Voodoo River

hope we can get together again.'

'I could probably be there in thirty minutes. Faster, if I run down the highway naked.'

She laughed. 'That would probably be worth seeing, but I think you should concentrate on Leon Williams.'

' 'Probably'?'

'Ah, the male ego is indeed a fragile beast.'

Lucy hung up. I got the LSU School of Journalism's number from Information, called, and spoke with a woman who sounded to be in her fifties. I explained what I wanted and she told me that she'd have to connect me with the journalism library. A man came on the line. 'May I help you?'

'I'm looking for the Ville Platte Gazette.' I told him the year and the month. 'Would you guys have that on microfiche?'

'Can you hold while I check?'

'Sure.'

He came back on the line maybe thirty seconds later. Fast checker. 'We have it. Would you like me to put it aside?'

'Please.' I gave him my name and told him that I was coming from Ville Platte but that I would be there directly. He said fine. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe I was getting to the bottom of this and, once reaching the bottom, would bounce over the top. Of course, reaching the bottom can sometimes be painful, but we try not to think of that. Imagine an egg.

One hour and ten minutes later I drove through a wide gate that said Louisiana State University. A young guy in an information kiosk gave me a map of the university, pointed out the journalism building, then told me to park in a big lot by the football stadium. I left the car where he told me, then walked back between Tiger stadium and the basketball arena where Pistol Pete Maravich used to rack up forty-four points a game. The House that Pete Built. It was a pretty campus with green lawns and curved walkways, and I remembered once hearing the radio broadcast of an LSU basketball game in which Maravich scored fifty-five points against Alabama. It was in 1970, and I was in the army at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ranger School. A guy in my platoon named James Munster was from Alabama and loved basketball. His parents had recorded the game and sent it to him and six of us listened to the tape on a Saturday night. Jimmy Munster loved the Crimson Tide and he hated LSU, but could only shake his head at the miracle that was Pistol Pete Maravich, saying, 'What can you do? That guy owns the basket. What can you do?' Seven months later Specialist Fourth Class James Munster died in a VC ambush while on a long-range reconnaissance patrol just south of the Cambodian highlands. He was eighteen years old. I still remember the score of that game. LSU 90, Alabama 83.

A clutch of coeds in biking shorts and T-shirts cut so diat you could see their midriffs passed and smiled at me, and I smiled back. Southern belles. A little sign saying TENNIS STADIUM pointed past the arena, and I thought maybe it'd be fun to see where Lucy had played, but then I thought it might be more fun if she were with me to give me the tour. Have to ignore the coeds, though.

I walked up a little hill and past a couple of stately buildings and into Memorial Hall, also known as the School of Journalism. The kid in the kiosk had told me that the journalism library was in the basement, so I found the stairs, went down, and wandered around for twenty minutes before I located the right door. Professional detection at its finest.

A bald guy in his early thirties was sitting with a placard that said RESEARCH. He looked up from a textbook and said, 'May I help you?'

I told him that I had called a little while ago. I told him it was about the Ville Platte Gazette.

He said, 'Oh, yeah. I've got it right here.' He had a little box on his desk. 'You a student?'

'Nope.'

'I'll need your driver's license, and I'll need you to sign right here. You can use any of the cubicles down that aisle.'

I gave him my driver's license, signed where he wanted, then took the single spool of microfiche film to the first cubicle and threaded it into the projector. On May 13, there was a short article on page 6 stating that a male Negro named Leon Cassius Williams, age 14, had been found floating at the south bank of Bayou Maurapaus by two kids fishing for mudcats. Sheriff Andrus Duplasus stated that the cause of death was a single.38 caliber gunshot wound to the head, and that there were no leads at present. The article ended by saying that Leon Cassius Williams was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Williams, of Ville Platte, and that services were scheduled at the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. The entire article was four inches long, and set between an ad for Carter's Little Liver Pills and an article about a guy who'd caught an eight-pound large-mouthed bass in Bayou Nezpique.

On May 17, another short article appeared on page 4, this one reporting that Leon Cassius Williams, 14, found murdered the week before, had been laid to rest. An obituary included within the article said that Leon was survived by his mother and father and three siblings, all of whom were listed, along with their ages. I copied the list. Sheriff Duplasus was quoted as saying that there were no new developments in the case. The last article relating to Leon Williams appeared on page 16 of the May 28 paper. Sheriff Duplasus reported that investigations within the Negro community had led him to believe that Leon Williams was murdered by a Negro transient seen earlier that day, and that the murder very likely resulted from a dispute over a gambling debt. Duplasus said that he was continuing to compile evidence, and had issued a description to state police authorities, but that the chances for an arrest were minimal. None of Leon Williams's survivors were referred to except for a single quote from Mrs. Robert T. Williams, who said, 'I feel like they robbed my heart. I pray the good Lord watches after my baby.'

When I reached the end of the film I turned off the projector and thought about what I had found. Leon Williams, a fourteen-year-old African-American male, had been murdered, and the murder was unsolved. Nothing in the articles indicated a connection to the Johnson family, or to any other principal in my investigation. I had thought there might be, but there you go. Nada. Jimmie Ray Rebenack was very likely the guy who had stolen the May microfiche film from the Ville Platte Library. I didn't know that, and I hadn't found it at his home, but it made sense. Jimmie Ray had found some significance in Leon and had made note of him. Since Jimmie Ray had done all right with the other stuff, further investigation was in order.

I brought the film back to the bald guy, then went to a bank of pay phones at the side of the building. There were three names on the list of Leon Williams's siblings: Lawrence, 17; Robert, Jr., 15; and Chantel Louise, 10. Thirty-six years later, Lawrence would be fifty-two and Chantel Louise forty-six. Chantel Louise would very likely have a different last name. I called Ville Platte Information and asked for numbers and addresses for Lawrence Williams and Robert Williams, Jr. There was no listing for a Robert Williams, Jr., but they had Lawrence. I copied his number and address, thanked the operator, then dialed Lawrence Williams. On the third ring, a woman with a precise voice answered. I said, 'May I speak with Mr. Lawrence Williams, please?'

There was a pause, and then she said, 'I'm sorry, but Mr. Williams is deceased. May I help you?' Deceased.

'Is this Mrs. Williams?'

'Yes, I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams. Who is calling, please?'

I told her my name. 'Mrs. Williams, did your husband have a younger brother named Leon?'

'Why, yes. Yes, he did. Leon died, though, when they were boys. He was murdered.' Maybe this was going to work out after all.

'That's why I'm calling, Mrs. Williams. I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking into the murder. Did Mr. Williams speak about it with you?'

'Mr. Williams did not. I'm afraid I can't help you.'

'There was another brother and a sister.'

'Robert, Jr., died in 1968. Over in that war.'

'How about the sister? Do you know how I might reach her?'

Her voice became crisp. 'She's working right now. She works for a Jew in that damned sausage factory, and you shouldn't be calling her there. When you call, that Jew answers the phone and he doesn't like that. You'll get her in trouble.'

'Please, Mrs. Williams. It's important.'