Too Far Gone

by John Ramsey Miller

  “It turns out this Gary West thing is nothing, we’ll say good-bye and it’ll all be over. He turns up dead, body’s going to be in my front yard and not in front of the Hoover Building. Kidnapping, and it’s all yours to deal with as you see fit.”

  Alexa nodded.

  “My job is just to sort out facts, solve crimes, and arrest the guilty parties. I don’t get my back-hairs up over things I can’t do anything about. I resent people who think there’s only equal laws for equal people, but that’s how rich people think.” He shrugged sadly and looked very tired as he let his eyes wander over the boxes of files. “Kennedy has over three hundred missing-persons files open at any given time, and he wants to be a Homicide detective, not spend a minute longer than he has to running down kids who ran off from home to go on a smoke-up in the Quarter. This case looks like his shortcut to Homicide. I’ll let him do some busy work for us until he shows me I can’t trust him.”

  “What about Dr. LePointe?”

  “You think he’s behind this, jealousy or whatever the motive might be, and I have to tell you I don’t think that for a minute. Too much to lose for too little gain. Mrs. West herself told you he wouldn’t harm anybody. She knows him better than we do.”

  Alexa looked out the window. “A man like that, if he were involved in something unsavory, might believe he can’t be tied to anything. He probably wouldn’t think anybody is smart enough to get him cornered, or brave enough to take it to the next step.”

  “He’d be about right on that,” Manseur said.

  When the phone buzzed, Manseur reached for it. “Manseur.”

  He listened intently for a few seconds. “When did the call come in? What did you tell them? Hurricane coming and they got time to dig into this? Tell them you’ll have to locate those files in the morgue, and tell them about how it’s a mess to find anything on account of the constant lack of a budget and how we’re trying to put the taxpayers’ money toward fighting crime. Mention all our manpower is trying to protect the citizens while trying to figure out how we can clear the citizens safely out of the city, and keep looters from cleaning out their property. In the meantime, you get the files to me and misplace the reporter’s request form for a couple of days, and she’ll probably forget all about it.” He hung up. “Crap.”

  “What?” Alexa asked.

  “What are the odds? A TV reporter up and decides out of the blue to look into a twenty-six-year-old homicide case before eight o’clock on the morning after Gary West vanishes?”

  “What case?”

  “Casey’s parents. I better look and see what’s in those files before we let the press have access to them. This I will have to pass by Evans.”

  “Casey’s parents’ deaths? You said homicide?”

  “Didn’t I tell you Curry and Rebecca LePointe were murdered? I must have mentioned it when I was telling you about the family.”

  “I think I’d remember.”

  “Twenty-six years back, a psychopath broke into the LePointes’ house and chopped up Curry and Rebecca LePointe in their kitchen with a meat cleaver.”

  “Casey told me they were dead, but she didn’t mention they were murdered.”

  “Probably doesn’t like talking about it. She was there and saw it happen. Patrol got there in time to save Casey. I expect she was four or five at the time.” He shrugged. “Was very big news around here. It’s a stretch there’d be anything from those murders that would help on the West case. But it’s possible they found out about Gary and they’re just digging through whatever they can find. Reporters pay cops for hot leads. It’s possible one of the responding officers or someone there last night when we arrived sold it.”

  “You think one of the people in the loop clued the media?”

  “Possible. Money makes the world go around, but it spins New Orleans like a two-dollar top.”

  There was a rapping on the office door. “Yeah?” Manseur called out.

  Missing Persons Detective Kyler Kennedy stuck his head in, looked at Alexa, then Manseur, and nodded uncertainly.

  “Detective,” Manseur said, cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I need to speak to you privately for a second,” Kennedy said.

  “I’m busy. Tell me what it’s about.”

  “The West case,” Kennedy said.

  “Then you can say it in front of Agent Keen,” Manseur told him. “She’s involved in this.”

  “Patrol just located Gary West’s car,” Kennedy answered. “And West wasn’t in it.”

