Bad Karma In the Big Easy

by D. J. Donaldson

  Broussard looked at the old detective over the tops of his glasses.

  “I’m just trying to help,” Gatlin said. “Occasionally, you don’t think of things before I do.”

  “Name three times where that happened.”

  Gatlin leveled a finger at Broussard. “Ah-ha, if it wasn’t true, you would have said, ‘name one time’.”

  Kit shook her head. This was the way it was with these two. Close friends for most of their lives, Broussard was even the namesake for Gatlin’s son, Andy, who’d died at three of rheumatic fever. Despite their long history together, most of their conversations became sparring events in which each would try to make a salient point before the other.

  “Well, this isn’t one of those times,” Broussard said.

  “What did you do?”

  “Sent all the information to both places myself.”

  “That was a good idea. What time frame do you have for the victims’ disappearance?”

  “Had to guess, obviously, so I chose the last three years.”

  “Might be wrong.”

  “Had to start somewhere.”

  “What kind of descriptive information do you have?”

  “The usual... prints, dental x-rays, sex, height, hair color and length. And one of them had a silicone chin implant.”

  “That last one should really help,” Kit said. “There can’t be too many missing persons with one of those.”

  “Still might come up with bupkis,” Gatlin said.

  “How come?” Bubba asked.

  “In most departments, unless the national press gets hold of it for some reason, missing person’s cases for adults are something you pretend to work on, but don’t... not really,” Gatlin said. “At least half the missing persons reports filed never get to VICAP, or even state records. They just get buried in the shit storm of paper from cases where you know a crime has been committed. Missing kids... that’s another story. You get all over those. But adults... how do you know they didn’t just want to disappear? There’s often no way to know if there was even a crime involved.”

  “Now you all know why Phillip’s nickname in Homicide is ‘Sunshine’,” Broussard said.

  “Just a reality check,” Gatlin replied, raising his wine to his lips.

  “No, here’s the reality,” Broussard said. “Whoever did that to those three women has to pay for what he did. And I’m gonna do whatever it takes to see he does.”

  Broussard’s hatred of murderers was well known among everyone at the table. But they had never before heard him make such a pronouncement. They all sat in surprised silence until a few seconds later Grandma O appeared with a large tray and sat it in the middle of the table.

  “Nymphs A L’Oustellette,” she announced. “You all can nibble on dem while I get da main course ready.” She then went back to the kitchen.

  On the tray was a large rectangle of pale golden jelly on which there rested between tarragon leaves and some other material that together, resembled water grasses, four long rows of slippery looking...

  “Nymphs,” Kit said, looking askance at the display. “What is that really?” She whispered.

  “Frog legs,” Broussard said.

  Across the table, Gatlin was rolling his eyes at Kit, apparently trying to send her some kind of signal. She glanced back toward the kitchen and there was Grandma O watching, a stern look on her face. Well aware of the consequences of not eating everything Grandma O put before you, Kit said in the old Cajun’s direction, “Actually one of my all-time favorite foods.” She reached for one of the legs. Trying not to recoil at its cold, clammy feel, she forced the thing toward her mouth, while everyone else at the table sensing her discomfort, tensed, fearing this was not going to end well.

  Suppressing a shudder, Kit’s teeth bit delicately into the soft frog meat and she pulled some of it loose from the bone. She let the meat drop onto her tongue and... a flavor that seemed to carry her from the room to another world overwhelmed her senses.

  She looked back at Grandma O. “This is incredible.”

  The old Cajun smiled with satisfaction, her gold inlay glinting off the overhead lights. Beside Kit, Bubba signed with relief.

  Watching until he was sure Grandma O was truly gone, Gatlin then whispered, “For a minute there I was afraid you were gonna get us all killed.”

  The nymphs were followed by the main course: sole poached in white wine and mushroom cooking liquor, served under Nantua sauce, and garnished with crayfish tails and truffles. For a vegetable, they had an artichoke bottom-asparagus tip pyramid coated in Mornay sauce, a culinary triumph under normal circumstances, a miracle under these.

