Love Power

by Martha Reed

  “But that’s my house!” Ryan sputtered. “What’s going on?”

  “Sir? My partner was right,” Dupree stated firmly. “You need to move away from the street for your own personal safety. We have a hostage situation.”

  “Hostage situation? Christ! I just went to the store for smokes. Who’s in the house with my mom?”

  “A person of interest in a double homicide.” Grasping Ryan’s arm, Dupree led him aside. “An HRT negotiator is on the way.”

  “When did Tyler get here?” Standing on tiptoe, Ryan shouted over Dupree’s shoulder. “Tyler? Dude? What are you thinking?” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to call him.”

  “We’ve tried.” Dupree noted. “Shank disabled his phone. And the landline in the house.”

  An insistent two beat ‘Woo-EEE’ siren grew shrill as a steel-plated Lenco Bearcat armored vehicle rolled down the middle of St. Claude Avenue like a 9,000 pound bank vault on wheels, its red, white and blue overhead and grill panel lights flashing, followed closely by two unmarked Ford SUVs. Front doors and shutters cracked open as curious Bywater neighbors stepped onto their porches and stoops to watch the tactical SWAT vehicles establish a support position behind the two NOPD units facing Plessy Street.

  Jane caught her breath as Win Carter stepped out of the lead SUV. His navy Kevlar vest read FBI and he held an electronic public address bullhorn in one hand. Mayas followed on his heels. Teaming up, they ran over to meet Dupree and Bordelon.

  “Status report?” Carter barked. “What have we got?”

  Detective Dupree glanced uncertainly at the Embry’s house. “44-H. Hostage situation in progress.”

  “Have you attempted direct contact with Shank?” Mayas asked.

  “Not yet. Waiting on the HRT negotiator. Thought that would be best.”

  “What’s that timing?”

  “Unknown. He’s on his way.” Dupree frowned. “One potential hostage. Mrs. Cheryl Embry is inside.”

  “Alright.” Carter scanned the landscape as the FBI SWAT personnel swarmed out of the Bearcat carrying tactical weapons and shields. Every single team member was in full gear including MP5 submachine guns or Colt M4 carbine assault rifles. The last man out carried a steel battering ram if needed to break down the Embry’s door.

  “We’re not waiting,” Carter stated flatly. “This is our show. FBI mandate takes jurisdictional precedence for this event. Agreed?”

  “But we appreciate your support,” Mayas inserted quickly.

  Detective Dupree glanced at Bordelon, who nodded. “Agreed.”

  Jane froze as she watched the FBI sniper setting up the stabilizing tripod for his Remington 700 SPS Tactical rifle. The weapon looked as lethal as it was. She grabbed Gee’s arm. “Gee? This shit just got real. That’s .308 caliber.”

  Aunt Babette looked horrified. Reaching down, she grasped Piddle’s collar. “I don’t want to see this. We’re going up to my room.”

  “Stay back from the window.” Jane said as her PTSD kicked in. Her peripheral vision started alternating between red and green colored dots and wavy lines like mascaraed eyelashes as the sniper adjusted his scope. Tearing her eyes away, she noted the arrival of an ambulance. The white van had a huge golden fleur-de-lis painted on it and the EMS techs wore T-shirts printed with the words New Orleans Paramedics across their chests.

  Leaning forward, they studied the scene through their windshield as a woman officer unrolled yellow police tape between two lampposts on St. Claude Avenue to block off the growing crowd of rubber necking bystanders drifting into the bike lane.

  “This is different,” one said, raising his red Solo cup.

  “Wasn’t really expecting to see this on a Sunday morning, but okay.” His neighbor agreed.

  Hefting the bullhorn, Carter pointed it at the Embry’s house.

  “Tyler Shank? I’m FBI Special Agent Winston Carter. Can we talk?”

  The house remained shuttered and silent.

  “Tyler? We know you’re inside. We need to talk. Come on out, now.”

  The FBI sniper inhaled as the Embry’s front door cracked open. Cheryl stood framed in the gap, her hands clutching her faded housecoat at her throat.

  “He wants a car,” she shouted, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. “He says he wants a car now.”

  The bullhorn squealed feedback. “Tyler? Take it easy, man. You’re making this too hard. Just let her go and we’ll talk about it.”

  “Y’all need to back off,” Cheryl yelled.

