by Don Bruns
THIRTY-SIX
Time moved slowly. Not if you had plotting to do, then it raced by. If you schemed and planned, time rushed along. But if you set your clock, waiting to meet a final anticipated event, then seconds turned into minutes, the minutes turned into hours, and the hours seemed to take forever. He’d checked his watch fifty times and it was still several hours before the appointed time. He just wanted it to be over. Right now. He was tired of waiting.
Brion was pleased by the early arrival of the crowd. He needed some distraction, and it would have been nice to know they were there for the common cause, but he was a realist. He knew they weren’t all there because of the cause. He’d studied several essays on the anatomy of a race riot, and learned that the second-day revelers were often there just because they wanted to rumble. Any cause was a reason. He was never quite comfortable with those people. A lot of rabble-rousers just looking for a fight.
With the XL T-shirt wrapped around his neck like a superhero’s cape, he stood outside a café, smoking a cigarette and trying his best to look like a part of the crowd, instead of being the reason the crowd existed. It was somewhat of a heady experience, having brought this entire experience to a peak. Without his direction, none of this would be happening.
He imagined each cop giving him a look. He was certain that his photo was available to every law enforcement agent in the state by now. He’d killed two first responders. His life as he knew it was over. There was no way out. His name, his reputation, his father’s reputation was going to be front-page news. Mom had surely heard by now. He was positive they’d been to the house, and certainly confronted her. He was truly sorry about Mom. She didn’t deserve any of this. But he wasn’t going to back out of his commitment. Not now. The buildup, the momentum had been too strong. The end result was now imminent. He had to finish the mission. He snuffed out the cigarette and gazed around.
Just like him, the bystanders were nervous, waiting for the action to begin. Here, friendships were forged by strangers, a little apprehensive, but emboldened by harsh rhetoric. There were a handful of whites that had shown up to support the protest and they talked tough too. There were intricate handshakes, fist bumps and the names Trayvon Martin, Walter Scott and Michael Brown were thrown around. Unarmed blacks who had been shot. One by a neighborhood watch volunteer and two by police officers.
The department had been forced to release the name of Jethro Montgomery as the officer who gunned down unarmed Joseph Washington. It was as if a death warrant had been signed for the officer. In the last three hours, signs started popping up with his name prominent in the hand lettering.
Kill Jethro Montgomery. Jethro Belongs on Death Row.
Brion knew they’d moved the young police officer out of the city. Maybe even out of state. He would never ever be safe in New Orleans again. His life would always be in danger, and even if he walked on the shooting, he’d be better off to give up law enforcement as a career choice. But Montgomery had taken Joseph Washington off the streets, and that made him a hero in Brion’s book.
He wanted to walk. The few blocks to Fox Glass. They didn’t know him there, and the location was out of the central riot district, so there was a pretty good chance he would not be recognized. The ball cap was pulled almost to his eyes and he wore the voodoo shirt around his neck, hiding any sign of the necklace tattoo. Brion felt his gun, resting against his thigh.
He moved off the corner, and walked down the street, figuring he’d see the old warehouse in about five or six minutes. He just wanted a visual. Not trying to rush anything. He was just what his mother used to refer to as antsy. Nervously awaiting the next step.
Archer walked past the burned-out Korean grocer’s store, the strong musty smell of wet ashes and accelerant still in the air. Four young black men stood on the walk, hands thrust into their pockets, as if protecting their turf. He walked on, ignoring their menacing looks. None of them matched Brion’s description.
Pulling his cell phone from his pocket he studied the photo, taken two years ago when Joseph Brion had been arrested for assault. Nice looking kid, clean-shaven, a buzz cut. There was a smirk on his face, but other than that just a clean-cut kid. By now he could have a beard. Long braided hair. The lady who identified the necklace only saw him from the back. He could be wearing sunglasses, hiding the brown eyes that stared back from his mug shot.
