But then again, she thought, the Superdome was only a Superman leap over the ruins of Charity. Of course, the Dome had itself been a desolate wreck at one point, the broken heart of New Orleans. Now, though, the Superdome was, from what she’d heard, also the beating heart of the city for the six months of the year it was football season. Sometimes her new city made her dizzy, the way so many things could be true about it at once. Maybe it was the bends in the Mississippi River, but sometimes New Orleans felt to her more like a fun-house-mirror reflection of a city than any real city people had come up with on purpose.
Her arrival caught the attention of the two uniforms across the street charged with keeping the traffic moving along Claiborne, exactly what she’d be doing were this her shift. She wondered if they knew looking at her that she was a cop. She wondered if she had the look about her yet, the one that let cops distinguish their ilk from civilians at a glance like vampires could. Whatever their thoughts, they didn’t stop traffic for her.
Waiting to cross the street, she reminded herself of her place. She was an officer in training called out to assist an experienced homicide detective. If she got asked to direct traffic, she’d ask for a whistle. If she got sent for coffee, she’d ask how everybody took it. But it was hard not to imagine herself as a detective, as the detective, arriving at the scene and taking charge of the investigation. Someday, maybe, Maureen told herself, but not tonight.
When the traffic backed up at the red light, Maureen grabbed her chance to cross. She weaved her way among the chrome bumpers and headlights, throwing a huge moving shadow on the concrete pillars of the highway overpass. Atkinson saw her coming, and met her at the edge of the scene, lifting the caution tape high to let Maureen bend and pass underneath it. She said nothing—no greeting, no gratitude or apology for Maureen coming out again in the middle of the night. She let the tape snap into place and turned her back, walking away.
The detective was again clad in an untucked man’s dress shirt, blue-and-white check with a button-down collar this time, and the same old dirty jeans and cracked cowboy boots. Her curly hair was pinned up with no particular purpose other than to keep it out of the way. Maureen got the impression she was looking at Atkinson’s nonuniform uniform. She liked it; it was a wardrobe designed for ease of use and comfort, easy to wash, easy to put on right out of the dryer. Atkinson’s clothes were for work; she wasn’t out to impress anyone. It was an attitude that Maureen aspired to. All business.
Atkinson took long strides, and Maureen followed along behind her, trying very hard not to look like the bumbling puppy on the heels of the bigger dog. They walked toward the car, which Maureen now saw had partially burned. The windows and windshield had been smashed. Crumbs of glass sparkled in the street. All four tires had burst. The front end, exterior and interior, was charred black. The dash, the steering wheel, the seats had melted. Despite the damage, Maureen could make out its dark green color. She had a bad feeling. She knew why Atkinson had asked her out to the scene. She was looking at Bobby Scales’s Plymouth from Central City.
The front had burned much worse than the back end, which looked smoke-stained but intact. Shouldn’t it be the other way around, Maureen thought, since the gas tank was in the back? Obviously, then, her second thought said, someone set this car on fire in the front on purpose. The next question was why. It didn’t take an expert arsonist to know the fuel was in the back. Maybe the fire starters feared an explosion and wanted time to get away? Like if they, or he, were making their escape on foot.
As Maureen and Atkinson approached the vehicle, the rubber-gloved crime-scene techs backed away. Above everyone’s heads, ghosts of black smoke rolled and roiled, trapped against the steel-girdered underside of the overpass. Maureen could feel in her belly the rumbling echoes of the cars passing overhead.
“This is it,” Maureen said, not even waiting for Atkinson’s question. “This is the car that Wright was breaking into when I stopped him yesterday.”
She touched the back of her hand to her nose. The smell was stronger right here by the car, the burnt-flesh smell, especially. Maureen’s eyes watered as she walked in a slow circle around the car.
“I had a feeling,” Atkinson said.
“The plates are gone,” Maureen said. “Couldn’t we pull the VIN from the chassis, if we’re lucky and it hasn’t melted away? Maybe that’s why the front end was torched, to melt those numbers off the dash and the front door.”
