Assassination at Bayou Sauvage

by D. J. Donaldson

  “Do you need an ambulance?” he said, softly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What all did they do to you?”

  “Hit me with a stun gun and kicked me in the ribs a couple times.”

  “You’re obviously coherent. If your ribs aren’t broken, you probably don’t need an ambulance. I’ve had broken ribs and I know what to look for, but I’ll have to touch you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  LeBlanc straddled her, put his rough hands under her T-shirt, and carefully ran his fingers over her ribs. Gentle as he was, even that hurt.

  “I don’t feel any bulges,” he said. “So my opinion is . . . no breaks. But hey, I’m just a workin’ stiff. What do you think, ambulance or not?”

  “No ambulance.”

  LeBlanc stood and held out both hands. “Ready to get up?”

  Kit nodded and grabbed on. With LeBlanc’s help she sat up, the effort sending a barrage of 911 calls to her brain.

  “All the way?” he asked.

  Kit nodded and he pulled her to her feet, where she kept hold of his hands, waiting for her shaky legs to calm down and the fresh bloom of pain in her chest to fade. “I don’t want to spend two hours in an emergency room either. Could you just take me home?”

  “We should call the cops and stay here until they come. Then I’ll take you.”

  Kit didn’t want to hang around, but the bastards had Fletcher. She had to do all she could to help him. And that meant doing what LeBlanc said. “I agree.”

  “I’ll call,” he said, still holding both her hands. “Okay for me to let go?”

  Her legs felt stronger now and the pain from being kicked had subsided to rhythmic jolts only when she inhaled. Nodding in answer to his question, she withdrew her hands.

  While LeBlanc got on his phone, Kit began to feel a throbbing sensation in her knees. Looking down, she saw bloody scrapes on both of them.

  “They’re on the way,” LeBlanc said. “Stay right there.”

  He took a few steps toward Royal Street and scooped up her Ladysmith. Returning to her side he held it out to her.

  Fully aware that the principles of crime scene analysis dictated that the gun should have remained where it had fallen, Kit found that she didn’t really care. She just wanted it back. So she took it, offered her thanks, and shoved it into her jogging holster. Then she looked to see what had caught her foot and made her fall.

  A few feet back in the direction she’d come, she saw a black rope lying across the pavement, one end tied to the base of an ornate street lamp next to the cathedral, the other lying free just inside the entrance to Cabildo Alley. Now the whole plan became clear. Fletcher had been the bait, drawing her attention upward to keep her from seeing the rope.

  “C’mon,” LeBlanc said. “Let’s wait in my truck.”

  He ushered her back to Royal Street, past a couple of gawkers, and into the passenger side of his truck, which was parked at the curb.

  When LeBlanc was seated behind the wheel, Kit said, “How did you know what was going on?”

  “I saw this guy with a mask holdin’ a dog, like he was showin’ it to someone in the alley, then he took off. It seemed so odd, I just looked down the alley as I was passin’. I didn’t know it was you, but it was clearly somebody needin’ help.”

  “Lucky for me you were here.”

  “I was takin’ some lumber to the job at your place. I know the rules are no work until 8:30, but I wasn’t gonna actually do anything noisy this early, just deliver.”

  “You don’t owe me any explanation,” Kit said.

  “The masks those guys were wearin’ . . . I saw one just like it in the trash at your place.”

  He paused, his comment obviously an invitation for her to explain why that should be.

  “There’s a lot to that story, and I don’t feel like telling it right now.”

  “I understand.”

  It took about 15 minutes for the cops to get there and another five for Kit to tell them what happened. Then LeBlanc drove her home.

  When they reached her courtyard door, there were no legal parking places available nearby. LeBlanc pulled to the curb on the illegal side of the street and got out. He came around, helped her down, and saw her to the door, where she said, “I can make it. You go ahead and drop off the materials you brought.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I am.”

  While LeBlanc went back to the truck, Kit let herself in and slowly walked through the wisteria-topped passageway, the pain in her ribs and the knowledge that Fletcher would not be there to greet her, making each step a vexing ordeal.

