Bad Karma In the Big Easy

by D. J. Donaldson

  Reaching the receptionist, Kit spoke first. “Hello, I’m Dr. Franklyn, from the New Orleans medical examiner’s office.”

  This mention of her affiliation had no effect on the woman. Marshall’s wife must not have called the company and told them what happened. Not wanting to divulge the reason for her visit to someone this low in the corporate hierarchy, Kit phrased her next words carefully. “It’s my understanding that Dr. Jude Marshall works here. Is that correct?”

  The receptionist’s already cold eyes seemed to ice over. “He’s one of the owners, but he’s not in just now.”

  “You said one of the owners. How many are there?”

  “Two.”

  “Who’s the other?”

  “Dr. Quentin Marshall.”

  “Jude’s brother?”

  “I’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

  “Then perhaps you’d tell Dr. Quentin I’d like to speak to him.”

  “He’s very busy today. And these folks are next. They made an appointment before coming.”

  Kit looked at the couple on the sofa. “I’m sorry to ask, but would you mind if I spoke to the doctor very briefly, before he sees you? I know your business with him is extremely important, but I have some information for him that he needs to hear.”

  The husband, a guy wearing the mustache and goatee that seems to be required of men who shave their head as he had, said, “Yeah, I do mind. My son was born with a liver that doesn’t work right. Without Dr. Marshall, he’s not going to grow up. He’ll die. Is your business here more important than that?”

  His wife, an attractive blonde with her short hair swept back from a face that showed the strain of their child’s condition, put her hand on her husband’s arm. In a gentle voice, she said, “They’re not going to give Adam a new liver today, or even tomorrow. This is going to take a little time. We have to understand that.” She looked at Kit. “You go ahead, we’ll wait.”

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry your child isn’t well. I know how hard that is.” No you don’t, a voice in Kit’s head responded. How could you?

  “I’ll tell Dr. Marshall, you’re here,” the receptionist said, reluctantly.

  She made a call, listened to the voice on the other end, and said to Kit, “He’ll see you in his office... through that door.”

  Inside, Kit was met by a nurse wearing her black hair in a style that resembled coiled springs.

  “Hello,” the nurse said, her smile convincing. “Down this hall, second door to your right. Dr. Marshall will be with you in a moment.”

  A few seconds later, Kit saw that Marshall’s large office was a homage to his collection of carved jade, which occupied every available surface. The largest was a complicated dragon figure at least four feet tall in a glass case.

  She walked over to see it better. As she bent to study the exquisitely detailed scales around the mouth, a voice from behind her said, “That was made from a single piece of serpentine jade, the largest ever mined in China.”

  Kit turned and saw a tall, tanned man with a long face and prematurely silver hair. He was wearing rimless glasses and a white coat so starched it probably could have stood up all by itself. But the thing that made Kit’s voice catch in her throat as she tried to answer was the last time she had seen that face it had recently rolled in the grass at Audubon Park without its body.

  “You and Jude are twins...” she said, confiding a fact he had likely been aware of for several years.

  “So you know my brother?”

  “Not exactly.” The receptionist had relayed Kit’s name and affiliation to whomever she’d spoken to on the phone. But Kit thought maybe that information hadn’t made it to Marshall. She began to introduce herself.

  “My receptionist told me who you are,” Marshall said. His expression shifted from one of curiosity to apprehension. “Why are we talking about Jude?”

  Normally, by the time Kit spoke to any relative in one of her cases, they’d already been told by the police what happened. Her brief conversation with Jude’s wife had therefore, been an aberrant event. Yet, here she was doing it again.

  “Wish I didn’t have to have to tell you this, but his body was found this morning in the park near the New Orleans zoo. At this point, it looks like a suicide.”

  Quentin Marshall’s reaction to this news seemed odd. His lips thinned and his brows dipped, making him look angry rather than shocked.

  “Selfish bastard,” he muttered, for the moment, existing somewhere inside himself. Then his eyes flicked back from that hidden place. “I’m sorry. Of course, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that we’ve got transplants scheduled Tuesday and Wednesday of next week and I’ll need him during surgery.”

  “You create the livers and also perform the transplants?” Kit said.

  Quentin’s eyebrows went up. He rocked his head to the side in a show of feigned modesty. “We pride ourselves on seeing our clients completely through the process.” His face again grew dark. “But now Jude’s put that in jeopardy. And with two sick children depending on us. Where am I going to find another surgeon to assist me on such short notice?”

  “I’m aware your brother was a very accomplished man, but I didn’t know he was an MD.”

  “He wasn’t. I taught him what he needed to know for our surgeries.”

  “How would you describe your personal relationship with him?”

  “Amiable, comfortable, mutually supportive.”

  “And professionally?”

  “The same. You said he committed suicide. How?”

  Kit explained the circumstances.

  “Never do things the easy way. Did he leave a note?”

  “No.” Kit saw the shadow of another unexpected expression pass briefly across Quentin’s face. “If he’d left one, I’d probably already be writing up my report. I’m here in hopes you might be able to tell me why he’d do such a thing. Was he facing some kind of personal crisis?”

