True Blue Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  “In fact, very unusual, these pictures belong to the doctor who did the autopsy. It’s the record of findings during the autopsy. I don’t know how or why Dr. Ross got a copy.”

  “So, without all the other verbiage, the answer is, it’s unusual,” Armando said with a slight snicker.

  She gave him a look but just said, “That is correct, Detective.”

  “How long will it take to analyze the evidence?” Armando asked Lindsey.

  “About a week,” Lindsey said.

  “Good, then I’ll see you in three days,” Armando suggested, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “It can’t be done that quickly,” Lindsey said.

  “Of course, it can. If not, I can find a recent Loyola alumnus who could have it ready tomorrow. I’ll give you an extra few days because you graduated from Tulane.”

  Armando put his cup in the trash can. “Let’s go, Zack. See you in three days, Lindsey.”

  Lindsey gave him a look that could kill. “Why is he such an ass?”

  “I guess because he graduated from Loyola,” the commander said with a slight chuckle.

  Armando walked in to the interrogation room. “Andrew, it’s time to go.”

  “I’m going to jail?”

  “No, we’ll get you a ride home,” Armando said, putting his arm around Andrew’s neck. “You did great. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Andrew was handed off to some uniformed police officers, and they gave him a ride back home.

  Armando sat in a chair looking at the wall. He bounced his stress ball against the wall. He squeezed it once and would throw the ball, hitting the floor, the wall, and it bounced back into his hand. The door opened, and an officer brought Diego in for questioning. He handcuffed him to the table. Armando never blinked and continued throwing the ball. After about fifty times of throwing the ball, he turned and looked at the prisoner.

  “I once bounced this ball for twenty hours. I can do it all day if you like.”

  “What do you want from me?” Diego asked, trying to rub his arms and hands to get warm.

  The interrogation room was cold just like Armando liked it, and his prisoner was cracking. Armando turned and threw the ball again to floor, wall, and back into his hand. Repeatedly.

  “Okay, what do you want?” Diego shouted, not wanting to hear the ball bounce any longer.

  Armando caught the ball, leaned on the table, and looked Diego in the eyes. “Why were you at Patty’s funeral?”

  “I was just there to observe and report back to the Cornerview Gang,” he said.

  “Report what back to them? How was the family grieving? Who showed up? Who was crying more than the others? Or maybe you are just one of those funeral freaks,” Armando shouted into Diego’s face.

  “No, man, I was paid just to observe the funeral.”

  A knock at the door stopped Armando from pushing the interrogation any further.

  “Detective, I have that information for you,” an officer said, handing him an envelope.

  “Thank you, officer,” Armando said, pulling pictures out of the envelope. He walked around the room and came up behind Diego. “We have an eyewitness who saw you throw something into the bushes when you took off running.”

  “Man, I didn’t have any gun, if that is what you are getting at,” Diego said.

  “No gun, but your fingerprints are all over the camera we found,” Armando said, putting a chair next to Diego and sitting in it backward. “Let’s quit the bullshit. Why did you take pictures of Zack Nelson at the funeral?” he asked, spreading ten pictures of Zack at different stages of the funeral: getting out of the limousine, at the graveside, putting a rose on the coffin as they lowered it into the vault.

  Diego took a deep breath. “I was paid to take pictures, that’s it.”

  “Look, Diego, I know you are a member of the Cornerview Gang. Let’s just put that on the table. We are aware Arron Baker killed Patty, and we are aware Raul tried to finish her off. You see, we know all this,” Armando said, getting into his face.

  Diego tried to pull back, but the handcuffs attached to the table didn’t give him much room to move.

  Armando stood up. “Know what else I know? Raul is in the other room, and his confession, written by him, says that you killed Jennifer in Patty’s house, and that was your requirement to enter the gang; except you killed the wrong person, so the gang sent Arron Baker to finish the job you couldn’t do. Is that how it went down?”

  “No, I didn’t kill anyone,” Diego said, trying to keep his composure.

