Saturday, November 26

4:17 P.M.

Room 7

Southern Hospitality Motor Lodge

Metairie, Louisiana

“Manager said da’ do-not-disturb sign was on da’ door all day yestuhday, an’ t’day,” the uniformed cop said. “Room was only paid up ta’ t’day though, so dey came in ta’ clean it an’ dat’s when dey found ‘im.”

The older homicide detective to whom he had been speaking jotted a note then gave him a nod and asked, “Did the manager say who paid for the room?”

His words were structured with the generic speech pattern of any randomly selected Midwestern location, audibly setting him apart from the natives of the Crescent City.

“He said da’ podna paid for it, cash money.”

“Partner?” the detective asked. Just as his lack of accent set him apart, his question marked him as a very recent transplant. “Did you get a description?”

The uniformed cop raised an eyebrow and gave the detective a confused stare. After a brief pause he nodded toward the victim on the bed and repeated, “Da’ podna. Cap over dere paid for it.”

“Who?”

“Da’ victim,” a slightly younger detective interjected as he entered through the motel room door. Obviously he had heard at least some of the exchange. “Ya’ gotta excuse Country dere. He never learnt a secon’ language.”

The older man turned, peering over his glasses at the source of the new voice and said, “The victim?”

“Yeah, you rite,” the younger man replied with a nod.

The uniformed cop glanced over at him and grinned, “Hey, cap. How’s yamamma’n’dem?”

“Dey good,” he replied, giving the other man a slap on the shoulder. “Ya’ gonna be home later? I’ll pass by ya’ house.”

“Naw, I prahmis’ Jawn ah’d he’p out wit ‘is maw-maw house.”

“Yeah? It bad?”

The uniformed man gave his head a sad shake. “Ya’ you rite, it’s bad. She still waitin’ on da bastuhds ta’ bring da’ trailuh.”