Blood in the Lake Page 18

  I was too young to remember, so I was interested in the story. Aunt Tut said she went for a visit and to do her daughter’s Christmas shopping. When she walked into Genny’s room, she found her perfectly relaxed, glowing like any other expectant mother in her sixth month, only this prospective mother lay flat on her back in a hospital bed. And then Genny admitted that just the night before she’d had a period of contractions. The doctor had feared she wouldn’t carry until the morning. When Dr. Melancon, the neonatal specialist, made his rounds, Tut asked him what would happen if the baby came at that point. Genny had hit it off with the doctor right away. He’d grown up in Iberia Parish. The nurses teased Genny about him all the time, said she was the only one who could understand his talk. They couldn’t even pronounce his name. Trying to soothe Aunt Tut with information about the facilities the hospital had to offer, Dr. Melancon gave her a pass to go down to the NICU, neonatal intensive care unit. He thought she’d feel a lot better about everything if she saw the care they had available for premature babies.

  Tut continued her story. “Charlie said he’d like to go with me. Thank God. We got in the elevator to ride down the twelve floors to NICU and noticed right off the bat the big red label over the button for the basement. NICU-NO VISITORS. We pressed the button anyway. When the door opened, we faced a closed double door again labeled in red. ADMITTANCE BY PASS ONLY. We pushed on through. One of the nurses stood up and came toward us.

  “‘Hello there,’ she said, a warm smile changing her expression to a welcome. ‘Dr. Melancon asked me to show you around. My name is Gloria.’”

  Aunt Tut said that except for the clear plastic tents over the little baby baskets, the room looked very much like any hospital nursery. Gloria told her these babies would be going home in just a few days. Then they went on to the second room.

  “In this room,” Aunt Tut said, “a spaghetti of tubes snaked out from under each tented bassinet, some ending on a night stand and some leading straight overhead to a grate in the ceiling. Gloria took pride in the work going on here. She chatted cheerily as we approached each crib, but at the sight of the little bodies lying naked under plastic, I squeezed my son-in-law’s arm and swallowed hard. I felt faint. Oblivious to my anxiety, Gloria continued her chatter.

  “She said these babies were all in warmer beds. Tubes reached into the overhead heater. Their skin was immature, and they had very little body fat. Most of them were still on ventilators to help their breathing. She pointed out one who had come in six weeks before, weighing just over three pounds. They had started to wean him from some of the equipment, and he’d be moving out to the other room in a few more weeks, maybe sooner. He was able to swallow, so he could handle a feeding tube in his mouth rather than his belly. He was doing beautifully, Gloria said. Doing beautifully? The tiny body lay on his back, buck naked, limbs twitching. I watched him push out his arms and legs. Instinct. No personal trainer had to tell him to do his exercise, to use it or lose it! A wide blue bandage covered his eyes. ‘What about his eyes?’ I asked Gloria. ‘Oh,’ my guide chirped in response. ‘His eyes are still sensitive to light.’

  “Charlie and I followed Gloria down the row of bassinets. She chatted on about how they were monitoring blood pressure, heart rate, breathing, temperature. At several of the cribs a nurse reached her arms into the sides of the tent so she could tend to the little occupant. Covered fingers stroked the quivering chests—the only affectionate contact the little ones could receive. I couldn’t help thinking of the racks of books new mothers read about the critical importance of early touching and nurture. What if all a baby receives is an occasional latex-gloved fingertip on his chest? What does that mean for their emotional health? I asked Gloria if they’d be alright, and she told me they might have a few little problems here and there, but the little ones fight like tigers to stay with us. That expression stuck with me, Mimi. They fight like tigers to stay with us.”

  Aunt Tut said Genny’s husband hadn’t had much to say, but now he asked how old these babies were when they were born. Gloria told him they were mostly twenty-eight weeks or more. The drugs today made a tremendous difference, she said. President Kennedy’s premature baby had hyaline membrane disease from not-yet-developed lungs. Unheard of now. Corticosteroids mature a baby’s lungs in as short a time as twenty-four hours.

