Casting Bones

by Don Bruns

  Through the turmoil in his life, the cases, the family crisis, his romantic disasters, his wife’s murder, Archer’s grounded sense of reason and justice had been the rock. He could always sort out the good and the bad and arrive at a logical conclusion.

  Not here. Not now. There was interference, and the intrusion was disturbing his ability to think things clearly through.

  On Bourbon Street the tipsy crowd on the Cat’s Meow’s second floor balcony was at capacity. The roar of the crowd and the blaring music filled the air as she glanced up at the spring breakers, the Mardi Gras faithful, and the drunken locals who patronized the Quarter. Plastic cups in hand, they swilled their drinks and at least a dozen young men shouted down to the assembled in boisterous voices, ‘Show us your tits.’

  Three young women on the street pulled up their tops and bras, shaking their breasts as plastic beads cascaded from above. Two girls on the balcony shouted, ‘Show us your cocks,’ and ten feet away from her a drunken twenty-year-old pulled down his pants.

  The young black woman walked away, head down. Her town never seemed to change.

  8

  Even in Detroit, the badge garnered respect. A flash of the brass and doors opened. Important people ushered you into their inner sanctums and told you stories that no one else would ever hear.

  Not so in New Orleans. There was a hierarchy that ruled. Some of it from organized crime. Some from crooked politicians who controlled the city. And often the snub was the result of a distrust of any law enforcement agency. Four police officers had recently been convicted of shooting unarmed residents in the aftermath of Katrina. In the last five days one cop had been arrested for rape, another for domestic violence and two had been charged for excessive use of force. Then there was the female detective from the Fourth who had stolen money from a charity for the homeless. A lot of money. There was only so much tolerance from the populace regarding the police abusing their power.

  Sergeant Dan Sullivan met him in the lobby.

  ‘Archer. A brief meeting in my office.’

  Quentin Archer followed him into the small room. The desk was piled with paper, and his laptop was pushed to the side. Several commendations were framed on the wall behind him, and someone had made a stained-glass NOPD logo that he’d propped up on the remaining space of the crowded surface. The man needed a bigger desk.

  ‘Strand thinks he might sweat this Duvay kid. What’s your take on it?’

  ‘It’s the first lead, Sergeant.’ Still too new to know how far to go. Going on record as criticizing his partner might not play so well. ‘You know. Sometimes that pans out. He’s got a warrant to search the house this morning, so there’s that.’

  ‘I’ve been here awhile, Archer. This isn’t my first Mardi Gras. I think it’s a little presumptuous. There’s no evidence to back it up. Do you agree?’

  ‘The kid took a hard hit from Judge Lerner. Most minors do community service for shoplifting. Duvay got a year. He may have a reason to be angry. As soon as we questioned him, he bolted from work, and when he realized we’d located him he took off running again.’

  ‘I rest my case.’ Sullivan folded his hands. ‘No evidence. None. Am I right?’

  ‘To be fair, Sergeant, Strand can use today to find evidence.’

  The sergeant glanced at his cheap Timex with its large black face. ‘Whoever the attorney turns out to be, he’ll have him out in an hour.’

  ‘But that’s an hour that lets Strand investigate without the kid interfering.’

  Every minute you could buy meant you might be that much closer to solid evidence. And he had to back his partner.

  ‘This morning, where are you?’

  ‘Courthouse. I’ve made a list of people who worked with the judge, liked him, hated him, including an ex-secretary who filed a sexual harassment case against him four years ago. She’s agreed to talk.’

  ‘The judge? A sexual harassment charge? Really? I never heard about that.’

  ‘She dropped the charges, and they moved her to traffic court. She’s still there, so I figured …’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Oh, there’s more.’ He’d searched the Internet late in the night, called up police records and found quite a bit of information. Missing a lot of sleep, he’d turned up one important fact. The dead Judge Lerner was no saint.