  Quentin mulled over her question, then said. “He was very despondent over what the storm did to New Orleans. Didn’t think it would ever be the same again.”

  “I’ve seen his home. There’s no damage there at all. Did he have some uninsured property in areas that were flooded?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then why would damage from the storm weigh so heavily on him that he no longer wanted to live?”

  “Maybe it was the thought of how much others had suffered.”

  “But a moment ago, you said he was selfish.”

  Anger flared on Quentin’s face. “Why are you working so hard to find discrepancies in what I’ve told you?”

  “It’s my job to make sure what appears to be a suicide, really is. When the decedent doesn’t leave a note, one of the factors helping me decide if I am dealing with a suicide is determining whether there was some event in the person’s life that could have been behind such an extreme act. It has nothing to do with you, but everything to do with your brother. I’m simply trying to get an accurate picture of him before his death. I’m sorry if in doing that I’ve offended you.”

  Quentin’s expression softened. He raised his palm and waved his hand as if to erase what he’d said. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not thinking very clearly right now. Jude gone...” He shook his head. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “How was your brother’s marriage? Were he and his wife getting along?”

  “Could anyone but them answer such a question?”

  “Did he ever say anything to indicate they were having problems?”

  “I’ve always believed marriage dilutes a man’s focus in his work. Jude knew that, so we never spoke about his home life.”

  “Yet your own work is dedicated to helping children, the product of a relationship between a man and a woman.”

  “You think I’m inconsistent?”

  “I do.”

  “So maybe I should tell those people out in the waiting room to go home, because you find my work
inconsistent with my views on marriage. Should I do that? Should I?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll allow me to get on with my day.”

  “Good idea for both of us.”

  Kit whisked past him and headed for the door to the lobby.

  Outside, she went to her car and sat for a moment thinking about the conversation she’d just had. Talk about inconsistency... For a guy dedicated to helping children, he seemed surprisingly cold and unsympathetic. Had Jude been the same way? After all, they were twins. If he was, then Quentin’s comment about Jude being despondent over the plight of all the people who had lost their homes in the flood, didn’t track. And that momentary look on Quentin’s face when he’d asked whether Jude had left a suicide note... It was almost as though he’d been relieved to hear there wasn’t one. What was that all about?

  Still ruminating over the Jude-Quentin axis, She started the car and left the premises.

  A few minutes later, her mind turned to the party tonight. It had always been impossible to know what to get Broussard for his birthday. Now, with many stores closed even in unflooded areas because its employees had lost their homes, and stores that were open choked with people who seemed to need everything, she castigated herself for not dealing with this sooner. What the devil was she going to do?

  She’d about decided to just give up and plead exigent circumstances at the party, when she had a thought. That shop a block from her apartment was still open. And considering the circumstances, wasn’t doing much business. Maybe that was the answer...

  Chapter 7

  Kit pulled into the parking lot of Grandma O’s a little after 6 PM. Broussard and Gatlin’s cars were already there. She parked by the FEMA trailer Grandma O’s kitchen help was living in, picked up Broussard’s gift from the seat next to her, and headed for the front door.

  Located on Poydras Street, a location that had kept it out of the floodwaters, Grandma O’s was Broussard’s favorite restaurant. Though it sat in an area still without power, the business was running on the big propane generator Grandma O had the foresight to install a year before the flood. It was not the first time the old Cajun had shrewdly anticipated trouble and had taken steps to avoid it. Some believed it was more than cleverness, that she used some kind of magic to see the future. While Kit found such a thing hard to believe, the old gal was such an enigma Kit wasn’t able to completely dismiss the possibility.

  From the doorway as she entered, Kit saw the birthday boy sitting in the back at his permanently reserved table. On his right was Phil Gatlin, wearing the same clothes as when he’d gone with her to Jude Marshall’s. Bubba Oustellette, grandson of the proprietor and the mechanic that kept Broussard’s fleet of T-Birds running, sat to Broussard’s left. As usual, Bubba was wearing a blue T-shirt, blue coveralls, and a green baseball cap bearing a Tulane logo. Grandma O was there as well, distributing drinks. There was apparently a dominant gene in Oustellette DNA for constancy in clothing choice, because Grandma O was dressed as always in a black taffeta dress that swelled her already considerable bulk to incredible proportions. As she put down the tray with the drinks and came to greet Kit, her dress swooshed over Bubba’s head and pulled his cap off.

  “You runnin’ a little late tonight chil’,” Grandma O said, the gold star inlay in her right front incisor flashing. She wrapped a big arm around Kit’s shoulder and gave her a hug, crushing Kit’s face against her chest. If the greeting had lasted a moment longer than it did, Broussard would have had his first death by taffeta suffocation.

  “You ain’t missed much,” Grandma O said, lowering her voice. “Jus’ city boy complainin’ about us makin’ such a fuss over him. But he don’t really mean it.”

  She ushered Kit to the table, where Broussard said, “Now look... she brought a gift too. I don’t know why you are all actin’ like this is a national holiday. It’s not as though I haven’t had more...”

