Bring Him Back Dead (8 page)

Mullen was impatient with him. “Oh, for chrissake, Andy. You know as well as I do how you got those. You couldn’t very well help banging your head against the legs of the sofa or the table, wallowing around as you did.”

Latour looked at him blankly.

“I suppose you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“No.”

The front door of the jail opened and closed. Feet hurried down the hall and Jean Avart forced his way through
the circle of deputies. It was the first time that Latour had ever seen the attorney when he wasn’t immaculately dressed. This morning he hadn’t bothered. Avart’s shirt was open at the neck. He had no tie. One leg of a pair of purple silk pajamas was hanging below the edge of his sharply creased white linen trousers.

“What’s going on here, Andy?”

“I wish someone would tell me,” Latour said. “It seems to be a secret.”

Mullen got up from the chair he was straddling. He was not pleased to see the attorney. “Obviously, you’ve heard.”

Avart hitched up the exposed leg of his pajamas. “Obviously,” he said dryly. “I imagine that by now everyone in town has heard. One of the young men in my office saw the ambulance go by and checked. Then, knowing I am a friend of Andy’s, he phoned and woke me up.”

Sheriff Belluche lighted one of the dollar cigars he affected. “You’re here as counsel for Andy?”

“If he wants me,” Avart said. “But let’s get one thing straight right now. Are you going to play this across the board or is the hush on?”

Belluche gave the matter some thought. “No, by God,” he said finally. “If I wind up in Angola, this is straight across the board. I know what you think of me, Jean. But there are some things I can’t stomach. And this is one of them.”

“Just so I know,” the attorney said. He sat in the chair Mullen had vacated. “How do you feel, Andy?”

“Lousy,” Latour admitted.

Avart patted his shoulder. “Hang on. In a minute you and I will have a little talk. But right now I want to know where we stand.” He looked at Mullen. “How much do you have on him, Tom?”

“Plenty,” Mullen said. “There are two empty shells in his gun and Mrs. Lacosta has identified him as the man who rapped on the door of the trailer and demanded admittance. She thinks it was a few minutes just before or just after two o’clock.” He added wryly, “When things began to happen, she was too busy to look at the clock.”

“Her identification is positive?”

“She says he flashed his light on his face.”

Avart lighted a cigarette. “Is that correct, Andy?”

Latour said, “I was there. I knocked on the door of the trailer. I flashed my light on my face.”

Sheriff Belluche rolled his cigar between his lips. “It’s true enough about his knocking. According to the story the girl told Doc Walker when he could get her to stop screaming, he knocked so hard he woke Lacosta, who was sleeping in the bedroom. Then when Jacques staggered out into the living area of the trailer, all hell broke loose.”

“I see,” the lawyer said.

Latour wished he did.

Sheriff Belluche continued, “I guess those trailer doors aren’t very strong. Anyway, the screen doors.”

Avart buttoned his shirt and took a tie from the pocket of his coat. “Never having lived in a trailer, I wouldn’t know.” He knotted his tie. “Now tell me this. How was the alarm sounded so soon? After all, that’s a rather lonely section of the parish.”

Pringle said, “A field hand tipped us.”

“White or colored?”

“I’d say colored. You know how they talk when they’re excited. He said he’d just passed the clearing when one of his tires went flat. He was a little hard to understand. But as I got it, he had his truck jacked up and was changing the tire when he heard the shots. Then when the girl began to scream, he had a fair idea of what was happening. So as soon as he changed his tire, he headed for the nearest phone.”

“Did you get his name?”

“No. Like I say, he was pretty excited. And I imagine he didn’t want to get involved in anything concerning a white woman.”

“What did you do after the call?”

“I got in touch with Tom and Sheriff Belluche. Then I called Louaillier in to sit on the desk and the three of us drove out there.”

“I see,” Avart said. “And where did you find Andy?”

“About a hundred yards this side of the clearing. He was sitting behind the wheel of his car, pretending he was passed out.”

“That sounds rather stupid to me,” Avart said. “And I think we all agree that whatever else Andy may be, he isn’t stupid. If he’s guilty of the charges against him, I should think he’d have got out of there.”

