Bad Karma In the Big Easy

by D. J. Donaldson

  A sound came from the front door, and they both turned their heads in that direction even though all they could see was the hallway.

  “Anyone here?” a voice called out.

  It was Broussard.

  “We’re in your office,” Kit shouted, turning her attention back to the disgusting image filling the computer screen.

  Seconds later, Broussard appeared in the doorway. Behind him was Phil Gatlin.

  “What the devil are you...” Broussard began.

  “Come look at this picture of Jennifer Hendrin.”

  Broussard walked over to Kit’s chair. Teddy moved out of the way so Broussard could see the image. He studied it and said, “What am I lookin’ for?”

  “Her body floated in flood waters for over a week, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was found face down in the water...”

  “Also correct.”

  “Why then is she still wearing eye make-up?”

  Chapter 22

  Eye make-up, Broussard thought as he pushed the speed limit on the now nearly deserted expressway, heading to the morgue in St. Gabriel. That’s what had been bothering him about Jennifer Hendrin’s body. What was wrong with him? How could he have missed that? It was so apparent on the photo Kit had shown him. Not seeing it on Hendrin was bad enough, but the pictures he’d just looked at of the other two bodies found with Hendrin... They had it, too. It was embarrassing and demoralizing. This kind of thing was just not acceptable. Maybe after this was over, he ought to think about retiring. But right now, he had a killer to catch and he wanted to see the eye-make up in person, because there was no way it should have survived that kind of exposure to water. He nudged the gas and increased his speed, so absorbed in thought he forgot Gatlin, Kit, and Teddy were following in Gatlin’s Pontiac.

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH that old geezer?” Gatlin groused, as Broussard’s T-Bird suddenly shot forward into the night, leaving him behind. “If I had a ticket book with me, I’d write him up.”

  “He’s angry with himself,” Kit explained from the passenger seat beside him, surprised Gatlin didn’t get that. “...for not seeing the make-up on those bodies.”

  “That’s the trouble with him,” Gatlin said. “He thinks he’s perfect. When he finds out he isn’t, he can’t handle it. Now I gotta break the law, too.” He stepped on the gas and the Pontiac responded with a shudder and a hesitation. It found its stride, and Kit was thrown back in her seat as they went after Broussard, whose taillights were now barely visible.

  The way both cars were speeding, Kit didn’t have to worry about anyone overtaking them from behind. But every time, they passed someone in the oncoming lane, she flinched, expecting another attack. By the time they reached the turnoff at St. Gabriel, she was exhausted from the tension.

  They drove for nearly a mile more and didn’t see another car, but Kit was still frazzled when, through the windshield of the old Pontiac, she saw Broussard turn into a driveway and stop at a small security kiosk. The guard looked back at the Pontiac and waved an acknowledgement that they’d be allowed in.

  Broussard led them up the long drive to the mortuary, where he parked his T-Bird in an unmarked spot at the foot of a tall light pole. Gatlin maneuvered the Pontiac around and backed into a spot beside the T-Bird. By the time he came to a stop, Broussard was outside motioning for him to roll down his window.

  “We’re not workin’ two shifts any more, so I’m gonna need a hand,” Broussard said through the open window. “Preferably somebody tall, with a sour disposition... I guess that’d be you Phillip.”

  “I didn’t see anyone following us,” Kit said from the passenger seat. “But I’m not comfortable sitting exposed out here.”

  “You and Teddy can wait inside in clerical while Phillip helps me.”

  They all got out of the Pontiac and headed for the mortuary’s side door. The light pole where Broussard had parked cast eerie shadows on the warehouse dock serving the line of refrigerated trucks that housed the dead not yet identified or released. Kit had heard about those trucks, but this being her first visit to the site, she had never seen them. The thought of so many lost souls languishing inside them made her momentarily forget her own problems.

  Broussard keyed the lock in the side door and everyone followed him inside.

  With all the bodies locked away, the air conditioning had managed to evacuate all but the tiniest trace of an odor.

