The Murder Artist

CHAPTER 30

I find the temporary courthouse in Belle Chasse – a half-dozen trailers in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center. Each trailer bears an identifying sign: TRAFFIC COURT, JUVENILE COURT, and so on. When I find the right trailer, the one housing records, the clerk of court tells me I’m out of luck. All the files pertaining to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility were destroyed in the fire.

“I was told there were computer records for the last few years. I’m just trying to get the name of a lawyer connected to a case.”

She’s a white-haired woman with bright brown eyes. She gives me an ironic smile. “Supposed to be electronic backup, but it never took. They got a new system now. Gentleman who installed the old system got hisself indicted.”

“I see.”

“We got four months of records and that’s about it. You might find something about your case in the newspaper, though. The Peninsula Gazette right here in Belle Chasse is the paper of record. I b’lieve they required to publish filings.”

I mull over the dates as I follow the courthouse clerk’s directions to the Gazette’s office. The Ramirez twins were abducted May 4, 2001, two weeks following Vermillion’s release from Port Sulfur. The petition for release would be earlier – and maybe a lot earlier.

I can start in late April and work my way backward. I’m not looking forward to it. Searching through newspaper morgues is about as tedious as it gets. But I’ve got three hours to kill before my appointment with Lester Flood, so I may as well make a run at it.

But not right now, it seems. As I approach the newspaper office, a young woman with dark spiky hair is locking the door. She’s wearing a halter top, cut-off jeans, and flip-flops. The halter top displays most of a large spider tattooed on one shoulder.

“Will you open again this afternoon?”

The girl cocks her head and sizes me up. “Why?” she asks, in such a way that the word has at least two syllables. “You want to place an ad?”

I explain that I want to look through the morgue.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean the old newspaper files.”

“Ohhhhh. Yeah, I knew that.” She taps her head. “I heard my daddy say that one time. He’s not here. He’s fishing. So what are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for notice of suit. The courthouse records were destroyed in the fire, so this is my only hope.”

“Huh. Your only hope. The Peninsula Gazette your only hope? I wish Daddy was here.” She smiles at me. A surprisingly sweet and shy smile. “I’m Jezebel,” she says. “Jezebel Henton.”

“Alex Callahan.”

She shakes the keys. “Well, Mr. Callahan – I could let you in. Of course, I’d have to stay there with you. How long is this going to take?”

I shrug. “It could take a while.”

“Hunh.” She looks at me.

“I have an appointment at four-thirty.”

She twists a ring on her pinky. “Well, since I have to sit there, I think it’s only fair if you pay for my time, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“So you pay me ten dollars an hour,” she says, “’cause otherwise, I could just go watch TV, right?”

“Right.”

“Plus,” Jezebel says, “I’ll help you look. I’m experienced – so that’s why I’m worth ten bucks an hour. I’ve done courthouse searches for Pinky Streiber.”

“Who’s Pinky Streiber?”

“He’s a private investigator,” she says. “You’ve never heard of him?”

“No.”

“He’s legendary,” she insists. “He really is. So-” She sticks out her hand. The fingernails are a shiny black, the polish half chipped away. “Deal?”

She takes me upstairs. I explain what I’m looking for. “What I really need is the name of Charley Vermillion’s lawyer. I’d like to talk to him… or her.”

“That should be on there with the published notice, although sometimes they just list whoever in the firm took it over to file it. And right away I can save you some time,” she says, selecting a key and opening an oak door. “The paper only publishes arrests and suits once a week. Wednesday.”

Jezebel finds it at 3:48. “Binnnnnnnn-go!” she shouts, and then continues in a revved-up voice. “Am I good or am I good? January ninth, 2000. Case number four-nine-six-eight-seven Division A: Charles Jimmie Vermillion vs. Port Sulfur Forensic Facility, et. al., filed by Francis-” She stops suddenly. “Oh, shit. Pardon my mouth.”

“What’s it say?”

“Filed by Francis Bergeron,” she says. “Frankie Bergeron. I hope you don’t need to talk to him real bad.”

“Why?”

“He’s dead – that’s why. Car crash. Over by Des Allemands. Single car accident. Went flying into the bayou. Frankie was a very aggressive driver, so you can take your pick: Some kind of road rage incident, or was he just going too fast and misjudged the curve? No witnesses ever came forward. Hey – what’s the matter?”

I shake my head. “Every time I think I’m getting somewhere with this thing, I hit a dead end.”

“Well, Frankie Bergeron sure is a dead end, but Pinky says there’s always another way to find something out.”

“That would be the courthouse.”

“Oh, yeah. This was your last hope. I am so sorry, Mr. Callahan.”

“Maybe Bergeron’s firm would have records,” I say, more to myself than to Jezebel. “Do you know who he worked for?”

“Lacey and Bergeron. Right here in Belle Chasse. You could call Mr. Lacey. I’ll get you his telephone number. Don’t call him after say… oh…” She twirls a Rolodex, tapping one thumb against her lower lip and then writes the number on a Post-it. “Don’t call him after three. Maybe two. He drinks a little.”

She hands me the Post-it. Her handwriting is clear and beautiful. We spend a few minutes replacing the cartons of newspapers we’ve been going through, Jezebel locks up, and I fork over thirty-five bucks. “I almost feel bad about taking this,” she says. “I mean, Frankie Bergeron…”

“Deal’s a deal.”

