AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  No one knew quite what had killed Stanley Hatch. He had seemed in reasonable health, for a man of sixty. There were even rumors in the university that the old bore had an affair going with a younger woman in the English Department, but of course these were suppressed in view of his tragic death. Heart failure, it appeared: but then the medics always said that when they were baffled. Such a sad time, too, just before Christmas. But at least that meant that poor Erica Hatch had her family round her for the funeral. She conducted herself with grave dignity at the crematorium. She was a fine figure of a woman, people said sentimentally. Apparently she was about to resume the academic career she had interrupted to have a family all those years ago; you had to admire an intellect that could tackle something like that. And the work would be a consolation to her, after the sudden and tragic death of her husband.

  For her part, Erica kept as silent about the cause of this death as Stanley had planned to do. There was nothing very original about it, after all. It was the oldest trick in the book, switching the drinks. Only a second-class mind would have thought of it.

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  Copyright © 2005 by J. M. Gregson.

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  Pinning the Rap by O'Neil De Noux

  The detectives separated as they arrived at the crime scene, Jodie Kintyre moving toward the body on the left side of the narrow lane, John Raven Beau heading for the homeless man standing with two patrol officers on the right.

  Brioche Lane, little more than an alley running between Orange and Race Streets in the old warehouse district of New Orleans, was wide enough for one-way traffic, no sidewalk, no parking, few streetlights. It was easily blocked at either end by police cars securing the scene. Jodie and Beau had parked their unmarked Chevy next to an ambulance where two bored-looking E.M.T.'s stood.

  "Who the hell are you?” the homeless man called out as Beau stepped up. The man looked to be in his mid sixties, stood maybe five-five, weighing about one-fifty with rummy, bluish eyes.

  "Homicide.” Beau opened his gray suit coat to show his gold star-and-crescent badge clipped to his belt above the left pocket of his suit pants. The man looked at the badge, then at Beau's stainless steel nine-millimeter Beretta model 92F in the black canvas holster on his right hip.

  It was a cool night, just before midnight of a rare low-humidity spring evening. It was as if they were in Oregon or New England, instead of the semitropics.

  "About damn time y'all got here,” the man said, waving his arms at the patrol officers. “I had to drag these guys here!"

  Beau turned to the patrol officers, not recognizing either, noting that their name tags on their sky blue NOPD uniform shirts read Jones. Both.

  The shorter Jones pointed to the homeless man. “He found the body."

  "Damn right,” said the man. “I tried to flag down two police cars and all they did was wave back and drive on."

  Beau kept his face expressionless, knowing the man spoke the truth. It was an old police trick. A citizen, who could very well be a drunk, waved at you, you just drove on. He'd done it enough times.

  "I had to go up to Magazine Street to drag these two away from their donuts."

  Taller Jones said, “We were having coffee at Starbucks.” No donuts there, multigrain muffins maybe and bagels with their coffee.

  Towering over all three men, Beau stood six-two, weighing a lean one-eighty, with a square jaw, dark brown hair, light brown eyes under a hooded brow. His sharp nose gave him the appearance of a hawk. He was twenty-nine. The homeless man gave his age as sixty-two, and his name, Andrew Carné.

  As Beau jotted it on his notepad, Carné added, “And don't forget the accent on the e. Born and raised in El Paso.” He poked his chin at the taller Jones. “That's in Texas. My great-great-granddaddy was Mexican American. Fought with Teddy and the Rough Riders at San Juan Hill.” He pointed his chin at the shorter Jones. “That's Teddy Roosevelt!"

  "Tell me how you found the body,” Beau said as the Joneses moved away.

  Carné leaned forward as he stared at Beau and said something in Spanish. Beau inched away from the smell. He couldn't identify it, but it wasn't pleasant.

  "In English, please."

  "You look Mexican!"

  Beau closed his eyes as he explained, “I'm half Cajun, half Lakota. The white man calls us Sioux.” He opened his eyes. “Want to see my hunting knife?"

