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The plainclothes sheriff’s deputy was Etienne Pollard. He wore a beige suit and a yellow tie and blue shirt, and he looked tan and angular and in charge of the environment around his desk. By his nameplate was a Disney World souvenir cup full of pens with multicolored feathers. While we explained our reason for being there, he never blinked or seemed disturbed by thoughts of any kind. Finally, he leaned back in his swivel chair and gazed at the traffic passing on the square and the tourists entering the old French church on the bayou. His forehead knitted. “What do you want me to do about it?” he asked.
He used the word “it,” not “abduction,” not “assault,” not “homicide.” Blue Melton’s fate had become “it.”
“We have the impression you haven’t interviewed the boy who saw Blue Melton abducted,” I replied.
“The old man called y’all?” he said, grinning at one corner of his mouth.
“You mean Mr. DeBlanc?” I said.
“That’s what I just said.”
“Yes, Mr. DeBlanc did. He’s a little frustrated,” I said.
Pollard pinched his eyes. “Here’s the deal on that. Blue Melton was a runaway. She was suspended from school twice, once for smoking dope in the restroom. She and her sister had a reputation for loose behavior. The old man wants to think otherwise. If it’ll make everybody feel better, I’ll look into this boy’s story about somebody dragging the girl onto a boat.”
“You’ll look into it?” Helen said. “In a homicide investigation, you’ll look into an eyewitness account of an assault on the victim and her possible abduction?”
“Homicide?” Pollard said.
“What did you think we were talking about?” Helen said.
“What homicide?”
“Blue Melton floated ashore in St. Mary Parish inside a block of ice,” Helen said.
“When?”
“Four days ago.”
“I’ve been on vacation. We were in Florida. I just got back Monday,” Pollard said.
“Today is Wednesday,” Helen said.
Pollard took one of the pens from his souvenir cup and twirled it with his thumb and index finger, studying the colored feathers. His skin was as unlined as wet clay turned on a potter’s wheel. The grin returned to the corner of his mouth. I tried to ignore the vacuous glint in his eye.
“We found what appears to be blood on the DeBlanc dock,” I said.
Pollard glanced out his office door into the corridor, as though looking for someone hiding just outside the doorway. “She was in a block of ice?” he said. “That’s what y’all are saying? In this kind of weather?”
“That’s correct,” I said.
“You had me going. The sheriff put y’all up to this, didn’t he?” he said. He shook his head, an idiot’s grin painted on his mouth, waiting for us to acknowledge our charade.
We interviewed the eleven-year-old who had seen Blue Melton forced onto a boat that had an emblem of a fish painted on the bow. He said the fish looked like it was smiling, but he could add little to what he had already told the grandfather. His time reference was not dependable, and it was obvious he was afraid and wanted to tell us whatever he thought would please us. People wonder how justice is so often denied to those who need and deserve it most. It’s not a mystery. The reason we watch contrived television dramas about law enforcement is that often the real story is so depressing, nobody would believe it.
WHEN WE GOT back to New Iberia, I went to the office of our local newspaper, The Daily Iberian. The previous month the drawbridge at Burke Street had been stuck three nights in a row, jamming up barge and boat traffic north and south of the bridge. Each night a staff photographer had taken many photographs from the bridge, although the paper had run only a few of them. He sat down with me and showed me all his pictures on a computer screen. The photographer was an overweight, good-natured man who wheezed when he bent forward to explain the images. “The moon was up, so I had some nice lighting,” he said. “The small boats could get under the bridge without any problem, but some of them got behind the barges and had to wait longer than they planned. You see the boat you’re looking for?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” I said.
He cleared the screen and brought up another set of photos, then another. “How about these?” he said.
“Behind the tugboat. Can you blow up that image?” I said.
“Sure,” he replied. “It’s funny you noticed that particular boat. The guy driving it was impatient and got out of line and worked his way past a barge full of shale that had been waiting two hours.”
The boat was sleek and white and constructed of fiberglass, with a deep-V hull and a flared bow and outriggers for saltwater trolling. I suspected it was a Chris-Craft, but I couldn’t be sure. “Can you sharpen the bow?” I asked.
“Probably not a whole lot, but let’s see,” the photographer replied.
