He stood up and looked down the hall. About six feet ahead, there was a door opening on each side of the hall. The bloody footprints had come out of the one on the left.
Careful not to step on any of the footprints, he moved forward. There was only a faint coppery aroma of blood in the hallway, but as he entered the master bedroom, the scent filled his nostrils.
Across the room, lying by the bed on one side and a tipped over nightstand and lamp on the other was another body, most likely Paul’s wife, Acadia. Blood soaked the carpet around the body and great gouts of it had spattered the adjacent wall and headboard of the bed. There was even some on the ceiling. Broussard moved closer, to where he could see the victim better. The blood alone created a hellish scene, but the condition of the victim’s head made it far worse. She’d been beaten so badly that at the killer’s trial the defense would surely object to showing the jury any photographs of it. Most of the blood on the wall behind her had come from the weapon striking her, spurting outwards from the compression of the blow. All of it on the ceiling was cast-off; blood that had been flung from the weapon during both its upward and downward motion.
The victim was wearing a sleeveless nightie that left her arms bare. On the upper part of her right arm near the shoulder, there was a bruise whose size and shape reinforced Broussard’s belief that the murder weapon had been a baseball bat. The killer had likely not intentionally meant to hit her there, but had done so during his initial attack, before she’d been rendered immobile.
He checked the flexibility of the victim’s appendages and found that, like the body in the hall, she was in full rigor. Broussard surveyed the room, first looking at everything he could see from where he stood. Then, he turned around.
On the floor to the right of a chest of drawers, surrounded by broken glass, a battered picture frame lay face-down on the carpet. The wall above the frame had a dent in it, apparently made when the killer had driven the object off the chest with the bat. Broussard walked over, picked up the frame, and turned it over knowing even as he did what he was about to see.
“Okay, your turn,” Broussard said to Kit, who was waiting outside on the front porch.
“Is it bad?”
“On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give it an 11.”
“Maybe I’ll just let you describe it to me.”
“I’ve seen you handle other scenes as bad as this with no problem.”
“I’m not sure that’s a reputation I want.”
“Well, I need you to go in and at least look at the male in the hallway and tell me if it’s Paul Bergeron. The female is in the bedroom. She doesn’t have a face to recognize.”
Kit let out a sigh and headed for the front door.
She returned a minute later and said, “It’s Paul. The female’s hair is the same color as his wife’s, she’s wearing the same engagement and wedding rings, and she has the same strawberry-shaped birthmark I saw on her hand earlier. It has to be her.”
Gatlin joined them from doing something in his car, which was parked by the curb out front. “So what did you think?” he said to Broussard.
“They’re both in full rigor. So they were likely killed around 12 hours ago.”
Gatlin checked his watch. “That would make it 4:00 a.m. this morning.”
“Plus or minus a couple hours,” Broussard said. “Weapon was likely a baseball bat. Judgin’ from the extent of their injuries, the target was the female. The male was just in the way.”
Gatlin looked at Kit. “Been inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you ID the male?”
“It’s Betty’s father, Paul. The female is wearing the same rings his wife, Acadia, was wearing when I spoke to them earlier. She also has the same hair color and the same birthmark on her hand.”
“Okay, we’ll double check it with her dental records, but it’s her.” He looked at Broussard. “Guess you saw the picture frame the killer destroyed.”
“Why was the picture face down?” Broussard asked. “You looked at it didn’t you?”
“Thought you’d like to see it as I did.”
“Picture of whom?” Kit asked.
“Their daughter, Betty,” Broussard said.
“That’s who killed them,” Kit said. “The same person who murdered Betty.” She looked at Gatlin to see if he was ready to connect the dots.
“Seems likely,” he said. “He could have gotten in using a key from Betty’s missing handbag. Question is, what’d she do to make him so angry at her he’d want to destroy her mother like that?”
“I was hopin’ he left the murder weapon somewhere in the house,” Broussard said. “But I didn’t see it. At least we’ve got his footprints.”
“Which may or may not be useful,” Gatlin said. “By now he’s likely already ditched his shoes. But he probably was still wearing them when he got back in whatever he used to get here. Kit, I’d like for you to canvas the neighborhood and see if anyone saw a third vehicle in the driveway early this morning.”
Kit looked at her watch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. People should be coming home from work soon. If it’s okay with you, I’ll wait until a bit later to start. Meanwhile . . .” She pointed at the morning paper, which was still lying in the front yard. Its continued presence there so late in the day along with both cars still in the drive is what prompted the elderly next-door neighbor to check on the victims. “The delivery car for the paper was probably in the neighborhood around the time of the murder. I’ll talk to the carrier too.”
“Good idea,” Gatlin said.
“That burner on Betty’s phone records . . . I’m even more interested in it now,” Kit said. “I’m betting the owner is who killed her. When we get the tracking records for it, they should also show he was here.”
“Unless he was as cagey as Betty about blocking the tracking function,” Gatlin said. “In any event, I’ll check and make sure the time period covered includes this morning.”
“After we know he’s the one, can we ping his burner to locate him?”
