Louisiana has a way of swallowing things whole. Sometimes it’s a cypress knee under a rising tide, and sometimes it’s the truth about what happened on a dark stretch of water. When people talk about a crime on the bayou, they usually think of some stylized, noir version of New Orleans. But the real stuff—the gritty, confusing, and heartbreaking reality—often happens in the small towns where the pavement ends and the marsh begins.
The 1987 Charenton Canal murders weren’t just a local tragedy. They became a symbol of how quickly a peaceful afternoon can turn into a nightmare in the Atchafalaya Basin.
The Day the Water Turned Cold
It was November. In South Louisiana, November doesn't always mean "cold," but it means the air gets that heavy, damp chill that clings to your skin. Two men, 38-year-old Thomas "Tom" Gonsoulin and 28-year-old Gary "G.J." Gwatney, headed out for what should have been a routine trip. They were going to check crawfish traps.
Simple. Ordinary.
They left from a landing near Charenton, a small community in St. Mary Parish. They never came back.
When the boat was found, it wasn't empty because of an accident. This wasn't a drowning. It was a scene of clinical, brutal violence. Both men had been shot. The swamp is loud, but it isn't loud enough to drown out the sound of a shotgun or a rifle when the wind is still. Yet, in the vastness of the basin, sound travels weirdly. It bounces off the trees. It gets lost in the Spanish moss.
The investigation that followed was a mess.
Honestly, the Charenton Canal case is a prime example of how difficult it is to process a crime scene in an environment that is constantly moving. The tide rises. The current shifts. Evidence literally floats away. Detectives from the St. Mary Parish Sheriff’s Office were up against a clock they couldn't see.
Why the "Bayou Justice" Narrative Fails
You’ve probably seen the movies where a rugged detective finds a single muddy footprint and solves the case. Real life is messier.
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In the Charenton case, rumors started flying immediately. That’s what happens in small towns. People said it was a drug deal gone wrong. They said it was a territorial dispute over fishing grounds. In the 80s, the "Dixie Mafia" was a popular boogeyman for any unexplained crime on the bayou. If you couldn't explain it, you blamed the smugglers.
But the evidence didn't really support a high-level hit. Tom and G.J. were just working men.
The reality of crime in these areas is often much more "random" and therefore much more terrifying. There are people who live off the grid in the basin. There are people who don't want to be found. If you stumble upon the wrong camp or the wrong person at 5:00 AM, the swamp doesn't have many witnesses.
The Forensic Nightmare of the Atchafalaya
We have to talk about the biology of the bayou for a second. It's gruesome, but it matters for the E-E-A-T (Experience, Expertise, Authoritativeness, and Trustworthiness) of understanding this case.
- Water Degradation: Submerged ballistic evidence corrodes.
- Biological Interference: Alligators and garfish aren't just part of the scenery; they are scavengers.
- Silt and Mud: A casing dropped in the Charenton Canal doesn't sit on the bottom; it sinks into three feet of soft, shifting silt.
Because of these factors, the initial search for the weapon was a disaster. Divers were working in "black water," meaning they couldn't see their own hands in front of their faces. They were feeling through the mud by touch. Think about that. You're searching for a murder weapon by running your fingers through the sludge of a canal, hoping you don't grab a snapping turtle instead.
What People Get Wrong About Bayou Crimes
Most folks think these cases go cold because the cops are lazy or "in on it." While Louisiana has had its fair share of colorful law enforcement history, the Charenton case went cold mostly because of the sheer geography.
The Atchafalaya Basin covers nearly a million acres.
If you kill someone in a city, there are cameras. There are neighbors. There are "patterns of life" that get disrupted. In the bayou, the pattern of life is the water moving in and the water moving out.
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The Charenton Canal case eventually saw an arrest, but it took years. It took someone talking. In these communities, "talking" is a dangerous currency. You don't just go to the sheriff; you have to live with the families of the people you're accusing for the next forty years.
The Arrest and the Lingering Doubt
Eventually, a man named Ricky White was tied to the killings. The motive? It was reportedly a dispute over a boat motor.
A boat motor.
Two lives ended over a piece of machinery that might have been worth a few hundred dollars. That is the chilling part of a crime on the bayou that outsiders rarely understand. It isn't always a grand conspiracy. Sometimes, it is the product of isolation, poverty, and a culture where disputes are settled where the law can't see.
White was eventually convicted, but for many in St. Mary Parish, the "why" never felt fully satisfied. The trauma of that event changed how people used the canal. For a long time, men didn't go out alone. They looked over their shoulders. They kept a shotgun in the gunwale, not for the gators, but for the other boats.
Lessons for True Crime Researchers and Historians
If you’re looking into Louisiana cold cases or rural homicides, you have to look past the "swamp pop" aesthetic. You need to dig into the local court records—which, by the way, are often still kept in physical ledgers in some parishes.
- Check the Water Levels: If a crime happened in 1987, look at the flood records. High water years change the crime scene entirely.
- Study the Jurisdiction: St. Mary Parish is a patchwork of state, local, and federal land. Who had the lead? Often, jurisdictional friction slows down an investigation.
- Ignore the "Voodoo" Tropes: It’s a lazy cliché. The real "darkness" in the bayou is the isolation, not some supernatural force.
The Charenton Canal murders remind us that the swamp is a beautiful place, but it’s also a place with a very long memory. The families of Gonsoulin and Gwatney lived through a decade of silence before any semblance of justice arrived.
How to Stay Informed on Cold Cases
If you are interested in following the progress of similar Louisiana cold cases, there are a few legitimate resources that don't rely on sensationalism. The LSU Cold Case Project is an incredible initiative where students and professors use modern technology to re-examine old files. They have done significant work on cases from the 1960s and 70s, proving that even after fifty years, the truth can still surface.
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Also, the "Unsolved" sections of local sheriff department websites are more active than you’d think. In the last five years, DNA advances have started to crack cases that were previously thought "unsolvable" due to water damage.
The bayou might try to hide things, but it can't keep them buried forever.
Actionable Steps for Exploring Bayou History Safely
If you’re planning to visit these areas or research a specific crime on the bayou, keep these practical points in mind:
First, respect the locals. If you're poking around Charenton or Franklin asking about old murders, remember that these are people's brothers and fathers. It’s not a podcast episode to them; it’s a wound.
Second, if you're navigating the basin, get a local guide. The Atchafalaya is a maze. GPS fails. Sandbars shift. What looks like a deep channel can be six inches of water in an hour.
Finally, use the public libraries in New Iberia and Morgan City. They have microfiche archives of the local papers from the 80s that contain details never digitized. You’ll find the names of witnesses, the descriptions of the weather, and the raw, unfiltered reaction of a community that was shaken to its core.
The story of the Charenton Canal isn't just about a murder; it's about the resilience of a community that refuses to let the water wash away the memory of those they lost.