  Finally, she reached the opening to the courtyard. Dreading the moment when she would see the empty enclosure where Fletcher always waited for her appearance with his tail and ears standing straight up and his mouth open in anticipation, she paused to get control of her emotions. Then she stepped around the corner, and . . . there was Fletcher, perfectly normal and safe.

  Chapter 36

  “How you feelin?” Broussard asked, looking down at Kit lying on her sofa.

  “Stupid,” she replied, gingerly repositioning a bag of frozen peas on her left ribs and another on her right side. “To keep from being predictable, I’ve been thinking I shouldn’t go the same route every day when I jog. But I like that way. I didn’t want to change it.”

  “I have to say I feel responsible for this,” Gatlin said, standing beside Broussard.

  “Please stop hovering,” Kit said. “Sit down.”

  Broussard headed for the big upholstered armchair she’d bought just for him when she’d first moved in. It was the first time she’d needed it. As soon as the old pathologist’s rear hit the cushion, Fletcher jumped into his lap.

  Embarrassed, Kit shouted, “Down boy.” It not only hurt to move, it hurt more to shout.

  “He’s fine,” Broussard said, scratching Fletcher’s chest.

  Gatlin sat in the narrower version of Broussard’s chair.

  “Can I get you anything?” Teddy LaBiche said. He’d arrived ten minutes earlier, setting out from Bayou Coteau right after Kit had called him and explained what had happened. He’d made the trip so fast his shadow was still trying to catch up.

  Outside, the LeBlancs were doing a lot of sawing, which made conversation difficult.

  Broussard and Gatlin both waved off Teddy’s offer of something to drink. With nothing for him to do, Teddy pulled a chair over from the counter between the kitchen and the living room and joined the group.

  “I should share some of the responsibility for what happened,” Broussard said. “I didn’t have to let you work for Philip.”

  “Please, this paternalism is suffocating me.”

  “We’re just sorry you were injured,” Broussard said.

  “Let’s only blame those actually involved. Any progress in finding them?”

  “LeBlanc said you kicked one of them in the crotch,” Gatlin replied. “We’re checking emergency rooms for anyone who came in this morning with injured nuts. So far, nothing.”

  Shifting one bag of peas to another spot, Kit said, “They were all wearing masks like the guy I caught at my gate. So they either know him or he was one of them.”

  “He wasn’t one of them,” Gatlin replied.

  “How do you know?”

  “He spent the night in jail waiting for arraignment this morning on vandalism charges for what he did to your car.”

  “Who is he? I mean I know his name, but where does he fit in?”

  “He’s a cop groupie.”

  “There are male cop groupies?”

  “That’s what I call them. Your guy flunked out of the academy and thinks that by giving you a hard time for filling in, he’ll ingratiate himself with the department and they’ll give him another chance.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Haven’t caught ‘em yet, but probably more of the same.”

  “‘My guy’ as you called him, has to know
who they are.”

  “Soon as I leave here, we’ll be having a talk about that.”

  “Heard anything from ballistics on Karpis’s gun?”

  Gatlin sucked on his teeth. “Not a match.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Lacking good fortune,” Gatlin replied. Then, responding to Kit’s puzzled look, he added, “Replace that with any crude cliché that occurs to you. He could still be our guy. How dumb would he have to be to leave the murder weapon right out in plain sight.”

  “What about Lewis Broussard?”

  “Still in the picture. I need to see him too.”

  “You’ve got a lot to do. I should be helping.”

  Gatlin got out of his chair. “Take it easy for a day or so, then we’ll see.”

  Over in the big chair, Fletcher was licking Broussard’s beard. Seeing Kit watching them, Broussard said, “I want to think he likes me for who I am, but I’m worried it has somethin’ to do with what I had for breakfast.” He stood and gently put Fletcher on the floor. Gesturing to the little dog he said, “If he ever needs references for a job lickin’ folks, let me know.”

