Her Mysterious Disappearance From Old New Orleans

"Marie, my darling, you are in great danger. Call a taxi as soon as I hang up -- arm yourself with your pistol and a box of shells. Exit the cab at the old Masonic Temple on St. Charles so the driver can't tell the cops where you went. Roll your wheelchair into the Brouillette Library a few blocks away and stay there, close to the librarian's desk, until I arrive with my Air Force Police."

General Henry Navarre, Wing Commander -
Louisiana National Guard

          My name is Henry Leon Navarre and I have retired from a dual career as a Professor of Clinical Psychology at the New Orleans Campus of Louisiana State University and as a Major General in the Louisiana Air National Guard. For years, my cousin Federal Judge Will Morgan and I had maintained close ties that were based on our family relationship, our combat experiences together in Vietnam and our many years as fighter pilots and commanders in the Louisiana Air National Guard. We'd not only liked each other as boys, when we played for weeks each summer at Grandpapa Jules' sugarcane plantation a few miles south of Lafayette, our friendship as men matured with the protection we gave each other in aerial battles when every enemy's hand was lifted against us. After I came home to the Louisiana State University campus in New Orleans and Will began the practice of law in Orleans Parish, we met regularly -- usually at least once a month to have lunch and catch up on family events. In the last few years we had settled on the first Wednesday of each month to have lunch at Pierre's Palace in the Old French Quarter. We met so regularly that we had standing reservations in the exclusive bistro on Bourbon Street.

          We usually had no agenda and we most often talked about flying, but meeting together was important to both of us. For years my first wife Harriet and Will's wife, Audrey, planned Easter and Christmas banquets and weddings and funerals for members of the families who were in town at the time. We went to Mardi Gras balls together, with Will and I usually costumed as red-sashed Confederate artillery gunners from John Walton's famed New Orleans Washington Artillery that fought the Civil War in Longstreet's Corps from Bull Run to Appomattox. After my mid-life divorce from Harriett, Audrey grew cool toward me but conversely, when Marie came into my life and my home, she took my second wife under her wing and helped her adjust to keeping house with all the responsibilities that followed. That was good of Audrey, for although Marie was bright and eager to learn, she'd had little or no experience in domestic responsibilities for anyone save herself. Marie loved me with a passion that surpassed her graciousness and her need to use a wheelchair.

          Will and I had remained in the Air Guard after the Vietnam debacle, returning to active duty during several mini-wars against poor, usually dark-skinned nations that could never mount a threat against America -- including Panama, Grenada Island, Serbia, Libya and the first Persian Gulf War, as we gradually worked our way up in Air Guard command. When I took over as Colonel of the Louisiana/Mississippi National Guard 27th Fighter Group, Will became the major of my best fighter squadron. Our active duty call-ups added several more years of full time service to our pension funds but the Air Force never seemed to know what to do with us when there was no war to fight. We simply were not good garrison soldiers who loved spit and polish, pomp and circumstance, but the high brass called us up in a hurry when the bullets started to whine. We both became jet aces with several aerial victories in combat. After we won our battles, we were always sent home to the real world where we had a lot of freedom, myself as a psychology professor and Will as a self-employed attorney who won enough political clout to get himself appointed as a Federal judge. That was just as well for two rebels like ourselves and for the peace of mind of the full time Air Force.

          Every judge receives threats from some of the felons he commits to prison but no such rumors had reached Will's ears after he'd torn bloody strips off the backs of the city politicians and the cops who had been stalking Marie and myself. Will could have asked for a bodyguard from the U S Marshals Service but he didn't want the inconvenience of dragging an armed guy around with him. Most old fighter pilots figure they can look out for themselves! When I cautioned him, Will just grinned and said our best chance of living a long and meaningful life was to Keep our heads cool, our feet warm, our diet modest and to trust in the Lord. "For" he added, "while there are old pilots and bold pilots, there are few old and bold pilots." Actually, my actuarial numbers were looking up now that I'd stopped strapping supersonic jet fighters to my arse and dragging them into the stratosphere behind me. Any military aviator who spends twenty years flying fast and powerful fighter aircraft, faces a twenty-five percent chance of being killed and a fifty percent chance of having to punch out of a crippled aircraft in an ejection seat at a thousand miles an hour -- and those probabilities are without anyone shooting at you. Your chances of living to a hoary old age grow even smaller when intelligent, dedicated young men from another society are serious about trying to kill you in the service of their country.

