Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  Those stiffening bodies were still inside the house. At last count eight of them. Not that it made any difference to the live shot, which was about to broadcast a tall detached two-storey with shining white columns, a Tuscan portico and large shuttered windows barely visible behind two ancient vine trees. Flowering azalea bushes perfectly matched the yellow police tape behind which some forensics guys were taking their time dusting a luxury SUV in a driveway bordered by boxwood hedges and tall pecan trees.

  The call had come in sixteen hours before from one of the parents, and even though a lot of shifts had officially ended since then, none of the cops seemed in a hurry to leave. District Two uniforms were all over the house, swarming the doorways like bees blindly protecting a dead queen.

  The local affiliates were relegated to lousy live positions farther away from the crime scene and were rightly pissed about that. But the networks were king, and they’d already claimed the best live spots, had selfishly monopolized the police communications flak with an unpronounceable Cajun name who was spitting out sound bites like there was no tomorrow, icing them with moist eyes and a quivering lip. “Mon dieu. Bodies everywhere.”

  Three minutes to air Doyle uncapped his pen and decided to rework his intro. The others wouldn’t have the new angle. He’d seen the coroner and the senator entering the house from the rear, and they hadn’t. That meant Jack Doyle had another exclusive. The others would curse him and complain about the horseshoe lodged in the lower regions of Doyle’s anatomy. Doyle didn’t know about a horseshoe but he did have the intuition of a carnival psychic, an ability to deduce mountains of information from seemingly unimportant events. Not that what he’d observed was unimportant. The coroner was a busy man who didn’t make return engagements to a crime scene unless there was a very good reason. The fact the senator was with him could only mean one thing, and it was a red flag Doyle couldn’t miss – even if the others had. Horseshoes were struck with luck, something Doyle never counted on. Nothing was as cruel as the scowl of luck when the competition got the money shot and you didn’t, or when your feed window was about to slam shut and you were stuck in traffic. Luck had nothing to do with the exclusive interview they’d knocked off with the father of one of the dead teenagers – a preacher. He’d screeched and wept and damned the “bloodthirsty spawn of Satan,” before finally collapsing into someone’s arms. “Eye for an eye,” he had added, with holy authority. Grief liked to talk. Venting had a way of being therapeutic and Doyle knew scenes like that made for compelling television.

  Doyle watched Kaitlin work the phone, fidgeting with his earpiece so that he could hear the control room over the din of reporters and cops and slack-jawed bystanders. Overhead, a couple of news choppers were broadcasting the scene live and Doyle wondered whether they’d caught the arrival of the limo at the back of the house. He guessed not because there were too many trees in the way for an unobstructed shot. Besides, the eyes in the sky seemed to be concentrating on a couple of canine units working the brush about a hundred yards from the Saunier house.

  “Well?”

  “They’ve got me on hold,” Kaitlin said between clenched teeth. “You sure about this, Jack? Eight bodies – all identified as of an hour ago, remember?”

  Doyle knew she was pissed at the implication she would have screwed up something as basic as the body count. “Trust me. Doctor Death’s back and he’s got company.” Doyle checked his watch.

  In his ear the director told him to stand by. “Opening in a minute fifteen, Jack.”

  Kaitlin looked at him, a producer’s panic in her eyes. “There’s been nothing since the police briefing,” she said. “And there’s nothing on the wires. I checked.”

  Doyle nodded slowly in agreement. Sometimes the wires had more information even when you were not fifty yards from the story. The wire guys were always working the phones, ferreting out new stuff because they were feeding the news monster every fifteen minutes. If the wires didn’t have it, it was definitely an exclusive.

  Doyle jotted down a few notes, silently mouthed words to make sure every syllable flowed smoothly, without speed bumps that caught you up, left you rattled and red-faced. He breathed evenly, scanned what he’d written as he listened to Frank Simmons doing a voice check. “One, two. Talk to me, Jack,” Simmons said. “Can you hear me, New Orleans?”

