Too Far Gone

by John Ramsey Miller

  “He bent?”

  “Bent? Oh.” Manseur shrugged. “More than some, less than others. He was a detective and…” Manseur turned his sad eyes to hers. “New Orleans has all kinds of people in it. Some rich.”

  “Expensive, is he?”

  “People Decell works for don’t complain about price when the work gets the results they want. He’s got a pretty big operation, with lots of licensed investigators. Some were cops, some weren’t. He’s well connected.”

  “As in, to the mob?”

  Manseur shrugged. “As in, to lawyers, prosecutors, police officials, politicians, and the like. Around here more people go to prison for doing other people favors than for stealing cars. ‘Do me one’ is a way of life. A friend will help you move across town today, and in return he might ask you to help him move a body across town.”

  Alexa laughed. Then she said, “The murderer was a twenty-one-year-old woman. Why did she kill them?”

  “She was crazy. It was a long time ago. The reasons for things that happen here aren’t always written down accurately. Most people on the job in New Orleans could teach a creative writing course. Back when that report was written, our detectives wrote more fiction than Anne Rice.”

  “That still the case?”

  “I wouldn’t know for sure, naturally.”

  Alexa went over to Manseur’s computer, and within seconds she had the LePointe murders’ media coverage on the screen. “Says here that Sibhon Danielson was a paranoid schizophrenic. Committed to a state facility for the criminally insane.”

  “She went by ‘Sibby,’” Manseur said.

  “Maybe it’s just me, but I find it an odd coincidence that Dr. LePointe, the brother and brother-in-law of the victims, is a psychiatrist who’s an expert on criminal psychology. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “I find it an interesting coincidence,” Manseur said. “But in New Orleans, painting your privates blue and dancing in the street with a bottle in your hand while people file past isn’t considered noteworthy. Curry LePointe was the star of that family. William was smart, but without the charisma and personality his big brother Curry had.”

  Alexa said, “I wonder if there was any connection between our psychopath and Dr. LePointe before the murders. But I guess, however interesting all this is, the question for us is whether we waste valuable time chasing down twenty-six-year-old murder information.”

  “I doubt this has anything to do with finding Gary West. It’s a sidetrack of the investigation at best. And I’m not writing a book or investigating for some cold-case television show,” Manseur said.

  “Seeing that we’re talking about Dr. LePointe—the number-one philanthropist and authority on mental defectives—the LePointe murders are best left to historians?”

  “You’re catching on,” Manseur said, chuckling. “Let the big sleeping dogs lie if and when possible.”

  “You’re not going to be any fun,” Alexa said.

  At that moment Manseur’s office door flew open and Jackson Evans strode in stiffly with a grim expression on his face.

  “I need a progress report,” he said, crossing his arms.

  Manseur gave him a quick rundown of the physical evidence they’d collected. He explained that neither the canvass of the area near the Volvo nor the waitress’s interview had produced anything helpful.

  “You’re the big-deal expert, Alexa,” Evans said. “Is Gary West dead or alive?”

  “I’d say the odds that he is alive depend directly on who has him—”

  “If anyone does have him,” Evans interrupted.

  “And why they have him. If Gary was the victim of a road-rage incident, he could be dead or seriously injured and lying in a backyard or a ditch nearby. If it was a murder for hire or some other reason, like revenge, he’d have likely been left in the Volvo.”

  “Unless they didn’t want a body found,” Manseur added.

  “If he was taken out of the car alive, it means there was a reason to go to the trouble and risk being seen grabbing him. Hopefully he’s still alive. If so, the most likely reason for that is because he’s been kidnapped for ransom. In that case, he might live through it, depending on several factors.”

  “Like?” Evans demanded.

  “The odds of us retrieving him alive—if he doesn’t know his kidnappers’ identities, and if a ransom is demanded and paid—may be as high as eighty percent.”

  “It’s still possible he staged it,” Evans said.

  “It took some concerted effort if he did,” Manseur said.