          I'd picked Will up at his office at the Federal Courthouse in my Mustang convertible and we lunched on crawfish etouffet with black rice and baguettes at Pierre's bistro in the Vieux Carrie. We also enjoyed strong Louisiana coffee and a bottle of good Chablis from the south of France. We stopped for a moment to gossip with Pierre and to chat with his chef, who had given me good tips about cooking blackened snapper and flavoring seafood gumbo, and then dodged through the traffic to the parking lot across Bourbon Street. You should understand that any Louisiana French boy -- whether Creole who does city cooking or Cajun who prepares country-style meals, that cannot cook as well as his sister isn't considered very masculine by his peers. In our boggy bayou country, real men cook and cook very well. Thick, slow-simmered gumbos and bouillabaisse stews of several styles, with buttermilk cornbread muffins had been my specialty for twenty years.

Will grinned at me as we got into the Mustang. "Thanks for the wine. Now that the doctor has me on blood thinners, they keep me from drinking more than once in a while."

I slipped the key in and started the engine, before looking at him. "And how are you doing now that your blood it trying to turn into mud?"

"I'm keeping my numbers in the middle of the range. What I hate most is the lack of wine at dinner. Along with the great old Dago John salads that Madam Belle serves."

"The vitamin k of dark green vegetables, I suppose."

"Yeah but I do cheat once in a while with a good Cobb salad. I like the avocados especially?"

          I backed my red beauty out of the parking space but when I tried to turn my red beauty onto Bourbon from the parking lot, the wood barrier unexpectedly slammed down in front of the Mustang and the lot boy took off running down the sidewalk as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. I was forced to slam on the brakes but the alarm bells that saved my bacon many times in combat began to clamor. It isn't paranoia when there really are people trying to kill you! And -- even paranoiacs have enemies. "Down Will!" I shouted as my heart lurched wildly. Any move toward the rear was blocked by someone who pulled a rusty old Datsun coupe close behind me and fled the scene. Then, I spotted two large men standing purposefully about a hundred feet apart, their hands concealed behind them, staring intently in our direction. I twisted around and saw a third man coming in too fast at an angle. Triangulated! Professional! No matter which way we fled, at least one of them would have clear shots at us. Worse -- we were unarmed -- sitting ducks. All three men had the frozen target stare and tight combat crouch men assume when going into danger. I made up my mind on the spot to never go out again without my Colt .45 -- not until this battle with Ida Mae was resolved. Then, the coldness left my heart and went straight to my head. The designated shooter's hand was in his jacket pocket -- a heavy coat hanging low -- despite the humid heat of New Orleans! He was trotting past the old Datsun, with his fist emerging from his pocket, when I gunned the engine. My powerful machine roared and the Mustang lunged. I sawed the wheel to fishtail the rear end wildly, knocking the assassin to the concrete, crashing through the wood barrier onto Bourbon. The gunman rolled up on one knee and tried to get a head shot off but had to settle for two quick pops, shooting through the car's sheet metal and the seatback. My Mustang slewed sideways the other way and I accidentally spun the car out in the middle of the street with too much throttle. I powered it around with the rear tires smoking and howling, keeping the shooter in sight and saw he had collapsed, shrieking, clutching the knee cap shattered by my Mustang's bumper.

          Will was gasping and wheezing, was sprawled forward against the dash -- I could see the blood stain spreading across his back and realized he'd been hit. In my anxiety, I stalled the car and frantically cranked it over, trying to avoid flooding the engine. The shooter struggled to his feet but in his agony, he'd dropped his pistol on the parking lot. He turned as if to hop away and the two hard eyed men, both of them Ida Mae's New Orleans detectives I later learned, ran forward, brought their pistols from behind their backs and opened fire. I thought they were shooting at us but they killed the hit-man -- probably, I reasoned later, intending to turn their guns on us when he was done for. After all, dead men tell no tales. They fired three or four rounds each, although Will's shooter clearly had both hands up in surrender. I didn't give the detectives an opportunity to hurry past him toward us. Before they could recover from the assassination, I sped away, racing at six thousand r p m's toward the nearest hospital emergency room.

