“That Forrest Knox uses his troops as a private enforcement arm of his family’s drug smuggling and sales organization? Yes.”
Marchand closed his eyes. He had just glimpsed the beginning of a PR disaster that could bring down not only politicians, but also any known private sponsor of the man who had ordered these murders.
“Do you have proof of what you just said?” Marchand asked.
Mackiever let the banker twist in the wind for a few seconds, so he could better appreciate the abyss yawning beneath him. “As we speak, the FBI is interviewing the man giving the kill order in that video.”
Marchand’s face went completely white. “You went to the Bureau before you came to us?”
“No one in the state government would even return my calls. About the manufactured charges Knox leveled against me? They went straight to the media and called for my head.”
“But this could destroy . . . destroy the effectiveness of the state police for years.”
“It could destroy a lot more than that,” Mackiever said softly.
Marchand looked back at his assistant, who obviously had nothing to offer.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “What are we going to do about this?”
LESS THAN FIVE MILES from Victor Marchand’s bank, Special Agent John Kaiser sat in the backseat of a black FBI Suburban. Beside him sat the state police sergeant whom Griffith Mackiever’s son-in-law had finally identified as the man giving the kill order in the Katrina sniping video. Kaiser’s agents had snatched the sergeant right off the street as he walked out of a coffee shop down the block from the parking lot where they now sat, watched over by four heavily armed FBI agents.
“You can’t fuckin’ do this,” the sergeant growled. “I don’t give a shit who you are. There’s laws in this country.”
“And you’ve broken the most serious of them,” Kaiser said calmly. “Keep your eyes on the screen.”
Once the filmed replay of the murder began, the SWAT sergeant knew exactly what he was about to see. He didn’t wait for the shots to begin defending himself. His first instinct was to use the classic Nazi defense—I was just following orders—only in this case he was clearly the man giving the orders.
Kaiser finally silenced him with a wave of his hand.
“You’re not under arrest,” Kaiser said. “Although I’ll be happy to oblige you right now if you’d prefer it. Second, we are operating well outside the parameters of what you think of as normal procedure. The special provisions of the Patriot Act give me truly frightening power over your ass, so please keep your mouth shut while I finish. You have only two choices: one, you turn state’s evidence and tell us everything you know about Forrest Knox and his illegal activities before, during, and after Hurricane Katrina—”
The SWAT sergeant’s eyes bugged.
“Or two, you become the epicenter of the biggest police scandal in modern American history, after which you spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security prison, praying that no relatives of the black drug dealers you murdered during the storm put out a gang hit on you behind bars.”
The SWAT officer turned to stare out the window at the people walking up and down the street. The world of which they were a part had just shifted forever beyond his reach.
“Forrest Knox will never be head of the state police,” Kaiser said with finality. “Somebody in this video is going to flip. Maybe it’s just me, but I’d rather risk Forrest’s retribution than what will happen to the guys in this video once it hits the Internet, and you’re all identified.”
It took the sergeant less than a minute to make up his mind. He insisted on speaking to a lawyer before signing any plea agreement, but in principle he agreed to give up everything. After all, he had no blood stake in the Knox organization.
“One thing,” Kaiser said, as an agent in the front seat put the Suburban into gear. “Do you know if Forrest is planning any sort of hit today?”
The sergeant shook his head. “Not that I know of. But he ain’t the one I’d worry about. I’d worry about Snake. ’Cause that motherfucker is crazy.”
Duly noted, Kaiser thought.
“Two of my agents will drive you to our New Orleans field office,” he said. “Your attorney can see you there. This is obviously a politically sensitive matter, so we’ll play it by ear as the day progresses.”
Kaiser leaned over the sergeant and opened the door, and two FBI agents unceremoniously pulled the man from the vehicle, then closed the door.
Kaiser tapped the shoulder of his driver. “Let’s get back to Concordia Parish, and fast. We’ve got a funeral to go to.”
CHAPTER 86
WHEN I ENTER the broad door of the AME Church for Henry Sexton’s funeral, less than eighteen hours have passed since I cradled Caitlin in the shadow of the Bone Tree. Were it not for Annie, I probably would not have come here. But after awakening groggily from what I would soon learn was drugged sleep, I found her sitting beside my bed, dressed for church.
“Where are you going?” I asked her.
“We’re going to Mr. Sexton’s funeral,” she said.
I blinked and tried to think of ways to dissuade her, but before I could voice the first objection, Annie said, “That’s where Caitlin would be today, and she’d want us to go in her place.”