No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  The invaders seized anything not secured, sprinting out of doors or broken windows. In many cases, cops were there to take them down with stun batons. However, far more ran than were captured.

  The riot squad, professional in appearance, terrified in their personal response, regrouped in a square formation, stomping their feet in unison and banging their batons on their shields. The thunderous sound was frightening, and some of the protestors bolted through the escape routes left for them by the squad. The object was to disperse this crowd and the more demonstrators who decided to cut and run the better. Spread out and let them run, but be ready to tighten up at a moment’s notice. If the violence escalated again, they were ready.

  Two helicopters hovered over the small area, bright spotlights sweeping over the throng. The loud beating sound of their propellers, along with the stomping feet of the police and the rapping of batons on shields on the ground, was deafening. Fighting for attention were two bullhorns from ground crews, instructing the rioters to break up and go home, and two bullhorns from the mob’s leaders, telling the crowd to remember Joseph Washington. Shouting repeatedly that black lives mattered. With all the chaos and confusion, both sides stood their ground.

  ‘People, go home. Please, go home. Break this up and go home or you will spend the night in jail.’

  ‘People, my people,’ Reverend Jeremiah Ashley of the Algiers Pentecostal Baptist Church shouted out, ‘remember the life of our brother, Joseph Washington. A troubled man, yes, but one who did not deserve to be killed by a white policeman. Black lives matter. Let me hear you say it, people, my people, black lives matter. They truly do.’

  And they shouted it out, screaming in defiance of the competing message. ‘Black lives matter. Black lives matter.’ The ones with slogans on their T-shirts were front line throwing missiles of stone and glass.

  ‘People, please, please go home. We don’t want to arrest you. Please, break this up.’

  ‘Roast the pigs, roast the pigs.’

  One of the uniformed team collapsed, overcome by the heat, the smothering mask and body armor or the sheer fear of the confrontation.

  A handful of people decided they’d had enough. They took advantage of the exits and walked away, having made their presence known. The others, empowered by Reverend Ashley and his message that black lives matter, decided to stay and watch and possibly influence the outcome.

  Blue-and-red flashing lights created a purple haze as five men raced toward a police SUV, two of them tossing bricks. As the bricks bounced off the customized vehicle driving down the street, an officer inside put his arm through a customized hole in the door, spraying tear gas. The five rioters turned and ran, holding their arms over their faces, the chemical causing a burning, stinging pain in their eyes. Gas was a driving force in keeping the demonstrators at bay.

  Two shots rang out, whether armed protestors or police, but rioters nearby hit the ground.

  Across the river, the French Quarter watched and listened, residents and tourists gazing at the flares of orange flames as the homemade bombs exploded. They heard the roar of the crowd, the thunder of stomping feet and the beating of batons on shields. The odor of burning fuel drifted over the river and it seemed that the entire community of Algiers might explode.

  An enraged contingent of thugs and rabble-rousers rushed the Korean-owned convenience store that had been robbed by Joseph Washington. The store that carried a selection of wines, tobacco and sundry food products. Tossing bricks and pieces of concrete, they destroyed the plate-glass window that touted the availability of King Cobra, Colt 45 and Old English. The advertised beers, malt liquors and all the bottles of wine were gone in minutes as the looters ripped the items from the coolers and shelves. Cigarettes, cartons of Newport and Kool were stripped from behind the counter and food items, like bags of chips, processed cookies and crackers, candy and beef jerky, were wiped from the store. In ten minutes, the establishment was bare, with nothing left but a cash register, some shelves, an empty, broken safe and the coolers. When the outlet was totally ransacked, someone pitched a gasoline-filled bottle with Colt 45 on the label. The irony was lost on everyone as the gas-soaked flaming rag burned down to the neck of the brown bottle which then exploded, lighting up the inside of the store as if it was daylight. Screaming fire trucks fought the angry crowds, but due to the massive amount of people and the rocks and bricks, the blaze was already beyond control by the time they arrived, orange flames and thick black plumes of smoke rising in the sky. The store was ashes when the engines finally broke through the crowds. It was the will of the masses to destroy their own civilization.

