James Burke - Crusader's Cross

I had attended an AA meeting the previous night, determined to leave my weekend bender behind, and this morning I had dressed in pressed slacks, shined shoes, a striped tie, and a white shirt that crinkled with light. But as I walked into the office I knew my affectation of freshness and confidence was the cheap ruse of a willful man who had thrown away years of sobriety, betrayed his friends in AA, and perhaps mortgaged a long series of tomorrows.

By midmorning I could feel a tension band begin to tighten on the right side of my head. I constantly touched at my scalp, as though I were wearing a hat that had begun to shrink. I chewed gum, washed my face with cold water in the lavatory, and tried not to think about where I might go when the clock finally struck noon. But that problem was about to be taken away from me.

The chief of police in Jeanerette was Doogie Dugas. He was not a bad fellow, simply a showboat and political sycophant. But like most sycophants he was inept and lived in fear of people who had power. I was walking past Helen's open door when I saw her talking on the telephone, snapping her fingers at me. "Hang on, Chief, Dave Robicheaux just walked in," she said. "I'm going to put you on the speakerphone. Dave's the lead detective in our own investigation."

"- get the impression Mr. Val isn't a big fan of Dave Robicheaux," Doogie's voice said.

"Uh, you're on the speakerphone now, Chief," Helen said.

There was a pause. "You got any evidence this guy is local?" Doogie said.

"Which guy?" I said.

"The Baton Rouge serial killer," he said.

"No, we don't have any evidence to that effect. What's going on?" I said.

"What's going on is it looks like a butcher shop in there. The sheriff and me got road stops set up on the parish line, but I'm gonna need some lab hep here," he replied.

"Sir, I have no idea what you're talking about," I said.

"Honoria Chalons, somebody cut all over her. I never seen anyt'ing like this. Y'all coming over here or not?" he said.

Helen and I and our forensic chemist, Mack Bertrand, drove to the Chalons home on the far side of Jeanerette. The homicide had taken place in the guesthouse sometime during the weekend, when Val and his father were in New Orleans on business. Val claimed he had returned shortly after nine on Monday morning and had found the body.

Crime scene tape had already been strung through the trees, sealing off the immediate area around the guesthouse, which was located by a swimming pool that had long ago been abandoned to mold and the scales of dead vines. Crime scene technicians from three parishes were already inside the guesthouse, photographing the body, the walls, the furniture, the tile floors., the glass in the windows, even the ceiling.

Honoria was nude, her body reclining on a white sofa, the incision in her throat so deep she was almost decapitated. But the wounds in the rest of her body had bled so profusely it was obvious that the mortal blow was not the first one the killer had struck.

"Good Lord," I heard Mack say softly beside me.

The guesthouse was actually the residence of Val Chalons, and so far no one had offered an explanation for Honoria's presence there. The initial assault seemed to have occurred just as she was about to enter the shower. One strip of blood angled down the wall mirror and there was a smear against the doorjamb, as though she had bumped against it on her way to the living room. A second attack must have taken place in front of a huge television screen and stereo center, causing her to lose large amounts of blood that probably drained over the tops of her feet.

The oddity that no one could explain was the pattern of the footprints. They were evenly spaced, firmly patterned in the rug, as though she had still been in control of her movements and was unhurried about her destination. Mack believed she had sat down with deliberation on the couch, and had lain back with her head on a cushion, perhaps even lifting her chin in anticipation of the blow across the throat.

The front door had been unlocked. There was no sign of a weapon on the premises.

I looked at the white furniture, the black marble in the wet bar, the gleaming stainless-steel perfection of the kitchen area, the stereo player that was still turned on, its dials glowing with a soft green luminescence, and I felt I had been there before. But perhaps I was just remembering the interior of Val Chalons's office at the television station in Lafayette, which was similar in decor, I told myself.

Koko Hebert, our coroner, had gone outside, under a tree beyond the crime scene tape, to smoke a cigarette. His clothes smelled like an ashtray. His lungs made sounds as if he had just labored up a mountainside.

"Was she raped?" I said.

"No marks around the vagina or thighs that I can see," he replied.

"Any sign of semen?"

"Traces in the pubic hair. St. Mary's forensic pathologist will call me after he gets inside her."

"Mack says her blood trail doesn't make any sense. The assailant attacked her at least three times, but she made no attempt to run away. There were no defensive wounds, either."

"Maybe she dug it."

"You enjoy pissing people off, Koko?"

"Yeah, when they still got booze on their breath and they're blowing it in my face while they're asking stupid questions," he replied.

A crime scene team from state police headquarters in Baton Rouge had just landed in a helicopter across the bayou, and a St. Mary Parish sheriff's cruiser was bringing them across the drawbridge to the Chalonses' house. The crime scene area had been soggy from the weekend rains, and now the St. Augustine grass had been trod into green mulch. Plainclothes detectives, cops in uniform, and crime scene investigators came and went with the freedom of people for whom the gates of an amusement park had suddenly been opened. I wondered how Raphael Chalons would deal with the intrusion of the twenty-first century into his cloistered domain.

A brief shower rolled across the sugar cane fields and pattered on the trees, then a few minutes later the sun came out and the trees were green and dripping like crystal against a brilliant blue sky. But still I had seen no sign of Valentine Chalons.

It had not been easy looking at Honoria. She had been a bizarre person, but probably no more so than any true artist is. In fact, I believe her pulp fiction sexual behavior and feigned iconoclastic attitudes hid a fragility and childlike emotional need that ultimately was harmful to no one but herself. She had also died with dignity under the worst of circumstances and proved she was capable of extraordinary courage.

Then I saw Val coming through the trees. I started to offer condolences but did not get the chance. His shoulder glazed across mine, as though I were not there, as he charged inside the guesthouse. "You left her uncovered?" he shouted. "The next one of you who points a camera at her is going to have it stuffed down his mouth!"

Mack Bertrand tried to explain that a sheet had been placed over Honoria's body but it had been removed upon the arrival of the investigative team from Baton Rouge.

"You're finished taking pictures, fellow. You want me to say it again?" Val said.

The entire crime scene became quiet. Not one person offered a rejoinder, less out of respect or embarrassment than collective acceptance that the Chalons family operated in rarefied air. Then, after a long beat, a Baton Rouge detective said, "We got all we need, Mr. Chalons. We're sorry about your loss."

But Val was not finished. He emerged from the guesthouse and pointed a finger at me. "You degenerate piece of shit! You dare come into my home?"

"Dial it down, Mr. Val," Helen said.

"He screwed my sister, for God's sakes, a girl who was ten years old inside," he said.