Miscue

by Glen C. Allison

  “Two employees from the clinic are unaccounted for. David Butler, the assistant who was scheduled for the procedure this morning, and Brent Garrison, the disposal technician for the clinic. Both are tall and dark-haired. David Butler has worked at the clinic for two years. Brent Garrison for six months. Garrison has facial hair and Butler is smooth-faced. Neither of them is at their homes and both of their vehicles are missing. Butler drives the blue pinto. Right now, Garrison is the prime suspect.

  “Whether the killer acted alone, we don’t know, but based on the past attacks at clinics, we have to assume he was part of a larger conspiracy.”

  The FBI agent paused and absently ran her hand over the closely cropped black hair at the back of her neck. Her face was ivory and angular and free from makeup except for eye liner. The only wrinkle came from the small furrow on her forehead as she scanned her notes.

  She looked across the desk at Forte. “We are treating this as a hate crime with the anti-abortion terrorist groups as prime suspects. The FBI has infiltrated some of those groups. The most recent threats have come from Jason Hamilton’s group in Houston, Texas. He’s the pastor who threw the pig’s blood on Lamberth at that banquet last fall. From our interviews with Freida Lamberth and others, there seems to be no one else with a more recent connection.”

  Forte looked at his reflection in the shiny maroon finish of his helmet on the desk. The curve of the helmet gave him a Jimmy Durante look. He said nothing.

  Dent studied him for a beat, then said, “Nothing to add, Al?”

  “Hate crime. That term always gets me,” Forte said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “C’mon, Rosie. The guy’s dead. Murder is murder. Why does the government have a special label for certain types of killings? As far as I’m concerned, if someone has been murdered, it’s all hate.”

  “No, not true. Some crimes are motivated by bias against another person’s beliefs. And that falls into another category.”

  “Motivated by bias,” Forte repeated. “So, because the killer was biased against an abortion provider, that killer is put in another category. And not even bias because of race or sexual orientation or anything else. Just bias against someone he believed was killing a baby.”

  The woman leaned forward. “The doctor was performing a procedure that is protected by law. There has been hate rhetoric for years using the same language you just used – ‘baby killing.’ And that rhetoric has been linked to murders, several of them.”

  Forte held up his hands. “Don’t paint me with a broad brush stroke.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do I think abortion is right? No, I don’t. Do I think these terrorists should take the law into their own hands, become vigilantes and kill all the abortion doctors? No, I don’t buy that either.

  “But I am tired of the government putting labels on crimes just because the government thinks those crimes were motivated by a certain type of thinking, a certain mindset that the government didn’t like. That’s like saying that any of us should be outlawed from thinking certain thoughts. And that’s a scary concept.”

  The FBI agent leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers. Her nails looked like they had been chewed short. “Al, I don’t know why I get into these discussions with you. You know that I am closer to your viewpoint than a lot of people in my position would be. But I have a job to do. And the current law is the only one I have to work with.” She closed the notebook. “By the way, the NCLU people are not happy that Mrs. Lamberth chose you to be the bodyguard for her daughter. They tried to block you from access to our investigation.”

  Forte picked up the helmet from the desk and studied his distorted reflection. “What about you, Rosie? You think my so-called pro-life views will affect my ability to protect the Lamberth child?”

  The agent stood up. Her eyes were slightly red from the rubbing. “I think they have nothing to worry about.”

  Forte stood also and walked with Dent to the front door of the clinic. He lit his third Checkers of the day, took a drag and blew the smoke out toward the street. The agent grimaced slightly but said nothing. Forte started to put on his helmet, then stopped and turned back to Dent. “Almost forgot to ask. What happened to the woman and her baby?”

  Dent looked puzzled. “What woman?”

  “The witness. The woman who came in for the abortion but ended up with a child.”

  The FBI agent nodded. “She’s resting at Tulane Medical Center.” She paused. “Last time we saw her she was nursing the baby and talking goo goo to her. I think she was coming out of shock. Lucky woman.”