She folds the money in half and then in half again, then pinches it between her thumb and forefinger. “Then again, I don’t think this thirty-five dollars would really cheer you up all that much, am I right?”

I shake my head. “Thanks for the help.”

She pushes the money into the back of her jeans, then sticks out her hand. “Well, then, good luck, Mr. Callahan. Maybe things will turn around. Pinky says they always do in an investigation if you just keep pounding it.”

“I hope he’s right.”

“Where’s your appointment?

“Tupelo Street.”

“Where you going, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m going to see a lawyer. Lester Flood.”

She considers that. “First year back from Tulane, but Les is a good enough guy.” She looks at her nails. “Tell him Jez Henton says hey. You know how to get there?”

Jezebel’s directions deliver me within four minutes to the offices of Hawes, Halliday, and Flood, which are housed in a charming old brick building on a street that – judging from the proliferation of shingles – is obviously the preferred location of the legal establishment in Belle Chasse.

I wait ten minutes, and then I’m shown into Lester Flood’s office. It’s charming in that southern way, highly polished antiques, beautiful but worn rugs, and very high ceilings. There’s a collection of snow globes on a side table.

Flood doesn’t look much older than Jezebel. “Mr. Callahan,” he says. “Les Flood.” We shake hands and he gestures to a chair.

“Now,” he says, “what can I do for you?”

It takes me fifteen minutes to tell him. He jots down notes on a yellow legal pad, and occasionally asks me to spell a name or clarify something. When I’m finished, I give him a copy of the rabbit photo. He regards it for a moment or two, then slides it to one side. He taps his pad with his pen.

“I don’t know,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I can take this on; I will take this on if you decide to go that way, but…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The court requires strong evidence and a pressing need to compel disclosure of information about a hospital patient – which this individual was.” He winces. “I have to say I don’t like our chances.”

“Why not? This is strong evidence. And there sure as hell is a pressing need. My sons.”

He drums his fingers on the legal pad. “I am sympathetic to your position. I might even agree with you. But there are a lot of suppositions in your theory.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for starters – you don’t know that the abductor of your children left the origami rabbit on your dresser. You never noticed it before they were abducted, but it could have been there before, am I right?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You a hundred percent sure?”

“I am now.”

He nods. “Yeah. Sure you are. But that’s reversing things, isn’t it? The argument will be that your son could have gotten the thing elsewhere. From a kid, a neighbor, who knows?”

“But he didn’t.”

He nods. “You understand I’m playing devil’s advocate here. I agree that the rabbit is unusual, and that finding a replica of the one found in your house at the facility in Port Sulfur is suggestive. Especially given the links between that facility and the Ramirez murders and the parallels between the Ramirez case and your own. But there’s an awful lot of dots to connect in there. And there are no rabbits in either of the other cases. So it all could be coincidence, which is what the defense will argue. There were no prints on the rabbit found in your home, right?”

I nod.

He presses his lips together. “You also know that there’s another suit out there against the Port Sulfur facility.”

“The Ramirez family.”

“Yes. And the facility felt it was in good standing there. They appealed the lower court’s decision to release that fellow. Lost the appeal. They had to let the guy go. What else could they do?”

“We’re talking about Vermillion.”

“Right, Vermillion. We might not like it, but releasing men like that is compelled by law. Now, you can argue – as the attorneys for the Ramirez family do – that the man should not have been released. But that’s hindsight and a fallacy. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc. ‘After this, therefore because of this.’ He killed two kids, therefore you shouldn’t have released him. And anyway, why blame the facility: They didn’t really want to release. To complicate everything, the whole thing’s in a mess right now because the defense records went up in smoke. I heard that the Ramirez legal team has actually agreed to share its files with defense so that the case can continue.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. But probably what’s going to happen is that the state… and the facility… will settle. In the meantime” – he shakes his head – “I can’t think the court’s going to jump at the chance to get into this again and compel disclosure of anything by the facility. At least not until this other thing’s settled. For one thing, if what you suggest is true, it would mean that whole suit the Ramirez family brought would kind of be gazumped, wouldn’t it? I mean you are suggesting that Vermillion didn’t kill those boys?”

“That’s right.”

Lester Floyd raises his hands, palms up. “That would give it a hell of a twist.” He smiles. “Like I said, I’m willing to try to compel disclosure.”

“I’m really in a hurry.”

“I’m even willing to hurry,” Flood says. “I just don’t like our chances real well, and I want you to know that ahead of time.”

“I understand you’re telling me that success is not likely, but I’ve got to try.”

“Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”

We discuss money. My bank account has been temporarily replenished by a five-thousand-dollar cash advance from Visa. I write Flood a check for his requested retainer: a thousand dollars.

I drive back to New Orleans in a somber mood. I finally get a lead and where does it take me?

Scorched earth.

Charley Vermillion had a cyanide capsule taped to his collar and committed suicide upon his capture. An arsonist burned down the hundred-year-old Pointe a la Hache courthouse containing records about Vermillion’s suit petitioning release from custody (after nineteen years). Francis Bergeron, the lawyer who filed that suit, drove off a bridge into the bayou and died. The electronic system designed to store court documents imploded, so there is no record of the court proceedings involving Vermillion.

Can all this be coincidence?