Crescent City Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “Sorry, son—had a dog dash out in front of me,” Mario said, checking out Darrell in the mirror. “We’ll check that out when we get to the station. Your nose looks broken.”

  “You think?! Mother fucker, trust me, it’s broken.”

  Hearing that, Mario repeated the speeding up and jammed the breaks, tossing Darrell around the back seat a few more times.

  Arriving at Central Lockup, the underground parking garage was not well-lit, but you could see the yellow letters marked Arrest processing. When a car pulled up in that lane, two officers came out immediately and assisted with the prisoner.

  Two officers grabbed Darrell out the back seat to take him to processing.

  “As soon as I park I’ll meet up with you,” Mario said to one of the officers. “Make a note on the record. He resisted arrest at his mother’s house, and we had a struggle. I think he got slammed into a door frame. He might have broken his nose. Also, on Broad Street, I had to jam my breaks to avoid hitting a dog, and he hit the cage pretty hard. Might be some bruising in the stomach and rib area.”

  “No problem, Detective. I’ll note the record,” the officer said.

  Darrell walked with the officers, favoring his left side, which had received the hardest stroke of the bat. He was horrified, knowing he had just encountered the highest degree of police brutality. But then again, while the beating wasn’t justified, he wasn’t innocent by any means. Sucking up emotions was the best bet at this time, and he saved his story for his mother’s friend, Judge Bernard.

  Darrell being arrested for the third time in seventy-two hours was a quick process for the officers, and Mario provided the details for the report. Without any resistance, Darrell sat in a cold interrogation room handcuffed to a steel bar.

  Mario threw a yellow pad and a pen on the table in front of Darrell. A police officer stood in the corner of the room just in case of a problem, which was protocol during questioning.

  “Write your confession,” Mario demanded.

  Darrell thought for a moment then took the pen and wrote on the pad “Fuck you, I want an attorney,” and pushed it back to Mario.

  Looking at the page, Mario asked the police officer to pull his car around and to cut the audio and camera off the room.

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said as he left the room.

  “Why do we need a car, detective?” Darrell asked.

  Mario stood looking up at the camera waiting for that little red light on top to fade out. “Now we’re ready,” he said as the camera light went off.

  Mario unlocked Darrel's handcuff’s from the steel bar in the middle of the table. “We need to go back and see the Mick,” he said, grabbing Darrell by the neck and pushing him into the steel door.

  “What the fuck, man?” Darrell shouted.

  “What did the Mick tell you?” Mario said, taking the sheet Darrell had written on asking for an attorney and stuffing it in his pocket.

  “Your car is ready,” the officer said, sticking his head in the door.

  Mario took Darrell by the arm. “Let’s go see the Mick.”

  “Wait! Give me the pen and paper,” Darrell said, pulling away from Mario and taking a seat at the table.

  Mario closed the door and walked to the table and looked into Darrell’s eyes. Panic and horror had taken over his body.

  “Understand. If you don’t write every word correctly on paper, I’ll take the recording to a judge. Not just any judge. My judge, the one that will side with everything I say,” Mario calmly pointed out. “Start writing, asshole.”

  Darrell took the pen and wrote his statement. Mario opened the door and told the officer to put the cameras back on and stand his post in the room.

  Darrell was processed, and Mario headed to the squad room. Chief Gretchen Parks was still on the phone when he walked into her office.

  “DA Gilbert, Detective Mario just walked in. Can I call you back?”

  Mario pointed to the phone. “Put him on speaker,” he whispered.

  She shook her head while she mouthed no, but Mario insisted. He figured DA Gilbert had already received a call from Judge Bernard, and it was time to lay down the law and stop the political favors. He motioned again for her to put the phone on speaker, and this time she did.

  “District Attorney Gilbert, I have Mario on the speaker. He requested to speak to you, is that okay?” The chief covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered, “He’s pissed that you arrested Darrell again.”