  “Clear as the proverbial bell,” Doyle replied, fixing his tie and praying nothing would screw up, not even Frank Simmons, who was dumb as a sack of hammers but who had Cary Grant looks and a Doberman agent, both of which had conspired to rob Doyle of what should have been his long ago, even though he was also quite handsome and extremely well represented. Doyle pushed it aside, concentrated instead on the story and getting the facts straight. That was more important than trying to decide if your studio makeup needed more yellow tones. “Got a surprise for you, Frank,” Doyle said cautiously.

  “What’s up?”

  “No time to explain.” No need to rattle the hair-and-teeth anchor so close to air. “I’m going to tag with the speculation on drug involvement,” said Doyle. “You know. Drug violence in a once safe neighbourhood. That kinda thing. Plays great with what the president’s been saying about drugs being a threat to national security.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Then ask me where the investigation goes from here.”

  Felix, the sound guy, stepped up to dress Doyle’s clip-on microphone, whispered, “Tell him it’s New Orleans, Jack, not New Rochelle.” Doyle chuckled despite the tension.

  “Perfect, Jack,” Simmons said a thousand miles away on the anchor desk in New York. “Nothing like a massacre to bring in the numbers.”

  Doyle cringed, Felix too. “Frank,” Doyle admonished. “We’re on the satellite, remember?” Doyle knew the anchor’s smile had just vanished, but someone pulls a comment like that off the bird and tosses it on the internet and your career’s toast. Fundamental mistake, Doyle thought. Always assume your mic is hot. Jesus, after so many years in the biz Simmons should have known better.

  Frank faded from Doyle’s ear, replaced by the orchestrated chaos which was normal for the control room when so close to air. “Thirty seconds. Stand by.” It was Doyle’s executive producer, Jamie Malone, this time. “What’s going on, Jack? Don’t keep me guessing.”

  “Hold on a second, Jamie.” Doyle looked expectantly at Kaitlin.

  Kaitlin snapped her cell phone shut with a report that sounded like a high velocity weapon. A shocked look as she reported, “Robicheaux’s flak just confirmed. His daughter, Jack. Her name was Marilee. Fourteen years old. Friend of Saunier’s kid. They found her body behind a piece of furniture in a storage room. The senator’s office will be issuing a statement in half an hour. That makes nine dead now.”

  “Damn,” said Doyle. “Kid ran, tried to hide.” He shook his head. “Thanks, Kaitlin.”

  “Been a long day,” Kaitlin replied, wiping a tendril of long brown hair from her smooth dark forehead. Huge chocolate eyes melting into a pool of humility. “Sorry I missed it, Jack.”

  “I don’t think the others have it,” Doyle said with an understanding smile. “Don’t sweat it. We got it.”

  Jamie Malone had heard. Whistled in Doyle’s ear. “Holy shit! Jack, we wanna second source this?”

  “No need, Jamie. Good as the horse’s mouth when it’s Robicheaux’s flak. No time. Follow my lead, OK?”

  “Fifteen seconds to air.”

  Doyle slipped into the zone, separating the useless facts from the salient, preparing the big picture stuff before the director rolled his piece. “Wish me luck,” he said to Kaitlin.

  “Like you need it.” She smiled, nervously.

  In his ear Doyle heard the brassy show opening, then Frank Simmons’ first smooth words. “Good evening. A bloodbath in the city of New Orleans. Eight people have been brutally slain in a massacre that defies explanation or reason. CNS senior correspondent Jack Doyle is live at the scene, where police have begun a very difficult investi
gation tonight. Jack?”

  “Cue, Jack!”

  When CNN went to commercial Diego grabbed the remote, but checked his urge to hurl it through the television. He’d had enough crap from those mother-fucking talking heads who didn’t really contribute shit to what he needed to know at that particular fucking moment, which was what the fuck happened in Avondale Heights and where the fuck was that shit-for-brains little brother of his, Sal. He dropped the remote, shovelled another forkful of rice into his mouth, and twisted his dark features into a sneer. Not enough cilantro. Bitch screwed like a porno queen but couldn’t cook worth shit.

