by Don Bruns
‘Education runs out after that year at Delgado Community. Stuff from high school like a year on the track team, Spanish Club, I don’t see much sense in delving into that.’
‘No, let’s pick him up here at twenty-one. Night watchman. Gets his first taste of law enforcement. Probably carried a gun.’ He pushed the file to Levy and started taking notes. ‘How long did that last?’
Levy riffed through the papers. ‘I guess a year, year and a half. He was actually working as a private contractor, as a security guard at a manufacturing company in Algiers.’ He paused. ‘Ah, here it is. Worked for the security company, Security First, for a little over a year. He left that job right after he turned twenty-three.’
‘Quit college after a year, quit his job after a year …’
‘Hey, kid’s trying to find himself, Q. Did you know what you wanted to do at twenty-one?’
‘Actually, I did.’ Archer glanced up from his notes. ‘I wanted to be a cop like my father. It’s never changed, Josh. Never changed.’
‘Even though it pretty much broke up your family and killed your wife? You still think it was the right decision? Becoming a cop? You must have had some second thoughts.’
‘I admit it hasn’t been easy. I’ve been defined by this job, but we’re getting the bad guys off the street. We’re making a difference, aren’t we? That’s something of a noble profession, don’t you think?’
‘I told you. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing. But at twenty-one, twenty-three, I’m not sure I was thinking that. I was still going to be an NFL quarterback or the next Eminem.’
‘A Detroit rapper?’
‘Oh, you pick up on the rapper but you don’t find the football reference questionable?’ He laughed.
‘I’m glad you’re a cop,’ Archer chuckled. ‘It suits you, Josh. I actually met Eminem in Detroit and you are no Eminem. Thank God.’
‘So am I, Q. I’m glad I’m a cop.’
‘Let’s get this guy, Josh. What’s next in Officer Johnny Leroy’s employment background?’
Levy continued to read. ‘Here’s an interesting tidbit. You ever work security, some event or for a private company?’
‘Off duty? Sure.’
‘Anything ever happen on your watch?’
‘Bounced a couple of drunk guys at a fundraiser once. I remember it got a little physical. And as I mentioned, I worked security for an Eminem concert one night. Had to push some people away. That was about it.’
‘I don’t think I ever got into something like that,’ Levy said. ‘Just walked around and tried to look tough and important. But Leroy, he’s got a different story. Read this.’ He handed a copied newspaper story to Archer.’
NOPD reports that Saturday night, private security officer John Leroy with Security First LA apprehended two intruders at the Fox Glass company in Algiers. Owner Matt Fox says the company had recently taken delivery of three pounds of gold leaf for a major home building project in the Garden District and it was apparent the two intruders were intent on taking that gold.
According to Fox, Leroy detained them during the attempted robbery, contained the two men by wrapping them with packing tape, and waited for law enforcement agents to arrive. Names of the suspects were being withheld pending further investigation.
‘Wow, catching gold thieves.’ Archer laughed. ‘Our Officer Leroy was a perfect fit for NOPD.’
‘Read on,’ Levy said. ‘There are three other instances where he interacted with trespassers. No other arrests.’
‘He made up for it on the force.’ Archer scanned the report. ‘His arrest record is impressive.’
‘So, by all accounts in the check, Leroy performed admirably.’
‘It would appear so,’ Archer said.
‘What was gold worth back in 1992?’
Archer pulled out his cell and keyed in the question.
‘Three hundred eighty-six dollars an ounce.’
‘So, with a pretty good head for math, that means the gold leaf was worth around $18,000. That would be pretty good for a night’s haul, even by today’s standards.’
‘I think first-degree grand theft charges start at $10,000.’
‘Back then,’ Levy said, ‘it was probably less. Either way, these guys probably did some hard time.’
‘So far,’ Archer said, ‘we know he was a mediocre student, probably flunked out of community college, and had a stellar career, albeit short, as a security officer. Not a lot to go on from that.’
