"I think it's a message to someone," I said.
"We already ran this guy. He was a thief and a killer, a suspect in two open homicide cases. I don't see big complexities here."
"If that's the way you're going to play it, you won't get anywhere."
"Come on, Robicheaux. A guy like that is a walking target for half the earth. Where you going?"
Helen and I walked back to our cruiser and drove through the weeds, away from the barn and between two water oaks whose leaves were starting to fall, then back out on the state road.
"I don't get it. What message?" Helen said, driving with one hand, her badge holder still hanging from her shirt pocket.
"If it was just a payback killing, the shooters would have left his body in the apartment. When we met Harpo Scruggs at the barbecue place? He said something about hating rich people. I think he killed Swede and deliberately tied Swede's murder to Jack Flynn's to get even with somebody."
She thought about it.
r /> "Scruggs took the Amtrak to Houston, then flew back to Colorado," she said.
"So he came back. That's the way he operates. He kills people over long distances."
She looked over at me, her eyes studying my expression.
"But something else is bothering you, isn't it?" she said.
"Whoever killed Swede hung him up on the right side of where Jack Flynn died."
She shook a half-formed thought out of her face.
"I like working with you, Streak, but I'm not taking any walks inside your head," she said.
ALEX GUIDRY WAS FURIOUS. He came through the front door of the sheriffs department at eight o'clock Monday morning, not slowing down at the information desk or pausing long enough to knock before entering my office.
"You're getting Ida Broussard's case reopened?" he said.
"You thought there was a statute of limitations on murder?" I replied.
"You took splinters out of my old house and gave them to the St. Mary Parish sheriffs office?" he said incredulously.
"That about sums it up."
"What's this crap about me suffocating her to death?"
I paper-clipped a sheaf of time sheets together and stuck them in a drawer.
"A witness puts you with Ida Broussard right before her death. A forensic pathologist says she was murdered, that water from a tap was forced down her nose and mouth. If you don't like what you're hearing, Mr. Guidry, I suggest you find a lawyer," I said.
"What'd I ever do to you?"
"Sullied our reputation in Iberia Parish. You're a bad cop. You bring discredit on everyone who carries a badge."
"You better get your own lawyer, you sonofabitch. I'm going to twist a two-by-four up your ass," he said.
I picked up my phone and punched the dispatcher's extension.
"Wally, there's a man in my office who needs an escort to his automobile," I said.
Guidry pointed one stiffened finger at me, without speaking, then strode angrily down the hallway. A few minutes later Helen came into my office and sat on the edge of my desk.
"I just saw our ex-jailer in the parking lot. Somebody must have spit on his toast this morning. He couldn't get his car door open and he ended up breaking off his key in the lock."