by Don Bruns
‘Oh, don’t you worry.’ The tall man with greased down black hair rocked back and forth sitting in the gray cloth chair. He rubbed his large bony hands on his faded jeans as if to wipe the odor of fish from them. ‘The grunts you sent before worked out just fine. Sometimes we worked ’em twenty-four hours straight, but the job got done.’
‘Sounds like Zandar Packing is doing quite well.’
Whether it was his imagination or a true scent, he could detect the smell of a fishmonger. It turned his stomach.
‘Oh, hell, Mr Blount. We’re doing great. This is the biggest box chain we’ve ever worked with. These stores sell a boatload of shrimp, but we need to get up to speed quick. We got one month to start delivering, but it’s a shitload of money. A shitload of money.’
He considered upping the price. If there was that much money to be made, a shitload … ‘I’ll put Mr Houston on it right away. He and his’ – Blount cleared his throat – ‘his staff will deliver the workers, and they’ll stop by on a regular basis to make sure they stay in line.’ He’d almost said thugs instead of staff. That’s what they were. Thugs.
‘As usual, you cover any problems?’
‘We take their passports and visas as soon as they arrive,’ Blount said. ‘Somebody tries to walk, they don’t have anywhere to go. Once we have their legal documents, we own them. Trust me. You need thirty workers, right?’
‘Thirty. For the foreseeable future.’
‘Lodging, food?’
‘Same as before. We stack ’em in a concrete block warehouse building, two showers and two toilets and give ’em a couple of hot plates. Nothin’ fancy. Of course they can cook their own food. Lots of fish, Mr Blount.’ He laughed, a high-pitched sound coming from his throat.
Blount chuckled. ‘Probably better than what they have at home.’ So many avenues for selling bodies. The opportunities never stopped.
‘Working conditions are nothin’ to write home about, but …’
The odor was stronger. Blount nodded. A stinking fish-packing company, twenty-four-hour shifts and two showers and toilets for thirty workers. Men and women. No, it wasn’t the most pleasant situation he could think of. But sometimes these really were better conditions than what they had at home. At least he kept telling himself that. He picked up his handkerchief from the desk and held it against his nose to mask the smell.
‘OK, Mr Morris. Ten thousand per employee upon delivery. Three hundred thousand for the transaction. If we have to replace any of those, the price goes down to eight thousand for their replacement. I trust that we’ll be able to supervise these workers so that they last the duration of their employment.’
‘No inspections, Mr Blount. That’s part of the agreement. Same as before, am I right?’
Case Blount folded his hands over his protruding stomach. His stained shirt spoke of the omelet he’d had for breakfast, a smear of jelly and a Coke from half an hour ago. He thought back to last year when a Thai worker had been seriously injured at Zandar Packing. A woman operating a canning machine manually pushed some raw fish into the device. The apparatus grabbed her hand, immediately crushing it, then yanked her into the jaws all the way up to her elbow before shutting down, the flesh, tendons and bones of her arm pulverized. Blood and the pulp of her skin sprayed across the rubber conveyer belt. Two workers had rushed her back to the warehouse where an employee who was trained as a nurse tried to stop the bleeding. The trauma and loss of blood was more than the woman could stand and she died two days later.
Blount and company had quietly erased the evidence, and there was no investigation. No one ever missed the young lady. And thankfully, no one ever manually pushed product into the canning machines again.
‘No, I can assure you there will be no inspections, Mr Morris. If there is a problem, we will do our best to solve it. You know that.’
‘Yes, I remember very well.’ The tall, gangly man stood and reached out to shake Blount’s hand.
The fat man shook his head. ‘I’ve got a bad cold. Don’t want to give it to you.’ He picked up his handkerchief and blew his nose long and hard. He didn’t want to shake the hand of the shrimp man. Just deliver the workers and take the money.
They worked through lunch hunched over screens, watching grainy images with masses of partying revelers who strained to get a good view of the floats. Jumping high, stooping low, the crowd grabbed for throws tossed by outlandishly clad riders. Yes, there were hooded sweatshirts by the dozens. The weather had been cool, dropping into the low forties and almost everyone was bundled up to keep themselves warm.