  Armando brushed Diego’s hair above his ear. “They are going to love your sweet ass in prison.”

  Armando got up and opened the door. Two police officers came into the room. “Yes, sir.”

  “Book him! The murder of Jennifer Thompson,” Armando said, as he walked out of the room.

  “What are you doing? I didn’t kill anyone,” Diego shouted, as the police officers walked him to the processing room.

  Armando took his coat off the chair in the control room and put it on. It had been a long day and now they were working into the night. Zack was still hanging around and had never left the control room with the commander and the other officers.

  “Detective Armando,” the commander said in a tone of voice that told Armando this would not be good.

  “Yes, sir,” Armando said with slight smile.

  “You have two people arrested for the murder of Jennifer Thompson,” the commander said.

  “That is correct, sir,” Armando replied.

  “You don’t have enough evidence to charge them,” Commander Waters implied with a tone to let Armando know who was in charge.

  “I know, sir. But I have enough to hold these two for seventy-two hours on suspicion of murder and that is all I need. See you in the morning, Commander,” Armando said, giving him a wink of his eye.

  Chapter 17

  Dr. Ross walked into the Velvet Swing bar greeted by an overzealous doorman who stopped him. Maybe he felt the doctor was in the wrong place, overdressed, or maybe he smelled like a cop. Either way, he was giving the doctor a hard time. Jack saw him motionless at the front entrance and gave the doorman a wave of approval.

  For being late, the place was packed. Dr. Ross made his way to the bar, sliding on the peanut shells the patrons threw on the floor. That didn’t go well with his three-hundred-dollar leather shoes. He found Jack sitting in his favorite booth and took a seat across from him. He cleared the two, empty, cocktail glasses to the side, making it apparent Jack had been there for a while.

  “Tammy, bring the doctor a drink,” Jack said in his typical demanding voice, showing a hand signal to pour him a drink too.

  “I’m fine,” the doctor said.

  “Things are not going well for you, Jack,” Dr. Ross said over the noise in the bar.

  “I have it handled,” Jack shot right back.

  Tammy brought another cocktail for Jack and placed a glass of water with a little ice in front of the doctor. “Just in case you change your mind,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Dr. Ross said, taking a sip and leaning back in the booth in frustration. “They’re holding this kid, Jason.”

  “I know, but they have nothing—he’ll be out in a day. My concern is Raul and Diego,” Jack said.

  “This asshole Jason kept a notebook; he documented every job he did,” Dr. Ross said, stretching his fist out across the table at Jack.

  “He doesn’t know it was a hit. He thinks it was purely a lead for a robbery,” Jack said.

  “How long do you think it is going to take the cops to put the address together with a bunch of old people dying of the same cause?” Dr. Ross said, waving off the cocktail waitress.

  “Doc, you’re getting paranoid. These people died over a span of fifteen years, and none are related. You think they are going to dig all of them up to see the cause of death?” Jack asked, leaning over the table at him.

  “You need to clean this up. This cop,
Armando, is interfering; from what I hear, he is asking all the right questions. It’s only a matter of time before Raul or Diego gives him what he wants to cut themselves a deal,” Dr. Ross said, standing and putting his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “They’re interfering. Raul, Diego, and the cop. Handle them.”

  “I’ll handle Raul and Diego, and while I’m at it, I’ll take care of Zack Nelson,” Jack said, pushing Dr. Ross’s unwanted hand off his shoulder. “Just like I handled the hundred and sixty-five thousand for you to pay Larry Dunbar.”

  “What, Jack?” Dr. Ross said, sliding back into his seat. “Two old people died in an assistant living home last week, and you think you have something on me? Remember, I had a signed document from each of them wanting to donate their organs. You just pushed their death up sooner than they expected. So, thank you for delivering the organs and picking up my money to pay Larry.”

  Dr. Ross got up, fixed his tie, and took a deep breath. “Look, your vendetta with Zack Nelson better not become my problem. I told you to handle him months ago. He’s got a good liver and a great heart for a man his age, and someone could use them,” Dr. Ross said, as he walked off.

