Bad Karma In the Big Easy

by D. J. Donaldson

  She pulled into the Organogenesis parking lot a little after four o’clock. Looking toward the front entrance, she saw the husband of the couple she’d met on her earlier visit come out of the clinic and pause to light a cigarette. He then strolled around to the side of the building where, through a wrought iron gate, there appeared to be a garden.

  Kit parked her car, got out, and headed for the garden.

  She found the man standing by the far brick wall of the garden watching water bubble out of a lion’s mouth and cascade into a shell before it spattered into a pool at the fountain’s base. She walked over to him. “How’s Adam?”

  He turned, obviously surprised anyone else was there. “He’s a sick little boy who’s not going to get better until he receives a new liver.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you all since we met here yesterday. I’m sorry you’re going through such an ordeal. But I sense great strength in both you and your wife.”

  “I’m sorry... you’re Dr. Frankum?”

  “Franklyn.”

  “Of course, sorry... I don’t feel very strong. If I was, I’d be in there now. But I just couldn’t bear to see them stick such a big needle into my son.” He took a pull on his cigarette and exhaled smoke to the side so it wouldn’t blow in Kit’s face. He looked back at her. “Adair, that’s my wife... I’m John... John Munson. Adair says I’ll have to quit smoking, that it’ll be a bad influence on Adam as he...” his voice broke. “...as he grows up.” He turned and stubbed his cigarette out on the top edge of the pool. He looked around for a trash can to dispose of the butt. Seeing none, he dipped the butt in the pool, squeezed out the water, and shook the moisture from his hand. He put the butt in his pants pocket.

  “I guess that big needle you mentioned is how they get the bone marrow cells they need,” Kit said.

  Munson nodded. “From his hip.”

  “How was Adam’s liver damaged?”

  “The channels that drain the bile didn’t develop right. They don’t know why... it’s not a genetic disease. If we had another child, there’s no reason to believe it would happen again. And even if Adam was conceived and developed at another time, it probably wouldn’t happen. It’s just one of those shitty sticks life hands you once in a while. Without those channels, the bile backed up and killed some of his liver cells. When the doctors realized something was wrong and figured out what it was, Adam had an operation to buy him some time. They hooked a piece of his intestines up to his liver to make a bile channel. It kind of worked, but the channels inside his liver were also poorly formed so he wasn’t cured, which is apparently the usual situation. Most of the kids with the condition, even if they also have the operation, will eventually need a new liver. It’s the most common cause for liver transplants in kids. Adam doesn’t have much time left.”

  “How long will it take for the people here to make him a new liver?”

  “Too long. They’ve got a lot of clients ahead of us and can only make a few organs at a time. We offered to pay more if they’d move us up the list. But Dr. Marshall said he couldn’t do it... that if he did, it wouldn’t be fair to the other children they’re helping. I know it was a selfish thing for us to do, but... Do you have kids?”

  “No.”

  “If you did, you’d understand.”

  Kit reached out and touched Munson’s sleeve. “It’s going to work out for you.”

  Munson looked at her, and his eyes teared. Chin trembling, he said, “Wish I could believe that.”

  Kit turned and left the garden. As she headed for the front entrance, she remembered a quote she’d always viewed as hogwash: Until you’ve had kids you aren’t truly part of the human race, or something to that effect. Was there more truth in that than she realized?

  A few seconds later, she stood in front of the same receptionist who had been there on her previous visit. “I’m Dr. Franklyn, you may remember me from yesterday.”

  Today, the woman was wearing glasses. She made a big show of taking them off before speaking, as though she was throwing down some kind of receptionist gauntlet “I remember.”

  “Once again, I’m here with no appointment and would like to see Dr. Marshall.”

  “He’s with a client.”

  “I know. I’ll wait. Just let him know I’m here.”

  Grudgingly, the receptionist got up from her desk and went through the door leading to the rest of the clinic.

  She soon reappeared wearing a contented expression. “Dr. Marshall said he’s much too busy to talk to you today.”

  “And I’m much too busy to come back. Tell him I’ll wait, until hell freezes over if necessary.”

  Chapter 14

  “You’re a tenacious woman,” Quentin Marshall said from behind his desk. “That’s actually a trait I greatly admire. Is there something more you wanted to know about Jude?”

  “The last time we spoke you said you didn’t think he owned any property in the flooded area of the city. I’d like you to give that a little more thought. Did he ever mention buying a building in the lower Ninth, maybe on LeDoux Street?”

  “That’s a very specific question. You apparently believe he did.”

  “Does that street ring any bells?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t think very hard about it.”

  “Why, because I didn’t clench my fists and close my eyes while grinding noises came out of my brain? I have an excellent memory. If we had ever had a conversation about a purchase in such an area, even if LeDoux Street wasn’t mentioned, I’d remember. Can’t you find out the answer to your question by checking the tax records?”

  “They aren’t available right now.”

  “Jude’s wife then. She might know.”

  “That’s where I’m headed next.”

  His brow furrowed. “You came all the way back here just to ask me whether Jude owned property in the Ninth Ward? What’s going on?”