  Mario gave the phone a one-finger salute, and mouthed, Screw him.

  “Sure, I’d love to hear what he has to say this time.”

  “Mr. District Attorney. I received information that Darrell was the person at the Boathouse that made that phone call about the Fontenot family being dead.”

  “Detective, it’s a minor charge. I got my ass chewed out by the mayor and judge for the second time in a few days,” Gilbert said. “ Do I need to tell you that Judge Bernard carries a lot of weight in this town?”

  Mario was willing to put his badge on the line and went for the kill. It was either that or get kicked back to writing parking tickets. He pointed out that Darrell made a threating phone call to a police officer. At the time they all thought it was real. Many police cars raced through the streets of New Orleans, jeopardizing pedestrians and the lives of police officers. A SWAT team was called out causing more risk to the very citizens they were to protect. Mario was tired of people telling him how to do his job and the mayor and a judge interfering. He unloaded on DA James.

  “With all due respect, sir someone needs to get in Judge Bernard’s face and let him know he has stepped over the line of his jurisdiction. I don’t care about his influence. What does bothers me is he lowered the bond so a criminal could get back on the streets and cause more problems for the police department.” Mario was on a roll and had to go for it. “Someone should tell the judge that his love interest, Darrell’s mother, is fogging his decisions.”

  “Excuse me?” the DA said. “His love interest?”

  “Yes, sir, I thought you knew,” Mario said.

  The phone went silent again. Too much time passed, and Mario thought maybe it wasn’t a good idea to throw that information out.

  “I’ll handle the judge. You get me a conviction,” DA Gilbert said

  Mario exhaled in relief and disconnected the call.

  Chief Parks, with a surprised look on her face, repeatedly said, “Love interest? Judge Bernard? Wow!”

  Mario got a cup of coffee from the kitchen and grabbed a stale donut out of the box left over from the morning meeting. Coffee and a snack were the only things Mario had time for that late in the day. Walking through the squad room, as he was heading to his cubicle, a voice called out—it was Olivia. She occupied a small room at Police Headquarters when she wasn’t at the Forensic Department in the New Orleans Morgue. Mario joined her at a desk.

  Olivia went through the phone recording several times and ran it through a phone booster. It amplified the background noise and voices, allowing you to hear things usually not heard. She pointed out the sound of a compressor being used nearby. She listened to the air released every time it switched on.

  Mario appreciated her help but wasn't sure how that helped the case. She made him listen to the recording again. With the booster on, it was apparent a compressor was running, maybe in a nearby room. Then a voice said something. It was faint, and Olivia adjusted the booster, and the sound came through clearer. A voice said, “These two have heard and seen too much.”

  Mario didn’t recognize the voice. Olivia played another section of the recording, and it came through clear. “We need Darrell and Rodney to disappear—and now.” Mario’s eyes perked up. The voice was Dante Cruz.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely,” Mario said.

  Olivia knew the voices were not coming from the area that Darrell was sitting at. She felt it was in another room no more than eight feet away, or the booster wouldn’t have picked it u
p.

  Mario supported himself on the edge of Olivia’s desk. “You think it’s a compressor?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “That’s why you can’t hear every word. The compressor comes on and then you hear that tap, tap, tap—not sure what that is. Then it goes off.”

  “Great job, Olivia. Let me think on this. Don’t share it, okay?”

  “Sure, Detective,” Olivia said, looking up at him. She once again talked to herself as he left the room. “Crap, you go on like a schoolgirl in front of him. ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘sure, Detective.’ You’re a forensic expert; don’t let him intimidate you.” Then that little voice popped up in her head. But he is so damn good-looking. Olivia grabbed a folder for another case, directing her mind away from her Mario fantasy.

  Truman sat at his desk while Mario reviewed files. Darrell was in an interview room with his attorney. They kept them on ice for an hour, a waiting game Mario loved to do with lawyers representing scumbags like Darrell.

