True Blue Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “I’ve got it,” Arron said, jumping like he was getting hyped to get into a ring for a boxing match.

  Two nurses arrived at Riverside Inn for the eleven p.m. shift. The head nurse reviewed the few charts that needed attention, and the other nurse checked that all the doors were secured. Mostly, it was quiet for the evening crew, and now the night shift was settling in. There was not much to do after distributing the nightly medication to all the residents. The night nurses were little more than babysitting when everyone was healthy, and tonight was one of those nights.

  The night shift had the run of the house, and that included the kitchen. The staff made their usual sandwiches and topped the meal off with ice cream sundaes for dessert. They were ready for their nightly responsibilities of taking care of everyone as they settled into chairs and clicked through the television channels.

  Jack sat in his room on his overstuffed, fake leather chair that was in deplorable condition and should have been given away years ago. He was in a dark stare, fixed at the window, which turned red every few seconds from the light of the neon sign of the canning factory a block away on Orleans Avenue. It was his way of getting his anger built up.

  He once revealed to a coworker that seeing the red lights go on and off through his window gave him flashbacks of his time in the Vietnam War. In his head, it was like bombs going off in the night, lighting the dark sky with a slight, red glow. He was one of many who witnessed horrible deaths. He remarked often that the bright red lights flashing reminded him of the time he was sitting in a bar in Vietnam with other soldiers trying to relax. Mostly, it was safe and gave him time to talk to his friends. For that short period, he forgot he was in a war zone.

  It was afternoon, and the United States military men gathered, telling one another stories of things they would do when they got back home. Jack sat with his friends and downed the last of his beer. He watched a young boy, maybe twelve years old, come in from the outside front entrance. It wasn’t uncommon to see a young underaged person in the bar. This was Vietnam; there were no rules. Jack watched the kid go from the front of the building, stopping at each table, asking for candy or small change in any currency, something all the children did.

  When he got about ten feet from the front entrance, another young person came in and followed the same path. Jack looked toward the end of the bar, and on the last barstool, he saw a Vietnamese man dressed in shabby clothes. The man focused on the kids, not his drink or anyone else in the place. He watched their every move. Jack looked at his eyes and then looked at the children repeatedly. He could see the fear in the two boys’ eyes; something was wrong. The man slowly took one hand out of his pocket, opened his hand wide, and moved his hand out in front of his waist about a foot. Jack’s trained eye assured him the man’s body was a detonator, and he was about to trigger it. With no hesitation, Jack drew his service handgun.

  “Bomb!” he yelled, then shot the man and each child dead.

  Jack shouted again. “Bomb!” and dove out the open-air window. Moments later, the building blew up, and fifty-four United States soldiers died. The children had explosives strapped to them, and the man he shot had a detonator strapped to his body. They always worked as a team and a person in the building had a detonator connected to his belt to carry out the suicide bombing as planned.

  Jack never forgot the day that death and killing desensitized him. War will do that. He just didn’t know that experience would affect him twenty years later. Murder and seeing body parts spread out on the ground didn’t matter to him; it became a way of life.

  Jack rocked back and forth in his chair as the red lights came on and went out, then repeated. He considered all possibilities and always came back to Zack. He was as good a candidate as any of them, plus he was a troublemaker. Dr. Ross needed a body and quick. “Sorry, old man, you’ve got to go,” he said to himself.

  He picked up a folder on the side table next to his chair and opened it. He filled out the blank form that Zack signed when he arrived at Riverside Inn. He had checked off donor organs and do not resuscitate. It was official and even signed by Dr. Walter Ross as a witness.

  He went to his closet and got his secret medical kit and unwrapped a new syringe. Taking a bottle of what looked like clear liquid, he filled the syringe. He had only to inject Zack, and within minutes he would die of cardiac arrest. And it wasn’t traceable, according to Dr. Ross. He had no other choice but to believe that was true.