  Tonight, the security desk was being manned by Romeil Bettis, owner of Bettis First Response Security, who, like so many others, was volunteering his services.

  When the place was empty as it was tonight, Bettis did a walk around every half hour. In the few minutes between circuits, he’d read. Tonight, it was the art of war by Sun Tzu, a book Broussard had loaned him.

  “Dr. B.,” Bettis said, putting down his book and standing up. “Didn’t expect you tonight.” Bettis had a wide face with a long chin. His short beard was totally gray but the thick hair on his head was the color of the roan gelding Broussard had once lost money on when Phillip said he was a sure thing.

  “Spur of the moment visit,” Broussard said. He did a quick introduction of everyone with him and said, “We probably won’t be here long. I want to take a look at a couple of our clients. We’re gonna stop in clerical to see where they are, then we’ll need a gurney out on the dock and whichever truck they’re in unlocked.”

  “After you all sign in, I’ll get right on it,” Bettis said.

  He watched them to make sure everyone put their name on his sheet, then he flicked on a few more light switches and accompanied them down the blue tarp-lined corridor to clerical.

  As they walked, Kit felt the heavy weight of death all around her. She glanced at Teddy and saw that he looked apprehensive and uncomfortable. She couldn’t tell how Gatlin was reacting because he was in front of her.

  Reaching the clerical area, Bettis said, “I’ll go ahead and get a gurney lined up.”

  Broussard asked, “You got rubber gloves?”

  Bettis patted his pocket. “Always carry a few.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be out in a minute.”

  Everyone else followed Broussard into clerical, where he went to the rolling file cabinet containing the records for bodies with numbers between 400 and 500. He thumbed through them until he found 427. Noting that the tab on the file now included Jennifer Hendrin’s name, he checked her location. It was likely 428 and 429 were in the same truck, but he checked those locations as well just to be sure.

  From somewhere close by, they heard the squeal of an overhead door opening: Bettis preparing to take a gurney out on the dock.

  Broussard looked at Kit. “We’ll be back soon as we can. Phillip, come on, we should suit up.”

  Broussard led Phillip to the dressing area, where he helped the old detective into a disposable jump suit.

  “I’m not gonna have wet stuff sloshing on me, am I?” Gatlin said, zipping up his suit.

  “We’re not washing a car,” Broussard said, stepping into the legs of a suit.

  “Then why we doing all this?”

  “Protection against the unexpected.”

  “The unexpected... Yeah... That’s always what gets you.”

  They finished dressing, put on masks and gloves, and headed for the loading dock, Broussard carrying the flashlight he’d brought from his car.

  Their route led them through body reception. When they emerged onto the dock, Bettis was waiting.

  “Number six, if you please,” Broussard said.

  “Say, what happened to those two people with you... those bandages on their faces?” Bettis said.

  “They were in an accident earlier tonight.”

  “Glad to see they both walked away from it.” He headed over to a truck with a big red number six taped to the side near the rear. He keyed the lock in its overhead door and rolled it up with a clatter that, to Gatlin, seemed blasphemous, like shouting in church. The cold air inside rolled ou
t and curled around Phillip’s legs.

  “You don’t need me in there, I hope,” Bettis said.

  “We can handle it,” Broussard replied.

  “Then I’ll just get out of your way and have a smoke.”

  Broussard flicked on the overhead lights in the truck, illuminating the metal racks lining each side of the interior. On those racks, stacked three high, were black body bags, each looking, Gatlin thought, like some huge cocoon. Except nothing was going to emerge from those cocoons, at least not on their own power.

  “Get that gurney will you?” Broussard said.

  Gatlin pushed the gurney to the truck, where Broussard helped it navigate the little height difference between the truck and the dock. Broussard then started down the aisle, reading the numbers on the racks. He found Jennifer Hendrin halfway back on the lowest rack.

  “Here she is.”

  Gatlin pushed the gurney to where Broussard waited. He lined it up so it was opposite the rack containing Jennifer Hendrin’s remains.

