Murder in Louisiana Politics

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Murder in Louisiana Politics - book excerpt

One

Saturday morning

Central

"I brought the city of Central prosperity during a difficult economic downturn," Congressman Omar Philbin yelled into the microphone.

Louisiana had a unique election process. It's called an open primary system. Most states hold an election for nominees for the Republican and Democratic parties on separate ballots. Then the winners of the primaries face off against each other in a general election.

The Pelican State lumps both political parties and any ambitious independents in the same primary race. In many cases, the result is a runoff between two candidates of the same party.

The temperature hovered in the mid-nineties, high for even Louisiana in early March. Philbin, the Democratic incumbent sweated so much his shirt clung to his body. His five opponents for the treasured seat in Congress fared no better.

The current member of the House of Representatives was leading local polls by substantial margin, more than twenty points over his closest rival. His confidence showed he expected to return to Capitol Hill representing the district.

This was the first and last debate among all six candidates. Philbin was opposed by one other Democrat, one independent and three Republicans. In the mind of most residents of Central, he was a lock for reelection.

Only one television station bothered to send a crew to the outdoor debate, someone's idea of a cruel joke. High temperatures and humidity had a smothering effect on the event. Not to mention the hordes of mosquitoes thrilled with access to unsuspecting prey.

The front of Philbin’s soaked shirt clung to his body after only fifteen minutes into the debate. The only female candidate, Clarice Clement was the sole candidate still wearing a jacket.

Watching the single debate were most of the local dignitaries, including the mayor, the school board president, and the current United States Senator, Dalton Bridgestone. The senator sat by his fiancée, Niki Dupre. Niki was the most famous private investigator based in Louisiana.

The moderator attempted to keep the debate moving on so everyone could retreat to the wonderful invention called air-conditioning. But the challengers each insisted on their ten minutes of fame.

Niki giggled at the sight of the sparring politicians. Philbin enjoyed the perks of the office, including being wined and dined by lobbyists with unlimited expense accounts. His bulging belly protruded over his belt, blocking it entirely from view the audience. His pants became so wet at the wrong place, making them appear to have been soiled by an unfortunate accident.

Clarice Clement was fighting the environment no better. The heavy makeup ran in streaks down her chubby face. Dark beads dropped from her chin and splattered on the white jacket she refused to remove. She drank copious amounts of water, only to have it escape through every pore in her body.

Only twenty minutes into the debate, the moderator called for a ten-minute water break. Most of the candidates toweled off and had a friend or associate attempt to put them back in order. All drank too much water.

When the debate renewed, Dennis Hopper, one of the Republican candidates, launched a tirade against him more Philbin.

"He has allowed the national debt to balloon to an unimaginable amount. He voted in favor of amnesty for the illegals in our country. He opposed tax reform at every turn. Good citizens, I will bring the federal government back under control. Mr. Philbin has allowed it to gain control over you."

"If I may respond," the congressman took the mic in his hand. "Of course the debt has grown out of control. Republicans protect their rich friends, and don't ask them to pay their fair share to help the rest of us. They—They—Ugh."

Philbin keeled over, knocking the microphone completely off the platform. A red foam bubbled from his mouth. When he hit the floor, blood seeped from his nose.

"Medic," the moderator shouted. "Is there a doctor in the crowd?"

Niki immediately dialed 911 to get an ambulance on the way. She saw Doctor Hebert tottering up the steps to reach the congressman. He had no bag, but knelt beside the stricken man and felt for a pulse.

When he shook his head, Niki knew it was too late for the ambulance. She and Dalton pushed to the crowd to reach the bottom of the stage.

"What is it, Doc?" she asked.

"Some kind of poison, but I'm not sure yet exactly which one. It had a devastating effect on his pulmonary system. I'll have to do an autopsy before I can tell you any more." 

Two

A squad car pulled up with sirens blaring and lights flashing. The imposing figure of Samson Mayeaux emerged from the vehicle. Samson’s actual name was Samuel, but everyone knew him by his nickname. It fit with his tall, muscular stature towering over most people around him.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea, none of them anxious to get trampled by the charging Chief of Homicide for the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff's office. He knelt beside the late politician and the doctor. They exchanged a few brief words in a low tone.

