The Griffin Murders

By Jon Gegenheimer

Author Jon Gegenheimer is a long-time practicing attorney, elected court official, and a writer of serious literary fiction. His first novel, The Second Hill (AuthorHouse 2011), is an exceptional piece of historical/futuristic fiction. It is a unique work that foresaw virtually every malady afflicting today’s troubled wo

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Lacquer Press & Marketing Inc.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948288460

Jon Gegenheimer

After practicing law full-time for 18 years, Jon Gegenheimer, a native of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana, was elected as the Jefferson Parish Clerk of Court in 1987. He was re-elected in 1991 after garnering 80% of the vote and was unopposed for re-election in 1995, 1999, 2003, and 2007. He earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in psychology at Loyola University of the South in 1967; a Juris Doctor degree at Loyola University College of Law, where he was a member of the Loyola Law Review, in 1970; and a Master of Laws degree at Tulane University in 1981. Throughout his law school, professional, and public service years (1967 to present), Mr. Gegenheimer has authored myriad trial and appellate briefs and journal articles in the areas of commercial, criminal, maritime, and elections law. Since high school, he has been an avid reader of history, philosophy, Western literature, and politics. Mr. Gegenheimer’s personal library is home to many of what are called the “Great Books,” the splendid works of the West’s immortal thinkers and writers: Homer, Plato, Aristotle, Virgil, the inspired authors of the Old and New Testaments, Aquinas, Machiavelli, Milton, Descartes, Hobbes, Locke, Dante, Hume, Kant, Shakespeare, Darwin, Dickens, Mill, Nietzsche, Voltaire, Paine, Freud, Newton, Einstein, Conrad, Faulkner, (C.S.) Lewis, Woolf, Churchill, (Ayn) Rand, Buckley, and so on. Mr. Gegenheimer attributes those writing skills that he has accumulated over the last four decades and the ideas that he later advanced in The Second Hill to his reading and studying (a) the great writers aforementioned; (b) eloquent political essayists like George Will, David Brooks, Charles Krauthammer, and William Safire; and (c) the brilliant economists Hayek, Keynes, and Friedman.

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Copyright © 2018 by Jon Gegenheimer.

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Contents

Introduction

1. Bamboo Friday

2. The Separation of Church and State

3. Puffer Fish

4. The Necromancer

5. The Dove and the Serpent

6. Pawns

7. The Hypotenuse

8. Out of Turn

9. The Flower Vendors

10. The Elusive Journalist

11. Death’s Door

12. Chiaroscuro

13. The Unthinkable

14. Whispering Grass

15. Out of the Fog

16. It’s Not About the Truth

17. Connecting the Dots

18. Denouement

Endnotes

Introduction

On Ash Wednesday 2010, Louisiana Supreme Court Justice Steven Wyndham and his dearest friend, U. S. Attorney Rod West, discover a corpse on the Mississippi River batture near the Jefferson Parish Courthouse. The corpse turns out to be one of Wyndham’s colleagues, Justice Alice Wilson. The justice was gruesomely murdered by injection of puffer fish venom into her right carotid artery. Wyndham and West are determined to solve the crime. But, the murder is merely the first of five by a serial killer whom Wyndham dubs The Griffin, who usually brands onto his victim’s forehead a griffin, the mythical monster with the head and wings of an eagle and the body and tail of a lion. In a series of ominous, post-murder letters, the Griffin repeatedly tells the justice he is to be the seventh and final victim. The killer has targeted, among others, those members of the Louisiana Supreme Court who disagree with his socio-political agenda.

