reading

What the critics said about Sleeping with the Crawfish:

“Streamlined thrills and gripping forensic detail.”

—KIRKUS

“Action-packed, cleverly plotted topnotch thriller. Another fine entry in a consistently outstanding series.”

—BOOKLIST

“With each book, Donaldson peels away a few more layers of these characters and we find ourselves loving the involvement.”

—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

“The pace is pell-mell.”

—SAN ANTONIO EXPRESS-NEWS

“Exciting and . . . realistic. Donaldson . . . starts his action early and sustains it until the final pages.”

—BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)

“A roller-coaster ride . . . Thoroughly enjoyable.”

—BRAZOSPORT FACTS

“The latest outing of a fine series which never disappoints.”

—MERITORIOUS MYSTERIES

What the critics said about New Orleans Requiem:

“Lots of Louisiana color, pinpoint plotting and two highly likable characters . . . smart, convincing solution.”

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)

“An . . . accomplished forensic mystery. His New Orleans is worth the trip.”

—NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE

“Andy and Kit are a match made in mystery heaven.”

—THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)

“Nicely drawn characters, plenty of action, and an engaging . . . storytelling style.”

—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

“Donaldson has established himself as a master of the Gothic mystery.”

—BOOKLIST

“The tension will keep even the most reluctant young adult readers turning the pages . . .”

—SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL

What the critics said about Louisiana Fever:

“Delivers . . . genuinely heart-stopping suspense.”

—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“Sleek, fast moving.”

—KIRKUS

“Broussard tracks the virus . . . with a winning combination of common sense and epidemiologic legerdemain.”

—NEW ORLEANS TIMES-PICAYUNE

“This series has carved a solid place for itself. Broussard makes a terrific counterpoint to the Dave Robicheaux ragin’ Cajun school of mystery heroes.”

—BOOKLIST

“A dazzling tour de force . . . sheer pulse-pounding reading excitement.”

—THE CLARION-LEDGER (Jackson, MS)

“A novel of . . . terrifying force. . . . utterly fascinating . . . His best work yet.”

—THE COMMERCIAL APPEAL (Memphis)

“The autopsies are detailed enough to make Patricia Cornwell fans move farther south for their forensic fixes. . . . splendidly eccentric local denizens, authentic New Orleans and bayou backgrounds . . . a very suspenseful tale.”

—LOS ANGELES TIMES

“A fast moving, . . . suspenseful story. Andy and Kit are quite likeable leads . . . The other attraction is the solid medical background against which their story plays out.”

—DEADLY PLEASURES

“If your skin doesn’t crawl with the step-by-step description of the work of the (medical) examiner and his assistants, it certainly will when Donaldson reveals the carrier of the fever.”

—KNOXVILLE NEWS-SENTINEL

“Keep(s) the reader on the edge of his chair and likely to finish in one sitting.”

—BENTON COURIER (Arkansas)

“Exciting reading . . . well planned . . . fast paced.”

—MYSTERY NEWS

“Tight and well-paced . . . Andy (Broussard) is a hugely engaging character . . . (the) writing is frequently inspired.”

—THE ARMCHAIR DETECTIVE

SLEEPING
WITH THE
CRAWFISH

D.J. Donaldson

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

SLEEPING WITH THE CRAWFISH
Astor + Blue Editions

Astor + Blue Editions
New York, NY 10003
www.astorandblue.com

images

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

Donaldson, D.J. Sleeping with the Crawfish—3rd ed.
Originally published in 1997 by St. Martin’s Press

ISBN: 978-1-938231-41-4 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-39-1 (epub)
ISBN: 978-1-938231-40-7 (epdf)

1. Detective Duo—Murder Mystery—Fiction 2. Police procedural and forensic mystery—Fiction 3. Crime and Investigation—Fiction 4. Death and Deception—Fiction 5. American Murder and Suspense Story—Fiction 6. New Orleans (LA) I. Title

Book Design: Bookmasters
Jacket Cover Design: Ervin Serrano

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

About the Author

Acknowledgments

They say to write what you know. My problem is that I don’t know much, certainly not enough to fill a book. This means I’m constantly relying on the kindness of strangers and friends for information. For this book, I’m indebted to Dr. Mel Park for filling in my almost-nonexistent knowledge about guns and for taking me to the firing range that appears in this story. Thanks also to Bob LeNoue for a thorough discussion of the cremation process, to Nancy Loggins for instruction on embalming procedures, and to Dr. Harry Mincer for information on dental matters. I particularly enjoyed talking dart-poison frogs with Charles Beck, curator of reptiles and amphibians at the Memphis Zoo. And yes, his office was very warm. It was fun, too, learning a bit about signing for the deaf from Dr. Jennifer Lukomski. My apologies to anyone who told me things I’ve used in this book but who wasn’t mentioned here. As much as I want every fact to be correct, sometimes things go awry. If that’s happened anywhere in this story, the blame is all mine.