  Someone would call the paramedics, but it would be too late. He would die on the way to the hospital, and as an organ donor, Dr. Ross would harvest his organs. That would conclude Jack’s mission.

  Putting the protective cap on the syringe, he slipped it into his pocket. He took a cloth and a small bottle of chloroform and put it in his back pocket. Chloroform is a colorless, sweet-smelling liquid once used in the 1800s as a sleep aid. Just a small amount in a cloth over a person’s nose would put him or her to sleep with no lingering effects. He was now ready to carry out Dr. Ross’s request.

  Jack opened his door to the hallway. It was after midnight, and the lights were dim. He quietly closed his door and silently walked down the hall passing the nurses station. He could see the two night-shift nurses engrossed in a movie on the big-screen TV.

  He went over in his mind, how he would put the chloroform cloth over Dave’s face first to make sure he didn’t interfere or yell out for help. Then he would do the same to Zack so he could inject him with no problems. Once completed, he would lay the emergency cord across his palm and pull it before he left the room. That would send the nurses rushing to Zack’s bedside, but it would be too late. Within a few minutes, he would be dead, regardless of the paramedics’ assistance.

  He made it to room 103 with no one seeing him. There was no turning back now. He opened the door slowly and just enough to get in, then closed the door. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before going forward. It wouldn’t take long before he could see in the dark room with the little light that shone through the window from the corner streetlight. The room was silent, too silent. He took the cloth out of his back pocket and got closer to the bed. It was still hard to see, and he waited for his eyes to adjust a little more, so he felt for the bed. His hand went farther up the bed, gently, not wanting to wake Zack, but he quickly realized there was no outline of a body or any heat indicating someone was in bed.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said to himself as he turned the light switch on in the room. Both beds were empty.

  “Where the hell are they?” he demanded as he ripped the sheets off the bed in frustration.

  He ran to the nurses station. “Where are Zack and Dave?” he shouted at the nurse.

  “I don’t know, sir, they were in their rooms when I did my rounds,” she said.

  “Well, they’re not in the room now!” he shouted.

  “Jack, calm down. You’re waking everyone,” she said.

  A door farther down the hall opened, and Zack, Emma Lou, Dave, and Pearl Ann came walking out. They had white cloth robes on and towels around their necks.

  “What are you doing at this time of the morning?” Jack shouted.

  They giggled and continued walking to their rooms.

  “Have you been drinking?” Jack asked.

  “You’re right about that,” Emma Lou said.

  Jack ran in front, putting his arms out. “Stop!”

  “What’s your problem, Jack?” he said abruptly.

  “My problem is you,” he said, sticking his finger in Zack’s face. “Where were you?”

  “Who, us?” Zack said making a funny face. “We were enjoying your private spa, and the wine wasn’t bad either,” he said, pushing Jack’s finger from his face.

  “That is off limits to you and everyone else in this place,” he said as the veins in his neck looked like they would burst.

  “Not any longer,” he said, taking Emma Lou by the arm and continuing to walk to his room.

  Jack stood looking at thei
r backs as they walked away. His heart was pumping rapidly, his eyes bulging, and his face was bright red. In his state of mind, he wanted to go behind Zack, stick the needle in him, smash the heads of the two women together, and strangle Dave. It could be done within seconds, but there were too many witnesses.

  Chapter 9

  Zack and Dave had another sleepless night. They tossed and turned until finally they got out of bed and offered each other their thoughts on how to handle Jack. They saw the rage in Jack’s eyes, and they both knew it was only a matter of time before he would blow up again.

  “I think this guy is out to get you, Zack,” Dave said.

  “I’m sure of that, but I just don’t know why,” he replied.

  “He is killer crazy,” Dave said with concern.

  “I know. I have seen it many times before,” the detective in Zack said.

  They finished getting dressed and went for breakfast. It was the usual, early morning crowd. Dave and Zack sat in the corner watching everyone who came through the door. They likely would not encounter Jack that early, but they made sure they were facing the front entrance, just in case.

