The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,136

back, but Samedi’s people beat up the old ladies. His grandma died on the spot; his mother ended up with a broken collarbone and a broken arm. And Jerome broke down in front of us and confessed he hadn’t done a damn thing. He was terrified, literally paralyzed by fear. The intruders left the way they came, and he heard his sister Médora screaming, scared out of her mind, and he couldn’t do a thing.

“He told us he could still hear his sister’s screams, and they were killing his soul. We gave him a polygraph test, but we needn’t have bothered; it was obvious he believed every word he said to us. He was humiliated and in torment; his guilt and shame were obvious. And anyway, no drug trafficker of his stature would turn over half his assets to the DA unless he was serious.

“We verified his story. The police down there in Terrebonne figured it was a matter of a couple of drug gangs settling scores. Jerome had told the sheriff some people had invaded his home, killed his friends and his grandma, and beat up his mother. He didn’t mention the abductions. When the sheriff asked about Médora, Jerome claimed she was staying with family in Saint Bernard. The local coroner authorized the transfer of the body of Amelia Lirette, Jerome’s grandma, to a local funeral home. We inspected the corpses of Jerome’s associates at the Saint Gabriel morgue in Terrebonne. The gunshot wounds corroborated his story. We confirmed that the other two girls were missing.

“We interviewed Jerome’s mother in the hospital. That was even more disturbing, because she held nothing back. She described two of the people with the man dressed as Samedi as being the living dead. That’s exactly what she told us. So, despite not entirely crediting Jerome’s statement, we opened an investigation into the abduction of Médora Lirette and the other girls. We treated it as a kidnapping at first, assuming it was related to Jerome’s shady business, especially since we found no trace of the mysterious men from Baton Rouge who’d allegedly contacted him.

“All this led us to think there might be a crime network trying to take over midlevel dealers and their distribution channels, forcing them to cooperate by kidnapping family members. That happens a lot with drug cartels in Mexico, Colombia, and Brazil. We heard plenty of rumors—the Black Church, the Black House, Samedi . . . but the organization was a fantasy. It simply didn’t exist.

“Practically every police force in every country has that kind of legend as an excuse for cases they can’t solve. That’s what we were facing: a dead end. Until an FBI agent suggested a whole different approach, telling us we shouldn’t assume it was about Jerome at all. It had to do with Médora.” Bull looked at Amaia. “You were right. Dupree and I know each other. From a long time ago.”

“Ten years,” she said.

He nodded. “Dupree and Carlino were the FBI agents assigned to help us with the kidnapping of Médora Lirette.”

Johnson looked puzzled. “I don’t know any Agent Carlino.”

“That’s because FBI special agent Frank Carlino died ten years ago during the investigation, just like Jerome Lirette. It almost cost Dupree his life as well.”

47

PETIT BON ANGE

Charity Hospital, New Orleans

The door opened. Two physicians came out and looked them over. “I guess you’re the people who brought in the freak show,” one said.

Amaia didn’t understand the joke, if indeed it was one. She gave the speaker a withering look.

He saw it. “No reason to be offended.”

“How is Agent Dupree?” Johnson asked before Amaia could reply.

“I have good news and bad news. It looks like your friend had an acute myocardial infarction. He has all the symptoms of a heart attack, but the good news is that it’s not a heart attack at all. Your colleague has a Takotsubo cardiomyopathy, colloquially known as ‘broken heart syndrome.’ The symptoms—chest pains and difficulty breathing—resemble those of a heart attack. It’s usually caused by a sudden surge of hormones related to stress. Adrenaline, for instance. The arteries aren’t blocked; the heart muscle itself contracts so violently that the left ventricle becomes almost conical in shape. Your friend’s heart is literally being squeezed nearly shut in the middle.”

Johnson looked at Amaia. He was overwhelmed. “‘In the middle,’” he repeated in a strangled voice.

The other physician took up the narrative. “When we examined his chest, we found five closely spaced scars from an old wound. They look like stab wounds,