“Could he identify Leon Williams?” I toweled off as I listened.
“Yes. Leon Williams was killed by a single gunshot to the head on May 12, thirty-six years ago, in Ville Platte.”
“Sonofagun.”
“There was an investigation by the Ville Platte police and the Evangeline Parish Sheriff’s Department, but there were no suspects and no one was arrested for the crime. The case currently resides in the unsolved homicide file.”
“My first move in Ville Platte was to scan through the microfiche at the local library. The May films were missing.”
“Do you think it’s connected?”
“Maybe. Maybe there’s something in the local news coverage that someone didn’t want us to see.”
She didn’t say anything for a time. “There’s LSU. The School of Journalism keeps an extensive library of state papers. You might be able to find it there.”
“That sounds good. I’ll check it out.”
She paused again. “Have you heard anything about Mr. Rebenack?”
I told her about the cops at his office and the local papers. I left out the part about wedging the chair against the door because I was scared.
She said, “Is there any way they can connect you to him?”
“I move with the silence of a stalking leopard. I leave less evidence than a passing shadow. I am invisible as is the breeze.”
She sighed. “Yes, well, we have an able staff of criminal attorneys should you need us.”
“Hey, the fragile male ego needs constant reinforcement, not cheap humor.”
“My rates are anything but cheap, Mr. Cole, I assure you.” Then she said, “I enjoyed myself last night, Elvis. I hope we can get together again.”
“I could probably be there in thirty minutes. Faster, if I run down the highway naked.”
She laughed. “That would probably be worth seeing, but I think you should concentrate on Leon Williams.”
“ ‘Probably’?”
“Ah, the male ego is indeed a fragile beast.”
Lucy hung up. I got the LSU School of Journalism’s number from Information, called, and spoke with a woman who sounded to be in her fifties. I explained what I wanted and she told me that she’d have to connect me with the journalism library. A man came on the line. “May I help you?”
“I’m looking for the Ville Platte Gazette.” I told him the year and the month. “Would you guys have that on microfiche?”
“Can you hold while I check?”
“Sure.”
He came back on the line maybe thirty seconds later. Fast checker. “We have it. Would you like me to put it aside?”
“Please.” I gave him my name and told him that I was coming from Ville Platte but that I would be there directly. He said fine. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe I was getting to the bottom of this and, once reaching the bottom, would bounce over the top. Of course, reaching the bottom can sometimes be painful, but we try not to think of that. Imagine an egg.
One hour and ten minutes later I drove through a wide gate that said Louisiana State University. A young guy in an information kiosk gave me a map of the university, pointed out the journalism building, then told me to park in a big lot by the football stadium. I left the car where he told me, then walked back between Tiger stadium and the basketball arena where Pistol Pete Maravich used to rack up forty-four points a game. The House that Pete Built. It was a pretty campus with green lawns and curved walkways, and I remembered once hearing the radio broadcast of an LSU basketball game in which Maravich scored fifty-five points against Alabama. It was in 1970, and I was in the army at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ranger School. A guy in my platoon named James Munster was from Alabama and loved basketball. His parents had recorded the game and sent it to him and six of us listened to the tape on a Saturday night. Jimmy Munster loved the Crimson Tide and he hated LSU, but could only shake his head at the miracle that was Pistol Pete Maravich, saying, “What can you do? That guy owns the basket. What can you do?” Seven months later Specialist Fourth Class James Munster died in a VC ambush while on a long-range reconnaissance patrol just south of the Cambodian highlands. He was eighteen years old. I still remember the score of that game. LSU 90, Alabama 83.
A clutch of coeds in biking shorts and T-shirts cut so that you could see their midriffs passed and smiled at me, and I smiled back. Southern belles. A little sign saying TENNIS STADIUM pointed past the arena, and I thought maybe it’d be fun to see where Lucy had played, but then I thought it might be more fun if she were with me to give me the tour. Have to ignore the coeds, though.