By now, every law enforcement officer in the State of Louisiana, maybe the country, had this photo on their phone. Every newspaper and every television news program had the ability to carry the picture. It would be almost impossible for the cop killer to hide. Any minute the department would announce an award for information leading to his capture. As soon as the dollar amount reached ten thousand or up, the calls would come pouring in. Crime Stoppers and private citizens always stepped up. And the public input helped solve a lot of crimes.
Almost stumbling on a man lying fetal position in a doorway, Archer glanced down, checking to see if the vagrant had a necklace. Negative. He kept walking. For some reason, he was drawn to Fox Glass. He would like to talk to Matty Fox one more time, just to get a sense of the truthfulness of the son. There was something missing in the Fox Glass story. Why hadn’t the old man pushed his advantage and pressed charges on the two would-be thieves? What did they have on him that steered Matt Fox away from putting them in prison?
At the next intersection, he waited for the light, ready to cross the street. That’s when he saw the man, head down, cap pulled low on his head. What caught his attention was the cloth tied around his neck, billowing up in the back. Why would someone wear a cape in this heat and humidity? It struck him as odd. But, he rationalized, people seeing him in a sport coat and tie probably thought he was a little crazy as well.
Archer liked the jacket because it hid his gun. Why would someone wear a cloth around their neck? To hide a crown-of-thorns tattoo. The man was crossing with the light on the other side of the street, and Archer crossed on his side, keeping a view of the man with the cape. He was now dead even with the suspect walking across the street. A dash across the pavement would put him in danger from passing automobiles, and even if there were no cars or trucks it would still be a fifteen-second jog. By then, the man could put fifteen or twenty seconds of running time between them. And, if this was the cop killer, he had a gun. He could spin around at any time and take Archer out. Archer didn’t have the luxury of shooting first. He couldn’t be sure it was Brion and no one benefited from the shooting of another unarmed suspect. He needed backup.
Pulling his phone from an inside pocket he rang Beeman, dropping back so it didn’t appear he was trying to keep up.
‘Sarge, I may have spotted Brion. Corner of Pelican and Bermuda. He’s walking toward the river and I’m across the street keeping pace. Baseball cap and a piece of cloth tied around his neck. Can you get a squad car and some backup?’
‘Sure, we’ve got half the force over there right now, but he sees the car he’s going to run. You’ve got a plan for that?’
‘If we get two cars, one on Pelican, one on Bermuda, and I’m available from the third angle, we’ve just about got him boxed in.’
‘I’m on it, Detective, but if we lose him he’s going to go into hiding. And hiding may mean innocent people could get hurt.’
‘Hey, if you’ve got a better idea …’ Archer truly wished the sergeant did have a better idea, but the possibilities were slim. ‘It’s a chance we’ve got to take. The problem is I can’t tell you for sure it’s our guy.’
‘Well then, we’ll give an innocent guy one hell of a scare. Be careful. If it is him, he doesn’t care about shooting officers.’
Archer slipped the phone back in his pocket and glanced at the suspect, now about twenty feet ahead. The kid glanced back, and Archer tried to avert his gaze. If the guy even suspected he was being followed, Brion would bolt. There were houses and businesses in the neighborhood, and he could go anywhere. Innocent people could be involved, but he couldn’t affor
d to wait. If this was their man, they had to pull him off the street.
He passed an aging Chevy, its hood open as if waiting for a mechanic. Two small children chased each other in a dirt, weed-infested front yard. A heavy-set woman perched on the steps of her cement front porch, wearing a loose dress of pastel greens and blues, fanning herself with a magazine. This situation couldn’t escalate to gun play. Too many things could go wrong. He caught the suspect out of the corner of his eye. He’d stepped up his pace, and Archer was losing ground.
The cars couldn’t be far behind. Archer and the suspect were just a few blocks from where the riot had started and the police were still thick in the area. As the thought went through his mind he saw the blue-and-white, slowly driving up the street. The driver was deliberately staying behind the two pedestrians on either side of the pavement, but that couldn’t go on for long. Eventually Brion, if that’s who it was, would realize he was being stalked.