Introduction to this Edition

Following up on New Orleans Requiem and Louisiana Fever, this marks the third Andy Broussard, Kit Franklyn mystery reissued by Astor + Blue Editions. And I’m still excited over what they’re doing. According to what I’ve heard from Bubba Oustellette, the little Cajun mechanic who keeps Broussard’s fleet of ’57 T-Birds running, Kit and Andy are just as happy about it as I am.

If you’ve read Louisiana Fever, I’m sure it comes as no surprise when I say that at the start of this story, Kit has lost all confidence in herself because of things that happened to her in that earlier book. She’s so confused and ashamed she’s taken a leave of absence from Broussard’s employ to work as a clerk in the French Quarter. A CLERK . . . with her ability.

But Broussard has an idea that may coax her back to work. He gives her what seems like a simple assignment, but in Andy and Kit’s world, things have a way of spinning out of control. Things go so wrong, Broussard even ends up in Memphis, where if I’d known he was here, I’d have taken him to dinner. And while he’s here, he . . . oh-oh. . . . I’d better stop now and let you read it all for yourself before I spoil things.

—D.J. Donaldson

“All right, Warden Guillory . . . thanks. It’s a puzzle, no question. But if he’s there, he can’t be here, too. I’ll be in touch.”

Chief Medical Examiner Andy Broussard hung up and stared into space, his hand remaining on the phone. Then he picked up the file that had come over from Central Records and looked again at the mug shot of Ronald Cicero.

The man in the picture and the guy on the table downstairs in the morgue were obviously the same person. The photo had been taken nineteen years ago when Cicero had been booked for killing a clerk in a liquor-store robbery. Now, at sixty-eight, he didn’t look much different . . . and his prints matched. He’d been sent to the state prison at Angola for life, and the warden had just said he was still there.

Broussard closed the file and tossed it onto his desk. He reached into the fishbowl of lemon drops next to the wooden sign that read THOSE WHO DON’T BELIEVE THE DEAD CAN COME BACK TO LIFE SHOULD BE HERE AT QUITTING TIME and popped a candy into each cheek. He then rocked back in his chair and folded his stubby fingers over his ample belly, his mind going back to the odd lesions he’d found in the depths of Cicero’s brain—clean holes of degeneration without signs of inflammation. That was perplexing enough . . . one puzzle to a customer. Now the warden at Angola says he’s got Cicero.

Broussard reflected on the situation for about ninety seconds, the lemon balls in his cheek clicking around his mouth like marbles in a sack. Hitting on a way to solve two of his problems at the same time, he rocked forward in his chair and reached for the phone book.

“OH, IT’S GONE,” THE woman moaned, stomping her heel on the floor. She turned to Kit and pointed at the wall. “Yesterday, in that spot there was a scene of Jackson Square right after a rain, with the light reflecting off the wet bricks . . . kind of eerie.”

“I remember it,” Kit Franklyn said.

“Is it in the back somewhere?” the woman asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid it’s sold.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“People give us money, we give them pictures—it’s kind of a business thing.”

“You don’t have to be snotty about it.”

She was right, of course. The customer should always be right, even if they ask stupid questions. It was just hard for Kit to adapt to her current status. Five weeks earlier, she’d been the medical examiner’s suicide investigator and psychological profiler for the police. Now . . . a clerk.

No one had forced this on her. It had been her choice. To Broussard and everyone else who knew her, a totally puzzling one. Of course, they hadn’t been degraded and humiliated by a pair of psychotic kidnappers. It was all still fresh in her mind—the Ph.D. . . . the big psychologist . . . totally dominated by two bottom-feeders. Who wouldn’t suffer a loss of confidence after that?

She’d felt like a fraud—like if she had a CAT scan, they’d find that the ventricles in her brain were hugely enlarged and she was getting by on a thin shell of gray matter. It could happen—had already, in fact—to another woman in this country. You could look it up. Such a person shouldn’t be investigating anything. They should be a clerk. And right now, she wasn’t even doing that well.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the irritated customer. “Would you like to order a print of that photo? I’m sure the owner has the negative and would be happy to make one for you.”

“Tell him he can take his negative and shove it.”

As the woman stormed out, the phone rang.

“Boyd’s Gallery.”

