3

Monday morning, Kit saw Teddy off for the drive back to Bayou Coteau at 6:00 A.M. By 6:45, she was at the Hyatt for her appointment with the two dozen volunteers she’d rounded up to help keep the Forensic meeting’s attendees well informed and happy.

The meeting was officially to begin at eight o’clock. That gave her plenty of time to pass out hotel maps and take her group on a tour of the pertinent areas, which were laid out much like one of the rat mazes in the Tulane behavioral psych lab. The group finished the circuit in about twenty minutes, at which time Kit handed out the assignment sheets she’d prepared. She then took everyone around to the Courtyard restaurant for breakfast, the tab for this and all the volunteers’ other meals to be picked up by the national office.

Kit sat at a table with Edna Gervais, secretary of the rose society they both belonged to, and Edna’s daughter, Bebe LaCour, a large woman with fine skin who wore earrings so heavy that she’d already stretched the holes in her earlobes to an alarming size. In her youth, Edna had been a stage actress in New York. Now, well beyond youth and acting, she could still project. Because of Edna’s commanding voice and her willingness to stay all day, Kit had made her second in command of the volunteers. Edna and Bebe were also to serve at the hospitality table, where Bebe’s size could be put to good use each morning, carrying the various brochures from the room where they were stored to the table in the Regency Foyer.

Everything was going so smoothly that Kit should not have been surprised to suddenly find Susannah Lester at her side. Susannah was the liaison between the local committee and national headquarters. “National needs a favor,” she said, wearing an apologetic expression.

“What kind of favor?”

“Some of their people didn’t make it. So they’re short for the registration desk.”

“And they want some of mine?”

Susannah winced. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“The whole meeting.”

“My schedule’s all made out.”

“Dr. Broussard said to tell you that anybody can lead when things are going according to plan, but the true mark of character is how well you behave in a crisis.”

“Is he down here?”

“I dunno. When I talked to him on the phone, he was in his room.”

“How many people do they need?”

“Three.”

“Okay, I’ll work it out. I’ll have them over there at eight.”

“Fabulous.”

Kit excused herself to Edna and Bebe and went to an empty table where she spent the next thirty minutes rescheduling her troops. At ten to eight, she stood up. “Okay everybody, time to get to our posts.” She held up the revised schedule. “I’ve had to rework your assignments a little, so be sure and get a look at this. I’ll leave it on the hospitality table. Some of you had to be reassigned to the registration desk. Just report there and they’ll tell you what to do. I hope this doesn’t create problems for any of you. If it does, Edna will handle it.” She looked hopefully at Edna, who nodded her head reassuringly.

They all then followed Kit to the Regency Foyer. While the others looked at the revised assignments, Kit and Bebe went to the room where all the tourist brochures were stashed and began ferrying them to the table.

By eight o’clock, the table was ready and all the volunteers were at their posts. As Kit took her first relaxed breath of the morning, she saw Broussard coming toward her.

“Susannah find you?” he said.

“All taken care of. Thanks for the philosophy.”

He looked her up and down. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve grown an inch or two.” He shifted his attention past her, introduced himself to Edna and Bebe, and offered each of them his hand. “Good of you to help us out. We’d be in real trouble without folks like you.”

When he turned back to Kit, she said, “Did you see Lawson’s article in the Sunday paper?”

Broussard motioned to the side with his head and they moved away from the table.

“I don’t think he hurt us too badly,” he said, waving at two men by the message board. “He didn’t say what the four letters were, and he didn’t mention the hair.”

“But he knew about the eyelid and everything about the wound and how it suggested the killer was an expert with a knife.”

“Interestin’ point. He could have learned about the wound from seein’ the original or a copy of the autopsy report. But I didn’t draw any conclusions in there about the killer. I only said that to Phillip.”

“Maybe he got a look at Gatlin’s report, too.”

“I suspect Lawson is pretty persuasive with the ladies. If I had to pinpoint the leak, I’d look for a female clerk in Homicide.”

“Hard to believe that a woman would risk her job for a guy with a ponytail.”

“You just don’t like him. It was good, though, that he warned folks about walkin’ alone on deserted streets.”