  When they had all finished, Broussard sat back in his chair and folded his chubby fingers over his now greatly expanded belly. He looked up at Grandma O, his expression one of sleepy contentment. “What would it take to get the recipes for everything we had tonight?”

  Grandma O seemed to think about that a moment, then she said, “If we was married, dat might do it.”

  Broussard’s little eyes popped to full open and his mouth gaped.

  Grandma O hooted with laughter, a sound that would make a safari camper wake in a cold sweat and reach for his gun. “Relax city boy,” she said. “It was a joke. You ain’t ever gonna get my recipes. Now it’s gift time.”

  She went over to the bar, where she’d put the packages, and carried them back to the table. She handed Broussard Kit’s first.

  “This is too much fuss for a natural biological event,” Broussard said, looking at everybody.

  Grandma O put her hands on her hips. “Jus’ open da package.”

  Broussard proceeded to slowly and meticulously unwrap the gift.

  “Way you pickin’ at dat thing, looks like you expectin’ to use da paper again,” Grandma O said. “I better not see what you give me for my next birthday wrapped in it.”

  He finally got the package open and took the lid off the flat rectangular box inside. He removed the contents and let it unfold so he and everyone could see what it was: A huge blue T-shirt with yellow lettering across the chest that said, WITHOUT FRIES IT’S JUST NOT ESCARGOT.

  Other than disposable autopsy attire, and a hospital gown that time he nearly died with Congo-Crimean hemorrhagic fever, no one at the table had ever seen Broussard in anything but a starched white shirt and a bow tie, not even when he was helping rescue people caught in the flood. The thought that he might find the pairing of Escargot with fries appealing seemed equally preposterous. So everyone applauded Kit’s choice.

  Though he tried to hide it, Kit saw a flicker of a smile tug at the old pathologist’s lips as he folded the shirt and placed it back in the box. Then he looked at Kit. “The perfect thing to wear next year when I run the Boston marathon.”

  “By the way,” Kit said. “Teddy says happy birthday.” She was referring to Teddy LaBiche, her long-time boyfriend, who ran an alligator farm in Bayou Coteau.

  Broussard shook his head. “This just isn’t the kind of news that should be affectin’ folks that far off.”

  “Dis one is from Phillip,” Grandma O said, handing Broussard a box wrapped in a Piggly Wiggly grocery sack and tied with twine.

  “It’s so beautiful I hate to open it,” Broussard said.

  Gatlin nodded. “It is one of my finest works.”

  Broussard pulled off the wrapping, looked at what was inside, and held up a water-stained box to the rest of the table.

  Grandma O ripped off another safari laugh and pounded the table with a big hand. “You got him, Phillip...”

  Gatlin had given Broussard a used thigh-master.

  “Cause I know how much you like to stay in shape,” Gatlin said.

  Broussard turned the box and looked again at the front. “Awww, it’s not the professional model. I’ll wear this one out in a week.”

  Grandma O handed Broussard the last gift. “Dis is from Bubba an’ me.” She turned to the Kitchen and nodded to one of her staff waiting by the door.<
br />
  Broussard quickly shucked off the white wrapping paper and red ribbon. Inside, was a certificate in a plain, black frame.

  “We’re not mind readers,” Gatlin prompted. “What’s it say?”

  Broussard began to read aloud. “Whereas, the ignition within the New Orleans city limits of such flammable materials as would constitute a major fire hazard requires the presence of a fire marshal, and whereas, Dr. Andy Broussard has reached the age at which the collective candles on his birthday cake will constitute such a hazard, he is hereby granted the title of honorary fire marshal for as long as it takes for him to blow out said candles.”

  “In case you’re wonderin’, Kit helped write dat,” Grandma O said. She took a small bell from her pocket and rang it.

  This brought two of her staff from the kitchen, one carrying a large, square cake with candles ablaze and a second person with a tray of plates and silverware.

  The cake was set in front of Broussard, and Grandma O said, “City Boy, you better blow dose out ‘fore I have to get a hose after ‘em.”