  Alexa said, “In my experience, people rarely beat themselves in the head. Maybe fingerprint evidence from the Volvo will give us a perp, but I don’t think it will. If West was kidnapped, I seriously doubt the person who did it was some disorganized, naked-fingered, liquored-up, or cracked-out thug.”

  “Naked-fingered? Is that FBI terminology?” Evans asked sarcastically.

  “It’s the latest in hot Bureau-speak,” she said without missing a beat.

  Jackson Evans looked down at the open evidence box on the table beside him and turned his head so he could read the writing on the flap. “The LePointe murders? What’s this, Michael?”

  “First thing this morning the media requested the LePointe homicides’ file from seventy-nine,” Manseur said. “So I had them delivered here so I could see what was in them the press might be interested in.”

  “The twenty-fifth anniversary of the murders,” Evans said, quickly, “so maybe they’re just looking into it for some prurient media reason.”

  “Could be,” Manseur agreed.

  “My math sucks,” Alexa said, “but the twenty-fifth anniversary was last year. And it occurred in July, not August. Timing’s wrong.”

  “Good move, grabbing the files. You find anything interesting?” Evans asked Manseur, ignoring Alexa.

  “No, but the media sure will,” Alexa said.

  “Like…?”

  “Like what isn’t there,” she said. “That box is like an Egyptian tomb that has been pilfered until all that’s left inside is a few old bones scattered about. The media gets their hands on that box, there’s a bigger story in the missing items than there would have been if it were complete.”

  “What happened to the rest of it?” Evans asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Manseur said.

  “Who had access to it last?” Evans asked.

  Manseur picked up the phone and dialed the evidence morgue.

  “Percy, did you inventory the contents of that evidence box you sent me? Read me the sheet.” Manseur took out a pen and made notes as he listened. “Okay, and can you check and see who checked out the box last and what the inventory sheet said was in it when it was last checked out? You find that out for me?” He covered the receiver with a hand. “We got what was in it when he sent it to me.”

  Thirty seconds later Manseur grew alert as Percy found the list. “Yes. Okay.” Manseur scribbled as he listened, thanked the evidence clerk, and hung up. “File was last checked out by Harvey Suggs, nine years ago. According to the paperwork, it was inventoried by the clerk last time it was checked out. The original list had a meat cleaver, fingerprint cards on Danielson, the interviews conducted, Sibby Danielson’s psychiatric evaluation, the autopsy report, and transcripts from the sanity hearing, as well as Kenneth Decell’s incident report.”

  “Okay,” Evans said, sourly. “Let’s concentrate on locating Gary West. I spoke to Dr. LePointe thirty minutes ago and there’s been no ransom demand.” He focused on Alexa. “I mentioned your assistance was continuing and he seemed genuinely surprised.”

  “He had to have called Director Bender to get me on board,” Alexa said.

  “I don’t think so,” Evans replied. “Anyway, you two keep me posted. I don’t want to get blindsided here. Not like I don’t have other things to keep me occupied. They expect me to deal with evacuation plans, scheduling officers, and making sure of a million things key to survival of thousa
nds and thousands, not just one rich brat who’s probably on a bender. If West was beat up, it was probably by some crackhead or pimp. We’re facing a potential disaster of biblical proportions if this hurricane does what the experts say. You find Gary West and I’ll handle everything else.”

  “Gary West is no substance abuser,” Alexa said, her anger rising. “From everything we’ve learned, he has never shown any side but that of loving and dedicated husband and father.”

  Manseur nodded. “That’s a fact, sir.”

  Evans ignored their words, flipped open his cell phone, and swept from the room as suddenly as he had come in, not bothering to close the door behind him. Alexa saw a phalanx of his staff clustered out in the open area, awaiting their leader.

  “Sisyphus,” Alexa muttered.

  “What?” Manseur asked.

  “Mythology. Evans is pushing a giant ball of crap up the mountain so he can roll it down on us.”

  “If Dr. LePointe didn’t call your director, who the hell did?” Manseur asked.

  “The only other person I know of who has the clout,” Alexa said, smiling to herself. She took her cell phone from her purse and, after consulting the slip of paper Casey had given her in her hotel room, started to dial the private number that was on the card, but stopped. “It’s time to talk to Casey West again. Face-to-face, I think.”