  “On three,” Broussard said, reaching down for his end of the bag.

  When Gatlin had a good grip on his end, Broussard started the count. At three, they lifted her gently onto the gurney. Broussard unzipped the bag partway and pulled it down so the cadaver’s head was accessible.

  Gatlin stepped back and turned away.

  Broussard pulled his flashlight from where he’d stowed it in a pocket of his jumpsuit, then flicked it on and bent over. He played the light onto Hendrin’s bulging dead eyes and looked at her more closely than he ever had.

  Oh for the love of... How had he missed that? “I’m ready to put her back.”

  Gatlin turned. Picking up on the anger in Broussard’s voice, he said, “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “So you’re mad... but you don’t know why?”

  Broussard zipped up the body bag and put his flashlight back in his pocket. “On three...”

  They lowered her onto her shelf.

  Broussard backed up, pulling the gurney with him. He pointed at the body on the upper shelf of the next rack. “Now that one.”

  Because it was higher, the reach to get this one was awkward, and Broussard felt a twinge in his back as the bag slid off the shelf. He almost lost his grip but managed to hold on long enough to get her down onto the gurney without dropping her. As Broussard unzipped the bag, Gatlin once again moved away and averted his eyes.

  Ten seconds later, staring down into the flashlight-illuminated mouth of this bag, Broussard experienced a rush of pleasure at the pattern he saw emerging. But it was wrapped around a stab of pain because of his incompetence at missing it earlier, not once but twice. And it was almost a certainty that after he looked at 428, it would be even worse.

  He zipped up the bag. “Hands needed.”

  Gatlin stepped back to the gurney and waited a moment to see if Broussard was ready to tell him what the hell he’d seen. With no explanation forthcoming, Gatlin grabbed hold of the bag and they returned 428 to its temporary home.

  They repeated their ritual with 429. When it was replaced on its shelf, Gatlin forced the issue. “Okay, I’m officially tired of waiting. Talk.”

  “I have no idea why I didn’t notice it earlier, but whoever killed these women, tattooed eyeliner on them.”

  Chapter 23

  “Maybe I should retire,” Broussard said, looking at Gatlin over the empty gurney, where a moment ago, he’d seen the same tattooing on body 429 as on the other two murdered surrogates.

  “What are you talking about?” Gatlin asked.

  “I looked at all those bodies earlier twice, and I never noticed those tattoos. I’m not fit to do this anymore.”

  “You made a mistake. Big deal. Something got past you.”

  “Ten years ago that wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Ten years ago I didn’t have to get up five times a night to take a leak. Neither of us is what we once were. Get over it.”

  “Don’t think I can.”

  “Look, up till a few days ago, you were working ridiculous hours. It was probably just fatigue catching up with you.”

  “I can’t accept that.”

  Gatlin leveled his index finger at his old friend. “There’s your real problem. It’s not that you’re getting old, or you occasionally lose focus when your glutes are dragging in the mud. You’re just so accustomed to being this perfect intellect who’s smarter than anyone else, you’re not willing to come off your pedestal and mix with the commoners.”

  “Is that really who I am?”

  “It hasn’t been... until now. But that’s because you never had to face it. Now you do. How you handle it will determine if you’re really that person. If you’re not, you admit to a mistake and move on. You don’t take your ball and go home.”

  Broussard looked at his old friend without responding. He’d never thought of himself as Phillip had described him. It was true he loved always being a step ahead of everyone else in analyzing a crime scene, but was he a snob about it? Because that’s what Phillip was saying. The shock of this new perspective took his mind off the mistake he’d made.

  “Could we get out of here now?” Phillip said. “I’m starting to hear the people in these bags whisper things.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  They wheeled the gurney back onto the dock and turned it over to Bettis.

  “We’re gonna spend a few minutes in clerical before we leave,” Broussard said.

  “Okay,” Bettis said. “If I hear any noises in there I won’t start shooting. Did you find what you were looking for in the truck?”

