by Tami Hoag
“You should ask Uncle Remy if he might do tai chi with you some time when you stay over,” she suggested. “You could teach him how, like Papa teaches you.”
“Uncle Remy says he doesn’t bend that way.”
Annie smiled at that. Remy had gone to LSU on a football scholarship back when. At forty-two, he was still built like the corner mailbox: square and stout.
“He said Tante Danielle tried to make him do yoga once and he got stuck and couldn’t get up from the floor. Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a pretty funny story, isn’t it?”
“He said she had to call the fire department to get him up. I don’t think that’s true,” he said, shaking his head.
“You think Uncle Remy was pulling your leg?”
“Uh-huh.”
Annie hit her turn signal and pulled into the parking lot of the elementary school. It was early. The teachers and administrators had arrived, but the buses were still on their routes, picking up students. Only a few kids were on the playground, getting in an early round on the swings and monkey bars.
Justin looked up, peered out the side window, and then turned to Annie, looking betrayed.
“I don’t wanna go to school! I wanna go home!”
Annie sighed. The last thing she wanted was a fight. She had gone directly from the crime scene to pick him up rather than taking Remy up on his offer to drop Justin off when he dropped off his daughter, Gracie, who was in fourth grade. Justin had been clingy and needy of late, and she didn’t want to give him a reason to feel insecure. Despite the sometimes odd hours and demands of her job and Nick’s, they both insisted on keeping their son’s life as normal as possible.
“Justin, you’re a big boy now. You go to kindergarten.”
Tears welled up in his big dark eyes. His full lower lip began to quiver. “I don’t want to! I want to go fishing with Papa!”
“Papa can’t go fishing today. He’s working. And you’re going to school.”
“You’re mean!”
The tears came in earnest then, an honest-to-goodness sobbing tantrum. He banged his Captain America toy on the door and then threw it at her, hitting her in a glancing blow off the chin.
Annie gasped. “Justin Fourcade!”
She turned off the car, got out, and stormed around the hood to the back passenger side. She threw open the door and grabbed hold of her son with both hands on his little shoulders. “You stop this right now! This minute!”
Justin wailed and twisted, kicking out with both feet.
Annie let go of him and stepped back, at a loss. She couldn’t keep him home if she wanted to. She had a job to do. And she had no intention of letting a five-year-old set a precedent for not going to school because he simply didn’t want to.
Red-faced, he wailed and kicked and pounded his fists. She watched him with a rising sense of frustration. Tears rushing up inside her like a sudden tsunami. She pressed her hands to her face as if to push them back inside. She closed her eyes so tight colors burst like fireworks behind her eyelids. Then came the memory of the small body on the stretcher being wheeled through Genevieve Gauthier’s living room and the memory of the photographs Nick had taken of the scene—KJ Gauthier lying dead on the floor of his bedroom in a pool of his own blood; a small, broken body in Spider-Man pajamas just like Justin’s.
Genevieve Gauthier would never have another argument with her son about going to school. She would never again get to feel the frustration of being a parent. Someone had stabbed her son to death. His body was lying in the morgue at Our Lady, down the hall from where she lay in bed, cut and battered from trying to save him.
The emotions that came with those thoughts tore out of Annie on a sob. She tried to catch it with a hand over her mouth.
“Maman? Maman! D-d-don’t c-c-cry!”
Justin’s small, shaky voice seemed to come from far away. She opened her eyes and swiped away the tears with her fingers, focusing on her son. He had given up on his tantrum. The expression he wore now was one of fear and uncertainty.
“Maman!” He reached out for her, trapped in his booster seat.
She went to him, sniffing back the last of her own tears, her hands fumbling to unbuckle his seatbelt. He scrambled free and into her arms, clinging to her like a monkey.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, holding him tight, rubbing his back. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. Maman is just tired, that’s all. Everything is all right.”
It took her another ten minutes of reassurance and a promise of extra television time to talk him around to thinking he could go to school and have fun with his friends while Maman and Papa did their jobs. The buses had begun to arrive in front of the school. The minivans and station wagons of carpool kids were pulling up to the side entrance.
Annie walked him to his classroom and was instantly forgotten when he saw his friend Sawyer playing with a giant stuffed dinosaur on the far side of the room. After a few words with his teacher, she made her way down the hall to the girls’ bathroom, ducked into a stall, and threw up. She was tired, and her head was pounding from too much coffee, too little sleep, and too much stress. She would have given anything for a few hours to close her eyes and regroup, but time was a luxury she didn’t have. She had to just pull herself together and march on.
The bathroom sinks were so low she felt like a giant trying to wash her hands and splash some water on her face and rinse out her mouth. The place hadn’t changed at all since she had attended school here when she was a child—the same sexist pink subway tile on the walls, the same pink sinks and toilets. The color should have given her reflection a healthy glow, she thought as she looked at herself in the mirror. It didn’t.