  EIGHTEEN

  Joseph watched from a distance. He could just barely smell the caustic fumes of tear gas and mace, the acrid odor of burning gasoline, and the sweet odor of marijuana. A hot, steamy night in New Orleans had just gotten a whole lot hotter, and he’d been the catalyst. He’d set it up, then waited for it to happen. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  Dozens of people would be injured, probably a hundred would be arrested. There was a chance that innocent lives might be taken. Businesses were destroyed. He’d followed the anatomy of riots and always wondered why the marauders destroyed their own neighborhoods. Why they chose to attack the place they lived. If he’d been in charge, he would have started at the NOPD headquarters in the Quarter. Burn that building down. Or branch out and attack the precincts. Make it a citywide invasion. But it wasn’t his decision. He’d only manufactured the reason for the riot. Now the event took on a life of its own.

  From his small cottage, a former slave quarter in the French Quarter, Archer could hear the roar of the crowds, the percussive pounding of the riot squads, and the explosions of homemade bombs. The noise competed with the booming bass and screeching of karaoke at the Cat’s Meow in front of his apartment. The club revelers were oblivious to the life and death situation across the river.

  He hoped the riot would end peacefully and knew it wouldn’t. Blood would be shed and unrest would spread to other parts of the city. This wasn’t going to be an easy time for the department. There was a target on everyone’s back. There might be more cases like the shooting of Officer Johnny Leroy and it was his job to find the perpetrator now.

  Solange Cordray drifted in and out of sleep, hearing faint sounds from across the river. At times, she thought it might be a firework display, but she knew what was going on and she prayed again that sanity would eventually rule. Being a sane person herself, she knew she was crazy to believe that would happen. She’d given Archer everything she had. She hoped it would be enough.

  The killings of Officer Leroy and Joseph Washington were related, therefore both of them a reason for the riot. Solve the crime, possibly bring some peace to the city. A city that seldom had peace. A city that was always at odds with warring factions. And again, she realized that her utopian dreams made her the crazy one.

  Joseph heard the ebb and the flow, the ebb stronger early in the morning. Much of the crowd had dispersed and in the morning light the rest of the mob would go home. If the model held form, the situation would stabilize mid-morning. Merchants would survey the damage, call their insurance companies and curse the day they decided to start a business. Some small businesses would realize they were underinsured or had no insurance at all and would simply walk away.

  Tonight, the swell would be smaller. The curious, the sideliners had come out last night, to experience the rush, to tell their grandchildren they’d participated in a black lives matter event. For them, the rush, the excitement, the raw enthusiasm was over. Let the power hungry carry the torch. Let Reverend Jeremiah Ashley shout into the bullhorn how the downtrodden were being crucified. The part-timers had participated, but one night was enough. Some of them suffered lingering ailments from the gasses, the shock batons, the physical pushback from the officers. Some would spend a night in jail.

  But the truth was as Joseph knew it to be. Joseph Washington, the man who held up the Korean convenience
store, the devious bastard who all those years ago had found the truck driver with the broken neck, was a crook. A thief, a piece of shit. An opportunist with no talent who lived off the misery of others. He’d signed off on André Brion’s death warrant and for that he deserved to die. Joseph, his namesake, only hoped that Washington knew, in the fleeting seconds before the white cop shot him, what a scumbag he was. His life had amounted to nothing positive.

  Maybe, in his final moments, Washington said his prayers. Joseph was doubtful Washington had a guiding spirit, doubtful that he believed in an almighty presence, but he wished his personal spirit nothing but pain and torment until time eternal.

  Joseph Brion hoped that Joseph Washington would rot in hell.

