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"My second wife died at the hands of violent men, Dr. Parks. The sonsofbitches who did it are all dead and I'm glad. But their deaths never brought me peace," I said.
"Is that your evangelical moment for the day?"
"I recommend you not leave town."
"One question?" he said.
"Go ahead."
"Did Hebert see it coming? Because I hope that motherfucker suffered just the way my daughter did before he caught the bus."
I left his house without answering his question. There are times as a law officer when you wish you did not have to look into the soul of another, even a grieving victim's.
That afternoon a seventeen-year-old black kid by the name of Pete Delahoussaye came into my office. Pete was over six feet and walked like he was made from coat hanger wire, but he had a fast ball that came down the chute like a B.B. and LSU and the University of Texas had both offered him athletic scholarships. Seven days a week, at 5:00 A.M." Pete and his widowed mother delivered the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate from one end of town to the other.
He stood in front of my desk, a paper sack hanging from his left hand.
"What's happening', Pete?" I said.
"Found something early this morning. Thought maybe I should bring it in," he said.
"Oh?"
"Yeah," he said, sticking his hand in the bag. "I was passing Iberia General, going toward Jeanerette, when something come sailing out of a pickup."
"Whoa," I said, rising from my chair, just as he lifted a-blue-black, pearl-handled revolver from the paper sack. I could see the leaded ends of bullets inside the cylinder. I stepped away from the muzzle and took the gun from him.
"How much have you handled this, partner?" I asked.
"A little bit," he replied, his eyes leaving mine.
"Did anyone else handle it?"
"No, suh."
"Did you see the person inside the truck?"
"No, suh, I ain't."
"What kind of pickup was it?"
"Just a beat-up old truck. Brown, I think. I would have brought the gun in this morning, but I had to go to school."
"You did fine."
"Mr. Dave?"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't know about the man getting killed at the daiquiri drive-by till this afternoon. My mother thinks I'm in trouble."
"You're not. You're a good guy, Pete. Mind if we fingerprint you?"
"So you won't get my prints mixed up with somebody else's?"
"You got it."
"That's it?"