Then Mayeaux stood, all six feet eight inches. He was already above the crowd while he stood on the platform. The addition of the sight and broad frame made Niki think of the Greek gods of mythology. Zeus. Thor. Atlas. She wasn't sure which one.

"All right, people," he began. "I know it's hot out here today, but I need every one of you to wait and be interviewed by a police officer before you leave."

"I can't wait for no officer," a voice from the crowd roared.

"Murphy, since you just volunteered to go last you can sit your ass back down on the chair, and I’ll personally interview you." Mayeaux looked over the crowd. "Any more volunteers to go at the end of the line?"

Some mumbled the protests, but no one said anything loud enough to be heard by the massive chief.

Mayeaux leaned over the platform and whispered to Niki. "Do you and Dalton mind helping us out? We don't have enough people here to handle this."

"No problem," she answered. "What you want us to do?"

"Talk to each person here. Get their name, address, and phone number. Ask them to tell you in their own words what they saw. There's probably two hundred people here, so we’ll get three hundred stories."

Six deputies arrived. Between all of them, Niki, and Dalton, they gathered statements from each member of the audience in less than two hours.

Niki hopped on the stage. She asked Clarice Clement the usual questions.

"Land, girl" the agitated candidate said. "You don't really s’pose I kilt that man, do you?"

"Mrs. Clement, we’re asking for the same information from everyone here. It will be helpful if you’ll answer me."

"C’mon, girl. You already know who I am where I stay. What else"

"What did you see?" Niki asked.

"I saw that man look like the devil got hold of his heart and squeezed. That's what he gets for lying all the time."

"Can you be a little more specific?" Niki asked.

"Sho'. That devil, he squeezed on his lying heart so hard, blood oozed up and out of his head. Must've been the hand of the devil that did it. Couldn’t be nothing else."

"All right, Mrs. Clement. What did Congressman Philbin do before he started bleeding?"

"That man lied," she blurted. "That's what he did. That's when the devil grabbed him, and squeezed him. Saw it with my own two eyes."

"I mean, what did he do before we collapsed? Did you see him eat or drink anything?"

"Course, girl. We was all sweating like a preacher after a three hour fire and brimstone sermon. It was so hot, I thought I might have to get naked and roll around in the mud."

Niki tried not to visualize the two hundred fifty pound woman with no clothes. Just the thought of it made the private investigator shudder.

"Did you see him drink any water?"

"Yes'm. Sure enough. He swallowed a couple gallons whilst I was getting a sip or two myself."

Niki glanced at the four empty water bottles behind the obese woman.

"Are those yours?"

Clarice turned to look at the bottles. When she turned back, a childish grin crossed her wide face.

"Yes'm. Maybe it was more than one sip."

"How much did Congressman Philbin drink?"

"Let's see. At first, he seemed to be having trouble finding his cooler. But then, he found it on the back edge of the stage."

"Was he drinking bottled water?"

Clarice nodded. "And some of that from a big plastic jug. Didn't seem like he could get enough. Devil musta already had a hold on him."

"Can you show me the plastic jug?"

"Just follow me."

The big woman waddled over to a large white cooler and lifted the lid. She studied the inside so long Niki was afraid she had gone to sleep.

"Ain’t here," the large woman announced. "The devil must've took it with him when he left."

"Are you positive there was a big plastic jug Mr. Philbin took a drink from?"

"Girl, I'm old and decrepit, but I ain't blind. He took way more than a drink from it. I thought maybe he had a little hooch in there the way his face twisted all sorts of ways."

"So you don't think it was water?"

"I seen guys drink hooch all my life, and the first reaction is about the same every time. Looks like they’d get used to it after a while."

"Did you see Mr. Philbin eat anything?"

"Nope. Just drank like a fish. I s’pect right this minute, he's explaining to Saint Peter why he had to tell all them lies."

"Did you see anyone take the big plastic jug after Mr. Philbin took a drink from it?"

"No. All I saw him doing was getting fresh makeup from that little filly he keeps around, and get notes from that charlatan that helps him tell lies."

"Do you mean Miss Becker and Mr. Anderson?"

