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I walked over to the trailer where a black kid had been stacking or unloading melons. Three melons were cored or broken. There was no bullet hole in the trailer that I could see. Farther down the street were houses and small businesses. I talked with the black kid, who was still shaken by what he had witnessed. “One guy was wiping melon out of his hair, then his whole head blowed off. Man, I ain’t up for dis.”
“Did you see anyone out there in the field?” I asked.
“No, suh. Wait. I seen a truck.”
“Did you see the truck go somewhere?”
“No, suh, I ain’t.”
“You see anything else? Think about it.”
“Maybe a flash behind the truck.”
“You see a man?”
“I cain’t remember.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “Let’s talk again later.” I gave him my card and joined Helen.
“Want me to start knocking on doors?” Labiche said.
“Yeah, while we have daylight,” Helen said. “Good job.”
“We’ll get this guy,” he said. “Right, Dave?”
I didn’t answer. He shrugged and walked off.
“Good job?” I said to Helen.
“Give the devil his due,” she said.
“Remind me to keep my own counsel.”
A Jeff Davis Parish sheriff’s cruiser, its flasher rippling, pulled onto the grass and stopped at the tape. Sherry Picard got out, her badge on her belt. “Mind if I get in on this?”
“What’s this got to do with Jeff Davis?” Helen said.
“This is probably connected to the hit on Kevin Penny,” she said. “Penny is my case.”
“Help yourself,” Helen said.
“Who’s the vic?” Sherry said.
“Vics,” Helen said. “Pookie Domingue and JuJu Ladrine.”
“Can I?” she said, holding the corner of the tarp.
Helen nodded.
Sherry pulled up the tarp, her face impassive. She lowered it again and looked over her shoulder at the field. “The shots came from out there?” she said.
“That’s the way it looks,” I said.
“It was probably done with a fifty-caliber. I’m thinking an M107 sniper rifle.”
“Where’d you come up with that?” Helen said.
“I used one,” Sherry said.
