Chapter 22
FORTY MINUTES LATER, PENDERGAST pulled his two-seat, absurdly loud vintage Porsche into the modest parking lot in front of the Tangipahoa sheriff’s office in Hammond, Louisiana.
It was a modest, one-story brick building surrounded by flowering myrtle trees, with cicadas droning in the heat and enveloped in an almost somnolent air.
Chambers got out and smoothed down his hair, which felt like it had been permanently blown back—if not clean off—by the ride.
Pendergast emerged from the vehicle still in black, unruffled save for his blond hair, now ludicrously wild.
A tiny comb came out of a pocket somewhere in his suit jacket, however, and with a few quick sweeps all was once more perfectly in place.
“Invigorating ride, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s one word for it. Invigorating. Jesus.”
They walked into the lobby, where a sour-faced receptionist eyed them from behind a glass partition. Chambers took the lead and held out his lanyard. “Special Agent Chambers, Special Agent Pendergast, Louisiana Field Office. Here to see the sheriff.”
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the man.
“Apologies, we do not. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The man pressed a button, murmured into his mouthpiece, then turned back to them. “Door at the end of the hall,” he said, buzzing them through.
The door at the end of the hall was shut. Chambers gave a polite rap and a moment later it was opened by the sheriff himself, in full uniform, pressed and immaculate, a trim man in his forties with close-cropped hair and very pink skin around his neck.
“Come in, gentlemen,” he said.
They entered a modest office, passing a secretary on their way to the sheriff’s inner sanctum. Here, the sheriff took a seat behind his desk—backed by a wall of framed commendations and citations—and gestured for them to sit.
“What can I do for you folks?” he asked.
Chambers leaned forward to read the nameplate. “Sheriff Ledbetter, thank you for seeing us on such short notice. My partner and I are looking into a homicide that took place in your jurisdiction two years ago.” He briefly described it, then gave Ledbetter the case number.
“That’s some time ago,” Ledbetter said, adding, “I thought you told my man at the desk it was a pressing matter.”
“It is,” said Chambers. “It may be connected to an active serial killer we’re tracking.”
Sheriff Ledbetter punched the intercom, read the case number into it, asked for the file, then sat back and gazed at Chambers impassively. “As I recall, it was an open-and-shut mob killing.”
“My partner and I just need to put ourselves at ease on that point. You know: glance over the file, talk to the investigating detective and the ME who did the autopsy.”
“I was the investigating detective,” said Ledbetter.
“Good, good. Can you give us a quick briefing?”
“Like I said, it was a mob-style killing. In some locations, it might have been gang-related—the body was brutalized, obviously to send a message—but we don’t have gang problems anywhere near here.”
Yet, Chambers thought cynically.
The intercom buzzed. The sheriff picked up, listened, hung up. “The file was transferred to long-term storage.”
“Would it be possible to retrieve that file?”
“Of course. It might take a few weeks—we’re a bit short-staffed.”
“Then perhaps we could talk to the ME who did the autopsy?”
“There’s no point in troubling him when his entire report is with the case file.”
There was a brief silence.
“Sheriff Ledbetter, we’re really hoping for a quicker turnaround on that file if at all possible—or at least, to speak with someone who can fill us in on the case details.” Chambers tried mightily to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“If you’ll leave your card, I’ll see what I can do.” The sheriff rose. “I’m sorry I can’t help you folks further, but that’s such a cold case I couldn’t provide any additional details without seeing the file myself.” He stepped around the desk to see them out.
Chambers was about to protest when Pendergast spoke up, voice once again smooth as honey. “One moment, Sheriff. I was trying to place your name—I knew it rang a bell. Weren’t you the one who took down that active shooter at the Woodhaven School a couple of years ago?”
At this, the sheriff hesitated. “That was me, yes.”
“Well, that was some piece of work! You’re a brave son of a bitch, I’ll say that.”
Chambers was astounded at this previously unseen side of his partner: the breathless appreciation, the cursing, the fawning manner.
“Only doing my duty,” Ledbetter said.
“Hell, no! As I recall, you went in there when the others were hanging back, scared and confused. You saved lives.” He extended his hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you—after all, it’s not every day you get a chance to meet a true hero.”
“Well, now,” said Ledbetter, coloring, “as I said, just doing my duty.”
“You did a lot more than your duty, Sheriff. Imagine—some crazy bastard bent on shooting up a school full of innocents. I’m proud to know you, sir, proud to know you.” He shook the sheriff’s hand. “Well, we’ll get out of your hair and let you get back to work. Sorry to break in on you like this.”
“Glad to be of help.”
“And… well, we’d love to see that file when you can find time to pull it.”
At this, the sheriff hesitated. “Let me just check with Dolly to see if we can’t rustle that up for you now.” He opened the door to the outer office and spoke to the secretary, who got up and left.
“It’ll take about ten minutes. Long-term file storage is in the basement.”
“That’s damn good of you, Sheriff,” said Pendergast. “Now, about this case—do you recall what made you think it was mob-related?”
“The guy was tied to a chair, gagged, tortured, and beaten up before being shanked in the heart. Classic MO.”
“Shanked in the heart.” Pendergast shook his head. “With what sort of knife?”
“That I can’t recall. You’d have to ask the ME.”
“And who might that be, again?”
“Dr. Franklin Brantley. The coroner’s office is on North Cherry. If you’re heading over there now, I’ll call ahead and let him know you’re coming.”
“You’re a good man, Sheriff,” said Pendergast.
The secretary returned, carrying an expanding file. She handed it to the sheriff along with a piece of paper, which he in turn gave to Pendergast. “If you could just sign out the file, I’d appreciate it.”
“Many thanks.” Pendergast signed his name with a flourish, handing back the paper and tucking the file under his left arm. He seized Ledbetter’s hand with his right. “All I can say is, wait until my kids hear that I met the man who took down the Woodhaven shooter.”
Five minutes later, they were out of the parking lot and headed toward North Cherry.
“Excuse me,” said Chambers, “while I vomit. Forgive my saying so, but your lips stink from being jammed so far into the sheriff’s ass. How the hell did you know all that stuff about the Woodhaven shooting?”
“Vomit if you must—but only on the condition that you stop wearing that cheap aftershave: Drakkar Noir, is it? As for the ‘stuff,’ it was all there on the wall behind the sheriff. Framed plaques, citations, anything and everything you needed to know. Fortunately, I have keen eyesight.”
“You laid it on pretty thick. I thought he might sense you were buttering him up.”
“My dear Chambers, I can assure you the butter of flattery can be laid on—even as thickly as my grand-mère used to slather over our grits—with no fear of suspicion or exposure.” He paused.
“And I imagine it leaves the subject in a better humor than a bolus of lies about one’s property having been a toxic waste dump. ”