  “Lucky kid,” Forte said.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, 2 p.m.

  “UNHHH!” Forte grunted as the man’s roundhouse kick caught him in the ribs. He staggered slightly then danced away from the second kick: a sweep-kick designed to take his legs out from under him. He huffed twice through his teeth and circled to his right. Gotta be quick. Gotta concentrate.

  The workout room at Forte Security stayed busy a good part of the day – and night. The guards from The Refuge used it to keep in shape and break up the monotony of their duty, especially the graveyard shift. Some free-weights and a couple of bench-press benches lined one end of the room. The blue mats for hand-to-hand practice bouts occupied the rest of the room. Some Wynton Marsalis riffs wafted from the sound system in the corner.

  Forte feinted with a left jab to the jaw and drove his right glove into his partner’s midsection. He ducked a roundhouse punch then high-kicked twice, snapping his opponents head back with the first and putting him on the mat with the second. Wynton’s horn wailed a high note. Forte bent down to give the man a hand up. They high-fived and the other man headed for the showers. Forte drained a water bottle, shucked off his gloves and head-protector, laced up his running shoes and jogged down the stairs and out onto the street.

  He headed north away from the busiest part of the Quarter, crossed Rampart and stayed on Iberville alongside St. Louis Cemetery. The sun had won the afternoon battle with the clouds for the moment, bathing the above-ground tombs of New Orleans’s oldest cemetery with warm light. As Forte glided past the mausoleums, a tourist snapped a picture of a woman in front of the tomb of voodoo queen Marie Laveau. A toddler swung on a wrought-iron gate nearby.

  Forte jogged right and circled the cemetery, then turned back left on Orleans Avenue around Louis Armstrong Park. He wiped the sweat from his face on the sleeve of his torn gray tee-shirt. It was balmy today, one of those medium-humidity days that the city saw only in Spring and Fall, and then only sporadically. The park was scattered with frisbee chunkers, families on picnics, and lovers huddled on the benches. He let his mind drift as he settled into the rhythm of his running. He and Ruth had made the park a timeout place. The rule was that if they were on the park grounds, no arguing was allowed. He smiled at the memory. Many times they had barely made it into the park as a spat was escalating, then continued their stroll through the fight-free zone with Ruth shooting darts at him with her eyes while he pretended all was right with the world until she could maintain her ire no longer.

  As he turned left on North Rampart and angled away from the park, Forte noticed a couple of men in shiny new orange windsuits jogging behind him. Where had they come from, he wondered. Both men looked to be in their 20’s and in good shape. Forte took an unplanned left again, then turned right at the next block, glancing back to see if the men followed him. They had.

  Forte maintained his tempo as he went right again then left on North Rampart down to Esplanade. He slowed as he headed toward the river, then resumed his speed as the orange suits turned the corner behind him. Party time. He picked up the pace as he doubled back through the Quarter toward his office. He could catch the bright color of their suits peripherally as he dodged through the people on the sidewalks.

  He crossed the street between two taxis and glanced back. The taller of the two men had fallen back about half a block. When he got within tw
o blocks of his office, he spied another man in a green windsuit leaning against the building across the street from his office. Their plan was obvious: they would catch him going into his office and force their way into The Refuge.

  At the corner before his block, Forte casually took a right. He noticed the green suited man pushing himself away from the wall. Time to divide and conquer. He sprinted ahead and ducked into an alleyway and waited next to a garbage can. He could hear the splat-splat of his pursuer’s steps. The man apparently had plenty of dash left.

  Forte waited until the front pursuer, Orange Suit Number One, appeared at the entrance of the alley. Forte swung the metal lid of the garbage can. The man had a gun in his right hand. He spun to fire but too late. The lid caught his hand at the wrist.

  The gun barked and Forte felt chips of brick stinging his neck. The pistol flew out of the alley back on to the sidewalk. Forte felt the kick on his thigh, a hard kick but partially deflected. Orange Suit One had recovered quickly but his right hand dangled at his side.