“Maybe,” Atkinson said. “Though that information’s useless, in truth. We don’t even know if Bobby Scales is a real name or a street name. The car could belong to anyone and Scales could’ve been using it, or fixing it, for whatever reason. Who knows? He could’ve bought it without paperwork changing hands, a neighborhood thing. There’s no real chain of ownership we can use to prove anything. Most of our info does come from middle school boys.”
“This burning does mean, though,” Maureen said, “that the car’s owner, or user, or whatever, shot Wright. He wanted to get rid of the car before we got our hands on it. That’s what we’re working on so far, right? That Wright got shot for messing with the car and so the owner, Scales or not-Scales or whoever, destroyed the car so we couldn’t trace it to him and put Wright’s murder on him.”
Maureen waited for affirmation, but Atkinson said nothing.
“That flies, right?” Maureen said. “That’s what you’re thinking? Something about this car tells us who shot Wright. It’s the connection between the shooter and the victim. It’s the motive for the murder. That’s why burning it makes sense. Destroy that connection.”
Atkinson wrinkled her nose, as if Maureen’s ideas smelled like spoiled milk. She scratched at her forehead, brushed some loose curls away. An idea, something Maureen couldn’t read, floated across Atkinson’s face. The detective looked back in the direction of the fire station and the bar. “There’s something else I want you to see.”
“Sure,” Maureen said. “Whatever you’ve got.”
Atkinson moved around to the back of the car, gesturing for Maureen to follow her.
Maureen noticed the trunk was closed but not locked, as if someone had shut it with the intention of returning to get something from it later. Atkinson glanced once over her shoulder to make sure Maureen was close. Maureen noticed that the techs surrounding them stood still, their hands at their sides, their rubber gloves on, watching and waiting. They didn’t talk. Maureen felt shaky. Perspiration popped along her brow. Someone was in the trunk. She had possible candidates. She tried to push their faces from her imagination.
“You smoke,” Atkinson said.
“What?” Maureen asked. “Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Light one.”
“I left them in my car.” She looked around, sheepish. “It’s a crime scene.”
Atkinson dug something from one of her back pockets. A black bandana. She handed it to Maureen. “Cover your nose.”
Maureen took the bandana but only squeezed it in her fist. “Shit.”
“Come closer. Deep breath.”
Atkinson put out her hand. One of the techs approached and placed a flashlight in the detective’s open hand. Atkinson clicked the light on, raised it high over her head, the beam pointed down. As soon as the trunk was opened, the light would land on whatever lay inside it. Or, Maureen thought, whoever.
“No chalk this time,” Maureen said. “Is there?”
“Not this time,” Atkinson said. “This is the real thing, officer.”
Maureen half expected an offer to back out, but the offer didn’t come. She wasn’t a civilian anymore. Atkinson opened the trunk.
The burnt-flesh smell, the sharp rot hit Maureen like hot coffee thrown in her face. Flies swirled out of the trunk. Maureen ducked under a big one that buzzed by her ear. Christ, already? She slapped at the air with her hands. She caught herself and stopped. Real professional, Maureen. In the trunk, a rubber sheet covered the body. A small person. No bigger than her. Smaller, in fact. What the fuck?
“Bandana,” Atkinson instructed.
Maureen covered her mouth and nose, as eager to hide her face as she was to block off the smell. It was going to get worse when Atkinson pulled back the sheet. This is gonna hurt, Maureen thought.
“Officer Coughlin, I need to know if you recognize the person under the sheet. I need a name if you know it.” She gave Maureen a moment. “Ready?”
Maureen nodded. Atkinson pulled back the sheet.
Lying on his side, curled in a ball, was Mike-Mike, the young kid she’d chased across the park. His arms were crossed over his chest. His hands were balled into fists. His eyes were squeezed shut like a kid’s, shit, he was a little fucking kid, trying and failing to tough his way through a scary scene in a movie. He looked like a kid overacting, pretending to be asleep because he knew his folks stood checking on him at the bedroom door. Maureen got the feeling Mike-Mike had never been watched over like that. Not as he died, not ever. He’d died hard, and terrified. Maureen’s hands started twitching at her sides. Rage hit the back of her eyes in a hot wave, like a snake spitting poison from deep inside her skull. Her vision blurred.