“I reckon that be their names. Ain't never been formally introduced to them. Guess I didn't rate no introduction from the big man.”

"Miss Becker is the little brunette in the off-white suit and Mr. Anderson is the small guy with designer jeans in the blue polo shirt."

"Yep. That's them. I'm surprised the devil left them behind. They just as bad as he ever was."

"Did you see anyone else approached Mr. Philbin during the break?"

"The she–devil. She came up and held his dirty hand for a bit."

"She-devil?"

"His wife. Ms. Alicia Philbin." 

Three

"I talked to Mayeaux," Dalton announced. "He would appreciate any help you can give him."

Niki popped another fried chicken liver in her mouth. It was covered with ketchup and Tabasco sauce. She considered the idea while she savored the tangy morsel.

"I don't know. I've got so much going on right now. I don't know where I would fit it in."

"Think of it as a service to your country. It's not every day that a sitting Congressman gets murdered on live TV." Dalton forked another fried dill pickle.

"That took balls. Has Samson reviewed the tape yet? If the killer is on there, then he won't need my help."

"He looked at it," Dalton answered. "The camera guy quit filming when they went to break."

"Just our luck. Did Doc say what kind of poison was used?"

"He won't know until they run some more tests, but he's already ruled out arsenic and cyanide."

"Who does Samson suspect?" Niki asked.

"Everybody. The other candidates. The aide. The assistant. The wife. Someone in the crowd."

"I'm glad he narrowed it down," Niki’s sarcasm dripped more than the ketchup.

"Are you willing to help?"

"Why not? Revenue and cash flow are so overrated in a small business."

“Think of all the free publicity you'll get when you find out who killed the congressman.”

"Great," Niki laughed. "I'll send the electric company a copy of the newspaper clipping with my bill instead of a check. I'm sure they'll be thrilled."

"If they cut you off, you can claim you decided to go off the grid and quit supporting those evil energy providers."

"I think I prefer air conditioning."

"That's the problem. No sense of adventure," Dalton said.

"I get enough adventure deciding which bills to pay this month and which ones to hold until next month."

"R–I–G–H–T," Dalton scoffed. "Maybe a few years ago. But I doubt if the world's most famous investigator is having to pinch her pennies."

"If I'm working for nothing, that means you're buying today. You can write it off as a town hall meeting with your constituents."

“No problem,” he responded. “Does this mean you'll be contributing to my campaign fund for reelection?”

"I don't think so. Look where that got Congressman Philbin." 

Four

Saturday night

Sheriff substation–Central

“What do you have, Samson?” Niki asked.”

“The usual crap,” the chief replied. “It makes me wonder if all those people were actually there.”

“Anything useful?”

“Let’s see. Fellow by the name of Broderick Thomas said the congressman looked sick at the beginning of the debate.”

The chief thumbed through a few more cards.

"Another lady said he grabbed his assistant’s ass. Another said he grabbed his aide’s ass. That would be George Thomas."

"At least he was an equal opportunity guy," Niki chuckled.

"Funny." Samson was not amused. "One guy saw his wife messing with the cooler. Another saw at least two of the other candidates doing something at the back of the stage, but he thought they were taking a piss."

"I didn't realize they were serving alcohol this morning. Anything reliable?"

"Do you mean something other than the devil squeezed his heart too hard? I believe that was one of your interviewees."

"Clarice Clement," Niki said. "She is convinced Philbin was an evil man."

"And we have one witness claiming Clarice was groping Philbin during the break."

"Geez," Niki rubbed her hands along her temple. "What happened to the cooler?"

"Found it on the ground behind the stage. Got more prints on it than a whore at a sailors’ convention."

"Any of them useful?"

"Don't know yet," he answered. "We'll need to collect specimens from all the parties involved. But finding someone's print on the cooler won't mean anything."

"How about the plastic jug that Clarice Clement mentioned? What does that tell you?"

"Nothing," Mayeaux responded. "We haven't found it. But it was there. Several folks swear they saw it. But some of them also swear they saw Martians standing on the platform during the break."

"Did the Martians leave any fingerprints?"

"I don't know. They forgot to leave samples in our system." 

