“What did you do to get a sexual battery charge on your record?”
“It was a misunderstanding. They said I groped a girl on a crowded bus. I didn’t. Someone pushed me against her. By the way, who are you?”
Kit produced her badge and ID. “New Orleans Homicide. Would you mind rolling up your sleeves?”
“Actually, I would.”
“Refusing will just make me think you’re guilty.”
“You already think that.”
“Where’d you go after you left Gator Willie’s last Thursday night?”
“Home.”
“Straight from the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you go out again later?”
“No.”
“Can anyone verify when you got home?”
“I live alone. So, no.”
“Were you angry at being rejected?”
“I think it builds character.”
“Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Last time I got involved with cops, I did 60 days for something that happened by accident.”
From what he’d just said, Kit already knew the answer to her next question, but she had to try. “How about submitting to a cheek swab. Polygraphs can be a problem if the operator isn’t well trained. A DNA profile would absolutely clear you. I can take the sample now.”
“You’re kidding, right? No way.”
Disappointed but not surprised, Kit wasn’t ready to leave. “How do you feel about Betty Bergeron being murdered?”
“No one should be able to do that to anyone else, no matter how nasty they are to you.”
“Then you think a girl has a right to choose her companions or not as she sees fit.”
“Sure, but why act like an ass when someone is just showing that they find you interesting.”
“Some guys don’t listen when a girl says no.”
“And some girls say no before a guy has any chance to show who he is.”
“Maybe who you are is obvious.”
“Do you dislike me?”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Exactly, then why am I being jerked around like this?”
“I’m giving you a chance to show me who you are.”
“I thought it was obvious.”
“Not to me, not yet.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“Then as Betty once said to me, ‘Get Lost’.” He turned and walked away.
Watching him go, Kit mentally summed up what she’d learned. When it came to women, he had a chip on his shoulder and seemed like someone who could lose control if an interaction with a female didn’t go his way. But this again brought her hard up against what she’d seen on the dollar store’s surveillance video. Betty had voluntarily left her car and gotten into the one that joined her in the parking lot. But Betty didn’t like DeLeon. Why would she get in a car with him? Well damn. Maybe that wasn’t the killer in the other car. If not, DeLeon would still be a possible.
Phil Gatlin stood aside to let two guys leave Marksman Arms, the gun store owned by Lewis Broussard. Inside, the place was full of mostly men, but also a few women, ogling the massive display of firearms hanging on the walls and in glass cases. For a business that was supposed to be in financial trouble it certainly couldn’t be from lack of customers.
Before coming over here, Gatlin had obtained a copy of Lewis’s driver’s license so he’d know what the guy looked like. There seemed to be three clerks in the store, none of them the man he was looking for. Then he saw Lewis come out of a back room. Like the other clerks, he was dressed in green pants and a green T-shirt that had the store’s logo on the upper left part of the chest. He came onto the sales floor and walked over to a bank of freestanding shelves, where he put the boxes of ammo he was carrying in the proper place.
Badge and ID in hand, Gatlin stepped up beside him. In a low voice so the whole place wouldn’t hear, he said, “Mr. Broussard, I’m Lieutenant Gatlin, NOPD Homicide.” At the same time, he flashed his credentials.
“What’s this about?” Lewis asked, not in a panicky way, but with simple curiosity.
From the background check he’d run, Gatlin knew that Lewis was a sixty-two-year-old battle-tested former marine, who over a 30-year career, had risen to the rank of captain. And he still looked like it: good posture, short gray hair neatly combed and parted, clean shaven, intelligent eyes, and a countenance that made him look like a man who wouldn’t tolerate insubordination.
“Is there a place we could talk in private?” Gatlin said. The man reminded Gatlin so much of his former drill sergeant that he’d almost felt like starting and ending his question with the word, ‘sir’.
“Back here,” Lewis said, motioning for Gatlin to follow.
They went to a small office with a modest sized glass-topped desk and two dark red-leather visitor’s armchairs. Lewis waved Gatlin into one, went behind his desk, and sat in a rolling leather chair with the Marine Corps insignia on the backrest.
The wall behind the desk held a framed picture of Lewis and a four-star general Gatlin thought he recognized. “Isn’t that Norman Schwarzkopf?” Gatlin said, pointing at the picture.
“Yeah. He was the CENTCOM commander when I was in Iraq and Afghanistan. Even though he was army, he was a good guy. So when he asked if I’d be willing to stand with him for a snapshot, I said, ‘Okay’.”
Even if Gatlin hadn’t realized on his own that Lewis was joking about which of them wanted the picture, there was a brief twinkle in Lewis’s eyes that gave it away. At first it seemed odd that a man who’d just lost his father would be capable of making any kind of joke, but Lewis had probably been saying that about the picture for so long, it was an automatic response.
“So,” Lewis said. “You’re from Homicide. I guess this about my father.”
“That’s right.”
“I heard the killer got away.”
“From the scene, yes. From the consequences, most likely not.”
“What brings you here?”
“My understanding is that Joe left his entire estate to be equally divided among his four kids.”
“In your mind, does that equal four suspects?”
