happy.”
“No resentments?”
“He raised funds for Clay in the black community,” Nell said.
“What are you getting at?”
D E LU S I O N
43
Lee Ann drove past the zoo, now open again, although one tiger and all the former inhabitants of the reptile house had still not been found, and turned on to North Sunshine Road. “There’s a lot of anger in Lower Town about what went on after Bernardine.”
Nell didn’t say anything. The gates to Magnolia Glade went by on their left, a guard sitting in the booth, face blank.
“Anger directed at the town government in general,” Lee Ann said,
“and the police department in particular.”
Nell knew that. She also knew how hard Clay had worked, forty-eight hours at a stretch, including a frenzied twenty-four straight on the Canal Street sandbag line before the gates, the pumps, everything, finally failed completely and the storm surge flooded in. “The police did their best,” Nell said. “Everybody just got overwhelmed.”
“Not everybody,” said Lee Ann. “Not equally.”
No arguing that. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the tape,” Nell said.
“Some of the anger comes from the fact that the only cop who died in the flood was black.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I’m talking about the motive,” Lee Ann said.
“For what?” said Nell. “Some . . . some conspirators to get together and rig up a tape making DuPree look innocent? How does that do anything for the black community? Bobby was black and DuPree is white.”
Lee Ann came to Parish Street, headed toward the bayou. The old Creole elite had lived on Parish Street until thirty or forty years before, their pastel houses shaded by huge cypress trees, many overhung with Spanish moss. But Bernardine had swept the trees away, and now the houses looked shabby. “There are other interpretations,” Lee Ann said.
Parish Street dead-ended at the bayou. Lee Ann parked by the side of the towpath.
“Like what?” said Nell as they got out of the car.
Lee Ann gazed at her over the roof, the sun glaring off her glasses.
“How about making the whole department look bad?” she said.
“Seems a little far-fetched.”
44
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Maybe to someone like you,” Lee Ann said.
“What does that mean?”
“No offense,” said Lee Ann. “Just the opposite. The world’s full of people very unlike you, people with nasty imaginations and lots of misplaced energy.”
They walked onto the towpath. Nell hadn’t been here in twenty years, accompanied that last time by Clay, Bobby, and an evidence-gathering team. Her memory of that day—of so many days after the murder—was blurred and streaky, like images on a failing screen, but she didn’t think much evidence had been found; certainly not the knife, which never turned up. She stared down into the bayou; the rickety pier was gone, as Lee Ann had said, but she saw other things in there: floating garbage, two or three cars submerged to their roofs, a refrigerator door, oil slicks, trees ripped out by the roots, dead birds, dead fish, a dead dog, dead and eyeless, his collar caught on a root on the far bank.
“This is terrible,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Lee Ann. “If it’s too painful, we can—”
“It’s not that,” Nell said. “I’m talking about—” She gestured down at the bayou.
“It’s worse lower down,” Lee Ann said. She took a few steps along the towpath. “I can’t quite make out the old levee from here,” she said. “Is that where you were coming from?”
“Yes.”
“And the assailant was waiting on the pier?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
Nell told her story, the kind of story Lee Ann must have heard many times: a robbery gone bad.
“So you got a good look at him?”
“There was a full moon.”
“And how long was it before you made the identification?”
“A couple weeks or so. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Was it a photo array or a lineup?”
“Both, I
“No resentments?”
“He raised funds for Clay in the black community,” Nell said.
“What are you getting at?”
D E LU S I O N
43
Lee Ann drove past the zoo, now open again, although one tiger and all the former inhabitants of the reptile house had still not been found, and turned on to North Sunshine Road. “There’s a lot of anger in Lower Town about what went on after Bernardine.”
Nell didn’t say anything. The gates to Magnolia Glade went by on their left, a guard sitting in the booth, face blank.
“Anger directed at the town government in general,” Lee Ann said,
“and the police department in particular.”
Nell knew that. She also knew how hard Clay had worked, forty-eight hours at a stretch, including a frenzied twenty-four straight on the Canal Street sandbag line before the gates, the pumps, everything, finally failed completely and the storm surge flooded in. “The police did their best,” Nell said. “Everybody just got overwhelmed.”
“Not everybody,” said Lee Ann. “Not equally.”
No arguing that. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the tape,” Nell said.
“Some of the anger comes from the fact that the only cop who died in the flood was black.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I’m talking about the motive,” Lee Ann said.
“For what?” said Nell. “Some . . . some conspirators to get together and rig up a tape making DuPree look innocent? How does that do anything for the black community? Bobby was black and DuPree is white.”
Lee Ann came to Parish Street, headed toward the bayou. The old Creole elite had lived on Parish Street until thirty or forty years before, their pastel houses shaded by huge cypress trees, many overhung with Spanish moss. But Bernardine had swept the trees away, and now the houses looked shabby. “There are other interpretations,” Lee Ann said.
Parish Street dead-ended at the bayou. Lee Ann parked by the side of the towpath.
“Like what?” said Nell as they got out of the car.
Lee Ann gazed at her over the roof, the sun glaring off her glasses.
“How about making the whole department look bad?” she said.
“Seems a little far-fetched.”
44
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Maybe to someone like you,” Lee Ann said.
“What does that mean?”
“No offense,” said Lee Ann. “Just the opposite. The world’s full of people very unlike you, people with nasty imaginations and lots of misplaced energy.”
They walked onto the towpath. Nell hadn’t been here in twenty years, accompanied that last time by Clay, Bobby, and an evidence-gathering team. Her memory of that day—of so many days after the murder—was blurred and streaky, like images on a failing screen, but she didn’t think much evidence had been found; certainly not the knife, which never turned up. She stared down into the bayou; the rickety pier was gone, as Lee Ann had said, but she saw other things in there: floating garbage, two or three cars submerged to their roofs, a refrigerator door, oil slicks, trees ripped out by the roots, dead birds, dead fish, a dead dog, dead and eyeless, his collar caught on a root on the far bank.
“This is terrible,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Lee Ann. “If it’s too painful, we can—”
“It’s not that,” Nell said. “I’m talking about—” She gestured down at the bayou.
“It’s worse lower down,” Lee Ann said. She took a few steps along the towpath. “I can’t quite make out the old levee from here,” she said. “Is that where you were coming from?”
“Yes.”
“And the assailant was waiting on the pier?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
Nell told her story, the kind of story Lee Ann must have heard many times: a robbery gone bad.
“So you got a good look at him?”
“There was a full moon.”
“And how long was it before you made the identification?”
“A couple weeks or so. I don’t remember exactly.”
“Was it a photo array or a lineup?”
“Both, I
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