  Forte shifted left and feinted a kick to the man’s injured hand. The man lurched back. Forte’s sweeping right kick caught his opponent behind the knees. He went down, his head smacking the cement. He was still.

  Forte snatched the pistol from the concrete floor and came out of the alley in a low squat. At the left corner Orange Suit Number Two jogged around the corner wheezing, with a gun hanging from his hand. Forte was in a low shooting stance on one knee. He saw the man’s arm whip up to level at him. Forte sighted at him but before he could fire he heard a boom from down the street. Orange Number Two suddenly jerked backwards and fell to the ground.

  A bullet shattered the window of the abandoned storefront behind Forte. He swung toward the opposite corner of the street where the orange-suited man lay prone. The man in the green windsuit had a pistol with a silencer pointed at him. Forte heard a coughing noise and another bullet plinked on the bricks behind him. He leveled his gun at the man. Before he could shoot, Forte heard two more booms and saw Green Suit stumble back against the corner. He grabbed his shoulder and disappeared down the street.

  Forte scrambled, head down, across the sidewalk away from the alley entrance. He ducked behind a parked car and peered up and down the side street.

  At the far corner of the street stood a slender man with a rust-colored goatee. He casually slid a long-barreled revolver into a holster under his jacket. He pulled some sunglasses out of his jacket, put them on, looked at Forte and grinned. He turned and strolled down the sidewalk.

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, 4 p.m.

  The two little girls kneeled in the sandbox and made the dolls dance. Kyra’s yellow playsuit looked bright against her coffee skin. She started singing, and the red-haired girl laughed, then joined in. The dolls danced faster and faster before the girls tumbled together in a jumble of giggles.

  Forte stood on the walkway above the courtyard and watched them. He couldn’t hear them from behind the one-way screen on the corridor and the girls couldn’t see him. In the courtyard below, they could have been any two little girls on any playground.

  Forte could see the reflection of Jackie Shaw, the shelter’s manager, as she stood beside him looking down at the girls playing.

  “No worries for them,” he said. Even in the reflection, he could see the streak of premature white in her dark hair as she turned toward him.

  “Our job to worry for them,” she said.

  Forte nodded and rubbed his neck. It felt wet.

  “You’re bleeding a little,” she said.

  “Yeah, couple pieces of brick got me,” he said.

  “You think it was the Colombians?” she asked.

  “The police say the shooters aren’t talking and they had no ID on them. But yeah, it was them,” he said. “They’re locked up now for a while.”

  She looked back at the girls playing. “And the other one, the one who shot at the Colombians …?”

  “One of Poochie’s guys.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He looked down at her. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Just so … strange. I guess Poochie figured out his priorities,” she said.

  “Poochie’s no dummy. But predictable he ain’t,” he said.

  “Why does he think the Colombians are after Kyra?”

  “He says they killed his brother – Kyra’s dad, and that Kyra may have seen it happen. The Colombians had been supplying them, Poochie and his brother, before the two brothers made a new connection for their coke. His brother was found in his car, cut up pretty bad. I heard from some cop pals of mine that it looked like the Colombians’ work.”

  She reached up and touched the back of his neck then showed Forte a red-stained finger. “Still bleeding. Come on, I’ve got a bandage in my office.”

  Forte followed her down the stairs and into her office. He sat in one of the guest chairs while she got a first aid kit from the closet. The scent of potpourri in the room blended with the odor of iodine as she opened the kit. A stack of empty cardboard boxes filled one corner of the room. Books lined the shelves along one wall. He scanned some of the spines of the books as he rested his elbows on her desk. A biography of Nadia Comaneci. A history of Olympic gymnastics. A Dean Koontz novel. A slim book titled For the Love of God: The Faith and Future of the American Nun.

  He leaned forward as she applied some antibiotic ointment to his neck. “You unpacked fast,” he said.