As soon as I delivered Will to St. James' Emergency Room, I phoned home to Marie.

"Yes?" she answered on the fourth ring.

"Listen to me, Marie! We are in big trouble. Ida Mae has gone berserk, has made an attack on Will and myself. He's been shot and I have him in St. James Hospital. They're working on him now."

My wife answered in her fractured syntax. "Will? Oh, my! How bad -- hurt -- dying?"

          "I don't know yet. But you must listen to me. Put everything but this out of your mind. Focus on me as if your life depended on it! For it may well come to that. Call a taxi at once and put your Llama .380 in your bag. Get out of the house in the next ten minutes and go to St. Charles Avenue. Tell the driver to take you to the Old Masonic Temple there, but tarry in front of the Temple until the cab has driven away. Once the driver cannot see where you are going, don't go into the Temple -- instead go to the Brouillette Library. It's about four blocks around the north corner and it's wheelchair accessible. I know, I returned some books there last month."

"Harry?" Marie tried to interrupt.

          "Listen, my dear old girl. We haven't time to talk. I'll tell you everything when I come for you. Use your manual chair so we can carry it in the Mustang. Now, listen well to me You dare not call the cops -- some of them may be in on this assassination attempt with your sister. Go into the library and find a magazine or something and pretend to read. But park your chair where the people at the desk can see anyone who confronts you. And if any of Ida Mae's goons guess where a wheelchair bound woman is hiding and tries to take you away -- raise an awful fuss. Insist the desk call the F B I and tell the Feds it relates to the shooting of Judge Morgan. That should get an agent to assist you in a hurry. If some cop insists you leave with him before the F B I arrives, you must assume Ida Mae sent him to assassinate you. Then, you must protect yourself -- with the Llama if necessary. Keep it loaded and hidden in your lap. I shall meet you in the Library as soon as I can arrange protection for us. If I should be delayed, call another cab and after you check into a big hotel, like the Hilton, demand their Security people protect you. You can have me paged through St. James Hospital."

"Harry!" She sounded confused so I simplified it.

          "Marie, my darling, you are in great danger. Call a taxi as soon as I hang up -- arm yourself with your pistol and a box of shells. Exit the cab at the old Masonic Temple on St. Charles Street, so the driver can't tell the cops where you are. Roll your wheelchair into the Brouillette Library a few blocks away and stay there, close to the librarian's desk, until I arrive with my Air Force Police. Now repeat those steps back to me."

          I had long ago learned that in times of stress, most people will remember the first two things you tell them to do and then bog down on the rest. Marie got it all right at once so I gave her one more task. "Wait, Sweetheart. Bring my old G I .45 and both clips when you put your Llama in a shoulder bag." I next called Audrey Morgan and told her to hurry over to the hospital, to support her husband and to pray for Will and to get her safely out of her home as I had with Marie -- although I really didn't think my cousin had been the primary target. I, myself, I knew to a certainty, had been granted that honor by Ida Mae. Assassinating Will now would only be part of the cover up.

          I next phoned the offices of Chief Justice Warren Hastings of the District Court of Appeals. Hastings, Will's boss, was at a meeting in Houston but I reached his handler, Thelma Jeansson. I had never met her but she knew who I was, that I stopped in often to see Will. She was appalled at the news of the shooting and after calling the hospital to verify my report, agreed to send federal agents from the F B I or the Federal Marshal's Service to protect Will and Audrey at the hospital and to meet Marie and me at the library.

          I then swore into the phone until I got through to Governor Juan Eduardo at the state capitol in Baton Rouge and gave him the bad news. A federal judge he knew well and trusted had just been shot in a vicious attack and it appeared that some elements of the New Orleans police were involved. I asked him to immediately activate the Headquarters Squadron and Military Police Unit of my old command, the 27th Fighter Group and give General Dave Gibson the authority to use his people to protect public safety. I convinced the governor that a serious breakdown of law enforcement was occurring in New Orleans. To my disgust, I could hear the voice of political advisor Denny Leonard warning Eduardo of the possible political damage caused by his interference in a local matter. I interrupted immediately. "Juan," I bellowed, "for Christ sake, man, get your damned head outta your arse! There is nothing the New Orleans crooks in blue can do that'll be a tenth as damaging to your upcoming senatorial campaign as if some assassin gets into the hospital to finish off Judge Morgan because you procrastinated. That would really put the shit in your fan!"