The protagonists are very much like the famous duo created by Conan Doyle: Sherlock Holmes (Wyndham) and Dr. Watson (West). In the Holmes stories, London is pitched as a principal character. In the same way, New Orleans is one of the most prominent characters in The Griffin Murders, a story in which the Big Easy lives and breathes. Wyndham lives at 1140 Royal Street (the LaLaurie mansion), and West occupies the famous address half a block away: 521 Governor Nicholls Street (the New Orleans home of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie). Crime scenes include 400 Royal Street (the Louisiana Supreme Court), Pere Antoine’s Alley, the Ursuline Convent, 521 Governor Nicholls Street, the New Orleans Sheraton, the Mississippi River batture on the West Bank, and the Harvey Canal Bridge. Many of New Orleans’s famous hotels and restaurants are prominently featured.

The Griffin attempts to frame Louisiana Chief Justice Woodward Gregg for the murders. At a sensational trial, the chief justice is acquitted. (The trial is much like Jim Garrison’s shameful 1969 prosecution of Clay Shaw for the murder of President Kennedy.)¹ By that time, Wyndham has figured out who the Griffin is, but he has no hard proof. However, he has analyzed the crimes just as his hero, Holmes would have done. On Ash Wednesday 2014, at the conclusion of his party at 1140 Royal Street, Wyndham exposes the Griffin and his accomplice, who are in attendance. The accomplice commits suicide before all the guests at the crowded party, and the Griffin confesses to the crimes. The reader will be quite surprised when the serial killer is unmasked.

1

Bamboo Friday

Nothing but Heaven itself is better than a friend who is really a friend.

Plautus²

I

The evening of February 7, 2010 in Miami was typically Floridian – more like spring than winter. 3:12 remained in the fourth quarter of Super Bowl XLIV. The New Orleans Saints were clinging to a 24-17 lead over the Indianapolis Colts. But, Peyton Manning, the Colts’ splendid quarterback and New Orleans’s native son, just had advanced his team far into Saints territory. Manning smelled a touchdown. He would try to hit Reggie Wayne, himself a native of the Crescent City, with a quick, short pass over the middle. Wayne was a speedy, elusive wide receiver; and once he had the ball, he likely would convert the reception into a significant gain or even a score. Manning, a supremely confident adversary, always was resolute under pressure. A negligent pass seldom left his adept right hand. He executed a sudden delivery in Wayne’s direction. The throw was by no means errant, but it found someone else’s hands. Tracy Porter, the Saints cornerback, stepped in Wayne’s way, intercepted the pass, and carried the stolen ball seventy-four yards to pay dirt. The successful extra-point attempt gave the Saints a 31-17 lead, which would become the final score. Manning and his troops were defeated by the gang from New Orleans, the Cinderella team that, along with the battered town it called home, had emerged miraculously from the ruin of Katrina.

Porter made the contest’s key play, but the game belonged first and foremost to Drew Brees, the castaway from the San Diego Chargers, who saw him as irreparably damaged goods – much like the world looked upon New Orleans, once the Queen City of the South, scarred by the Civil War and, 140 years later, left for dead at the hands of Katrina. Brees, the consummate quarterback and intrepid leader, steered his team to victory by completing 32 of 39 passes and throwing for two touchdowns. New Orleans’s adopted son had stolen Manning’s thunder and was named the game’s MVP.

Louisiana Supreme Court Justice Steve Wyndham and I cheered like drunken frat boys at our 50-yard-line seats – fifteen rows above the field and directly behind the Saints bench. (We had taken to Miami eight close buddies – New Orleans lawyers, judges, and businessmen – in our Gulfstream G200, which we co-piloted from New Orleans Lakefront Airport.) After fifteen minutes or so of wild shouting, we conceded to hoarseness and looked, misty-eyed, at each other. I cleared my throat and asked, Steve, did you ever believe this day would come?

The conservative jurist rarely showed emotion, except for the occasional smile. He grinned and answered with his own question, Rod, do you remember what Professor Litchfield so often said about belief?

"Yes, I do, indeed. He said: ‘Belief is the ultimate form of knowledge. It transcends perception. To believe is quite more than to know.’ Those are his words exactly."

