“You told him the lack of latents on the murder weapon didn’t add up with the fact it was left on the floor of Monarch’s car for a fireman to find?”
“Not in so many words, but Lonnie got the drift. I don’t think he liked what he heard. You ever go up against a left-handed pitcher who was always pulling at his belt or the bill of his cap?”
“Look for a Vaseline ball?”
“With Lonnie, more like a forkball between the lamps,” he replied.
A downpour broke just as we reached Victor’s. We went inside and joined the noontime crowd.
HIGH-PROFILE TRIALS are high-profile because they are usually emblematic of causes and issues far greater in cultural and social importance than the individuals whose immediate lives are involved. In western Kansas, amid an ocean of green wheat, two sociopaths invade a home looking for a money cache that doesn’t exist and end up butchering a farm family whose members possessed all the virtues we admire. The story shocks and captivates the entire country because the farm family is us. A black ex–football player appears to be dead-bang guilty of slicing up two innocent people but skates because the jury hates the Los Angeles Police Department. A female culinary celebrity who profits from insider stock-trading information takes the bounce for Enron executives who ruined the lives of tens of thousands of retirees. That’s the nature of theater. The same horrendous crimes, committed by nonrepresentative individuals, draw no attention whatsoever. Every attorney knows this, every cop, every police reporter. Sometimes justice is done, sometimes not.
But in the meantime major careers get made or destroyed. Lonnie Marceaux had called me at 8:05 that morning and had gotten as much raw information from me as possible about the murder of Tony Lujan.
After I returned from lunch at Victor’s, Helen and I reported for a meeting with Lonnie in the prosecutor’s office. The surprise was not the fact he had called a meeting immediately following the Lujan homicide. The surprise was the fact Betsy Mossbacher had been invited and that she showed up on such short notice. As a rule, FBI agents cannot be accused of having great amounts of humility when it comes to dealing with state and local law enforcement. But she arrived in the hallway one minute before the meeting was to commence, wearing jeans, boots, and an orange shirt tucked inside a wide leather belt. It was sprinkling outside, and there were drops of water in her hair. She brushed them onto the floor, then dried her hand on her jeans. “Phew, how many times does the weather change in one day here?” she said.
“South Louisiana is a giant sponge. That’s why we keep in constant motion. If you stand still, you’ll either sink or be eaten alive by giant insects,” I said.
Betsy Mossbacher laughed, but Helen remained stone-faced and silent, obviously because of her resentment over Betsy Mossbacher’s early reference to her as a member of what she called “the tongue-and-groove club.”
“How are you, Sheriff Soileau?” Betsy said.
“Fine. How’s life at the Bureau?” Helen replied.
“Oh, we chase the ragheads around. You know how it is.”
“What?” Helen said.
“I just wanted to see if you were listening,” Betsy said.
Great start for the afternoon, I thought.
But personality conflicts were not really on my mind. The fact that Lonnie Marceaux had called a meeting with Helen prematurely in the investigation of the Lujan homicide, even inviting an FBI agent to attend, meant the purpose was entirely political. More specifically, it meant the purpose was entirely about the career of Lonnie Marceaux.
After we were seated in his office on the second floor of the courthouse, he closed the door and sat down in his swivel chair, leaning backward, stretching out his long legs, as though he were entering a moment of profound thought, his scalp glistening through his crew cut. Behind him was a fine overview of the old part of town and the enormous live oaks that arched over small frame houses.
“Thanks for coming today. I’ve already gotten some feedback from our forensic chemist, Mack Bertrand, and our coroner, Koko Hebert,” he said, his gaze lingering a moment on Betsy Mossbacher’s casual dress. “I’m afraid this case is going to have some racial overtones we don’t need. That means we need to move forward with as much dispatch as possible and keep things in perspective, which translates into keeping them simple.” He glanced again at Betsy Mossbacher, probably to see if she was aware of the deference he had shown her by using people’s titles so she could follow the discussion. “Has Koko talked to you yet, Dave?”
“No, he hasn’t,” I replied.
“Well, there’s not a lot in the post we don’t already know. Tony Lujan was murdered with buckshot fired at him from almost point-blank range. Koko thinks he was hit four times, which means that whoever did it probably bore Tony a special hatred. Mack’s report on the twelve-gauge found in Monarch Little’s car is absolute in its conclusions. The cut-down twelve is the murder weapon.”
“How about the lack of latents?” I s
aid.
“What about it?”
“Monarch wiped off his gun, then left it lying on the floor of his car, just before somebody tossed a truck flare on the seat?”
Lonnie scratched the back of his head with one finger. “I don’t believe the absence of latents is particularly unusual, especially with a career street mutt like Monarch. With these guys, wiping down a gun is probably an automatic reflex. Plus, I don’t think Monarch is that bright. Also, he had no way of knowing the gun has a defective firing pin that leaves a singular mark on a shell casing. After he did the Lujan kid, he probably thought he was home free. What do you think, Helen?”
“I haven’t talked with Mack or read his report. I don’t have an opinion,” she said.
“Can you get on that ASAP?” Lonnie said.
“Soon as I get out of this meeting,” she replied.
Lonnie looked at her, searching for second meaning in her statement.