“Kit, is that you?” Andy Broussard said.

“Sometimes I wonder myself.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You, too.”

“Say, I’ve got a problem over here I was hopin’ you’d be willin’ to help me with.”

“I’m not good at solving problems.”

“This one is pretty straightforward. I just don’t have anyone I can put on it.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Please. As a personal favor.”

He was hitting below the belt now. After all they’d been through together and how much she respected and, yes, loved the old curmudgeon, granting him a small favor didn’t seem like too much to ask. Still . . . “I’ve got responsibilities here at the gallery.”

“I understand, but maybe you could get free for a while and drop by the office.”

She hesitated, wishing she was the person Broussard thought she was. She pictured her office, sitting there empty, the chapters of her unfinished manuscript on suicide languishing in her desk.

A book. She’d actually had the nerve to believe she could write a book. Utterly self-delusional.

“Kit, you still there?”

“I’m here.”

“What do you say? Will you help me?”

“Umm . . . I don’t know if I can. . . . Maybe . . . I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

She hung up without giving him the opportunity to coax her again. Remaining by the phone, she watched the foot traffic pass by the window on Toulouse. Andy needed help.

Outside, a kid on his father’s shoulders looked at her through the glass and waved happily. She waved back, envying the child, his life stretching before him, no choices yet made, a fresh, unstained existence, everything to come, his potential still a mystery.

Nolen Boyd, the owner of the gallery, came through the door, eating a Lucky Dog from the pushcart on the corner, a Coke in the other hand. He was a big, overweight guy with a soft, slack face and a deep, resonant voice Kit suspected could do a killer rendition of “Old Man River.” He subsisted, it seemed, on Lucky Dogs blanketed with chili that frequently dripped onto his paunch, where the stain usually disappeared into the psychedelic floral pattern on the Hawaiian shirts he favored.

“Did I see a woman come out of here empty-handed?” he asked.

Kit pointed at the blank spot on the wall. “She wanted that rainy Cabildo scene.”

“You tell her I’d make her one?”

“I did, but we sort of got off on the wrong foot.”

“Whose fault?”

“Mine. She asked a goofy question and I didn’t handle it well.”

“Done that myself from time to time. Trouble with having a business open to the general public is, that’s who comes in. Forget it. She obviously didn’t deserve one of my pictures.”

He took another bite of his hot dog.

Andy needed help.

“Nolen, would you mind if I left for an hour or so? There’s something I have to do.”

He waved his hand theatrically. “Away, then.”

“Thanks.”

She picked up the phone and called Broussard.

“Hi, it’s me, Kit. I’ll come over and listen, but I can’t promise anything. I should be there in twenty minutes.”

She hung up and left by the back door. Like most buildings in the French Quarter, there was a courtyard behind the gallery. Two hundred years ago, the place had housed a single family, the owners living in the wrought iron–decorated two stories facing Toulouse, the servants occupying the two floors of plain brick that formed the left and back boundaries of the courtyard. The rear wing had recently been declared structurally unsafe and there was a chain-link fence across that part of the courtyard to keep people a safe distance away. Kit’s apartment and one other were on the second floor of the refurbished left wing. Because there was so much street noise at night, Nolen had put his darkroom above the gallery and lived in the apartment below Kit.

Avoiding the drops of blood from Nolen’s miniature dachshund, which had been menstruating all over the place for the last three days, Kit walked to the gray cypress stairs that led to the second floor. “Lucky . . . here, boy.”

Her own little brown dog wiggled out of a tall patch of straw grass and bounded toward her, tongue lolling. At the steps, he skidded to a stop and sat down, his hind feet facing forward like a child, waiting for her to tell him what she wanted.

“I’m going out for a while and I want you to be a good boy.” Brown eyes glistening, Lucky cocked his head, trying so hard to understand.

“Can you do that? Can you be a good boy?”

Jesus, he was cute. She stepped off the stairs, knelt, and ruffled the fur on Lucky’s head with both hands. When she started to go, he grabbed her shoelace.

“No, Lucky . . . no.”

He released the lace, sat again, and watched her go up the stairs.

As Kit passed the apartment before hers, the door flew open and the occupant came out holding a tray filled with disturbing objects.

“Kit, dear. I’ve just developed a new line and I wanted your opinion. It’s been so long since I’ve seen one, I wasn’t sure I got it right.”

It was Eunice Dalehite, a rail-thin woman with straight gray hair and eyes that functioned independently of each other, like those of a chameleon.