  He quickly returned and caught Jack by surprise, putting his hand on his shoulder once again, knowing it would fire him up, and whispered in his ear. “Don’t ever get cocky with me again, or I’ll be selling your heart on the black market.”

  Jack gave him his typical stare. Usually, he would go into a rage and rip a person’s head off who would even think of talking to him in such a tone. But this was Dr. Ross. He had too much on Jack. He couldn’t just rough him up without retaliation. There was too much on Jack. He had been the doctor’s dirty man for years. He had a few things on the doctor too, like how he financed his gambling problem by selling black-market organs. But that wasn’t enough to compromise himself.

  After three Jack and waters, it took little to fire Jack up. He swept the table with his huge forearm, crushing the glasses to the floor. He got a quick stare from Tammy from behind the bar and from everyone else in the place. The bar got silent as the patrons focused on Jack, not knowing what else he might do.

  “You folks have a nice night,” Jack said as he gently stepped around the glass on the floor and walked out.

  Chapter 18

  The alarm clock rang, and Armando reluctantly turned it off. The life of a detective was not sleeping late. He had a routine and stuck to it. He splashed a little water on his face, brushed his teeth, and was ready for his morning run down Magazine Street.

  Katie, his live-in girlfriend, had just gotten home from her late shift as a trauma nurse at St. Maria’s Hospital. As the lead nurse in the emergency room, she had seen her share of tragedy, blood, and family despair. Seeing blood pouring out of someone, or a person driving themselves to the ER with an unexplained missing limb was all too familiar. She and Armando would often share stories of their tragic days over breakfast. They had both seen it all and sometimes too much to process in their field of work. She greeted him with a smile and a kiss. “After your run, I’ll have breakfast ready for you—maybe dessert too,” she said with a smile.

  “That will work for me,” Armando replied with a wink of his eye as he opened the door. “Dessert? That’ll make me run faster,” he said with a flirtatious smile.

  It was later than normal as the sun was rising from the east, putting the bright, morning light in Armando’s eyes as he jogged across Canal Street. He continued along Canal Street to the river and headed into the heart of the French Quarter. Stopping at the Napoleon House Café, his coffee was waiting for him as usual, once the waiter saw him jogging down the street. He sat streetside and sipped his coffee at the sidewalk café. About the only time he could sit curbside at a table was early morning. Much later and the traffic noise and car fumes would overpower him to move indoors.

  Tourists loved it. They thought it was stylish or cool to sit curbside and sip on some great New Orleans blend coffee. It made people feel like they were sitting in France in front of a cobblestone bicycle path with romantic ideas of an exciting city. Once they inhaled their share of carbon monoxide, they too would move on or go inside.

  Armando looked around as he always did at the beautiful architectural design of the French Quarter; it was a fascinating city. His thoughts were to cut off all motor vehicle traffic from driving through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, maybe a four-block area. Then they could have curbside cafés just like France, and people could stroll down the street and appreciate the beautiful designs of the buildings.

  “Another cup, sir?” the waiter asked.

  “No, thanks,” Armando said, as he reached into his pocket for some money.

  “My pleasure, sir, no charge,” he said. “I met you about six months ago. I never thought I’d have a chance to thank you.”

  “Thank me? For what?” Armando said in disbelief.

  “You spoke at a halfway house about a year ago. I did time for drugs. I was using, selling, and running with a gang. I never thought there was a way out for me, until you came along.”

  The waiter put his hand out. “My name is Carson, Carson Watts.”

  Armando shook his hand. “Where did I speak?”

  “On Washington Avenue near the river; a big house some guy donated to the city,” Carson said.

  “Yes, I spoke there a few times,” Armando said, sliding back into his chair in complete amazement.

  “It wasn’t the speech as much as what you did.”

  Armando heard him but really couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had given many talks over the years, some in Louisiana prisons, some at halfway houses, even tried talking at some housing projects. He never thought he ever got through to the troubled youths.