  “Charlie steered me back to the central station. We turned to the third spoke from the hub. We had to put on a gown and mask to enter this room, a nurse at the door helping us into green shrouds. We could only take a few steps inside. Here each bassinet station had not one but three nurses in attendance, and these nurses didn’t sit on stools. They bent their backs over their little charges. Gloria said most of these little ones were born at twenty-three, twenty-four weeks, weighing less than two pounds. She said most of them would do quite well. I couldn’t believe it.

  “They were pitiful. Mimi. My throat closed, and I felt a wave of heat. I mumbled something beneath my mask, and Charlie pulled me to the door. ‘Thank you so much Gloria,’ he said. ‘We’ll be going now.’ He led me to the cafeteria, found me a coke, and handed me a wet napkin for my throat. Fifteen minutes later we returned to Genny’s room with optimism pasted on our faces.

  “So why am I thinking about all this now, Mimi? I’m remembering those little ones fighting as hard as they could to stay alive. Shouldn’t we have the same fight for life? I also remember another thought I had then. When Genny’s baby was born at term, perfect in every way, I remember my vow. Charlie and I held those little fingers and swore to each other that if anyone ever harmed this precious child, we wouldn’t rest until that person had paid the just price. Should I do the same for PawPaw? Make sure that his killer pays? Mimi, I’m torn.”

  Like Uncle Etienne, Aunt Tut was probably another of the siblings whose opinion about the death penalty depended on a back story, and which part of the back story floated to the top of consciousness at the moment of decision. The possibility an innocent person might be put to death haunted Aunt Dora. Sister Agnes opposed the penalty even for the truly guilty. Where was I on the question?

  With a catch in her voice, Mom spoke to her sister.

  “Tut, I’ll confess to you that in the very beginning, when we didn’t know who did that to PawPaw, I was vengeful. I was really just scared the person might come after someone else in the family, return to the scene of the crime and all that. But once he went to jail, and we knew he wouldn’t get out no matter what the jury decided on the penalty, I just didn’t care one way or the other.”

  Aunt Tut took a good while to respond.

  “If you speak out to let the DA make a deal for life, Mimi, I’d stand with you. Sister Agnes persuaded me. I know what Ti Pierre will have to say about that, but I don’t care.”

  “And poor Bub, too. The pursuit of vengeance may be what’s keeping him going.”

  “Perhaps, but maybe keeping him from moving on.”

  What should I tell Tom about this conversation? I could say there was some sentiment among my aunts and uncles for asking for a plea deal. No. It wasn’t fair to put me in the middle.

  * * *

  We dropped Aunt Tut off in town and drove out to the lake. As soon as we were alone in the car, Mom brought up the subject of Tom.

  “Hon, I’m sorry Mazie gave you one of her poison darts this morning—commenting on Tom’s past history.”

  “That’s OK, Mom. She’s just like that.”

  “I want to say a couple things, even though you may think I’m butting in.”

  “Go ahead, Mom.”

  “I really like Tom, and he’s been very kind to all of us at a difficult time. And I admit to going off into thoughts of you staying here, maybe even living right on the lake next door in PawPaw’s house. If Tom came into our family, that would be more likely,”

  I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had the same thought. Many a night I fantasized about what Tom and I could do with the old place.

  “He’s given you an amazing pro
fessional opportunity, opening the door for you with the DA. I appreciate that. But... Here goes.” She took a breath. “I wonder if you’re being carried away. More sophisticated man, a prosecutor. Also, to use a very old fashioned term—but one that has meaning—I hope he has serious intentions.”

  Mom was correct the first time. I didn’t want to hear this.

  “We’re fine, Mom. At this point I don’t think either one of us has what you call ‘serious intentions.’ I’ll let you know if and when we do.”

  But Mom underlined a thought throbbing in my head—when I was rational enough to get beyond the euphoria of our exciting relationship. Tom never did talk about our future. Perhaps Aunt Mazie was onto something. Was I just his latest fling?

  We pulled onto the road that skirts our side of the lake. Up ahead, parked in front of our house, was Tom’s black truck. My pulse quickened. The prospect of being with him chased away all my musings and misgivings. Right then I just wanted to see his face.