“Mother. Fucker.”
Mike-Mike had been fast. Someone else had been faster. There was always someone faster.
“We could smell him as soon as we got here,” Atkinson said. “So we popped the trunk right away. I was hoping you could give us an ID. Is this one of the boys from your report?”
“They called him Mike-Mike, his friends,” Maureen said.
She licked her lips, tasted something smoky she immediately tried to forget.
“He lived in Central City, I think. I was told he lived in the neighborhood. I tried to stop him for questioning this afternoon. He ran. I chased him. He got away. It’s in my report.” She turned to Atkinson. “He was there with two friends when I approached Wright about breaking into the car. This car.” She could feel the rage oozing down the back of her throat, thick as paste. It was warm like snot, or blood. Better it all went down her throat than down her cheeks as tears. “This boy was”—Maureen shrugged—“I don’t know, eleven, fucking twelve. Maybe. Fuck.”
“That’ll do for now.” Atkinson clicked off the flashlight. “Daniels,” she called out to one of the techs, “some water for the officer. Take your time. Take a walk.”
Maureen turned away from the car, took a few slow steps. She heard Atkinson call the techs back to the car. She wanted to breathe deep, but the stench made it impossible. She had the absurd fear of inhaling a fly. Her back to the burned-up car, she leaned forward, her hands on her thighs. A hand passed her a plastic bottle of water. She rinsed her mouth and spat the water in the street. She was afraid to drink, afraid to wash into her belly the rest of what clung to her throat. She drank anyway, the whole bottle in breathless gulps. Then she closed her eyes as tight as Mike-Mike’s and threw up the water into the street. It burned on its way back up. Visions of flies in tiny NOPD windbreakers danced in her head.
17
After the coroner had come for Mike-Mike and the car had been towed away, Maureen sat with Atkinson at a gray plastic picnic table outside Handsome Willy’s. They were alone. The brass-band music and dancing had ended.
Inside the bar, the houselights were up. Through the open door, Maureen watched the young staff cleaning the tables and the floors, cigarettes tucked into the corners of their mouths, tendrils of smoke rising into their eyes. A couple of listing and ragged regulars played the video poker machines. Maureen had no idea of the time. The sky remained dark, but she expected the daylight to stain it at any moment. She hated hanging around a bar at closing time, but the owner had assured them it was fine.
Worse things, he said, than having a couple of cops around at this time of night.
Atkinson had bought cocktails, each sixteen ounces’ worth of something Hawaiian Punch–colored that Atkinson called Handsome Juice.
“It’s a rum punch,” Atkinson said, sitting on the opposite bench and setting Maureen’s drink down in front of her. “A good one. Good enough that you can have just this one or I can’t in good conscience let you drive home.”
“Not really my kind of thing,” Maureen said, lighting a cigarette. She’d drink it, though, because Atkinson had bought it for her.
“You want something sweet on your palate after that,” Atkinson said. “Trust me.”
Maureen thought of wine again. White with fish, red with beef. Were there liquor pairings for homicides? Rum with burnings, bourbon with strangulations, vodka with shootings? Not a question to ask out loud. She set her smoke in the plastic ashtray and settled her face in her hands. Was Atkinson going to want another report? Just not tonight. Please.
“This a regular haunt of yours?” she asked. Genius. So much better, Maureen thought, than ‘Come here often?’ Christ, she needed some sleep.
“It’s a great place to hang before and after on game days,” Atkinson said. “Short walk to the Dome from here.”
“I haven’t been here in the city for football season yet,” Maureen said. “I’m a little nervous. People seem pretty crazy just over the start of training camp. I’m not much into sports.”