‘Years ago they actually threw gold pieces,’ Beeman said. ‘I’ve got a friend who has dozens of those pieces.’
‘So, Q, we’re isolating this right now to the block where the body was found.’ Levy continued to look at his screen. ‘What if this killer took off the hood as soon as he walked away. Then we’re screwed.’
‘We’ll hope that didn’t happen. Or let’s look for someone who is removing the hood. Just keep a sharp eye.’
They’d been over the videos dozens of times. Three security cameras had caught the parade in the vicinity of the murder, but obviously the crowds had hidden or blocked the actual act because there was nothing to indicate someone had been killed. Only the shots from the camera on a stick showed what appeared to be the murder of the adoption attorney. Those videos were the defining shots.
‘He’s still got the knife on him at this point,’ Beeman said. ‘We didn’t find it dropped anywhere at the scene.’
‘He may have dumped it on a trash pile or dumpster once he got out of the neighborhood.’
‘Or maybe,’ Levy chimed in, ‘one of the bystanders picked it up. Let’s hope that didn’t happen.’
‘But,’ Beeman said, ‘it’s a good bet that he’s got it on him right now. Let’s assume that he still has the knife. In this view. He wouldn’t carry it in his hands. He’d freak out anyone who saw him, so he must have tucked it into his sweatshirt. He’s hiding it. Maybe in the belt of his pants. He’s still got that knife in this scene.’
‘And?’ Archer encouraged him. ‘We don’t know where he is, so how do we tell? What’s your idea?’
‘Well, this may be a small thing, but remember, it’s now a murder weapon. Now it’s something that’s very important to him. Before it was just a knife. An object that he carried with him. Now it’s got a lot more significance. You know how when you walk through the Quarter and even with your gun in a holster, snapped shut, you still reach for it occasionally, just to make sure it’s there?’
Archer and Levy stared at him.
‘Well,’ the frustration rising in his voice, ‘damn it, I do. I also check my wallet every once in a while. It might pay you to do that, Q.’ He glared at Archer. ‘Seems to me you got your wallet lifted down here not too long ago, Detective Archer. Maybe you remember that?’
‘So what’s your point?’ Archer asked.
‘This guy doesn’t want that knife falling out of his shirt or belt. Fingerprints are on it, maybe some blood, so he’s sticking his hand inside the shirt, or checking his belt every so often. He’s walking quickly through the crowd, the hood is tight on his head, and he’s patting his shirt, his waist. The man is just making sure that knife is still there until he can dispose of it safely.’
‘OK,’ Archer said, ‘let’s start over again. Anyone in a gray hoody that walks fast and pats themselves periodically. No perverts please.’
‘Guy right there,’ Levy said, freezing the screen. ‘See, he’s doing exactly that. Like he’s checking to make sure something is secure.’
‘Damn, blow that up,’ Beeman said.
The camera caught the side of the face. A dark-skinned man, right hand pressed against the front of his pants. As if he was protecting something. He walked fast. Not too fast, but as a man on a mission.
‘I’ll be damned,’ Beeman leaned in and watched the man.
‘It’s a long shot, Sergeant,’ Levy said.
; ‘And no way to prove it’s a knife,’ Archer added.
‘Can we follow him?’ Levy pointed at the screen. ‘We’ve got camera vids on down the street. There’s two bars, a souvenir shop and a jewelry store in the next two blocks. They all had cameras outside. We’ve got their views. Cue those up and we’ll see if he shows up in any of those.’
‘Good idea. If he stays on the street or the sidewalk we should be able to see him. And blow that photo up as big as possible. Let’s see if we can see him a little clearer.’
Archer enlarged the frozen photo, the side of the man’s face filling the screen. There was no mistaking a long scar on the suspect’s cheek.