"You do remember our wise professor’s words! I’m impressed, Rod. And, yes, I believed we someday would celebrate a Super Bowl victory, just as I believed Drew Brees, or someone just like him, would come to New Orleans and work magic on Poydras Street.³ Look at him, Rod. He’s holding the Lombardi trophy proudly and high for us … for you, me and all the other people of his adoptive city. Look at him. He’s as proud of New Orleans as it is proud of him. Thank God that Sean Payton sensed in that young man the greatness that no one else saw. Think about it, Rod. Drew Brees and New Orleans are one and the same. They are metaphors for each other. Am I making sense?"

"As always, you are making perfect sense in your inimitably academic way." I caught myself and laughed.

Listen to me. I’ve hung with you too long. I sound like a nerdy highbrow.

As he so often did, my life-long friend gave me a tight hug.

"Okay, Mr. West. Let’s join the guys in the suite. Except for Leslie, they’re no doubt shit-faced. We’ll get them back to the hotel. They need to sober up before we all go out on the town and really celebrate."

II

Tuesday came too soon. At 2:15 p.m., the Gulfstream lifted off, and Steve carefully steered it towards New Orleans. When we reached cruising altitude, I checked on our still elated passengers, who were replaying Super Bowl XLIV over drinks and snacks that their generous crew had stocked in the cabin’s quite ample galley. I smiled and gave them a spirited thumbs-up before ducking back into the cockpit with two turkey sandwiches and two cups of hot CDM coffee and chicory.

Steve, tomorrow will be a shitty day. I’ve got to empanel a grand jury, and you have to listen to oral arguments in that God-awful sexual abuse case.

"Don’t remind me about Hanover. The court is so divided on the issue of jurisdiction! The crap will hit the fan in the deliberation room. I don’t look forward to arguing with Gregg, Wilson, and Landry."

I had been the U. S. attorney for the Eastern District of Louisiana for eight years under the previous president, Republican George W. Bush. When his successor, the Democrat Barack Obama, took office, everyone assumed I would be shown the door at 500 Poydras Street.⁴ However, I stayed on due to the strong support of both of Louisiana’s United States senators, who, in light of my many successful prosecutions of drug dealers, money launderers, white-collar miscreants, renegade cops, and corrupt politicians, had implored the new president to retain me as the federal prosecutor.

Louisiana Chief Justice Woodward Gregg did not care much for the Canon of Judicial Ethics. He pulled every political string that his long, bony fingers could clutch to orchestrate my ouster. Gregg wanted the president to replace me with his crony, Calvin Kassman, an under-qualified trial lawyer from Hahnville and a major donor to Democrat candidates at the local, state, and federal levels. After Gregg’s relentless, below-the-radar efforts failed, he invariably had something sarcastic to say to Steve and me whenever he spotted us at a charitable or civic function. Gregg could not bear the thought of a Republican stalwart’s sitting in the United States attorney’s chair, while a Democrat occupied the White House. Needless to say, I had not a scintilla of respect, professionally or personally, for Chief Justice Gregg.

Testily, I asked Steve, When are you going to slap the piss out of Gregg and those other radical assholes?

My pal, the unflappable jurist, replied just as I knew he would: "Now, don’t be naughty, Rod. I’ll have to settle for scolding them in print. You know I can’t call them radical assholes. But, I can and I will label them duplicitous revisionists."

"Your opinions can be biting, Steve. But they’re never uncivil. I love to read your Scaliaesque⁵ assaults on Gregg and his cohorts. Landry is such an ass-licker. If Gregg ever stops short, it’ll take a team of proctologists to pry Landry from his anus. Wilson’s a nice lady. She’s not a lackey like Landry, but it’s too bad she’s so liberal."

Steve smiled and gave me a playful push. Then, he reminded me of the day we first met.

Buddy, what can I say? You were a funny little fellow when we met in the first grade. You haven’t changed a bit. I’ll never forget our first encounter. You pilfered my dessert – that nice piece of cherry cobbler – when I was talking to Leslie. Do you recall what you told Miss Brennan when she caught you?

