by Alex Kava
For a guy who spent his days not moving much, The Tin Man was fast--and nimble. But not fast enough. She got close enough to bring him down as he rounded the corner onto Esplanade Ave.
She tackled him and sent them both sprawling onto the pavement. She heard a sickening crack and saw a spray of blood. Somebody was going to need a trip to the E.R.
Too fuckin’ bad.
Stacy wrenched his right arm around his back, snapped on one cuff, then did the same with the second.
“You never run, asshole,” she said through gritted teeth. “But you do have the right to remain silent . . .”
11:35 p.m.
Stacy had called for a cruiser and let the officers escort the Tin Man to the Eighth. Now, she sat across the scarred up interview room table from him. Patterson stood by the door.
She swept her gaze over him. Legal name Charlie Tinnin. Had a record, though nothing hardcore. Silver smeared by sweat and blood, cleaned away from the nasty gash on his chin and sidewalk burn on his right cheek. The doc who’d taken a look at both had pronounced him fit for questioning.
“Charlie,” she flipping through his file, “you have a record. Surprise, surprise.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Except run. Why’d you run, Charlie?”
“Cuz I don’t like cops. No offense.”
She’d heard that one before. “You sure that’s the reason, Charlie?” She waited. He frowned. “You sure it doesn’t have something to do with Jillian Ricks?”
“What about Jillian?”
“You know her?”
“We’ve talked a couple times.”
“Talked? That’s it?”
“Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Why?”
“Because she’s dead.”
The color drained from his face. He couldn’t have faked that, but the reason for it was up for grabs.
“Dead,” he repeated. “When--” He cleared his throat. “--what happened?”
“Where’s her baby, Charlie?”
“What?”
“Her baby. It’s unaccounted for.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You are aware she had a baby.”
He nodded. He reminded her of one of those bobble head toys. “So what?”
“She’s missing, that’s what.”
Patterson cleared his throat in an attempt to redirect her. Stacy ignored him. “Why’d you run, Charlie?” she asked again.
“I told you. I swear.”
“When’s the last time you saw Jillian?”
“I don’t know . . . a couple days ago. We didn’t hang out.”
“She have any other friends?”
“I don’t . . . not that I know of. When did she-- When did it happen?”
“I ask the questions here, not you. Where were you last night? Between eight and midnight.”
“Working my spot.”
“By Cafe du Monde?”
“Yeah.”
“But you didn’t see Jillian?”
His eyes darted nervously between her and Patterson. “I told you, I was working. She may have walked by, I don’t know.”
“Come on, she walked by? Friends say hello.”
“It was busy. Med convention in town.” When she simply stared at him, he added, “You stand up there without moving a muscle, see what you see.”
He had a point. “Where did she stay?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” And she did. She saw the uncertainty that raced into his eyes. “Where’d she stay?”
“Last I--”
“Excuse me, Detectives?” The desk officer stuck his head in. “A moment.”
Stacy stood and joined Patterson and the officer outside the interview room.
“We’ve got another victim.”
Stacy sucked in a sharp breath. “Where?”
“North Rampart. Near Armstrong Park. Same M.O.”
Stacy’s heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. “Another young woman with a child?”
“No. An old guy. Also homeless. Just happened.”
The son of a bitch wasn’t killing to acquire the infants. Thank God.
Stacy turned and started back into the interview room.
“Killian?”
Patterson. Confusion in his tone. She didn’t stop or look back, simply returned to her seat across from Tinnin. “Where’d she stay?”
“What the hell, Killian? Release him. He’s not our guy. We’ve got to go.”
“Where’d she stay,” she asked again, holding Tinnin’s gaze. "I need that information. Now.”
“Vic’s still twitching,” Patterson said. “Come on, perp could be close by.”
She looked at her partner. “Go, then! I’ve got this.”
“You’re losing it, Killian. I’m going to have to report this to Henry.”
“Do it then. Take my frickin’ badge.” She unclipped it and slammed it onto the table. “Not now.”
“A warehouse!” the kid blurted out. “Upriver from the Quarter.”
Stacy was aware of her partner’s shocked silence. She turned back to the kid. “You’re going to take me to where Jillian stayed. Now.”
12:10 a.m.
The Mississippi River snaked its way around New Orleans, hugging the French Quarter, feeding the city. All along it, both up and down-river, warehouses dotted the levee, supporting New Orleans’ port, the busiest in the country.
“Where?” she demanded, buckling in.
“Are you crazy?”
She realized she must seem that way to him. Wild-eyed from lack of sleep, an emotional wreck. Her off the rails behavior at the Eighth.
She glanced his way. “Not dangerous crazy.”
“So you’re not going to hurt me?”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He looked unconvinced, but buckled up anyway.
“The baby,” she said, easing away from the curb. “What’s it's name?”
“Jillian called her Peanut.”
Peanut. Stacy tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. Be alive, Peanut. Be safe.
12:25 a.m.
He led her to an abandoned warehouse just up-river from the French Market, at N. St. Peters and Elysian Fields. She pulled up and parked. Looked at him. “This is it? You’re sure?”