  “I did.”

  IN CLERICAL, KIT AND Teddy got out of their chairs as Broussard and Gatlin entered.

  “We know something now that we didn’t before,” Broussard said. “He tattooed eyeliner on all three victims. And it was crudely done, so he’s not a pro at it.”

  Okay, Kit thought. Now we’re getting somewhere. She’d seen Broussard do so much with far less in the past she was sure he could use this new information to huge advantage.

  “Any idea why he’d do that?” Teddy asked.

  “We think he liked to play dress-up with his frozen victims,” Broussard said. “My guess is when he took ‘em out of the freezer for his fun, they’d thaw a little and their eyeliner would run. He must like eyes to look just right.”

  Exactly, Kit thought. Her hopes they would soon be hot on the trail of the man who attacked her escalated.

  “Where do these nuts come from?” Gatlin said.

  “If I knew I’d put a stop to it,” Broussard said.

  “What do we do now?” Kit asked.

  “Add this to the details we’ve already sent VICAP... see if this helps them in any way,” Broussard replied.

  That’s it? Kit thought. Where were the brilliant insights she was expecting? “What are the chances that will help?”

  “Let’s just do it and not speculate on the outcome.”

  Kit nodded. His reluctance to express any optimism at all over this meant he didn’t feel any. And why should he if that’s all he could think of? The best VICAP could probably do would be to tie the Ninth Ward victims into other cases in their files. It wouldn’t help catch the guy. If he’d been a professional tattoo artist, maybe it would have clarified a suspect for them. But Broussard said he was an amateur. VICAP wouldn’t help at all.

  “Fire up one of those computers would you?” Broussard asked Kit. “We’ll relay this new information from here.”

  Though she felt it was likely a waste of time, Kit simply said, “Sure.”

  “I believe the phrase is ‘boot up’,” Gatlin said.

  Realizing Gatlin was testing him to see if they were still friends, Broussard said, “Aren’t you the guy who once did an oil change on a car with the drain plug in his pocket?”

  “I might be.”

  “Then you won’t be offended if we wait for technical advice from someone a little more cr
edible.”

  “Your choice.”

  They looked at each other for just an instant. Kit was focused on the computer they were going to use and Teddy was watching her. So neither of them saw the slight nod of understanding Gatlin and Broussard exchanged.

  When the computer was ready, Kit drafted an e-mail to Broussard’s friend at VICAP and they sent it on its way.

  “That’s all we can do tonight,” Broussard said. “Unless Teddy wants to follow up on his damaged truck.”

  “There’s nothing I can accomplish this late.”

  “Guess then we’ll just go back to my place,” Kit said. She looked at Gatlin. “Will you give us a ride?”

  “Of course.”

  ON THE WAY BACK to New Orleans, Broussard thought about what Gatlin had said regarding him being an intellectual snob. He didn’t want to be that. But he also couldn’t accept the way things had been going. Take that look of disappointment on Kit’s face when she’d asked what their next step would be and all he could come up with was send the information on to VICAP. It hurt that he couldn’t do better. How could Phillip expect him to just shrug something like that off? Was it snobbery to be upset with your inability to help your friends when they desperately needed you?

  KIT WAS JUST AS fidgety on the ride back as she had been coming to St. Gabriel, still flinching every time an oncoming car passed, worried about every vehicle behind them. Despite her concerns that they’d be attacked again, they made it back to New Orleans without any problems.

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU two?” the cop in Kit’s courtyard inquired when he saw Kit and Teddy.

  Reminded of its existence, Kit touched her bandage. “Somebody shot at our truck and we hit a lamp pole.”

  “Sounds like you’re lucky to look as good as you do. He get away?”

  “So far.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

  “Don’t be. It was my call to have you stay behind.”

  Reaching her apartment, Kit locked the door and sagged back against it. “Lord, I am so tired.”

  Teddy came close and tenderly stroked a stray lock of hair away from her forehead. “You should get some sleep.”