Doing the Devil's Work

by Bill Loehfelm

  When they worked a crime scene together, which was often, Maureen sometimes felt as if Ruiz was watching her. The attention wasn’t sexual. She knew that look. He just paid more attention to her than to any witnesses or evidence at the scene of the crime. That feeling is on you, she told herself over and over. You’re bringing it to the job. Don’t see enemies where they aren’t.

  “We were shut out,” Quinn said, shaking his head.

  “Y’all got nothing?” Maureen said. “You work this neighborhood for ten years and they do you like that? Nobody talked to you?”

  “Everybody talks,” Ruiz said. “Just nobody says anything.”

  “Maybe everyone knowing us,” Quinn said, looking back over the block, “worked against us. I saw three guys I’ve busted without even looking real hard. I know half the cats out here tonight by their first names.”

  “Maybe,” Ruiz said, “it’s true that nobody really knows anything.”

  “You talking about them or us?” Quinn said. A ping from his cell phone indicated a message. He shrugged, grinning, rolling his eyes, reaching into his pocket. “Anything’s possible, I guess.” He checked his message. “About fucking time.” His faced darkened as he read more, his forehead creasing in a scowl. “Again with this shit.” He handed his cell to Ruiz, who read the message, produced a sympathetic grunt, and handed back the phone.

  “Your son again?” Maureen asked.

  “Quinn’s ex again, more like it,” Ruiz said.

  Quinn had a young son, ten or so, Maureen recalled. The boy’s mother and Quinn did not get along. They hadn’t been romantically involved since the pregnancy was discovered. If not for the child, they would have nothing to do with each other. The boy was undersized for his age, and got bullied badly in school. Maureen had heard a lot about the situation, as did anyone on the NOPD and the streets of New Orleans within earshot of Quinn when his phone rang. This is the price, Maureen thought, of getting to know her coworkers better.

  “It’s Sunday night, right?” Quinn said. “Friday afternoon his mother takes him to get his stitches out and I don’t get a report from her till now. Okay, it’s only five stitches in his chin, and everything’s fine, but still, I’m the boy’s father and I’m paying the fucking bill.” He turned to Ruiz. “You saw that last bit, about the new school because he’s getting pushed around? Again with that noise. Fuck that. I can afford that?” He turned to Maureen. This happened when his ex came up, Maureen had noticed. By being female she somehow became a stand-in for Quinn’s ex when he got worked up over her. “There’s KIPPs and charters and all that shit now,” he said. “He doesn’t have to go to the Catholic school. So he’s a little short. He’ll grow. He’s a normal fucking kid, it’s her that makes him feel like there’s something wrong with him. Always taking him to the doctor, tests for this, tests for that. Jesus. Kid’s a fucking mess because of her.”

  Not just the kid, Maureen thought.

  Ruiz, himself happily married and the father of two daughters, put a big hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Like you said, bro. He’ll grow up. Kids bounce back.”

  “He’s ten,” Quinn said. “He hasn’t even hit puberty yet, already she’s cut his balls off.” He looked over at the abandoned house, shaking his head at the sirens, the lingering neighbors, the trash tumbling around in the street, the scent of a freshly sparked joint. “Those fucking schools she likes cost a fortune. Every one of them.” He tossed his notepad in the tall grass. “Fuck this. Why are we standing here like a bouquet of dicks? They don’t care. We don’t care. Fucking pointless, the load of it. Rue, let’s roll. I’m outta cigarettes.”

  He stalked away. Ruiz hesitated for a long moment.

  “He’s getting worse,” Maureen said. She retrieved Quinn’s pad from the grass, gave it to Ruiz.

  “It’ll pass,” Ruiz said. “He’ll smooth out. He goes through phases. You haven’t been around that long.” He raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at a tall figure, Detective Sergeant Christine Atkinson, from Homicide, walking their way through the red and blue lights. “Just the same, let’s keep it in house.”

  Ruiz, not waiting for Maureen’s reply, nodded at Atkinson as he walked past her in pursuit of Quinn. Atkinson was a tall blonde in her late forties, partial to old blue jeans, older cowboy boots, and faded men’s button-down shirts. She had a chaotic mop of curls hovering around her head, huge hands, and the wide back and shoulders of a lifelong swimmer.