“I just dropped her off here. I didn’t go in.”
“That’ll do.” She popped open the glove box, retrieved her spare flashlight and handed it to him.
He looked at it, then back up at her. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah. Man up, dude.”
He grimaced. “I bet it smells in there.”
It did. Of mold, unwashed bodies and God knew what else. Stacy moved her flashlight beam over the interior. Basic, metal walls and supports, concrete floor.
Jillian hadn’t been the only one to call this warehouse home. Cardboard boxes, ratty old blankets. Figures curled into balls under those blankets. A few huddled together, staring blankly at her.
Eight squatters died in a warehouse like this last winter. It had caught fire and burned to the ground. She shuddered. “Police,” she called. “I’m looking for a baby. Jillian Ricks’ baby.” She swept the beam over the huddled figures. “She called her Peanut.”
Silence.
“I don’t want any trouble. Just the baby. She’s probably been crying.”
The transient didn’t trust anyone, particularly police. They lived on the fringe for a reason, none of them good. Mental illness. Abuse. PTSD. Bad, frickin’ luck.
She dug a bill out of her pocket. Held it up. “I’ve got ten bucks for the one who takes me to her.”
“Twenty.”
Stacy swung in the direction the crackly voice had come. A woman. Face obscured by dirt and wild gray hair.
Stacy dug another ten out of her pocket. “Show me, and it’s yours.”
The woman pointed, then held out her hand.
Stacy closed her fist on th
e cash. “Nope. You have to take me to her.”
The woman hesitated a moment, then got to her feet. She shuffled forward, waving for them to follow her.
She led them to a far corner of the building. To a grouping of cardboard boxes. She handed the woman the money and focused on the boxes.
A home. Jillian Ricks had built a home for her and her baby.
Emotion choked her. She moved closer. “Peanut,” she called. “Make a sound for us, Sweetheart.”
A low, deep growl answered her. Jillian hadn’t left her child alone after all.
Stacy got to her knees. Directed her light into the makeshift home. A small, dirty white dog bared its teeth. She’d been bitten a couple times before, once by a Pit. A drug dealer had set him on her and she’d been forced to take it down. She loved animals and had hated doing it. She prayed it didn’t come to that tonight.
She shifted her gaze and the flashlight beam. It fell across a small bundle, partly obscured by the dog. The bundle mewed weakly, like a kitten.
Stacy’s heart jumped; she looked back at Tinnin. “She’s alive! Call 9-1-1. Tell them there’s an officer down.”
“But, you’re not--”
“It’s the quickest way to get an emergency vehicle here. Do it!”
It occurred to her she might be down, once that little dog was finished with her. “It’s okay,” she said softly, hoping to reassure the animal. “I’m going to help Peanut.”
She inched into the box, earning another growl. “Peanut needs food and water. And so do you. It’s going to be okay,” she said again. “I promise.”
She crawled in, stopping every few inches to let the animal grow accustomed to her, the whole time continuing to talk softly. The dog watched her warily, muzzle quivering. But not baring its teeth. A good sign.
Stacy took a deep breath. “Good dog. That’s right, good, good dog . . . I’m going to take Peanut now . . . that’s right--”
She scooped her up. Cradled her to her chest. She was alive. Alive and the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Peanut,” Stacy whispered, the wail of sirens in the background. “It’s going to be okay now. Everything’s going to be all right.”
And then she began to cry.
One week later.
As Stacy walked into the squad room, it went silent. But only for a moment.
“Welcome back, Killian,” Patterson said, standing. “Way to go.”
Others followed his lead, calling out congratulations, clapping her on the back as she passed.
Yeah, she’d broken ranks--and been reprimanded for it. But she’d also trusted her gut and followed her instincts. Nobody understood--and applauded--that better than another cop.
That it’d paid off was definitely something to cheer about.
Several minutes later, she sank into the chair across the desk from Patterson. “Looks like you managed to keep crime at bay without me.”
He laughed, then shook his head. “A week’s suspension without pay, Killian. That was stiff.”
“But so worth it.” Stacy sobered. “Sorry about that night. I was out of line.”
“You were right. You saved that baby’s life.”
“But the bad guy got away.”
A week had passed with no new leads. Nothing. The med convention had packed up and left town and Stacy couldn’t help wondering if their perp had left with them.
If she had been focused on catching him, if she had joined Patterson at the scene, while it was still white-hot, would the outcome have been different?
As if reading her thoughts, Patterson snorted. “Stop it, Killian. You did what you thought was right and followed your gut. Isn’t that what a cop’s supposed to do?”
“He’s going to kill again.”
“Yeah, he is. But maybe that little girl’s going to grow up and cure cancer.”
She stared at him a moment, then laughed. “We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?”
“Maybe.”
She laughed again. “Fair enough, considering. You plugged everything into ViCAP?”
“Done. How’s the newest member of your family?”
“Peanut, the wonder dog,” she said, shaking her head. Child Protective Services had taken Jillian’s baby until she could be joined with her father, but no way would Stacy allow that brave little pooch to be taken to the S.P.C.A. “I swear, Spencer already loves that mutt more than me.”
