The Glass Rainbow

“When you figure out how that translates into the commission of a crime, let me know.”

“Why be everybody’s punch?” I said.

“Want to rephrase that?”

“Bloodsuckers of every stripe come here and wipe their feet on us. We’ve turned victimhood into an art form. Weingart is a parasite if not a predator.”

“Go back to that part about Abelard’s bisexuality. I’d like to know how that figures into all this.”

“I wasn’t making a judgment about it.”

Her eyes roamed over my face. “Tell Clete he’s on a short tether. I always love chatting with you, Dave,” she said. She winked at me and went out the door, closing it carefully behind her, like someone who does not want to be in the emotional debt of another.

TWO DAYS PASSED and I began to think less and less about the deaths of the women in Jefferson Davis Parish. The absence of news coverage about their deaths and the general lack of fear or outrage that their deaths should have provoked may seem bizarre or symptomatic of inhumanity among our citizenry. But serial killers abound in this country, and they often kill scores of people for a span of several decades before they are caught, if they ever are. Most of their victims come from the great uprooted, faceless population that drifts via Greyhound or gas-guzzler or motorcycle or thumb through trailer slums, battered women’s shelters, Salvation Army missions, migrant worker camps, and inner-city areas that have the impersonality of war zones. The vagueness of the term “homeless” is unintentionally appropriate for many of the people inside this group. We have no idea who they are, how many of them are mentally ill or just poor, or how many of them are fugitives. In the 1980s, hundreds of thousands of them were dumped on the streets or refused admission by federal hospitals. The mendicant culture they established is still with us, although our problem of conscience regarding their welfare seems to have faded.

A local bluesman by the name of Lazy Lester once said, “Don’t ever write your name on the jailhouse wall.” Today it might not be a bad idea.

On Wednesday, just before quitting time, Helen came into my office with a back section of the Baton Rouge Advocate folded in her hand. “What was the name of the convict you interviewed in Mississippi?”

“Elmore Latiolais.”

“I shouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Help you drag somebody else’s problem into our workload.” She dropped the newspaper on my desk pad.

I picked up the paper and read the story. It was four paragraphs in length. It was the kind of news story that any journalist or educated cop instantly recognizes as one that replicated a press handout or a statement made by a public information officer rather than an account based on an eyewitness interview. It was written in the passive voice and avoided specifics other than the fact that Elmore Latiolais, a man with a long criminal history, had been shot to death when he stole a pistol from a prison vehicle and threatened to kill a prison guard.

“Latiolais was a check writer and a bigamist and a thief. I don’t see this guy threatening prison personnel with a stolen firearm.”

“Pops, let the state of Mississippi deal with it.”

“So why bring me the news story?”

“Because you have a right to see it. That doesn’t mean you have a right to act on it.”

“You brought it to me because you know this story sucks.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Listen, Helen-”

She walked out the door, shaking her head, probably more at herself than at me.

I called Jimmy Darl Thigpin on his cell phone, expecting my call to go immediately to voice mail. But it didn’t.

“Thigpin,” a voice said.

“It’s Dave Robicheaux.”

“I figured.”

“I just read the story on Latiolais’s death. What happened?”

“I killed him. Somebody should have done it to that sonofabitch a long time ago.”

“He had a gun?”

“That’s right. He was getting it out of my cab.”

The image his words conjured up didn’t fit. “But he didn’t actually have the gun in hand?”

“What did the newspaper say?”

“It stated he threatened you.”

“’Cause that’s what he did.”

“How did Latiolais get access to the cab of your truck? What was an unsecured weapon doing in it?”

“A new man screwed up.”

“Tell me straight-out, Cap, this man verbally threatened you while holding a loaded weapon in his hand. That’s what happened? You were at mortal risk?”

“You’re over the line, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“The question stands. Will you answer it?”

“It what?”

“You put him in lockup because you said he had some jackrabbit in him. Then you took him out of lockup and left him unattended around a firearm. A man of your experience did that?”

“This conversation is over.”

“Latiolais wasn’t a violent offender.”

“Did you hear me?”

“No, I didn’t, not at all. Why didn’t you call and tell me Latiolais had more information for me? I think you just killed a man who could have helped solve several homicides in our area.”

“I’ve had about all this I can take. You stay the hell away from me.”

He broke the connection. And I was glad he did. There were times in my job when I wanted to dig a hole in the earth and bury my shield and scrub my skin with peroxide.

IT’S THE CONTENTION of Alcoholics Anonymous that drinking is but the symptom of the illness. Those afflicted souls who quit drinking but do nothing else to change their way of life become what are called “dry drunks.” Often they channel their bitterness and anger into the lives of others. They also seek to control everyone around them, and they accomplish this end by the most insidious means possible: the inculcation of guilt and fear and low self- esteem in those who are unfortunate enough to be in their sway.

A person who practices the steps and principles of A.A. has little latitude in certain situations. When we are wrong about something, we have to admit it promptly. Then we have to make amends and restitution. In moments like these, a person may yearn for an easier way-say, a tall glass packed with shaved ice, stained with four jiggers of Black Jack Daniel’s, wrapped with a napkin to keep the coldness inside the glass, a sprig of mint inserted in the ice.

After supper, I watched Alafair feed Tripod and Snuggs in the backyard. She walked past me into the kitchen without speaking. I followed her inside and asked her to take a walk with me.

“I’m going out,” she said.

“It won’t take long.”

“I have to dress.”

“You going out with Kermit?”

“What about it? Should I arrange for him to pick me up somewhere else?”

“No.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

Molly was watching CNN in the living room. I heard her turn off the television and walk into the hallway that gave onto the kitchen.

“Nothing. It’s a nice evening. I just thought you might want to take a walk,” I said.