  “So the dead guy isn’t the property owner,” Atkinson said to Maureen.

  Maureen shook her head. “There’s a man’s name across the bottom of the signs. I did confirm that’s the property owner. You want me to get you that number?”

  “I’ve already got it,” Atkinson said. “Thanks, though. He’s on his way.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Quinn and Ruiz have nothing for me, I take it.”

  “Not the slightest,” Maureen said. “It’s been a tough canvass. The usual resistance.”

  “Well, damn. I’d hoped you all would make this an easy one for me.”

  Maureen smiled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Was there somebody squatting in the house?”

  “Nobody on the block said anything about a squatter,” Maureen said. “And judging by the signs, I don’t think they were even worried about drugs. They wanted the place cleaned up. The whole rest of the block, it took years, but they’ve rebuilt after the storm.” She shrugged. “They’re trying to work, put the kids through school. Normal-life shit. They’re pissed this last house has been left to rot. Like a reminder.”

  “Hard to blame them,” Atkinson said. “You think he’s a gutter punk?”

  “Nah. The clothes weren’t right,” Maureen said. “I didn’t see any tattoos. And they hardly ever make it this far uptown.” She knew Atkinson was testing her. The detective had already reached her own preliminary conclusions. “It’s not impossible, but I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me, then,” Atkinson said, “what you think happened in there.”

  “My first thought is the obvious one,” Maureen said. “Sexual assault, going by his pants being down. He gets her into the house, whips it out, she whips out her weapon, previously hidden on her person somewhere, and slashes him dead.”

  “Why go into the house with him, then?” Atkinson asked. “Why not show the weapon before she’s trapped?”

  “Drugs? They went in the house to get high, he got wrong ideas, started feeling romantic, got aggressive, and things went bad.”

  “Possible,” Atkinson said. She dropped her cigarette in the street, crushed it out. “Drugs are always a good place to start. That’s no small wound he’s got. Ugly. Whoever cut him got him with something special. Something she, presuming it is a she, which I’m not sold on, had on her. Nothing found in the house could do that.” Atkinson sucked her teeth. “I’m not so sure the killer is female. There’s some serious strength behind that cut.”

  “You could do it,” Maureen said.

  “I eat. I exercise,” Atkinson said. “Sometimes I even sleep. I’m not a spirit in the night like this guy. He wasn’t in that house with someone he met at the gym.”

  Maureen shrugged. “Okay. Same narrative then, only he’s in there with some guy. Maybe one of them was tricking. There was no ID, nothing on the body at all. No phone, no money. Maybe he got robbed as well. Looks like it.”

  Atkinson unleashed a long sigh. Squinting, she gazed over the block. “What’s your take on his belt buckle?”

  Maureen was surprised at the question. “I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe he played high school football and eighty-eight was his jersey number. Or it’s his favorite race car driver?”

  “High school football?” Atkinson asked.

  “He look like college material to you?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Atkinson said. “I thought you’d know this. In certain circles, eighty-eight means ‘Heil Hitler.’”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s supposed to be like co
de,” Atkinson said. “The letter ‘H’ is the eighth letter of the alphabet. So eighty-eight makes ‘HH,’ or ‘Heil Hitler.’ It’s a way for neo-Nazis and Aryan Brotherhood and any other wannabe groups to signal each other in public. You know, without attracting the attention of someone who might want to punch their teeth down their throat, or cut that throat.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Maureen said. “Fucking idiot. Well, no wonder he ended up dead, wearing that around here. Heil Hitler. Seriously? I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that guy. Even dead he didn’t look right.”

  “You know, you don’t have to do that,” Atkinson said. “In fact, it might be better if you don’t.”

  “Do what?”

  “Decide how you feel about the victims, make judgments on them.”

  “He was a Nazi, for chrissakes, or at least he wanted certain people to think he was.”

  “For our professional purposes,” Atkinson said, “he is a murder victim first and foremost. You don’t need to feel sorry for him, but that’s how you need to think of him. That belt buckle is a lead, maybe. We need to figure out what were this guy, and whoever he was with, doing on this block? It’s not like there’s no white people up this way, but to find this corner of the neighborhood, he’d need help.”