  Diego chewed noisily and stared out the open balcony door, two storeys above Rampart Street and a couple hundred yards from Congo Square where someone was squealing on a sax. That or beating someone to death with it. A warm wind carried the smell of boiled crawfish from Hurricane Haul’s across the street. Diego decided he’d get his belly full once he dumped the bitch he’d snagged last night on Bourbon. Tonight, he’d work his voodoo at the Funky Butt. Lots of hot senoritas would be hungry for a piece of Enrique González Diego.

  He waited for the news to come back on. Before CNN went to commercial, the Hispanic guy, who looked just like his stupid rocksmoking brother, was saying that a bunch of kids were dead. Executed in Avondale Heights. It was reason to worry.

  Diego swallowed a mouthful of beer and watched the car commercial playing on his fifty-inch screen. Whatever. Shit, nothin’ could touch his ’64 Vette. It was cherry red and he wound it out in second gear through the Quarter on the nights he and Sal weren’t stepping on product or making deliveries like the kilo they’d dropped off at DB’s three weeks earlier. Losers like DB didn’t seem to get it, that if you took a kilo of coke, cash was expected at the other end.

  Diego watched his “guest” swing her fat ass into the bedroom. Gonna “powder her nose.” She was blonde and had real tits, and although she couldn’t cook, she didn’t yap too much and she did what she was told, especially between the sheets where it really counted.

  “Lay off that shit,” he shouted. Gonna give the bitch another fuckin’ nosebleed.

  He dropped his fork and drummed his fingers nervously on the table. Where was Salvador, anyway? Simple job. Go find DB and deal with him, because there was no way he was going to take shit from that cocksucker anymore. DB was fucking him around as usual. He’d sent Salvador to make things right, because his dim-witted brother was the kind of moron who enjoyed getting high and fucking people up. Problem was, Salvador wasn’t the smartest banana in the bunch, and Avondale Heights was where DB was hunkered down, probably not far from where those kids were butchered. DB was small-time but you get a hundred cockroaches like him and all of a sudden you got a well-tuned machine sucking up a hundred kilos a week and spitting back cash that kept that fat fucker Carlos smiling back home in Colombia. Mostly it worked just fine until someone got stupid, like DB had gotten stupid. Word was the fucker had been spotted making conversation with a couple of the narcotics guys from the Quarter. Those 8th District faggots were probably already on to DB, and Diego knew exactly where that was going to lead. To him.

  He tore off a piece of bread. The gringo bitch had brought back baguette. What the fuck was baguette? He grunted. “Right, baby. I come in there in a minute, show you what Enrique can do.” He watched a hair commercial roll by, bitches with thick shiny hair smiling at him from the big screen like they all knew he drove a ’64 Corvette that was cherry red and that he’d killed a man once for stiffing him on two ounces of product, much less a kilo, which was what that fuck DB had taken him for. Nobody fucks with Enrique González Diego. Nobody, he thought, as he stuffed the hunk of bread into his mouth and wondered if he’d given his shit-crazy brother the right address.

  THREE

  From behind the camera outside 52 Avalon Road, George pointed a finger in Doyle’s direction. Showtime.

  “Frank. This story has taken another grim turn. CNS news has learned that the daughter of Louisiana Senator Aaron Robicheaux is among the dead in this home, which is both a crime scene and a tomb tonight. It brings to nine the number of people brutally murdered here. The victims were nearly all young women, slaughtered at a teenage slumber party on the eve of a big cheerleading competition. There are no suspects and at this hour there is no apparent motive for this slaughter of innocents.”

  “Roll tape,” the director called. “Stand by, Jack. A minute thirty back to you. Good job.”

  Doyle breathed deeply, tasted exhaust from the sat truck’s generator.

  Kaitlin gave him a thumbs up. “Nicely done on the Robicheaux kid.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Doyle replied.

  “Funny boy.”

  Doyle listened to the voiceover through his ear piece while a TV monitor on the sidewalk at Doyle’s feet flickered video closeups of weeping parents leaving the police station, hugging, eventually crumbling under the weight of their grief. George had done a good job getting the shots without imposing on their sorrow. Doyle had insisted on that. He looked at George and nodded.