“I was so afraid there was going to be another one Saturday night, I woke up at five o’clock Sunday morning and just lay there waiting for the phone to ring.”

“Maybe it won’t happen.”

“I’d like to believe that. Think we should issue a warning to our attendees about walking about alone at night?”

“Already got one in their packets.”

“That was fast.”

“Put it in the plans months ago to remind ’em this can be a dangerous place.”

Broussard reached in his pants pocket, fished out a lemon ball, and slipped it into his mouth. From the other pocket, he produced two identical candies wrapped in cellophane, which he offered to Kit, who had often imagined he bought both kinds in fifty-five-gallon drums. For the first few months after he’d hired her, she’d been offered only the naked ones, which she’d always refused, the offer frequently including small bits of lint from his pocket. Then the wrapped ones had appeared. Since he never unwrapped one for himself, it was obvious he’d begun carrying them just for her. Under the circumstances, she now found the offer impossible to refuse. The ritual transfer was made and Kit put them in her purse with the half dozen others she’d collected the week before. She wouldn’t eat them, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away, either. So on it went, the candies slowly filling a plastic garbage pail in her pantry.

“You gonna be around the hotel today?” he asked.

“There’s nothing of interest here for me until tomorrow. I only came over to get my volunteers organized and off to a good start. If there’s no line in the restaurant, I’m going to have something to eat, then I’m going to the office. You?”

“Thought I’d stop in at the radiology workshop.”

While Kit returned to the restaurant, Broussard checked his program to refresh his memory on the location of the workshop. On the way there, he paused to watch a fellow at the registration booths get his packet and Forensic Academy tote bag, thinking there was something familiar about . . . My God, it was. He headed that way.

“Brookie?”

The man turned, and Broussard was jarred by his appearance. Crandall Brooks, the Albany, New York, ME had been a faithful jogger, running five miles a day every day for the twenty-odd years Broussard had known him, a practice that, in Broussard’s opinion, had always made him appear under-nourished. Now, he’d gained at least thirty pounds. And his hair, which he still wore in a military crew cut, looked decidedly grayer.

“Hello, Andy.”

Broussard took Brookie’s hand warmly in his own. “When’d you get in?”

“Few minutes ago.”

“Brookie, I am so sorry about Susan’s death.”

“Thanks. I really appreciated the flowers.”

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been there, but we had a major crisis here and . . .”

“No apologies necessary, I know you would have come if you could.”

“I’m kind of surprised to see you. Considerin’ the circumstances, thought you’d probably skip this one . . . to . . . well, you know, kind of regroup.”

“I needed a change of scenery. And I did think about going off somewhere to be alone but figured if I did, I’d probably just sit around feeling sorry for myself. This is better. I’ll be near old friends and I’ll have something to keep my mind occupied. In fact, I signed up for the aircraft-accident workshop, which I believe is going to start in a few minutes. Can we have lunch?”

“Absolutely, I’ll meet you right here at noon.”

Broussard had been in forensic work for so long he rarely saw his job as anything out of the ordinary. But now, as he watched this man who was hoping to get his mind off the death of his wife by listening to descriptions of aircraft mayhem, he saw that theirs was indeed a peculiar profession. He then reflected on the lie he’d just told. It hadn’t been a crisis that had prevented him from attending Susan Brooks’s funeral. It had been his wish to remember her as she had been, lively, quick-witted, warm. The three of them had spent many happy hours together over the years and he doubted he would ever be able to look at Brookie again without thinking of Susan.

“We’ve got a problem.”

Broussard turned at the voice beside him and saw Corinne Samuels, senior toxicologist with the crime lab, looking very worried. This didn’t particularly set him on edge, because she was always worried, sometimes with reason, often without. “What’s wrong?”

“A barge hit the Creole Queen early this morning. She’ll be out of commission for at least three weeks.”

So this time she had reason. “Can they get a substitute?”

“They say no. I’m afraid the paddle-wheel panorama is a wash.”

“How many signed up?”

“A hundred and twenty.”

Broussard lapsed into thought. His hand strayed to his nose and began to rub the stiff hairs that grew on its tip. “It’s too late to do anything but arrange for refunds,” he said abruptly. “Also, have some big signs made announcin’ the cancellation and place ’em on easels around the hotel . . .” The beeper on his belt went off. “Include somethin’ like ‘Refunds may be obtained from the registration cashier.’ ”

While Corinne went off to follow his instructions, Broussard walked down to the lobby telephones and dialed his office.