The number two car approached from the other direction, head on toward Archer and the man. The suspect spun around, now aware of the car behind him. He was passing a long green house with stark white shutters. The man stopped, looking at the house, then with another spin, he ran up three wooden steps, hit the porch and went through the front door as if he’d been an invited guest.
The two police cars pulled to the curb and three officers jumped out as Archer ran across the street. The driver of one of the vehicles remained behind the wheel as Archer motioned the officers to loop behind the house as he leaped onto the porch and knocked on the open screen door. There was no answer. It was less than a minute since the suspect entered the house, but no one was responding. He prayed the occupants weren’t hurt. It could be a volatile situation. Pulling open the door he walked in, gun drawn.
‘Anyone home?’
‘I am,’ an angry voice answered. ‘Just minding my own business. Just getting myself an ice tea when your friend runs into my home, shoves me out of the way and bolts out the back door.’ An old black man in a T-shirt and overalls walked out from the kitchen. ‘Now you just waltz in like you own the place. This is my house and I am calling the police,’ leaning hard on the po.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Archer said as he reached the back door. ‘To make it easy for you, they’re right outside.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
The three officers were in back, shaking their heads.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Nothing, Detective,’ the tallest of the men spoke. ‘Ground is rock hard so no sign of footprints and if he went left there are two alleys. To the right, it’s wide open. Straight ahead is the backyard of the house on the next street. Hell, he could be anywhere.’
‘And he could have a hostage. Could be holed up in one of these houses. Split up and canvass the neighborhood. Anything suspicious, anything at all, call for backup. He’s killed two officers and won’t even blink before he pulls the trigger on you. You’ve all got your vests?’
They nodded.
‘I’ll get the driver from the second squad car and have him cruise the next street while you talk to the residents. Added cover. Go in with your guns drawn. It will scare the hell out of people but you want to be able to defend yourself at a moment’s notice.’
‘What happens if we shoot him, Detective? What happens if one of us kills him? Are you positive this is the guy?’
He took a deep breath.
‘It’s like any other confrontation, Officer. You use your instinct. It’s part of the job, right?’ He looked at the three uniforms. ‘I’m leveling with you. No, I’m not one hundred percent positive this is our suspect. But everything so far has led me to that guess.’
‘Still, it’s a guess,’ the officer said. ‘We’re working off of your guess. You know, Officer Jethro Montgomery guessed that his suspect had a gun. Wasn’t a good call, was it? Wasn’t a good guess.’
Archer shook his head.
‘We’re cops. We take chances every day. When you sign on, Officer, that’s what you do.’
They would never understand. Even your family was at risk. Your immediate family and even your wife. It wasn’t just about your vulnerability. It was about everyone in your orbit.
As they fanned out, he called Levy.
‘Hey, Q. You got your guy?’
‘So close, Josh. So damned close.’
‘But you’ll get him, right?’
‘There’s going to be another riot tonight. You know that.’
‘I do.’
‘Remember our conversation? Unless it’s a meeting with the brass, you’ve got my back?’
‘I do. You’ve got a meeting with headquarters? I’m planning on a fishing expedition.’
‘No meeting with the brass, Josh. Something else entirely. I wish I wasn’t making this call but …’
‘Well, I didn’t expect you to pick a riot, but …’
‘I understand how busy you are. I also know I could use your help. I don’t have a true game plan, but our two heads tend to be better than one. I think you could make a difference.’
There wasn’t a hesitation.
‘I’ll tie up any loose ends in the next hour. Probably a bad time to show up with the craziness tonight, but we’ll weather this together, my friend.’
‘Thanks, Josh. The guy is here. We’ve just got to figure out where, and find a way to avoid any more bloodshed.’
