Category:

Within the next hour, my aunt Tot arrived with her husband, Sonny DeVillier, coming from their home in Eunice, a small town about fifteen miles south. Aubrey and Emily's only daughter, the middle child, Tot was a classic midcentury beauty in her youth, a princess of Evangeline. Middle age had treated that inherent elegance well, as had the wealth her husband, Sonny, had accumulated as a lawyer, banker, and investor in St. Landry Parish. Even on this day, in the rush and panic of that morning, Tot wore jewels on her wrists, sparkling through the cigarette smoke swirling from her bright red mouth.

The DeVilliers were followed in quick succession by a stream of grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. The college students who had already headed back to Baton Rouge and Lake Charles and Lafayette were called homeward—a chorus echoing across Louisiana: "Someone took PawPaw."

Just before 7 a.m., Susan used Emily's telephone to call her house— where four of her five children were still sleeping, including my father, Marcel, age eighteen. She told the school-age children they'd be skipping and instructed them to instead get over to morning Mass at St. Ann's in Mamou. "Then y'all come over to PawPaw's after. Pray hard. Something bad has happened."

They arrived late, but the service was mostly unattended anyway. The LaHaye children kneeled in the back row, hands folded, heads bowed—every shift and shudder echoing throughout the empty congregation. Their mother's call had been brief, and they still weren't all that sure what was going on when Father Nunez announced the Mass would be offered up for the intention of Aubrey LaHaye and his family.

Back at the house, everyone huddled around the pool table in the outdoor kitchen. The air was stretched taut. Some congregated in the center of the living space, crowding into the couches and onto each corner of the coffee table. Others paced and gripped the countertops. Janie started to brew another pot of coffee. Emily had around six hands on her at any given time.

When the phone rang, it sounded like it was coming from another dimension. For the first two waves of sound, everyone could only look at one another. It was Janie who made her way to the wall. She answered, and her eyes widened.

She turned to Wayne, standing beside her. "It's... them, I think. It's them." No one moved. She held out the phone. "They say they want to talk to one of the men." He took it from her, looked to Glenn across the room, and gestured toward the main house. Glenn nodded and headed out the door. Wayne gave him a moment to pick up the main extension, then answered, "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was soft-spoken, "Are you one of the sons?"

"I am."

"Okay. Look here, now listen, I'm the one that's got your daddy."

"Okay," Wayne's hand went up to the back of his head. "Just... just tell me what you want."

"A half a mil." Wayne was silent. "And Dr. LaHaye, you should know, I'm not alone in this. Do not call the cops. I'm telling you, don't do it. There are four of us, and we mean business here."

Wayne's shoulders sagged inward, his thumb and forefinger reaching behind his glasses to rub his eyes, "Surely you must know that's the first thing we did. We called the cops immediately."

There was a beat of silence, then, "We'll tell you what you need to do."

"Yes, just tell us what you want us to do."

"We'll call back at nine. We'll have instructions."

At this point, Glenn's voice poured out, ragged, "Before you get anything, we want to speak with our father. We want to know he's okay."

"Sorry, sir, but that won't be possible." There was an edge now, a breathier tone to the voice, a gravelly touch of urgency, increasing by the second. "You can't be making demands here, you see? We are the ones in charge. It's us running this show, Mr. La—"

Cutting him off, Glenn's voice raised to match, managing to get the last word before the dial tone, "We want our daddy back alive! We ain't gonna pay a dime for a dead man, you hear me?"

When Detective Guillory returned to LaHaye Road around 7:20, cars were lined all the way up Emily's driveway, spilling into the yard and the road. If you didn't know better, you might think it was a holiday, or Sunday dinner. Except that it was a Thursday, and the sun had only just come up from behind its film of weepy gray clouds. He'd made calls to the Louisiana State Police and the FBI, who were each on their way.