For Many Casualties, No Who, How or When

At Daste's funeral Saturday in Baton Rouge, La., the family chose to celebrate her long life rather than to dwell on the details of her death. They painted a portrait of a sturdy woman who worked until her early nineties, and who survived financial ruin in the Depression, early widowhood and the deaths of three of her four children. They laughed as they recalled her famous penny-pinching ways, how she would always tell her children and grandchildren, "You watch your pennies and nickels, and when they turn into dollars, they'll watch themselves." She and her husband, who died in 1957, ran a small grocery and accumulated some property.

"She saved tissue paper and would cut it up and use it for napkins," Cullins recalled fondly. "Grandma didn't throw anything away."

On the Beat

For Paul Accardo, watching the hurricane rip apart his home town amid chaos, looting and murder was apparently more than he could bear.

After six days of helping to evacuate hundreds from the drowning city, of trying to aid thousands at the Louisiana Superdome -- and watching some of them die -- Accardo shot himself to death on Sept. 3.

"To see people dying, no food, no water, it took a toll on him," said his boss, Capt. Marlon DeFillo.

Accardo, who had been married for about three years, was often the public face of the city police department on local television newscasts. A clean-cut man with a winning smile and a soft-spoken manner, he was in the forefront of a department trying to improve its image.

But during the hurricane, the strait-laced cop who had spent the past five years working as a public affairs officer suddenly found himself on the front lines. Like other New Orleans police officers, he lost his home to Katrina and found himself working 20-hour days, pulling people from floodwaters and battling the looters who swarmed over portions of the city. The kind of guy who carried pet food in his car to feed stray animals, Accardo was overwhelmed by the suffering he saw, DeFillo said.

After working until 2 a.m. Saturday, Accardo slept for two hours and then got up at 4 a.m. to return to work. He looked so exhausted that DeFillo told him to go back to sleep.

"That's the last we saw of him," DeFillo said.

Accardo drove west and stopped in Luling, La., about 25 miles away, where he parked his car and ended his life.

At Home

Odessa Hurley, 90, was a familiar figure, walking along the streets of Biloxi during the daylight hours, passing out religious tracts and gathering treasures in the bag she always carried.

"She had sneakers on a mile too big for her, and big white socks pulled up to her knees," said Cleo Meaut, 74, a longtime church friend. "She wasn't what you called poor, but she looked poor. She gave all her money to charity. She would send money off to these missionaries to help them out, and when I say money I mean a good bit of money."