  “Tyler?” Carter repeated. “Come on out, ‘bro. Let me see your hands. I can make it easy for you. Tyler? Let’s do this easy. Let it go. Ain’t worth it, man. I’m telling you. Let Mrs. Embry go and we’ll talk.”

  “I didn’t do nothing!” Tyler shouted hoarsely.

  “Drop your weapon,” Carter insisted. “Let me see your hands. Nobody has to get hurt. Tyler? Listen to me, ‘bro. This ain’t the way to go. I’m telling you. Don’t do it this way.”

  Cheryl suddenly got snatched back inside the house and the door slammed shut. Jane ducked as the long window to the left of the front door shattered.

  CRACK. CRACK.

  “Shots fired! Everybody down!” Mayas yelled.

  The bystanders in the bike lane scattered like chickens.

  “Dispatch?” The woman officer shouted into her hand-held radio. “12:17. Shots fired. Code 4. Repeat. Code 4.”

  “Hey!” Carter visually checked the SWAT team. “Everybody okay?”

  “Man down!” Dupree yelled, his voice ragged. “Medic! I need help.”

  Aware of their cover, the EMS techs raced forward, bent low over their rolling stretcher and forming an almost perfect horizontal line. Peering through the gap between the SWAT vehicles, Jane could only see Dupree. He had bright red arterial blood splashed up the front of his Kevlar vest to his chin.

  “Bordelon!” Dupree dropped to his knees. “Stay with me, man. Stay with me!”

  The Embry’s front door re-opened. Cheryl tottered onto the porch, openly sobbing. Using her as a human shield, Tyler gripped her neck with his left hand, pushing a cocked sawed-off shotgun into her right ear.

  “You made me do this!” He cried. “I didn’t want to! You made me do it.”

  Jane caught a sudden blur of movement. Zigzagging left and right between the tactical SUVs, Ryan bolted past the SWAT team focused on the scene. Agent Mayas saw his action and made a grab for him, but Ryan dodged right and evaded his reach, running out into the middle of Plessy Street.

  “Tyler? Bro?” Slowing his step, Ryan raised both arms wide. “No need to do this. We’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Fuck!” Carter cursed. “Sight him. Sight him!”

  The SWAT sniper adjusted his scope and settled back. “Done.”

  “Dude?” Tyler’s lips quivered. “You told them I was here, man? You gave me up?”

  “No, bro! No! I didn’t. It wasn’t me, I swear. Mom? You okay?”

  “Ryan? Son?” Cheryl tried to turn her head under Tyler’s fierce grip. “I love you, son. No matter what happens, don’t forget that I love you!”

  “Goddammit, Tyler.” Ryan stepped closer. “Look at the shit show you got going on here.” He took another step forward. “Let her go, ‘bro. Let my mom go and take me, instead.”

  Jane caught Carter flicking his flattened hand at the sniper as he made up his mind. Oh, shit. Her heart caught in her throat. He’s going to do it.

  Carter raced flat out like an NFL running back through the two lead NOPD units. Ryan heard Carter’s pounding footsteps and he turned. Grabbing Ryan by the shoulders, Carter wrapped both arms around him and using brute force strength and his Kevlar vest as a limited shield, he dragged Ryan kicking and struggling back behind the police barricade. Ryan fought back, using his fists and his feet.

  “Let go! Let me go!”

  “Hold this fool.” Carter chucked Ryan at a uniformed officer. “Cuff him to a bumper, I don’t care what you do, but keep him secured.” Pa
nting heavily, he turned.

  “Ryan?” Tyler called, wiping the snot running from his nose on Cheryl’s hair. “Dude? I thought we were partners!”

  Cheryl’s knees gave out and she started to slip. Still pressing the shotgun into her ear, Tyler wrapped his fingers in her hair. He tightened his grip as she cried out.

  “Don’t fucking move, bitch! I’ll blow your fucking head all over this neighborhood. I’m not stupid. I know what you did.”

  “He did it!” Cheryl screamed shrilly as she collapsed into a heap. “He said he killed those people!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Tyler fumbled his grip. “You set me up -”

  CRACK.

  Jane jumped at the concussive snap of the Remington .308. Suddenly freed, Cheryl Embry fell forward, hunching into a boneless ball. Covering her face with her hands, she started shrilly keening as Tyler flopped onto the porch like a limp rag doll.

  The high caliber Remington echo bounced off the houses in The Bywater neighborhood. Street corner spectators froze in wide-eyed shock, slowly raising their hands to cover their gaping mouths. Even the ravens fell silent in the bare black trees.