I surely do. I told her you were too fat to have dessert, and I was doing you a huge favor by relieving you of that big chunk of cherry cobbler. My explanation didn’t save me. Miss Brennan gave me ten demerits. And, I had to surrender that frigging cobbler. You, the chubby one, got to eat it.

Rod, I’ll never forget what happened after Brennan scolded you.

"Of course, you won’t, Justice Wyndham. Both of us saw prim and proper Miss Brennan, the faux virgin, hiding in the corner and laughing her ass off."

"Yep. When we saw her guffawing like a drunken longshoreman, I laughed my ass off while you sulked and became totally pissed as I ate my cherry cobbler. I love your description of Miss Brennan. She was a faux virgin, alright. There’s something else we’ll never forget – that Friday evening after school when you and I caught her and Coach Rottman going at it behind the bamboo. We didn’t quite know what we were seeing, but we damned sure knew we caught those two doing something … Rod, give me a high-brow word to modify something."

"How’s indecorous?"

"Indecorous is perfect. Yes, as we found out later, those two churls were doing something indecorous. Thanks, Counselor. Anyhow, they almost shat when they saw chubby little me and skinny little you standing there, eyes wide open, looking with disbelief at the spectacle unfolding behind the bamboo."

"Yeah. We caught them with their pants down – literally. We didn’t say a thing. Our sheepish grins said everything: Okay, we see you two doing something nasty. What do you have to say? Remember the looks on their twisted faces? Maybe they really did defecate in the bamboo."

It was so predictable that, for the next seven years, they would treat us like royalty.

"Yeah. We had those wretches over a barrel. They were scared shitless for seven years. We didn’t say a word. We didn’t have to. From Bamboo Friday forward, we just looked at them with shit-eating grins. They were on pins and needles until we left St. Catherine."

"We let Leslie in on our little secret. She’s the only one we told. Do you remember how we looked at each other when Leslie, all of six years old, explained to us what Brennan and Rottman actually were doing? She couldn’t believe we were so innocent and sheltered. Isn’t it something that pretty, little Leslie Hillyer became Justice Leslie Hillyer, one of my conservative colleagues at 400 Royal Street? How’s she doing back there with those seven raucous friends of ours?"

She’s having a ball. Steve, she really appreciates our bringing her along. She’s head-over-heels in love with Drew Brees.

"Maybe so, but Brees is happily married; and Leslie’s stuck with you. Have y’all decided on a date?"

Not yet. But I think we’ll be leaving Holy Name Church as Mr. and Mrs. Paul Rodham West some time this fall.

I can’t wait to see the U. S. attorney kowtowing to the Supreme Court justice. Tell me, Mr. West. Are you going to call your wife ‘Honey,’ ‘Dear,’ or ‘Your Honor’?

Very funny, Mr. Justice Wyndham.

We laughed. I thought about our years at St. Catherine, when we had studied and played together and spent weekends alternately at the West and Wyndham houses, four blocks apart in the exclusive Metairie Club Gardens neighborhood. Our closest friend was Leslie, the innocent but knowledgeable little redhead who had taught us all about coitus. We and Leslie limited our close circle to just us three, but we by no means were reclusive. We made numerous friends at school and interacted with them at extracurricular activities, but we did not allow them to penetrate the coterie of three.

Steve became especially pensive. I impulsively asked, What are you thinking?

"I’m thinking about tomorrow, mon ami. After Leslie and I sit through Hanover and do battle with our revisionist adversaries in the deliberation room, I’ll need some recreation time. Are we still on for football at three-thirty?"

Of course. We haven’t missed Wednesday football since we started our little game five years ago. I’ll meet you in Henry’s chambers at three.

Great. I’ll see you tomorrow.

