by Jerry Brown
"There was a collection of male genitalia in a large jug that once contained pickled pigs feet. One was much smaller and darker than the others."
"How many were there?"
"Too many to count in the jar and I certainly wasn't goin' to take 'em out and count 'em. The lab people will have all that information and, hopefully, can confirm that one came from the boy. There was a lot of other interesting stuff as well, but you can see it all tomorrow."
"Was there a large canvas bag there?"
"Yeah, that's where most of the stuff was."
"You don't have him yet, though?"
"No, but we will. He'll have to show himself eventually and, when he does, we'll get him. They've tripled the patrol coverage in the park and a wide area around it. They're also questioning the staff of every homeless center in Orleans and Jefferson parishes for information on him. I've also widened the net statewide just in case he got by us. Don't worry, he's dead meat now."
"Bill Ed, I'm tickled that you're the one to confirm things. Don't be bashful, let the credit stick on you. You deserve it -- take it. I'll back you up. You're not going in tomorrow are you?"
"No, I'll probably drop by the office, but I think I'm goin' to take the family on a picnic, way beyond the reach of the radio."
"Good for you. You deserve it. I'll see you sometime, Monday. Tell Captain Aubrian he can have two checks made out, both in the amount of seven thousand five hundred dollars. One payable to me and one to Emrick Powell."
"Your going to split it with him?"
"Sure, if it wasn't for him, we'd still be chasin' spooks and school teachers."
"You put it that way I guess you're right. I'll take care of that first thing Monday morning."
Chapter 31
He couldn't believe it, a man of his age and experience with predate jitters! What's the matter with you? One side of his brain asked the other. You're not going to do a thing, but enjoy an excellent meal and maybe a drink after.
Your damned right that's all that is going to happen. But how do you know that it's going to be an excellent meal, answered the other side.
Have you ever had a meal in New Orleans that wasn't excellent?
Not over once or twice.
Well, that's pretty good odds, isn't it?
That's excellent odds. What do you say we get into some of that scotch.
I think that's a capital idea, but don't you think we should discuss an understanding with Arceneaux?
No, let's play it by ear. She'll probably come in lookin' like Wilhemina Wallflower again.
You're dreamin', pal.
You're probably right.
He heard a knock at the door. He answered it. It was Yvonne. She was definitely not Wilhemina Wallflower. Her hair and makeup was pretty much the way she looked when she had surprised him Thursday morning. Her short sleeve shirt was replaced with a long sleeve white silk blouse, her loose fitting black slacks by form fitting jeans, the canvas shoes by black stiletto heels. She now met Bowman eye to eye. She was not wearing the same revealing bra. She wore nothing at all under the opaque, clinging blouse. Her breasts were heavy, but erect. The action of the heels caused them to perform a very active dance when she walked. Despite his resolve to maintain distance, Bowman was mesmerized by their action.
"Before you say anything," Arceneaux said as she moved to take a chair facing him. "You've made it very clear to me what you insist our relationship is goin' to be. I accept that. I'll abide by that, but what I won't do is hide from you what you're missing." With that comment she raised her arms to either side of her face, placed her elbows on her knees and bent forward. She was heavily endowed and much of that endowment fought to bulge from the blouse. Bowman elected to pour himself another drink.
"Will you be embarrassed to be seen with such a shameless hussy?" she asked.
"Not if you'll agree to walk closely in front of me," he answered.
"Directly in front or a little to one side?"
"Maybe a little to the right."
She looked down at his crotch and back up at his eyes, then threw back her head, flicking her hair and chuckled.
"You're not going to make this easy are you?" he asked.
"Not on your life. Shall we ride?"
She walked ahead of him, a little to the right, as he escorted her to the drivers seat of her car. She said: "Would you like to drive?"
"No way, but where are we goin'?"
"To an out of the way seafood house in the Irish Channel."
"What makes it so special?"