She wet a paper towel with cold water and pressed it to her face for a moment, composing herself. She needed to pull it together and figuratively change hats, set aside her emotions and concerns as a mother, and—presto-change-o!—become a detective again.
Wading through a sea of noisy children, she made her way to the school office and asked to see the principal. The receptionist’s drawn-on eyebrows scaled her forehead when Annie showed her badge and said she was on official business. The young woman disappeared down the hallway and came back a moment later.
“She’ll see you now,” she murmured, as if they were in a library.
“Thank you.” Annie mouthed the words, moving past her.
Pamela Samuels Young greeted her at her office door, effortlessly elegant in a figure-skimming mustard skirt and a crisp white cotton blouse. Pamela was one of those women who was always put together—perfectly accessorized, perfectly made up, her kinky, curly black hair piled artfully on her head. It would have been nauseating if she hadn’t been a friend.
“Sheriff’s business?” she said, a bright smile lighting her face as she invited Annie in with a sweep of her arm. “I hope that’s not as ominous as it sounds.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Annie confessed.
The principal’s smile faded into a look of concern. “You’re serious,” she said. Her gaze swept over Annie from head to toe like a spotlight. “Girl, you look like hell.”
“Thanks. This is what the glamorous life of the sheriff’s detective gets me,” Annie said, sinking down into one of the two visitor’s chairs in front of the desk. She covered a massive yawn and ran her hands back through her hair. “I’ve been up all night working a murder.”
“A murder?” Pamela repeated. She went behind her desk and sat down, pressing her hands down on her spotless blotter as if to balance herself. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Please tell me it’s not one of my teachers.”
“Not a teacher. A student.”
“No. A child? No, that can’t be.” She shook her head, trying to dismiss the notion.
“KJ Gauthier.”
Pamela’s brow furrowed slightly. “Tha
t name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“His mother is Genevieve Gauthier. They’re fairly new to the area. The boy was seven, nearly eight. That should make him a second-grader, right?”
The principal turned to her computer and brought it to life with a wiggle of the mouse. “You said Gauthier? G-a-u-t-h-i-e-r?”
“Yes. KJ. I don’t know what the initials stand for.”
The principal stared at the screen as she clicked purposefully through commands. She wanted to look and not find a student by that name, Annie knew. She wanted this to be some kind of misunderstanding. No one would want this news to be true.
Annie glanced around the office, taking in the neatness and normalcy and order—the small bouquet of fresh flowers on the credenza, the framed photographs in the bookcase: Pamela’s nieces and nephews, and a picture of her parents when they were young and beaming with happiness. She had no children herself. Her marriage was in the past tense. But she had dedicated her life to children, to shaping their futures through education. She was a motivator, a goal achiever. Stenciled on the wall behind her desk was her motto: Dreams Don’t Work Unless You Do.
She sat up a little straighter in her chair, as if something on the computer screen had startled her.
“Oh. Here he is,” she said with a mix of reluctance and dread. “Second grade. Jaime Blynn’s class. He transferred here from Grand Caillou Elementary, Terrebonne Parish school district.”
She turned back to Annie. “I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t met his mother. She should have been at the orientation for new families, but she must have been a no-show. She should have gotten a letter and an email asking her to call and schedule an appointment for a one-on-one, but it hasn’t happened. And now you’re telling me this boy is dead?” she said. “Murdered? How can that be? What about the mother? Is she—?” Her eyes widened. “She didn’t—”
“She’s in the hospital,” Annie said. “She managed to run for help. I can’t go into a lot of detail at this point, but it sounds like some kind of home invasion situation.”
“Oh, my God. Here? In our community?”
As if violence here was inconceivable. Decent people were always shocked to learn bad things could happen within the boundaries of their quiet lives. Violence was something that happened to other people, rougher people, people who lived on the other side of town, people who tempted fate. Violence was a petty drug deal gone bad, a thug beating up his girlfriend, a brawl at Mouton’s, the bar down on Bayou Noir south of Luck, where troublemakers went to practice their avocations.
“They live just outside of town,” Annie added. Like knowing this had happened outside the city limits might somehow be a comfort.
“We’ll have to tell the children—all the children, but his classmates first,” Pamela said, her organized mind doing what came naturally in a time of crisis. “They’re so young. They shouldn’t have to know what it is to lose a friend to death. We should bring in a counselor.”
“The victim assistance coordinator at the district attorney’s office can help you with that,” Annie said. “Actually, Jaime has done some work with their office in the past. You know she volunteers with the court-appointed special advocates group.”
“Yes. We have resources within the state school system as well.”
“I’ll need to speak with Jaime now,” Annie said. “The sooner we can start filling in details on this family, the better.”
“Of course.”
The bell rang loudly as they walked out of the office and down the hall. Locker doors banged up and down the corridor. The cacophony of children’s voices rose in a final crescendo as they hurried to their classrooms. In an instant the hall was empty, the noise shut behind the classroom doors.