  "Sure.” Most people didn't want to see it, but since Carné did, Beau reached under his coat to the small of his back and slipped his ten-inch black obsidian knife from its sheath. The blade was sharpened on one side only, in the way of the plains warrior, the Sioux and their cousins, the Cheyenne.

  "I use this to scalp uncooperative witnesses.” Beau let a smile crawl cross his lips.

  Carné slapped his leg. “Yeah! I like you, Mister Detective. What you wanna know?"

  Beau slid the knife back into his sheath and repeated, “Tell me how you found the body."

  "I almost walked right over her,” said Carné, who went on to explain he'd just had a bologna sandwich and macaroni and cheese at the Wings of the Dove Church two blocks away on Constance Street and took his usual shortcut through Brioche Lane on his way to the homeless shelter on Camp Street.

  "Did you see anyone else around here?"

  "Nope. Not a soul since I turned off Constance till I came across her.” Carné nodded toward the body. A strobe light caught Beau's attention and he looked over to see his partner standing next to a crime scene photographer.

  Carné went on to explain that he knew she was dead right away just by looking at her and ran up to Orange Street where he encountered the first police car. The cop in the passenger seat waved and they sped off. Beau suddenly recognized the smell. Stink bug. Carné smelled just like those little brown crawlers back around Vermilion Bay. When he was seven, Beau stepped on a couple of stink bugs and tried to never do it again.

  "I found a second cop car up on Annunciation. This time the driver waved at me. Two cabs wouldn't stop for me either,” Carné snarled. “But I foxed them all. I went looking for a donut shop and that's how I found y'all."

  "Have you ever seen the victim before?"

  Carné shook his head.

  "Seen anyone else along this alley any other time?"

  "Sure. Homeless people. Don't know their names. And some regular people walk past. Men mostly."

  Beau was impatient to get away from the stink and over to the body, but took his time asking for and writing descriptions of the people Carné had seen before.

  "Ever see any of those homeless at shelters or churches?"

  "All the time. We got a lotta homeless ‘round here."

  Beau asked if he had a driver's license or any form of ID. Carné pulled out a battered Social Security card from a denim wallet and a Louisiana state ID card—used for cashing checks, only Carné hadn't cashed any checks in four years, he said.

  "You have an address?"

  "When the weather's bad I stay at the shelter on Camp or the big one down by Lee Circle. When the weather's nice, I'm everywhere, man. Everywhere."

  Beau knew the shelters. He gave Carné a business card, in case the man remembered anything else or heard anything from street people later. On second thought, he took out a five and gave it to Carné, who thanked him and went to sit in the doorway of a warehouse under renovation and watched as Beau moved to his partner.

  As he passed the Joneses, the taller one said, “You gave him money?"

  "I want reports from each of you,” Beau said. “By end of shift.” He stopped and looked tall Jones in the eye. “You ever been hungry?"

  Tall Jones rolled his eyes. Beau moved away and remembered with haunting clarity the hungry times of his youth. Subsistance living was how he was raised by his Cajun daddy and Sioux mama on the bayou just off the brown water of Vermilion Bay. There were many times when a five would have come in very handy to his parents.

  * * * *

  She w
as in her twenties, about five-seven, around a hundred twenty pounds, with short, light brown hair, matted with blood where the skull was crushed. She lay three feet from the wall of a brick building, once a warehouse, now apartments in this newly reclaimed area. She wore a red blouse and dressy jeans. Barefoot, her blood-stained right shoe stood upright a foot away. It was a hot pink, jellied flip-flop with a high heel, what people used to call a thong before they started calling panties with no rear end by that name.

  "Pink shoes?” Beau said as he stepped next to his partner.

  "Fuchsia.” Jodie Kintyre was thirty-six, stood five-seven, a slim one hundred and five pounds, with straight, yellow blond hair styled in a long pageboy and wide-set hazel eyes—cat eyes when she narrowed them.

  "Jesus, she's young,” Beau said. “Where's the left shoe?"

  "Good question."

  "Are those shoes comfortable?"

  "Very.” Jodie pointed to the loose bricks next to the body, bricks from the warehouse under construction across the lane, where Carné sat. She pointed out a broken electric iron about five feet from the victim's head. Just beyond the iron were several pieces of paper, envelopes, bills maybe.