  “It’s second line season,” Maureen said. “If he’s dead a week, there was a parade last Sunday, too. Either the killer or the dead guy could’ve scoped the house beforehand.”

  “That would go a long way to explaining it,” Atkinson said. “A second line hookup goes wrong. An accidental meeting. A planned rendezvous. Either one works. Get the guy back to the house, pull a weapon, then the robbery goes wrong. Maybe the vic was the original aggressor, maybe he was thinking rape or robbery. Maybe the killer acted in self-defense. I could roll with the second line playing a part. As a place to start. That introduces lots of possibilities. That’s a good thought, Coughlin. Well done.”

  “There would’ve been another block party that night, though,” Maureen said, “if there was a parade. Somebody might’ve seen something.”

  “If that’s the case,” Atkinson said, “I’m wondering how our boy and whoever he was with made it through the party to the end of the block. Would the people on this block let him get to that house? Though if he and the killer came through late at night, they could’ve slipped on by. Depends on the parade route, too. Looks like this block went hard tonight. I don’t know if that happens two weeks in a row. Could’ve been quiet last week.”

  She turned, looking over the large empty lot behind the fence. She rubbed her temples. “This murder happened a week ago. The trail is cold, cold, cold.”

  “I sense you’re not optimistic,” Maureen said.

  “He’s white,” Atkinson said, throwing her hands up. “That can excite people. But he’s poor white trash, at least at first look.” She crossed her forearms into an X. Held her arms up to Maureen. “The white and the poor, they cancel each other out. I’ll look at the body after the coroner’s cleaned him up and had a chance to poke around on him.” She shrugged. “Maybe someone from the block will come forward when their neighbors aren’t out watching who’s talking to the cops. Maybe someone’s been looking for him and we can get a name through Missing Persons. I’ll call in his description. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Finding out who he is makes finding out who killed him a lot easier.”

  “Can someone tell me why I need to be here?”

  Maureen and Atkinson turned. A man approached them, early thirties, a shade over six feet, slender but soft, flab jiggling under his gray polo shirt as he walked. He had thin, hairy wrists and doughy arms. His brown hair was swept straight back, thinning at the crown. His eyes were light, but dull, like old nickels. His cheeks were sunburned. He wore pressed jeans and alligator loafers with no socks.

  Atkinson stepped forward. “That depends on who you are.”

  “I’m Caleb Heath. I own this house. I own half this block. You know who I am. You called me. You demanded I be here.”

  “I never demand anything,” Atkinson said.

  “You told my father that—”

  Atkinson raised a finger. “Ah, see. Your father demanded you be here. That’s between you and him. I simply asked him to put you in touch with me.”

  He released a long sigh. “Whoever demanded it, why am I out here in the middle of the night?” He waved his hand behind him at the block. “I see the lights, the sirens, I’m sorry somebody got shot, but I’m not responsible for what these people do. I’m their landlord, not their babysitter.”

  “Nobody got shot,” Atkinson said. “We’re here about the empty house.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. So I’m out here over a bunch of weeds?” He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Look, I’m sorry about this. I don’t know who thought y’all needed to make this kind of fuss. Nobody likes their landlord, right? They’re trying to make me look bad. I’m in a dispute with the city over this property. Property taxes, back taxes. I won’t waste your time explaining it; it’s complicated. I can barely follow it myself. But I can’t touch the property until the dispute is adjudicated. That’s been explained to these people over and over again. I don’t have to tell you that nobody listens to what they don’t want to hear.” He gestured at the house. “You see how these people have vandalized my property. These signs. I should be the one calling you. I’m following the law.”

  “Were you renting this place?” Atkinson asked.

  “Excuse me? I said I own it.”

  “Did you have a tenant at this location.”

  “Does it look like I do?” Heath asked, laughing. “I understand. You have to ask.”

  “Maybe you hired someone,” Atkinson said. “To hang around here, keep an eye on the place. Since you were so concerned about vandalism.”