Jaime Blynn’s second-grade room was designated by a large, glittery purple-and-gold 2B held up by a cutout of the school mascot, a grinning, dancing cartoon alligator, taped to the door. With big bright eyes and a toothy smile, Gilbert the Gator beckoned children to come into the classroom and have fun learning.
Fun would not be on the curriculum today.
Pamela stuck her head inside the classroom and motioned for the teacher to join them in the hall.
“Good morning!” Jaime Blynn greeted them in an animated whisper, her face bright with good cheer as she slipped out the door, not quite shutting it behind her. “Annie, hi! What are you doing here?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Annie said softly. “Your student KJ Gauthier passed away last night.”
The teacher looked from Annie to the principal, back and forth, her expression crumbling. “What? What did you say?”
“It seems there was a break-in at their home last night. KJ was killed.”
“Killed?” she repeated, as if the word was foreign to her even as her brown eyes flooded with tears. She pressed a hand across her mouth to keep from crying out.
Pamela placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to step in and sit with your class. You go with Annie. She has some questions for you.
“Use my office if you like,” she offered Annie.
“I-I need some air,” the teacher said breathlessly.
Annie hustled to keep up with her as she rushed for the nearest exit. She pushed open a door and flung herself out into a small courtyard off the administration offices, gasping in a lungful of the thick damp air, and then another, and another.
“Jaime, sit down,” Annie said, taking hold of her arm and steering her toward an iron-scrollwork bench. “You’re hyperventilating.”
“I feel sick.”
She sank down onto the bench, curling into a seated variation of the fetal position for a moment. Annie sat beside her, resting a hand on her back, feeling the tremors of emotion going through her.
“I’m sorry, Jaime. I know it’s a shock. There’s just no good way to deliver this kind of news.”
“I saw him just yesterday,” the teacher said, sitting up a little, her forearms resting on her thighs. “You’re telling me someone killed him last night?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“But he’s just a little boy! Why? Oh, what am I saying?” she murmured, shaking her head. “People do terrible things to children every day. We both know that.”
She had seen it firsthand for herself, volunteering as a special advocate for children in the court system, working with children who had been abused and neglected. Somehow she had managed not to become hardened to it or burned out by it. Children were her life—the children she advocated for, the children she taught, and her own two little boys, Sawyer and Jax.
“You don’t usually know the victims personally,” Annie said. “At least not until after the fact.”
“That’s true.” Jaime sighed. Her hands were trembling as she swept back her straight blond hair, tucking it behind her ears. She pressed them on her lap, smoothing the fabric of her long, flowy cotton skirt that was sprigged with tiny yellow flowers. “Oh, KJ . . . I’m so, so sorry . . .”
They sat in silence for a moment. The courtyard was a small oasis of garden and grass with a sweet olive tree in the center. It was a quiet spot for teachers and staff to get away on their break time. Annie focused on a statue of a winged fairy reading a book beneath the tree. Birdsong filled the silence.
Jaime wiped the tears from her cheeks and worked to compose herself. She was a tiny thing—five-three and petite, but fit and strong. Annie knew her to be a competitive runner. They ran together with a group of women that met Thursday nights after work. Jaime was always with the serious runners at the front. Annie hung around mid-pack, hating every step. Jaime ran because she loved it. Annie ran because she might have to chase a criminal or run to save her own life. As far as Annie was concerned, the best part of the evening was when they arrived at Frenchman’s Landing for a glass of wine and a light dinner on the patio.
“What happened?�
�� Jaime asked at last.
“We’re trying to put the story together now.”
“What about his mother—Genevieve?”
“She’s at Our Lady. She was wounded but managed to run for help. Do you know her?”
“I’ve met her. Genevieve. Such a pretty name, the way she pronounces it. I don’t know her. I sat down with her the first week of school to talk about KJ.”
“What was he like?”
“Oh, he’s a sweet little boy, but he struggles—struggled—with ADHD. That can be so trying, especially with the young ones. They don’t understand why they feel the way they do, and they don’t understand how to control their feelings.”
“Was he on medication?”
“No. Genevieve didn’t have insurance when she came here, and she had only just started a job that would provide insurance. It hadn’t kicked in yet.”
“Where does she work?”
“Evangeline Oaks—the assisted-living facility. I believe she said she has an aunt living there.”
“What was your impression of her?”
She gave a little shrug. “Harried. A little bit at the end of her rope. Typical poor single mom, I would say—not enough resources, no help, run ragged. Plus she was dealing with a hyperactive child. That’s tough.”
“Did you get the impression there was a daddy involved at all?”
“No. She didn’t have anything to say about KJ’s father other than that he isn’t in the picture. Maybe she doesn’t know who he is.”
“You mean maybe that’s a multiple-choice question?”