  Beau went down on his haunches next to the body. The skull had been crushed along her left side, no obvious bullet hole and no exit wound. With his flashlight, he looked closely at the hands and arms. No defensive wounds. She'd let her killer in close.

  Standing, Beau slipped his notepad into his coat and helped the crime lab tech take measurements from the body to fixed points, the edge of the building, the nearest street pole with its yellow streetlight. Jodie noted the distances. As the tech began to gather evidence, both bricks, the iron, slipping the papers into plastic pouches, Beau walked back to the E.M.T.'s to get quick statements.

  When the coroner's investigator rolled the body over, they found her purse beneath her, along with a bloody strip of white cotton with two buttons on it. Jodie turned her catlike eyes to Beau and they both said it. “Part of a shirt."

  The coroner's investigator, rubber gloves on his hands, went through the purse, passing the victim's driver's license to Beau, who held it by the edges.

  "Wendy Smith,” he read the name aloud. “Address, 315 Brioche Lane, Apartment 3B."

  "She lives here,” Jodie said, pointing her flashlight toward the alcove and recessed doorway. Above the door, not twenty feet away, were brass numerals 315. They also found twenty-nine dollars in cash, several credit cards, and a Cool's Copy Center employee ID card with the same face from the driver's license on it. Wendy was pretty, looked a little like Rachel Ward to Beau, but only a little like her. Nobody looked that good in real life, except Rachel Ward.

  Jodie and Beau moved over to the crime lab van and examined the papers, envelope, and bills in the plastic bags. All were addressed to 315 Brioche Lane, Apartment 2B, in the name of Alvin W. Berger.

  "Who's up for this?” Beau asked. “You or me?"

  Jodie pointed her pen at herself and said, “Me. I'll take outside."

  "I'll go inside,” he said, backing away to get a good look at the building, while she continued processing the scene. The building, one of a row of warehouses lining either side of what once was a service alley, now Brioche Lane, was tall and narrow, with four floors. Buildings on either side were under renovation and 315 appeared to be the first warehouse reclaimed into apartments in the area.

  No elevator, so Beau went straight up, two steps at a time, to Wendy Smith's apartment, knocked on the door, and rang the doorbell. No answer, so he went back down to apartment 2B and rang the bell. He knocked four times and was stepping away when a sleepy-eyed man in striped pajamas answered. He looked to be in his mid forties, with reddish brown hair, standing five-seven, about one-fifty, with darting hazel eyes.

  "How long you been knocking?” the man asked.

  Beau opened his ID folder and said, “Police. You Alvin Berger?"

  "Yes, sir.” Berger looked behind Beau. “I didn't hear you. I'm a heavy sleeper."

  "May I come in?"

  "Sure.” Berger backed away, leaving the door open. Before stepping in, Beau took a look around at the small living room with two windows overlooking Brioche Lane, blinds closed, tan walls, over-stuffed blue sofa, a tan recliner, coffee table, entertainment center with TV, VCR, a dining room area to the right, with a small kitchen beyond. Through an open door he could see a bedroom, a bed, and a nightstand.

  He stepped in, immediately smelling the scented candles, one glowing on the entertainment center, two on the kitchen counter. Vanilla and cinnamon. He looked back at Berger, standing next to the recliner, an open paperback draped on the recliner's arm.

  "What is it, Officer?"

  "Have you been here all evening, sir?"

  "Yes.” Berger's voice hesitant now. He looked behind Beau again, as if more cops would file in.

  "You were asleep?"

  "Yes,” voice barely a whisper.

  "You leave candles lit while you're asleep?"

  "Uh-huh. Is that against some kinda law?” He wasn't being sarcastic, sounding more frightened.

  "Hear anything outside? Any noise?"

  "No."

  "You know the woman who lives above you?"

  "Wendy,” Berger said. “Wendy Smith. She's not in any trouble, is she?"

  Beau watched carefully. “Something happened to her."

  Berger's hand went to his mouth, his eyes opened wide.

  "Oh no! What? What happened?"