For the next hour, we allowed each other uninterrupted privacy. I understood that my friend wanted some quiet time to ponder Hanover, and he realized I was in one of my frequent reminiscence moods. I sat back in my super-comfortable, soft-leather pilot’s chair and recalled everything about our enduring friendship – an uncommon, ceaseless union that had begun on the third day of first grade at St. Catherine of Siena School in 1975. It was lunch time on Wednesday, September 10. Steve and I, then total strangers, were sitting across from each other at our lunchroom table. While ignoring me, he talked to the redheaded, freckle-faced little girl, apparently his friend, sitting to his left. I hoped that he had not noticed the cherry cobbler to the side of his heaping plate of white beans and rice with smoked sausage. In any event, I was determined to have that cobbler. Temptation got the better of discretion. I slid the cobbler to my side of the table.

Suddenly, a firm hand grasped my shoulder. I looked up, startled. There stood Miss Brennan. She shouted, "And what do you think you’re doing, young man?! Her whiny ejaculation caught the attention of everyone in the dining hall. Scurrying thoughts overwhelmed my uninitiated little mind, and I could not speak. I must have looked like a doomed deer trapped in the glow of a speeding car’s headlights. Simply put, I was caught red-handed … and red-faced. Utterly embarrassed, I finally managed a feeble explanation: Miss Brennan, I was thinking that he’s really overweight, and he shouldn’t have that cobbler. I didn’t want it to go to waste, so I figured I would eat it for him. I remember her reply precisely as she uttered it: Well, here’s what I’m thinking. You’re getting ten demerits, and he’s getting back his cobbler." Without hesitation, I slid the cobbler back to its rightful owner and told him I was sorry for taking it.

Brennan hurried off to the side of the room and ducked behind a tall Schefflera, where she thought she could not be seen. But the little fat kid, his table mate, and I saw her, laughing herself silly. The fat kid and his red-headed friend followed suit; and I sat there, dejected and pissed. So went my first encounter with Peter Stevenson Wyndham. That time in the lunchroom, that Wednesday when I first laid eyes on Steve Wyndham, set my life’s course. I knew right from wrong, and I chose to do wrong. I stole Steve’s cobbler, and I was caught. I learned then and there that indiscretion brought punishment. From that time forward, I would abide by the Creator’s rules.

I glanced at my pal as he sat confidently in the pilot’s chair. The chubby little kid long since had grown into a handsome, lean, athletic man. I wondered if he realized how much I admired him.

We were half way to New Orleans. I looked down through the cloudless sky at the Gulf of Mexico and recalled what had happened two days after that fateful Wednesday in the lunch room. On the day that Steve and I would come to call Bamboo Friday, we ran into each other after school – shortly before catching Miss Brennan and Coach Rottman doing their thing behind the bamboo. It was on Bamboo Friday that I discovered the virtues of forgiveness and compassion, when Steve looked at me sympathetically and said: We didn’t get to talk after Miss Brennan caught you stealing my cobbler, and we’ve avoided each other in class. I’m glad we’re together, now. What you did is wrong, but I want you to know I forgive you. And, I want to apologize for laughing. I shouldn’t have done that. Miss Brennan shouldn’t have laughed, either. She thought no one could see her, but that’s not an excuse. She was rude, and so was I. Now, can we be friends? My name’s Steve … Steve Wyndham.

I remember so vividly the way I felt after he said those words. I looked at him. For the longest time, I could not say anything; I knew he saw contrition in my unblinking eyes. At that wondrous moment, we bonded and became forever inseparable. Finally, I spoke. "Steve, I’m Rod … Rod West. You don’t need to apologize. I do. Please forgive me for taking your cobbler. I knew I was doing wrong, and I still took it. I’m very sorry. I would love to be your friend."

So went the colloquy of atypical six-year-olds who later learned they had unusually high verbal IQs. Our way with words, along with our exceptional abstract-reasoning ability, enabled us to graduate summa cum laude/Phi Beta Kappa from Tulane and landed us on the Harvard Law Review, where we jointly served as its editors and published numerous case notes and articles. As well, we were members of the Order of the Coif.