“What do you think?” she asked, one eye looking at Kit, the other glancing over Kit’s shoulder. She thrust the tray at Kit’s face, forcing her to take a step backward. Eunice made erotic candy for the Naughty but Nice shop two blocks down Bourbon Street. On the tray were six chocolate erections, complete with shaved chocolate pubic hair.

Kit was speechless.

“Is it accurate?” Eunice said.

“I . . . I’m no expert, but they look good—Ah . . . accurate to me.”

Eunice beamed. “It’s my own special blend of chocolate. Try one.” She thrust the tray forward.

Even if she’d wanted to sample one, Kit hadn’t the slightest idea how one would do it and retain a shred of dignity.

“It’s tempting . . . but I’m allergic to chocolate,” Kit said.

“Oh dear. How terrible for you.”

“It’s a burden, but I manage.”

“Maybe I’ll make you some nice open-zipper cookies instead.”

“You’re too kind.”

Kit’s apartment was Lilliputian: a living room, one bedroom, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchen with a counter between it and the living room. Last week, a crack had developed in the center of the living room ceiling, ominously creeping a couple of inches a day, so it now formed a large nasty smile. Uncomforted by Nolen’s assurance that it was just the old building settling and meant nothing, Kit looked up to check its progress, noting with alarm that it was several inches longer than it had been a few hours ago.

Tired of worrying about the crack, Kit’s mind drifted back to the wonderful old house she’d once owned in the uptown section—its beautiful Victorian beadwork and solid oak columns in the entry foyer, the glistening quarter-sawn oak floors . . . the human remains she’d found buried in the backyard, the intruder who’d attacked her in her own bedroom.

Reminded of why she’d had to sell, her thoughts shifted to the gorgeous Italianate villa she’d lived in next. But that image, too, was sullied . . . by the faces of the two kidnappers. Trouble, it seems, always knew her address.

But this was now her home and she’d have to make the best of it. Detouring around the x she’d taped on the carpet to remind her of the danger overhead, she went into the bathroom, where she put on a fresh coat of lip gloss, then brushed her long auburn hair and reset the faux tortoiseshell combs that kept it out of her eyes.

She paused and studied her reflection, looking for outward evidence of the changes she’d experienced internally. But her eyes were still brown, there were still sixteen freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, and her neck was still one of her nicest features. On the surface, she was still Kit. Inside . . . who knows?

There simply wasn’t enough room in the French Quarter. This applied particularly to cars, which, if you lived there, were a financial liability of ruinous proportions because of the cost of garage space. This caused many of the Quarter’s residents to give them up. Without convenient transportation, and finding they could satisfy all their needs in the Quarter, a large number of the carless became exiles who rarely, if ever, ventured out of its boundaries. Not so depressed that she was willing to join their number, Kit had taken the job at the gallery mostly because Nolen had thrown in a parking space in a garage three blocks away on Dauphine Street, her next destination.

It was a beautiful late-spring day in which the slit of sky between the balconied buildings lining Toulouse was blue and cloudless and the temperature was cool enough to keep the Quarter from smelling like an errant compost heap, as it did in summer. The sidewalks were crowded with tourists, street magicians, singers, and mimes, giving the place an aimless energy that made Kit feel as though she lived on the grounds of an insane asylum. At the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse, a mechanical mime in a tuxedo and white gloves offered her a carnation, his every rachety move accompanied by a convincing whirring noise. Leaving the flower for one of the tourists, she stepped over a spilled ice cream cone and kept moving.

At Dauphine, a dirty old man with a sooty gray beard came around the corner, pushing a grocery cart. Tied to the cart and leading the way was an equally sooty Sheltie, who began straining at his leash when he saw her. Curtis and Jimmy.

Upon reaching her, Jimmy put his front paws on her shoes and bowed in a doggy greeting. Protocol observed, he then began jumping against her legs, deliriously happy to see her.

“I’ve told him to play hard to get,” Curtis said. “But he just won’t listen.”

Kit knelt and pulled on Jimmy’s ruff. “That’s because we’re old friends.”

“Are you well, then?” Curtis inquired, leaning on the handle of the cart.

Kit had definitely been better, but she wasn’t about to complain to poor Curtis. “I am well,” she said, giving Jimmy one last rub. “And you?”

“Not an hour ago, a fine young man from Mobile gave me five dollars, so Jimmy and I have had a grand meal and are feelin’ like we could whip a small polar bear.”

“We can’t have out-of-towners doing more for our friends than we do,” she said, digging in her purse. She took out a ten she could ill afford to part with and gave it to Curtis, whose eyes told her there had been no man from Mobile.