  "I'm from Homicide."

  Berger went stiff as if the words slapped his face, then his knees buckled and he sat in the recliner. His eyes filled immediately, his lips quivering.

  Beau took a step toward the right, still looking around. That's how he spotted a splotch of pink under the kitchen table. His heart began to beat furiously as he took a step toward the table and saw it was a pink jellied flip-flop. He went down on his haunches. It was a left shoe and there was blood on it.

  "Is she?” Berger said.

  Beau turned to him. “She was murdered outside. Just below your window."

  "Oh my God!” Berger covered his face with his hands and wept.

  Beau stepped over and patted him down, pulling him up to finish the frisk, then sat the crying man back down. He pulled his portable radio from his back pocket and called Jodie.

  "Go ahead 3124,” she responded.

  "Need you up in apartment 2B."

  "Ten-four."

  Beau went down on his haunches again and looked around the room, floor level.

  "What are you looking for?” Berger leaned down and spotted the shoe. Craning his neck forward, he said, “What's that?"

  "Don't touch it!” Beau stood as Jodie stepped into the doorway. He pointed his radio at the shoe and Jodie's eyes lit up. Beau took out his ID folder again, dug out a Miranda warning card and read Berger his rights, finishing with, “Do you understand these rights?"

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Do you understand these rights?"

  "Yes.” Barely a whisper.

  "You have any weapons in the apartment? Gun? Knife?"

  "Heavens no. Um, kitchen knives,” Berger nodded toward the kitchen.

  Jodie tapped Beau on the shoulder, pulling him back to the door for a whispered conference.

  "I don't understand,” Berger said when they moved back to him.

  "You are a suspect in a crime, sir,” Jodie explained. “You have to go with Detective Beau to our office. This is a crime scene. You need to lock up and leave me the keys."

  She went around and blew out each candle.

  While Beau transported their suspect to the Detective Bureau, Jodie would continue the canvass of the building, calling ahead for their sergeant to get a search warrant for Berger's and Wendy's apartments. She'd already found Wendy's keys in the purse.

  * * * *

  Waiting for a fresh pot of extra strong coffee-and-chicory, Beau stared at the unofficial emblem of the NOPD Homicide Division, an Art Deco paint
ing of a vulture perched atop a star-and-crescent detective's badge. While Alvin W. Berger stewed in terrified apprehension in one of the tiny interview rooms, Beau steeled himself for the task ahead. Much as his ancestors did in anticipation of battle, sharpening their senses, focusing their concentration, Beau transformed himself into a plains warrior, letting his happy-go-lucky Cajun side fall to the background.

  He didn't need to paint his face, didn't need his obsidian knife nor his Beretta, locking them in his desk drawer. He gathered the weapons he needed for this task, a fresh ballpoint pen, notepad, a waiver-of-rights form, and a blank videotape for the camera in the interview room. He also brought two mugs of coffee along.

  Berger sat on an uncomfortable wooden folding chair whose front legs had been shaved down a half inch, so he would have to lean back to sit straight up, keeping him on edge, uncomfortable. He sat behind a small interview table. There were no windows. The only other objects in the room, besides the light switch and harsh fluorescents, were a large tripod with a video camera atop, an electric clock behind Berger's head, which would be seen in the video, and a black telephone on the edge of the table, also seen on the videotape in case an interviewee claimed he was held incommunicado. Hell, there was phone right in front of him. The phone had to go through the desk sergeant's switchboard, but few, if any interviewees picked up the receiver.

  Beau entered, put the coffees on the table, and slipped the videocassette into the recorder.

  "I want to ask what I'm being charged with,” said Berger, arms wrapped around his chest.

  "I have to turn this on first.” Beau checked the viewfinder, then pressed the record button, making sure the player was recording before sitting and identifying himself and Berger on the videotape, then announcing the date and time and location of the interview. Then he read Berger his Miranda rights again from the waiver-of-rights form, had him initial each right before beginning.

  "You have a question?” Beau asked. Berger repeated his question.

  "You've not been charged yet. But this is a murder investigation and you are a suspect."