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"I'm here officially," I said, easing my badge out of my side pants pocket. "I'm a detective with the Iberia sheriff's office now. Do you mind if I sit down?"
He didn't answer. He took a cigarette out of a pack on his desk and lit it. His eyes were straight ahead. I sat down in the straight-backed chair next to his desk and looked at the side of his face. By his desk blotter in a silver frame was a picture of him and his wife and three children. A clear vase with two yellow roses in it sat next to the picture.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I'm on a murder investigation."
He held his cigarette to his mouth between two fingers and smoked it without ever really detaching it from his lips. His eyes were focused painfully into space.
"I think you guys have a string on somebody I want," I said.
Finally he looked at me. His face was as tight as paper.
"Mr. Robicheaux, I'm sorry," he said.
"Sorry for what?"
"For… about your wife. I'm truly sorry."
"How did you know about my wife?"
"It was in the area section of the Picayune."
"Where's Victor Romero?"
"I don't know this man."
"Listen, this is a murder investigation. I'm a police officer. Don't you jerk me around."
He lowered his cigarette toward the desk blotter and let out his breath. People at the other desks were obviously listening now.
"You have to understand something. I do field work with illegal immigrants in the work
place. I check green cards. I make sure people have work permits. I've done that for seven years."
"I don't care what you do. You answer me about Victor Romero."
"I can't tell you anything."
"You think carefully about your words, Mr. Monroe. You're on the edge of obstruction."
His fingers went to his temple. I saw his bottom lip flutter.
"You have to believe this," he said. "I'm very sorry about what's happened to you. There's no way I can express how I feel."
I paused before I spoke again.
"When somebody's dead, apologies have as much value as beating off in a paper bag," I said. "I think you need to learn that, maybe go down to the courthouse and listen to one of the guys on his way up to Angola. Are you following me? Because this is what I believe you guys did: you planted Johnny Dartez and Victor Romero inside the sanctuary movement, and four people ended up dead at Southwest Pass. I think a bomb brought that plane down. I think Romero had something to do with it, too. He's also hooked up with Bubba Rocque, and maybe Bubba had my wife killed. You shield this guy and I'm going to turn the key on you."
I could hear him breathing now. His pate was slick with oil and perspiration under the light. His eyes clicked back and forth.
"I don't care who hears this, and you can make of it what you want," he said. "I'm a career civil servant. I don't make policy or decisions. I try to keep illegals from taking American jobs. That's all I do here."
"They made you a player. You take their money, you take their orders, you take their fall."
"I'm not an articulate man. I've tried to tell you my feelings, but you won't accept that. I don't blame you. I'm just sorry. I don't have anything else to say, Mr. Robicheaux."
"Where's your supervisor?"