“He couldn’t,” Mullen explained. “In his excitement he put his car into reverse instead of drive and backed into the slough. It’s still out there, hub-deep in mud. So he did the next best thing he could do. He pretended he was so drunk he didn’t know what had happened.”

“I see,” Avart said. “Now let’s hear your side of it, Andy.”

“I don’t know what they’re talking about. I didn’t hear any shots. I certainly didn’t fire any, and I didn’t hear Rita scream.” He corrected himself. “No, that’s not exactly right. I do, vaguely, remember hearing a girl scream. But there was nothing I could do about it.”

“Why not?”

“I was on the ground sapped unconscious, or the next thing to it.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“I got to wondering if Mrs. Lacosta was safe, after that scene that Jacques made on the street. So I drove out to see. I also wanted to talk to Jacques, if he’d sobered up enough to talk.”

“About what?”

“If he knew who was trying to kill me.”

“Did he?”

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I knocked on the door of the trailer and identified myself to Mrs. Lacosta. Then Jacques woke up and asked me what I wanted. And before I could tell him someone sapped me unconscious. Now you tell me something. What happened out there?”

“You don’t know?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“Jacques Lacosta is dead, shot twice through the heart. And young Mrs. Lacosta was unmercifully beaten and raped, presumably by the same man who killed her husband.”

“Who? Who did it?”

“Mrs. Lacosta claims it was you.”

L
ATOUR FOUGHT
a desire to be violently ill.

“Not feeling so good right now, eh, Andy?” Mullen asked.

“No,” Latour admitted, “I’m not.”

The telephone on Sheriff Belluche’s desk rang. He picked it up. “I see. I see,” he said into the mouthpiece. Then he cradled the phone and motioned Latour to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“To the hospital. That was Dr. Walker. He says he’s given Mrs. Lacosta a sedative and she’s calmed down considerably. He thinks we can get a positive identification before she goes to sleep.”

“I didn’t do it. Believe me, Sheriff,” Latour said. “I didn’t kill Jacques and I didn’t rape his wife.”

“She says differently.”

Pringle and Kelly pulled Latour to his feet and propelled him down the hall to the front steps of the jail.

A small group of men had formed on the walk.

“There he is now,” a man said.

Another one tried to strike Latour and Mullen pushed him off balance. “There will be none of that. Don’t go getting ideas. Come on, now. Open up a path.”

The men stepped aside, reluctantly, and Pringle and Kelly hurried Latour down the walk and into Sheriff Belluche’s car.

Belluche got into the front seat with Mullen. “Well, it was nice while it lasted. But I’m afraid I’m a little old-fashioned. Sure, I’ve taken a few dollars. I like to go to bed with a babe, and the younger, the better — as long as she’s willing. I’ve even killed a few men. But rape is one too many for me.”

“But I didn’t,” Latour protested. “You have to believe me.”

“Why?”

Mullen waited for a convoy of pipe-carrying oil-company trucks to pass, then kicked on the revolving red light and drove up Lafitte Street with the siren wailing.

Latour rode, watching the men on the sidewalks. All of them turned to watch the police car pass, but none of them called out. The girls in the crowd were as silent as the men. There was a subtle change in the tempo of the street. The blare of brass was muted. The roll and thump of the drums more of a pulse than a beat. It was as if French Bayou were holding its collective breath.

Kelly asked, “Think the boys may give us trouble?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Belluche said. “I do know it’s a good thing they didn’t see the poor kid sprawled bloody and naked on the floor of the trailer.”

“Just like the other three?”

“Just like the other three.”

Mullen braked the car in front of the hospital. Kelly and Pringle walked Latour inside. Dr. Walker was waiting for them.

“How is she?” Mullen asked him.

“She’s going to make it,” Dr. Walker said. He looked at Latour. “But how any man could treat a girl as she was treated is beyond me.”

Latour tried to say, “I didn’t,” and his mouth was too dry to form the words.

“How long can we talk to her?” the sheriff asked.

Dr. Walker glanced at his watch. “Two or three minutes. No longer. She’s still a very sick girl.”

He opened the door of the room in front of which he was standing.

Her red hair neatly combed and braided by one of the nurses, a sheet pulled up to her chin, the young widow of the murdered man was lying motionless on a high hospital bed.