  Grandma O leveled a finger at Broussard. “You jus’ calm down. You might a had a lot a birthdays already, but you ain’t had dis one before. An’ dis one is ours as well as yours. So pipe down.”

  Broussard took a breath to respond, but Grandma O shook her finger at him in warning. “Don’t sass me.”

  Broussard sank back in his chair, folded his arms over his chest, and obeyed her warning.

  Gatlin looked at Kit. “Don’t know about you, but this is about the best birthday party I’ve ever been to. Have a seat and join in.”

  Grandma O pulled out the chair next to Bubba, and Kit sat down.

  Behind the little Cajun’s heavy black beard and mustache, he grinned broadly at Kit, his teeth arctic perfection. He turned to Gatlin and Broussard. “So, turns out I got da best seat.”

  “I’m guessin’ you’d like a glass a white wine,” Grandma O said to Kit.

  Kit looked up at the mountain of fabric and flesh towering over her. “I would, thanks.”

  Grandma O handed Gatlin the remaining glass of wine still on her serving tray. Before leaving, she cycled back past Kit and snatched up the gift Kit had placed on the table. “I’ll jus’ put dis with da others and we’ll open ‘em later.”

  Broussard leaned forward and picked up his own glass. Settling back in his chair with it, he said to Kit, “Heard you and Phillip had an interestin’ mornin’.”

  “You mean the headless guy in the park?”

  “If there was somethin’ else you’d rank before that, I’d love to hear what it was.”

  “No, I’d say that was number one. But a conversation I had with the victim’s twin brother was pretty strange, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “When I told him his brother had died in an apparent suicide, his first reaction was to call the deceased a selfish bastard.”

  “Had they been estranged?” Gatlin asked.

  “What’s dat mean?” Bubba said, his eyes wide with interest in the conversation.

  Had the little Cajun not been so completely trustworthy with a confidence and had he not been a lifelong friend of Broussard, those present might have had some qualms discussing any case in front of him. As it was, no one gave it a thought.

  “If you’re estranged with someone it means you don’t like each other anymore,” Gatlin explained.

  “Nice word,” Bubba said. “Go ahead.”

  Kit continued. “When I asked him to describe his relationship with his brother, he said, ‘amiable, comfortable, and mutually supportive’.”

  “Sounds a little distant to me,” Broussard observed.

  “Jude, the deceased, was married,” Kit said. But his brother, Quentin, didn’t believe in marriage. So they never discussed Jude’s home life.”

  “Yet Quentin thinks they were mutually supportive,” Broussard said.

  “Exactly.”

  There was a commotion at the front door as three men and a woman all wearing camouflage pants and black T-shirts with a skull and cross bones on the chest came inside. From their dress, they were obviously part of the weapons of mass destruction team sent in for body collection. One of them pointed at a table near the window and they all headed toward it. If anything, the woman had more swagger in her movements than any of the men, and that was saying a lot.

  Grandma O appeared from the kitchen, put a glass of white wine in front of Kit, and went over to serve the new arrivals.

  Broussard leaned forward and lowered his voice so the WMD group couldn’t overhear. “Why’d Quentin say his brother was selfish for killin’ himself?”

  “It had to do with their work,” Kit replied. “They grow livers for kids who need a transplant.”

  “That’s what Phillip said. I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

  “Neither did I. Anyway, Quentin also is the primary transplant surgeon. Jude was his assistant. They’ve got some transplants coming up soon and Quentin was upset that he wouldn’t have Jude’s help.”

  “So maybe he loves kids more’n he did his brother,” Bubba suggested.<
br />
  “Then why doesn’t he marry and have some?” Kit said.

  Bubba’s brow furrowed and his eyes rolled upward in thought. After a few seconds, he said, “I got to think about dat one awhile.”

  “You sayin’ you don’t think the case really is a suicide?” Broussard asked.

  “It probably is. I just don’t know yet why he did it.”

  “Seems to be the day for interestin’ cases,” Broussard said. “Today, I discovered that three female bodies collected from the same brush tangle in the Ninth Ward had all been frozen at some point.”

  Everyone else at the table sat for a moment in shocked silence.

  Gatlin made a sour face. “That’s not good.”

  “So they were all murdered,” Kit said.

  “Unless you all can come up with some other explanation,” Broussard replied.

  “That means there’s no way to even know when they were killed,” Gatlin said. “...or where.”

  “Same thoughts I had,” Broussard said.

  Gatlin asked, “How were they killed?”

  “They all had blisters in lines that radiated away from the corners of their mouth. I think somebody put a plastic bag over each victim’s head and pulled it tight around their mouth so it pinched the skin.”

  “So dey couldn’t breathe,” Bubba said, wide eyed.

  Gatlin leaned closer to Broussard and gave him a hard look. “Have you sent a report on this to Homicide?”

  “It’s in my car. Figured it’d be best if I gave it to you directly.”

  “Got an ID on any of the victims?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Their descriptions and your conclusions about how the killer works need to be sent to the state police and to VICAP,” Gatlin said, the acronym he mentioned being the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. “With the disarray our department is in, we might not get the job done in a timely manner, so you should probably follow up personally with those agencies and make sure the information gets there.”