Five

Saturday night

King's Gate Subdivision

"Mrs. Philbin, thanks for seeing me," Niki said once she was inside the congressman's home.

She expected more. Maybe five thousand square feet of room on two hundred acres adorned with marble and granite. Instead, it was an ordinary house in an ordinary subdivision. It wasn't in the slums, but it was not an exclusive gated community.

"It's okay," the new widow replied. "I knew there would be a lot of questions after what happened this morning."

"What do you remember?"

"I told that big policeman everything I saw. He should have the notes."

"That would be Samson Mayeaux. He's the Chief of Homicide and lead detective on this case. He asked me to follow up with some of the key witnesses."

"Does he think I killed my husband?"

"He has formed few opinions on the case so far. Chief Mayeaux is waiting for more evidence to come in before he develops a theory."

"I didn't kill Omar," Alicia Philbin said in a level tone. "I had plenty of reasons to kill him, but I didn't."

"What reasons did you have?"

"Where do you want to start?" Alicia snorted. "We can start with the other women. Actually, they were mostly girls. Or we can start with the abuse. Both physical and mental. Or we can go straight to the money. It's up to you."

Niki leaned back in her chair. She hated to take advantage of the widow’s emotional state, but she wanted as much information as possible. She attempted to assess Alicia Philbin, but was coming up with a puzzle. Many pieces were missing.

The lady sitting on the other side of the table was in her early thirties, at least ten years younger than her late husband. Niki could see traces of the beauty and elegance. But there were only traces.

A dark, smooth complexion was now covered with crows' feet and little bumps growing under the skin. Her dark, thick hair had spots of premature gray.

Alicia's body resembled that of an ex-athlete. The once lean figure now formed bulges in the wrong spots. Her shoulders drooped.

The dark pantsuit was designer chic with matching expensive shoes. The jewelry she wore sported real diamonds. No cubic zirconium on the on her fingers, wrists, or ears. All the diamonds were as real as they were big.

"Why don't we start with the other ladies?"

"You don't have a big enough pad," Alicia formed a wry smile. "You might want to get a Rolodex."

"That many?"

"Omar didn’t believe in discriminating, as long as they were female. Young or old.Black or white.Rich or poor.Tall or short.Fat or skinny. I guess you could say he had diverse tastes."

"Is that what you said?"

"I said he was a sicko. A pervert that preyed on any female who let him get within twenty feet."

"How did that affect your marriage?"

"Our marriage," she emphasized the word. "It was nothing but a business arrangement. People down here, whether they're Catholic or Protestant, expect a politician to be happily married. Or at least married."

"What did you get out of the relationship?"

"Money. And the freedom to do anything I wanted to do without a guilty conscience."

"How much money will you receive?" Niki asked, getting directly to a probable motive.

"I'm not sure. He has most of it tied up in accounts in the Caymans. I've got to find out how to access those."

"How much not counting those accounts?"

"Hmm," Alicia pondered the question. "My best guess is between two and three million. But that includes his campaign finance fund. I really don't know how much is in it or how that works."

"Why didn’t you divorce him?"

"Money. I was waiting until I was sure my share was at least five million. Then I was outta here."

"But now you don't have to split the money."

"Isn't that wonderful?" Alicia grinned. "I don't know who killed the slime-ball, but they did me a huge favor."

"You don't sound like a grieving widow."

"Grieving, hell. I'm celebrating." She paused. "Of course, I'll keep up appearances for the cameras. I have no reason to ruin Omar's reputation now that he's dead."

"Then why are you telling me all the bad stuff?"

"I figure I might as well. From what I've heard, you're the best investigator around. If I didn't tell you, you would find out all his bad habits and wonder why I didn't tell you."

"Who was Omar—uh, in a relationship with lately?"

"Screwing, dear," Alicia laughed. "Omar didn't believe in relationships. He believed in screwing."

"Okay, who was he screwing?"

"I'm not positive, but I bet that little priss he's paying. Chris the priss. She shook that tight little butt at him and that's all it took."

"Did they spend a lot of time together?"

"Hah." Another laugh from the widow. "They didn't call him 'Speedy' for his work habits. His idea of romance was over in about three minutes, and that includes two minutes to take his clothes off and put them back on."

