“Here’s the problem with that scenario, Mack. The cause of death was massive trauma to the right-hand side of the cranium. Death was probably instantaneous. He ended up in the coulee, which means he wasn’t slammed to the asphalt. He wasn’t knocked into a post or telephone pole, either.”
“You’re saying the fatal injury wasn’t caused by the Buick? Maybe a second vehicle killed him?” Mack said.
“There’s another possibility.”
“What?”
“The second blow didn’t come from a vehicle,” I said.
“Maybe he got hit by a chunk of meteorite. Ease up on the batter, Dave,” he said.
A few minutes later I went into Helen’s office and told her of Mack Bertrand’s findings. She was hunched over her desk, her short sleeves folded in tight cuffs on her arms. She thought for a moment before she spoke. “Okay, so we’ve got a dirty vehicle, but we can’t put Bello Lujan behind the wheel,” she said.
“We can make a case for destroying evidence and aiding and abetting.”
“Provided we can prove he had knowledge a crime was actually committed. What if his kid was the driver? What if one of the kid’s fraternity brothers borrowed the car? How about the wife?”
“She’s an invalid. She doesn’t drive. These wouldn’t be issues if the victim wasn’t a wino,” I said.
“If there were no gravity, monkey shit wouldn’t fall out of trees, either.”
“I don’t think this is a simple hit-and-run, Helen. Something else is involved.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Dave, there are times I want to kill you, I mean actually pound your head with my fists.”
I gazed out the window, choosing reticence as the better part of valor.
“Go back to that business about it not being a simple hit-and-run,” she said.
“Mack believes the Buick either struck Crustacean Man in the hip while he was walking down the right-hand side of the road, or Crustacean Man walked out in front of the car. But neither Mack nor Koko can explain the origin of the fatal injury, which was to the head.”
“I think we’re starting to drown in more information than we need here. Look, somebody hit this guy with the Buick. He was left to die on the side of the road. The DNA evidence on that is absolute. Somebody is going down for what we can prove happened. Whoever it is, Bello or somebody else, will probably not receive the punishment he deserves. But we’re going to do our jobs as best we can and leave the rest of it to God. Am I putting this in words you can understand?”
“ Bello ’s son is the key.”
“Why?”
“Because his face is full of secrets.”
“Be honest with me. Are you trying to tie all this to the suicide of Yvonne Darbonne?”
“I have the feeling it’s connected. But I can’t tell you how.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, her starched shirt tightening across her chest. Then she laughed to herself.
“Want to let me in on it?” I asked.
“No, I want to keep you as a friend. Get a warrant on Bello and bring his kid in as a potential material witness.”
Time to deep-six the role as receptacle for Helen’s invective at my expense, I thought. “Tony Lujan’s name is now involved in three separate investigations-the assault on Monarch Little, the shooting death of Yvonne Darbonne, and a vehicular homicide. You think I’m obsessive or being unfair to him? How often does the average premed student get in this much trouble?”
Helen rolled her eyes and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, but this time she had nothing to say.
AFTER LUNCH, she and I met with our district attorney, Lonnie Marceaux. When I first met Lonnie a few years ago, I had thought he was one of those people whose attention span is limited either by an inability to absorb detailed information or a lack of interest in subject matter that isn’t directly related to their well-being. I was wrong. At least partially. Lonnie was usually three or four jumps ahead in the conversation. He had been Phi Beta Kappa at Tulane and had published in the Stanford Law Review. But the real content of his thoughts on any particular issue remained a matter of conjecture.
Lonnie was blade-faced, six and one half feet tall, and had a body like whipcord from the marathons he ran in New Orleans, Dallas, and Boston. His scalp glistened through his crew cut; his energies were augmented rather than diminished by the two hours a day he spent on a StairMaster. When he turned down a position as United States Attorney in Baton Rouge, his peers were amazed at his sudden diffidence. But it didn’t take us long to see the true nature of Lonnie’s ambitious design. In spite of his own upscale background, he charmed blue-collar juries. The press always referred to Lonnie as “charismatic” and “clean-cut.” No high-profile case in Iberia Parish ever went to an ADA, and God help the man or woman Lonnie got in his bomb sights. He was on his way up in the sweet sewer of Louisiana politics and I believe long ago had decided it was better to be first in Gaul rather than second in Rome.
Lonnie kept nodding his head as Helen and I explained the chain of evidence on Bello Lujan’s involvement with Crustacean Man’s death. Then he crossed his legs and began playing with a rubber band, stretching and twisting it into rhomboids and triangles on his fingers, while he spoke with his gaze focused above our heads. “So the kid is the weak sister, we squeeze him, scare the piss out of him, and force him to come clean on who clobbered the homeless guy with the Buick?”
But before we could answer, he resumed talking. “Okay, let’s do that. But a couple of things we have to remember. Monarch Little gave you the lead on the bloody headlight. Bello ’s defense attorney is going to point out to a jury that Monarch has a vested interest in screwing the Lujan family.”
“How could Monarch plant DNA on the Lujans’ Buick?” I said.
“‘Nobody ever lost money underestimating the intelligence of the American public.’ Know who said that?”
“No, but please tell us,” Helen said.
Lonnie gave her a look. “That great American sociologist P. T. Barnum.”
“You said there were a couple of items we need to remember,” I said.
“When it comes to Bello Lujan, we’re not the first in line. The FBI already has this guy under investigation. You’ve met Special Agent Betsy Mossbacher?” Lonnie said.
“How could I forget? How many federal agents track horseshit on your carpet?” Helen said.
Lonnie gave her another look, then began playing with his rubber band again. I had the feeling Helen was one of the few people who could stick thumbtacks deep into Lonnie’s scalp. “They’re after Bello and Whitey Bruxal,” he said. “However, my guess is they have some conflicts among themselves about the real goal of their investigation. The Mossbacher woman seems more intent on bringing down this televangelist Colin Alridge. You ever meet him?”
I had. Colin Alridge was a homegrown product who had returned to New Orleans a national celebrity. He was not simply telegenic, either. In person, he seemed to exude goodness and rectitude. Outside of Mickey Rooney in his role as Andy Hardy, I could not think of a public figure who was more representative of Norman Rockwell’s America. But I didn’t respond to Lonnie’s question, in part because I wanted to know Lonnie’s attitude toward Alridge. More candidly, I didn’t trust Lonnie. His prosecutorial eye seemed to be selective, and he chose his enemies with discretion.
“Alridge has probably been fronting points for the Indian casinos in the central portion of the state at the expense of those on the Texas state line,” he said. “A lot of people around here have no objection to a guy like Alridge helping the local economy. A lot of these same people get their paychecks from Bello Lujan and by extension Whitey Bruxal. Which means a lot of people around here might not like the idea of Crustacean Man messing up the cash flow. You with me?”
“You want to back off on the warrant for right now?” Helen said.
“Helen, why not listen a little more attentively to what’s being said? My point is the Feds are already investigating crimes committed in our backyard. So how does that make us look? Like bumbling hicks. So the question presents itself: How do we take the initiative away from the FBI and act like the elected servants we’re supposed to be? The answer is we drop the hammer on our own miscreants and, while we’re at it, see if we can’t show this televangelical asshole that just because you were born in Louisiana, you don’t get to wipe your feet on
