Testimony from the Lily Pads

Prologue

The story of Bill Hendricks, from the Bordello on the Bayou and the Ghost of Banyan Boulevard Novels continues with a Father and a son, near Houma, Louisiana, unloading their gear for some fishing. They are met with a gruesome discovery.

Chapter One

The reeds and lily pads around the dock that extended out into the lake had something floating in them.

Dad, look here! Randy said.

It appeared to the young boy like a bed sheet or curtains from a sunken boat or someone’s home that was flooded during Hurricane Katrina.

The father looked carefully at the taffeta looking, blousy material and said, "it looks more like a dress or,

Uh, maybe it could be a parachute or something? The son predicted.

Someone must have lost their clothing when skinny dipping or tossed them overboard, the elder said with a sarcastic tone!

Oh no, I don’t want an old dress!A disappointed youngster remarked.

I wanted some parachute material to use as shade for my tree house, said the boy.

The father lay down on the dock and tried to reach the material with his hand but, it just out of his reach.

Randy, go and get my garden rake from the back of the pickup and bring my phone, Hurry!

Randy was still hoping for his sail cloth or a used parachute, but knew something was serious, when his father said to bring him his cell phone.

By the time Randy had retrieved the phone and the garden rake, Randall Cowler was knee deep in the water and had the material in his hand.

Don’t walk over here son, call 911!

Randy was scared but curious and he followed his father’s instructions

Dad, what do I tell them?

Randy, tell them we’ve found a body! Randall Cowler’s voice wavered slightly.

Randal Cowler lifted the material to see a partially pitted head in a plastic bag and the bloated face of a woman with blonde hair.

Her eyes were missing, pecked out by hungry seabirds or eaten by crabs.

Her mouth was stuffed with the head of a fish.

The body was stiff from rigor mortis, and the skin had ruptures from beginning decomposition.

A blue nylon anchor line was tied tightly around the bloated and waterlogged corpse.

It appeared like someone had hooked up an air pump to her and disfigured her shape to the point of obesity.

Dad can I look, please, Randy pleaded.

Randall knew it was probably time to allow his son to see the corpse, although he was only 16 years old.

Randall thought about the video games he had given his son and made the decision that now was the time for his son to see the brutality of real life.

All right Randy, but, don’t touch anything or disturb this area any more, than I have already done, said the now shaken father.

Ok Dad, as the son waded in to the water and peered through the plastic bag, into the hollow openings of the corpse’s bloated head.

She doesn’t have any eyes! Randy said in his high pitched youthful voice.

Yeah, his Dad said, the birds or turtles or small fish probably ate them.

I’m surprised that the gators didn’t get her! Randall Cowler shook his head.

Dad how do you know it’s a woman, it could be a guy with long hair?

Randall knew he had to answer questions, so he used his experience as a volunteer fire fighter to explain to his son how to look for certain clues.

Randy, do you see any hair growing out of the cheek or is there a beard beginning on the chin?

Randy said, Oh, No, no sir! He looked closely at the face again.

The beard, the stubble around the face will begin to show within 4-8 hours after a man shaves his face, said his father.

Randall noted that this body had pierced ears, and the eyebrows had been plucked into a curve to high light where there once were eyes.

And do you see the lipstick on the lips that is smeared across the face?

Normally, most men don’t wear lipstick Randy!

Oh yeah, I see now, the son was feeling queasy.

Why did somebody leave her here? the son asked.

Randall felt like someone had likely dropped her into the fresh water canal where the saline marsh met the river and the ocean.

We’ll know soon enough or we may never know Randy!

Dropping someone in the ocean or even here in the marsh will usually never be found, because the critters eat the remains. His father’s description caused a chill to run up the young man’s spine.

Ok, the father said, you’ve seen enough, let’s go sit in the truck and wait for the Sheriff’s office!

Chapter Two

Desiree Brock would walk the streetwalker trail looking for johns from 10:00 pm till around 4 am.

Then she would retreat to her rented apartment in the College Green Apartments in Telluride, Colorado.

She had taken a bus to leave Aspen, due to the influx of wealthy tourists, who were visiting the chic ski resort, with the newly reformed marijuana laws.

The leaves were beginning to turn into a pastel display in the mountains.

It will be snowing soon was the dreaded thought anchored in her mind.

I’ll have to work earlier in the day and face the possibility of getting caught by the vice squad.

Desiree Brock was a working girl, a prostitute, who had made a life pleasuring any man who would give her money.

She was inducted into prostitution as a young girl when she was snatched off the streets of Dallas, Texas at the age of 14.

Being a typical teenager, she had dreams and thoughts of being famous.

