Billy Whistler

by Bill Thompson

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Three men — Landry, Father Paul and Junior — sat in the sheriff’s office with the door closed. A pot of coffee would keep them alert, and a recorder on the desk would capture what the sheriff had to say.

  My story begins on May 26, 1880. Just after midnight, five drunken men took the law into their own hands. One despicable act followed another that fateful night, each worse than the last until one of them made a fateful decision that would impact many lives from that day until this. I will explain how I learned this story when I’ve finished telling it.

  Simon Navarro was my great-grandfather, and he lived his entire miserable life with nothing to show for it except for one horrific accomplishment. Nobody found out what he and four others did that night in a town downriver from Abbeville called Asher. That was the biggest thing he did in his entire life, and it was a terrible accomplishment.

  The vigilantes — for that is what they were —told their wives they’d be home by two, figuring it would take twenty minutes to get to Asher, twenty minutes to torch the town’s buildings, and twenty minutes to return, with an extra hour built in for contingencies. Now it was after four, the men were very late, and five women worried over their missing husbands.

  The men had planned to be back long before sunrise, because by then there would be activity on the dock in Abbeville. They couldn’t risk being identified by some do-gooder who’d label them criminals instead of what they considered themselves to be — soldiers for the Lord. But things hadn’t gone as they had hoped.

  Everything went well at first. Although seriously intoxicated, each man somehow made it to shore upright and undetected. As they expected, the town was quiet. It surprised them how many buildings they saw; they counted more than a dozen commercial structures fronting a broad dirt street, and as they walked, they tossed gasoline here and there. They fanned out, dousing every third or fourth house. It was a windy night and the flames would spread in an instant. They didn’t intend to kill anyone; they would ignite the gasoline, run to the boats, and shout an alarm as they pulled away. People would have time to flee before the flames spread to the houses, and in the confusion the perpetrators would escape into the night.

  At that moment their luck ran out. Just as they prepared to light the fires, two men — sentries who had been patrolling the woods — came around a corner. It was hard to tell who was more surprised to see whom, and they’d barely let out a shout when one of the vigilantes pulled a pistol and killed the two sentries. Seconds later, doors opened and men in pajamas holding lanterns poured into the streets. Women and children huddled behind them in fear.

  Fueled by liquor, a vigilante let out a whoop and shot five more men. The confused people screamed and ran everywhere. But that wasn’t the worst of it. In the blink of an eye, things literally went to hell.

  One raider, a laborer named Auguste Dauphin, grabbed a young girl by the hair, dragged her to the ground, and ripped off her nightshirt. He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants, and yelled, “Let’s see how a woman acts when the devil’s inside her!” She screamed in pain as he mounted her. Afraid of the now-enraged cult members who moved closer, his four friends held their guns on the crowd and ordered them back.

  “Auguste! What the hell have you done?” David Hebert screamed. “This isn’t what we’re here for!” But he didn’t go to the girl’s side. He didn’t pull Auguste off or try to help at all.

  As unbelievable as it is to think Auguste would make things worse, it happened. He had defiled the girl in front of a hundred or more townspeople who would never forget tonight, but in his whisky-fogged stupor, Auguste became worried the girl might remember his face.

  Before his friends could stop him, he picked up a stick and gouged out the eyes of the helpless, naked teenager. As her screams pierced the night, the other vigilantes jerked him up and told him to run to the boats. Behind them the infuriated cult members moved toward them like zombies — with slow, deliberate steps.

  “Burn the place and let’s get out of here,” one terrified man shouted, and another tossed a match on the gasoline. In an instant several buildings were ablaze, and within minutes the town was a roaring inferno.

  Firing shots over their shoulders, the vigilantes jumped into their boats and pulled away from shore. They were some distance away before they realized that one was missing. In their haste, they had left the rapist behind. There was no time to go back; they steered out into the river and began to row furiously.

  Then came a bloodcurdling scream. With the tremendous fire as a backdrop, they watched the scene unfolding on the shoreline. One of the cult members held Auguste in a vise grip while another looped a noose around his neck. Unable to help, the vigilantes in their boats looked on as townspeople grabbed their friend and plunged a stick into his eyes. Another tossed a rope over a limb, put a noose around Auguste’s neck, and hoisted him up. He writhed in agony, and then he was still.

  “Let’s go back and kill ’em all!” one of the drunken criminals yelled, but the others wouldn’t let it happen. Auguste deserved what he had gotten, and if they went back, they would meet the same fate.

  They looked back just before they rounded a bend, and saw a man standing below Auguste’s swaying body. Grinning from ear to ear, he waved to them as he twirled the corpse around and around, and he whistled a tune that wafted across the still water. It was an eerie sound, something like the warble of a whip-poor-will, that would haunt them as an eternal reminder of the horrors they committed that night.

  They docked at Abbeville around daybreak and went home to panic-stricken wives who demanded they reveal where they’d been. The women got nothing; their husbands fell into alcohol-fueled comas and awoke with memories of terrifying nightmares. Then they realized those weren’t dreams at all. They had done those things, and they had left Auguste at the scene of the crime.