  “You want to handle that end? I’ll go see what the evidence lab staff has got, and meet you later,” Manseur told her. “I’ll have Kennedy drop you off and I can pick you up myself when you’re done. Why didn’t you mention the twenty-five million?”

  “It isn’t my job to keep Evans informed about every little thing, knowing he’ll pass it up the chain. Besides, he has too much on his mind already. What with saving the city from God’s plan and all.”

  22

  The black warden woman had pissed herself in the cabin, but she did what Leland said to do and even grabbed one of the fat warden’s ankles to help Leland move the heavy bastard through the brush over to the boat they’d come to his camp in. The man he’d brought to the camp ought to be dead, but he wasn’t. His head was smashed in where Leland had taken the pipe to him, but he was still breathing, taking in water, and making rattle sounds and gurgling to beat the band.

  “You give your promise you’ll wait here without running off while I load this bastard in y’all’s boat?” Leland asked her.

  “I won’t run off. I promise.”

  Leland knelt, grabbed the warden’s wrists, and lifted him up over his shoulder like a burlap bag filled with grain. Standing, Leland steadied himself under the dead weight.

  “Are you going to…kill me?” the woman asked, her voice breaking, tears running down her cheeks.

  “Of course,” Leland told her. He sure wasn’t going to let her go and tell people how easy it was to sneak into his camp house. Telling lies to people wasn’t something he did if he could help it.

  She started blubbering and shaking. “P-please, p-please. Noooo.”

  “It’s all right. My daddy used to say that dying is just the tail end of living. You do what I tell you and you won’t suffer none. I’m good at making it so it don’t hurt.”

  Leland stepped onto the boat, causing it to rock, and dropped the dead warden’s sorry ass onto the floor. When he turned around, he saw the warden woman had run off. Leland hated liars worse than gar. He shook his head, grabbed his pipe out from inside his belt, and trotted off to catch her.

  “I don’t want to die!” she hollered into the swamp.

  “If you don’t want people to kill you,” he hollered as he ran after her, “stay outta their personal places!”

  23

  Other than saying he’d learned a lot from her talk at the Marriott, Kyler Kennedy didn’t speak to Alexa during most of the long ride to Casey’s house from HQ. She knew the young detective felt slighted because Manseur hadn’t shared what was happening inside the investigation, which he almost certainly had to believe should have been his to run. Alexa was actually thankful he wasn’t making small talk, because she used the heavy silence to think about the case.

  She had requested a Bucar, an official FBI vehicle, from the local FO, and had been assured that one (complete with a GPS mapping system) would be delivered to her at the West residence within the hour. Alexa was also told that the Bureau’s office was being readied for a move out, because the hurricane probably wasn’t going to change course enough to spare New Orleans some serious damage. The decision had been made that nonessential staff and the families of agents were being evacuated from the city the next morning. The office in Baton Rouge would become their temporary HQ until it was safe to return to their offices at the Lakefront in New Orleans.

  Alexa trusted Michael Manseur because Winter Massey vouched for him—not something the ex–U.S. deputy marshal, and Alexa’s dearest friend, did often or lightly. If Massey recommended she trust somebody, she would do so without reservation—but she would also verify periodically just to make sure that trust wasn’t misplaced. It wasn’t that Alexa couldn’t trust people—not exactly. Some people were such good liars and manipulators, though, that you either never knew the truth of them, or didn’t learn their agendas until it was too late. She was 99.9 percent certain that Michael Manseur was every bit as trustworthy as he appeared to be—as Massey believed him to be—but having the GPS would free her to travel independently, so they could work the case much more effectively and require fewer bodies. She certainly didn’t trust anyone else in the New Orleans Police Department.

