Illustration by Sharon Henry

By DICK LOCHTE

It was 9:30, J.J. Legendre noticed as he reached out for the ringing phone. Nine-thirty of an oddly warm Monday night in February in the city of New Orleans, 1967. A few blocks block away, the Crew of Proteus, fourth oldest Mardi Gras parading organization, was rolling its huge, gaudy floats down Rampart Street. J.J. could hear the rattle of the drums and the yelling of the crowd over the sound of his tiny black and white TV.

"Legendre," he announced laconically.

"This is Jim Garrison," the district attorney informed him. "I want you to get your tail over to the Lacombe house on St. Charles, on the double. There's been a murder."

J.J., who'd been an investigator for Garrison's office for only a year, did not have to ask the address of the three-story mansion where the family of the late Governor of Louisiana, Taylor Lacombe, resided. "The parade may hang me up a mite," J.J. said.

"Be there in ten minutes," Garrison ordered. "I want this handled right. My critics sure as hell don't need any more ammunition than they have already."

"Who's dead?" J.J. asked.

"The daughter-in-law, Kim Lacombe. Now get rolling. Before those NOPD space cadets lose track of the corpse."

J.J. replaced the receiver, cast a wistful look at Marshall Matt Dillon lumbering across the flickering TV screen, and grabbed his holstered pistol and coat from the rack near the door.

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Next page: The dead woman was expecting