          Eduardo hesitated in his calculating manner before finally deciding he had no choice but to protect his political career. The entire American judiciary from local traffic judges to the justices of the U S Supreme Court would shoot his senatorial ambitions down in flames, should he be perceived as allowing a wounded judge to be slain.

"Goddamn you, Harry! I thought you were out of my hair for good and now you have risen from the dead to haunt me once more. You're a damned ghoul!"

"Of course -- you must shoot the messenger. Well, how about it, Juan?"

"All right -- all right. The Headquarters Squadron of the 27th Group and their Military Police Unit had better be enough. I suppose you have already called Hoot Gibson about this."

I relaxed, feeling him giving way. "Why, no Sir! I wouldn't think of going over your head to General Gibson. I knew you would do the right thing."

"Bullshit, Harry. Bullshit!" He hesitated for a long moment -- so long I thought we'd been cut off. When the governor's voice returned, he was more cynically cheerful. "I have just decided how you can repay me for this opportunity to serve the good people of New Orleans." He laughed slyly. "At the Governors Conference last month, I was authorized to appoint a retired general officer to return to temporary duty in the Air Force. His duty shall be to survey the efficiency and the effectiveness of fighter groups in the National Air Guard. It shouldn't take you more than three months of twelve hour days. And if I'm right, your retirement papers I signed allow me to recall you at the convenience of the government. This would be very convenient for your country." He laughed again as I swore silently. It was always damned hard to outwit a clever politician.

"And I cannot get out of this?"

"Not if you want me to order the 27th to civic duty."

          I groaned aloud this time and surrendered while I was thinking fast. "All right --but I need three things. I want my own F - 16 so I can personally observe how the Guard squadrons perform in the air. I also want every damned computer record in the Air Guard. And I want another star and the authority to question everyone from private airmen to four star generals. I need that bump in rank to major general -- that I keep when I return to retirement -- after I complete this mission for the governors. You do indeed need me -- an active duty officer simply cannot have the objectivity needed to conduct and write up a good survey." I reminded Juan of the Duke of Wellington's response to a supply survey ordered by Parliament when he was struggling in the long and bloody war against Napoleon's superb French troops across the Spanish Peninsula early in the nineteenth century. Wellington wrote to London and the Parliament;
 

Honored Gentlemen, I am a badly harassed man who commands troops and supply bases stretched thin for two hundred miles in several directions. Unfortunately, my opponent is the best general in the history of Europe. Therefore, I respectfully submit that you more clearly instruct me as to the course of action you wish me to pursue. I can drive this goddamned army, composed of the goddamned brigands and thieves you have sent me, across this goddamned desert. Or I can suspend military operations to count every goddamned pot of jam and every goddamned box of baked biscuits in several thousand square miles. I cannot do both, so I shall wait in patient anticipation while you debate my course of action. However, if you have any influence with His Excellency, the Emperor Bonaparte, please ask him to delay his attacks on my front while I search out which goddamned junior officers have filched a goddamned pot of jam for their goddamned mess. Please hurry, choose quickly what you want me to do, for I simply cannot trust Monsieur Napoleon to overlook this delay. With great respect for your sagacity, I remain your humble servant;

General James Wellesley -- The Third Duke of Wellington
 

Wiser heads prevailed in Parliament, the survey was cancelled and a placated Wellington won his war.

          Neither the governor nor I was a fool as we engaged in horse trading. He hesitated about the second star. "Juan -- I'll really need to outrank those Group brigadiers and wrestle as an equal with two star Wing Commanders, who shall slant the investigation if they outrank me." Juan eventually yielded on that for he knew I would do the best possible job and give him an honest report regardless of whose ox was gored. He finally acquiesced. The second star would give me more leverage in my investigation -- and also increase my pension by some six thousand dollars per year when I finished the job in a few months. I really wasn't as displeased as I had let the Governor think. It never crossed my mind that the Ida Marie's detectives would frame Marie for the murder of her sister while I was away on my assignment.