  “No, no, I didn’t,” Heath said. “Who would I hire to do that? Who would I know that would live in a place like this, on this block?”

  “Did any of the complaints you got have to do with squatters or vagrants using the house?” Atkinson asked.

  “I don’t know,” Heath said, holding up a hand as if to ward off more questions. “You’d have to ask my people. They handle the specifics. I run a big corporation. I don’t handle the minutiae.”

  Maureen stepped to Atkinson’s side. She looked down at her notepad. “A Mrs. Hunter three doors up, a tenant of yours, of your big corporation, she said she called the management office three times this week about the awful smell coming from that house.”

  “You lost me,” Heath said, his gaze fixed on Atkinson.

  “We’re not here for the weeds,” Atkinson said. “Or for the signs. I’m Detective Sergeant Christine Atkinson. I’m a homicide detective. We’re pulling a dead body out of your house as we speak. It’s been in there at least a week. That’s why we’re here.”

  Heath leaned back, his weight on his heels, looking over at the green cottage, his wet bottom lip curling down over his chin like a miniature of the fat roll hanging over his belt. “Oh, well, I certainly didn’t kill anyone. We can agree on that. Anyone in that house was trespassing.” He sounded amused, and relieved, Maureen noted, like he’d gotten the news that someone else’s dog had shit in the neighbor’s garden.

  “So trespassing is a capital offense?” Maureen asked.

  Heath looked at her for a long moment, as if she’d spoken to him in a language he’d never heard. He turned to Atkinson. “Can I go now?”

  “Officer Coughlin,” Atkinson said. “You were first on the scene. You did a significant part of the canvass. Have you any questions for Mr. Heath?”

  Maureen flipped through the pages of her notebook, just to delay Heath’s departure. “What’s the name of your company?”

  “Heath Design and Construction.”

  “No, that’s your daddy’s company,” Atkinson said. “What’s yours, the one that handles the rentals? Or do I need to go to your father for that?”

  Heath said noth
ing. Maureen watched the red blotches surface on his throat. She couldn’t quite read if it was anger or humiliation. With men, it was hard to tell the difference. She wasn’t sure there was a difference. He would not look at either of the women.

  “It does have a name,” Atkinson asked, “does it not? Or should I call your daddy for it?”

  “CHR,” Heath replied. “Caleb Heath Residential. It’s part of my father’s company, a full part, an offshoot, they’re really the same company—”

  “I’m sure it’s very complicated,” Atkinson said, waving away his explanation. “I’m sure we wouldn’t understand.” She turned to Maureen. “Anything else, Officer?”

  “No,” Maureen said. “There’s nothing more I need from him. Thanks, Mr. Heath. You’ve been very helpful. Anything else we need, we’ll send for you again.”

  Heath looked both women up and down, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “My tax dollars hard at work.”

  He turned and walked away.

  “You know that guy?” Maureen asked.

  “Only by his reputation,” Atkinson said. “Which, of course, is lousy. His father’s the one everyone knows. He built the Harmony Oaks development, built the River Garden where the St. Thomas used to be. I’d bet anything, Heath Design and Construction is building at least a part of whatever will replace the Iberville projects by the Quarter. And they’re building the new jail. Anything that hooks into city, state, and federal construction dollars, Solomon Heath has his hands in it. He redefines mixed income. His income comes from a wide range of sources.” She shrugged. “Though, from what I hear about him, Solomon is a pretty decent human being.”

  Atkinson lifted her chin in Caleb Heath’s direction. “I get the feeling the heir isn’t quite living up to the expectations of the king, in the business or any other way. He never has. I think managing these small properties is supposed to teach him something. Whatever it is, he’s not learning it.”

  Maureen watched Caleb make his way up the block. She waited for another urine-laden missile to arc out of the darkness in his direction. Were it her on the rooftop, she thought, she would take the shot. But nobody did. None of the people on the block, Maureen noticed, paid any attention to Caleb Heath. It took her a moment to realize why. Nobody recognized him. No one on the block, not the people who paid him rent, not their neighbors had ever seen him in person. He was just another well-dressed white guy at the scene of a crime. Hell, Maureen thought, if they noticed him at all, they probably took him for a cop.