  Tonight, when there was the full attention of the press, and only half the protesters, this was when Joseph would make his defining statement.

  CNN, FOX, NBC, CBS, they’d committed to the scene. Handsomely rewarded by last night’s display, they weren’t going anywhere. News anchors and personalities like NBC’s Lester Holt, Fox’s Shepard Smith and CNN’s Chris Cuomo, they’d be there to cover the limited riot. The toned-down version of what happened several hours ago, was fresh on their viewers’ minds. They’d be there tonight. Ratings demanded they’d be there. It was a sick world.

  And maybe, just maybe he’d walk away from it all. Maybe in the midst of the confusion, the craziness, the dilemma, he’d walk away, down to the river and the ferry. Along with a couple of hookers and street musicians going to work in the quarter, he’d take the ten-minute boat ride to Canal Street and a bus ride home to Mom. He doubted it, but there was always that possibility.

  Algiers had quieted down as the sun rose. There was the occasional shout of an unruly group, or the amplified command of a police officer still breaking the silence, but the leaders had gone home. Home to their everyday lives after disrupting everyone else’s. Home to a spouse for a late-night/early-morning dinner. Home to kids who had gone to bed listening to the screaming sirens and police whistles. They left the remains of their night’s activities to the fanatics. The drunks, the crazies who hadn’t had enough. The leaders knew when to walk away. And they did.

  The young man lay on his sleeping bag, watching stars. He knew a little bit about those bright spots in the dark sky. In the history of the universe, with all the chaos and craziness in the world, the stars still shined. Pop had shown him the constellations: the Big Dipper, Orion’s belt, Cassiopeia. They were still there. While riots and wars, pestilence and famine, murder and rape rocked the planet, those stars remained constant for millions of years. Compared to the history of those celestial orbs, maybe what he had accomplished, what he was about to do, didn’t really matter. Everything in this world paled in comparison. But he still felt it had to be done.

  For Pop. To show the world you shouldn’t screw around with a good man. And despite what his father might have done outside the family, despite what he might have done to provide for his family, Pop was a good man. A family man, a counselor. No one was more loyal. He had your back. If he told you something, you could count on it. No question.

  Joseph drifted off, his hand on his pistol. Sleeping under the stars was an amazing experience. One with nature. But in Algiers, you couldn’t trust anything or anyone. His pop had once told him, the best way to sleep was with one eye open. He’d literally tried it as a child. Now he knew what it meant. Sleep lightly and be ready for trouble.

  He was as ready as he’d ever been.

  NINETEEN

  Levy hailed him at his desk.

  ‘Morning, Detective Q. We had a sighting last night.’

  ‘A sighting?’

  ‘An officer on riot squad saw a young man with a necklace tattoo last night in Algiers.’

  ‘That would be a huge plus for our side, but I don’t know what tats are popular right now, Josh, necklaces might be all the rage and there might be hundreds. I hope not.’

  ‘Except we haven’t had any other sighting, Quentin, and this one was supposedly a crown of thorns.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The officer said this guy was standing just off the street where the riot was exploding. Things were a little dicey and our man was in riot gear, not ready to question a bystander. By the time the officer considered the situation, the guy was gone.’

  ‘I wish he’d approached the man, but I believe those officers over there had more important things on their minds,’ Archer said. ‘Still …’

  ‘You’re right. But if your voodoo friend is correct, your case with Leroy is tied to Washington’s death. Maybe that’s why the guy with the necklace is over there. Maybe there really is something to the connection.’

  Archer nodded. ‘I’m sure we’ve got heavy patrol on duty today. I’ll put out a bulletin and see if we can find the man.’ He took a swallow of green tea. ‘We could really use a break, Josh.’

  ‘Hey, Quentin, I was a little harsh yesterday.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the young lady Solange. Listen, you never ask about my personal life, and I shouldn’t—’

  ‘Hey, Josh, there is no “personal life” between me and the girl. And you weren’t too harsh. If you or anyone on this squad thinks I’m not performing up to par, tell me. But it’s like I told you. I think she’s had some breakthrough ideas and I just want to make sure we follow up on everything in this case.’