“You’re a saint,” Curtis said. “And surely the prettiest of the lot. Give Lucky our regards.” Curtis pushed his cart forward, tightening the leash and pulling Jimmy reluctantly away from her.

Watching them leave, Kit was heartened that Jimmy didn’t seem to know his master was homeless, which meant Lucky probably wasn’t aware of her own altered circumstances.

BROUSSARD’S FILING SYSTEM CONSISTED of books and letters and Xeroxed articles stacked around his office in piles that made the place an obstacle course. Kit found him with half of one of those piles in his arms.

“Kit.”

He dropped his load onto the only available spot on his green vinyl sofa and steamed toward her, arms spread wide, as if intending to embrace her. But the closer he got, the more his arms sagged, until when he reached her, he touched only her hand, grasping it firmly in his chubby fingers.

“I . . . everyone’s missed you,” he said.

“Me, too.”

It had been Kit’s strongest desire since she’d joined his staff to hear Broussard praise her work. A childish need, she knew, but it was there nevertheless. And he had never done it. She’d once believed the fault was his. Now, confidence shattered, she was sure she’d simply never deserved his approval.

It had been six weeks since she’d last seen him, and outwardly, he hadn’t changed, either—still hugely overweight, his hair and beard no grayer, his small eyes just as clear and bright, glasses still equipped with a lanyard that let them dangle within reach when he worked at the microscope, a real bow tie at his throat, not a clip-on.

“I see you still have your sweet tooth,” she said, referring to the lemon ball pushing his cheek out.

Broussard eagerly dug in his pants pocket and produced two cellophane-wrapped lemon balls, which he put in her hand. He folded her fingers over them and covered her hand with both of his.

When she’d first come aboard, he’d frequently offered her naked lemon balls from his pocket, but she consistently refused them. Realizing she was concerned about the other things he touched during a typical day, he’d begun carrying wrapped ones just for her. Her reference to his sweet tooth had been a test to see if he’d continued the practice. The fact that he had, touched her.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries and then Kit said, “What is it you wanted me to do?”

Broussard led her to his desk, where he picked up a stack of Polaroid morgue photos. Shifting through them, he selected one and handed it to her. “Yesterday afternoon, that man stabbed a woman comin’ out of the Walgreens on Gentilly Boulevard. He was shot and killed in the act by an offduty policeman.” He waved her into the wooden chair in front of the desk and went to his own chair behind it.

“How’s the woman?”

“In serious condition, but they think she’ll be okay.”

“Any idea why he did it?”

“Doesn’t appear to be any rational explanation. She didn’t know him, and he made no move for her purse. I suspect it had somethin’ to do with the degenerative lesions I found in both temporal lobes of his brain.”

“What kind of lesions?”

“Nothin’ like I ever saw before.”

“Where do I come in?”

“He wasn’t carryin’ any ID. When we ran his prints, it came back that he was servin’ a life term in Angola.”

“So he was paroled?”

“Not accordin’ to the Angola warden. When I talked to him half an hour ago, he said this man was still there.”

Broussard was encouraged that upon hearing this, Kit sat straighter in her chair, indicating she was definitely interested.

“What is it you want of me?”

“I’d like you to take a camera and a print kit to Angola and get me some reliable data.”

“Couldn’t the prison send you that stuff?”

“The key word in what I just said was reliable. With no direct link to that information, I wouldn’t know what weight to give it. No, I need you to go over there.”

Kit sat back in her chair, mulling over the situation, Broussard watching her intently, hoping she’d agree and, through this commitment, be drawn back into her old life.

“How far is Angola?”

“You could be there in three hours,” Broussard said brightly.

“I dunno. . . .”

Broussard hurriedly wrote a number on a scratch pad, tore it off, and handed it to her. “That’s the warden’s number. It’s too late to go today. So I’d suggest you set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

Kit stared at the number for what seemed to Broussard like a very long time.

The old pathologist’s heart characteristically thumped along at a glacial fifty beats a minute. But as he waited for Kit’s decision, it seemed to have slipped a flywheel, for he could feel it racing in his chest.

Kit began to shake her head almost imperceptibly. A look that Broussard interpreted as indicating a negative decision crossed her face.

She looked up. “So where’s this camera and print kit?”

Angola lies 125 miles northwest of New Orleans, near the Louisiana-Mississippi border. Calling from home, Kit arranged to meet the warden in his office on prison grounds the next day at 4:00 P.M. The following afternoon, she left New Orleans at one o’clock, heading toward Baton Rouge, wishing she hadn’t agreed to go.