  17

  Leland Ticholet tied his boat to the pier beside Moody’s store and lifted the wooden crate he’d brought from his cabin. Balanced on his haunches atop a pier post, a gawky young man of indeterminable age who did odd jobs around the dock watched Leland. Without the overalls, ratty T-shirt, and unlaced work boots, Grub might have passed for a very large version of one of the pelicans that often perched in that exact spot, resting and watching for a meal of opportunity between flights.

  “What’s in yur box, Lee-lund?” the boy asked.

  “Rusty old cottonmouth,” Leland said. “’Bout big around as your empty head.”

  “Naw it ain’t, Lee-lund. Tell me what’s really in it.”

  “Tails.”

  “Whut kind of tails is it?”

  “Nutria,” Leland answered just gruffly enough to discourage further conversation. “What else would it be—catfish tails?”

  Grub snorted. “State gives four bucks a tail on swamp rats. How many is it in your box, you reckon?”

  “I reckon forty-one,” Leland said.

  “How much that add up to in money?”

  “Four dollars times forty-one. Figure it up.”

  “Ninety-one dollars,” the boy said, a worried look on his face.

  “I’m lucky they ain’t paying me by your calculations.”

  “How’s that, Lee-lund?”

  “Because you’re a idiot and I’d starve to death on account of it, you scrawny little dog fucker.”

  “Big as you are, you ain’t missed any meals, you…you. Ijit your own self,” Grub hissed, spreading his legs wide apart and freeing his eel-like penis through a ragged hole in his crotch with hands that looked like he’d been working on diesel engines. “Tickle this, Lee-lund Tickle-ay.”

  “It’s Ticholet, you wormy retard.”

  “Lee-lund Teesh-o-lay this, goober-puller.”

  Leland climbed from the boat slowly, lifted up the crate, and lurched suddenly sideways right at the boy, who sprang off the perch and ran guffawing toward the gasoline pumps outside the store.

  “Somebody should gut that little idiot and bait gator hooks with his meat.”

  As he walked up the dock toward the store, Leland Ticholet threw back his head and barked his laughter at the sky.

  18

  New Orleans, like most cities, had far more vehicles on the roads daily than the roads were designed to handle, and New Orleans had far less money than was necessary to maintain them. Even at eight A.M. on a Saturday, the interstate resembled a parking lot. The outbound lanes were packed, the inbound lanes flowed. Manseur explained that normally there was less traffic going east toward the Lakefront, their destination, than into New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina was making a beeline toward a city normally known for its open, welcoming arms. Sometimes open invitations came back to bite you on the ass.

  Manseur drove as fast as he could—moving in and out of the traffic, using the shoulder when necessary, and using his dash light sparingly. He didn’t want to attract any attention to the fact that a plainclothes car was racing to an emergency. Alexa knew that news producers, camera operators, and reporters snooping for stories to fill the airwaves monitored the police, fire, and emergency frequencies, including the restricted tactical ones, which they hacked into. They also encouraged motorists to call in tips, like when they saw blue lights on dashboards. One of the benefits of cellular phones was that any motorist could call the cops from anywhere—a
nd the downside of that was that they allowed any motorist to ring up any of the newsrooms to report police activity. People were helpers or hinderers, depending on whom it was that was dialed and about what.

  Detective Kennedy followed Manseur’s Crown Vic in a nondescript Chevrolet sedan.

  “We should involve Kennedy in a meaningful way,” Manseur told Alexa. “Or appear to be doing so. I don’t want him throwing a wrench in the works, accidentally or intentionally.”

  Manseur turned off Robert E. Lee Boulevard and onto a narrow street where neatly kept houses on small lawns faced one another across the pavement. Two squad cars had sealed off the block and a third waited in front of a Volvo SUV, while a policeman stood at the rear bumper. Manseur stopped thirty feet behind the Volvo, reached over to the glove box, and pressed the trunk release. Alexa stepped out into the gathering early-morning heat as Manseur went back to the open trunk. Kennedy walked over from his car and stood watching silently.

  A uniformed officer built like a pigeon strolled up to Manseur.

  “Sergeant Walker,” Manseur said, “this is Agent Keen with the FBI.”

  “We sealed the scene and left it just like we found it. I called it in over the phone, like we were told to. Looks like it got rear-ended. Doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. I can’t believe shit-birds haven’t found it and taken it for a joyride, or to a strip shop.”