"Any other women?"

"Probably. He was quick, but he was always persistent. Kinda like one of those snapping turtles the keeps biting even after you cut its head off. Omar was like that."

"How about political enemies? Did Omar have any disagreements with his opponents or other representatives?"

"Only the ones he met or talked to on the phone. He didn't go out of his way to upset people. But if they happened to venture into his path, he could make a Baptist preacher become an alcoholic."

"If he was that bad, how did he maintain the all-American image? I know I've never heard a lot of bad things about Omar."

"George Thomas. He's the image doctor. He can make a skunk look like a bunny rabbit. All those guys have someone like George around."

"Anybody else who would have wished your husband to come to harm?"

"Only all the people he ever talked to." 

Six

Saturday nightgown

Creekwood Subdivision

“Mr. Hopper, thanks for seeing me on short notice.” Niki said to the candidate for Congress running as an independent.

Hopper did not look like a politician. His blue jeans were not a designer label. The calluses on his hands were evidence of hard manual labor. His brown hair that ran down the back of his neck was combed, but not styled.

He stood a little over six feet tall with a lean and wiry body. Niki pictured him on the back of a bucking bronco rather than attending a subcommittee meeting on international finance.

"No problem," he answered, his tone cordial.

"I know you gave a statement to the police this morning, but I have some additional questions if you don't mind."

"Are you with the police?"

"I'm an independent private investigator. Chief Mayeaux asked me to help out with the investigation. They use private consultants from time to time."

"Samson," Hopper chuckled. "He wants you to do his job, so he has more time to lose money playing poker with me."

"I didn't know Samson was a gambler."

"The way he plays, it's not gambling." Dennis paused. "It's more like paying for a few hours of fun and relaxation. I just hope that big sucker never gets mad at me for taking his money. That wouldn’t be pretty."

"Did you see anything unusual this morning?"

"Yeah, I saw Omar Philbin die." Hopper deadpanned.

"Sorry. I didn't phrase that well. Did you see anything that might have contributed to his death?"

"Do you mean other than his terrible speech, his liberal positions on the size of the government, fossil fuels, health insurance, immigration, and two dozen others?"

"Would any of those positions get him killed?"

"In today's polarized world, all or any of them could trigger some nut to do something stupid."

"Do you think that was the case here, one of his stances on the issues triggered an extremist?"

"Hard to say," Hopper rubbed his chin. "If I had to bet, I’d say it was because he owed too much money to the wrong people."

"I thought he had lots of money?"

"Don't know about that. I've heard rumors about some offshore accounts. But I guess Omar was reluctant to use those. He didn't want to get the IRS involved and ask him where all the money came from."

"How did he get into debt?"

"Gambling," Hopper stated. "Compared to Philbin, Mayeaux looks like a professional. He would bluff with a nine–high hand and then be amazed when someone called him."

"Did you ever play with him?"

"Sure. I enjoy poker. Sometimes I play with the likes of Mayeaux and Philbin when I need to get ready for a big tournament. I'd rather they pay my entry fee than taking it out of savings."

"So you beat Philbin most of the time?"

"I believe every time would be a better description. I don't ever remember losing to him."

"What do you do for a living? Play poker?"

"No way." Hopper had an easy laugh "I enjoy playing, and I don't want to change that. I own the trailer place on Greenwell Springs Road."

"Trailers? Like in mobile homes?"

"No. Like in tow–behind cargo trailers. Open trailers, enclosed trailers, horse trailers. Whatever anyone wants or needs."

"Did you notice a white cooler behind Philbin this morning?"

"Yeah, he had one. We all have one except for Clarice. I think her family gave her refreshments during the break."

"Do you know what happened to it?"

"I didn't know it was missing. Is that where the poison came from? The cooler?"

"It was sitting on the back of the stage. We found it in the weeds behind the platform. A plastic jug is missing from it."

"What kind of poison?"

"I haven't heard back from Doc yet," Niki said.

"Hmm. Those results may shed a lot of light. If he comes back the way I think it might, it would be very revealing."

"What are you thinking?"

"That Omar may not have been the only target. This could get awful dicey."