“I’d probably be on board with that.” He looked at Broussard. “I don’t want Paul and Acadia’s relatives hearing about this on the news. Any idea who I should contact?”
“She was the daughter of Julien Broussard, one of Uncle Joe’s boys. Let me see if I can get you his phone number.”
Broussard reached for his cell, navigated to a number in his contacts, and pressed the call button. “Amelia . . . this is Andy . . . Listen, I’ve got some more bad news. We’ve just found Betty’s parents murdered.” Her wail of surprise was so loud Broussard had to move the phone away from his ear. “Yes . . . both of ‘em. We’re not sure yet exactly what happened, but we want to tell Leona and Julien. No. It shouldn’t be you. I’m sure they’ll have questions and that’d be best handled by . . .” Broussard suddenly saw who should tell them. “Actually, I’ll do it. Do you have their number?”
After a short delay, Broussard said, “Hold on, let me put that in my phone.” He added the number to his contacts. Amelia gave him another number and he added that as well. “Thanks Amelia, I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Don’t you have to get back to the morgue?” Gatlin said.
“It’ll be awhile before our transport gets here. And in any event, Charlie Franks and Guy Minoux can start without me. I won’t be long.” Instead of leaving, Broussard rubbed his beard and said, “Remember how back in my office I said we needed more dots? If we use Uncle Joe as one dot and Betty Bergeron as another, a straight line drawn between them would go right through Betty’s parents.”
Gatlin looked at Broussard for a moment and shook his head. “Being a good detective should mean you never have to say to your friends, ‘I realize that.’ You might suggest to . . . Leona was it?”
Broussard nodded.
“. . . and Julien that the line would also go through them.”
Chapter 26
Leona and Julien lived in Lakeview, an area of the city that borders the 1300 acre city park.
Broussard had not been there since Katrina put it all under water. Now, years later, after all the rebuilding, the houses and yards looked crisp and clean with lots of young trees and a surprising number so large they must have been flood survivors. Judging by the rough condition of the street asphalt, the city though was not doing its part.
Most of the houses were of traditional southern architecture featuring covered porches and columns and siding that was either wood or something that looked like it. But Leona and Julien had gone another way. With its granite steps and limestone block façade, it resembled a museum. There were no driveways on the street so Broussard parked in front of the house, got out of his T-Bird, and went up the short walk to the front door. In a nearby magnolia, a mockingbird ran through its impressive catalogue of songs, showing why, if a house has a resident mockingbird, the place doesn’t need anything else with wings.
Broussard had called ahead and without telling the couple why he wanted to see them, arranged for both to be home when he got there.
It was Julien who answered the bell.
“Hello, Andy. Please . . . come in.”
As expected, confusion about the purpose of Broussard’s visit was evident on his old friend’s face. Julien taught philosophy at Tulane. Anyone who knew him would never again judge a person’s intelligence by appearance alone. Julien had large ears, small eyes, and a cranium that almost looked too small to house a normal brain. Even when he was a kid, Julien always wanted to know the deeper meaning of things. It used to drive Uncle Joe crazy. Julien would catch a fish and ask Joe if the fish thought the people in the boat were all monsters or gods. Once when it began to rain while the sun was shining, Julien asked Joe why things sometimes happen that don’t make sense. Or he would wonder why he was born a human and not a worm.
When Julien asked one of these questions, Broussard made sure he listened carefully to the answer because most of them were things he too, wondered about. He just didn’t know it until Julien brought it up. Broussard had always believed it was Julien that had taught him to think beyond the obvious.
The large room where Broussard now found himself had obviously been professionally decorated. Even though he was there for a distressing purpose, the beauty of the colors on the upholstered furniture; pale orange, beige, stripes of pale green and burnt umber, could not be ignored.
Leona was standing well away from the door, by a large beige chair bearing a diagonal trio of colored stripes. She had a pleasant, open face that Broussard was sure had far fewer lines on it when he’d spoken briefly to her at the picnic before Uncle Joe was shot. And her eyes now had dark bags under them that had not been present then. She was only related to Joe through marriage to Julien, so Broussard figured most of her haggard appearance had probably come about after learning that her granddaughter, Betty, had been killed. Now he was about to make her life even worse.
Without offering a handshake or a chair, Julien said, “What’s going on?”
Julien was on Broussard’s right and Leona on his left, positions that made it impossible to see both at the same time. Eyes traveling from one to the other, Broussard said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that your daughter is dead.”
Leona dropped into the chair behind her and put her face in her hands. His vision focusing on some distant place, Julien muttered, “Dear Acadia . . .”
Then Julien’s manners kicked in. “Please, Andy . . . have a seat.”
Broussard went over and sat in a chair that was the twin of Leona’s. Thankfully, Julien sagged onto the end of the sofa near Leona. Broussard could at least now face them at the same time.
“How?” Julien asked.
Broussard didn’t mean to take a deep breath before telling them, but it happened anyway. “She and her husband were murdered, we think, by the same person who killed your granddaughter . . . and possibly . . .” he centered his attention on Julien, “. . . your father too.”