The city had been without rain for nearly three weeks, so the resurrection ferns growing on the boughs of the biggest oaks looked dead. This was, of course, an illusion. One good deluge and they’d be back again, green and happy. And from the look of the white clouds with promising dark centers filling the sky, that moment might soon be at hand.

By the time she’d left urban clutter behind and started across the marshy edges of Lake Pontchartrain on the long portion of I-10 resting on piers sunk in mud, the clouds had massed in front of the sun, forming a huge dirty cauliflower with luminous edges. Apparently disturbed by the impending storm and unsure of what to do, dozens of egrets crisscrossed high overhead, their white feathers glowing with cold fire in the diffused light.

Then, heat lightning began, pulsing and rippling behind the cloud’s folded contours, one jolt after another, with barely a pause between them, the streaks showing a cloudy substructure not previously visible. On and on it went, the actual lightning trails masked by cloud cover, creating the fanciful illusion that the occupants of an extra-terrestrial transport might be back there engaging in high-voltage mischief.

It was an impressive and diverting performance that lasted for nearly forty miles. Eventually, the cloud dispersed and it became just another day in which the resurrection ferns would sleep awhile longer.

At 3:10 P.M., on the other side of Baton Rouge, following the directions on a small green sign that pointed to Angola, she turned onto the Tunica Trace Scenic Highway. Twenty miles later, she came to another, larger green sign advising her that anyone entering a Department of Correction facility was subject to a physical search that might include an examination of body cavities. Oddly, this made her reluctant to continue, and she remained for several minutes at the sign, appraising the prison entrance fifty yards ahead.

On her side of the requisite chain-link fence topped with razor wire, this consisted of a couple of small single-story yellow brick buildings with burgundy trim, a tower of the same color, and a guardhouse that straddled the road. As she sat there, she thought of the scene in The Silence of the Lambs where Jodie Foster walks past all the occupied cells to get her first look at Hannibal Lecter. The recollection made her wish she’d brought a raincoat and an umbrella.

But this wasn’t getting her job done. She nudged the gas and rolled up to the guardhouse, which disgorged a blue-uniformed trooper type wearing a gray Smokey the Bear hat and sunglasses. His request that she state her business was so cold, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see his breath.

“I’m Kit Franklyn, from the medical examiner’s office in New Orleans. I have an appointment with Warden Guillory.”

“Wait here.”

The trooper went into the guardhouse and picked up the phone.

While he made his call, an eighteen-wheeler came down the road from inside the prison and stopped at the guardhouse. The other trooper on duty made the driver open the cab door. Satisfied no convict was hiding on the floor, the trooper went around to the rear of the truck, opened the back door, and looked inside. Kit wanted to see if he’d use mirrors to look under the truck, but her attention was diverted by the return of her trooper.

“Ma’am, the warden said for you to wait out here. He’s on his way. You can park over yonder.” He gestured to a graveled lot in front of the public toilets.

Kit had expected to be shown in by a guard, so she was surprised at this. Apparently, the warden had overestimated her importance and was giving it the personal touch. She nodded, backed her car up, and put it where the trooper had indicated.

Because the day had grown warm and the trooper’s manner made her uncomfortable, she elected to wait in her car with the air conditioner running. Five minutes later, the yellow metal arm blocking the prison’s exit lane lifted at the approach of a black Cadillac with tinted windows. It stopped at the guardhouse and the driver exchanged words with the trooper she’d spoken with. Seeing the trooper point at her car, she cut the engine and got out.

The Cadillac came to meet her, crunching to a stop a few feet away.

In it were two men. The driver had a broad Cro-Magnon face and dark hair that edged over his forehead in a series of robust commas. The passenger in the backseat was difficult to see.

The rear window rolled down and his face appeared in the opening, allowing the late-afternoon sun access to a thick head of copper-colored hair that reflected the rays like a new penny. His fleshy face spread in a dentured smile.

“Dr. Franklyn?”

Kit moved over to the car, expecting to be invited in and then driven back to the warden’s office. But the door remained closed. Instead, a hand came through the open window. “I’m Warden Guillory. Good to see you.”

Kit shook the hand as best she could with it so high in the air; then it was drawn back into the car.

“I’m afraid we’ve encountered a difficulty,” Guillory said, bringing his face back to the window.

“What kind of difficulty?”

“Last night, the man you came to see had a heart attack and died.”

“I can still get a picture and his prints.”

“Well, you see, that’s the problem. . . . I left clear orders that nothing be done to the body until you arrived. But there was a mix-up and . . . I’m afraid it’s been . . . cremated.”

“How could you do that so fast? Don’t the relatives have to be notified or something?”