I walked up a little hill and past a couple of stately buildings and into Memorial Hall, also known as the School of Journalism. The kid in the kiosk had told me that the journalism library was in the basement, so I found the stairs, went down, and wandered around for twenty minutes before I located the right door. Professional detection at its finest.
A bald guy in his early thirties was sitting with a placard that said RESEARCH. He looked up from a textbook and said, “May I help you?”
I told him that I had called a little while ago. I told him it was about the Ville Platte Gazette.
He said, “Oh, yeah. I’ve got it right here.” He had a little box on his desk. “You a student?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll need your driver’s license, and I’ll need you to sign right here. You can use any of the cubicles down that aisle.”
I gave him my driver’s license, signed where he wanted, then took the single spool of microfiche film to the first cubicle and threaded it into the projector. On May 13, there was a short article on page 6 stating that a male Negro named Leon Cassius Williams, age 14, had been found floating at the south bank of Bayou Maurapaus by two kids fishing for mudcats. Sheriff Andrus Duplasus stated that the cause of death was a single .38 caliber gunshot wound to the head, and that there were no leads at present. The article ended by saying that Leon Cassius Williams was the son of Mr. and Mrs. Robert T. Williams, of Ville Platte, and that services were scheduled at the African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church. The entire article was four inches long, and set between an ad for Carter’s Little Liver Pills and an article about a guy who’d caught an eight-pound large-mouthed bass in Bayou Nezpique.
On May 17, another short article appeared on page 4, this one reporting that Leon Cassius Williams, 14, found murdered the week before, had been laid to rest. An obituary included within the article said that Leon was survived by his mother and father and three siblings, all of whom were listed, along with their ages. I copied the list. Sheriff Duplasus was quoted as saying that there were no new developments in the case. The last article relating to Leon Williams appeared on page 16 of the May 28 paper. Sheriff Duplasus reported that investigations within the Negro community had led him to believe that Leon Williams was murdered by a Negro transient seen earlier that day, and that the murder very likely resulted from a dispute over a gambling debt. Duplasus said that he was continuing to compile evidence, and had issued a description to state police authorities, but that the chances for an arrest were minimal. None of Leon Williams’s survivors were referred to except for a single quote from Mrs. Robert T. Williams, who said, “I feel like they robbed my heart. I pray the good Lord watches after my baby.”
When I reached the end of the film I turned off the projector and thought about what I had found. Leon Williams, a fourteen-year-old African-American male, had been murdered, and the murder was unsolved. Nothing in the articles indicated a connection to the Johnson family, or to any other principal in my investigation. I had thought there might be, but there you go. Nada. Jimmie Ray Rebenack was very likely the guy who had stolen the May microfiche film from the Ville Platte Library. I didn’t know that, and I hadn’t found it at his home, but it made sense. Jimmie Ray had found some significance in Leon and had made note of him. Since Jimmie Ray had done all right with the other stuff, further investigation was in order.
I brought the film back to the ba
ld guy, then went to a bank of pay phones at the side of the building. There were three names on the list of Leon Williams’s siblings: Lawrence, 17; Robert, Jr., 15; and Chantel Louise, 10. Thirty-six years later, Lawrence would be fifty-two and Chantel Louise forty-six. Chantel Louise would very likely have a different last name. I called Ville Platte Information and asked for numbers and addresses for Lawrence Williams and Robert Williams, Jr. There was no listing for a Robert Williams, Jr., but they had Lawrence. I copied his number and address, thanked the operator, then dialed Lawrence Williams. On the third ring, a woman with a precise voice answered. I said, “May I speak with Mr. Lawrence Williams, please?”
There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Williams is deceased. May I help you?” Deceased.
“Is this Mrs. Williams?”
“Yes, I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams. Who is calling, please?”
I told her my name. “Mrs. Williams, did your husband have a younger brother named Leon?”
“Why, yes. Yes, he did. Leon died, though, when they were boys. He was murdered.” Maybe this was going to work out after all.