  As an FBI agent in the field, Alexa sometimes had to ignore her instincts and go in whatever directions her superiors pointed her. Cases she’d worked on had turned out badly because she’d had to follow orders instead of her own instincts. But, as importantly, she had been wrong on a few occasions and had paid a price for letting her opinions or impressions color an investigation. Her superiors didn’t care that nine times out of ten her initial read on people and situations was right. For instance, in child abductions, she could spend ten minutes with the family and know which, if any, of them were lying and therefore hiding something they were ashamed of, or might even be involved in the crime. She wasn’t psychic—didn’t believe in the ability to see through the eyes of dead people or talk to spirits—but sometimes she could stand at a crime scene and see how things had happened with the clarity of a film.

  It is scientific fact that some people have an instinctive ability to detect lies. People can learn to read others with amazing accuracy, because there are scores of facial expressions, eye motions, and facial muscles that act independently and denote a person’s truthfulness in responding to a question with far greater accuracy than either a lie detector or voice-stress analysis. Professors at Duke University who were studying human ability to detect deceit agreed that Alexa Keen was very talented when it came to spotting liars. After she took an advanced course in reading evasion techniques and standard facial tics, she was even better.

  Knowing when people are lying is a blessing and a curse. In any event, hunches were not admissible in court, or valid cause for a search warrant.

  Kyler Kennedy pulled up out front of the Wests’ home. “You want me to come in with you?” he asked, violating his silence. “Mrs. West knows me, feels comfortable with me since I’ve interviewed her already.”

  “Thanks, but this needs to be a girl-to-girl thing,” Alexa said as she climbed from the car, taking her shoulder bag with her.

  She closed the door and Kennedy roared off down the street like a teenager who’d just been jilted. Alexa walked to the gate, which was opened by a man built like a professional boxer. He locked his intense eyes on her. “May I help you?” he asked, but his body language said that being accommodating was dead last on his list of things he wanted to do.

  Alexa reached into her purse, which caused the man to slip his hand deeper inside his jacket, until she pulled out her badge case. He scrutinized her FBI identification and stepped aside, saying, “Mrs.
West is expecting you.” Alexa wondered what the man would have done if she had come out with her Glock instead of her badge. There was no way he could have drawn his gun before Alexa had blown his heart out. Standing so close, he should have kept his right hand free so he could use it to disarm her, were she so inclined to pull a weapon.

  Grace, Casey’s assistant and best friend from childhood, opened the front door. “Casey’s taking a shower. She didn’t sleep at all. She thought she looked terrible. Like that’s possible.”

  Deana trotted up the hall, hugged Grace’s leg, and, sticking out her bottom lip, peered up at Alexa.

  “Hello, Deana,” Alexa said, smiling.

  “She’s acting out because of the thing. Come on back to the den,” Grace said, leading the way. Deana took off, running ahead of them, but Grace scooped her up and held her to her side as the child squealed and kicked violently to free herself.

  “Me-do-ee!” she protested.

  “No, Aunt Grace will help you, Deans. She’s at the age where she wants to do everything herself, like she’s capable. It slows everything to a crawl. Gary spoils her by caving in to her whims. But who am I to say that isn’t how I’d do it?” As they passed by the dining room, Alexa saw a man seated at the table with a tape-recording device in front of him. Grace said, “He’s monitoring the phone in case there’s a ransom demand.” The man looked up from the magazine he was reading and stared at Alexa as she went by. “Casey told me she went to see you at your hotel. We are absolutely thrilled you’re on the case. Casey says she can’t live without Gary, and if anything has happened to him, I’m afraid of what she’ll do to herself.”

  Alexa sat on the sleek Italian leather sofa. The coffee table was a long slab of rose-colored hardwood with several lighter wood butterflies to keep the cracks from enlarging. Alexa couldn’t remember the maker’s Japanese name, but she knew he had worked in a studio in the Pacific Northwest and his work was very collectable and valuable. Alexa was familiar with the Avedon image of Andy Warhol’s scarred torso. In the picture Warhol’s hand held up his black leather jacket to allow Richard Avedon’s view camera to capture the damage to his chest that a psychotic woman inflicted by shooting him several times point-blank for not making her a movie star, or some imagined slight. The Frankenstein-like stitching on the lily-white torso—this one enlarged to four-by-five feet, and framed by black lacquered wood—was a visual jackhammer that dominated the warm, sunlit room like a rogue elephant.