"It's the place I hawked tables and fielded every line known to mankind for about ten years, five nights a week till eleven and till two on Saturdays. That's how I supported myself and paid for tuition and books after my parents died. They both died about the same time, well within hours. They were killed in a car wreck."
Arriving at the restaurant, she pulled to the rear of the building where parking spaces had not been visible from the road, and quickly reversed herself and returned to the front lot. As they exited the vehicle, Bowman rushed to open her door but she met him at the rear of the car, so he walked at her left elbow up the stairs. His gallantry was not wasted as she waited for him to open one of the double screen doors for her. They entered a large single room. A bar stood to their left, and the remainder of the large open space was devoted to dining. The interior was woodsy, mostly pine paneling. Except for a calendar with a duck scene and a "Vote for David Duke" sign, the walls were filled with nautical gear, stuffed ducks and a wide variety of trophy fish.
The patrons and staff smiled and waved to Arceneaux. Most sought eye contact with her as she spoke and returned the waves of her friends. Once she began walking, eye contact was forgotten. She seemed to be aware of it and added a little to her performance. The additional effort was totally unnecessary. She selected a table away from everyone else. He seated her and took a chair across from her. Apparently without awareness, she rested her breasts on her arms which were flat on the table. She leaned forward and asked him: "Well, whad'da ya' think?"
He blushed as he answered: "I think their beautiful, Yvonne."
She moved back in her seat, put her hand to her face and made an embarrassed chuckle. "I meant the place. What do you think of the place?"
"If the food is as good as the ambiance promises, it should be sumptuous."
"It will be, I promise."
Bowman scanned the menu. All looked enticing. He looked up and caught Arceneaux studying him. He perceived an innocent excitement in her, a pleasure in his acceptance of the moment and this place that had been so much a part of her life. He laid down the menu and said: "Since it's been established that you're familiar with the food here, why don't you order for both of us. Any kind of seafood for me."
"Okay, do you think you can handle another drink first. I want to order a Blue Parrot. I must've served a million of the damned things, but I never tasted one. I either had to run home and study or I was too tired of even thinking about staying to taste a drink."
"Sure, but make mine scotch and water. The ole liver's too far gone for blue and sweet."
She frowned at yet another reference to his age. When the drinks arrived she quickly took a sip of her large, ice filled blue drink and said: "My gawd, its okay, but hardly worth the anticipation."
"My dear, I expect you'll find that true of many things in life," he said, somewhat piously.
"John Bowman, the wise ole sage," she responded.
"Old is right, sage questionable."
"It's all a state of mind," she answered with a slight frown.
"Tell that to my scars and wrinkles," he said.
"The ones outside or the ones inside?"
"Both," he answered.
In an attempt to divert his feigned melancholy mood she said: "Some folks call you John, some Bowman. I think I want my own name for you. How about Beau?"
"Sounds fine to me, Arse," he quickly responded with a smile.
"I think Bowman might be
better after all," she said returning his smile.
"It's served me well through these many years." Both chuckled at his singleness of purpose in their verbal parry. "Did you work here right up to the time you began your job with NOPD?"
"Yes, the superintendent was one of our regular customers. He knew that I was graduating and had no job to go to. He created a job for me." In responding, Arceneaux's shoulders sagged slightly and she gazed at her hands folded in her lap. He realized that she expected him to ask about her relationship with Landry. He took a different slant. "And the cops resent you because they feel you got your job for reasons other than open competition. Consequently, you feel guilty and undeservin'."
"Something like that," she said still concentrating on her hands.
"You haven't felt that way since you've been assigned to me have you?"
"No, but now that you're leaving things will go back to the way they were," she looked up with tears forming in her eyes.
"Yvonne, you're brighter than that. You gotta quit this negative thinkin' and concentrate on the positives."
"What positives, I'll be damned if I can see any positives," her tears were replaced by a hint of anger.
