WE HAD THE WARRANTS by 11 a.m. Monday. We coordinated with both the Lafayette P.D. and the Lafayette Parish Sheriff’s Department and arranged to serve all three search warrants simultaneously to ensure that no one at any of the three locations notified the other targets we were on our way.

At exactly 2:45 p.m. Helen and two plainclothes descended on the Lujan home, Lafayette Parish detectives searched the Bruxal home, and Joe Dupree at the Lafayette P.D. accompanied me and Top, our retired NCO, to Slim Bruxal’s fraternity house.

Summer school was out of session and the white three-story Victorian home that had been the second-to-last stop in the short life of Yvonne Darbonne was almost empty. The air-conditioning units in the windows were turned off, either to save electricity or perhaps because they were broken, and the entire building seemed to radiate heat and the smell of moldy clothes and spoiled food someone had forgotten to empty from a garbage container. In fact, without the forced humor and irreverent shouting that passed for camaraderie among the usual residents, the house was a dismal and depressing environment, as though the floors and water-stained wallpaper and dark corridors contained no memories worth remembering and had served no purpose higher than a utilitarian one.

A thick-bodied, crew-cut kid with green and red tattoos on both arms was reading a magazine on the back porch. He told us he couldn’t remember seeing any baseball bats on the premises.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Sonny Williamson.”

“You have a speed bag in the backyard, Sonny. You must have other sporting equipment here. Where would it be?” I said.

He lowered his magazine and studied the back hedge. “I got no idea,” he said.

“Get up,” Joe said.

“What?” the kid said. His close-cropped hair was oily and bright on the tips, his upper arms sunburned.

“You deaf as well as impolite?” Joe said.

“No,” the kid said, slowly rising to his feet.

“You’re going to give us the tour. If I think you’re concealing evidence in a homicide investigation, I’m going to turn your life into a toilet,” Joe said.

“What’s your problem, man?” the kid said.

“You are. I don’t like your tats. If you ask me, they really suck. Where’d you get them?” Joe said.

“In Houston.”

“You should get your money back. These guys using you for queer-bait?” Joe said.

“Queer-bait? What’s going-”

“Shut your mouth. Where are the baseball bats?” Joe said.

“There’s some shit out in the garage. You want to look through it, be my fucking guest,” the kid said.

“Thanks for your help. Now, sit down and don’t move until I tell you,” Joe said.

Just then Joe’s cell phone vibrated on his hip. He glanced at the incoming number on the digital display and took the call while Top and I went into the garage. The heat was stifling, the tin roof ventilated by rust against a white sun, nests of mud daubers caked on the rafters.

“There it is,” Top said, pointing to a canvas duffel bag stuffed with baseball bats.

“Take them out to the car, will you, Top? I want to have a talk with the kid on the porch,” I said.

“You believe he’s really a college student?” he asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“I joined the Crotch because I didn’t think a university would accept a guy like me,” he said, hefting the duffel by its strap onto his shoulder. “I ended up at Khe Sanh. I think I screwed myself.”

“It could have been worse.”

“How?”

“You could be an alumnus of a fraternity like this one,” I said.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, the collection of aluminum and wood bats rattling against his back.

I walked back into the yard. The sun had gone behind a cloud and the wind was blowing in the trees. The kid reading the magazine glanced up at me. His eyes had the tint and complexity of clear blue water, devoid of thought or moral sentiment.

“Show me around the inside, will you, Sonny?” I said.

He tossed his magazine aside and walked ahead of me. But before I entered the house, Joe Dupree stopped me. He had just put away his cell phone and seemed to be puzzling through the conversation he’d just had. He gestured for me to follow him back into the yard, out of earshot of Sonny Williamson. “That was a friend of mine at the courthouse. Trish Klein just pleaded no contest on the shoplifting charge, paid a fine, and went back on the street,” he said.

“Have you gotten any reports of crimes committed against Bruxal or his interests?” I said.

“None,” he said.

“Maybe she wasn’t using the jail as an alibi after all.”

“I’m still convinced her people were the ones who creeped Bruxal’s house,” he said.

“You hear anything from the Feds?” I asked.

“A couple of calls from this Mossbacher woman. She seems on the square, but she doesn’t know any more than we do.”

“You got anybody tailing Trish Klein?”

“With our budget for overtime? We don’t have the manpower to patrol our own parking lot,” he replied. “You about to wrap it up here?”

“Just about,” I said.

I can’t tell you exactly why I wanted to go inside the fraternity house with the kid named Sonny Williamson. Maybe, like most people, I wanted to believe in the Orwellian admonition that human beings are always better than we think they are. Ask a street cop how often he has glanced in his rearview mirror at a handcuffed suspect whose clothes are stippled with his victim’s blood, hoping to catch a glimmer of humanity that will dispel his growing sense that not all of us descend from the same tree.

“You have an interesting name,” I said in the kitchen.

“Why’s that?”

“Sonny Boy Williamson was a famous bluesman from Jackson, Tennessee, same town that produced Carl Perkins,” I said.

He seemed to think about the implications of my statement. “Never heard of either one of them. What do you want to see?” he said.

“The bedrooms.”

“They’re all upstairs.”

“Good,” I said.

It was obvious he didn’t like embarking on a mission whose purpose was hidden from him. He stopped on the second landing and gestured vaguely down the hallway. “About a half-dozen guys sleep here, but they’re gone for the summer,” he said.

I looked down from the banister at the living room area below and the thread-worn carpet and scarred furniture. “Your parties usually take place down there?” I said.

“Right, when we have parties.”

“Remember a party about the time of spring break?”

“Not particularly.”

“Think hard.”

“I don’t remember,” he said, shaking his head.

“Don’t you guys sometimes call that ‘booze and cooze night’?”

“No, man, we don’t.”

I rested one hand on his shoulder, as a blind man might if he wanted someone to cross a dangerous street with him. “Show me the bedrooms, Sonny. I’ve got a lot of faith in you. I can tell you’re a guy who wants to do the right thing.”

The afternoon heat was trapped against the ceiling, the air motionless, gray with motes of dust. A drop of sweat ran in a clear line down the side of Sonny’s face. “See for yourself. It’s just empty rooms,” he said, flexing his back.

“But you know the one I’m interested in. She was stoned when she got here, then she loaded up again and probably couldn’t walk too well. So one guy probably offered to help her, you know, show her to the bathroom or give her a place to lie down. It would have been just one guy, right? She wouldn’t have gone upstairs with two or three. That would have caused all kinds of alarm bells to go off in her head, and besides, it would look bad. Who was the guy, Sonny? I don’t think it was Tony Lujan and I know she didn’t like or trust Slim Bruxal. Who’s the guy who walked Yvonne Darbonne upstairs?”

He had stepped back from me, causing my hand to drop from his shoulder. His neck was slick with sweat, his breathing audible in the silence. “I wasn’t there,” he said.