  Another thirty minutes went by, and Mario and Truman arrived on the second floor of the police building which housed the holding cells and interview rooms for prisoners. Darrell and his attorney were waiting in interview room three.

  The door opened, and the detectives took seats across from them. Darrell was handcuffed to a steel bar in the center of the table as standard procedure.

  “Sorry we took so long—a lot going on right now,” Mario said.

  “I’m Tyrone Cooks. Darrell’s attorney,” the muscular black man said.

  They shook hands. “I’ve met you in court a few times,” Mario said.

  Tyrone withdrew his hand. “Let’s cut the crap, Detective. You’ve had us waiting for over an hour.”

  Mario set the tone for the meeting, telling him he could have left anytime he wanted. Then Mario pissed him off more when he asked if all his clients were scumbags or just the ones that had connections to Judge Bernard.

  Tyrone was better known as “Big Ty” from his days at Louisiana State University. He was a defensive lineman on the LSU football team that went to the Sugar Bowl his senior year. Ty sat turning his LSU college ring around his fat fingers, something Mario had learned was a nervous reaction from their last meeting. It was also Big Ty letting you know he was an LSU alumnus, and you would respect him as a top defense attorney.

  “Big Ty, you’re looking at me like I’m an Alabama quarterback and you want to sack my ass,” Mario said with a smile. “Relax, big guy.”

  “Is there a question coming soon, Detective?”

  “Yes, there is. Let’s start with why we are meeting when your client has already given a written statement and told two police officers about his involvement in the kidnapping of Kate Fontenot.”

  Ty twisted his ring a few more times. “My client claims he was under duress when making that statement.”

  “Duress?” Mario laughed. “Of his own free will Darrell wrote out a statement. No gun was held to his head.” Then Mario gave his usual smirk and stared them down.

  “Not a gun, but what about the baseball bat that fucking detective with the British accent had? Called himself, The Mick.”

  “Do we have a detective by the name of Mick?” Mario asked Truman.

  Truman shrugged his shoulders. “Not that I know of.”

  “What about a British accent?” Mario said again, looking at Truman.

  Truman shook his head from side to side. “We have a few Cajuns, but not British.”

  “You see? We don’t have a Mick,” Mario said, and did his walk around the room as he thought. “What we do have here is a frightened guy that gave a full confession before calling his attorney. Now his lawyer—you,” he said, pointing his finger at Ty, “wants to say he wrote his statement under duress.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not going to hold up in court,” Truman interjected, throwing a copy of the written statement Darrell signed in front of Ty.

  “What about the recording?” Ty asked.

  “What recording?” Mario replied, once again looking at Truman.

  “The recording the Mick forced me to say with a baseball bat aimed at my head,” Darrell shouted.

  “Mr. Cooks, you will have to contain your client, or I will lock him up and throw the key away,” Mario said politely but sternly.

  Ty whispered in Darrell's ear. It was apparent from his reaction he didn’t like what Ty said. Darrell sat with his arms folded and didn’t say another word.

  Shifting his eyes, Ty got Mario’s attention and asked if they could talk in the hallway. Mario opened the door, and they met at the end of the hall away in private.

  Ty pleaded that Darrell was not the guy Mario wanted. Ty was dishing out his slick lawyer bullshit, but Mario stood his ground, looking right into Big Ty’s eyes.

  “Detective, you want the guys that snatched your girlfriend, not Darrell. You know you want Rodney, Charlie, and Sammy. Those are the career criminals that should be behind bars.”

  Mario strolled almost in circles in the narrow hallway, looking down at the floor. His mind was racing on just how he was going to spin this to his advantage. More importantly, he wanted to get justice for Kate’s pain, suffering, and a lifetime of horrible memories.

  Mario wanted to handle this through the court system first. If that didn’t get them justice, he’d handle them himself. He wanted Darrell’s statement to go into evidence. Judge Bernard could collaborate with the district attorney’s office to have it thrown out of court. Charlie and Sammy would give statements about who hired them and serve their time. Rodney would go down for abducting Kate. Mario gave Ty a chance to absorb the details.