  “N.A.T.” Jane whispered.

  Gee inhaled brokenly. “What does that mean?”

  “Necessary action taken. It’s done, Gee. It’s over.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Turning her head, Jane listened to the rain softly pattering against the apartment’s wavy glass windows. How long has this place been standing? A hundred and fifty years? She thought of Tyler Shank shot to death on the Embry’s front porch across the street. NOLA is crammed with history although we sure never learned much of it in school. What else has this place seen?

  A somber hush had clung to The Bywater neighborhood yesterday long after the tactical SWAT unit had dispersed and the FBI had rumbled away. Initially, the EMS team had taken charge of the cleanup, carrying Cheryl Embry to New Orleans East Hospital and transporting Tyler Shank’s body-bagged corpse to the Crescent City morgue. After the FBI signed off on the crime scene, a NOFD 3rd District fire engine had pulled up next to the Embry’s driveway. Firefighters had very considerately hosed Tyler Shank’s pooled blood off the front porch before it had a chance to set and permanently stain the paint.

  Piddles snorted in his sleep. Opening his eyes, he rose from his bed, licked his nose, yawning and stretching more like a cat than a dog before trotting for the door, whining.

  “Need to go out, Mr. P?” Jane stretched, too. “You’re gonna get wet.”

  Reaching for her cane, she scrambled up. Her stiff knee still looked puffy, but it was half the size it had been the day of the accident. Her gravel rash had scabbed over into a golden serum crust without any sign of green infection and her big bruise was fading from plum to black and banana yellow. The only real remaining aggravation were the stitches in her scalp because they itched like crazy as her stubbly hair grew back in.

  Piddles raced outside through the dormant garden, yipping through the puddles as Jane leaned against the door. Despite the spitting rain, the December breeze refreshed her overheated face. Reaching up, she tested her cheeks using the back of her hand. Is this a fever? Her skin felt cool, but not clammy. What do you know? Damn, girl. I’m on the mend.

  She gazed at the Embry’s shuttered house. Tyler Shank is dead and The Crescent City Slasher threat is over. Fancy and Dee and Numa have been avenged. Dupree finally traced that pickup truck tag from the locker back to Tyler’s mom’s address. Case closed. Gee and the LGBTQ community are safe again, well, as safe as they ever were. Jane thoughtfully rapped the cane against the chipped limestone threshold. Justice has been served. Pretty swift justice for Tyler Shank and that’s a fact. When Dad died, I learned that life’s not fair, but Lady Justice? She is one intent bitch. She may be blind, but she never waivers and she’s not afraid of using that sword in her hand.

  Lifting her chin off her chest, Jane studied the dripping silvery rain. Isn’t it funny how Justice is always shown as a woman? The Punisher is a she. Somehow, somewhere, we lost sight of that. She shook her head. And if this really is over, why do I feel so unsatisfied?

  She noted The Boat parked in the driveway, canvas top up and a pink polka dot umbrella drying outside the kitchen door. Gee must’ve stopped by for lunch. Jane’s stomach grumbled at the thought of hot food. How about a smoked turkey and cheese roll-up? She turned, leaving the front door open for Mr. P’s return and to catch more of the welcome breeze.

  Her peckish appetite got hosed as she limped into the kitchen. The drain had backed up again because of the rain. A neon orange ring of congealed grease floated like a life preserver on top of six inches of brown water filling the sink.

  “Crap. Just what I needed! One more thing.”

  Piddles yipped uncertainly as he skidded back into the apartment. Pausing in the exact center of the living room, he shook the raindrops off of his wiry coat, spraying the furniture and the walls with droplets before searching for Jane, finding her in the kitchen and tracking a fresh row of muddy paw prints across the floor, obviously hoping for a biscuit or a cheesy rollup treat.

  What the fuck. Jane laughed. Welcome to my crazy ass life. Guess what? It’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It’s a fucking pain in the ass, but I’m living it and it’s all mine. Reaching for the roll of paper towels, she frugally tore off two sheets and dropped them to the floor, leveraging her cane and using her good right foot to mop the paw prints up. “You made a mess, Mr. P -”

  She paused as a niggling idea breached the surface of her foggy brain. Paw prints? Muddy paw prints? Is that it? She squinted, snatching at the vague, whispery suggestion while struggling to link her thoughts into something cohesive. Her gut instinct started sending up warning flares as she homed in on yesterday’s hostage situation, a sensation she never ignored. Shit. I missed something yesterday. Something big. What was it?

