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“And the forty-five was in his right hand?”
“He had one finger in the trigger guard.”
“Which way was the wind blowing when y’all found him?”
“Just like today, straight out of the south.”
“Was the boat more or less in the same position, or did the paramedics move it?”
“It’s exactly in the same position.”
“How do you know?”
“The bow is right by that same piece of concrete,” I said.
“Look at the willow tree.”
“Yeah?”
“There’s still exit matter on the lower branches. But the branches are three feet behind the stern. It’s too far back.”
“I’m not following you, Clete.”
“Look, I’m speculating, but if he set the forty-five under his chin and pulled the trigger, the fluids and bone matter from the wound would have gone straight up into the tree’s overhang. But what if somebody is in the boat with Blanchet and wants to distract him? Somebody with the forty-five hidden under a raincoat. He tells Blanchet to look up at a comet, a constellation, an owl or a hawk flying across the moon. Then the shooter plants one under his chin, and Blanchet’s oatmeal flies into the tree.”
“I think you’re probably right, Clete, but I tried to sell that one to the sheriff, and it didn’t slide down the pipe.”
“Yeah, well, screw the sheriff. This is still St. Mary Parish, Louisiana’s answer to the thirteenth century.” Clete squatted down, steadying himself with one hand on the gunwale of the rowboat. “Think of it this way. If you’re correct in your hypothesis about the shooter putting the forty-five in Layton’s hand and letting off a second round, where would the shot have gone?”
I could see where he was taking his re-creation of the moments that had followed Layton Blanchet’s death. Clete was still the best investigative detective I had ever known. He had the ability to see the world through the eyes of every kind of person imaginable; he knew their thoughts before they had them. The same applied to the physical world. Where others saw only an opaque surface, Clete saw layers and layers of meaning beneath it.
“Okay, so Blanchet’s brains go flying into the willow tree, and he falls backward into the stern of the boat, about two hundred and twenty pounds of hard beef,” he said. “So what is our shooter going to do at this point? He’s probably still in the boat with Blanchet. He can put the forty-five in Blanchet’s hand and try to aim it away from him toward the levee. But he’s going to blow gunpowder residue on Blanchet’s clothes, plus deafen himself. Or he can climb out of the boat and stand in the shallows and point the forty-five toward the island, above the houseboat. The bullet should have carried across the bay and into the swamp. Hang on.”
Clete climbed into the rowboat. His weight caused it to rock violently back and forth, then he sat down on one of the seats, stabilizing the hull, and eased himself into the position Layton’s body had been in when we found it. Clete rested his head on the stern and let his right arm flop over th
e gunwale. He configured his thumb and index finger into the shape of a pistol and sighted as though aiming at a target. The tip of his finger pointed directly at the houseboat.
“Y’all didn’t find anything in there that looked like a bullet hole, did you?” he asked.
“I didn’t.” Then I thought about it. “Good Lord.”
“What?”
“In the galley there was a paper trash sack with pieces of a broken drinking glass inside it. But there were also some slivers of glass in one corner, under a window. I thought they were from the drinking glass and somebody had overlooked them when he was sweeping up.”
Clete climbed back out of the boat, the water soaking his tennis shoes and the bottoms of his khakis. “Let’s have a look,” he said.
But Emma Poche was not in a cooperative mood. “You guys aren’t going inside that boat,” she said. “Number one, I don’t have a key. Number two, you have to get permission from my boss or the St. Mary sheriff. Number three, I know how y’all think and operate, and I’m not gonna let either of you pick that lock.”
“Do you mind if we look around outside?” I asked.
“Why, for God’s sakes?” she said.
“I don’t know. When we arrived here, I got the feeling you were looking along the bank for something,” I said. “Maybe we’ll find it for you.”
“I just remembered why I don’t go to A.A. anymore,” she said.
“I’ll bite. Why’s that?”