          I was in Seattle, surveying the Washington Air Guard when the crooked cops came for Marie. She later explained that she had been asleep, in our bed on the second floor around one a m, when a rusty old van followed Ida Mae's unmarked police car into the rear driveway. The cops parked in the shadow of the detached garage where we kept our power wheelchair accessible van and the Mustang. The male driver of Ida Mae's car ran the seat forward and readjusted the mirror to make it appear a shorter person had driven up and joined another man and two women in the van. They all wore surgical gloves to hide their fingerprints and to reduce the chance of leaving D N A markers behind. The scent of gin was strong in the still night air. The two men and one women were silent and still for a while, listening for a dog to bark and looking around for a neighbor suffering from insomnia. Ida Mae slumped loosely in the right seat. The detectives knew that seldom does a raid fail because of major mistakes in planning. You could always plan for the obvious. It was two kids making out under a hedge or a straying husband sneaking in late -- or the owner a nasty little yap-yap dog that hid under the sofa where you couldn't shut him up -- who saw something wrong and woke up half the block until someone called 911. And even though they were cops themselves, they were in no position to explain what they were doing in the Navarre home late at night, without a warrant or a superior officer to justify the raid. Not when they had just assassinated their own Detective Inspector!

          The watchers waited and saw or heard nothing to endanger themselves, so after a few minutes the man riding shotgun got out of the van, clipped my home's phone connections, disabled the alarm system and silently made his way to our side door that was concealed from the adjoining home by several large holly bushes. He missed completely the voice activated audio recorders and the star light video camera that captured clearly the facial features of himself, his partner and a woman dragging a stumbling Ida Mae into the side entrance of my home. The two men were the same detectives who had been loitering across Bourbon Street from Pierre's Palace when Will was shot, who killed Catalonias when he was unable to escape because of his broken kneecap. Donald Dionne used a Police Department key gun that automatically advanced ridges and notches when the trigger was pulled, until it found the right shape to turn the tumblers to release the dead bolt lock. That took less than thirty seconds and the way into the house was open without alerting my wife by forcing a door or breaking a window.

          Marie told me she was asleep in our upstairs bedroom when she became vaguely aware that a man and a woman were standing over her. They started shaking her and demanded she wake up. She sat up abruptly, startled and then grew frightened when she didn't recognize the big white man and a muscular black woman. Marie hesitated briefly and then lunged for the night table drawer, trying to get to her Llama .308 -- but she was a few seconds too late. The tough looking woman, Detective Sergeant Sally Johnson, slapped the weapon from her hand. "You see Phil, Ida Mae was right. She said the crippled bitch had this piece and knows how to use it. Did you get a silencer to fit this model? It's a .308 from Spain, you know."

"Yes, but it's a Browning design. My silencer will work." Phillip Cruz hit Marie a stinging slap on the buttocks and rolled her over, lewdly examining her nude body. I guess old man Navarre can still get it up and I bet she loves it. You'd like riding her as much as Dionne and I."

"No way! Any deviation from our plan could compromise the entire operation.  She motioned for Cruz to follow her away from the bed so Marie couldn't hear her instructions. "I know you, how much you resent women who think for themselves -- but don't you dare leave a mark on this woman. No cuffs, no ropes and no bruises that could raise questions. We are carrying out an operation that carries a capital penalty and I won't take a needle in my veins because you and Dionne want to play tough guys with a woman. If you cannot keep your dick in your pants tonight, I'll cut it off! Understand?"

Damned dyke, Cruz did not say, for she was his superior, was commanding him and Dionne because she was smarter and more dangerously than either of them. "Of course!"

          "Dress as if for an evening at home -- underclothes, jeans and a t-shirt," Johnson ordered Marie and then, before she could get into her wheelchair, the sergeant hurriedly rummaged in her chest of drawers, getting underclothes and a shirt and taking a pair of faded Levis from the closet. As an afterthought, she tossed Marie a pair of white socks and hurried her along as she struggled to dress herself. Marie admitted to me later that she was fearful they were planning to kidnap her and drag her off to meet Ida Mae for some scheme bubbling up in her psychopathic mind. Neither she nor I had any faith in the New Orleans cops by now.

