Henry’s past experiences with law enforcement have obviously left him cynical. “Let’s talk about the FBI for a second. Last night you said you needed me to run interference for you. What’s your relationship with the Bureau?”

Henry cocks his head like a man who can’t make up his mind. “For a long time they ignored me. Then they started warning me about talking to witnesses in what they called ‘open’ cases. I laugh at that now. If the public ever finds out how the Bureau dragged its feet on those murders, there’ll be hell to pay. Now, of course, field agents call me every week. They basically want to use me as a de facto investigator.”

“Who’s your main contact with them?”

“I’ve dealt with a dozen different agents. The FBI has jurisdictional problems within its own agency. Different field offices or resident agencies handled the various original cases, so the records are spread out, and each agent only has a few pieces of the puzzle. They’ve got a cold case squad, but not even those people have access to all the data. It’s ridiculous.”

“Do you trust any of them?”

“There is one guy I like,” Henry concedes. “He works out of the New Orleans field office now, but he’s no suit. He’s a Vietnam vet named John Kaiser. That’s who I called about Morehouse last night.”

The agent’s name tweaks something in my memory.

“Kaiser’s not officially responsible for any of these cases, but he’s got a personal interest. He trained under some of the agents who originally worked the murders, and he’d like to solve them, if he can. He’s helped get me in touch with old-timers when I needed to. If we’re duty bound to share information with somebody official, I’d prefer to deal with Kaiser.”

“I’m glad you’re open to somebody in the Bureau, but we’ve got to at least give Walker Dennis a chance.”

“What if the bones disappear? More than bones disappeared out of that office in the old days.”

Henry is referring to several ice chests that reportedly held the decomposing flesh of two civil rights murder victims in 1965. Like a lot of other evidence from that era, those coolers vanished without trace.

“We’ll only show him one,” I promise. “Remember, Walker was probably in kindergarten during the bad old days.”

Kirk Boisseau’s eyes have been moving back and forth between us like those of a grunt watching two officers argue strategy. “Don’t worry, Henry,” he says, “there’s a lot more bones where those came from.”

“After you talk to the sheriff,” Nancy interjects, “where will we stand? Kirk and me? We took these bones off private property.”