  Kit sat and looked at him for a few seconds, then reached into her bag and took out the headshot of Jennifer Hendrin. “Have you ever seen this person before?”

  He took the picture, examined it, and handed it back. “It’s no one I know. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Jennifer Hendrin. Did Jude ever mention her?”

  “Not that I recall.” Then he sarcastically added, “Sorry I didn’t take longer to answer. Was he involved with her?”

  “I’m not sure what their relationship was, if any. She was once paid by a clinic in Morgan City to serve as a surrogate mother for some of the clinic’s clients. To your knowledge, did Jude have anything to do with that clinic? It was called Surrogacy Central.”

  “I’ve never even heard of it. If Jude was connected in any way with it, he never said so to me. Can’t imagine what interest he’d have in such a thing, unless it was a business investment. You should understand: Jude and I weren’t very close. We didn’t get together socially... I’ve never even been to his home. So you probably shouldn’t read too much into my ignorance of all the things you’ve brought up. But I am wondering what all this has to do with his death. Are you thinking it wasn’t a suicide?”

  “I have no reason to believe otherwise. I’m still just trying to get a clearer picture of what factors might have driven him to kill himself.”

  “How close are you to finishing your investigation?”

  “Most likely I’ll wrap it up in the next few days.”

  BACK IN THE CAR, Kit reviewed her conversation with Quentin Marshall. During their talk, there was no indication he was shading the truth. If Jude had killed himself because he was worried the three bodies released by the flood would somehow lead to his arrest as their killer, Quentin didn’t seem to know anything about it.

  Speaking of which...

  Kit took out her cell phone and called her office to check her messages.

  Nothing.

  She navigated to the e-mail function on her phone.

  There it was: Delcambre’s response.

  She opened
the message and consumed the contents: Never saw this guy before.

  Kit sagged in her seat. Her hand dropped to her lap. Damn. She would have bet enough for the loss to hurt that Jude was Arthur Loftin.

  Almost as quickly as her spirits had been dashed, they rallied. Okay, so that idea didn’t lead anywhere. He’s still a good suspect.

  Then a grimy cloud rose in her sky.

  When she was around Broussard, it was always her intention to appear strong and decisive. Thinking back to the moment when he’d asked if she was sure the photos on Jude’s camera were of the building where those three bodies had been stored, she might have sounded a bit more confident than she should have.

  Of course she was right. She just needed a little booster to prove it to herself. When she saw Mrs. Marshall, she’d ask to see the camera again. And it would confirm what she already knew.

  KIT TURNED AWAY FROM the Marshall’s front door. She’d been standing there waiting for someone to answer the bell for over two minutes. Thinking this was one visit where she could reasonably have called ahead before driving all the way over there, she crossed the porch to the front steps and started down.

  As she reached the bottom step, a silver sedan pulled to the curb and stopped. A slim brunette in a tailored black suit over a white blouse got out of the car and headed for the sidewalk. The woman’s high forehead showed her puzzlement at who might have just come off her porch.

  “May I help you? I live here,” the woman said.

  “Then you’re Mrs. Marshall.”

  “That’s right.”

  Jude’s wife was a striking woman who actually wasn’t very pretty. Appearing to be in her mid-forties, her skin was good and her hair, which she wore in a page boy, had a healthy sheen to it. But her eyes were small and her large nose had a distinct downward drift to the tip. Her lips, particularly the upper one, were quite thin. Overall, once you got past her well-chosen clothing and polished way of moving, she resembled a predatory, yet elegant bird.

  Kit offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Franklyn. We spoke when you called home yesterday.”

  They exchanged a brief handshake in which Mrs. Marshall seemed a hesitant participant and didn’t offer her first name.

  “I’m sorry to have brought you such sad news,” Kit said.

  “Sorry because you drew the dirty duty?”

  This comment put Kit on instant alert because it signaled to her that Mrs. Marshall was a shrewd woman who could clearly see to the heart of a matter. She was likely also able to discern when the truth was being hedged. So Kit gave her a forthright answer. “Honestly, that was part of it, but my feelings also went out to you.”

  “You drove over here just to tell me that?”

  “No. I’m still trying to piece together what would cause your husband to take his own life. I was hoping you could help me.”

  “I’m not keen on discussing my husband with a stranger.”

  “I understand. I do. But a report will have to be written. Wouldn’t you rather it contain information you gave me rather than second-hand gossip from people who didn’t know him like you did?”

  Mrs. Marshall considered this a moment, then retreated to a wicker chair that had somehow not blown away during the hurricane. She inspected the cushion, pulled it loose, and beat it on the back of the chair to clear it of debris. She replaced the cushion and sat down. Settling her bag in her lap, she folded her hands over it and looked at Kit. “So talk.”

  Kit pulled a companion chair around so it faced Mrs. Marshall. She sat down without inspecting the seat and said. “Did your husband have a financial interest, or any other connection with a business called Surrogacy Central in Morgan City? It was a clinic that provided surrogates to carry fertilized eggs for couples who couldn’t have children on their own.”

  This question obviously caught Mrs. Marshall by surprise. “Where did that come from? Who told you that?”

  “I haven’t heard it from anyone. It simply cropped up as a possibility.”