  Breakfast went by without an encounter with Jack. They went to check on Emma Lou and Pearl Ann and found them still sleeping.

  “A little spa treatment and a few glasses of wine put them out for a while,” Zack said with a chuckle. “Are you ready?”

  Dave smiled, “Let’s do it.”

  “You got the bag?”

  Dave pulled a small bag out of his pocket. “I sure do.”

  They walked down the hall and headed to the front entrance, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

  A black, Ford Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb.

  “Right on time,” Zack said.

  Dave got in the backseat, and Zack sat in the front passenger’s seat.

  “Dave, this is Ronnie Moore, my longtime friend with the New Orleans Police Department,” Zack said.

  “Zack has told me a lot about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Dave said.

  Ronnie looked at the rearview mirror and gave Dave a smile.

  “Would you guys like to stop for breakfast?” Ronnie asked.

  “No, thanks, I want to get to the station as soon as we can,” Zack said, adjusting the front seat.

  That was all Ronnie needed to hear. He quickly hit the switch for his red and blue, flashing lights that blinked on and off in the front and rear of the car and turned on his siren. He made a right turn on Tulane Avenue and only slowed a little as he approached traffic lights on his way to the police station on Broad Street. They pulled into the building’s parking garage after the guard lifted the chain-link overhead doors. He stopped the car by the guard’s podium and put the window down.

  “You need help booking him?” the guard asked Ronnie.

  “No, he’s a guest,” Ronnie said as he pulled up and parked the car.

  Ronnie and Zack got out and stood in front of the car watching Dave move around the backseat looking for a door handle.

  “You think we should let him out?” Zack asked.

  “I love it when someone squirms around looking for a rear door handle in a police car. Sorry, but it’s an old cop joke,” Ronnie said, letting Dave out of the backseat.

  They walked into the building and took the elevator to the third floor and were greeted by Johnny Guidry. He escorted them to a meeting room. It was just like the rooms on television when the police question a suspect. The room had a table, a few chairs, and mostly dirty walls.

  The four sat down at the table, and Dave pulled out the plastic bag from his pocket and gave it to Johnny.

  “I’ll get someone to analyze this,” Johnny said, taking the bag and leaving the room.

  When Johnny returned, Zack and Dave explained the number of odd events happening at Riverside Inn, all built around Jack.

  “What makes you so concerned about the cloth found in your room?” Johnny asked.

  “My bed was torn apart. The sheets were off the bed, dragging the floor like someone was looking for something,” Zack said.

  “And I found the cloth on the other side of the room,” Dave said.

  Johnny expressed his concern that maybe Zack was overreacting. Even with Jack’s rage, there wasn’t any proof he had done anything or that he planned to do anything. The door opened after a slight knock by a female officer, who came in with the cloth Dave had given them.

  “Gentlemen, this is Officer Lindsey,” Johnny said.

  Officer Lindsey explained how she had run several tests on the cloth, and at first, nothing came up. “Then I did a smell test. While it doesn’t show in color, you can smell and feel it on the cloth,” Lindsey said, giving Johnny the smelly rag.

  Johnny passed the cloth around, and each person took a sniff. It had a sweet smell.

  “That can only be one thing,” Lindsey said.

  “And?” Ronnie Moore asked.

  “Sir, this cloth was soaked with chloroform.”

  “Chloroform? Are you sure?” Ronnie asked.

  “One hundred percent, sir. No question about it. It’s chloroform,” Lindsey said.

  She showed them an area on the cloth with a slight discoloration where it still had a faint smell.

  “Sir, chloroform on a cloth held to your nose takes about six, deep inhalations to make you feel woozy. Inhale a few more times, and your hearing will go faint or distorted, and then your blood pressure will fall a bit, and if you’re standing up, you’ll faint.”

  “And if you inhale more?” Johnny asked.

  “A few more breaths, and you’ll go into cardiac arrest,” Lindsey said.