  “What did I do?” Armando replied.

  Carson stood, shifting from one foot to another and ran his hands through his hair. He was nervous. “You walked up to each one of us and said, ‘I’m sorry you were born into such a bad situation, but you made the choices, and they were all bad.’ Then you loaded us into a van, all ten of us. We arrived at a cemetery, and you pointed out three graves. They were guys you had spoken with six months earlier.”

  “And I handed you an envelope. In it were job offers from local merchants,” Armando said, finishing Carson’s sentence.

  “That is correct. And you said, ‘Take this job and turn your life around, or you will be planted next to one of these graves in a few months,’” Carson said with tears in his eyes.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Carson, and keep up the good work,” Armando said with a big smile.

  A car pulled up slowly to the curb, and the tinted glass went down.

  Armando shook Carson’s hand, and Carson pulled him closer, twisting himself around with his back to the street. “Thank you, sir, for everything.” He gave Armando a hug.

  “Detective Armando,” someone called from the car.

  Armando looked up, and all he could see was a person with a black-hooded shirt. Two gunshots fired, and the car took off. Carson was hit twice in the back with bullets intended for Armando. Carson slipped out of Armando’s arms and slumped to the ground.

  Armando pulled his gun from his ankle holster and fired once. He hit the driver. He could tell from the blood that sprayed out of the car window. Armando ran down the street behind the fast-moving car. Black Ford Mustang, LA 2234, he repeated in his head. His training kicked in automatically—Observe your surroundings, especially when in pursuit of a crime.

  He got on one knee and only had a split second to fire his gun at the car without risking hitting people with a stray bullet. He fired at the back tire. A bullet hit the tire, and it blew, throwing the car up on the curb and planting the hood of the car into a no-parking zone sign, stopping the car on impact.

  Armando got to the car with his gun pointed at the passenger, slumped over the steering wheel; a typical gang member with a black hood over his head. He checked his neck for a pulse, and it was weak. “Shit! You asshole, d
on’t die on me,” he shouted.

  He looked the car over for drugs or guns, but it was clean. He checked the driver for identification. The driver’s license name showed Adrianna Acosta.

  “Adrianna!” Armando said pulling her black hood off. Her long, black hair untangled from the hood and gently fell to her shoulders.

  In a faint voice, she said, “Tell Raul I earned my wings.” She fell dead on the steering wheel.

  Armando stood shocked but yet, he had seen it often; young girls following their boyfriend’s footsteps and joining a gang. He checked her hand and somehow knew he would find a tattoo of a butterfly. It wasn’t a random attack; it was a planned outright hit on Armando that went bad.

  It didn’t take long for police and paramedics to arrive. By the time Armando got back to the café, police had taped the area off and had covered Carson’s body with a sheet. He knew Carson had died in his arms before he put him on the ground.

  Armando knew the drill, and it took a while to give his report to the officers on the scene. He would return to headquarters and fill out more paperwork that would take up excessive time, time that could be spent trying to solve the case. He was in the middle of all the action and the one the gang had tried to kill. What’s worse would be the internal affairs investigation. He got a ride back to his condo and thought he would find a pissed-off Katie for taking so long. The apartment appeared empty.

  He called out, walking through the rooms, “Katie?” Making his way to the bedroom, he expected her to be in bed just looking up at him with her big, infectious smile, the smile that made him fall in love with her from the beginning. The bed was untouched. “Katie? Are you here?” he asked as he made his way back to the kitchen and found a note on the stove. Sorry, emergency at the hospital. A riot at the city jail sent twelve inmates to the ER. Will call you later, love you.

  He felt a slight relief knowing he didn’t have to go into detail about the morning happenings with Katie, at least not until he returned home later. Like any good detective, he reconstructed every detail in his head of how the drive-by went down that morning. He tried not to think about how close he came to becoming one of Katie’s ER patients, or even worse, he could have gone straight to the morgue.