She longed to be a Hollywood starlet and had visions of accepting an Academy award for best performance by an actress.

She felt she could win the award, hands down, due to her attractive figure and a convincing talent to make people believe her sometimes outlandish stories.

One of her favorite ploys was to convince any man that he was the greatest lover since the late Rudolph Valentino.

She would compare her johns to a historic or current movie star and filled their egos with platitudes.

You remind me of….was one of her favorite comments.

She considered herself a great actress, yet had never gone further than dream about being on stage.

As she sat at the computer in her rented, beige painted room, with the blinking, bright green and yellow neon sign going on and off, she knew that life was not always easy for many people.

Sadly, like most kidnapped children, her youthful dreams were shattered by men who lied, connived and cheated her into continuing her ill advised path.

She didn’t hate men but, she wasn’t always sweet and mild tempered.

In fact, her temper had placed in her jail several times, when a creep refused to allow her to leave his car or when she was accosted in the street.

The news story on the screen read that a family was found in Metairie, Louisiana canal and the strange details of how they apparently had died.

Desiree had a gut instinct that the traffic accident wasn’t a mistake.

The woman who was driving was described was a mother of two young twins.

The twins had died in the auto accident from drowning in the canal.

The victim was a convicted prostitute who worked Belle Massey.

A feeling of optimism rolled across Desiree’s body as she read about Belle Massey, the Chicken Kitchen operation and the upstairs bordello.

I would like to have work for her, she seems so nice, Desiree said quietly.

And the Chicken Kitchen, although a whore house, looked pretty good and Belle’s political and social connections were extraordinary.

Belle’s women, the girls upstairs are only college students, pleasured the likes of the state and local police departments, entertainers, tourists, the mayor, and many state government officials.

Desiree enjoyed reading about the complex security precautions to identify the creeps and keep the girls and operation relatively safe.

Yeah, I could work for Belle Massey and make some real money!

Desiree dug into her purse and pulled out her favorite one hitter pipe and loaded it up.

One hit and then I’m off to bed.

Saturday night is always busy she said, as she inhaled the sweet smoke from the pungent marijuana.

Why would someone want to kill a prostitute in a secure house of ill repute?

The news report on the computer screen did not supply many details beyond tidbits about the death.

One adult and two kids had died.

The news report said it was a traffic accident.

Mechanical failure caused the driver’s car to slide in front of an 18 wheeler.

Around here, they just would have shot them and left them in the mountains for the animals to feast upon, Desiree thought to herself.

Blood tracks and the bears or wolves would make fast work of those bodies.

Quick, short, sweet and done, Desiree said out loud.

People disappear all the time in these parts!

But, why let the kids die in the back seat?

Somebody must have seen the accident and tried to help.

The car went down an embankment and sank in the canal water.

Drugs were found in stuffed dolls in her car.

The woman working for Belle must have seen something or knew something to incriminate the Chicken Kitchen.

Drugs in a doll are an evidence plant by Belle, the cops or a Latin connection.

If there was a contract on her life, why kill the children also?

Makes no sense to me, Desiree said out loud, the now pleasantly stoned streetwalker muddled her future.

Maybe, I could take the woman’s place?

I can keep my mouth shut!

The drugs were making their way into her bloodstream and she fell asleep feeling inspired about moving to a warmer climate.

Chapter Three

Waking up was never a problem for me but, now a good night’s sleep was hit or miss.

It seems that my body is tired but, my mind continues to see things and events with all variations of cruel behavior by people against people, animals or society.

None of these events seem to have anything to do with me.

It’s like I have no pleasant memories, only scenes in my head of devastation and depravity.

When Angela arrived at my condo and called out my name, I had to think to remember her who she was. And yet, she was chummy and full of kisses and hugs.

As I thought it about it more, I could not place where we met or, if we were related or lovers or intimate.

In fact, I couldn’t tell you where I am at this point.

I know I am in a high rise condo that has a swimming pool that must sit near the ocean or an outdoor fish market because; I could smell a fishy odor of schools of fish, feeding in the surf.

How did I get here and what day of the week is today, I question myself.

The interior of the condo is filled with amateur landscapes of the ocean, the beach, birds, sunrises and sunsets. Even the shower curtain is a beach scene.

Where I am, I don’t know. It’s frightening and makes me feel uneasy and anxious.

It seems my memory of my life has been wiped clean.

It is like someone took their hand across a windshield of a car after a fresh snowfall and wiped everything away.

I do not have a phone or any car keys.

I have a Government Issue ID card but, no wallet or credit cards.

I do not have any change or cash.