  “Thanks for coming by,” Kit said, staying on the sofa. “I’ll be a better hostess next time.”

  Teddy got up and saw them to the door. Before leaving, Gatlin said, “Your courtyard gate wasn’t locked. I’m not comfortable with that. I think the guys who assaulted you now believe they’ve made their point, and we’ll get ‘em pretty quickly, but it still might be a good idea to keep that gate locked.”

  “It’s not practical with the workmen coming and going,” Kit said. “Besides, Teddy’s got his gun and I’ve got mine. Them coming after me up here wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  Gatlin looked at Fletcher. “Too bad your little dog is so friendly. He didn’t even bark at us when we came into the courtyard.”

  “No one has ever been mean to him. He trusts everybody. I think until you catch those guys, I’m going to keep him inside.”

  As the two men left and Teddy shut and locked the door behind them, Fletcher darted for the doggy door to follow them down the steps. But Teddy caught him before he could escape. He carried the animal over to Kit and put him on the floor beside the sofa. “It’s just for a little while, big boy,” Teddy said, rubbing the dog’s snout. “You’ll be able to go outside again very soon.” Teddy then went back to the doggy door and locked it.

  “That was good of them to check on me,” Kit said when Teddy came back to the sofa. “They’re both sweethearts, but don’t ever tell them I said that. Mind if I take a little nap?”

  “Not at all.”

  “What will you do?”

  Teddy shrugged. “Probably go through your lingerie drawer.”

  Despite the continuing whine of sawing from outside, Kit quickly fell into a sound sleep.

  While Kit dozed, Teddy went to her study, sat down at her computer, and accessed his own computer at home. For the next two hours he caught up on his huge backload of e-mail correspondence, much of it involving edits on legal documents involving his real estate holdings throughout the state. Finally finished with all that needed his attention, he tapped into the surveillance cameras around his alligator farm, made sure everything was in order, then wandered back into the living room, where Kit was still asleep. And there was Fletcher, right where Teddy had left him, also sleeping

  While watching Kit’s rhythmic breathing, he noticed that he could now hear it too. Then he realized why. No saw noise. Curious about how work was going next door and wanting to thank Zach LeBlanc for helping Kit, Teddy slipped out of the apartment and headed downstairs.

  Across the courtyard, in front of the wing being renovated, there was a pair of sawhorses with a 4x8 piece of plywood on them. Scattered around the area were many cut-off pieces of plywood and lots of sawdust. On the ground nearby, was a Skilsaw. But no LeBlancs

  From the looks of it, all the outside brickwork on the wing being renovated had already been done. The roof also looked new. Like the wing Kit lived in, there were three apartments down and three up. Currently there were no outside stairs to the second floor. The work being done today must be taking place downstairs.

  Teddy walked over to the site and paused, listening for any noise that would tell him which of the three apartment doors would lead him to somebody. But all was quiet. Guessing, he stepped up on the porch and chose the closest apartment.

  Inside, he found Zach LeBlanc, lying sprawled on the newly installed plywood flooring, blood from his head soaking into the wood.

  Chapter 37

  Broussard knelt and looked closely at LeBlanc’s head, which appeared to have five round holes in it, all delivered from behind. Gently lifting LeBlanc’s head, he saw no penetrating damage in the underlying floor, meaning the slugs that killed him were still inside his skull.

  But there was something peculiar about those holes. Using a gloved finger, he moved a lock of LeBlanc’s hair to the side and played the beam of his penlight onto one of the wounds while he used a Q-tip to remove the clotted blood filling the hole. Just below the surface he saw a dull metallic reflection.

  Of course . . .

  He turned, leaned down, and played the beam of his penlight on the tip of the object that lay on the floor two feet away. And found what he was looking for.

  Grunting at the effort, Broussard stood up. “Never saw it comin’,” he said to Gatlin. “Makes me think he was kneelin’ when it happened.”

  “No shell casings anywhere, so it wasn’t a semi auto.”

  “Not unless it shot nails.”