  Manseur reached into his car trunk and removed four surgical gloves from an open box. He handed Alexa a pair, then shoved several evidence bags into the pocket of his suit jacket. He lifted out a 35mm camera and put the strap around his neck.

  “Since it was rear-ended,” Sergeant Walker said, “it’s likely a road-rage incident.”

  “Never know, till you know,” Manseur said. “That’s all, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here. Detective Kennedy, take notes for me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Kennedy took out his notepad, slipped off the rubber band, and flipped the pad open.

  The dismissed policeman walked back to his cruiser, leaned against the trunk, and crossed his arms to watch the process like there wasn’t any other thing in the city needing his attention.

  Manseur lifted the camera to his eye and took a picture of the ground behind the Volvo. “Subject vehicle damage consists of a dented rear door, skinned bumper, and a broken left rear and clear plastic and red turn-lens covers.”

  Alexa noticed shards of broken clear glass before Manseur knelt to take a close-up shot. Using a pair of long tweezers, he collected a half-dozen larger pieces, which he dropped into a clear evidence bag. “Broken headlight fragments,” he said for the record. “Glass, not plastic, and heavy glass.”

  “Taillight lens cover?” Kennedy asked.

  Manseur moved closer to the rear of the Volvo and inspected the damage. “No. I’d say a sealed-beam headlight. It’s real glass. Older vehicle, most likely.”

  Taking out a pocketknife, Manseur used it to scrape flecks of green paint into a clear bag. “Green paint transfer from second vehicle.”

  Alexa took each of the evidence bags from Manseur after he sealed them, and followed him around the Volvo to the driver’s-side door.

  He opened the door carefully so he wouldn’t destroy any print evidence that might be on the handle, and looked inside, using the camera to document the state of the cabin.

  “Air bag’s deployed. Wallet’s on the console.” Manseur leaned in and lifted the open billfold. “Sixty-two dollars, American Express, Shell, Visa, and a MasterCard, all in West’s name. Three pictures of his wife and daughter. Receipts for meals and gasoline, looks like. One blank check, folded.” After dropping the wallet and contents into a bag, he knelt and looked at the floorboard. Lifting something by its edges, he held it so Alexa could see it. “License on the floorboard next to the accelerator pedal.”

  “He took it out of the wallet to exchange information with the other driver,” Alexa said. Of course it could be a road-rage incident, but Alexa doubted it, for a couple of reasons, the most obvious being that Gary West wasn’t there and hadn’t called anybody or turned up.

  In the console and glove box, Manseur found a flashlight, a box of tissues, an owner’s manual, an insurance card, the car registration, maps, and a few receipts.

  Manseur took three pictures of the interior. “Take a look inside, Agent Keen,” he said, stepping back.

  Alexa leaned in without touching anything. She saw the brown specks that dotted the headliner, the passenger seat, the passenger-side window, and the dashboard. They looked like tiny comets. “Blood spatter. Might have happened while he had the license in his hand. That’s most likely why he dropped it.”

  “Gunshot?” Kennedy asked.

  “No,” Alexa said. “Low-velocity impact.”

  “Like he was punched in the nose?”

  “Could be, but I doubt it,” Alexa replied. “More likely a sap of some sort. Something short and heavy.”

  “Why short, or heavy?”

  “Because the apex of the door would have negated use of a long object like a baseball bat or golf club to inflict the injuries that produced the blood spatter.” Alexa turned to inspect the inside of the driver’s door, studying the damaged panel. “This gash in the door is round. A pipe or a wooden club could make a mark like that, but it might be something else that’s round. I’m no expert on blood spatter, but I know enough to say that whatever he was hit with left castoff on the windshield when the perp drew it back, making the scratch on the door panel. Struck at least twice, because there’s splatter in two distinct directions. First one when his head was in one position, the second when it was in a slightly different position. Seat belt probably held him upright.”

  Manseur nodded his agreement. “Air bag must have stunned him. He recovers enough to get his wallet, and then he opens the door, or it was opened for him, and zot. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Make a note for the crime-lab boys to check the patterns real close and see how many times he was struck. Tell them to type the blood in case there’s more than one donor. Perp might have left some of his. Probably not, but you never know until you know. That’s about all we can do out here. Get this vehicle under a tarp, then get it on a flatbed and to the lab. I want it gone over with everything we got to go over it.”