  Those four vigilantes met the next day, swore an oath, and promised never to reveal what they had done. Three of the four got away with it, although they would say they never escaped the memories. The fourth — my great-grandfather Simon Navarro — was not so fortunate. A smuggler and rumrunner who plied his trade on the river, he made a huge mistake he likely never realized. He ran a load of whisky the night of May 26, 1890, the tenth anniversary of the debacle at Asher.

  He saw bonfires on the shore, but perhaps he didn’t realize just where he was along the river. Maybe it was a cult member who recognized him. I’ll never know exactly what happened, but my great-grandfather disappeared.

  I said earlier that I would explain how I know these things. Many families have long-buried secrets and relatives who were horse thieves or bank robbers or worse. But most of those families have learned to live with it. They accept things they can’t change, laugh it off, and move on.

  Some families do that, but our four families never did, for a variety of reasons. Influential politicians, rich people, pillars of a community, and even parish sheriffs believe they have good reason to hide the evil in their pasts. The four men who returned from Asher formed a Conclave, a group that met when necessary to suppress rumors, deflect those who were getting close to the truth, and protect their reputations. Auguste’s family wasn’t part of the Conclave because both he and his wife disappeared.

  The Conclave remained active through succeeding generations. Sons and nephews, and their sons and nephews, became guardians of the secret, and it still exists today. One hundred and thirty-nine years after the crimes occurred, four men still keep the awful deeds hidden. I know this because I’m one of them.

  Junior paused the recording and glanced at Landry. “Here’s where you come into the picture. You were the first person to come nosing around the parish that I couldn’t warn off. I knew the minute I saw you in my office that everything was about to blow up. It bothered me at the time because I had followed the Conclave leader’s orders. But I decided if it wasn’t you, it’d be a different person on a different day. We couldn’t keep the secret forever. />
  He turned the recorder on again.

  I watched Landry Drake’s crew open the graves because I wanted to know if my great-grandfather Simon’s body was there. I thought the cult had captured and killed him, but I needed proof. The diggers found the bodies of two adult men, and I didn’t need DNA tests to tell me who they were. One was my relative and the other Auguste Dauphin. Both had their eyes gouged out, like Auguste had done to that poor girl. An eye for an eye, I thought to myself.

  When I met Landry Drake in my office, I worried about what he’d uncover. I’d hidden so much for so long, I didn’t think I could come clean, but now at last, this is my confession. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Junior’s confession astounded Channel Nine’s director, as did Landry’s experiences in Vermilion Parish. The director considered this story too full of bombshells for just one episode. It would air as a two-part series called Billy Whistler.

  At first Junior didn’t want his confession aired, but Landry pressured him to come clean before the world. He agreed, and Landry requested a few more answers. Who belonged to the Conclave today, and why did it still matter after so many years? Why didn’t they step forward and simply admit they’d covered up crimes, but ones committed by others? Landry believed people would understand.

  Junior disagreed. People would never understand because there was much more to all this.

  As the last floodgates opened, the disclosures astonished Landry.

  The Conclave consisted of four co-conspirators. He was one, along with David Hebert, a respected fourth-generation Abbeville funeral director, and Joel Morin, a timber magnate and one of Louisiana’s wealthiest men. Landry knew Hebert; along with Junior, he urged Landry to get out of Vermilion Parish.

  The fourth member was the state’s popular governor Waymon Ferrara. His campaign for a second term was in full swing, with the election in fourteen months. Disclosing his involvement in all this could carry grave implications for him.

  And then Junior hung his head and explained why it all still mattered.

  _____

  Today Junior sat on a couch under hot lights facing three cameras. He’d done interviews at stations in Lafayette and Lake Charles about cases with a human-interest twist or when making an appeal to citizens for help to solve a crime.

  Nothing he’d ever done could prepare him for this. He sat in the French Quarter studios of WCCY Channel Nine. He’d made the big time, in more ways than one, and when this episode aired, his life would change forever. It was a bitter pill, but he was ready.

  The names came out one by one. Mug shots appeared in the background as Landry explained each man had refused to make a statement or give an interview. Only Sheriff Conreco stepped forward to tell the truth.

  The names of the Conclave members came out in an order that created the most sensationalism. People knew about Junior’s involvement from the previous episode. Landry revealed the names of the undertaker and the timber executive. Last came the biggest fish — the governor. Junior provided background and commentary on how, when and where the meetings occurred, and what topics they discussed. He painted Joel Morin as the evil, conniving head of their band of bad actors and the others as willing participants in a conspiracy of secrecy.

  Toward the end of the hour-long documentary, there would be one final exposé, one final nail in the Conclave’s proverbial coffin. Like any good investigator doing a TV show, Landry saved the best for last.

  Junior disclosed that the Conclave bore responsibility for the deaths of fourteen other people — each a teenaged girl and each on Remembering Day. On that awful night every decade, the reigning elder allowed a horribly misshapen inbred creature — a rougarou they called Billy Whistler — to capture, torture and murder a girl. It was a ritual in remembrance of and as a retaliation for the rape and blinding of the girl in 1880.