“He had no living relatives. Hadn’t had a stick of mail in years. I’m afraid no one cared whether he lived or died.”

“Pretty sad, even for a felon.”

“In such cases, we’re free to move quickly to dispose of the body, and we usually take full advantage of that.”

“What do I do now?” Kit said, thinking aloud.

“There’s nothing you can do but go back to New Orleans and tell Dr. Broussard how sorry I am this happened. If it helps any, I brought this for you.” He turned and picked up a manila envelope, which he handed her through the window. “It contains the photographs of him we took when he arrived, and his fingerprints.”

Kit opened the envelope and examined its contents. The photo was of a man in his late forties.

“How long had he spent here?”

“I believe it was . . . nineteen years.”

“You don’t have a more recent picture?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Can you tell me how he’d changed?”

“His hair had a lot of gray in it and his face showed his age and his years here.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“I don’t know what else to say. He was an average-looking old con.”

“Was he thin or heavy?”

“Thin, I can tell you that.”

To return home with only the manila envelope would mean her trip had accomplished nothing but to provide Broussard with data he could have obtained by mail. He’d sent her to do more. But what else was possible? “Where are the ashes from the cremation?”

“At the funeral home where it was done.”

“Where’s that?”

“I hardly think you can learn anything from those.”

“Probably not, but I’d like to see them at least.”

“Of course that’s up to you. The funeral home is about fifteen miles from here in a small town called Courville.” Guillory proceeded to give her directions and she was soon on her way, the warden’s car behind her until, at the road to Courville, they separated.

Died . . . of a heart attack . . . and then cremated. . . . Oh sure, this assignment is a snap. She should have just politely told Broussard, no thanks, and gone back to the photo gallery when he’d brought it up.

She was still whipping herself about this when she saw the tasteful green sign for Courville. A HISTORIC COMMUNITY. That’s all it said—no satellite signs advertising the Rotary Club or the Lions Club or the Optimists, no statement about the population.

About a mile beyond the sign, the houses began—large white structures, mostly wooden, with columned porches and green shutters. They were widely spaced from one another on well-tended grounds dotted with ancient live oaks whose branches curled outward in sweeping arcs, reminding Kit of the trunks on compliant pachyderms.

It was rumored that Spanish moss was becoming endangered and was slowly disappearing from Louisiana trees. Whatever was causing that situation was obviously not operating in Courville, for its oaks were generously shrouded with it, giving the place a timeless beauty.

Two miles down the road, she came to the Courville Funeral Home. Under its name on the sign out front, it advised passersby, TAKE YOUR FINAL TRIP WITH TRIP. The sign made no sense until she saw in smaller letters that the proprietor was Trip Guillory. Guillory was a common Louisiana name, but she was prepared to bet heavily that this one and the warden were related.

She pulled into the oyster-shell drive and followed it to the funeral home, which was housed in a striking two-story brick house with Gothic arches topping the front door and all the windows. There were three gables on the front, each trimmed in white Victorian gingerbread. The Gothic arch theme was repeated on more white gingerbread trimming the columned porch, the roof of which was enclosed by a white picket fence.

She parked in a lot on the right of the house, hoping the absence of other vehicles didn’t mean the place was closed. She checked her watch: 4:35. But who knows what hours they keep out here? she thought.

Despite her eagerness to get on with her business, the wonderful silence that greeted her when she left her car made her pause. For the next minute, the only sound she heard was a sharp creak as her car’s engine cooled. Then a single frog began calling out in a small reedy voice. From a nearby tree, an unseen bird added its chatter, earnestly enjoying its own sweet counsel. A distant crow vocalized its displeasure at something, the sound bittersweet, like being stabbed in the heart with a long-stemmed rose. Struck by the thought that Courville would be a far better place to live than the French Quarter, she headed across the lot toward the house. There was a big mat on the porch and a small sign that asked visitors to wipe their feet, which she did. She tried the front door and found it unlocked.

The foyer floor was covered with an Oriental rug of muted colors and the walls were lined with dark oak paneling the same color as the oak beams on the coffered ceiling.

Coffered . . . Kit let the word roll around in her brain, finding its resemblance to coffin so appropriate.

There were four doors off the foyer, one on each side and two straight ahead, with no signs identifying anything. “Hello . . . is anyone here?”

She listened for an answer but heard none.

She crossed the room and tried a door. It opened into a small chapel with several rows of pews.

“Hello . . .”

She went to another door and found another chapel that was also still and empty.

The door on the left side of the foyer was locked, which left her only one more choice.