‘No.’ Levy shook his head.
‘Escape, money and reflection.’
Levy stood and stretched. ‘I think we’ll find the killer in the arrest records, Q. I’m not saying your voodoo lady isn’t seeing clearly, but I believe that Leroy was a clean cop. Nothing so far has colored that.’
‘And those arrest records … how are they coming along?’
‘They should have another batch cleared by this evening.’
‘And we’re looking for the guy with a thorn necklace tattooed on his neck. The word is out. The tattoo parlors are being canvassed, and if any patrolman sees the man, we’ve got a prime suspect. Everyone on the force is looking for him. Someone said that an officer in Central City actually stopped a guy who had a real thorn necklace.’
‘That is good police work, Quentin. That is how we proceed. How we catch the bad guys. By the book.’
‘Look, I know you don’t think that Solange has the believability to bring a meaningful solution to a case, but …’
‘I don’t want to get into it, friend. She may have hit on some things a couple of times. I owe her that. She actually showed up at a crucial time several months ago to save our bacon, but you’re not going to convince a lot of blue that her ideas have any serious validity.’
Archer was quiet for a moment.
‘I’ve got the same problem, Levy.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I don’t want to believe that just because she visited the corpse of a deceased police officer she has answers. My wife worked with dying people every night in downtown Detroit. She was a nurse and she experienced death on a regular basis. Yet she never came home with images of their past or what they went through. If they were stabbed to death, they were stabbed to death. End of story. She was never aware of some eerie spirit. These dead bodies didn’t talk to her from the grave. If they were killed in a gang fight, or a domestic dispute, so be it. No ghostly feelings about the things that haunted them, or how it happened. I’m having a tough time dealing with this lady’s supernatural findings too, but at least two times now she’s—’
‘Quentin, I’m probably way out of line here, but I think it’s obvious that there’s something more to this relationship you have with her than just business.’ Levy pushed his chair back and closed his eyes, rubbing his finger and thumb over his eyelids.
‘And just what else is there?’
‘Come on, don’t make me spell it out. I think you are attracted to Solange Cordray. Emotionally, physically, and hey, I get that. I don’t know how she feels about you, but I would hate to think you are letting your feelings interfere with good police work. You know this is a top-line case and we can’t let personal feeling interfere.’
Archer simply nodded.
‘Fine, we can work with the three things she suggested. I don’t mind reworking the background check on Leroy. After twenty-six years, it couldn’t hurt. But don’t let this girl get in the middle of you solving the case. If I’m wrong, I apologize up front, but you seem to be conflicted and that’s not a good thing when you’re working a murder.’
Archer was quiet. He wasn’t exactly broadcasting his feelings, but wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret. He decided that he needed to scrub the dinner invitation. Keep the relationship strictly business. He believed in transparency, aboveboard transactions. He’d bow out of any personal relationship.
‘That won’t happen, Josh.’
‘Johnny Leroy was a good cop and I don’t want to think that our investigation would sugges
t anything else.’
‘I’m trying to be objective, Josh, but she’s got a track record. I can’t just ignore her intuition. We work our asses off to cultivate leads and I don’t want to blow this one off. Citizen input solves lots of cases, and as for Solange Cordray, she’s been pretty reliable.’
‘Let’s keep looking, Q, but let’s not let tried-and-true go by the wayside. I won’t bring it up again, OK? I’m just asking that we continue to pursue solid investigation techniques. We can’t get too caught up in this woo-woo phenomenon. I mean, I’ve seen it be beneficial but it’s a little out there you have to admit. We still have to rely on—’
‘I get it, Josh. I get it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And thanks for agreeing not to bring it up again.’ But Archer knew he would. It was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. Believing that a voodoo lady could solve a murder case. It was crazy. Since Denise had died, he wanted to be in touch with the spirit world, wanted to have some touch with whatever was out there that a living, breathing human being couldn’t fathom. He wanted to know that she was still in his life. And the fact that he was attracted to the one person who seemed to have that spiritual connection made it all that much harder. Life was a bitch. Death was possibly even worse.
