Mack was one of the most thorough forensic chemists I had ever known. He didn’t speculate, take shortcuts, or complain when he was obviously overloaded. In many instances, he worked holidays and canceled his own vacation time when we needed evidence to get a genuine bad guy off the streets in a hurry. But by the same token, he would not cooperate with a zealous and politically ambitious district attorney who wanted the evidence skewed in the prosecution’s favor. The latter tendency sometimes got him in trouble.

At noon he came into my office, his white shirt crinkling, his hair wet and neatly combed, his ever present briar pipe nestled in a pouch he carried on his belt. “I’ll treat you to lunch at Victor’s,” he said.

“You got it, Mack,” I said.

We strolled toward Main Street together. The wind was up and white clouds were rolling overhead, marbling the crypts in St. Peter’s Cemetery. “The cut-down double-barrel from Monarch Little’s car is the weapon that fired the two twelve-gauge hulls y’all found at the crime scene,” he said.

“You’re that sure?” I said. Identification of shell casings doesn’t come close to the precise science associated with identification of a bullet that has been fired through the spiral grooves inside the barrel of a pistol or a rifle.

“Reasonably sure on one round. Absolutely sure on the second one. The right-hand firing pin on the cut-down has a tiny steel burr on it. The pin is slightly damaged or offset as well. It leaves an almost imperceptible notch when it strikes the shell. I tested the right-hand firing pin five times, and the notch appeared in exactly the same place on the casing each time. Same notch, same position. There’s no way those shells were fired by another shotgun.”

“How about Monarch’s prints?” I asked.

“Not his, not anybody’s.”

We were almost past the cemetery now. Mack kept his face straight ahead as we crossed the street, his necktie flapping in the wind.

“No one’s?” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. There was some fire-retardant foam on the barrel but not on the stock. In my opinion, that gun was thoroughly wiped down. You might talk to the firemen.”

“Firemen don’t wipe down guns taken from burning vehicles,” I said.

“That’s my point.”

I had said Mack didn’t speculate. He didn’t. But he was a man of conscience and he brought attention to situations that didn’t add up.

“In other words, why would Monarch Little go to the trouble of wiping his prints off a weapon used in a homicide and then leave it in his automobile for anyone to find?” I said.

“What do I know?” he said.

“What else did you come up with from the crime scene?”

“No latents on the shells you recovered. The twenty-five auto was fully loaded and not fired recently. It’s Italian junk and appears to be unregistered. The tire impressions on the Johnson grass came from a number of vehicles. I think a couple of hookers from the Boom Boom Room use that area to reduce their motel overhead. I must have found a dozen used condoms in the weeds.”

“Is the post in yet?” I asked.

“No, why?”

“I was wondering what number shot the shooter used.”

“I dug some lead out of the shed wall. Double-aught bucks,” Mack said.

In my mind’s eye I saw Dallas Klein kneeling on a sidewalk, just before somebody fired a load of the same numbered shot into his face. Mack caught my expression. “Heavy stuff,” I said.

“That model shotgun hasn’t been manufactured for two decades. There’s no registration on the serial number,” Mack continued. “The rust buildup where the barrels were cut off suggest somebody probably hacksawed them off years ago. There’s little powder residue in the mechanisms and the wear on the firing pins is minimal. I’d say it’s been fired only a few times.”

“So it appears to have had only one function-to serve as an illegal firearm?”

“If that means anything,” he replied.

“You don’t make Monarch for this, do you?”

“A guy who sells crystal to his own people, including high school kids? I’d make Monarch Little for anything. I’m just giving you the arithmetic.”

But I knew Mack better than that. While we waited for a light to change, he began scraping at the bowl of his pipe with a small penknife, blowing the crust off the blade, away from his person. It was warm and cool at the same time in the sunlight, the air smelling like rain and dust. “Lonnie Marceaux called me this morning,” he said. “He’s ready to rock with Monarch. I told him what I just told you.”

“You told him the lack of latents on the murder weapon didn’t add up with the fact it was left on the floor of Monarch’s car for a fireman to find?”

“Not in so many words, but Lonnie got the drift. I don’t think he liked what he heard. You ever go up against a left-handed pitcher who was always pulling at his belt or the bill of his cap?”

“Look for a Vaseline ball?”

“With Lonnie, more like a forkball between the lamps,” he replied.

A downpour broke just as we reached Victor’s. We went inside and joined the noontime crowd.

HIGH-PROFILE TRIALS are high-profile because they are usually emblematic of causes and issues far greater in cultural and social importance than the individuals whose immediate lives are involved. In western Kansas, amid an ocean of green wheat, two sociopaths invade a home looking for a money cache that doesn’t exist and end up butchering a farm family whose members possessed all the virtues we admire. The story shocks and captivates the entire country because the farm family is us. A black ex-football player appears to be dead-bang guilty of slicing up two innocent people but skates because the jury hates the Los Angeles Police Department. A female culinary celebrity who profits from insider stock-trading information takes the bounce for Enron executives who ruined the lives of tens of thousands of retirees. That’s the nature of theater. The same horrendous crimes, committed by nonrepresentative individuals, draw no attention whatsoever. Every attorney knows this, every cop, every police reporter. Sometimes justice is done, sometimes not.

But in the meantime major careers get made or destroyed. Lonnie Marceaux had called me at 8:05 that morning and had gotten as much raw information from me as possible about the murder of Tony Lujan.

After I returned from lunch at Victor’s, Helen and I reported for a meeting with Lonnie in the prosecutor’s office. The surprise was not the fact he had called a meeting immediately following the Lujan homicide. The surprise was the fact Betsy Mossbacher had been invited and that she showed up on such short notice. As a rule, FBI agents cannot be accused of having great amounts of humility when it comes to dealing with state and local law enforcement. But she arrived in the hallway one minute before the meeting was to commence, wearing jeans, boots, and an orange shirt tucked inside a wide leather belt. It was sprinkling outside, and there were drops of water in her hair. She brushed them onto the floor, then dried her hand on her jeans. “Phew, how many times does the weather change in one day here?” she said.

“ South Louisiana is a giant sponge. That’s why we keep in constant motion. If you stand still, you’ll either sink or be eaten alive by giant insects,” I said.

Betsy Mossbacher laughed, but Helen remained stone-faced and silent, obviously because of her resentment over Betsy Mossbacher’s early reference to her as a member of what she called “the tongue-and-groove club.”

“How are you, Sheriff Soileau?” Betsy said.

“Fine. How’s life at the Bureau?” Helen replied.

“Oh, we chase the ragheads around. You know how it is.”

“What?” Helen said.

“I just wanted to see if you were listening,” Betsy said.

Great start for the afternoon, I thought.

But personality conflicts were not really on my mind. The fact that Lonnie Marceaux had called a meeting with Helen prematurely in the investigation of the Lujan homicide, even inviting an FBI agent to attend, meant the purpose was entirely political. More specifically, it meant the purpose was entirely about the career of Lonnie Marceaux.