  For the next hour, Johnny Guidry drilled Zack and Dave on their encounters with Jack. He told them not to leave out any details as minor as they might seem. He wanted them to duplicate every conversation they ever had with Jack, to the best of their abilities.

  Zack told Johnny everything he knew, and Dave intervened a few times adding his observations.

  Johnny rubbed his face. “Zack, you were on the force for many years. You know firsthand you should be very careful of Jack. He is capable of anything and this rag with chloroform, if he was involved, makes him deadly.”

  “I just don’t understand his motive,” Johnny said as he walked around the room.

  Zack stood and put his foot on the chair to lean over and tie his shoe. “You know, some people just rub you the wrong way and they dislike you.”

  “Dislike is one thing. But this guy looks like he is out to get rid of all of us,” Dave said, standing to stretch his back.

  “Let’s look at some mug shots,” Johnny said as he opened the door. “This Jack guy was not in our system, but maybe his picture will come up under a different name. You might see someone you recognize that came in and talked to Jack.”

  They were taken to a room to look through some mug shots. They were both logged into a computer that showed picture after picture of people arrested for various reasons, some minor and some not. Zack told Dave not to skip over anyone, even a person arrested for something as small as no driver’s license. Any clue, no matter how minor, could give them a lead. Zack was in detective mode, and this was a dangerous situation. They had to discover what Jack’s motive was. It could be a life-or-death situation.

  They had been looking at pictures for hours when Johnny Guidry came in and said, “You guys want to break for lunch?”

  “Sounds like a plan. Is that roast beef place still open?” Zack asked.

  “The one off Dumaine Street?” Johnny replied.

  Zack thought for a moment. “That’s it, seats about ten people. It’s called VJ’s. Dave, you’re going to love this place. It has the best roast beef sandwiches in the city.”

  The three loaded into the car and headed toward Dumaine Street. They took a left on Olga Avenue, a short block that connected to Orleans Avenue, and there it was—a small, white, storefront building. VJ’s sandwich shop, and it had seen better days.

  “You�
��re sure about this?” Dave said.

  “Trust me, you’ll love it,” Zack said.

  They walked in and took a seat at the counter. The menu was handprinted on the wall. It was a short list of options, but most people came for the roast beef anyway. The place was unique, down to its owner. VJ, the owner, put three glasses of water on the counter in front of each man. “What are you having, whole or a half?”

  “Give us three, whole, po’boy sandwiches, dressed, and heavy gravy,” Johnny said.

  “Give me three, run it through the garden, and sloppy,” VJ shouted to the cook.

  “How big is a whole, and how did it get the po’boy name?” Dave asked.

  “Big. Real big!” Johnny said.

  “How could you live here and not know about a po’boy sandwich?” Zack asked, taking a sip of water.

  “I mean, how it got the name po’boy?” Dave quickly replied.

  “The story I know is that it dates back to 1929 when the street car operators went on strike. They were in some union. A small eatery and coffee shop on St. Claude Avenue supported the strike and offered free po’boys to anyone in the union,” Zack said.

  “So, how did it get the po’boy name?” Dave asked again.

  “The men were poor and had no jobs, so they called the sandwich a po’boy. It was a lot of sandwich in those days for fifteen cents,” Zack said as he saw VJ coming with the food.

  VJ put a massive, fifteen-inch po’boy in front of each. “Enjoy.”

  It took a while, but they ate most of the huge po’boy sandwiches.

  “One thing about these sandwiches, they are great, but you need about a hundred napkins. I’ve got gravy running down my arm,” Zack said as he headed to the restroom to wash his hands.

  A call came over Johnny’s radio. “All available units to 3705 Willow Street, the officer needs assistance.”

  “We’re too far away. Somebody else will pick it up,” Johnny said to Dave.

  The voice came over the radio again. “Officer confirmed, 3705 Willow Street, female victim, possible hostage, holding for backup.”