FOURTEEN
Late afternoon in Algiers was still relatively calm and Joseph sat on another worn wooden bench, a brown, patchy field of grass surrounding him. The heat and lack of rain had parched the area and the sun had burned the vegetation. Flies buzzed around him as he munched on a leg from Chubbie’s Fried Chicken, barely noticing the crisp, juicy texture as he watched the crowd start to warm up.
There were some chants from small groups, ‘Black Lives Matter’, and some posturing, where twenty of the assembled would raise their fists, then raise their sign with whatever slogan they had been given. It was all very entertaining, but the crowd politely moved off the streets whenever a vehicle approached. Tonight would be the test. A test of the resolve of the law enforcement community. As darkness gave cover, the revelers, the party crowd would be in their faces, never giving in to traffic and waving their crude hand-lettered signs, maybe throwing rocks, bottles or blows. Fueled by alcohol, drugs and the support and rage of hundreds of kindred spirits, the violence would escalate.
The cops would be prepared, defending themselves with shields, helmets, bulletproof vests and tear gas, spraying the caustic fumes into the crowd, temporarily blinding rioters and momentarily preventing them from creating the havoc they desired. There was an excellent chance that the combined forces of law enforcement agencies wouldn’t be 100 percent effective. Crowds like the ones he was observing thrived when push came to shove. And they would thrive on camera time, each one hoping for a turn on cable or network television.
A gas station over there, a convenience store over here. The store that Old Joe held up. He was positive that in the next couple of days the Korean family that owned that establishment would pray for a trip back to their native country. The store was assuredly going to be toast. A pile of ashes. A pawnshop and a couple of consignment shops in the dilapidated strip mall, they were all in the line of fire. And tonight would be a wait and see moment. The mayor had gone public, saying he wasn’t going to let this be a Ferguson, Missouri, where they just weren’t prepared. He’d taken a lesson from Baltimore, Maryland as well. There were some very recent studies on riot control, and the mayor of New Orleans wasn’t going to let his city explode. Not like the others. Not if he could help it. And from his protected office, or perhaps his posh home in the Garden District, he would monitor the possible life-and-death situation. Elected officials seemed to have that luxury.
Joseph Brion didn’t want to jump the gun. He watched the scene unfold, almost feeling like a director. As the protestors rolled in, so did law enforcement. A bus carrying a small platoon of National Guard soldiers pulled in, fifty feet from where he sat. They piled off the vehicle, each man wearing a camouflage helmet, goggles, bulletproof vest and battle uniform, an M16 assault rifle held tightly against his chest.
Tonight would probably be rough, but Joseph was betting on the next evening. That was when the cops would back off, the National Guard would either downsize or go home. The State Troopers would cut half the force, as long as they felt they had the situation under control. That was the night he wanted for himself. His final hurrah.
So, let hellfire and damnation rule tonight. Cart off fifty people to jail. Bash in a dozen cars, police cruisers, sheriff vehicles, break some merchant’s windows and steal the contents. Set street fires and torch businesses. Take the spotlight if you can. Let the world know you are pissed off. Light the shimmering shadows of tomorrow night. Joseph just wanted a small window. In the scope of things, he hoped it wouldn’t get in the way of all the chaos tonight. However, he was making a statement and he wanted that statement to be heard.
He’d started this movement, with the cold-blooded killing of Joseph Washington. His godfather. He’d orchestrated that so well. He’d started it, and tomorrow night he wanted to end it. On his terms. A fitting tribute to Pop.
Would his final act be absorbed in the riot? Just another random act of violence? Or would the NOPD or some other organization look a little deeper? He didn’t think so.