"You're funny," Bowman replied. "I see nothin' but positives. The main reason you've been comfortable workin' with me is because I gave you specific assignments. All you have to do now is give yourself similar duties. No one knows what your job is supposed to be, includin' yourself, so there's no one ridin' you with a tight rein. Hell, you can make up your own job description. Develop any expertise you like."
"Like what?"
"I hate to answer that. It should be your choice. Like learnin' all there is to know about skinheads, juvenile gangs, Voodoo, Santeria, emerging trends on drugs of choice, Columbian cartels or dozens of other things. It doesn't matter. The point is, as you develop information, share it in brief succinct reports so that others will benefit from them and they'll come to think of you as a resource. If you apply yourself, it won't take long to gain respect."
"That will take time," she said. "I'm not at all sure I have that much time."
Bowman shook his head and reached across the table, briefly placing his hand over hers "I think you're bein' negative again. Lookin' for goblins where there may not be any, but if your wantin' a quick hit, I can tell you how to do that -- if you promise me you'll do it forcefully."
"Why not, what do I have to lose," she commented with copious doubt and little enthusiasm.
"I've got to have a little more excitement and commitment than that or I don't share my little seeds of aged wisdom."
"I told you I would," she said with more pout than irritation.
"Still not good enough. I want a smile with dimples. I want commitment, enthusiasm and a promise of forcefulness."
"Bowman, I'll give it my best shot with commitment, enthusiasm and forcefulness," she said with mock irritation. "Now what is it, ole wise one."
"Can't tell ya. I haven't gotten my two dimple smile yet."
She made a forced smile. He smiled in return, but said nothing. She corrected her smile, and her eyes again filled with tears, but these were tears of relief, or promise of relief.
"Okay, now that we have a deal. The first thing Monday mornin', you'll start doggin' the ID section to insist on a priority return from the FBI fingerprint report on prior arrests of our perp. Once you get that you'll have an identification. With that you can get busy on the NCIC computer and begin checkin' every state's arrest records. Once you get a hit, use your telephone to drain every ounce of information from the arrestin' agency.
"A guy like this should have a long history of institutionalization. Could be jails, or more likely mental placements. Try to trace where he was and what his circumstances were from early childhood. Contact juvenile courts and child protection agencies. There's probably a wealth of case history material, social summaries and background history reports lying in some case file waitin' for you. If you have problems with agencies releasin' material to you, and you probably will, go to the directors of local agencies who know how serious the circumstances are -- local youth court judges -- one judge won't refuse another, but always make your request in person to the head of the agency. Some will refuse you, but most won't. If they do, be pleasant and don't make an issue of it. If you think it's important, use a different route." Bowman paused and leaned forward in his seat.
"As a last resort, go to Mayor Kingwood. He's a very capable, intelligent and caring man. Tell him I told you to come to him. Don't be shy, tell him exactly what you need him to do. While you're there develop a relationship with his secretary. That's one relationship you want to cultivate. If you can hit it off with her, you'll find that things will go easier for you. Finally, when you drop by to see all of these people, you ought to be made up as you are tonight, except with clothing that's conservative, but professional. We don't want sexy, but we don't want shy either. Make sure you're in the loop for copies of information from VICAP."
"What's that?"
"It's an FBI operation, that studies and tracks serial killers. The pickle jar provided evidence of several other murders. Those are just the ones we know occurred. What we have here is an unleashed, unsocialized, wild animal who's tasted blood. He operates on instinct, and spontaneous reaction, and he has no compunction, whatsoever, in killing. Their computers should go wild. There should be no shortage of related crimes. Take each community in which a similar offense occurred and query the various agencies I mentioned before for evidence your perp was in the area at the time. Eventually you'll get a hit, then trace back from the information you get.
If all that gets borin', or while you're waiting for information, start honin' up on endocrine imbalance, specifically Giantism. You might want to search the literature on the effect of deafness and possibly mutism on socialization in early childhood development. Each time you learn somethin' that might apply to the perp, write up a report and distribute it like you did before."