  “And make sure your lab knows we’ll expedite anything they need from my lab,” Alexa added.

  Alexa and Manseur spent several minutes checking around and under the Volvo, while Kennedy followed with his pen’s point hovering over his open notepad.

  Manseur started heading for his car, then turned. “Kyler, I need you to canvass these houses to see if anybody saw anything relevant to the incident. After you do that, go back to HQ and write it all up. And remember, you are to talk to nobody but me about this.”

  After making notes on each evidence bag with a Sharpie marker, Manseur put them all into one large paper bag, which he sealed, labeled with a case number, signed, and dated. Taking a screwdriver from his toolbox, Manseur went back to the Volvo and removed the license plate. Back at his car, he slipped the plate into a paper bag, tossed it in the trunk, and slammed it.

  “This looks bad,” Alexa said.

  “Well, it sure doesn’t look good,” Manseur muttered.

  19

  R&O’s Italian Seafood Restaurant faced shallow Lake Pontchartrain’s sloping levee, a tall earthen wall covered with grass whose job it was to keep the lake’s brackish water in its assigned area. Alexa tried to imagine a wall of water high enough to breach it, and failed.

  Manseur parked on the oyster-shell-covered parking strip, and she followed him into the entrance vestibule. The sky was clear as a bell and the air was beginning to get hot and humid. It was hard to believe a hurricane was hours away.

  “So, you think taking the license plate will keep anybody from knowing who’s missing and likely the victim of foul play?” Alexa asked.

  “I can only hope it gives us a few hours to get a running start on this before the
media begins the circus. Looks like he’s definitely been attacked. Kidnapped, you think?”

  “I hope he was kidnapped. If he wasn’t a target because he’s about to be worth more than a Mexican drug lord, he’s probably starting a worm farm about now. Until we know for sure, it’s still your butt against the fire,” she said, smiling.

  “I’m ready to make some room for you next to the heat whenever you’re ready.”

  “Any ideas on how you’re going to conduct interviews without letting on what the deal is?” Alexa said.

  “How would the FBI handle it?”

  “The FBI would say that Gary West reported his wallet gone and that you’re here just backtracking to see if he left it here, thinking he could have been pickpocketed by someone in the restaurant. That way the FBI could ask if any strangers were lurking outside or came or went at about the same time and get the answers without giving up anything. And the FBI wouldn’t introduce me if you were us, since the Bureau doesn’t normally look for missing personal items.”

  “You reckon these guys would know that?”

  “One would hope so.” She winked at him, and she could have sworn he blushed. Alexa had been told for most of her adult life that she was attractive, even desirable to a lot of men, but ninety percent of the time it was a handicap, because it got in the way of her being taken seriously. Being sexually alluring wasn’t something she had ever consciously desired. In fact, the opposite was true. When men, or sometimes women, came on to her, she shriveled inside and felt threatened. The only time she made an exception was when she was interrogating a person who was attracted to her and didn’t see her so much as a threat to them as a potential bed partner. People with sex on their minds often paid less attention to their constructed lies than they might otherwise.

  The restaurant was surprisingly busy considering that everybody should have been heading out of the city. On the television set there was a satellite view of the storm, which looked like a plate of cotton candy. Alexa couldn’t hear the report, but by reading the word parade at the bottom of the screen she was informed that Katrina was now a category four storm whose winds were roughly the speed of a rail dragster. The projected path had Katrina making her entrance along a line from Alabama to Texas, with the strongest probability of strike being Louisiana. Being a natural cynic, she found it hard to imagine the city actually flooding, given the levees and the massive number of pumping stations. She wondered if it wasn’t some sort of fairy tale dreamed up by authorities, perhaps the Corps of Engineers, to get their hands on a big chunk of federal money to spend to justify their existence. She was sure about one thing: If the city did get hit and the doomsday scenario proved true, only the drunkest, the most uninformed, the dumbest of the dumb, or the poorest and most infirm would be there to make up the casualty figures.