“That’s why I’m calling, Mrs. Williams. I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking into the murder. Did Mr. Williams speak about it with you?”
“Mr. Williams did not. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“There was another brother and a sister.”
“Robert, Jr., died in 1968. Over in that war.”
“How about the sister? Do you know how I might reach her?”
Her voice became crisp. “She’s working right now. She works for a Jew in that damned sausage factory, and you shouldn’t be calling her there. When you call, that Jew answers the phone and he doesn’t like that. You’ll get her in trouble.”
“Please, Mrs. Williams. It’s important.”
“Feeding her five children is important, too. That job is all she has, working for a Jew.” Oh, man.
“I promise I won’t get her in trouble, Mrs. Williams.” Like a kid, cross my heart and hope to die.
“How do I know you’re who you say you are? You might be up to no good. I assure you that I am not to be trifled with.”
“There’s an attorney in Baton Rouge named Lucille Chenier. I can give you her number and you could call her office and speak with her about me.”
That seemed to mollify her. “Well, perhaps that won’t be necessary. I take pride in knowing a sincere voice.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Chantel lives right over here in Blue Point. She has lunch soon. Why don’t you see her at lunch. Her name is Chantel Michot now, and she always goes home for lunch. She has to put dinner on for those little ones.”
I looked at my watch. “That’s fine, Mrs. Williams. I’m coming from Baton Rouge.” It was a quarter before eleven. I could get there by twelve-thirty.
“Well, then, I guess this must be important, all the way from Baton Rouge.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“We’ll be expecting you.” We.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you will.”
I copied the directions as she gave them, and then I went to see Chantel Michot, Leon Williams’s younger sister.
15
Blue Point, Louisiana, was a wide spot in the road five miles south of Ville Platte at the tip of Bayou des Cannes. You had to go to Ville Platte first, then take a little state road that wound its way over narrow steel bridges and sluggish channels of water and sweet potato fields. It was rural country, with a lot of barbed wire fences and great live oaks bearded with Spanish moss, and the air was heavy with pollen and bees and moisture.
Chantel Michot lived in a clapboard shotgun house at the edge of the road that backed upon a wide green pasture. The pasture was fenced and the fence ran behind her house as if a little square had been cut from the owner’s pasture so that the Michot family might live there. The house looked old and poorly kept, with peeling paint and a green shingle roof that was missing tiles and a wooden front porch that was cracked and splintered. There was a screen door like every other house in Louisiana, but the screen was cruddy and stretched, and little wads of pink Kleenex had been stuck into holes to keep out the mosquitoes. Martha Guidry would have a field day. Tire ruts ran down from the road past the house and the rusted chassis of a very old Dodge and across the pasture. Maybe a dozen chickens pecked in the dirt around the chassis. Yard birds. A late-sixties Bel Air sedan was parked beneath an elm tree, and a newer Pontiac Sunbird was parked behind the Bel Air. I pulled in behind the Sunbird and got out. The engines of both the Bel Air and the Sunbird were still ticking. Couldn’t have gotten here more than ten minutes ago.
The screen door opened and a little boy maybe four years old came out and looked at me from the lip of the porch. He was barefoot in shorts, with a little round belly and a runny nose and an ocher complexion. Hair more curly than nappy. His left index finger was stuffed up his nose to the first joint. I said, “My name’s Elvis. What’s yours?”
He pushed the finger in deeper and didn’t answer. I often have that effect on people.
The door opened again and a light-skinned woman in her forties came out, followed by an older, heavier woman with skin the color of burnished walnuts. The younger woman was wearing a thin cotton smock over faded Bermuda shorts and open-toed sandals. Her hair was piled on her head and held there with a broad purple band. It wasn’t particularly neat, but she didn’t have it like that for style; she had it like that for work. Keep the hair out of the sausage. The older woman was in a light green rayon suit with a little white hat and white gloves and a crocheted purse the size of a grocery bag. All dressed up to meet the detective. The older woman said, “I am Mrs. Lawrence Williams. Are you Mr. Cole?”
