John Miller - Too Far Gone

“So, the files could have been sanitized by those two detectives for some reason.”

Manseur nodded, took some of the papers from her, and thumbed through them, reading. “Reason would be money.”

Alexa said, “The patrolman who answered the alarm that night was named Kenneth Decell. He suffered an injury when he disarmed the perpetrator, Sibby Danielson. The name Decell seems familiar to me.”

“Decell was at the Wests’ house last night when we got there. Red-haired fellow in his early fifties. Been a private detective since he retired about ten years ago. Mostly rich people uptown call him when they have family that get themselves entangled with issues of the unpleasant type. Police problems, runaway or out-of-control kids or spouses, extortion threats, cheating husbands or wives, background checks on people they are curious about. Security issues.”

“He bent?”

“Bent? Oh.” Manseur shrugged. “More than some, less than others. He was a detective and…” Manseur turned his sad eyes to hers. “New Orleans has all kinds of people in it. Some rich.”

“Expensive, is he?”

“People Decell works for don’t complain about price when the work gets the results they want. He’s got a pretty big operation, with lots of licensed investigators. Some were cops, some weren’t. He’s well connected.”

“As in, to the mob?”

Manseur shrugged. “As in, to lawyers, prosecutors, police officials, politicians, and the like. Around here more people go to prison for doing other people favors than for stealing cars. ‘Do me one’ is a way of life. A friend will help you move across town today, and in return he might ask you to help him move a body across town.”

Alexa laughed. Then she said, “The murderer was a twenty-one-year-old woman. Why did she kill them?”

“She was crazy. It was a long time ago. The reasons for things that happen here aren’t always written down accurately. Most people on the job in New Orleans could teach a creative writing course. Back when that report was written, our detectives wrote more fiction than Anne Rice.”

“That still the case?”

“I wouldn’t know for sure, naturally.”

Alexa went over to Manseur’s computer, and within seconds she had the LePointe murders’ media coverage on the screen. “Says here that Sibhon Danielson was a paranoid schizophrenic. Committed to a state facility for the criminally insane.”

“She went by ‘Sibby,’” Manseur said.

“Maybe it’s just me, but I find it an odd coincidence that Dr. LePointe, the brother and brother-in-law of the victims, is a psychiatrist who’s an expert on criminal psychology. Don’t you find that strange?”

“I find it an interesting coincidence,” Manseur said. “But in New Orleans, painting your privates blue and dancing in the street with a bottle in your hand while people file past isn’t considered noteworthy. Curry LePointe was the star of that family. William was smart, but without the charisma and personality his big brother Curry had.”

Alexa said, “I wonder if there was any connection between our psychopath and Dr. LePointe before the murders. But I guess, however interesting all this is, the question for us is whether we waste valuable time chasing down twenty-six-year-old murder information.”

“I doubt this has anything to do with finding Gary West. It’s a sidetrack of the investigation at best. And I’m not writing a book or investigating for some cold-case television show,” Manseur said.

“Seeing that we’re talking about Dr. LePointe-the number-one philanthropist and authority on mental defectives-the LePointe murders are best left to historians?”

“You’re catching on,” Manseur said, chuckling. “Let the big sleeping dogs lie if and when possible.”

“You’re not going to be any fun,” Alexa said.

At that moment Manseur’s office door flew open and Jackson Evans strode in stiffly with a grim expression on his face.

“I need a progress report,” he said, crossing his arms.

Manseur gave him a quick rundown of the physical evidence they’d collected. He explained that neither the canvass of the area near the Volvo nor the waitress’s interview had produced anything helpful.

“You’re the big-deal expert, Alexa,” Evans said. “Is Gary West dead or alive?”

“I’d say the odds that he is alive depend directly on who has him-”

“If anyone does have him,” Evans interrupted.

“And why they have him. If Gary was the victim of a road-rage incident, he could be dead or seriously injured and lying in a backyard or a ditch nearby. If it was a murder for hire or some other reason, like revenge, he’d have likely been left in the Volvo.”

“Unless they didn’t want a body found,” Manseur added.

“If he was taken out of the car alive, it means there was a reason to go to the trouble and risk being seen grabbing him. Hopefully he’s still alive. If so, the most likely reason for that is because he’s been kidnapped for ransom. In that case, he might live through it, depending on several factors.”

“Like?” Evans demanded.

“The odds of us retrieving him alive-if he doesn’t know his kidnappers’ identities, and if a ransom is demanded and paid-may be as high as eighty percent.”

“It’s still possible he staged it,” Evans said.

“It took some concerted effort if he did,” Manseur said.

Alexa said, “In my experience, people rarely beat themselves in the head. Maybe fingerprint evidence from the Volvo will give us a perp, but I don’t think it will. If West was kidnapped, I seriously doubt the person who did it was some disorganized, naked-fingered, liquored-up, or cracked-out thug.”

“Naked-fingered? Is that FBI terminology?” Evans asked sarcastically.

“It’s the latest in hot Bureau-speak,” she said without missing a beat.

Jackson Evans looked down at the open evidence box on the table beside him and turned his head so he could read the writing on the flap. “The LePointe murders? What’s this, Michael?”

“First thing this morning the media requested the LePointe homicides’ file from seventy-nine,” Manseur said. “So I had them delivered here so I could see what was in them the press might be interested in.”

“The twenty-fifth anniversary of the murders,” Evans said, quickly, “so maybe they’re just looking into it for some prurient media reason.”

“Could be,” Manseur agreed.

“My math sucks,” Alexa said, “but the twenty-fifth anniversary was last year. And it occurred in July, not August. Timing’s wrong.”

“Good move, grabbing the files. You find anything interesting?” Evans asked Manseur, ignoring Alexa.

“No, but the media sure will,” Alexa said.

“Like…?”

“Like what isn’t there,” she said. “That box is like an Egyptian tomb that has been pilfered until all that’s left inside is a few old bones scattered about. The media gets their hands on that box, there’s a bigger story in the missing items than there would have been if it were complete.”

“What happened to the rest of it?” Evans asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Manseur said.

“Who had access to it last?” Evans asked.

Manseur picked up the phone and dialed the evidence morgue.

“Percy, did you inventory the contents of that evidence box you sent me? Read me the sheet.” Manseur took out a pen and made notes as he listened. “Okay, and can you check and see who checked out the box last and what the inventory sheet said was in it when it was last checked out? You find that out for me?” He covered the receiver with a hand. “We got what was in it when he sent it to me.”

Thirty seconds later Manseur grew alert as Percy found the list. “Yes. Okay.” Manseur scribbled as he listened, thanked the evidence clerk, and hung up. “File was last checked out by Harvey Suggs, nine years ago. According to the paperwork, it was inventoried by the clerk last time it was checked out. The original list had a meat cleaver, fingerprint cards on Danielson, the interviews conducted, Sibby Danielson’s psychiatric evaluation, the autopsy report, and transcripts from the sanity hearing, as well as Kenneth Decell’s incident report.”