TWENTY-TWO
Paul Girard watched the river, phone in his hand, recorder ready to receive. The slight, five foot ten blond-haired man was slightly intimidated by his subject. Easily six foot something, muscular and black as coal. Girard had never been given his name, but running a background on Warhead Solja he knew this man was one of the ringleaders of the drug gang. This interview could be the highlight of his story. An inside look at human trafficking.
‘So, no names, no gang names, no accusations, right? You’re recording this conversation, and so am I. You have to agree, understand?’ The man opened his large tattooed hand showing his cell phone.
Girard nodded. ‘You are anonymous. You volunteered to talk to me. If you let me interview you, I promise to keep your identity a secret. I’m personally curious as to why you are willing to be interviewed at all.’
‘Competition.’ He frowned and Girard saw the long scar on his cheek get even longer. ‘But understand, you can’t mention that. I’m talkin’ to you because I need to bury the competition.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Girard was genuinely confused.
‘No names, man. This information comes from an unknown source. No accusations, right?’
‘You have my word,’ Girard said. ‘You won’t be mentioned, OK?’
‘But’ – the black male took long strides, Girard trying to keep up – ‘you can mention the other gang. In fact, that’s what you need to do.’ He moved even faster along the levee, looking back at Girard and smirking.
‘Leave your gang out of the story, but be sure and implicate the competition. That’s what you’re asking, right?’
‘Sounds right.’
‘So I give you anonymity, but I can print anything else you tell me.’ Already he was breathing heavily. They walked at a rapid pace, and Girard was struggling. ‘Any chance you can slow down just a little?’
‘Listen to me.’ The pace continued. ‘Nasta Mafia is trafficking. Feel free to say that, you know? They’re bad actors, dig?’
‘And you’re not?’
‘I din’t say that. There are a lot of bad actors here. You talk to people, you interview low-life scumbags and you know I’m right. But, I’m tellin’ you, Nasta Mafia is. Bad. News. Those bastards traffic twenty-four/seven. You can print that. Do your homework. Man, Abe Lincoln never saw slaves like this group has. Nasta Mafia, some serious bad dudes. You put that in your story and you won’t be wrong.’
They paused for a moment and Girard studied him. He’d picked up the vibe immediately. Get the authorities to cover Nasta Mafia and this guy’s gang was home free. No competition. And Paul Girard was sworn to secrecy. He couldn’t turn the black man or his gang. But the journalistic coup would be fabulous for his career. If this gangster told the truth, there was a story worth its weight in gold. Even if he only came down on Nasta Mafia. There would be one gang out of business. If he could tell half the story it was better than no story at all. He wondered if he should call the senator. Marcia LeJeune. Tell her what he suspected, what he heard tonight. Wait till he’d fleshed out the story. Wait until he had all the facts. Wait until he broke the story in The New Yorker. Then let LeJeune bring the weight of Washington down on these bastards.
‘So, I’ve promised not to use your name … hell, I don’t even know your name. And I’ve given you my word that I won’t mention your affiliation.’
‘My what?’
‘Look, the less I know about you and the organization you represent the better we both are, right?’
The black man nodded. ‘I’ll tell you what you want to know. But no matter what you find, you don’t bring me up, or my what you called it, eflition?’
Power of the pen. He could really break the story open if he had no ethics. Dig a little deeper and expose both gangs for human trafficking.
‘Tell me how this works. Tell me how these people are recruited, where they come from.’
The man scratched at his cheek, tracing the long ugly scar that ran from his eye down to his jaw. ‘You give me up, I’ll put a hit on you, muthah fuckah. I truly will.’
Girard had been threatened before. But never by a gangster and never over his life. The last thing he wanted to happen was to be on the wrong end of a gun. He had no doubt that this man was sincere.
‘Tell me everything.’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ the imposing man said, towering over the reporter. ‘I will tell you some serious shit that will make your hair stand on end.’
‘Anyone recognize this guy?’ Archer surveyed five other detectives, three he’d recruited from their desks.
‘That hood is pulled tight. Very few of his features are clear.’
‘The scar,’ another said, ‘I’m trying to remember. Seems like he’s a gangbanger, but I’m not sure.’