River’s Edge Dementia Center was located as advertised. On the river’s edge. A drab gray building that needed no exterior enhancement. The tenants had no sense of decor, inside or out. Their blank stares, their unseeing eyes, never noticed their surroundings.
Solange Cordray knew the grounds well and understood the lack of landscaping, decorations or any other improvement in the look of the establishment. It would have been lost on the inhabitants. She visited four days a week, volunteering her time to be with Ma and her neighbors. A thankless job, since the beneficiaries of her time didn’t realize or recognize her effort. The paid staff only gave her and other volunteers a nod, but it was the chance to be with Ma, the former New Orleans queen of voodoo, Clotille Trouville. A lady that once spoke to the power elite of the Big Easy, she also was known for helping the poor, helpless flood victims during the catastrophe known as Katrina. Clotille was a legend in certain circles, but a legend in the past. In recent years, she’d disappeared from the scene. Her advice, her spells, her prayers were sorely missed.
Ma was inside the shell of her former self. Somewhere inside there. Occasionally she spoke to Solange, in brief, muted moments. She would give her one-word answers or for a brief second, shine bright-eyed as if she was engaged. But the moments were fleeting and Solange never knew if her mother truly was aware. Still, the girl shared her innermost thoughts. She asked her wise mother for advice. The woman who raised her, taught her voodoo culture and passed on the gift … or curse. She was never sure what it was.
After a breezy ride from the morgue and some deep meditation, she motored to the building that sat on prime real estate on the mighty Mississippi. She’d decided that before she went to her small apartment, before she drank her glass, or multiple glasses of white wine, she wanted to see Ma. She wanted to know if her mother had any insight. Solange was certain that Ma would have a clear vision of what happened with Officer Leroy. It would be a clear vision after you cleared away the clouds. And Solange wasn’t sure she could do that. Clear away all the clouds.
She dismounted and entered the lobby, signed in and walked the hall back to Ma’s room. She had to sign in, even though the lady at the desk knew her by name. They needed her name and signature, as if she might do harm to a helpless, mindless dementia patient for no reason she could fathom. The next step would be metal detectors, trained dogs and armed guards. They didn’t realize her heart was pure, her intentions honorable. There should be a detector for that. There wasn’t.
The hall reminded her of where she’d been, the New Orleans City morgue, reeking of an antiseptic combination of alcohol and disinfectant. It always took her a couple of minutes to absorb the smell, then it seemed to dissipate, to leave her system.
You could get used to almost anything.
Walking into her ma’s room she observed the old woman, staring out of her window. Solange knew she saw nothing.
‘Ma.’
Nothing. The lady never turned her head.
‘Ma, it’s me.’
Nothing.
‘I was looking for some advice.’
No acknowledgement.
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but a cop was killed in Bayou St John. I saw the corpse today.’ Drained, worn out, she didn’t really wish to discuss it with her mother but there was no choice. She wanted someone to realize what she’d been through. Ma was the one person who would always listen. Maybe never hearing or understanding a single word, but she sat still while Solange spelled out her dilemma.
True to form, Clotille Trouville appeared not to hear anything at all.
‘Ma, I picked up some strong vibrations. This cop, an officer Johnny Leroy, has some serious baggage. He wants to escape the consequences. He’s got some hidden money somewhere, and I get the impression … it’s only my impression, that he’s taken someone’s life. An innocent person’s life.’ She hesitated to even tell Ma. An accusation like that shouldn’t be shared until there was proof. And she was positive no one was looking into anything that remotely resembled that charge.
Nothing.
‘You never saw the body, you never interviewed the corpse,’ she always held out the belief that deep inside Ma was still there, ‘but some sort of feeling would be helpful.’
She had the impression today wasn’t going to be the day. Then, a turn of the head and a whimsical smile. Ma was looking into her eyes.
‘Can you help?’
The old lady nodded.
‘What do you know?’ Still not sure that the old woman really understood the question or even heard her.