A Stained White Radiance

James Lee Burke

A Stained White Radiance

The fifth book in the Robicheaux series, 1992

For Farrel and Patty Lentoine and my old tivelve-string partner Murphy Dowouis

Chapter 8 is an adaptation of a short story by the author entitled "Texas City 1947," which appeared in the Summer 1991 issue of The Southern Review.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people for all the support and help they have given me over the years: Fran Majors of Wichita, Kansas, who typed and copyedited my manuscripts and was always my loyal friend; Patricia Mulcahy, my editor, who put her career on the line for me more than once; Dick and Patricia Karlan, my film agents whose commitment and faithful advocacy I will never be able to repay; and finally my literary agent, Philip G. Spitzer, one of the most honorable and fine men I've ever known, the only agent in New York who would keep my novel The Lost Get-Back Boogie under submission for nine years, making the rounds of almost one hundred publishers, until it found a home.

CHAPTER 1

I had known the So

The background of the So

Systematic physical cruelty toward children belongs in the same shoebox. Nobody wants to deal with it. I ca

And ironically, a successful prosecution means that the victim will become a legal orphan, to be raised by foster parents or in a state institution that is little more than a warehouse for human beings.

As a child I saw the cigarette burns on the arms and legs of the So

It was a lovely spring day when the dispatcher at the Iberia Parish sheriff's office, where I worked as a plain-clothes detective, called me at home and said that somebody had fired a gun through Weldon So

I was at my breakfast table, and through the open window I could smell the damp, fecund odor of the hydrangeas in my flower bed and last night's rainwater dripping out of the pecan and oak trees in the yard. It was truly a fine morning, the early sunlight as soft as smoke in the tree limbs.

"Are you there, Dave?" the dispatcher said.

"Ask the sheriff to send someone else on this one," I said.

"You don't like Weldon?"

"I like Weldon. I just don't like some of the things that probably go on in Weldon's head."

"Okay, I'll tell the old man."

"Never mind," I said. "I'll head out there in about fifteen minutes. Give me the rest of it."

"That's all we got. His wife called it in. He didn't. Does that sound like Weldon?" He laughed.

People said Weldon had spent over two hundred thousand dollars restoring his antebellum home out in the parish on Bayou Teche. It was built of weathered white-painted brick, with a wide columned porch, a second-floor verandah that around the house, ventilated green winwrapped all the way down shutters, twin brick chimneys at each extreme of the house, and scrolled ironwork that had been taken from historical buildings in the New Orleans French Quarter. The long driveway that led from the road to the house was covered with a canopy of moss-hung live oaks, but Weldon So

It had always struck me as ironic that Weldon would pay out so much of his oil money in order to live in an antebellum home, whereas in fact he had grown up in an Acadian farmhouse that was over one hundred and fifty years old, a beautiful piece of hand-hewn, notched, and pegged cypress architecture that members of the New Iberia historical preservation society openly wept over when Weldon hired a group of half-drunk black men out of a ramshackled, back road nightclub, gave them crowbars and axes, and calmly smoked a cigar and sipped from a glass of Cold Duck on top of a fence rail while they ripped the old So

When I drove my pickup truck down the driveway and parked under a spreading oak by the front porch, two uniformed deputies were waiting for me in their car, their front doors open to let in the breeze that blew across the shaded lawn. The driver, an ex-Houston cop named Garrett, a barrel of a man with a thick blond mustache and a face the color of a fresh sunburn, flipped his cigarette into the rose bed and stood up to meet me. He wore pilot's sunglasses, and a green dragon was tattooed around his right forearm. He was, still new, and I didn't know him well, but I'd heard that he had resigned from the Houston force after he had been suspended during an Internal Affairs investigation.

"What do you have?" I said.

"Not much," he said. "Mr. So

"What does Mrs. So

"She's eating tranquilizers in the breakfast room."

"What does she say?"

"Nothing, detective."

"Call me Dave. You think it was just some kids?"

"Take a look at the size of the hole in the dining room wall and tell me."

Then I saw him bite the corner of his lip at the abruptness in his tone. I started toward the front door.

"Dave, wait a minute," he said, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "While you were on vacation, the woman called us twice and reported a prowler. We came out and didn't find anything, so I marked it off. I thought maybe her terminals were a little fried."

"They are. She's a pill addict."

"She said she saw a guy with a scarred face looking through her window. She said it looked like red putty or something. The ground was wet, though, and I didn't see any footprints. But maybe she did see something. I probably should have checked it out a little better."