  Leaning against the counter, she recalled Tyler pressing the shotgun to Cheryl’s head. Tyler had looked hesitant, uncertain, obviously in fear for his life and clearly out of his depth. Jane stepped the memory back to his assault on Gee on Frenchmen Street, this time using a knife. Tyler had looked equally uncertain then, fumbling and dropping the blade before fleeing the scene.

  If Tyler Shank was The Crescent City Slasher wouldn’t he be more on point?

  A light bulb went off in her mind like fireworks over Nantucket harbor on Independence Day as she made the connection.

  Not muddy paw prints, bloody footprints. Her heart began to hammer as she recalled Delilah Gardere’s horrific crime scene with its hundreds of dripping crimson handprints stamped on the walls and the two sets of bloody footprints circling Dee’s corpse on the floor.

  Two sets of footprints means two killers. Not one, two.

  ‘Dude! I thought we were partners!’ Tyler had screamed before dying.

  Jane froze. Tyler Shank had an accomplice in the hate crime murders. The Crescent City Slasher is a serial killer team.

  She grabbed her phone, still plugged into its charger, speed-dialing Carter’s number.

  “Hey, Jane. Pleasant surprise. Everything okay? You’re on a recorded line.”

  “Win?” She snatched a quick breath. “Just before he died, Tyler Shank called Ryan Embry his partner. Did you catch that? Think back to Delilah Gardere’s crime scene, Win. Pull it up in your mind. Too much shit has happened for this to be the work of a solo killer.” She sucked in another breath. “We have an active killer team here, Win. Tyler Shank and Ryan Embry worked together to commit the murders like Leonard Lake and Charles Ng did. They’re a team, a serial killer team.”

  “Jane, I’m sorry. What?”

  She pressed the phone to her ear. “I think Tyler Shank and Ryan Embry committed the hate crime murders as a serial killer team,” she repeated. “Look at Delilah Gardere’s crime scene photos. Do you have them? Pull them up.”

  “Give me a second. Hold on. They’re on my laptop -”

  “Check the footprints next to h
er body. I’m telling you, Win, forensics was my thing. That crime scene had two different footprints. I only just now remembered it.”

  “One minute. Okay, Jane, I’m in. I’m looking at ‘em now.”

  She heard his soft breathing in her ear.

  “You’re wrong. It’s not two sets of prints. Some of these are partials from when the killer walked on tip-toe.”

  “That can’t be.” Jane clutched her forehead, her spinning brain pulsing with pain. She pushed through it. “Check the treads. You need to pull Ryan Embry in again. Press him on it. I know I’m right.”

  Carter sighed heavily. “Jane? It was an interesting idea, it was, and you really had me going there for a minute, but you need to let this go. We caught the killer, Tyler Shank. Forensics fingerprinted the Glock Cheryl Embry surrendered up. It had Shank’s fingerprints on it. Everyone’s in agreement, signed off on it, up and down the line. It’s done. We need to focus now on other things.”

  “Oh, really?” Jane snapped. “Like what?”

  “Like Detective Bordelon’s funeral.” Win softened his tone. “Remember that?”

  Oh, shit. Her gaffe was so blatant that Jane choked. “I forgot. How’s Dupree doing?”

  “Taking it hard. To be expected. They were partners for twenty-six years. Most marriages aren’t that solid.”

  “Remind me again.” She swallowed thickly. “When’s the funeral?”

  “Saturday at one. St. Patrick’s Church on Camp Street. D’you need a ride? I can swing by and pick you up.”

  Jane hesitated. Bordelon’s funeral will be a full court press including Mayor Landrieu and the police union reps. No one will miss me if I’m MIA. “I’ll think about it.”

  “There’ll be a second line parade after Bordelon’s funeral with his family and friends if you wanted to join that. You know, celebrate his life?” Win paused. “Call me with what you decide, either way. I want to keep in touch, know how you’re doing.”

  “Will do.”

  Jane tapped out. Carter’s right. Fancy and Dee and Cal and Numa aren’t the only victims here. Her shoulders slumped. With violence, there’s always collateral damage, intended or not. Hatred has a ripple effect. Wrong place, wrong time, catch a bullet and now Detective Bordelon, that nice guy on the edge of retirement dies from Tyler’s hatred, too. Now his family and friends and the people who loved him like Dupree are suffering. And Cal’s still missing, too.