  ‘I agree.’ Levy nodded.

  ‘I’m still not comfortable with Leroy’s past. She believes that something he did or was involved in was responsible for the shooting; yet everything I see and hear says this guy comes off squeaky clean. He’s too perfect. I’m sorry, man, but I’m not buying it. He’s got some flaws and I think we need to find them. I’m still going to dig. At this point, we’ve got nothing else.’

  ‘Got it, Detective.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll look at the arrest records and we’ll try to find this guy in Algiers with the necklace of thorns.’ He looked down at his stack of papers. ‘They’ve brought in five guys who looked like they might have an axe to grind with Leroy.’

  ‘There are probably fifty or more.’

  ‘Hell, we could bring in everyone on the list. It’s like you said, we’ve got to weed out the weaker candidates. The majority of the fifty are repeat offenders and it looked like there was at least one of them could have been the culprit. Everything seemed perfect except …’

  ‘He alibied out.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Look, Q, I’ve got to give the morning up to two of my own cases. Stay in touch, and if you need anything, call me.’

  Archer nodded. ‘I appreciate all your help, Josh. Seriously. You’re a good cop and a good friend. Anything you hear, you call me, OK?’

  As Levy walked to the exit he turned to Archer and asked, ‘Do you know what the national closure rate is on homicide cases? Nationwide? Take into consideration all fifty states.’

  Archer smiled and shook his head. ‘Come on, Josh. You’ve always got the facts. You tell me.’

  ‘About 67 percent. That means that 33 percent of all homicides go unsolved.’

  ‘A lot of murderers getting away with murder.’ It didn’t surprise him.

  ‘And our closure rate, Q, here in New Orleans, was like 27 percent last year. 27 percent.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Swear to you. 73 percent of all homicides go unsolved. Damn. We’re the laughing stock of the country. It’s like why are we bothering. You want to kill someone and walk away scot-free? Just come on down to Nawlins. Seriously, you can get away with murder.’

  ‘We’ll solve this one, Josh. I promise you, we’ll get him.’

  After Levy left, Archer picked up the employment file for Officer John Leroy. Flipping through the papers he settled on the breaking and entering story at Fox Glass. Possibly a defining moment in Leroy’s decision to be a cop. He read the news report again. Not a surprising account. It wasn’t filled with much detail. But if that job, that in
stance when the young security officer apprehended two would-be burglars, defined his career, maybe there was more to the narrative. Maybe that short-lived job needed to be explored. He considered the implications and the circumstances. Certain things happened in your young life that changed it forever. Things that then lived with you possibly into eternity, and there was nothing you could do to change that. There were no second chances.

  Every officer in Algiers was looking for a young man with a tattooed neck. A team was reviewing arrest records and interviewing likely suspects. He’d ordered a team of officers to revisit the tattoo shops and widened the territory. Somebody inked this guy. He didn’t do his entire neck by himself.

  Archer was covering every base he could think of.

  Who had a reason to shoot Leroy and what was that reason. Why? It always boiled down to that three-letter question. If you could answer it, you could solve the puzzle. Never failed.

  Stacking the manila file folders, he reached for his sport coat. In this scorching heat he almost considered leaving it draped over his desk chair, but he was one of the few detectives who preferred a shoulder holster for his Glock 22 and he preferred a jacket to cover the fact that he was either a cop, or someone about to hold up a liquor store.

  Archer grabbed the keys to the Honda Civic from his desk and walked out the door. The detectives drove cars taken from drug dealers and other felons whose vehicle had been impounded. Sometimes they were beaters, but the Civic at least had an air conditioner that worked. He was ready for a little footwork. Not everything could be found in files and on the Internet. Sometimes you had to meet people face to face.