  ‘There’s also a retired judge, name of Raft, who went public with a claim that Judge Lerner was possibly taking money to throw out cases. The backup on this charge comes through an anonymous source, and I’m not sure this Judge Raft will agree to talk anymore. He claimed his family had been threatened.’

  ‘What?’ Sullivan was obviously shocked. ‘I’ve played golf with Judge Lerner. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I will agree he was pretty much an asshole. However, throwing cases? Sexual harassment? I would think charges like that would have gone public. I mean, I know he was maybe a little overly aggressive, but that’s not in the same league.’

  ‘Judge Raft was reassigned. Then he took an early retirement.’

  Sullivan shook his head. ‘Let me guess. Assigned to traffic court. It’s a pattern. Am I right?’

  Archer nodded. ‘I made the calls yesterday, Sergeant. It sounds to me like this guy had a lot of power, and it didn’t pay to fuck with him. If any of this pans out, there would be several people who had it out for him.’

  Sullivan nodded. ‘You tell me everything, Archer. Anything at all that you uncover, you get to me immediately.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re on top of his house?’

  ‘Detective Levy has a crew. They’re looking at it later today.’

  ‘How many cases are you two covering right now?’

  ‘Seven. And with the murder rate in this town, that’s bound to go up.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you, Archer, this is priority one. They’re gonna come up my butt if we don’t have something real soon. And I’m pretty sure this kid in lockup isn’t what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Time will tell, Sergeant.’ Archer remained circumspect.

  ‘That’s the point. We don’t have time.’

  Archer turned to leave the office.

  ‘Good luck, Archer. Make your visit, interview everyone you can, and please, bring back something substantial, because I don’t believe your partner has squat.’

  Archer clenched his teeth. He wanted to agree. Couldn’t. Shouldn’t. But he knew deep in his soul that Antoine Duvay was not guilty. It probably went a lot higher than some ex-con kitchen worker.

  On his way out, he stopped in the lobby, glancing at Cheryl, who was, just like yesterday, working behind the counter, talking on the phone, keying information into her computer and apparently reading a memo propped up in front of her.

  ‘Hold on,’ she said into the phone. She pushed her long dreadlocks behind her ears and looked up at Archer.

  ‘Detective, what can I do for you?’

  Archer gave her his best smile. He appreciated her dedication.

  ‘Do we have a fund for cops who are down and out?’

  ‘Relief and pension fund.’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out forty-seven bucks.

  ‘Can you see this gets in the right hands?’

  She nodded, smiling. ‘Sure. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s not all from me. A guy on the street donated some of that.’

  ‘Oh, wow. I don’t think that happens very often,’ she said. ‘I guess there are some good guys out there, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He walked out of the station house, muttering under his breath. ‘Or not.’

  9

  Archer answered the phone on the second ring. A Detroit area code and he knew the number. Detective Tom Lyons, putting his job and maybe his life on the line.

  ‘Quentin, we’ve got a partial on the plates.’

  ‘Enough to get a name?’

  ‘No, but we’re working on it. The guys think we’ll be able to get it.’

  ‘How
many cameras?’

  ‘The corner where Denise was killed, we’ve been able to isolate three. Service station, a drug store and a camera at the stoplight where they ticket drivers who run the light.’

  ‘Look, I’ll find a way to pay you. Just keep the pressure on. It wasn’t a hit-and-run. You know it, I know it.’

  ‘You don’t owe us shit, Q. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, OK? Everything OK in Nawlins?’

  ‘It’s Nawlins. What do you think?’

  ‘Detroit only ten times worse?’

  ‘I would agree,’ Archer said. ‘Except that Denise was killed in Motor City.’

  ‘Quentin, you’ve got friends. We’re doing everything we can, no matter what you hear.’

  ‘And I hear you. Thanks, man. Let me know the minute you have any information.’

  He held the phone tight in his hand, staring into space. There were those who believed, and now a glimmer of hope.

  10

  ‘Ma?’