One of the good guys. The man had an overflowing plate, but Levy understood the severity of the situation. And in the back of his mind, Archer wondered if he was looking for a fellow scapegoat. Someone to share this responsibility. Because if he failed, and was unable to apprehend Joseph Brion, he could always share the blame with Josh Levy. But it wasn’t that. He felt certain that bringing Levy into the case would open things up. Archer knew himself well enough to admit he was willing to go out on a limb, take a flying chance. Levy tended to play by the book, using solid police procedures. And he’d proven something else. Josh Levy had his back.
He crouched down in a dank, musty tool shed with a power mower, a can of gasoline and assorted lawn tools. A rake, a shovel and God knew what else. So he’d figured it out. The suit across the street, the blue-and-white cruising that same street, then the second car. You could show the neck, or hide the neck. But hiding it was apparently almost as dangerous as going naked.
The next step was a drugstore. Find some makeup that would temporarily cover the tattoo. But right now, in this defensive position, finding a Walgreens wasn’t in the cards. He should have built that into his plans.
Brion listened intensely. A dog barked in the distance and cars drove by, a couple with bad mufflers. The roar of a motorcycle broke through the afternoon air, but he heard no one walking nearby, no sounds of footsteps or murmured voices. He may have been mistaken. Maybe those signs that he saw were perfectly innocent. After all, Algiers was on lockdown and there could be hundreds of reasons that 5-0 was on the street. But he’d killed not one, but two police officers. Two. He may be the most hunted man in the country. In the world. He wasn’t sure how to deal with that concept.
He thought about the brothers who bombed the Boston Marathon. After the incident, one had hidden inside a boat stored in a shed. They’d turned up that brother in a matter of hours. Yet, here Joseph was. Safe, somewhat secure, and prepared for the next step. As long as no one decided, at this late hour, to mow the lawn.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Levy met him at Congregation Coffee on Pelican Avenue.
‘We’ve gone public with a reward, Q. It’s currently twenty-five thousand for information leading to the arrest of Joseph Brion.’
‘A good start.’
With one to-go cup of green tea, one of coffee in hand, they stepped into Archer’s car.
‘For thirty-four years, Crime Stoppers and the public and private sector have been stepping up. Over two million dollars have been distributed for leads.’ Levy and his facts.
‘So how many successes?’ Archer asked. He stepped on the gas, head
ing for the search area.
‘Over fifteen thousand arrests and convictions based on people responding to rewards.’
‘OK, I have no head for math. How much per year?’
‘About fifty-nine thousand dollars a year is given away by Crime Stoppers. Most of the time individuals add a lot more. Twenty-five thousand is a good figure. It will go up if we don’t catch the son of a bitch. That’s almost four-hundred fifty arrests per year. Without that—’
‘And our conviction rate is the lowest in the country?’
‘Damn close,’ Levy said.
‘We’re still fighting a losing battle, Josh.’
‘But we’re still in the ring, Q. And as long as we’re swinging, there’s a chance we might win. Let’s find this guy.’
Six officers had struck out. They’d pounded on doors, frightening law-abiding citizens and some that probably weren’t. After explaining why they were there, they’d asked the pertinent questions.
‘Has anyone approached you for refuge?’
‘Are you being held by force?’
‘Is anyone in your household being held captive?’
An elderly woman had told an officer that her daughter-in law beat her on a regular basis, and a ten-year old girl said that her mother had grounded her. She wanted to know her rights. Two men answered the door with their arms around each other’s waist and complained to the officer that the neighbor’s dog kept them up most nights. Other than frightening the neighborhood half to death, they’d found no evidence that Joseph Brion was hiding in the area.
Archer stood by his car, sipping the tea and talking to one of the first responding officers.
‘Everyone’s been warned to stay inside and not answer the door? That’s first and foremost, right?’
‘Of course, but come on, Detective. After we show up with a drawn weapon, the last thing they are going to do is answer the next knock.’
‘Let’s expand the area. He’s got to be somewhere.’