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“Bello went into the stall with the mare and somebody came up behind him and put it to him long and hard.”
“What do you mean, long and hard?”
“That hole in the back of his head isn’t the only one in him. He took one in the rib cage and one in the armpit. Take a look at the slats on the left side of the stall. I think Bello bounced off the boards, then tried to get up and caught the last one in the skull.” Koko laughed out loud. “Then he got shit on by the horse he was trying to feed. I’m not kidding you. Look at his shirt.”
“Why don’t you show some respect?” I said.
Koko coughed into his palm, still laughing. “Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?” I said.
“Being the only guy in the department with any humanity. It must be tough to be a full-time water-walker,” he said.
“Hey, Dave, come see a minute,” Mack Bertrand said from the back entrance. He had arrived shortly before I did and had done only a preliminary survey of the crime scene. A camera hung from his right hand.
“I’ll talk to you about that remark later, Koko,” I said.
“I can’t wait,” he said.
I joined Mack outside. “What do you have?” I said.
“Take a look at the murder weapon. What’s interesting about it is the tip of the pick has been sharpened down to a fine point, probably on a grinder. When’s the last time you sharpened a pick like that?”
“Never.”
“So in all probability we’ve got a premeditated homicide here and the killer came prepared to do maximum damage,” he said.
I squatted down and looked at the pick. Mack was right. The point had been honed down to a thinness that would break if it was driven into rock or hardpan. Streaks of blood and pieces of hair coated at least four inches of the steel surface. “You’ve got a good eye, Mack,” I said.
“Walk with me to the back fence.”
The rear of the lot was strung with what is called a back-fence, one that is made up of steel spikes and smooth wire and is less attractive than a rail or slat fence but cheaper to construct and more utilitarian. On the other side was an ungrazed pasture, then a line of water oaks and pecan trees that separated the pasture from a sugarcane field. Mack pointed to a channel of dented grass in the pasture.
“My guess is somebody crossed the pasture on foot this morning, maybe somebody who parked his vehicle up there on the turnrow by the sugarcane field,” Mack said. “What do you think?”
I nodded without speaking.
“No, I mean who do you think would do this? Just between us.”
I rested my arm on a steel fence spike. I hated to even think about the possibilities that Mack’s question suggested. “I twisted the screws on Whitey Bruxal. Maybe Whitey thought Bello was about to roll over on him,” I said.
“The Mob uses pickaxes?”
“Whitey’s smart. He doesn’t follow patterns. That’s why he’s never done time.”
“I’m really bothered by this, Dave. Bello came to our church for help. I sent him over to the Holy Rollers. You ever figure out what was driving him?”
“Take your choice. Years ago he tried to lynch a black man. His wife thinks he attacked Yvonne Darbonne. He tried to revise his own life by controlling and destroying his son’s. Everything he touched turned to excrement.”
“He raped the Darbonne girl?”
“I just have the wife’s interpretation of events. She’s not an easy person to talk with. She says Bello raped Yvonne Darbonne the same day Darbonne shot herself.”
“Jesus Christ. Yvonne Darbonne was gangbanged that day.”
“That’s my point. I don’t know if Mrs. Lujan is telling the truth. I don’t believe she’s totally connected to reality.”
“Who is?” Mack said.