  The voiceover continued, “Pierre Saunier was shot and killed in his bed…”

  Saunier, Doyle thought. The father was the first to be murdered. No chance to stop what was about to happen. The gunman then moved through the shadows of the house to the basement rec room where he’d shot the kids one by one – sick bastard showing no mercy, nothing faintly human. Doyle could imagine the terror, the disbelief that they were about to die. All kids are convinced of their own immortality.

  “The bodies remain inside this house, which is now a grim crime scene,” the voiceover said. “Police have no suspects yet, no concrete motive.”

  A police cruiser screamed away from the scene, its piercing siren pulling Doyle back to the moment. “Thirty seconds to you, Jack.” In Doyle’s ear the director’s voice seemed even more distant. Doyle collected his thoughts, remembered what he’d told Frank earlier about tagging the item. He waited for the out cue, pulled himself straight, and checked his notes again.

  A moment later Kaitlin gasped.

  What the hell now? Doyle wondered.

  Kaitlin brought a hand to her mouth, barely whispered, “Oh my god.”

  Great, Doyle thought, ten seconds to live, and the power supply on the truck was crapping out or a light was blown. Just his luck. Doyle followed Kaitlin’s gaze. Shit. A man with a gun. Pointed directly at him.

  “Fifteen seconds to you, Jack,” the director droned in Doyle’s ear. “Tag it out and we’ll box you and Frank for a quick Q and A. Good luck.”

  Doyle couldn’t say whether the man with the gun was young or old, tall or short, fat or thin. But the gun in his hand was definitely deadly, with a blue-black barrel that seemed to reach out and touch him. Doyle stood frozen on the sidewalk, oxygen-starved and wordless.

  Some people measure their time in minutes and hours, Doyle kept tabs of his by the second. There were thirty frames in a second of video, just enough time for your life to flash by before it winked out. Exactly four seconds elapsed before Doyle slowly brought his hands up and spoke as evenly as he could to the guy with the large weapon pointed at his face. “Would it make any difference if I told you I’m gonna be on national television here real quick?”

  The guy looked at him quizzically. “You’re that Doyle guy?”

  The buzzing in his ears might have been a wonky IFB. Doyle didn’t know if it was. Other than that it sounded like business as usual in his ear piece. The control room apparently had no idea what was happening.

  At that moment, Doyle had other priorities. “Can I ask you to lower the weapon? Please.”

  The guy looked around. Not listening.

  From the corner of his eye, Doyle inventoried several terrified faces.

  “Jack.” It was Kaitlin.

  “Talk to New York,” Doyle whispered. “Tell them what’s happening!” Suddenly there was retreat all around him – a chorus of gasps and frantic voices. From down the line came a crash of metal, some
one tripping over a tripod or a light. Doyle was aware of his own people. Quiet curses from the audio guy and the satellite truck technician who were both edging away. Not Kaitlin. Damn it.

  “Staying,” she whispered hard.

  “Kaitlin,” Doyle said between clenched teeth, not willing to remove his eyes from the gun. “Get to the truck. Talk to Malone!”

  “Shit, Jack,” she protested, then in slow backward steps she disappeared from Doyle’s peripheral vision. Thank God.

  In Doyle’s ear. “Ten seconds to you.” He was sure the director didn’t know what was going on. Christ. In ten seconds they’d be broadcasting his execution live on national television. The thought made him nauseated. He chanced a look at George, his cameraman. Still hunched over his viewfinder. Getting the money shot. Like the others. Doyle knew every camera on the street had him nicely framed, and at that moment in households right across the land, he was the subject of breaking news.

  “Cool,” the gunman finally said, “I seen you on television last week.”

  Doyle’s guts churned. Should have made that pit stop while he had a chance. No one wants to piss himself on national television. He’d be shot dead and the only thing people would remember was the spreading wet spot on the front of his Canali suit.

  “John Doyle, right?”

  “Jack,” Doyle corrected, watching him, dreading the gunman’s next move.

  “The reporter guy, right?” The gunman stepped slowly towards him. Like he wanted to come on over and shake Doyle’s hand, maybe get an autograph.

  “Yes. That’s right,” Doyle replied. “And that gun is making me very nervous.”

  “Shit,” the guy with the gun replied, still not listening.