“I know I’m not wrong,” Harami says. “They want me change death certificate, but they can’t tell me what make Claude stop breathing.”

“So they do a test,” Maldonado says, “just to shut Sam up. Gas chromatograph. And sure as shit, old Claude’s bloodstream was saturated with tetrodotoxin.”

“But none in his stomach,” I say.

“The police were baffled,” Maldonado says. “How can you get fugu poisoning without eating fish? Were there other sources of the toxin?”

“I don’t know this answer,” Harami says. “So the medical examiner refer the question to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Soon, answer comes back. California newt and Eastern salamander both sources of tetrodotoxin.”

“But so what?” Maldonado says. “Right? Claude Boudreaux didn’t eat any newts or salamanders. He ate a couple of Slim Jims. So how did the poison get into his bloodstream? By now, the M.E. is just as intrigued as Sam here. They get on it. Was it something he inhaled? Maybe so. Because we do find a source for the stuff. Turns out tetrodotoxin powder is a poison used in voodoo rituals. Zombie dust.”

“So we think we got something now,” Harami says. “M.E. pulls out deceased and does more tests. But no – Boudreaux’s nasal passages and respiratory system show no trace of toxin. None.” His hands fly up. “A real mystery. Finally we do another gas chromatography test. Focus on victim’s bloodstream. This time” – Harami nods vigorously – “we get answer. In addition to tetrodotoxin, Boudreaux’s blood contained traces of latex and dimethyl sulfoxide.” He smiles. “‘Ahhhh,’ we say.”

Pinky and I look at each other.

“DMSO,” Maldonado says. “It’s a solvent. Byron mixed DMSO with tetrodotoxin and smeared it on the tires of his daddy’s wheelchair. So old Claude, he rolls from room to room and this lethal cocktail of fugu poison and DMSO passes directly from the tires into his bloodstream.”

“A transdermal delivery system,” Harami says.

“Like the nicotine patch,” Pinky says.

“From there, it didn’t take long to figure out that Byron was the one who did it,” Maldonado says. “Everybody knew he’s hanging out with that voodoo witch doctor down by the cemetery. That’s where he got the poison. And he ordered the DMSO mail order, through some weight-lifter catalog. Didn’t even try to cover his tracks. But why would he? He was sooo unlucky. If the ambulance didn’t make record time. If any other doctor in Louisiana had been on duty in the emergency room… If his interest in voodoo hadn’t been so well known…” Maldonado throws up his hands.

“His goose cooked,” Harami says, with a laugh. “I cook it. That’s why I’m nervous when they release him. Why release this man? Someone like that – kill his father, so sneaky, so clever. Man like this – he not get better. And now we see.” He looks at me with an expression of commiseration. “I am sorry. I hope you find your sons. How long they gone?”

“Since May thirty-first.”

“I hope you find them,” Harami repeats, then lowers his eyes from mine because – as I think he knows – he does not look hopeful.

On the drive back to Morgan City, Pinky’s OnStar phone rings. The system is hands-free and broadcasts over the BMW’s sound system.

“This is Pinky.”

“Mr. Streiber?”

“Jez – is that you? The fair lady of Plaquemines?”

“C’est moi.”

“I’ve got Alex Callahan in the car with me, so don’t talk dirty.”

“Hello, Mr. Callahan. Matter of fact, I’m calling about you.”

“Hello, Jezebel. What’s this about?”

“Mr. Streiber asked me to look and see if I could find the discharge order concerning Byron Boudreaux. ’Course, I couldn’t. It went up in flames when the courthouse burned down. But I found the next best thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Who’s that. A psychiatric nurse who worked out at the asylum. Worked there eight of the years Byron was there. Knew all about him.”

“Jezebel, you are a wonder,” Pinky says.

“Oh, yikes, it wasn’t hard,” Jezebel says. “I just asked my daddy and he asked his girlfriend and she asked her stylist. Anyway, like that. Finally I get to this person.”

“So who is she? You got her number?”

“Well, that’s the thing. She’s a little bit afraid of Byron. So I’m not supposed to disclose her name. I promised.”

“Jezebel-”

“I won’t tell you, so you might as well save it. A good reporter can’t disclose her sources. Place like this, nobody’s ever gonna talk if you give ’em out.”

“You’re not a reporter, Jez.”

“Well, I will be. I’m in training. Anyway, you interested in what I found out? Or not. Because I want to watch Sex and the City. It’s on in ten minutes.”

“We want to know,” I say.

“You still have to pay me,” she says, “even if the source remains anonymous. I spent three whole hours on this.”

“That’s fine,” I tell her.

“Here’s the deal. Wait a minute. Is this safe over the airwaves like this?”

“You said you weren’t going to disclose the source.”

“Right. So okay. Byron was a busy little bee while he was at Port Sulfur.” Her voice changes and it’s obvious that she’s reading from notes. “First thing, he earned his G.E.D. at eighteen – because he never did graduate, right. He dropped out. Six years later, he earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology – this is all by correspondence courses. Two years after that, he got his master’s. His thesis subject was ‘Prayer and the Placebo Effect.’ He led a Bible study class at Port Sulfur. Byron also had a lot of hobbies; the therapists are real big on that. One was origami. That’s folding up little critters and shapes out of paper, in case you’re not familiar. And he learned to be a magician – although Miz Ma – uh, my source – she said he already knew how to do lots of card tricks and stuff when he came in. Apparently, he just spent hours and hours practicing his tricks. And he had classes for the other patients. And they let him give shows and all. And at these performances, the staff came; they even invited guests – that’s how good he was. Professional level. My source told me everyone agreed that Byron was just about as good with a deck of cards as… let me see, I lost my place – oh, here we go… he was every bit as good as Ricky Jay.” A pause. “Who’s Ricky Jay? Never heard of him.”

“He’s a magician,” I say. “Quite well known.”

“Well, I guess that’s not part of my cultural matrix,” Jezebel replies. “Magicians, I mean. Anyway,” she continues, “Byron had lots of hobbies and he also read like a demon. And on account of he was enrolled in these university courses by correspondence, he could get books from libraries through the City University of New Orleans. They’d send them. My source, she couldn’t remember what all Byron read because it was soooo much, but he read lots about magic and history and religion. And psychology, of course, since that was his major.”

“Right.”

“He petitioned for release starting, like, the very first year he was in care, but he didn’t get anywhere until ninety-four. That’s the first time the release committee really considered his case, even though he was kind of a poster boy, getting those degrees and all. And according to my source, even though he did kill his own father, there were files and files and files about the abuse Byron’s supposed to have suffered at the hands of his daddy when he was a kid. They didn’t really believe that, but…”

“With the man dead, they couldn’t entirely discount it, either,” Pinky puts in.

“Right. So his case came up again the next year, ninety-five, but there was a holdout on the committee didn’t want to let him go. That person moved or something, or retired – my source couldn’t remember – so when it came up again in ninety-six, they decided Byron was sane, or sane enough anyway, and not a danger to himself or the community, that it was time to let him go.”