Her hair was her only recognizable feature. There were aluminum splints on her broken nose. Her eyes were mere slits in the pounded, swollen, and discolored flesh of her face. Only the surgical nurse and Dr. Walker knew what internal injuries she’d suffered during the indignities performed on her.

Sheriff Belluche took off his hat. “I’m Sheriff Belluche, Mrs. Lacosta,” he introduced himself. “I know you’ve had a nasty time and I’ll be as brief as I can. But before you go to sleep, I’d like to have you answer a few quesions, if you will.”

Rita’s voice was lifeless. “I’ll try.”

“Do you know a local deputy sheriff by the name of Andy Latour?”

“I do. He drove my husband and me home last night.”

Sheriff Belluche inclined his head at Latour. “Is this the man?”

“Yes.”

“You say he drove you home last night. When did you see him again?”

“About two o’clock this morning.”

“Is he the man who killed your husband and raped you?”

“He is.”

Belluche was fair. “Just one thing, Mrs. Lacosta. If it was as dark in the trailer when the attack on you took place as it was when we got there, how can you be sure Latour is the man?”

The girl’s voice was as small as her eyes and completely without inflection. “Because just before it happened, he knocked on the door of the trailer and turned a flashlight on his face and asked me to let him in.”

“I see. Did you open the door?”

“No.”

“What happened then?”

“His knocking awakened my husband, and Jacques came out of the bedroom.” The abused girl fought for self-control. “Then he seemed to go crazy. Latour, I mean. He wrenched the screen door open and shot Jacques. Then he grabbed me and tore off my robe and threw me down on the floor and did what he did, with Jacques lying dead beside us. Every time I tried to get away from him he beat me with his fists and bit me, then went right on with what he was doing.”

“You’re willing to swear to this in court?”

“I am.”

Sheriff Belluche returned his hat to his head. “Just one
more question, Mrs. Lacosta. Latour claims that shortly after he knocked on the door and identified himself to you, he was knocked unconscious by some unknown party. Did you hear any disturbance outside the trailer?”

“I did not.”

“That’s all. Thank you, ma’am.”

Pringle and Kelly took Latour out of the room. Jean Avart was waiting in the hall.

It was still hard for Latour to talk. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion through a hideous nightmare. “I didn’t, Jean,” he protested. “You have to believe me. She thinks it was me, but it wasn’t. I was lying unconscious while she was being attacked. It was much too dark in the trailer for her to see the face of the man who really assaulted her. All she could possibly tell was his approximate size and weight.”

Mullen added dryly, “And the fact that he was male.”

Dr. Walker closed the room door behind him. “You weren’t inside the trailer. Is that your story, Andy?”

“It is.”

Dr. Walker took a small metallic object from the pocket of his white coat. “Then where did she get this? It was embedded so deeply in the flesh of her left hand that the nurse had to pry her fingers open to get it away from her.”

Latour looked down at the left-hand pocket of his shirt. Where his deputy’s shield should have been, where it had been, there was only a jagged tear in the cloth.

Avart spoke before Latour could form any words. “Don’t answer that question, Andy. On the grounds that it might tend to incriminate you. From now on, as your attorney, I’ll do all the talking.”

S
ITTING
on the bare springs of the metal bunk, his back to the outer stone wall of the cell, Latour sucked at the last of the cigarettes in the package that Avart had left.

“Don’t worry.”

That was easy to say.

He hadn’t killed Jacques Lacosta. He hadn’t forced and mistreated Rita. But just how, with all the physical evidence and Rita’s positive identification against him, Avart hoped to prove his innocence was beyond him.

It was the first time he’d ever been on the wrong side of bars. It was an unpleasant feeling, just as unpleasant as knowing someone wanted him dead.

Whoever he was, he had his wish now. All he had to do was wait. In the sovereign state of Louisiana, both murder and rape were capital offenses.

He stood on the bunk and tried to look out of the high window of the maximum-security cell. The distant sound of the pumping wells and the tooting of the tugs in the basin were as muted as the music on Lafitte Street, wrapped in the swirling white mist rolling in off the Gulf and rising from the bayous and canals. Full morning wasn’t far away.