to sit down to punch in a 911 call on the telephone, then had to spit the blood out of my mouth into a paper towel before I could tell the dispatcher what had happened.
In less than a minute I heard a siren coming hard down East Main. I looked through the kitchen window and saw Snuggs sitting on the outside sill, framed against the philodendron, pawing at the screen to come inside.
The emergency-room physician at Iberia General kept me overnight, and when I woke, the early-morning sun looked like pink smoke inside the oak trees. A nurse’s aide brought breakfast to me on a tray, then wheeled me down the corridor for an X ray. When I returned to the room, Helen Soileau was sitting by the window, reading the Baton Rouge Advocate. The main story above the fold was about another abduction in Baton Rouge, this time the wife of a state environmental quality official who was serving time in a federal prison. Helen folded the paper and set it on the windowsill. “Bad night, huh, bwana?” she said.
“Not really,” I said, sitting down on the side of the bed.
“They going to kick you loose?”
“Soon as the doc looks at my X ray.”
“We couldn’t find the board your attacker used, so we got nothing we can lift latents off. You think he was the same guy asking about your truck at the church?”
“Maybe.”
“More specifically, you think it was one of those deputies — Shockly or Pitts?”
“Who knows?”
“I ran both of them and got a hit on Pitts. Four years back he was charged with planting coke on some Cambodians. They got pulled over at a traffic stop and their SUV and thirty thousand in cash seized. They’d saved the money to buy a restaurant in Baton Rouge.”
“How’d Pitts get out of it?” I asked.
“Gave evidence against the other cops. Did you say a black man at your church got a look at the guy who was hanging around your truck?”
“He talked to him.”
“I got a mug shot of Pitts for him to look at.”
I nodded and waited for her to go on. But she seemed distracted, as though several things were on her mind at once. She got up from her chair and gazed out the window. The tops of her arms were round and thick, her back stiff. “Did you read the story in the Advocate about another abduction in Baton Rouge?” she asked.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“I think the perp is using Baton Rouge as his personal hunting reserve. But I don’t think he’s from there,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I talked with Baton Rouge P.D. The DNA on the girl in Grand Coteau was just matched to DNA on at least five other victims.”
“Five?”
“The locals didn’t know they had a serial predator on their hands. They screwed up. It happens. I think the guy has deliberately confined himself to Baton Rouge for years, but he saw the black girl at the cemetery by herself and couldn’t resist the opportunity. I think he lives in a small town, maybe in Acadiana, and gets his jollies in Baton Rouge.”
“Why you telling me all this?”
“You still want your shield back?” she asked.
Two days later after the swelling had gone out of my jaw and my mouth no longer bled when I ate, I reported to my old job at the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department. I was assigned a corner office on the second floor, one that allowed me a view of the cemetery, trees that lined the railway tracks, and the ivy-scaled brick facades of several buildings that, with a little imagination at twilight, provided a glimpse back into nineteenth-century America.
The previous night I had laid out a tie and sports coat, shined my shoes, and pressed a pair of slacks and a soft, long-sleeve blue shirt, pretending I had no anxiety about returning to a job for which I was perhaps too old or, worse, simply unfit to do well. Now, standing in my office by myself, the wire baskets on the desk empty, I felt like a guest who has said good night at a party but comes back later because he has nowhere else to go. But all morning uniformed
In less than a minute I heard a siren coming hard down East Main. I looked through the kitchen window and saw Snuggs sitting on the outside sill, framed against the philodendron, pawing at the screen to come inside.
The emergency-room physician at Iberia General kept me overnight, and when I woke, the early-morning sun looked like pink smoke inside the oak trees. A nurse’s aide brought breakfast to me on a tray, then wheeled me down the corridor for an X ray. When I returned to the room, Helen Soileau was sitting by the window, reading the Baton Rouge Advocate. The main story above the fold was about another abduction in Baton Rouge, this time the wife of a state environmental quality official who was serving time in a federal prison. Helen folded the paper and set it on the windowsill. “Bad night, huh, bwana?” she said.
“Not really,” I said, sitting down on the side of the bed.
“They going to kick you loose?”
“Soon as the doc looks at my X ray.”
“We couldn’t find the board your attacker used, so we got nothing we can lift latents off. You think he was the same guy asking about your truck at the church?”
“Maybe.”
“More specifically, you think it was one of those deputies — Shockly or Pitts?”
“Who knows?”
“I ran both of them and got a hit on Pitts. Four years back he was charged with planting coke on some Cambodians. They got pulled over at a traffic stop and their SUV and thirty thousand in cash seized. They’d saved the money to buy a restaurant in Baton Rouge.”
“How’d Pitts get out of it?” I asked.
“Gave evidence against the other cops. Did you say a black man at your church got a look at the guy who was hanging around your truck?”
“He talked to him.”
“I got a mug shot of Pitts for him to look at.”
I nodded and waited for her to go on. But she seemed distracted, as though several things were on her mind at once. She got up from her chair and gazed out the window. The tops of her arms were round and thick, her back stiff. “Did you read the story in the Advocate about another abduction in Baton Rouge?” she asked.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“I think the perp is using Baton Rouge as his personal hunting reserve. But I don’t think he’s from there,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I talked with Baton Rouge P.D. The DNA on the girl in Grand Coteau was just matched to DNA on at least five other victims.”
“Five?”
“The locals didn’t know they had a serial predator on their hands. They screwed up. It happens. I think the guy has deliberately confined himself to Baton Rouge for years, but he saw the black girl at the cemetery by herself and couldn’t resist the opportunity. I think he lives in a small town, maybe in Acadiana, and gets his jollies in Baton Rouge.”
“Why you telling me all this?”
“You still want your shield back?” she asked.
Two days later after the swelling had gone out of my jaw and my mouth no longer bled when I ate, I reported to my old job at the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department. I was assigned a corner office on the second floor, one that allowed me a view of the cemetery, trees that lined the railway tracks, and the ivy-scaled brick facades of several buildings that, with a little imagination at twilight, provided a glimpse back into nineteenth-century America.
The previous night I had laid out a tie and sports coat, shined my shoes, and pressed a pair of slacks and a soft, long-sleeve blue shirt, pretending I had no anxiety about returning to a job for which I was perhaps too old or, worse, simply unfit to do well. Now, standing in my office by myself, the wire baskets on the desk empty, I felt like a guest who has said good night at a party but comes back later because he has nowhere else to go. But all morning uniformed
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