  Solange Cordray studied the old black woman’s wispy white hair. She sat on a straight-back couch, a blanket thrown over her slender frame. The frail woman stared out the window, never acknowledging the girl.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Ah, the silent treatment again.’ Kathy Bavely looked over Cordray’s shoulder. ‘You know, Solange, most of what you say to her she doesn’t even hear. Maybe none of it.’

  ‘She hears,’ Cordray said, never turning. And looking at the ancient one, she said, ‘They all hear.’

  ‘You sound so confident.’

  Solange said nothing, but turned from her mother and gently guided Bavely out the door.

  ‘I know what the past has been and what the present brings. You don’t have to believe me, but I swear to you, they hear us.’

  Bavely shook her head.

  ‘Sometimes you make no sense.’

  Solange smiled. ‘I know more than you give me credit for.’ Changing the subject quickly she said, ‘So, how was your date last night?’

  The petite blond gave her a broad grin. ‘Not good enough for me. You know, the older most people get the more desperate they become. They settle. I’m not a settler. This Craig Landis, he’s a pretender. He barely got a kiss goodnight. And believe this, it’s the last one from me.’

  ‘You’re too hard on these boys,’ Cordray smiled at her.

  ‘You need a man to be hard on, Solange. Or, the other way around.’

  Laughing they walked down the hall, footsteps echoing off the walls.

  ‘I’m taking Mr Essex and Mrs Abrahms out to the banks in,’ Kathy Bavely checked her watch, ‘fifteen minutes. Do you have time for a coffee?’

  They continued the walk to the small break room. Pushing a five-dollar bill into the machine, Bavely programmed two lattes, and passed one to Solange.

  ‘Ma and the two ladies in the lobby, my job today.’ She motioned to two women down the hall, a vacant stare in their eyes as they sat in rocking chairs, looking at nothing.

  ‘Do you ever wonder if they really do hear, what are they thinking? To be locked up with their thoughts, not being able to talk, to express themselves and never—’

  ‘And you, Kathy, with no filter, if you weren’t crazy already, it would drive you crazy. Am I right?’

  ‘You are,’ she chuckled.

  ‘So, what was wrong with Craig Landis?’

  ‘Talked all night about himself.’

  ‘Which stopped you from talking about yourself?’

  They both laughed.

  Picking up their coffees, they saluted each other then sat back and watched the Mississippi River as it flowed outside the window. More at home in the quietness of their relationship than with a constant stream of conversation.

  Twenty minutes later, Solange Cordray and her three charges were perched on vinyl lawn chairs on the grass, enjoying the seventy-five-degree weather and a gentle breeze off the river. In front of them the brackish water swirled by, pieces of wood and debris riding on the surface.

  ‘Thelma, are you enjoying the day?’

  The woman to her right didn’t respond. The second woman nodded.

  ‘The day. The sun. And fried chicken tonight.’

  ‘You’re having chicken, Ruthy?’ Cordray asked.

  ‘I’d better hurry home. Harold will be coming in the door just any minute. Loves my fried chicken, he does.’

  Harold had been dead for ten years, killed by a drunk driver in the Garden District. Records confirmed that the lady’s mental condition deteriorated from that point.

  ‘Ma, are you comfortable?’

  Her mother looked up, staring into her eyes.

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  Then she looked away, gazing at the dirty river.

  It was the first time in three days she had spoken to her daughter, and Solange’s heart actually skipped a beat.

  ‘Ma,’ she touched her arm but there was no response. It was as if her comment had never happened. ‘I almost talked to the detective. I almost told him last night what Mr Foster knows.’

  She heard. She heard everything. But her lack of response was the issue.

  ‘I’ll find him today, and I’ll make my case. I know, I know, you’re thinking I don’t know him. He may not take me seriously. Or, he may not care what I have to say. And you and I both know that trying to explain how I got the information won’t be easy. It may be impossible.’

  The Big Muddy stretched out wide, bank to bank. She never tired of the river. She was glad to be a part of it, every day. The water gave her energy, strength, and renewed her courage. And God knew she needed that. The courage to face these people each day, and to deal with their problems, their quirks, idiosyncrasies and their secrets.