“At this point I’m not counting, I’m exploring.”
“Okay, let’s explore.”
“I’ve heard that you’re having financial problems. Yet the business looks successful.”
“Who said I’m in trouble?”
“My job is more in the nature of asking questions than answering them.”
“It’s true. All because I was seduced by my success here into opening a second location in Covington. I paid too much for the building over there and the renovations. The mortgage payments are a sinkhole that’s about to suck everything I own into it. I’d walk away, but even that’ll be expensive. And yes, my share of the inheritance will save me. But frankly it sickens me to think that I’ll benefit by my father’s death. I should just give it to charity.”
“Will you?”
“I have to think of my family obligations. I took a second mortgage on my house to finance the new shop. And guess who’s paying the bills for my wife’s mother and father who are both in a nursing home.”
“Why didn’t you sign the card that was circulated at Joe’s birthday party?”
“I wasn’t there. I was planning to go, but woke up that morning so sick I couldn’t.”
“Was your wife ill too?”
“She wasn’t even in town. Her sister in Amarillo broke her ankle last week. Kay’s been helping her.”
“Her sister’s not married?”
“Divorced.”
“When did Kay leave for Amarillo?”
“Last Wednesday.”
“When you got sick did you go to an emergency room?”
“I’m a marine. I don’t need somebody to wipe my nose.”
“Did you call Joe on
Saturday and wish him a happy birthday.”
“I did . . . About two hours before the event.”
“When did you find out about the shooting?”
“Minutes after it happened. My sister, Amelia, called and told me.”
“Do you own a boat and trailer?”
“Should have sold it long before now.”
“Where do you keep it?”
“At the house, in the garage.”
“When’s the last time you used it?”
“So long ago I can’t remember. How am I doing? Want to cuff me now?”
“Maybe later.”
Chapter 24
Broussard was behind his desk as usual. Kit was once again on the green sofa. This time, Gatlin was pacing. Broussard had just told them that Betty Bergeron was Uncle Joe’s great granddaughter.
“I think the two murders in the same extended family are probably a coincidence,” Gatlin said.
Broussard rocked back in his desk chair. “Doesn’t feel like it to me.”
“You just don’t like coincidences in general. They happen all the time, or there wouldn’t be a word in the dictionary for it. We’ve got separate suspects for each crime – no obvious overlap.”
Kit was reluctant to express any view on this matter because she was uncomfortable siding against either of them. But she didn’t want to just sit there like a dope. So she stood and walked over to the big rolling whiteboard. Picking up a marker from a tray below, she said, “Let’s get what we know up here where we can see it.” She started two columns; one headed, BETTY, the other, JOE.
Under BETTY she entered two names: Leo Silver and Jes DeLeon.
“I tracked down Jes DeLeon today. He’s my prime suspect because as I told you earlier, Betty had rejected has advances on two occasions, one of them in the bar where she works the night she was killed. And he left the bar an hour before her shift ended.”
“Any scratches on his face or arms?” Broussard asked.
“Nothing on his face, but he was wearing a turtleneck, so who knows?”
“I guess you’re gonna make me ask,” Gatlin said. “Cheek swab?”
“He refused.”
“Not to be critical, but it would have been a good idea to trail DeLeon awhile before approaching him,” Gatlin said. “He might have thrown away something we could use for a sample. I was gonna mention that earlier when you picked up the swabs, but wanted to give you room to function on your own.”
Kit was now faced with two options, both of them embarrassing. On the one hand, she could let Gatlin think she was too dumb to have covertly followed DeLeon, or she could admit that he caught her at it. She chose the latter. “I was sure he had no idea I was shadowing him through the campus, but when I tried to pick up what I thought was a cigarette butt he’d discarded but was actually an intact cigarette he used to bait me, he came up behind me and wanted to know what I was doing.”
Gatlin nodded. “Okay. Good thought . . . poor execution. If I had to choose I’d pick ideas over technique every time. It’s impossible to teach a detective how to think. Technique comes with time. So don’t worry about it. What about Leo Silver?”
“Haven’t really worked on him.”
Gatlin took out some folded papers from his jacket pocket. “I got Betty Bergeron’s phone records for the two weeks before she was killed. She didn’t use her phone much . . . two calls to her parents, three to her apartment mate, two to a classmate in molecular genetics, three to Gator Willie’s . . . and six to a number I’ve traced to a burner phone.”
“You mean one of those prepaid phones you can buy without giving your name?” Kit asked.
“Yes. She also received six calls from that phone.”
Knowing that drug dealers commonly used burner phones, Kit looked at Broussard. “Any evidence she was using?”
Broussard shook his head. “Tox screen for commonly abused substances was negative.”
“It’s not just crooks who use burner phones,” Gatlin said. “Some people would rather not have the hassle of the paperwork associated with a cell phone plan. They use up the minutes on the phone, then buy more for cash.”
“Doesn’t pass the smell test to me,” Kit said. “I think she and the owner of the burner didn’t want any record that they were talking to each other.”
“Why would that be if it wasn’t drugs?” Gatlin asked.