“Margaret, it’s me. What have you got?”

“Lieutenant Gatlin called. You’re supposed to go to Madison Street in the Quarter. He said they found another one.”

Broussard hurried to the Courtyard restaurant. He spotted Kit sitting alone under a small green-roofed gazebo. When he reached her table, she took one look at his face and got up with only a single word. “Where?”

“The Quarter,” he replied, already heading for the escalator, “near where we found the first one.”

Kit stopped at the cashier’s station, scribbled her name on the running Forensic Academy tab, and walked briskly after Broussard, who was just disappearing from view.

Broussard loved each of his six ’57 T-birds equally and generally drove a different one each day. But since he was confined to the hotel for the next few days, he had access only to the yellow one he’d checked in with. It was brought around to the entrance without much delay and they were soon out on Poydras, heading toward the river, the steering wheel pressing firmly into his belly.

They took Poydras to Tchoupitoulas, crossed Canal on a yellow light, followed North Peters to Decatur, and turned the wrong way onto Madison, a short street just past Jackson Square. Halfway down, the street was blocked by two patrol cars. So far, it was a replay of the scene Saturday morning— a crowd around the crime-scene tape, people gawking from their balconies—except this time it was late enough that she saw no bathrobes, but she did see two detectives she knew mingling with the crowd.

Broussard parked in the middle of the street and somehow got out of the little car. Seeing them approaching, one of the cops holding the perimeter lifted the tape so they could duck under it. On the far side, Kit saw Nick Lawson talking to a female cop.

There was no body to be seen, so it could only have been on the other side of the partially open sliding wooden door Kit saw in the stuccoed courtyard wall facing the street. She followed Broussard inside and was surprised to find it was not a courtyard at all but a small parking lot paved with narrow strips of asphalt roofing. There were two cars snugged against the right wall and two against the left, leaving barely a car’s width access to the old doorless brick garage in the rear, where Kit could dimly see two more cars. Gatlin was standing in the middle of the lot, talking to a tall young woman with puffy red eyes who was wringing her hands as she spoke. Seeing Kit and Andy, he broke off his conversation with the woman and pointed to the garage with his pen. “Back there.”

“You take pictures yet?” Broussard asked.

“Been here and gone. Ray’s getting to be a real jackrabbit.”

Though she would have preferred to stay with Gatlin, Kit followed Broussard into the musty garage, where there was a blue Lincoln and a cherry red Cadillac parked side by side, front bumpers practically against the back wall. The body was in a sitting position between the two cars, its back against the Cadillac’s open front door. He was a clean-cut young man neatly dressed in blue slacks and a yellow pullover with a logo above the left pocket that read CHARTRES HOUSE. The shirt had an inch-long tear in it just below his sternum and the fabric there had absorbed a modest amount of blood. His head was tilted to the side. One eye was fully closed; the other was wide open. Having seen enough, Kit turned away.

Broussard put his bag down, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and brought out his padded kneeling block. He got down on one knee and inspected the staring eye with the aid of his penlight. He manipulated the fingers of the corpse’s hand, lifted the arm, then returned to his forensic kit and got two paper bags, which he secured over the victim’s hands with rubber bands. Returning to the open area, they found the woman gone and Gatlin making notes.

“I’d guess he’s been dead six hours at most,” Broussard said. “Eyelid’s gone, of course. We get letters again?”

With his pen, Gatlin pointed at the hood of a white Ford behind Broussard. “Over there.”

He followed Kit and Broussard to the Ford, where, on a folded section of newspaper, there were more Scrabble letters. But instead of four, like last time, there were only three, KOJ, held together with tape as before.

Broussard turned to Gatlin. “You found the letters on the paper?”

“Yeah, sitting in the victim’s lap.” Gatlin tilted his head slightly upward and looked at Broussard from the bottoms of his eyes. “And there’s another hair, too.”

“I noticed. How’d it all happen?”

Kit bent down for another look at the letters, trying to see the hair.