          A few minutes later, when Cruz and Johnson were satisfied that Marie looked as if she had been at home all evening, with her hair rumpled a bit and no makeup, they took her downstairs in her electric chair and rolled her into the parlor. Marie, thinking furiously, unable to find any way to escape her captors, was startled to discover Ida Mae semi-conscious in the large overstuffed reading chair I had owned for years. Another large detective was standing over her, keeping her upright. Marie immediately smelled gin on Ida Mae's clothes, as if her sister had been drinking carelessly, as she sometimes did when frustrated and angry.
 

"Are we ready for Act Three of our little drama"? Dionne grinned wickedly. His adrenaline was flowing, he enjoyed the power to hurt people that his badge and a wicked superior gave him, although he had secretly despised Ida Mae for years. "This is going to be beautiful," he quipped. "We shall rid ourselves of our loose cannon and teach that damned Navarre bastard not to go to take us on by crying to Judge Morgan. Two birds with one stone and this little lady is the key."

Marie turned toward Johnson. She was thinking more clearly now. "What do -- you want from me -- if this isn't -- elaborate sexual assault -- am I being kidnapped for ransom? My husband -- pay well -- get me back unharmed. If injure -- however, -- shall use F B I, the C I A -- and Air Guard Intelligence to hunt you down -- like dogs. You -- no idea -- what kind of man -- he is."

          The detectives knew me all too well by now, but when receiving their marching orders from Deputy Chief Couvillion, they were warned about the seriousness of their predicament in the wounding of Judge Morgan. "One slip from Ida Mae, who is going crazy, and we shall be in Angola Penitentiary and not one of us shall live a year in that hellhole. You know what cons do to cops who fall from grace and end up behind bars with them." The three detectives looked intently at each other again -- now facing up to the seriousness of a cold blooded murder of their long time boss. Their macho bravado could carry them only so far. This was not nearly as simple as gunning down Catalonias after he committed a major crime.
 

Marie looked at Ida Mae who seemed to be sobering somewhat. "Why my -- sister here? She arrange -- because tired of -- waiting for my estate -- fall in lap? Why drunk on duty?"
 

          "You shall find out soon enough," Sally Johnson said grimly. She turned toward the men to get them started with the assassination and then froze as a car door slammed across the street. A man and a woman had exited through a rear doors of a sedan and called good night to another couple in the front seat. The three detectives breathed sighs of relief and then grew anxious once more as a woman called the couple back to the car. They watchers couldn't hear what the couples were saying but the couple beside the car burst out in laughter. Then, the man leaned into the window and started what was obviously a joke or story of his own. They stayed for ten or fifteen minutes, sharing laughter, before bidding each other good night once more and going inside.

          The criminals with badges had relaxed after the lingering couple left and turned toward Ida Mae once more, when a Louisiana Power and Light truck, with two men in it, rumbled down the street, flashing its spotlight on the house numbers. The light flashed into the parlor as the truck passed slowly and drove around the block before checking the houses on the opposite side of the street. The men stopped and turned the cab light on to examine a pad on which an address had apparently been written. One man got out of the truck and stood under the street light while the other man spoke on the truck's radio. Marie thought for a moment she might be able to get their attention, but Dionne drew his pistol and pointed it at her. "The moment they come to your door, I'll shoot you and then gun both of them down. Stay quiet and both of those men shall return to their families tonight." Marie later explained that she'd gulped hard and did as she was told.

          The linemen started arguing -- until one of them prevailed while waving his arms off toward the south. They drove away. The interruptions had set back the invader's schedule by half an hour or so. The trio moved swiftly now, going to each room they'd entered, making sure they'd left nothing out of place that would reveal that anyone but Marie and Ida Mae had been there.

          Johnson said, "Dionne, pour another drink down Ida Mae's throat. She's starting to take an interest in this. Let's do it, fellows," she went on. "Cruz, clamp the silencer on this little lady's automatic. Dionne, see that she gets four or five good drinks of gin. Hold her nose if she resists, but use your handkerchief as a pad so she isn't bruised. Cruz, hold her motionless if she struggles. Get at least a water glass of gin into her. That should make everything that follows fuzzy to her and even make her pass out. Hurry, we're running behind and must reach the poker game at Wally's in time to establish a sound alibi."