  “Did his brother say it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve never even heard of... what was it... Surrogacy Central.”

  “Who controlled the finances in the family... paid the bills, did the taxes?”

  “I did. Before we were married I was an accountant.”

  “What about property in the Ninth Ward? Do you own any?”

  “No, why?”

  “The day I picked up the phone when you called home, I was in your husband’s study. There was a digital camera on his desk that contained some photos of what I believe was a building on LeDoux Street in the Ninth Ward. The date on those photos indicated they had been taken that morning. So his trip to shoot those pictures was one of the last things he did before... what happened to him. I have to wonder if that photographed building had anything to do with his death.”

  Mrs. Marshall’s face shifted to a naked expression of distrust. “What’s going on? From what you just said, you know the exact building supposedly in those pictures. How do you know that?”

  Kit hesitated, trying to find a safe path through this dangerous territory. Unable to see one, she simply forged ahead and hoped for the best. “Late yesterday, I was working on another matter that took me down to the Ninth Ward. I happened to see the building then.”

  “What other matter?”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “So you saw some pictures on my husband’s camera and they made such an impression on you that you were just driving around the Ninth Ward and recognized the building as the same one.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re a terrible liar. I think the building in question is tied to some crime and you believe because my husband had pictures of it on his camera, he was a party to the crime. And that’s why he committed suicide. Accurate statement?”

  “Honestly, I’m not even sure the pictures I saw truly were of the same building. I looked at them so quickly, and it wasn’t a distinctive kind of structure. I could be mistaken about the whole thing. I was hoping I could take another look at those photos. That could clear up the whole matter.”

  “What crime are we talking about?”

  “Why go there when I’m not even sure now it’s an issue?”

  “My husband was an honest man. Whatever you think he did, I can tell you you’re wrong.”

  “I probably am. Let’s look at the pictures and prove it.”

  Mrs. Marshall’s face turned hard. “No. You can’t see them.”

  Kit was shocked at her reaction. “If it can prove what you say, why not?”

  “If I let you see them, it means I think you may be right. I don’t believe that. So forget it.”

  “Don’t make me play hardball with you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I can get a search warrant for the camera.”

  “Go ahead. But before you get to the corner as you leave, those pictures will no longer exist.”

  “You could be charged with aiding and abetting if you did that.”

  “I doubt it. You’ve already admitted you don’t even know if the building in the pictures is the one you’re interested in. So what I will have destroyed is, in all probability, meaningless. Then too, what proof do you have this conversation ever took place? I could just inadvertently delete the pictures. I had no idea they were important.”

  “You’ve got this all backward in your mind. If you really believe your husband had nothing to do with this other issue, you’d welcome the chance to clear him.”

  “That’s not the way I see it.”

  Kit felt like pulling out her Ladysmith, marching Mrs. Marshall into the house, and taking the camera by force. Any evidence obtained by such an act would of course, be inadmissible in court, but if Jude Marshall had killed Jennifer Hendrin and the other two women, there wouldn’t be any murder trial. So this was more about knowing the truth than doing things by the book.

  But was it only about truth?

  Wasn’t it at le
ast partly about her intense desire to avoid telling Broussard she wasn’t as sure about the contents of those photos as she’d led him to believe? Seeing it in that light, the idea of using force lost its appeal.

  She decided to play her hold card. “All right. You win. No search warrant.” She opened her bag and took out the photo of Jennifer Hendrin. Getting up from her chair, she walked over and showed the picture to Mrs. Marshall. “This young woman was murdered. Her body was, for a time, kept in the building we’ve been discussing. Ask yourself, as I have, why your husband would have taken photos of that building the morning of his death? Ask yourself if you’re really as sure of him as you’ve said. Do you want to go through the rest of your life wondering if you were right? I couldn’t live that way. But it’s your choice.” Kit withdrew the photo and put it in her bag. She located a business card and a pen in there, crossed out the number of her office in the now defunct Charity Hospital, and wrote the Gretna number above the old. She put the card on the armrest of Mrs. Marshall’s chair. “If you change your mind, give me a call.”

  Mrs. Marshall plucked Kit’s card from the armrest, stood up, and flicked it into the shrubbery. She gave Kit a smug look and turned to let herself into the house.

  Unable to do anything else, Kit went to her car and got in. There was no doubt in her mind that Mrs. Marshall wasn’t hiding anything. The woman was utterly convinced of everything she’d said. Kit was equally confident she was, at that very moment, heading for Jude’s study to delete the photos on his camera.

  Kit started her car and pulled away from the curb, heading for St. Charles Avenue. It might have been the fact she had been denied the opportunity to see the Ninth Ward photos again, but whatever it was, she was now even less certain they contained pictures of the building where the three bodies had been stored.

  Damn, she hated having to tell Broussard that. But she couldn’t think of any...

  Wait a minute...

  Maybe...

  She took out her cell phone and punched in a number.

  Chapter 15

  With Police headquarters destroyed from the flooding, the Homicide squad had set up temporary offices on the cruise ship, Ecstasy, where most of the detectives were now living. When Gatlin came down the ship and stepped onto the timbers of the wharf behind the convention center, Kit was waiting for him.