That door led to a room with a cement floor and lots of metal cabinets. Over by a metal bench hugging the wall to her left were two stainless-steel gurneys and something called a Porti-Boy, with tubes coming out of it.

She saw a set of double metal doors standing wide open in the far-right corner. The room beyond emitted a whirring sound like the one made by the mechanical mime who’d offered her the flower. She closed the door hard, hoping the sound would announce her presence. The head and shoulders of a red-haired man with pale skin appeared from behind one of the open doors.

“You must be Dr. Franklyn,” he said.

Kit crossed the room and entered a thin cloud of drifting ash. When she reached him, he offered his hand. “I’m Trip Guillory. George said to expect you.”

He was standing turned to the side, and as Kit shook his hand, her eyes went past him to the large green metal oven behind him and the ash and bone inside it.

Noticing her attention was on the oven, Guillory said, “That doesn’t bother you, does it? Since you’re from the medical examiner’s office, I assumed . . .”

“No, it’s fine,” Kit lied, looking him in the eye. “George is . . .”

“My brother . . . the warden at Angola.”

Beyond hair color and complexion, there wasn’t much resemblance between the two men. Whereas George wore his hair long, Trip’s was short. Trip was also about fifteen years younger and thin, with a long face and apparently real teeth.

“George said you’re interested in the cremains of the fellow who came in this morning.”

Cremains . . . another appropriate word, Kit thought. “Are we talking about Ronald Cicero?”

“Right, Cicero. Say, I’m running a little late. Do you mind if I keep working while we talk?”

“Not at all.”

Guillory turned to the wall and reached for something that looked like one of those rakes croupiers use to move chips around a roulette table—only this one had a handle about eight feet long.

“We made a big mistake when we designed this area,” Guillory said, carefully running the handle past her. “If we’d realized how long this cleaning tool is, we’d have laid it out so the retort could be emptied without having these doors open.”

He slid the business end of the cleaning tool into the retort and began pulling the ash and bone into a narrow trough that ran down the center of the retort’s floor. Many of the bones were still intact, but the skull had separated so that its individual elements lay in a disarticulated pile. As the cleaning tool gathered the cremains, the bones broke into smaller fragments.

“Not much left, is there?” Kit said.

“Usually not more than a couple of pounds.” As Guillory worked, the amount of ash in the air increased, settling on Kit’s clothing. The thought that particles derived from a human liver or tongue or toe were settling on her like dandruff was bad enough, but the likelihood she was also inhaling them was just about more than she could take. But she had a job to do, so she held her ground and tried not to breathe so deeply.

“Is that him in there?” she asked.

“Cicero? No, I did him this morning.” Guillory pulled the cleaning tool down the center of the trough, scraping the cremains forward, where they disappeared down a hole.

“What exactly did you hope to accomplish here?” he said, reaching into the ashes and plucking out a metal strap with three screws attached. He tossed it into a nearby trash can.

“What was that?” Kit asked.

“A mending plate. Orthopedic surgeons use them to stabilize fractures. You’d be surprised how much metal comes out of here in a month. Take a look.”

Kit stepped over and peered into the trash can, which contained, in addition to an impressive number of mending plates, a couple of much larger metal replicas of the upper end of a thighbone.

“Those big things in there are artificial hip joints,” Guillory said. “Watch your head.”

He pulled the cleaning tool out of the retort, returned it to the wall, and took down an equally long-handled brush, which he used to sweep out the remaining bone and ash.

“The only kinds of surgical artifacts we have to watch out for are pacemakers—they can explode and damage the lining of the retort—and silicone breast implants—when they melt, they make a helluva mess.”

Kit hadn’t answered Guillory’s question about what she’d hoped to accomplish by coming, because she hadn’t yet figured that out herself. But now, having learned there can be various kinds of surgical artifacts in cremains, as well as some fairly large pieces of bone, it seemed possible that even if Guillory had culled the bigger pieces of metal, Broussard might learn something useful by examining what came out of the retort.

With the retort tidied up inside, Guillory went around to its left side and slid out a large metal drawer that obviously contained the cremains he’d just collected. What happened next made Kit’s heart sink.

Guillory began rummaging through the cremains with a magnet that quickly became bristly with bits of wire and other metal.

“We usually cremate bodies in a cardboard box,” he said. “This picks up all the staples that held the box together.”

As well as any metal artifacts that might be used to identify the body, Kit thought glumly. Then things got worse.

Guillory carried the drawer over to something that looked like a small ice chest and began pouring the cremains through an opening in the top with a plastic scoop. When they were all inside, he shut the door in the chest and flicked a switch that turned on some machinery.