          Marie later described how the men held her rigid in her chair and gripped her nose until she was forced to breathe through her mouth -- at which time they poured gin down her throat. They made her drink four or five times until she grew dizzy and slumped in her chair. She could only vaguely remember, as if in a dream, Cruz rolling her chair before her drunken sister and the detectives raking her sister's face with her fingernails scooping bits of skin and blood, as if she had attacked Ida Mae. Cruz used the Llama to beat Ida Mae with the barrel, kneeling beside the wheelchair so the blows would strike at the right angle for someone of Marie's height. The blows drew blood and left bruises on her sister's face and head and blood stains on Marie's shirt, before Cruz forced the Llama into Marie's grip with his gloved hand over hers and from three feet away, fired one round into her sister's head and two into her chest. Ida Mae lurched wildly her feet drumming on the carpet and toppled to one side. I'll say this for them, the bastards were thorough -- they'd even learned about the Madagascar Drill I'd taught Marie. If Ida Mae had passed that on to her flunkies, she'd never imagined what they were planning to do to her. She died instantly and the men shoved Marie against the blood pumping from her sister's heart until her shirt and chest was soaked before returning her to the chair, dropping the smoking Llama in her lap and the empty gin bottle to the floor. They stuffed the police car's key into Marie's jeans pocket so it would seen that she had prevented her drunken sister from fleeing for her life and left my home without any further delay.

          Ten minutes later, a 911 operator received a call from a disposable cell phone with a message that said shots were coming from the Navarre home and asked for a squad to investigate. Marie was too intoxicated to talk for an hour after the first two cops arrived and then, babbled incoherently in her excitement about a wicked assassination team that had invaded her home; dragging her sister in and then beating Ida Mae and shooting her to death after forcing feeding both women enough gin to disable them. It took the cynical New Orleans cops about five minutes to conclude this strange woman they could hardly understand, was faking everything. They'd found the recently fired pistol in her chair and an empty gin bottle on the floor. Deputy Chief Couvillion soon arrived with half a dozen squad cars and took charge of the investigation personally. He was smart enough to have Marie taken to St. Benedict's Hospital rather than arrest her to spend the night in jail without physical and psychological examinations. Such neglect was the stuff of large financial awards to persons who understood the law and could afford good attorneys.

          Then, during a news conference the next day, Deputy Chief Couvillion told the reporters; "Your Police Department's Criminal Investigation Unit has carefully examined this wild woman's tale and has found absolutely no evidence to substantiate any of her absurd assertions."

          City Attorney Alvarez added the clincher that convinced the city of Marie's guilt when asked whether she was a suspect. He hedged his bets by saying; "Not just yet, although Mrs. Navarre is indeed the person of our primary interest. You can rest assured we shall get to the bottom of this particular heinous crime -- shall arrest and convict the guilty party and see that justice in the slaying of our highly respected Detective Inspector St. Marie is commensurate with the seriousness of the crime."
 

Ten reporters immediately shouted several different versions of the same question. "Shall you go for the death penalty?"

"In a New York minute! We simply cannot let our city be taken over by anarchists by failing to punish the slaying of our fine men and women in blue who wear badges in the people's defense."

          The conspirators were clever about it -- they leaked news items several times daily until on Thursday -- they claimed under pressure from reporters, they had uncovered enough evidence to convince any unbiased jury Marie was the murderous assassin of her police detective sister. Alvarez continued; "I've learned there has been bad blood between the sisters for years as they fought constantly over money Mrs. Navarre appropriated from family funds. The pistol was Marie Navarre's, the victim was force-fed gin until she was helpless and then executed in the manner the accused was trained to use. Finally, gunshot residue was found on her gun hand." He actually used the term -- her gun hand, to the delight to the excited men and women from the television stations. Even the usually reliable Times Picayune got into the act with serious speculation. The D A concluded -- "There was absolutely no evidence," he said, "that some mysterious assassination team ever entered the Navarre home. What possible motives could anyone have for all that effort? Nothing about her wild tale hangs together. She doesn't make sense with any of it. Why, the woman was drunk when the officers arrived on the murder scene!"

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