  It took Broussard three separate breaths to extinguish all the candles. When they were out and he sat down, red-faced from the effort, everyone applauded.

  “I was afraid for a minute dere, you might lose your teeth on to da cake,” Bubba said.

  Everyone had another good laugh.

  Broussard started to reply, but before he did, a loud voice rose from the WMD table.

  “I’d think with all the death and destruction in this city, you all wouldn’t be quite so happy.”

  Everyone turned to the table by the window.

  Puffing up to where she appeared to double in size, Grandma O walked over to the other group. “Who said dat?”

  “I did,” a guy with a crew cut and bony features said.

  “Where were you when da hurricane hit?” Grandma O asked.

  “Kansas City.”

  “Not exactly in da storm’s eye were you?”

  “No, but...”

  “We was all right here. You see dat woman over dere?” she pointed at Kit. “She could a evacuated, but she stayed to make sure da paralyzed old woman in da apartment next to hers would be okay because da woman’s wheelchair had a respirator on it to help her breathe an’ it was all too bulky to move. When da power went out, dat respirator stopped workin’. An’ da backup battery turned out to be dead. So with da phone out, dis woman, who could a gotten herself to a comfortable hotel miles away to wait out da storm, stayed behind and used a hand pump respirator to keep dat woman alive. She pumped dat respirator for twelve hours until her hands cramped up so bad she jus’ couldn’t squeeze it anymore. As her hands failed her, she prayed for help, but none came. When she couldn’t pump another lick, dat old woman died... right dere in front a her.”

  Grandma O lowered her voice to spare Kit what followed. “Can you imagine what dat’s like... watchin’ life seep out a someone so close you can see da fright and da plea for help in dere eyes... thinkin’ you could save ‘em if only your hands would work. But dey won’t work and because a dat, da light in dat old woman’s eyes went out for good.

  “An’ dose three men... dey worked for 48 straight hours pickin’ up folks stranded on top a their houses and bringin’ ’em by boat to dry land and tellin’ ’em how to get here. Dey rescued a hundred an’ fifty people. But you know da one dey remember... da one dey’ll never forget... da chil’ dey found on a roof beside a small hole chopped through from da attic. Dere wasn’t room for an adult to get through, so da momma must a pushed her baby up dere to save him. What happened to her, no one knows. But the chil’ sat up dere all alone for a long time. Finally dose men found him... he was still alive den, but not by much.

  “Seein’ how weak and blue he was, dey headed back to dry land hopin’ dey might run across a paramedic team with some oxygen and an IV rig dey could use to give him liquids and food, all the while knowin’ dey probably wouldn’t find such a thing... But at least if dey could get him to me, he could be warm and I’d get food and water into him some kind a way.

  “But five minutes from dry land... he stopped breathin’. An’ even though dat man at da head of da table dere is a doctor, he could do nothin’ to save dat chil’s life. Dat little boy died in his arms.

  “I’m not discountin’ da pain your job is causin’ you, I jus’ want you to understand. Dis is our home and we’ve lived through more hell dan you can imagine. We’re still livin’ it. And no one knows when it’ll end. Da only way any of us can go on is to find a glimpse of what normal is wherever we can. Dis party tonight was one a dose moments. If we wasn’t laughin’ here together tonight, we’d be alone wonderin’ if it was worth the struggle to keep goin’.”

  When Grandma O finished, the guy who’d made the remark, sat for a moment looking at his plate. Then he stood, pushed his chair back, and walked past her to the party table.

  “I don’t know why I said what I did. With all the death we’ve had to deal with and all we’ve seen in the last week, our whole group is barely holding it together. Guess that made me forget about what you might have gone through. I know it doesn’t do any good to say it, but I’m sorry I spoiled your evening.”

  Everyone at the table murmured some words to the effect that they understood, then Grandma O laid her big hand gently on the guy’s shoulder and said, “Now why don’t you an’ your friends help us eat dis cake.”