“The victim was the night clerk at the Chartres House, a small hotel around the corner,” Gatlin said. “This is where they keep the guests’ cars. If somebody needs their car in the morning, the night man comes over when he has time and moves it close to the entrance. Then, shortly before it’s needed, he brings it around and parks it in front of the hotel. Last night, the hotel was full and so was the lot—there were even two cars in the center here. You can see what a mess this is to get a car out. The victim was after the Cadillac. Apparently, he was killed after he’d moved the cars blocking the Cadillac out onto the street somewhere. We’re checking to make sure the killer didn’t take one of them.”

“I wouldn’t think he did,” Kit said.

“Me, neither, but we need to know.”

“He the only one on duty at night?” Broussard asked.

“Yeah. Which is why he wasn’t missed until this morning. That girl I was talking to when you arrived is the day clerk. When she came on duty, the guy who wanted the Cadillac was hopping mad ’cause his car wasn’t out front and he couldn’t find anyone to help him. She came for his car and found the body.”

“The killer must have been out trolling and followed him inside,” Kit said. “Anybody in the neighborhood see anything?”

“We’re checking that, too,” Gatlin replied. “Guess you were right, Doc.”

“This is one time I wouldn’t have minded being wrong.”

“The day clerk swears the victim’s heterosexual. I got the idea she knows from personal experience. I’ll dig some more, but right now, it looks like there’s no gay thread connecting the victims.”

“Opportunity and the way they were dressed,” Kit said, “those are the connections.”

“And both male,” Gatlin said.

“So far. . . .”

“Random victims,” Gatlin said, shaking his head. “Toughest damn thing in the world for a cop to deal with. But he left only three letters this time. You think he’s telling us there’re only going to be two more . . . that he’s winding down?”

“They don’t wind down,” Kit said. “So he may be telling us he’s building to something.”

“What happens, then? He just goes away? Moves to another town and starts over?”

“A small percentage do.”

“I’d love to get my hands on him,” Gatlin said. “But if I can’t, I’d settle for him moving on.”

“Wagon on the way?” Broussard asked.

“I put in a call right after Ray left. Should be here soon.”

“I better go back to the office and get ready.”

“You want to examine the new hair?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll bag the letters for you. And I don’t think you need to worry about fouling up any fingerprints. The last set was clean.”

The first thing Broussard did after reaching his office was to call down to the morgue to see if the body had arrived. It hadn’t. While waiting for it, he decided to examine the new hair.

He prepared it the same way he had the first one they’d found and put the slide under the microscope, feeling no anticipation whatever, for this was old ground, his examination this time merely a perfunctory ritual.

As he dropped his glasses to his chest and leaned toward the microscope eyepieces, the image of Susan Brooks suddenly popped into his head.

Susan . . . dead . . . in the cold ground somewhere in Albany . . . her body . . .

He sat back and massaged his eyes through closed lids. This was no good. To dwell on events that couldn’t be changed accomplished nothing. And if indulged, they could destroy a man’s peace of mind and interfere with his work.

He put his eyes against the microscope eyepieces and twirled the fine focus, bringing the image out of its optical fog.

Like most professionals who have spent many years honing their skills and accumulating experience, Broussard was seldom surprised by a case that came under his scrutiny. Of course, they all had their unique fine points, but in the main, they were merely modest variations on themes he knew as well as he knew when étouffé had been made with west Louisiana crawfish rather than those from eastern bayous.

He also knew which restaurants in the city had the best chefs and what their best dishes were. He knew the used bookstores where he would most likely find a Louis L ’ Amour novel he’d not yet added to his collection and he knew where to get the mesh shoes that kept his feet from sweating. He knew how to catch speckled trout and the best bait for Saca-lait. He knew when it was going to rain and when clouds would pass by. He could recite the routes of every parade in Mardi Gras and tell you which roses could withstand the city’s terrible summer humidity.

Knowledge of how to live in the city, knowledge of how one died there, knowledge that led to order . . . personally and professionally. Autopsies produced physical evidence that told you what caused death. Facts . . . one upon the other, leading in an orderly way to a conclusion that would stand up to minute dissection in a courtroom. In such a life, there was no room for error, no place for renegade facts like the hair under his microscope.