it.”

  A cutting reply came to Kit’s mind, but she saw his point and let it go. On the way to the administrative entrance, she wondered why she hadn’t realized the night before that it was there, deciding finally that she had missed it because it was so far down and had been in the shadows of the building’s portico.

  From a staff member at the administrative entrance, she learned that the director and everyone else of any authority were in an important meeting and would not be out for some time, nor could they be disturbed. She left without accomplishing her main objective, which was to explore Paul Jarrell’s office. However, she did learn something of interest. There was a desk at the administrative entrance where anyone entering at night had to sign in. And the person manning that desk had no view of the main entrance. The mystery caller had said he didn’t want to be seen with her. That’s why she’d been instructed to come to the main entrance and not to the one with the check-in.

  It would have been a convenient time for lunch, but she was not particularly hungry. Then, too, there was that affair at Broussard’s tonight where the food would probably be very rich and bad for the hips. Better to skip lunch.

  She returned to her office and spent the afternoon writing her report for Gatlin, including impressions of her conversation with Paula Jarrell, a conversation that in so many ways supported her belief that Paul had been murdered.

  *

  * *

  The slides on the Jarrell case came up from the lab around three o’clock. As Broussard looked at how few there were on the tray, he briefly wished he had the rest of Jarrell’s organs. Still, what would that accomplish? Suppose he’d found that Jarrell had cancer of the prostate or the pancreas? Such a finding would figure into the case only if Jarrell knew about it. And the man could have known about it only through a doctor. Kit would turn up any evidence like that.

  Reassured that he had in his possession all he needed, Broussard took two lemon balls from the bowl on his desk, popped them into his mouth, and turned on the stereo. With the familiar strains of Swan Lake filling the room, he seated himself at his microscope and removed his glasses, the tether around his neck keeping them within easy reach against his chest.

  He had taken samples from a variety of locations in Jarrell’s brain, which on gross examination had looked normal in all respects, as it did now under the 40× objective of his Nikon. He moved quickly from slide to slide, needing only a few seconds on each field.

  The most prominent cells in the cerebral cortex are the pyramidal cells, all arranged with their pointed ends facing the same way. As they slipped by in unending ranks, vitally connected to their neighbors, Broussard thought of ballerinas, linked hand to hand, their movements precise and delicate yet no more so than the neural choreography that made it all possible.

  One by one, the slides passed in review, the pyramidal cells dancing by in time to the music, each of them structurally impeccable. Then a dancer stumbled. Broussard adjusted the condenser and touched up the focus.

  Peculiar. Very peculiar.

  He jotted down the stage coordinates so that he could return to the area if necessary and continued to sweep the section.

  There it was again—and another.

  He lowered the stage and put a drop of immers
ion oil on the slide. He rotated the 100x objective into place and raised the stage until the oil made contact with the nose of the objective. The increased magnification, though, added nothing to what he had already seen. Scattered among the many normal pyramidal cells were a few whose nucleus contained a dumbbell-shaped pink inclusion.

  This was something new, something he had never seen before—or was it? He had the vague feeling that he had seen it before or had read about it. But where? He sat for a moment with his eyes closed, his finger stroking the bristly hairs on his nose, shutting out the music, retreating from the present, shuffling through his years of experience. But if it was in there, it was well covered with thousands of other facts and observations.

  Maybe Charlie could help. He put on his glasses, took the slide from the microscope, and walked down the hall to see Charlie Franks.

  Before he could tell Franks what he wanted, Franks said, “I’ve got one for you; the body has two entrance holes, but only one projectile on a radiograph that looks like this.” He held up a journal so that his hand blocked the left panel of a two-part photograph whose right panel showed a circular white object with a dark round center. “What are we dealing with?” Franks said.

  “PMC ultramag cookie-cutter slug,” Broussard said without hesitating. “Second hole was caused by the Teflon wad, which, of course, is radiolucent.”

  Franks lowered the journal, his face sagging with disappointment. “Damn. How’d you know that? I’ve been watching your mailbox. Your copy didn’t get here yet.”

  “The truly gifted travel a higher road,” Broussard said, thinking that if Franks had dusted the journal for fingerprints, he wouldn’t be so shocked. Normally, he might have confessed, but he figured this evened the score for Charlie’s denigration of Babe Ruth with that asparagus story.

  “Now you get a chance to impress me,” Broussard said. “See what you make of these pyramidal cells.”

  Franks took the slide and put it on his microscope. While waiting for him to get it in focus, Broussard watched the screen-saver program displayed on Franks’s computer. Franks had many such programs, but his favorite was flying toasters, a loop that showed a field of electric toasters with flapping wings interspersed with slices of toast without wings. A control panel allowed him to vary the number of toasters in the field and the color of the toast. Yesterday, the toast had been light brown. Today, it was nearly burned.