Pegasus Descending Part 10

8.

T HURSDAY MORNING , Mack Bertrand called from the crime lab. "The blood on the Buick headlight fragment came from Crustacean Man," he said.

"No gray area, no contamination, no dilution of the specimen, none of that stuff?"

"This one is dead-bang. It even gets better. You actually brought me two specimens."

"Say again?"

"A microscopic piece of bone was on the inside of the molding. My guess is it came from the collision of the fender against Crustacean Man's hip."

"You don't think it came from the blow to his head?"

"Maybe. But the body-and-fender guy told you the gla.s.s and molding came from the pa.s.senger side of the vehicle, right?"

"Correct."

"Crustacean Man's left hip was crushed. My guess is he either walked in front of the vehicle or he was walking on the side of the road, in the same direction as the Buick, when he was. .h.i.t."

"Here's the problem with that scenario, Mack. The cause of death was ma.s.sive 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 s.h.i.+t 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 G.o.d. 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 a.s.sault 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 G.o.d 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 p.i.s.s 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 b.l.o.o.d.y headlight. Bello's defense attorney is going to point out to a jury that Monarch has a vested interest in s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the Lujan family."

"How could Monarch plant DNA on the Lujans' Buick?" I said.

"'n.o.body 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 horses.h.i.+t 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 rect.i.tude. 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 att.i.tude 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 b.u.mbling 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 a.s.shole that just because you were born in Louisiana, you don't get to wipe your feet on Iberia Parish. Is this starting to gel for you, Helen?"

It was so quiet I could hear the air-conditioning in the vents. "We'll have Bello and his son in custody by close of business," I said.

"Good," Lonnie said, rocking back in his chair, raising one finger in the air. "One other thing-I want daily updates on every aspect of this investigation. Any memoranda are eyes-only. All conversations regarding the investigation stay within our immediate circle. Any sharing of information with federal authorities will be performed by this office and this office only. Are we all on the same page here?"

"I'll notify you as soon as we bring Bello and Tony Lujan in," I said.

I had slipped his punch, but he didn't seem to take note of it. "Helen?" he said.

Her face was thoughtful, even placid, before she spoke. "No, I can't think of a thing to say, Lonnie. Nothing at all. But if I do, I'll give you a buzz."

THE NEXT MORNING, Friday, Bello Lujan was placed under arrest for destruction of evidence in a vehicular homicide. He was not told that simultaneously his son was being removed from a cla.s.sroom at UL by me, a uniformed Iberia Parish sheriff's deputy, and a Lafayette City Police detective. When Tony Lujan protested, we cuffed his wrists behind him and led him across the quadrangle, just as a bell rang and his peers poured out of the surrounding buildings and filled the colonnaded walkway that surrounded the main campus. Tony's face was as red as raw hamburger.

We left him cuffed behind the wire screen in the cruiser and headed for New Iberia, with me in the pa.s.senger seat and Top, our retired Marine Corps NCO, behind the wheel.

"You treated me like I'm a rapist or a drug dealer in front of all those people. You can't do that unless you charge me with something," Tony said.

"We don't have to charge you, because you're not under arrest," I said.

"Then why am I in handcuffs?"

"You gave us a bad time," I replied.

"If I'm not under arrest, take the cuffs off."

"When we stop," I said.

I saw Top look into the rearview mirror. His red hair was turning gray and two pale furrows ran through it on each side of his pate. His mustache looked as stiff as a toothbrush. "I'm not as forgiving as Dave, here," he said.

"What I'd do?"

"You stepped on my spit s.h.i.+ne. You scratched the leather on my brand-new shoes. Those are forty-dollar shoes."

"I'm sorry," Tony said.

"How would you like it if somebody stepped on your new shoes?" Top said.

"This is crazy. I want to call my father."

"Your father is under arrest. I don't think he's going to be of much help to you," I said.

"Arrest for what?"

I turned around in the seat so he could look directly into my face. "Either you or he or your mother killed a homeless man with your automobile. Y'all thought you could get away with something like that, Tony? How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty." The handcuffs were on tight and he had to lean forward on the car seat to keep from pinching them into his wrists.

"You're studying to be a doctor?" I said.

"I'm in my second year of premed."

"And you're starting out your career with blood splatter all over you?" I said.

"I didn't kill anybody."

"How did the dead guy's blood get on your headlight?" Top said.

"I'm not saying anything else. I want to talk to my father. I want to talk to a lawyer."

"Glad to hear that, kid, because I'm very upset over what you did to my shoes," Top said. "You just graduated from 'friend of the court' to 'punch of the day' in the stockade shower. I hear if you close your eyes and pretend you're a girl, it's not so bad after a couple of months."

Then both Top and I turned to stone and watched the billboards and fields of young sugarcane slide past the windows. After we had crossed into Iberia Parish, I gestured toward a turnoff. We left the four-lane and drove through a community of shacks and rain ditches that were strewn with litter and vinyl bags of raw garbage that had been flung from pa.s.sing vehicles. Thunderclouds moved across the sun and the countryside dropped into shadow. The wind smelled like rain and chemical fertilizer and dead animals that had been left on the roadside. Beyond a line of trees I could see the ugly gray outline of the parish prison and the silvery coils of razor wire along the fences.

"Stop here," I told Top.

"He wants to lawyer-up. He's a fraternity punk who deserves to fall in his own s.h.i.+t. Don't end up with a bad jacket, here," Top said.

"I'm going to do it my way. Now stop the car."

I got out of the cruiser and opened the back door. Tony looked at me cautiously. "Outside," I said.

"What are we doing?"

I reached inside and pulled him out on the road, then marched him toward a clump of cedar trees. He twisted his head back toward the road, his face stretched tight with fear. "People at UL know we left together. You can't do this," he said.

"Shut up," I said. I pushed him into the shade of the trees. He began to struggle, and I shoved him against a tree trunk and held him there. "I'm going to uncuff you now. The conversation we have out here is between you and me. You're being treated like an intelligent man. Try to act like one."

I unlocked the cuffs, pulled them free of his wrists, and turned him around. His face was gray, his breath rife with funk.

"Your old man didn't kill the homeless man, did he?"

"No, sir."

"Did your mother?"