Soon after Harvard, we came to know quite a lot about the ways of Wall Street; and, with the kind and generous assistance of our investment-banker fathers, we launched our hedge fund⁶, the Derbigny Group, and attracted savvy, well-to-do investors, mostly oil magnates. The fund took off, and we became mega-millionaires in the space of five years. All the while, we studied and came to be experts in securities law and mergers/acquisitions.

As our proud, shining aircraft entered its initial descent, I thought about our stations in life: Here we are – two inseparable, lifelong friends who earned and created wealth for ourselves and others. Here we are – two grateful guys, who eight years ago, decided to enter public life and dedicate our salaries to Louisiana coastal restoration research. Here we are – two former Greenies⁷ … the pin-point-accurate college quarterback and his fleet wide receiver, as good together as red beans and rice. How many touchdown passes did the great quarterback, the chubby little kid from St. Catherine, throw to his trusty wide-out, the skinny little fellow who had tried to steal his cherry cobbler? We did a number on so many good teams during those four great years at Tulane. What a time we had. What a time, indeed. And what a life we’ve led since we met in 1975 … thirty-five years ago. 1975 – that magical year of cherry cobbler and Bamboo Friday.

Our plane was well into its final descent. My co-pilot tapped me on the shoulder, looked me in the eye and said in his firm, reassuring voice, Rod, my friend, take her down.

We touched down at Lakefront Airport at 3:15 p.m. As I lowered the silver bird onto the runway, I thought about our names: Peter Stevenson Wyndham and Paul Rodham West. Our middle names were our mothers’ maiden names. Our first names were those of the foremost apostles: the rock of the Church and the first great teacher of Christianity. We were kindred spirits … kindred spirits, indeed.

2

The Separation of Church and State

I

It had so happened that, in the summer of 2008, two glorious 1830s houses, one at 1140 Royal Street, at its intersection with Governor Nicholls, and the other, two blocks away, at 521 Governor Nicholls, were on the market. We adored both places, owned by the same person – a meticulous restorer of fine, historic homes. After viewing them one humid Saturday morning in August 2008, we decided to have lunch at the Rib Room in the Royal Orleans Hotel – six blocks away down Royal Street. Over lunch, I offered a proposition to my dear friend.

Steve, I have an idea. Neither of us can decide which of the places he prefers. Let’s flip a coin. Heads, I take 1140 Royal; tails, you take it.

Good idea. Here’s a quarter. Go ahead and flip.

I looked at the coin, a shopworn 1984 quarter, and joked, Good Lord! This coin is so overused, I can’t tell whether I’m looking at Washington or Jefferson.

Steve shoved my shoulder in his characteristically playful way. You know he’s Washington. Go ahead and flip.

I flipped the musty little disc, and we watched it turn over five or so times before gravity guided it into my left hand. There he was – a proud, majestic eagle with his head turned right and his wings spread wide. Steve got 1140 Royal, and I would become the proud owner of the stately Parisian-style house just down the street.

Let’s call the broker now, I said in the same eager tone that Steve instantly recognized. He laughed and brought back our football days.

You sound so much like you always did when you returned to the huddle with a pass play you knew would work. Sure as Hell, I’d find your speedy little ass wide open. Go ahead and call the broker, Nervous Annie.

I smiled, pulled out my cell phone, and called the broker, Sandra Ripley of French Quarter Realty.

Sandra, this is Rod West. Steve will take 1140 Royal, and I’ll take 521 Governor Nicholls. Can we run over and sign the contracts?

She became tentative and curiously inhibitive. What are your offers?

Steve and I had known Sandra for a few years. I felt I could talk to her straight out.

Sandra, you know Steve and me very well. We’re not bullshitters. The owner wants four million apiece, right?

She opened up a bit.

Correct. Rod, I know that Steve and you are honest guys. Are y’all prepared to offer something close?

I responded emphatically and immediately: "We’ll