“Exactly what happened?” Julien asked with a calm voice.
“It might be better if we didn’t—”
“I didn’t request, ‘better’,” Julien said. “Please answer my question.”
Glancing first at Leona, Broussard said, “They were beaten to death with some kind of blunt object.”
Leona began to sob. Her reaction was distressing to witness but at least it was a normal response. Julien, on the other hand seemed untouched.
“The nature of death is something a philosopher often contemplates,” Julien said, so placidly Broussard wanted to smack him. “And it boils down to two possibilities. Death is either a wall or a door. If it’s a door, the question becomes what’s on the other side of that door. I recently read a book written by a famous neurosurgeon who was essentially brain dead for a week with almost no chance he would survive. During his week of no longer being here, he discovered that death is a door, an opening to a plane of existence he summed up in the phrase ‘you are loved.’ In that place we become one with the universe and all questions are answered. I once believed death was a wall, but after reading his book, I’m now convinced it’s a door. If Acadia and Paul, along with my granddaughter and father, have all gone through that door, there’s no reason to be sad about it.”
Broussard had from time to time considered those two possible results of death. The biggest problem he had at the moment with Julien’s discourse on it being a door was that Julien had made no distinction between those who’d led good lives and those who hadn’t. If killers and their victims went through the same door to a wondrous new existence, where was justice in that? Julien’s view on death needed work.
He looked at Leona to see her reaction to what Julien had said.
“Julien’s IQ is 156,” she said. “That’s considered by some to mean he’s a genius. If that’s what he thinks, I do too.”
All this was not good news for what Broussard was about to tell them. Of course, if Julien was a genius he’d already figured out what was coming. “Whoever’s responsible for these deaths seems to be intent on eliminating everyone in the direct lineage leading from your father to your granddaughter.”
“Which means I’m now in danger,” Julien said.
“That’s right. And so is Leona, only because she may become collateral damage when the killer tries to get at you.”
“Like what happened to Paul when the creature went after Acadia,” Julien said. “Do the police have any suspects?”
“Several, but right now no arrests are imminent.”
“What’s the motive?”
“We have no idea.”
“I get the feeling you’re about to give us some advice.”
“Go away somewhere until the killer is caught.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, somewhere you’re not known. The police here can’t protect you. The best thing you can do is disappear for a while.”
“We have a funeral . . . actually now three funerals to arrange.”
“Betty and her parents can wait. There are ways to keep them . . . until the time is right.”
“It seems to be a universal belief that self-preservation is a person’s primary function,” Julien said. “But in the big picture, once someone passes reproductive age, they are of no value to the species. That’s why so many diseases appear in women after menopause. And even though men can still make sperm into later life, a high percentage of those spermatozoa are faulty. It’s no great loss to the species for disease to take older men as well.”
“You don’t care if you live or die?”
“Maybe the door leads to a better existence.”
Broussard looked at Leona. “Does he speak for you on this too?”
“I don’t want to die, but if Julien believes we shouldn’t hide, I’ll stay with him.”
“I think you’re both nuts.”
“Read the neurosurgeon’s book,” Julien said.
“Okay, you won’t hide, but let me ask, do you know of anyone who hates the family enough to be doin’ this?”
“Any other ideas?”
Julien shook his head.
Broussard looked at Leona, who did the same thing.
“The police need to contact Paul’s next of kin,” Broussard said. “Do you know who they should call?”
“I believe we can help you with that.” Julien said.
As Broussard headed back to the morgue after talking with Leona and Julien, he thought about The Tall Stranger, the Louis L’Amour western he was reading at home for at least the sixth time. He loved L’Amour’s stories for their moral clarity. In the land of L’Amour, there was no ambiguity, dead was dead, no talk of walls and doors. And evil got what it deserved.
In that story Morton Harper tries to trick a wagon train into heading west along a route that will bring them into danger. Rock Bannon warns them about the route and about Harper’s motives. But like Julien, no one listens. And people die.
Julien wanted him to read the neurosurgeon’s book. Maybe he should have struck a deal, got Julien to read about Morton Harper. Surely being a genius he’d have seen the point.
Chapter 27
Kit had high hopes the paper carrier would have seen the killer’s vehicle in the Bergeron’s driveway, but her optimism had been crushed by the carrier not even remembering how many cars had been in the drive. His lack of awareness most likely had something to do with the smell of pot that enveloped him like a cocoon even though he wasn’t smoking it when they’d talked.
Nor had any of the Bergeron’s neighbors noticed a strange vehicle in the drive. So as she headed for home via the garage on Dauphine Street, she felt useless and spent. At the garage she paused for a moment to admire the new burglar bars on the windows, a respite that gave her a brief moment of satisfaction in an otherwise frustrating day. And of course, she’d also found a hand car wash that was able to clean the magic marker writing off her hood. Whoopee.
She opened the garage door, drove inside, and parked. As the door closed, her phone rang. It was Teddy.
Assassination at Bayou Sauvage Page 15