  Wait. Tom shouldn’t be at the house. When we talked the previous night we’d agreed I’d see him at the office Monday morning. He’d have material for me to look at for the pretrial motions set to be argued the following week. And what was all that commotion I saw farther up the road, toward the long driveway to the Jefferson House? Blue lights flashing. Concentrating on making the left turn into our driveway, Mom probably hadn’t seen the lights.

  “Look, Mandy. Tom’s here,” she said. “Maybe he’d like to come on in and have a beer. It’s been a long day. OK if I ask him?” She rolled down her window.

  Mouth set in a grim line, Tom spoke before I could answer. “Mrs. Aguillard, Taddy had a pretty bad scare this afternoon. He’s not hurt. Really, he’s fine. He’s inside the house with his dad. But I know you’ll want to go in and be with him.”

  “What is it? What happened?”

  “They’re both fine, really, but he and his cousin Jay stumbled on a body when they were walking along the lakeside, down from the Jefferson House.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  Tom took Mom’s arm and walked with her to the door.

  PART III

  Another Body

  MOM CAUGHT HER foot on the car doorsill, wobbling like a spindly plant in a strong wind.

  “What? Taddy stumbled on a body? What are you saying?”

  Tom reached out and caught her just in time. “They’ll tell you inside, Mrs. Aguillard. The boys happened onto a pretty grim sight over at the Jefferson House. Scared them good.”

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Poor Taddy.”

  Mom broke from Tom’s grasp and ran up the walk to the front door.

  I clutched at Tom’s arm. “What do you mean? A body? A dead body? Who is—was—it?”

  Tom’s circled my shoulder and held tight.

  “Nothing to do with any of us, Mandy. Detective Washington knows who he is—was—and says the guy was part of a drug operation in Lafayette. Let’s go inside. Taddy had a fright, but you’ll feel better when you see him. Strong kid. Then we can go on over to Jefferson House.”

  Tom and I drove up the long gravel drive from the Lake Road up to the house, parked, and walked around to the shell lane leading down to the dock. I hadn’t suggested taking the shorter route by the footpath along the shore. With the light already beginning to fade, I feared we’d end up stumbling back in the dark. No telling what was out there. Or who.

  At the dock, a crowd had gathered just outside a sixty square foot patch cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. Muscular guys in tight black T-shirts, FBI stenciled in huge yellow letters on their backs, outnumbered the local deputies. Bright white coats of the forensics teams dotted the assemblage. Everyone wore gear for a crime scene—booties and gloves.

  Detective Aymond spotted us and beckoned us over. Tom and I walked toward the object of everyone’s attention. Detective Aymond lifted the tape to let us into the theater of operations where spotlights from the sheriff’s jacked-up 4x4s lit the scene like high noon.

  “Do we have ID on the vic here?” Tom asked.

  “Shit, yes. He is—was—the confidential informant Deuce recruited for the big federal drug operation. You remember when Deuce missed our meeting last week because Lafayette called him to help out?”

  “Yeah, I remember. And you stopped me from climbing the sheriff’s ass about letting Deuce go.”

  “Well, the CI failed to show up for work the day he was supposed to meet the shipment of lettuce coming from Texas. You know, the lettuce packed with cocaine. He hasn’t been heard from since. Now he turns up like this. Bullet in his brain.”

  “Then the dead guy really is—was—Deuce’s inside informant?” I asked.

  “Yup. Name: Glen Mitchell. Age 24. Deuce is wiped out about it. The major operation was ninety percent successful. DEA nabbed the guys working the transfer unit in northern Mexico, and the FBI got the truckers at the Houston company that took the goods across the border. We shut down the wholesale distributors in five locations in Texas and southwest Louisiana. Close to fifty people have federal charges now, but right when we were closing in on the Lafayette distributor, our key inside CI goes AWOL. Big shit storm. We had to scrub the rest of the Lafayette operation. You remember the day. But for once, at least, we got most of the main players.”

  And had one casualty. I didn’t want to look at the spot where everyone clumped together.

  Buddy’s voice had lowered at least two keys. He relished his role as our guide to the excitement.