  “Three weeks? An eternity if you’ve moved around as much as I have,” she said.

  “Yeah, I remember some from your resume. It was impressive.” He felt the pressure of the bandage against his cuts as she taped it securely. “Sorry I haven’t come by earlier to catch up with you.”

  Jackie snapped shut the first aid box. “No problem,” she said. She put the box back in the closet and sat in the chair behind the desk. “So, catch up now.” Her look was direct but not challenging. Friendly in a professional sort of way.

  On the wall behind the desk hung a 1985 diploma from Boston College to Jacqueline Elise Shaw. Next to it, in a frame exactly the same size, was a photo of younger Jackie with short hair. She was wearing a gymnastics outfit with a medal strung around her neck on a blue ribbon. Standing next to her was a sturdy looking man who was smiling broadly.

  She followed his gaze to the wall. “My proud Dad. I’d just won the regionals. Came this close to qualifying for the Olympics. He drove the guys crazy at the station house showing them that medal.”

  “He was a cop?”

  “Yes. He just retired. My mom died when I was three. She was a big fan of the Kennedys like everyone else back home. So I was going to be named Jacqueline or Caroline. It was just him and me growing up. He taught me to shoot when I was six.”

  “Yeah, I remember that from the resume, the marksmanship awards.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. Great way to meet guys. Except I beat all of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, most of them, actually. It’s how I met my future and past husband.”

  Forte looked from the wall photos to her. “Ahhh… future and past…”

  Jackie smiled and straightened a piece of paper on the desk. “Yeah. He was a cop. I was a cop’s daughter. You know how it goes. Dad warned me but…”

  “You were smarter than Dad back then.”

  She nodded solemnly. “Of course. Somehow he got smarter later in life though. I married the guy. Stayed together 8 years. He ran off to Las Vegas. He got a great job in security at one of the casinos. Just didn’t see the need to make room for me there.”

  “Did you want to go?”

  She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. “No. The relationship had started falling apart a couple of years before that.”

  He realized he had leaned forward; he settled back again in the chair. He paused. “Does it bug you to talk about it? Because we don’t have to.”

  She looked at him calmly. “No, I don’t mind really. I�
��ve dealt with that part of my life.”

  Sure, he thought. That’s what we all say. He smoothed the bandage on his neck and kept quiet.

  Jackie propped her right forearm on top of her head and with her left hand grasped her right wrist. “I found out I had ovarian cancer about three years after we were married. I was one of the lucky ones. The treatments knocked it out, but it turned out that I would never be able to have kids. The marriage went downhill from there.”

  “He was a sensitive male type, I gather.”

  She cocked her head. “You’re being sarcastic, but in truth, yeah, he was sensitive at times. At other times, he was selfish and self-centered. Like all of us can be.”

  Forte raised his right hand. “No argument here on that one.” He fingered the bandage on his neck. “And then… you became a nun.”

  Jackie laughed. “You want the whole story, don’t you?”

  “Just making conversation. Like I said, you don’t have to tell anything really.” He leaned back and studied the ceiling. “I mean, everyone’s got something to hide, I guess.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Good interrogation technique.”

  “Thanks. Now spill the beans.”

  Jackie nodded. “Okay, no biggie.” She shifted and propped her sneakers on the desk. “I was a good Catholic girl like everyone in Boston. Had even thought about becoming a nun. After the divorce, I checked into it. It took a special dispensation and my ex had to sign papers but I did it. I was assigned to a delinquent girls program in New York City and then to an orphanage on the Mexican border in Reynosa. I loved it but eventually couldn’t put up with the church politics.”

  “Bickering and power plays among the priests?” he asked.

  “Worse,” she said. “One of the priests was caught molesting little boys. The parish just covered it up.” She shrugged. “I quit. That’s that.”

  Forte nodded and said nothing.

  Jackie took her feet down and rested her hands on the desktop in front of her. “So… now it’s your turn.”

  “Oh?”