James Burke - Robicheaux

I kicked him in the face and dropped a full roll of toilet paper in the bowl and drove his head into the water and kept it there. I could feel him struggling, his forehead wedging the roll into the bottom of the commode, the water rising to his shoulders. I pushed down the handle to refill the bowl. Water was sloshing over the sides. My arm and shoulder were trembling with the pressure it took to keep him down.

I began to count the seconds under my breath. One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi. I stepped on his calf so he couldn’t get purchase on the linoleum. Four-Mississippi, five-Mississippi, six-Mississippi. I shoved harder and saw bubbles the size and color of small oranges rise to the surface with a gurgling sound. Thirteen-Mississippi, fourteen-Mississippi, fifteen-Mississippi. His arms had turned as flaccid as noodles and were flipping impotently at his sides.

I pulled him dripping from the bowl and threw him onto the floor. He gasped and made a sound like a sheet of tin being ripped out of a roof. He gagged and cupped his mouth.

“When your son comes home, you’ll act like a decent father. If you hurt him in any way, I’ll be back.”

I stomped on his stomach. His mouth opened, and I shoved a bar of soap into it and mashed it down his throat with my shoe.

I got into my rental and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I could see white smoke rising from the shed, as though the fire I had started wanted to have another go at it.

By six A.M., I was teetering on the edge of delirium tremens. By seven they’d passed and I was sound asleep in my skivvies, facedown on the sheets, as though I had gone through a painless evisceration. Strangely, I felt at peace. I had no explanation. I went to Mass that evening in Lafayette and caught a meeting before returning to New Iberia.

Helen was on my case early the next morning. “You told Labiche to get out of your office?”

“I didn’t know he was a snitch.”

“He was trying to do his job,” she said.

“He’s a street rat.”

“I’m not going to put up with this, Dave.”

“Then don’t.”

We were standing by the water cooler out in the hall.

“Step inside my office,” she said.

I tried to play the role of the gentleman and let her walk ahead of me.

“Get inside!” she said. She slammed the door behind us. “Somebody pounded Kevin Penny into hamburger. The sheriff in Jeff Davis says Penny believes it was you.”

“He ‘believes’ it was me?”

“The assailant had a kerchief on his face.”

“Let’s see: Penny has been in Quentin, Raiford, and Angola. He was in the AB, but his wife was half black. He’s a pimp and a child abuser. Nobody besides a cop would want to hurt him, huh?”

“Where were you early Sunday morning?”

“Helen, I don’t blame you because you have to treat me as a suspect in the Dartez homicide. But Labiche is a bum. You shouldn’t have put him in charge of the investigation.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. Did you bust up Penny?”

“Somebody should have done it years ago. End of statement.”

“You’re going to end up in prison.”

“Not because of Penny,” I said.

She touched at her nose and sniffed. “Maybe you’re right about Labiche.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not comfortable with Labiche’s history, either. I never knew a guy in vice who didn’t get the wrong kind of rise out of his job. But he caught the case on his own hook, and to give it to somebody else because you don’t like him would be obvious bias.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“You did the right thing.”

“You’re a poor liar.” She punched me in the chest, hard. “I’m mad at you, Dave.”

At five, I’d left the office and begun walking down the long driveway to East Main, when I saw Levon Broussard turn out of the traffic and park his Jeep under the big live oak by the grotto devoted to the mother of Jesus. He opened the car door and held up his hand. “I need to talk.”

“I’m on my way home,” I said. “Take a walk with me.”

“No, right here.”

“It’s been a long day,” I said.

“It’s fixing to get longer.”

“If it’s business, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight A.M.”

Just then Spade Labiche came up the drive in an unmarked car. He leaned out the window. “Good news, Robicheaux. A dent on your back bumper, but no paint from the Dartez vehicle. You’re clean on the truck. It’s at the pound. Catch!” He threw my keys at me. They landed in a puddle of muddy water. “Sorry,” he said, and drove away.

I picked up the keys and wiped them with my handkerchief.

“What was that about?” Levon said.

“Departmental politics. What did you want to tell me?”

“My wife has been raped.”

The words didn’t fit the scene. The wind was blowing through the branches overhead, the moss drifting in threads to the asphalt, votive candles flickering in the grotto.

“Say again?”

“She had a flat tire. Jimmy Nightingale talked her into having a drink and got her drunk.” He saw the expression in my eyes. “What?”

“People get themselves drunk,” I said. “Where is she?”

“At home.”

“Did she go to the hospital?”

“Our doctor came to the house. Why do you ask about a hospital?”

“Can she come to the department?”

“She doesn’t want to.”

“I can understand that, Levon. But we don’t do home calls. A female officer will interview her. The surroundings will be private.”

He looked around. “I don’t know what to do.”

I couldn’t be sure if he was talking to himself or to me. “Tell me what happened.”

“She was at the grocery last night. She came outside and saw she had a flat tire. Nightingale put her spare on. They went out to the highway and had a drink.”

I could already see what a defense lawyer would do with Rowena’s story.

“I’m sorry to hear about this,” I said.

“You don’t believe her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“She trusts people when she shouldn’t,” he said. “She thinks y’all won’t believe her. She was doing work among the poor when I met her in Venezuela. She gave her paintings to the Indians, people no one cared about.”

He waited for me to reply. I hate to handle sexual assault and child molestation cases because the victims seldom get justice, and that’s just for starters. Adult victims are exposed to shame, embarrassment, and scorn. Often they are made to feel they warranted their fate. Defense attorneys tear them apart on the stand; judges hand out probation to men who should be shot. Sometimes the perpetrator is given bail without the court’s notifying the victim, and the victim ends up either dead or too frightened to testify. I’ve also known cops who take glee in a woman’s degradation, and it’s not coincidental that they work vice.

“I’m in the cookpot these days, Levon. I’ll do what I can for y’all.”

“You’re having some kind of trouble?”

“I’m a suspect in a homicide.”

His lips moved without sound.

“Yeah, it’s a bit unusual,” I said.

He looked up and down the street. “You don’t believe Rowena’s account, do you?”

“I don’t know all the circumstances.”

“She’s never been unfaithful,” he said.

The last statement was the kind no investigative cop ever wants to hear. “Has Jimmy tried to contact you or your wife?”

“Jimmy?”

“I’ve known him most of my life.”

“Yes, and you introduced him to us, and now we know him, too.”

Sometimes you just have to walk away. And that’s what I did.

“I apologize,” he said at my back.

The phone was ringing as I came through the front door. “Hello?” I said.