The Murder Artist

CHAPTER 31

In the morning, I put in a call to William Lacey – formerly the partner of Francis Bergeron. He “doesn’t see any harm” in telling me that his partner’s work on behalf of Charley Vermillion was pro bono.

“Did he do a lot of pro bono work?”

“Frankie? Hell no, and I don’t know what put the bug in his ear about Vermillion. It’s not like mental health was a special cause. Frankie didn’t have too many causes. He was looking to run for office down the road, you know?”

“So you don’t know how the case came to his attention.”

“No idea. Tell you the truth, I thought it was out of character. It was a risk – and damned if it didn’t backfire. Of course, he did get to argue in the court of appeals, and that was always kind of in the cards. So maybe that was the point. Exposure.”

I ask him if I could take a look at the case file – that the courthouse record had been destroyed.

“Hmmmmm,” he says. “I really couldn’t do that. There are attorney-client issues.”

“But in this case, both attorney and client are dead.”

“Point taken,” he says, “but I’m afraid it’s a moot one. I turned Frank’s files over to the district attorney. You aware there’s a suit pending over Vermillion’s release?”

“The parents of the Ramirez boys.”

“Bingo. And who the hell wouldn’t sue when the state, in all its wisdom, releases a wacko who utilizes his constitutional rights to kidnap and murder a couple of kids? That’s a damn worst-case scenario and a half.”

“So the district attorney is… where? Belle Chase?”

“Now he is, sure. But that’s the point. My understanding is Frank’s files went up in the fire. It’s right after the parish court took custody of those files that the place burned down.”

That leaves the rabbit.

I stare at the image on my computer screen. Shoffler looked into it and I did, too, but at the time the little paper creature represented only one of several leads. Now it’s all that’s left.

I look through my notebooks.

Paper folding practiced by Leonardo. Mathematically based. Connections to 19th-century stage magic.

A note in the margin, added later, reads: paper folding a kind of transformation. Balloons more popular now.

Traditional form: no gluing or cutting allowed – only a square of paper.

This makes origami an ideal hobby, I realize, for people confined to prisons or mental institutions.

Facility requires a mind adept at geometry and abstract thought. Popular with physicists and mathematicians.

Origami jargon: overland folds, blintzed, waterbomb, stretched bird bases.

Diagrams shared freely on Web. Complex diagrams.

Judy Jones: rabbit made of special origami paper, elephant hide. Folded wet.

Petrich: expert identified rabbit as “modified Lang.”

Online, I type origami Lang rabbit into the Google bar. It kicks out more than a thousand cites. Dr. Joseph Lang created many rabbits, but after two hours of going through the listings, I’ve seen dozens of Lang rabbits and modified versions of same, and not one of these bunnies looks much like the one I found in the boys’ bedroom. Maybe Petrich’s expert found a different Lang rabbit from the ones I’ve seen so far.

Or maybe – he made a mistake.

When I type in origami rabbit, Google kicks out thousands and thousands more listings, although many turn out to be repetitious. I slog through for another hour and a half, but I still find nothing that looks like my rabbit.

But I do learn that the origami world is very chummy and active on the Web. It abounds in competitions and exhibitions, and there is much critiquing of origami books, commentary on sources of material, exhibition of new creations, and trading of folding diagrams. Maybe the origami cybercommunity can tell me more about my rabbit. Judging from the menagerie in Anderton’s display case, the Piper wasn’t a novice, but pretty deeply into the hobby.

Maybe he had access to a computer at Port Sulfur. Maybe he communicated with people in the subculture. It’s possible someone will recognize his work. Or even identify him.

I plug origami into Google and make a list of two dozen website addresses. I compose an e-mail requesting help in identifying the rabbit in the attached JPEG file. I send it out.

And if this doesn’t work, well – Anderton knows who made the rabbit. If I have to, I’ll put the question to him – hard.

I’ve been in a zone, sitting there hunched over the laptop for so long that when I stand up it’s painful. I do some shoulder rolls and stretches.