  “Cause of death?” Tom asked.

  “The coroner’s still working on that, but so far looks like the guy took a bullet in the center of the forehead—in the front, then out the back, gangland style. Big piece. Maybe .25 Beretta Bobcat. Could be the Juarez cartel or Los Zetas. That’s their MO.”

  “And Taddy and Jay found him,” I mumbled. “God!”

  My legs felt like spaghetti, and my stomach roiled. I caught sight of Deuce leaning against one of the sheriff’s vehicles, shoulders slumped, eyes on the ground. I picked him for my exit plan. I ducked under the tape and walked toward him.

  “Deuce, I’m really sorry about this.”

  “A real fucker.” He looked up at me. “Sorry about my language. Really decent young guy, wife and kids. One big mistake put a serious drug distribution charge hanging over his head. He was looking at maybe twenty years, then I came along and talked him into this.”

  I leaned up against the vehicle, by Deuce’s side, hoping my company provided some sympathy. Sister Agnes had taught me that when you don’t know how to comfort, just be there. I needed support myself, and sought it from the presence of Deuce. I could see Buddy strutting around the crime scene, chest puffed out, rolling his shoulders. Damn! He was enjoying himself.

  “How are the boys doing?” Deuce asked me. “Must have been quite a shock for them.”

  Deuce had just lost his CI and yet thought to ask about the boys. Buddy Aymond hadn’t. I’d softened on Buddy when I heard about his search for the girl from the bunkhouse, but I think I’d called it right to start with. Personal problems or not, he was a jerk.

  “The boys are OK, Deuce. Thanks for asking.”

  “You know, half our drug busts rely on the work of CIs we recruit to work off charges. I hate the practice, really, but this time we weren’t going after just one poor schmuck. We had a major distribution operation to shut down. I persuaded Mitchell to go for the deal the feds offered. I told him they’d be monitoring everything. Well, they lost him. Thank God this is the last time I get into this, now that I’ve moved over to detectives.”

  Deuce’s breath wheezed in and out. I waited.

  “That white boy trusted me. Plea of guilty, cooperate in setting up the Lafayette bust, and he’d be in line for a probated sentence with a real possibility the conviction could come off his record. Most important, he could return to his family.” Deuce pressed his hand to his forehead. “I led him to his death, and now I’ve got to go see his wife.”

 
; Deuce stood up, turned around, drew in a deep breath, and a shudder rippled through his torso. When I saw him clench his right fist and face the black-and-white he’d been leaning on, I shrank away. Instead of punching the door as I expected, he reached for the handle, pulled open the door, and climbed inside. Before closing the door, he raised his head and looked straight at me.

  “Cracking this case just went to the top of my list, whether my boss goes for it or not.” His face set, he said one more word. “Thanks.”

  Seeing a dead body couldn’t be nearly as bad as facing the family of the man you set up to die. If Deuce could go do what he had to do, at least I could look at the crime scene. I walked down to the dock and back under the tape to where Detective Aymond stood with one of the FBI agents, close to the body. My throat closed to block out the sweet smell of rotting flesh. I still hadn’t really looked. I pictured Taddy on the path, leading his pal Jay. Two carefree kids.

  “Detective, is that where the boys found the body? Right by the dock?” I asked, trying to tend to business.

  “Yes ma’am,” the FBI agent replied for him. Of course he did. Once the FBI takes on a case, the locals get outranked and have to yield. “Not a pretty sight. The coroner says he’s been there a couple days. Dogs, rats maybe, got to the face, and who knows what got to the legs hanging in the water.”

  I dropped my eyes for a quick peek. Half a face, wiggling with critters. A white coated man bent over the body, expressionless, studying the head with no more emotion than a master gardener who’d found a new shoot on a rose bush. I squeezed my eyelids together, closing out the sight. A couple of seconds and I’d seen enough to fuel my nightmares for weeks to come.

  I took a few steps to where Tom chatted with a man in camo, gathering information in a cool professional manner. Would I ever be able to do that? I willed myself to stand upright, although I could have made good use of a nearby tree trunk to lean on.