“Really.”
“Yeah. But probably what’s going to happen is that the state… and the facility… will settle. In the meantime” – he shakes his head – “I can’t think the court’s going to jump at the chance to get into this again and compel disclosure of anything by the facility. At least not until this other thing’s settled. For one thing, if what you suggest is true, it would mean that whole suit the Ramirez family brought would kind of be gazumped, wouldn’t it? I mean you are suggesting that Vermillion didn’t kill those boys?”
“That’s right.”
Lester Floyd raises his hands, palms up. “That would give it a hell of a twist.” He smiles. “Like I said, I’m willing to try to compel disclosure.”
“I’m really in a hurry.”
“I’m even willing to hurry,” Flood says. “I just don’t like our chances real well, and I want you to know that ahead of time.”
“I understand you’re telling me that success is not likely, but I’ve got to try.”
“Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.”
We discuss money. My bank account has been temporarily replenished by a five-thousand-dollar cash advance from Visa. I write Flood a check for his requested retainer: a thousand dollars.
I drive back to New Orleans in a somber mood. I finally get a lead and where does it take me?
Scorched earth.
Charley Vermillion had a cyanide capsule taped to his collar and committed suicide upon his capture. An arsonist burned down the hundred-year-old Pointe a la Hache courthouse containing records about Vermillion’s suit petitioning release from custody (after nineteen years). Francis Bergeron, the lawyer who filed that suit, drove off a bridge into the bayou and died. The electronic system designed to store court documents imploded, so there is no record of the court proceedings involving Vermillion.
Can all this be coincidence?
CHAPTER 31
In the morning, I put in a call to William Lacey – formerly the partner of Francis Bergeron. He “doesn’t see any harm” in telling me that his partner’s work on behalf of Charley Vermillion was pro bono.
“Did he do a lot of pro bono work?”
“Frankie? Hell no, and I don’t know what put the bug in his ear about Vermillion. It’s not like mental health was a special cause. Frankie didn’t have too many causes. He was looking to run for office down the road, you know?”
“So you don’t know how the case came to his attention.”
“No idea. Tell you the truth, I thought it was out of character. It was a risk – and damned if it didn’t backfire. Of course, he did get to argue in the court of appeals, and that was always kind of in the cards. So maybe that was the point. Exposure.”
I ask him if I could take a look at the case file – that the courthouse record had been destroyed.
“Hmmmmm,” he says. “I really couldn’t do that. There are attorney-client issues.”
“But in this case, both attorney and client are dead.”
“Point taken,” he says, “but I’m afraid it’s a moot one. I turned Frank’s files over to the district attorney. You aware there’s a suit pending over Vermillion’s release?”
“The parents of the Ramirez boys.”
“Bingo. And who the hell wouldn’t sue when the state, in all its wisdom, releases a wacko who utilizes his constitutional rights to kidnap and murder a couple of kids? That’s a damn worst-case scenario and a half.”
“So the district attorney is… where? Belle Chase?”
“Now he is, sure. But that’s the point. My understanding is Frank’s files went up in the fire. It’s right after the parish court took custody of those files that the place burned down.”
That leaves the rabbit.
I stare at the image on my computer screen. Shoffler looked into it and I did, too, but at the time the little paper creature represented only one of several leads. Now it’s all that’s left.
I look through my notebooks.
Paper folding practiced by Leonardo. Mathematically based. Connections to 19th-century stage magic.
A note in the margin, added later, reads: paper folding a kind of transformation. Balloons more popular now.
Traditional form: no gluing or cutting allowed – only a square of paper.
This makes origami an ideal hobby, I realize, for people confined to prisons or mental institutions.
Facility requires a mind adept at geometry and abstract thought. Popular with physicists and mathematicians.
Origami jargon: overland folds, blintzed, waterbomb, stretched bird bases.
Diagrams shared freely on Web. Complex diagrams.
Judy Jones: rabbit made of special origami paper, elephant hide. Folded wet.
Petrich: expert identified rabbit as “modified Lang.”
Online, I type origami Lang rabbit into the Google bar. It kicks out more than a thousand cites. Dr. Joseph Lang created many rabbits, but after two hours of going through the listings, I’ve seen dozens of Lang rabbits and modified versions of same, and not one of these bunnies looks much like the one I found in the boys’ bedroom. Maybe Petrich’s expert found a different Lang rabbit from the ones I’ve seen so far.
Or maybe – he made a mistake.
When I type in origami rabbit, Google kicks out thousands and thousands more listings, although many turn out to be repetitious. I slog through for another hour and a half, but I still find nothing that looks like my rabbit.
But I do learn that the origami world is very chummy and active on the Web. It abounds in competitions and exhibitions, and there is much critiquing of origami books, commentary on sources of material, exhibition of new creations, and trading of folding diagrams. Maybe the origami cybercommunity can tell me more about my rabbit. Judging from the menagerie in Anderton’s display case, the Piper wasn’t a novice, but pretty deeply into the hobby.
Maybe he had access to a computer at Port Sulfur. Maybe he communicated with people in the subculture. It’s possible someone will recognize his work. Or even identify him.
I plug origami into Google and make a list of two dozen website addresses. I compose an e-mail requesting help in identifying the rabbit in the attached JPEG file. I send it out.
And if this doesn’t work, well – Anderton knows who made the rabbit. If I have to, I’ll put the question to him – hard.
I’ve been in a zone, sitting there hunched over the laptop for so long that when I stand up it’s painful. I do some shoulder rolls and stretches.
I should call the folks. I should call Liz. I haven’t spoken to my parents or my wife in more than a week, dodging the worry and concern from the folks and the hostility from Liz.
At least I should call and check my messages.
It’s the usual suspects.
Big Dave at the station. Alex! Something’s come up that I think you’ll be interested in. If you’re ready to come back, we’re ready for you. It’s a real opportunity, so…
The folks, “just checking in.”
My friend Scott, still trying to cheer me up: Heyyy. Hi, Alex. Well, here’s the deaclass="underline" I’m putting together this… ah… badminton tournament. It’s for charity, of course, although we’re not expecting a huge crowd. Anyway… it’s Brad and Jennifer, Tim and Susan, Bill and Hillary, myself and Demi – she’s got one hell of a defensive lob, in case you weren’t aware. Charlize Theron needs a partner… So… if you’re interested, buddy, give me a call, okay?