“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate you and Ms. Michot agreeing to see me.”
Chantel Michot said, “I got to see about these children and I got to get back.” Not exactly thrilled to meet the detective. She was holding a filter-tipped cigarette and kept one arm crossed beneath her breasts. I offered her a card, but Mrs. Lawrence Williams took it. “Ada say this about Leon.” Ada was Mrs. Williams.
“That’s right. I know you were only ten when he was killed, but I thought we might speak about it.”
“Why?”
“I’m working on something and Leon’s name came up, and I don’t know why. Maybe you can help me with the reason.”
Chantel Michot sucked on the cigarette and blew smoke. Trying to figure me. There were children’s voices behind her in the house, and another little boy came to the door, this one maybe five. He pressed against the screen and looked out. She said, “Anthony, get on in there and eat that lunch.” Anthony disappeared. “Ada, would you make Lewis sit at that table, please?”
The little boy with his finger up his nose said, “No.”
Mrs. Lawrence Williams pulled the big purse in closer and raised her eyebrows. Not liking the idea of being inside with the children and left out of all the great stuff on the porch. “Well, if I must.” Snooty. She took Lewis by the arm and brought him inside. Lewis yelled bah bah bah bah as loud as he could.
I said, “They never caught Leon’s killer. No arrest was made.”
“You the police?”
“No.”
“All these years, you gonna find the guy done it?”
“That’s not what I’m after.”
“But maybe?” All these years, she was still hopeful.
“I don’t know, Chantel. I found Leon’s name in a place it doesn’t fit and I want to find out why it was there. I don’t want to lead you on. I know you’ve got to get back to work.”
“Least you ain’t lyin’ about it.” She stared at me a minute, motionless, a thin trail of smoke drifting from her cigarette, barely moving in the still air, and then she made up her mind. “You want some lemonade? I put some up this morning.”
I smiled at her and she smiled back. “That’d be fine. Thanks. If you’ve got the time.”
“I got
a few minutes.”
We sat in the shade of the little porch on a sofa that was covered with crocheted bedspreads. Mrs. Lawrence Williams came to the door every few minutes, still pissed about being inside, always with the big purse. She probably had something in there in case I decided to trifle with them. “This is good lemonade.”
“I put honey in with the sugar. That’s clover honey. A man down the bayou keeps a hive.”
I said, “The newspaper reports said that the sheriff believed that Leon was killed by a transient over a gambling dispute.”
“Leon was fourteen. What he know about gamblin’?”
“What’d your parents think?”
“Said it was silly. Said it was just the sheriff’s way of shinin’ us on. A black man gets killed, they don’ care.”
“Did your parents have an idea of what happened?”
She squinted out at the road. Trying to remember. A truck pulling a natural-gas tank rumbled past and made the thin glass in the windows rattle. “Lord, it’s been so long. Daddy died in seventy-two. Mama went, oh, I guess it was eighty-one, now.”
“How about Lawrence or Robert, Jr.? Did they ever say anything?”
She thought harder. “Lawrence didn’t really have nothin’ to do with Leon, but Leon and Junior were close. I remember Junior sayin’ somethin’ ’bout some gal. I guess there coulda been some gal mixed up in there.”
“Like maybe Leon got killed over a girl?”
“Well. I guess.” Chantel pulled deep on the cigarette, then flicked the butt out into the yard. A skinny Rhode Island Red hen picked it up, ran a few feet, then dropped it, squawking. The other chickens circled it, cocking their heads for a better look, then ignored it. Chantel said, “The gals did flock around Leon, let me tell you. He was a beautiful boy, and, my, he could talk. Charmin’? I was just a baby and I remember that. Robert used to get jealous! Oo!” She crossed her arms and leaned forward on her knees, enjoying the memories. “You know, I haven’t thought about that in years. Here it is, sometimes I can’t even remember Leon’s face, but I remember that.”