‘There are a lot of battles out there, a lot of scars,’ Levy said.
‘OK, we’re going to try and follow him with some security cameras in the next couple blocks. If we can track him, we need you to keep an eye on his hands. We believe he may have a knife, the murder weapon, under his shirt or in his pants. There’s a good chance he’ll try to ditch it. Maybe in a pile of trash, or in a dumpster. If we’re lucky enough for a follow, watch for any quick movements where he tries to throw it away. Here we go.’
The view from the second camera was to the right of the first and initially there was no sign of the man.
‘If we pick him up, it will be in three, two, one …’
And there he was. Head up, dodging the bystanders, hand over his crotch, pressed tightly against his pants. The detectives watched for maybe twelve seconds and he disappeared from view. All that was left was the throng of people and the beer cans, crushed drink cups and beads thrown on the sidewalk and in the street.
‘Let’s get him on the next camera.’ Archer turned on the screen and immediately saw the figure.
‘Crossing the street and headed toward the palms and bushes in the median.’ He pointed to the palm trees and thick bushes that divided Canal Street, and bordered the two streetcar tracks. ‘If he crosses all the way over to the other side, we may lose him and,’ Beeman stopped. ‘Oh, shit, is he doing what I think he’s doing?’
‘The row of bushes.’
As they watched, the man appeared to expose himself and stand there by the bushes for two or three seconds.
‘The guy is relieving himself. Damn. That’s why he was pressing his hand on his crotch. Christ, he had to pee. And there …’
‘That’s not his unit he just pulled out,’ Levy said. ‘He’s dropping something in the bushes. In that one bush in particular.’
Archer froze the picture. The detectives stared at the photo, smiles on all of their faces.
Detective Josh Levy finally broke the silence. ‘Boys, I believe we’ve just found our murder weapon.’
‘I’m sorry about this morning.’ Solange nodded to Kathy Bavely as she put on her jacket ready to leave the care center. ‘There are times when I have these premonitions.’
‘Like your mother used to.’
‘Yes. Kathy, you know what I do for a living.’
Bavely was pulling on a sweater and her leather boots. With the temperature in the low fifties she got ready to brave the chilly weather for her ride home.
‘I do. Of course I do.’
‘You’ve never aske
d, never mentioned that you wanted to discuss it. Of course that’s quite all right, but it’s part of who I am.’
‘Well, you scared me this morning. I mean, all I’m doing is listening to this guy. I’m definitely not involved in his story. I mean, I am going to see one of his confidants, the senator, but I don’t think it’s going to affect me.’ She paused. ‘Is it?’
‘I don’t think we should visit this morning again. Sometimes it’s better not to tell someone how you feel. That’s true in all walks of life.’
‘If what you know – what you think you know – involves harm, then maybe I should be aware.’
‘I can’t explain my process to you. You don’t want to know the thoughts that come to me or where they come from. You wouldn’t understand them.’ She paused and looked away. ‘I don’t understand them most of the time.’
‘Your point is?’
‘I would like to suggest something you might do to protect yourself. But if you don’t want to hear it—’
‘What? Buy a gun?’
‘That may not be a bad idea,’ Solange said. ‘Seriously.’
‘You’re really serious about this. OK, what else?’
‘You’re still going to Senator LeJeune’s talk?’
‘I am. I’ve got the day off.’
‘I wish you would cancel, but that’s not going to happen, is it?’
Bavely shook her head.
‘Promise me you won’t laugh. Because much of what I do, of what I suggest, sounds, I don’t know, somewhat mad to people. But there is centuries old magic that proves the point. I think you may be in danger. Largely because of Paul Girard and his human trafficking project.’
‘Why do you even involve yourself?’ Bavely asked.
‘I have no choice, Kathy. That’s the hard part of this.’ She clenched her fists, shaking her head. Staring into her friend’s eyes, she quietly said, ‘I don’t choose to know these things. The spirits send the visions, the feelings, to me. It isn’t something I can control. Please, try and understand.’