This is the first of an intended three-part story.
Thibodaux, Louisiana – Sunday August 1st, 1984
He knew the path. He’d traveled it many times before, once a year, at least, to pay respects to his ancestry. Even though it was dark, his feet found the way, sure enough. His flashlight cut through the last memorials to the dead, terrible geometries of granite and concrete, like a surgical incision as he made his way to the back of the graveyard, where new death met old.
“Detective Pitre?” asked the officer who had discovered the scene.
He turned his thoughts to police procedure to fight the churl in his stomach. It hadn’t been long enough for death to set its stench, but the unforgiving knowledge that it was soon to come roiled him. “What to do first,” he asked himself silently. “What SOPs exist for crimes that are anything but standard.”
“Detective Pitre?” the officer asked again, this time with a more interruptive tone.
The sound of an outside voice shook him back to the present. He could tell from its intonation that its owner was awaiting instruction.
“Where’s Leblanc?”