I should call the folks. I should call Liz. I haven’t spoken to my parents or my wife in more than a week, dodging the worry and concern from the folks and the hostility from Liz.

At least I should call and check my messages.

It’s the usual suspects.

Big Dave at the station. Alex! Something’s come up that I think you’ll be interested in. If you’re ready to come back, we’re ready for you. It’s a real opportunity, so…

The folks, “just checking in.”

My friend Scott, still trying to cheer me up: Heyyy. Hi, Alex. Well, here’s the deal: I’m putting together this… ah… badminton tournament. It’s for charity, of course, although we’re not expecting a huge crowd. Anyway… it’s Brad and Jennifer, Tim and Susan, Bill and Hillary, myself and Demi – she’s got one hell of a defensive lob, in case you weren’t aware. Charlize Theron needs a partner… So… if you’re interested, buddy, give me a call, okay?

Liz. Where are you now, Alex? We need to talk.

I don’t want to talk to any of them. I tell myself I’ll return the calls tomorrow. I head out for a jog. Stepping out the door from the air-conditioned lobby into the humid air, I’m surprised there isn’t a thunderstorm in the doorway. The air feels so dense it’s almost like running through water. I head out along the waterfront until I get to a dock area and a security fence stops me. On the way back, I pick it up as I cruise around the perimeter of Lafayette Park. A crowd sways and claps to the music from the bandstand, a free concert, some kind of funky salsa blues. I’m dripping wet by the time I get back to the Omni, and I fog up the mirror in the elevator.

After a shower, I pop a beer and sit back down in front of the computer. It’s only been an hour or so, but already I have eight responses to my e-mail plea. Most of them suggest links I might check, but one of them (folderman@netzero.com) recognizes the rabbit as the winner of a competition at the Prospect Hill branch of the Philadelphia Public Library.

The Prospect Hill Origami Society sponsors an annual competition, posing a different figure challenge each year. This year, it’s the shark; 1995 was the year of the rabbit. It isn’t one of the big folding competitions, but the entrance fee is trivial, so you get a lot of students and the like. The rabbit in the photo you’re circulating was the grand champion in 1995, and we were all irritated when the creator was identified only by his first name or something. No address. Clearly the guy was a spectacular talent and some of us wanted to communicate with him, but there was no information about how to do so. Get in touch with George Esterhazy – he’s the president emeritus of the group. He’s retired now but still very engaged with folding. Cheers, I hope this helps.

Folderman appends Esterhazy’s phone number and e-mail address. I shoot him a fervent thank-you, then send my original e-mail to Esterhazy along with a copy of Folderman’s message.

A few minutes later, I call Esterhazy. He might be one of those guys who checks his e-mail once a week. At least I ought to bring it to his attention.

“Esterhazy,” the reedy voice says.

“Mr. Esterhazy, my name is Alex Callahan. I don’t know if you’ve had a chance-”

“Yesss. I got your e-mail. And of course I remember that brilliant little rabbit. Byron B. Very frustrating.”

“Byron B.? What do you mean?”

“That was his name – all the name we ever got. As I was saying, it was very frustrating. Some on the committee wanted to strip the championship from him, but I was against it. Wouldn’t have been right. It was a blind competition, you know, and his rabbit was head and shoulders above the other submissions.”

“Excuse me, but how was the rabbit submitted, if you didn’t know the identity of the person who made it?”

“Turned out the fellow who sent the piece was an occupational therapist at the… wait, I’ll remember.”

“Port Sulfur Forensic Facility in Louisiana?”

“Yes! A madhouse! Not unknown, of course. Jules Kravik – a famous folder – he was deeply disturbed and lived most of his life in a mental institution.”

“Hunh.”

“With this Byron B. fellow, we might have been permitted to communicate except that by the time the competition was judged and we were ready to inform the winners and announce results, he’d been released. And our attempts to persuade the institution to pass on the news of victory and the small cash award were very firmly rebuffed.” A sigh. “So that was it. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t resurface in the origami world – clearly a talent, very innovative use of the stretched bird base. But that was it.”