My ID says my name is Baba White; Male, Caucasian 5’11 inches, blue eyes, brown hair, 225 lbs, Born in Lexington Kentucky on 02/11/1956.

What kind of name is Baba White?

When I walked into the kitchen something was different.

On the shelves and the countertop were all kinds of food and fresh fruit.

There is milk and bottled water in the fridge and boxes of Rice Krispies, Captain Crunch and Honey Nut Cheerios, along with cans of French onion and tomato basil soup.

Which apparently are favorites of mine, because I have a dozen cans of each.

Canned is not quite like a good restaurant but, I can’t remember, if I had ever been to a good restaurant.

I have plastic cartons of orange and grapefruit juice in the refrigerator.

As I continue to look though the kitchen, I get the eerie feeling that someone knows exactly what I like to eat, or at least some items that I would like to try as a meal or snack.

Hamburger meat, fish, bacon, waffles and chicken are in the freezer and fresh eggs, veggies, lettuce, carrots, apples, tomatoes, oranges, grapefruit, mangoes, white and sweet potatoes.

There is a case of Ramen noodles, boxes of macaroni and cheese, canned tuna, salmon, crab meat, and sardines in mustard, instant potatoes, grits, salad dressing, saltine crackers and Duke’s mayonnaise.

And in the pantry, there is a small mountain of can goods with beans, beets, corn, mixed veggies, okra and spinach.

There was a loaf of wheat bread, English muffins, chocolate and brown sugar coated donuts.

This was too strange, as I did seem to recall some of the boxes and cans, I saw on the counter as some of my childhood favorites.

What are my childhood favorites?

The kitchen is supplied with all the modern conveniences.

There is a can opener, coffee maker with filters, bread maker, pasta maker, and toaster oven but, no knives.

There are plenty of plastic forks and spoons but, no cutlery.

All the condiments are there; ketchup, mustard, salt and pepper, horseradish, and even honey.

But, no knives or anything sharp.

From the size and the feel of this condo, it feels like an apartment, like I had in college.

It was larger than a college dorm room but, not by much.

I remembered my college dorm room. That is significant.

That’s’ good, very good. I had a clear memory of a good time.

Walking in to the dining room / living room, I have a Dell Inspiron computer set up on a 4 seat kitchen style table.

It is a laptop with a printer and a lamp beside the machine.

I have a TV. I turn it on and find I only receive the channels showing C-Span, Turner Classic Movies, Discovery and the rolling directory of what is playing on the TV.

I try to switch channels, according to the directory and the screen goes blank.

If, I could only activate the channels on this TV!

No local programming and no sports. Ugh!

I am a prisoner that is free to walk around in a dry, cookie cutter condominium.

I walk to the front door and turn the knob. It doesn’t open.

I found a key and a key fob with a red button on it, but I cannot unlock the door from the inside.

I haven’t tested the fob yet, but, today may be the day.

It seems like the days turns into night and I can fall asleep without warning.

I knock on the door and a man opens the door wearing a FBI windbreaker and obviously carrying a side arm.

I walk back across the condominium and peer out the window.

Where am I and why do I have a man sitting outside my door?

I’m in a condo that is about 25 stories above a courtyard.

Chapter Four

I get a weekly visit from a woman who asked to be called Mrs. W.

Mrs. W is Vera Wentzel, who is employed with the FBI and according to her; she is my contact to the outside world.

I look forward to her visits because I always try to glean some any information about where I am, and what has happened to me and how do I log into the computer.

Mrs.W? what is the password to get into my computer? I don’t have it and the word password and 12345678 do not work.

Mrs. Wentzel was distant and said little to me.

She told me she was a veteran of the FBI and she served in the US Army intelligence unit for terrorism, and she spent two years, just out of college with the elite secret police called the Mossad in Israel.

Gleaning information from her was like talking to the Sphinx.

Mrs. W, I see a log in name of Baba White?

Who is Baba White?"

Oh, Mr. White that is you!

Mrs. W, what kind of name is Baba?

I feel that Baba is not my name but, I couldn’t for the life of me remember my name.

Oh Baba, that is your name ever since you left the hospital! Wentzel said assuredly.

She flinched when she said the word Hospital and quickly gave me an off the cuff answer.

Every time one of the interviewers asked your name, all you said was Ba and then you would say it again…Ba".

We added the White to make your name more believable.

The Hospital…What Hospital? When? Was I injured?

Is this why I cannot seem to remember certain things?

Someone had to make my name more believable?

Wentzel covered her tracks by telling me I was in a car accident and that I was under protective custody by the FBI for my association to a Detroit, Michigan Mob Family.