Major Henry stuck his head out his door. “Patterson, Killian, 10-21, Waldhorn and Adler Antiques on Royal. Now, not tomorrow.”
BLOOD SUGAR BABY
by
J.T. Ellison
Nashville, Tennessee
He was lost. His GPS didn’t take into account road work, nor roads closed to accommodate protests, and he’d been shunted off onto several side streets and was now driving in circles. He finally made a right turn and pulled to the curb to get out a real map, and as he reached into the glove box — shit, he needed to get that knife out of there — he saw her. She was on the concrete sidewalk, sprawled back against the wall, a spread of multicolored blankets at her feet, staring blankly into space. Her dirty blond hair was past limp and full into dreadlocks, matted against her skull on the left side. He drove past slowly, watching, seeing the curve of her skull beneath the clumps of hair, the slope of her jaw, her neat little ear, surprisingly white and clean, nestled against her grimy skin. Her eyes were light. He was too far away to see if they were blue or green. Light irises, and unfocused pupils. High, perhaps, or starved, or simply beyond caring.
Perfect.
No one would miss her. And he could rid himself of this nagging fury that made him so damn antsy.
He closed the glove box and circled the block. There she sat, just waiting for him.
A sign.
A gift.
It had been a bad day. Jock gone-to-seed, flakily jovial, over-the-top trying to compensate for something Heath Stover, the fat ass he’d started med school with, had called, wanting to get together. JR had run into him last month in New Orleans, been forced into Hurricanes at Pat O’Briens, and had stupidly told Stover where he worked.
He shook his head, the scene replaying itself over and over and over. Stover bragging and braying at the top of his lungs about his hugely successful practice, his new BMW, his long-legged, big-busted bride, his offer of tenure at Tulane. The only thing that was off, Stover confided, was his piece on the side, who’d been pushing him to leave his wife.
In the moment, bolstered by alcohol, the camaraderie, the overwhelming need to fit in, to be accepted, to look as palatable to the real world as this fuck-up, sanity was cast aside. Arrogance overtook him, and he revealed his own career path, up the ladder at Bosco Blades, a salesman extraordinaire. No Willy Loman, though he perhaps looked and sounded a bit like the sad sack, but that was all a part of his act. He was better than that. Better than good. He was the best the company had: stock options, access to the corporate jet, the house in Aspen, all of it.
“As a matter of fact,” he’d told Stover, “I’m headlining a conference in Nashville next month. Talking about the new laser-guided scalpel we’ve developed. Hell of a thing.”
“Hell of a thing,” Stover had replied. He was counting on the fact that Stover was far too drunk to recall the name of the company, and he gave him a fake number to write down, and a bogus email.
But the stupid son of a bitch had remembered the company name, had called and wormed JR’s personal cell number out of his secretary, had himself put on the calendar, and in a couple of hours would be waiting at a restaurant several streets away for an instant replay of their night in the Big Easy.
If only Stover knew what had really happened that night. About the knife, and the silent scream, and the ease with which the flesh accepted his blade.
He needed someplace quiet, and calm to prepare himself for his night with a “friend.” He needed a drink, truth be told. Many drinks.
But the woman would do just as well. She would
turn his frown upside down.
He parked a few blocks away, pulled a baseball cap low on his head and walked back to the spot. A marble and concrete sign said he was at Legislative Plaza. The War Memorial. The Capitol rose to his right, high against the blue sky, and the small crowd of protesters with their signs held high gathered on the stairs. He needed to be careful when he passed them, not to draw their attention.
He found the perfect spot halfway down the block, shielded from the friendly mob on the stairs, and from the street, with the trident maples as cover.
And then he watched. And waited. At some point, she would have to move, and then he would follow, and strike.
To hell with Heath Stover. He had a rendezvous ahead with someone much more enticing.
The homicide offices in Nashville’s Criminal Justice Center had been quiet all day. It was the first Monday off Daylight Savings time, and even though it was barely 5:00 p.m., the skies outside Lieutenant Taylor Jackson’s window were inky with darkness. The lights over the Jefferson Street bridge glowed, warm and homey, and she could just see the slice of river flowing north to Kentucky. It was a moonless night; the vapor lamps’ illuminations reflected against the black waters.
Her detectives were gone for the day. Paperwork had been completed; cases were being worked to her satisfaction. She’d stuck around just in case — the B shift detectives would be here shortly and she could hand off the department to her new sergeant, Bob Parks. He was a good match for the position, had the respect of her team, who’d worked with him for years. Parks had no illusions about moving up the ladder; he was content to be her sergeant until his twenty was up in two years and he retired. His son, Brent, was on the force now too. Taylor suspected Parks had opted to get off the streets to give his son some room. Classy guy.
Her desk phone rang, cutting through the quiet, and she shifted in the window, suddenly filled with premonition.
“Lieutenant Jackson.”
It was Marcus Wade, one of her detectives.
“Hey Loot. We’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind that comes with the chief of police attached.”