“There’s sports,” Atkinson said, “and then there’s the Saints. You’ll see. You’ll get sucked in. I never gave two shits until after the storm. Then I worked, inside, for that Monday Night game in ’06. The sound. Unbelievable. Unreal, nothing like it in my life. Now I have season tickets with a couple of other cops and a Steve Gleason jersey.” Atkinson paused. “I don’t like it, putting a body like that in front of you so soon. It was special circumstances.” She shook her head. “Your FTO is gonna love me.”
“I knew the car,” Maureen said. “And you were right, I knew the kid. I know who his friends are. You made the right call. Where else would you get a starting point for him tonight?”
“I knew he was one of them, those three,” Atkinson said, “but I had never met them. I had no name. There was no ID in the car.”
“I know why you needed me,” Maureen said. “I’m up for it, Detective Sergeant. I am.”
“You did pretty good with it,” Atkinson said. “I’ll give you that, but you’ll wanna show less emotion. You’ll get that down. Not so much for the other cops, but for the civilian spectators, and there are always spectators.”
Atkinson took a long sip of her drink. She set her elbows on the tabletop, leaned closer to Maureen. “But it should always hurt when they’re that young. It should never make sense. It should never be okay. Not the young ones. There will be bodies, I promise you, where you collect the casings and think ‘good riddance’ and you’ll probably be right, and that particular file will always be on the bottom of the pile, and your feelings about that are between you and the mirror, or wherever you look when you want to see yourself. But not the young ones.”
“I don’t see how that could ever happen to me,” Maureen said.
“That’s why I’m telling you,” Atkinson said. “Because it can happen and it will, if you’re not careful. It’s easier than you think. Becoming heartless and apathetic is the easiest way to last at this job. And it gets tempting to start blaming the victims. Especially when you start to see how many of the people you have to deal with are already the walking dead. The ones with badges and the ones without. Doesn’t make you any better at it, but it makes it easier.”
Atkinson sipped her drink again. She swirled her straw around in it, stabbing at the cherries on the bottom of the cup, the crushed ice crackling.
“He didn’t look that badly burned,” Maureen said.
“No, he didn’t. Not on the outside, at least. I didn’t see any obvious trauma. There wasn’t a blow to the head, or a stab wound, gunshot, something like that. The coroner’s got him. We’ll try to pinpoint cause of death, the time. Was he dead when he went in the trunk? Did he die in there? All of it matters. Some of it’s quick to figure out. Some information could take a while.”
Atkinson slipped a cigarette from Maureen’s pac
k between them on the table. She lit it with a match and watched the flame burn down the cardboard toward her finger, finally shaking it out and tossing it in the ashtray. She watched the last of the smoke rise.
“He’s kind of a dope, our arsonist.”
“How’s that?” Maureen asked.
“We’re not exactly a world away from Central City. Half of New Orleans East is still empty, and the farther east you go toward the Mississippi border, the more empty it gets. There’s lots of better places all over the parish to ditch this car.”
“Well, then our suspect is dumb,” Maureen said. “Good to know.”
Over Atkinson’s shoulder, she could see a couple of firefighters unfolding and sitting in lawn chairs, out on the concrete apron in front of their house. They were hard to check out in the dark, but one of them looked pretty cute. Okay, the rum and exhaustion had gone to her head.
“I mean, who sets a fire two blocks away from a fire station?”
“Dumb is the one shared quality,” Atkinson said, “of ninety percent of the people we bust. Nothing new. And nothing that helps much.”
“Or he was in a hurry.” Maureen waited a beat for a response. She was perking up again, almost against her will. What wind was this? Fifth? Sixth? “Right? Just get the car somewhere he can set the fire and scram before he’s seen.”
Atkinson took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Did you just use the word scram?”
“The front of the car is trashed,” Maureen said, “but we may score a print or some DNA from the trunk, right?”
“That car sat on Washington Avenue for who knows how long,” Atkinson said. “The whole neighborhood’s DNA is probably on there.” She shook her head, but a grin played on her lips. “Everyone with the fucking DNA. Fucking TV.” She pointed a finger at Maureen. “You oughtta know better.”
The Devil in Her Way Page 14