She sighed and looked down before returning her eyes to his. "How do you know all these things apply to this guy," she asked incredulously?
"I don't. They're all just gut feelin's and wild speculation. You'll probably waste alot of time on some of them. So what. You're busy and you're learnin'. But to answer your question more precisely -- no human being could be so feral in this day and time without a great deal of trauma in his history. I see him as growing up a freak -- ugly, ungainly, handicapped and without much love, attention or affection from or to anyone. All men are not created equal, no matter how impressive and movin' the wordin' of the Constitution is. This poor bastard never had a chance and he's giving back in spades the rejection, the abuse and the emptiness he experienced. If you'll operate under that hypothesis, I'm pretty sure you won't be too far off."
"You really feel sorry for this creep, don't you?"
"More angry than sympathetic, but of course I do, and I'm not apologetic for that. Naturally, my feelin's are deeper for the Porter's and those other victims and their families. My anger is just from frustration that even in these modern times our approach is so misapplied, but don't get me on a soapbox. Anyway, once you have about as much background material as you think you're goin' to get, or if you feel that some action is imminent, put together a summary of all the material you've developed. Once again, don't be shy about distributin' it. You do that, and you do it well, you'll gain respect and appreciation. Not from everyone. You'll get some negative reactions. Always will when you're tryin' to make a difference. But you'll get respect from the folks who really matter. That's my promise to you."
"Okay, I can do that," Yvonne said with her shoulders back and a full smile.
"Having shared those things, there are other things I'd like to say to you, but it'd involve stickin' my large and much broken nose in your business."
"I would love to have your nose in my business, Bowman, as well as some other places I can think of," she said teasingly.
"No, we can go back to the ban
tering after I say this. If I'm too intrusive, just tell me to butt out and I'll shut up. You never had a social life with your age group because of your work. I'd like for you to make an effort to cultivate relationships with other sharp and ambitious young women your age. When you find one who really impresses you, one you seem to get along with, I want you to move in from the country and share an apartment with her. I want her to introduce you to ambitious, self-reliant young men who have nothing whatsoever to do with law or law enforcement. I want you to have a professional world entirely separate from your social world and vice-versa."
"Is there anything else ole wise one?" she asked sarcastically.
He sighed. "Ain't it wonderful what wisdom can be bought for the price of a meal and the view of a magnificent pair of tits."
"You do know how to keep a girl off balance, John Bowman."
Their ride back to the apartment was relaxed and easy. Bowman loosened his belt to relieve the pinch from his swollen stomach. The conversation was not banter, but mostly about their meal and her telling stories about patrons at the restaurant. Because of this, he was not prepared for Yvonne's actions when they arrived at the apartment. When he opened his door, she stepped out on her side and removed an overnight bag from the trunk of the car.
"Arceneaux, this is a very bad idea," he said.
"Why? Powell isn't using his room. I'm not going to drive almost to the Mississippi line tonight and turn right around and come back in the morning. You have the whole day off tomorrow and unless you can convince me that you have other plans, I intend to spend the day with you, doing whatever you want to do. I will find a girlfriend and move into town like you suggested, but I don't know anyone yet. Unless you can mount one helluva argument, I'm gonna be outrageously pushy about this."
Bowman responded only with a gaped mouth and shaking head as he turned to enter the building. Arceneaux went directly into Powell's room and closed the door. Bowman poured himself an unneeded scotch and water, cut off the sitting room light and went to his room. He did not close his door. It was not meant as an invitation. He never closed interior doors. He immediately showered and finished his drink as he dried his hair. It was the sound of the hair dryer that gave him away. He had not been in bed more than a few seconds when he heard her door open. Although her room was dark and there were no lights on in the sitting room, the street lights provided a half light with broken shadows cast by the open venetian blinds. She was wearing a very sheer, thigh length garment that left nothing to the imagination except for those parts of the body shadowed by the blinds. Her erect brown nipples and full dark pubic area were plainly evident.