  ‘I’m going to confront him, Ma. You would. You did. But I will be careful. It won’t be like in your time. I know you used what you had for good. Not like some. But they didn’t understand. And that only seemed to make you stronger. You know that. Still, you told me, always use the gift for something good. To make something better. I’m doing that, Ma. You taught me well.’

  The hour went by slowly and a uniformed orderly with his name tag prominently displayed arrived at the appointed time and gathered up the lawn chairs, helping the older women to their feet.

  ‘Thank you, Clarence.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mrs Cordray. You’re looking good today. Very good.’ He wore a thin smile, his eyes looking into hers with an interest that was not reciprocal. Then his eyes lowered as he took in her person. The man stared at her upper body, that smile still plastered on his face. The way he studied her and spoke made her uneasy. The guy was creepy.

  ‘Ma, I’m seeing Matebo soon. I’ll tell him you asked about him.’

  The old woman turned her head and Solange thought she caught a small smile on her lips. Matebo. Maybe her mother’s best friend. Someone Solange had grown up with, a partner in the voodoo practice, a true medicine man who worked in the bayou, cultivating herbs and flowers and all kinds of wild things. Just one name, Matebo. It’s all she’d ever heard him called.

  Kissing her mother on the cheek, she walked to the desk and logged out, the day of volunteering at an end. Solange walked past the sign, Water’s Edge Care Center, and continued up Barracks Street, turning left on Dauphine.

  There was a sense of danger in the air. She was receiving far more information than she was comfortable with. And she didn’t know what to do with most of it. The detective from Michigan somehow had the background to put it all together. She was convinced that Archer could make sense of it all.

  Clarence the orderly was a minor disturbance. Still, the man was a problem. He worked the center for his own amusement. Seeing how many women he could score with. Workers, patients, it probably didn’t matter to him. She’d heard the rumors. Solange shuddered, thinking about all the problems at the center. And the most important problem? Ma.

  Ma had spoken to her today. Actually seemed engaged. For about two seconds. She’d actually said two words. Two wh
ole words. And the world was a brighter place.

  11

  He’d taken a long swallow from the flask of Jack Daniel’s, a little courage, a little fortitude. It made the job a little easier.

  Strand stood in the small living room of Duvay’s shotgun house. A threadbare green sofa and chair, a couple of cheap store-bought prints on the wall and an old black man in a threadbare undershirt, his back plastered against the far wall. The narrow house had a living room, hallway, a kitchen at the end, two very small bedrooms and a bath. Long, narrow, you could fire a shotgun from the open front door and through the rear exit without hitting anything else.

  ‘You flash your badge and a piece of paper and espect me to let you in here?’ The man pointed his thumb and index finger at the detective.

  Gun drawn, Strand nodded.

  ‘Look, Dad, I expect you to back off and allow these two detectives and myself to do our job. We will search this home, and we will look at everything we possibly can. If you get in the way, we can and will arrest you. Do you understand?’

  ‘I have a question, officer.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would I be in trouble if I said “go fuck yourself”?’

  ‘I’m trying to make it easy on you, Dad. Just hold it inside. We’ll be in here for twenty minutes.’ Less than twenty. Much less. ‘If you want to jeopardize your situation, keep on talking. We’ve already got your son downtown, and if you want to smart off, we’ll be happy to bring you in as well.’

  Adam Strand nodded to a detective named Rooney, who promptly drew his Glock 22, keeping it by his side as he eyed Antoine Duvay’s father.

  Moving back down the hall, Strand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fist-sized package wrapped in a white cloth. Two small bedrooms opened off the short hallway and he chose the first one. It had to be Antoine Duvay’s room. A few posters of obscure rappers tacked on the wall and some T-shirts thrown on the unmade bed confirmed it. A shirt flung on the rumpled sheets boasted the slogan Don’t Be a Sexist. Bitches Hate That. Pulling open the top drawer of a chipped and faded white dresser he dropped a cloth-covered package inside on the pile of underwear and closed the drawer.