  “You make that happen, and we have a deal,” Ty said, adjusting his black-framed Gucci eyeglasses.

  Mario gave a snicker. “I’ll make it work, or I’ll cut a deal with Sammy or Charlie that will put Darrell away for a long time.”

  “Yeah, good luck in finding Sammy or Charlie. I’ve been looking for these guys since I put up the bail money two days ago,” Ty said. His face showed concern. “I think Dante and his big bro’s family fund is going to take a hit. These guys have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Mario said as a shock wave went through his body.

  “Yeah, disappeared. No one at the flop house has seen them—no phone contact. It’s like they walked out of Central Lockup and disappeared. I think they jumped bail.”

  A chill went up Mario’s back—something was seriously wrong. Then he took off running down the hallway. He shouted to an officer to take Darrell back to a holding cell and called out to Truman to follow him.

  “Do we have a deal?” Big Ty shouted as Mario and Truman entered an elevator.

  “Hold on, Big Guy. There is a change in plans,” Mario said as the elevator closed.

  CHAPTER 38

  The police cruiser pulled out from the underground parking garage onto Broad Street. Mario was driving, and Truman sat in the passenger's seat still shocked from being yanked from the meeting room without an explanation.

  “Are you going to fill me in on why we left in the middle of an interview?” Truman said, watching the red and blue flashing lights reflect in the windshield. Then Mario flipped the siren on as he approached an intersection.

  “Let’s go. Get the hell out the way,” Mario shouted to the car in front of him as he took his cruiser to the shoulder of the road and jumped on the Pontchartrain Express. It was a direct shot to the West End area which was nothing more than an extension of I-10 through the city that dropped you at the entrance of Lakeway Drive.

  The one-hundred-year-old Yacht Club had seen better days. A new generation of wealth and successful businesspeople started remodeling these old boathouses into luxury weekend homes, making it the place to be during the spring and summer.

  Mario pulled up in front of Boathouse 72 and found some men working on the inside of the house. Truman continued to follow Mario, not knowing what the force was behind his thought process—he kept his motivation on pure instinct.

  “S
top working and turn off that compressor,” Mario yelled as he held his police badge in the air. Truman had no choice but to follow his lead and lifted his shield in the air too.

  Two workers were holding sheetrock against a wall, and another man was nailing it to the wall with a nail gun.

  “I’m getting a sick feeling,” Mario said. “This looks too familiar.”

  Truman finally took Mario by the arm. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I think Dante is following his big brother's footsteps.”

  Mario got all the workers rounded up, and it was a crew of three that had been working on the house for a few weeks. After talking to them for a few minutes, he knew none of them were involved with Dante. Just some Mexicans doing construction work—common for this area of town.

  “When did you start hanging sheetrock?” Mario asked the man that seemed to be in charge of holding the nail gun. Truman slowly took the nail gun from the worker and placed it on the floor after he unplugged the pressure hose from the compressor.

  The worker told Mario they started hanging sheetrock that morning in the bedroom. One wall had sheetrock, and they had finished the room. The lead worker pointed to the wall that was completed when they arrived that morning.

  Mario picked up a hammer from a toolbox that was on the floor and landed the head in between two studs. It stuck in the wall, breaking into the sheetrock.

  Mario looked around the room. “What bedroom doesn’t have a closet?”

  “We closed the closet to give more wall space in the room and added a walk-in closet in the bathroom,” the worker said, walking into the bathroom to show Mario.

  “Where was the closet in the bedroom?”

  “Right in this area,” a worker pointed out.

  Mario wanted the wall ripped open and started swinging the hammer.

  The workers stood looking at each other. “Loco,” one said to another in his native languish. From the little Spanish Mario knew, that was one word he had heard several times during his time in Gang Enforcement.