“Maybe she wasn’t using, she was dealing. And that somehow got her killed,” Kit suggested.
“Workin’ as a bartender she probably barely made enough money to cover her livin’ expenses,” Broussard said. “Who’s been payin’ her tuition?”
“I don’t know,” Kit said. “But I’m going to find out.” She looked at Gatlin. “We may not know who owns the burner, but can we get tracking data for it?”
“We’ll see,” Gatlin said. “It’s already in the works. Okay, moving on to Uncle Joe.”
Kit walked over to the sofa and sat down, now realizing that the only things she’d written on the board in Betty’s column were the names of her two suspects.
Gatlin picked up the whiteboard marker and put Howard Karpis’s name under the heading for Uncle Joe. “Haven’t done much more on this guy,” Gatlin said. “But to summarize what we know: He’s admitted sending threatening notes to Joe, and the alibi he gave me for Saturday morning was a lie. I’ve requested a subpoena for his phone records and tracking data, but so far don’t have it.
“Now for Joe’s son, Lewis.” He put that name on the board under Karpis’s. “As Andy said, he’s in line for a quarter of Joe’s estate as an inheritance. And he needs it because he overextended himself in opening a second location for his gun shop.”
“Gun shop . . .” Kit said.
“That got my attention too,” Gatlin said. “Plus he was a marine captain. I didn’t ask but I’m betting he could make an accurate 200-yard rifle shot with no problem. He was supposed to be at the picnic but said he was so sick that morning he stayed home. But did he really? His wife has been in Amarillo since last Wednesday. She hasn’t been around to monitor his movements. Instead of home in bed on Saturday, he could have been in that boat at the picnic.”
“Does he own a boat?” Broussard asked.
“He does. Earlier, either you or Kit mentioned that the killer might have cased the swamp around the picnic area looking for a fisherman who’s there every day. He could have done that early on Thursday and Friday and still shown up for work at a reasonable time. Again, with no wife at home to see that he’s taking the boat out every day, there’d be no one to question him about it.”
“Sounds like he’s another guy whose tracking records we need,” Kit said.
“And if I can catch him in a lie, I’ll be able to go after ‘em.”
“What about fingerprints on the two guns Joe’s killer left in Hartley’s boat?” Broussard asked.
Gatlin’s expression soured and he shook his head. “Got nothing from either one. Both too oily.”
“Cartridges then,” Broussard countered.
“Clean . . . maybe wore gloves while he was handling them.” Gatlin looked at the whiteboard and made a sweeping gesture toward it as though it contained everything they’d just said. “Okay, Andy, connect the dots we just laid out for the two murders.”
“We need more dots.”
“Glad to hear it,” Gatlin said. “I was afraid you come from the same school of dot connectors that drew the constellations. You ever really look at those things? Five dots to make a woman holding a mirror . . . six for a crab . . . nutty.”
“Sometimes you have to be willin’ to believe before you can see.”
“Jesus, you sound like a priest.” He crossed himself for saying ‘Jesus.’ “You been spending too much time with Grandma O.”
“Ring of Fire” sent Gatlin’s hand to his pocket for his phone. “Gatlin.” He listened for a few beats then nodded and said. “On my way.” He looked at Broussard. “We’ll need you, too.”
“F
or what?”
“Double homicide.”
“Where?”
He recited the address and Kit shot to her feet. “It’s Betty Bergeron’s parents.”
Chapter 25
Broussard crossed the Bergeron’s living room and slowly made his way toward the hall on the other side, where just around the corner to the right, Gatlin said he’d find the first body. They’d waited for the crime scene team to do its work, then, because the space was so narrow, Gatlin had gone in first, alone, and done his walkthrough. Now it was Broussard’s turn.
Nearing the hallway, Broussard saw a trail of bloody footprints that came out of the hall, then turned and continued toward what he believed was the kitchen.
Avoiding the footprints, he moved forward into the hall and immediately saw to his right, a body, face-up, sprawled on the carpet. The victim was dressed in blue-striped pajamas soaked in blood from a crushing head wound so horrendous it took a moment for him to realize he was looking at a male. Next to the victim’s right hand was a large carving knife. About eye level on the wall directly up from the body’s feet, there was a dent in the sheetrock. Taking into account the fact the head wound was on the victim’s right side, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the dent in the wall came from the victim’s head bouncing off it after being struck by something that gave the killer a great deal of leverage. For want of a better possibility, Broussard believed it could have been a baseball bat.
Kit had said Betty’s parents were Acadia and Paul. He’d also seen that on the pedigree he’d constructed while talking to Amelia. Most likely, hearing some noise in the living room, Paul had grabbed his knife and crept down the hall to see what was going on. The killer meanwhile, had positioned himself to the right of the doorway. Then, perhaps a board squeak gave Paul’s position away. Whatever the reason, his killer had stepped around the wall and started a vicious swing of the bat at the same time. The result now lay on the carpet.
Broussard bent over and tried to manipulate the victim’s right arm and leg. From this he learned that the body was in full rigor. The need to bend over a corpse whenever he went into the field was one reason he wore a bow tie rather than the long kind.
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 14