Thirty-six years ago a child had been born and its care relinquished to the state. That would not be a common occurrence in a town of Ville Platte's size. People would talk and, quite possibly, people would remember, even thirty-six years later. Gossip is a detective's best friend. I could randomly question anyone over the age of fifty, but that seemed sort of unprofessional. A professional would narrow the field. All right. Who talks about having babies? Answer: mommies. Task at hand: locate women who delivered on or about 9 July, thirty-six years ago. The detective flies into action and it is awesome to behold. A mind like a computer, this guy. A regular Sherlock Holmes, this guy.

I drove back to the little grocery with the "boudin" sign, parked at the curb, and went in. A kid in a gray USL Ragin' Cajuns T-shirt was sitting behind the register, smoking a Marlboro and reading a drag boat magazine. He didn't look up when I walked in. In Los Angeles, you walk into a convenience store and the people who work there reach for their guns.

I said, "Howdy. Is there a local paper?" He waved the cigarette at a newspaper rack they had off to the side, and I picked up a copy and read the masthead. The Ville Platte Gazette - established 1908. Perfect. Daily. Even better.

I said, "Do you have a library in town?" He sucked on the Marlboro and squinted at me. He was pale, with wispy blond hair and caterpillar fuzz above his lip and a couple of primo zits ripening on his forehead. Eighteen, maybe, but he could've been older.

I said, "You got a library?"

"Course. Where you think you are, Arkansas?" They're really into that Arkansas thing down here.

"Any chance you'd tell me how to get there?"

He leaned back on his stool and crossed his arms. "Which library?" Score one for the yokel.

Six minutes later I circled the town square past a red brick Presbyterian church and parked at the library. An older African-American gentleman was behind the counter, stacking books onto a gray metal cart. A young woman with braided hair sat at a reading table and a kid with a limp shuffled through the stacks, listing to the right so he could read the book spines. I went to the counter and smiled at the librarian. "That air-conditioning feels good."

The librarian continued stacking the books. "That it does. And how are you today, sir?" He was shorter than me and thin, with a balding head and a prominent Adam's apple and very dark skin. He was wearing a plaid short-sleeved shirt and a burgundy knit tie. A little nameplate on the counter said MR. ALBERT PARKS.

I said, "Do you have the Gazette on microfiche?" I could have gone by the newspaper offices, but newspaper people would ask questions.

"Yes, sir. We do." He stopped stacking books and came over to the counter.