  It was only the force of Grandma O’s personality that kept everyone there until they’d all had coffee and cake as she had planned. But the color had drained from the room, leaving a sepia-tinted tableau in which no one felt like talking. So, after a lethargic quarter hour of relative silence in which the only sounds were fork and plate noises, the now somber gathering broke up.

  FOR MANY YEARS, BROUSSARD had lived across the river in the Algiers section of Orleans Parish, where he’d inhabited a concrete, insect-proof home he’d built when the ancestral Broussard mansion had succumbed to a huge colony of Formosan termites. Three years ago, he’d sold that home and the surrounding land to a developer for enough money to buy the place he’d always wanted on St. Charles Avenue in the flood-free garden district, which meant, unlike many in the city, he still had a home to return to.

  Until the guy at the other table at Grandma O’s had spoken up, Broussard had been enjoying his party, all the more so because he’d done a good job of hiding that fact from everyone else there.

  Now, as he headed down St. Charles, he thought again of the baby they hadn’t been able to save. If only they’d gone in his direction to begin with, they could have found him hours earlier. Why had they chosen to go the other way? Sure, they hadn’t wasted their time. They’d picked up lots of other folks in need, but none that tiny and that close to death.

  Then he caught himself.

  Stop it. It’s over. Reliving it won’t change anything.

  For the next block, the old pathologist’s mind sat in neutral. Then he flashed on the dirt-encrusted ponytail of the corpse with the chin implant.

  The bodies all frozen... That indeed made time of death for any of them impossible to determine. And the actual crime could have occurred anywhere. But the bodies had all been found together in the same brush tangle. So they had probably been stored somewhere near where they were found, which meant the killer was a frequent visitor to the city or lived there.

  But where was he now? Had he fled the storm, or was he still around? He’d kept the bodies all in one place. Why? Why not dispose of them in some back bayou, where the gators would get them? Should have asked Kit about some of these things at Grandma O’s.

  Broussard tried to imagine what the killer looked like, but of course, could come up with nothing but a faceless specter. That was natural. The killer is always the last piece of any case to take form. But he had no trouble visualizing the victims. Those images were seared so deeply into his brain, he could still feel the heat of them inside his skull.

  That was the way to the killer... through the
victims. Where had they crossed his path? How did he choose them? What did they all have in common? Know those things and the way becomes easier. But how can you possibly answer those questions when the victims hadn’t even been identified?

  You don’t.

  You can’t.

  Phillip was right about missing persons cases being routinely ignored by police. Would that scuttle any progress in solving this thing? Was the world so perverted those bodies would remain forever as Jane Does? There was a time when he would have bet against it. But tonight, fresh from being reminded how he and Phillip and Bubba had arrived too late to save that baby, he believed the odds were probably in favor of that outcome.

  The city now seemed even more desolate than it had a moment earlier.

  At that moment, Broussard’s cell phone rang.

  He retrieved it from his pocket and flipped it open. “Broussard.”

  “Hey Andy, Tim Morgan here.”

  Broussard’s heart gave a little lurch, pushing the buttons on his shirt a little harder against the T-Bird’s steering wheel. Morgan was an old friend who was in charge of the VICAP program at the FBI. After submitting the data on the three corpses, Broussard had called Morgan and asked to be informed the moment the database produced any hits. Morgan had promised to check it regularly, which he could do even from home.

  “Yeah, Tim. What’s up?”

  “The vic with the chin implant... Her name is Jennifer Hendrin.”

  Chapter 8

  Grandma O’s kitchen skills and a full night’s sleep in his own bed pulled Broussard back from the brink of exhaustion. By the next morning, he pictured himself as an old T-Bird with a new engine.

  Before Katrina, the Orleans Parish morgue and medical examiner offices had been in Charity Hospital. With the morgue destroyed by floodwaters and the hospital still without power, Broussard had set up temporary facilities in a former auto upholstery business across the river in Gretna, where they had both electrical and phone service. When Kit checked in a little after eight AM, he was at his desk in one of the small rooms in back signing death certificates.