I’m so excited I barely have the manners to thank the man before I hang up.

Byron B. might not be much, but it’s something. It’s not like the facility in Port Sulfur is a detox center or a rehab facility with patients checking in and out at will. It’s an institution for the criminally insane. Which is to say that, whoever Byron B. is, he fucked up badly and in a very public way – otherwise he wouldn’t have been in that particular bin for so many years.

And he hadn’t checked in of his own volition. Which meant that somewhere in Louisiana, there was a court-order committing a man named Byron, last name initial B., to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility. Depending upon what the guy had done, there might even be a news story. Thanks to Anderton, I know the year: 1983.

Ordinarily, I might not select a private investigator on the advice of a thirteen-year-old girl, but nothing about my life is ordinary anymore. Jezebel Henton is happy to give me Pinky Streiber’s name, which she spells for me, and his number, which she apparently knows by heart.

“Thanks, Jez.”

“One thing about Pink maybe you should know?” She hesitates.

“What’s that?”

“Just ’cause it kinda startles people. See, Pinky – the reason that’s his nickname? He’s an albino.”

I meet Pinky Streiber at his office in the French Quarter. A hard-looking blonde in a red linen sheath sits at the reception desk. She tells me to take a seat in what has to be one of the hippest offices I’ve ever been in. Jazz on the sound system. Paintings and antique furniture and a scatter of big plants. Tall ceilings and rotating fans. Huge windows with white shutters. Pinky Streiber is doing all right.

Five minutes later, he’s shaking my hand and leading me to his dimly lit and sparsely furnished inner sanctum. He sits behind a slab of polished wood, which has nothing on it but a red telephone. I sit on a red leather Barcelona chair. Streiber wears sunglasses and his skin is dead white. There’s a familiar smell in the air, but I can’t quite identify it.

“Sunscreen,” Streiber says, as if he’s read my mind. “I’m drenched in it. That’s what you smell. Coppertone Sport 48. And I apologize for the sunglasses, but I only take ’em off at night.”

After he understands the task, Pinky says, “Well, it’s labor-intensive, but even so, it’s just legwork. If we can get a million hamsters hopping on keyboards long enough, we’ll eventually get a copy of ‘Gunga Din,’ n’est-ce pas? The question is: How big is your budget?”

I shrug. “Don’t hold back. Whatever it takes.” For the time being, I’m just going to keep writing myself more of those checks the credit card companies send in the mail. Eventually, I’ll hit up my dad. And then…

“I’ll give you a break, seeing as how this ain’t exactly a run-o’-the-mill divorce case, but I’ll still need a retainer, let’s say five hundred dollars. And just so you know, I don’t do courthouse searches myself. I’ve built up a kind of motley crew of paralegals, retired folks, teenagers, and the chronically underemployed. You say go, I’ll turn ’em loose on this and they will hit every single courthouse in Louisiana until they find that commitment order.”

“Great.”

“I pay my subs twenty bucks an hour. Now, this could take a lot of hours. Or a few. You never know.”

“Right. I understand.”

“Ohhhhh-kay. So it’s Byron B. Commitment order to the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility. Entered the system in 1983.” He writes this down. “That’s it, right? That’s all you got. You know when he got out?”

“Ninety-six.”

“Okay, then, that’s all I need.”

“I might as well help,” I tell him. “If there’s somewhere you don’t have enough bodies, I know how to search records.”

“Dynamite. You just earned yourself a stint in St. John the Baptist Parish. Parish seat’s in LaPlace. My number one sub there just had a baby and my backup took a job at the new Target.” He pronounces the word as if it’s French: Tar-zhay. “It’s not far from here, actually. Highway 10 will take you right to it.”

“Okay.” I pull out my wallet, extracting a dog-eared check.

“Becky will deal with that. We do take Visa and MasterCard,” Pinky says. “Some folks like to get their miles.”