  Gatlin looked shocked. “You got to be kidding.”

  “Yeah, I’m a great kidder at crime scenes.”

  Gatlin gestured at the nail gun Broussard had just examined. “That one?”

  “Had to be. There’s blood on the tip.”

  From the courtyard they heard a loud voice say, “I’m his son. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  Broussard and Gatlin went outside and walked over to the two patrolmen who were keeping Remy LeBlanc from moving freely. Remy was holding a plastic encased saw blade in one hand and in the other, a takeout bag from Hot Diggity Dog, a restaurant a few blocks down Toulouse. Broussard put his chubby hand on Remy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry son, but your father’s dead.”

  Remy’s eyes widened and began to jitter from side to side. His head soon began to do the same thing. “What happened? He couldn’t have fallen, we were only putting the subfloor down.”

  “Someone shot him in the head with a nailing gun.”

  Remy’s mouth gaped open. “Oh my God. Who would do something like that?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “I gotta see.” Dropping the saw blade, Remy pushed between Broussard and Gatlin and headed for the apartment.

  Fearing that he’d contaminate the crime scene Gatlin went after him. “You have to stay out here.”

  Gatlin caught him at the doorway, where Remy took a quick glance inside, then turned and said. “Are you sure he’s . . . gone? Did you check?”

  “We checked,” Gatlin said, leading him off the porch. When they were both back with Broussard, the old detective said, “You were here with your father this morning?”

  “Until about eleven. We needed a sharper saw blade and didn’t have it in the truck. I went to the shop and got that one.” He pointed at the blade he’d dropped. “On the way back I picked us up some lunch.” He showed them the sack he was still holding. “Dad loved their NOLA dogs, the ones topped with crawfish.” Eyes tearing, he ground his teeth and screamed, “Who would do this?”

  He threw the bag of food into a nearby pile of sand then walked over and kicked the bag. He spun around, dropped his butt into the sand, and sat there, elbows on his folded knees, hands behind his neck.

  Gatlin motioned for the crime scene techs. “The nail gun behind the victim was the murder weapon. Do your thing and get us some prints.”

  Despite her bruised ribs, when
Teddy had told Kit what he’d seen, she’d dragged herself off the sofa and gone down into the courtyard, where she now stood with Teddy and Nolen Boyd, owner of the property. She had a brief verbal exchange with Boyd, then just as she was about to walk over to Broussard and Gatlin, they came her way.

  “There are two surveillance cameras out front,” Kit said to Gatlin “Together, they cover the street in two directions. One of them is sure to have caught the killer as he came into the courtyard.”

  “Exactly what I wanted to talk about,” Gatlin said. He looked at Boyd, who, as usual, was wearing a floral Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops. “Both those cameras in working order?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t vouch for the recorders,” Boyd said, his small mouth a sputtering vent in his mud pot face.

  Boyd was a great photographer, capturing images that created emotion in everyone who viewed them. And that seemed odd to Kit, because from the time she worked for him as a clerk she’d learned that he saw life only through a lens that focused on himself. Right now, she imagined that he was wondering if Zach LeBlanc’s death meant he’d have to find someone else to finish the rear wing renovations. In contrast, because of how kind LeBlanc had been to her that morning when she’d been attacked, Kit felt that she’d lost a friend.

  “Let’s take a look at those recorders,” Gatlin said.

  “We can go in the back entrance,” Boyd said, heading for a small porch covered with a tan awning.

  Gatlin looked over to check on Remy. Seeing that he was now lying on the sand with his eyes closed, Gatlin followed Boyd, Broussard close behind. Figuring that this very much involved her, Kit took Teddy’s arm and they brought up the rear.

  Nolen unlocked the back door and led everyone through a framing workshop into a large storeroom with lots of cardboard boxes on metal shelving. Against the right wall was a long wooden table containing three recorders. Fixed slightly above eye level on the wall behind the table were three flat screen monitors. Two of the monitors were showing real time images of the street. The other displayed the counter out front with the cash register.