  The sad truth was that if the vigilantes had confessed their crimes and faced justice back then, fourteen more might not have been murdered.

  The bodies of only three girls had ever turned up; the other eleven were missing until Landry and the crew had found their graves in the Asher Cemetery. Now families could at last have peace, and beloved children could rest in family plots alongside their loved ones.

  Junior allowed himself to be accountable at last, and his confession brought listeners to tears. Outraged viewers responded with thousands of tweets, posts and even death threats.

  Junior continued. You could say we have no complicity in something that happened so long ago, but like so much else we hid, that’s a lie too. Over the years Conclave members have died off, but two have always been the same. There’s always been the sheriff and the undertaker. One was easier than the other — David Hebert’s great-grandfather was a vigilante, and it stayed in the family. The sheriffs were elected officials, and they had to ensure their successors became sheriff too. It was hard, but somehow they pulled it off.

  Today I am the sheriff, and today David Hebert the fourth is the funeral director. We carefully steered distraught families in the wrong direction, lied to them, and misled them. We let them wonder what happened to their children. I knew where the girls had been buried, because I went there myself long ago. I knew, but I didn’t tell their fathers and mothers. That’s the sin that ultimately brought me to where I sit today. It’s far from my only sin, but it’s the one I cannot forgive myself for.

  Landry gave a powerful closing message. Why did it matter today? Because over the years each member of the Conclave had pretended to be something he wasn’t. They had held themselves out as solid, upstanding and trustworthy citizens when they were nothing of the sort. It would have been one thing to hide the past, but this was an active, ongoing scheme to deceive and to break the law.

  In addition, it was grossly unfair to the Sons of Jehovah, despite how cruel and domineering the leader had been. That night the people lost everything they owned, seven of their men died, and one of the children was brutally attacked and murdered. They caught one vigilante that night, and they captured Sheriff Conreco’s great-uncle ten years later, but the others walked the streets as free men. So did their descendants.

  The recording session was the most high-tension, explosive piece Landry had ever done. When Junior left the studio, the crew breathed a collective sigh of exhaustion. This had been heavy stuff — a mind-blowing disclosure. No one could predict what the repercussions might be after it aired.

  Two people sat in the shadows of the studio and watched the taping. One was Grace from the Vermilion Parish court clerk’s office. Watching the TV crew at work fascinated her. She patted Cate’s hand during the session when her boyfriend, Landry, made important points.

  Once the episode went through editing and was finished, Ted sent a copy to Triboro’s general counsel. Everyone was ordered to maintain total secrecy; this expose would be a ratings bonanza if the attorney gave his approval.

  The lawyer sent a letter to the Conclave members that outlined Junior’s allegations about their clandestine group. They had refused to give statements earlier, and they did so again. But this episode was different — publicizing these allegations held major implications for each of them. Their attorneys threatened suits for libel and defamation. The station would lose millions, they assured its general counsel.

  Although this story was a potential bombshell, most media executives are reticent to release even a true story that would cost them legal fees and perhaps a hefty settlement. But there are First Amendment rights, a duty to give the public the truth, and a capitalistic motivation that some stories are too potentially profitable to quash.

  The three attorneys ranted about multimillion-dollar lawsuits, but what they didn’t say gave Landry his episode. Nobody claimed that the information was false.

  By their silence, Landry knew there was a Conclave, these men were members, and their long-dead relatives did some awful things one May night in 1880. In a claim for slander or defamation, truth is th
e ultimate defense.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Six weeks later

  Joel Morin sat on his patio and looked at the sunset over Vermilion Bay. He forced out the rage because his blood pressure was too high already, and his doctor said stress could kill him.

  First there had been the initial news reports from New Asher, the story of Landry Drake and his band of merry men who saved the cult and the world from disaster. That information was bad enough because Junior Conreco had been involved. He’d been there too, but he had betrayed them. Joel wished when the cult captured him, they’d killed him and been done with it. It would make things simpler.

  More bad news followed. Teasers on Channel Nine fueled excitement about an upcoming Thursday evening prime-time special full of secrets and suspense. Its name was “The Cult and Billy Whistler.”

  He watched the show, which turned out to be nothing more than an hour-long recap of the original news story. It began with how the Sons of Jehovah captured the sheriff of Vermilion Parish. WCCY investigative reporter Landry Drake and cameraman Phil Vandegriff had been working on a story, and they were on hand when the kidnapping happened. Phil’s phone rested in a front strap of his vest, connected as always to a charger. He captured everything — the cemetery, the forced march, Em’s imprisonment in a dog cage, the suicide of the leader, and the incredible Billy Whistler episode.

  The video’s grainy quality seemed spookier because it was slightly out of focus, and the audio filled with shouts and noise allowed viewers to feel the tension.

  Veteran Channel Nine anchor Ken Spearman interviewed Landry, Phil, the parish medical examiner and Father Paul. Because of her fragile emotions, Em was spared. Neither her name nor picture were part of the show.

  Junior wasn’t there either, but Landry praised his actions, calling him a hero and a brave man who helped save others.