I was stumbling on my words to renounce any involvement but, I couldn’t dispute what she had said, because I could not remember.

But, my instinct told me that she was lying.

In fact, I thought I caught her saying to herself, I hope he believes this new background!

Wentzel was a tall, thin, almost gaunt woman. Her skin was sallow and she dressed like a stone faced bureaucrat.

She said she was married and had no children. I saw a tiny wedding band.

She wore a dark blue woman’s suit with a small string tie and little jewelry, with the exception of an angel pin, on her lapel.

She had an earpiece in her ear like the security men wear who guard the President.

She was stern, staunchly matter of fact and did not mince words.

She was so careful not to say something and often hesitated for several moments before she spoke.

I could see the pain in her face as she seemed to review what she was about to say to me.

She gave me little verbal confirmation.

Anything I asked about was met with the same story.

An odd thing began to happen.

When she would take those moments; I began to hear voice in my head and could almost read her mind.

Mrs. W, I keep seeing a vision of me in a condo something like the one, and I was in surrounded by several men and I was being beaten.

Who were the men beating me up?

She countered that I must have had a bad dream and no one beat me, she was firm and intractable with her explanation of a horrific car wreck.

Her mind was as locked up as the TV and her explanation for everything revolved around the story of a wreck and it never varied.

So what is my password?

Every tiny piece of information was like finding breadcrumbs on a path to find my way home.

Wentzel looked pained when she finally revealed the pass word.

I could see her thoughts again and she was considering returning me to the hospital for additional testing and possible surgery to explore, why I had any memory of the men beating me in a condo.

I didn’t know it at the time but, all of our conversations were being recorded.

The password is Verawentzel3000 like my name. Just add the 3000. No spaces. Capitalize the "V

Thinking I could begin to piece together my life though news reports and maybe I could remember my real name, I walked quickly to the computer and entered the password.

Mrs. W, who is the woman called Angela?’ She called me Hunny Bunny or Bill. Strange, if my name is Baba White!

Mrs. W spoke again with a crisp warning; you can read the news but, there are no social media sites or ways for you to contact anyone!

The woman named Angel said my name was Bill; I was looking for break in her speech or some clue as to why Angel might be connected to me.

Was my name Bill Williams?

I began to get up when she rose from her seat and said with a brusque authoritarian voice, You need to be careful using your computer

It has a direct connection through Sky Hawk, the United States Governments anti-terrorist network. She seemed pleased that she had such a dominant hold on me.

I am on a Terrorist watch network? What the Hell? I was speaking rather loudly.

I am not a terrorist looking down at my hands and gazing around the room.

Am I a suspect or something?

No, Wentzel said, you are a witness in protective custody to keep the bad guys away from you!

She conveniently did not answer my question about being named Bill.

You mean I am a prisoner?

No, not a prisoner, just a protected witness for a case the US Government is making against a mobster and a possible gun running terrorist network.

As she moved toward the door, I continued to pepper her with questions

She explained to me what a protected witness was, what I could, and could not do at this time.

When I asked her again about the accident, she mentioned my leg was broken at the knee. And I had to have facial reconstructive surgery.

She recoiled when I asked her about the two small dark spots on my forehead, just above the bridge of my nose.

You were injured badly in the accident and had to have several surgeries. She said haltingly.

She said nothing about the two dots on my forehead.

I asked her about the tattoo of an ornate, old fashioned door key on my forearm and she said evidently, I had been branded earlier in my life.

Why would I have a tattoo of an old key on my arm?

I could see into her mind again and this time she was seeing a picture of a hotel fire, people running from the building and screaming about seeing demons and apparitions.

Her mind blinked on the movie, Damien and I could see she was frightened by this scene.

So where am I? I asked politely.

You are in Florida, she answered.

Well that’s good; where in Florida? Saying it like a light had flipped on in my mind.

As she left the condo, she was asking if I needed anything.

How did you know you were ever in Florida? She asked.

I answered I didn’t know, the image just came to me.

Maybe because all the art work has images of the beach and porpoises and sea gulls!

Again her mind said to write a report about my ability to recollect and she wanted to report to the office by phone, as soon as she got out of hearing range.

Oh, Mrs. W, could you get me a pad of paper and a few pens, I like to write things down.

And some rum please, I seem to have a taste for some rum.

Mr. White you drank the last of the rum when you went to the pool a month ago, she said in condescending voice.

This guy isn’t getting any liquor while he is on those medications, she thought to herself.

Not on my watch she repeated in her head!

Oh and could I have a radio, I said playfully.

She didn’t realize that I somehow