“Who’s watching Mullet’s house?” I ask immediately.
“We have two units there,” Kay answers, placing a weary hand on my shoulder. I have to fight to keep from brushing it off. Although we’re in a wide alcove, I feel confined, smothered. But I don’t brush off the friendly hand. The torment in Kay’s eyes won’t let me.
Jodie explains that Dunn will be the case officer on this case. He nods wearily. He’s now responsible for the report and ultimately, for catching the killer, although I’m sure the Task Force is about to be expanded and we’ll all be lost in a sea of police. Kay’s scratchy voice tells us nearly a hundred officers are canvassing the area, searching the ground outside, covering every angle. As his voice fades and we’re engulfed in a sickening silence, we move apart.
Gonzales sits in the doorway leading upstairs where the FBI lab is meticulously processing the crime scene. Kay moves to the opening of the alcove and leans against the wall. Dunn sits several feet away, his head in his hands. No sound effects now. Jodie finds the cleanest spot on the near wall to lean against, Elmer Fudd a few feet away, sneaks peeks at her, as if none of us can see. He’s dying to say something, but even he knows better.
I find the farthest corner and sit crossed-legged and close my eyes. But there is no way I can rest. I keep seeing the crumpled body, keep wondering what Peter James thought before the bullet tore through his mind. Why was he riding alone? I know the answer to that. Manpower shortage. But how did they get the jump on him?
I see Cassandra’s face again, ashen and gray in death, her shirt saturated in blood. Shaking away the image I try to imagine Angie’s face smiling at me as she sits across the booth. But the image I see is sad, troubled as the aquamarine eyes stare intently at me.
Faintly, I hear chanting. As it become clearer, I realize it’s in my mind. I hear the deep voice of my grandfather and uncles as they sing the sad death chant of our ancestors. It resonates in my mind and brings me to another plain, where a great calming waits. I drift, as if on a cloud. My eyes snap open and I’m content to stare at the dirty floor. The acid in my stomach eats at me because it’s my fault. If we had just called for a unit when the fat naked people ran up to us, if we would have stayed on assignment, if all those useless surveillances hadn’t dulled our senses, if ...
There are so many ifs.
And Peter James is dead.
•
It’s like coming out of a trance when Captain Picard comes down the stairs to confer with Bob Kay. Jodie steps over and I rise slowly and join them just as the agent confirms the officer’s badge is missing.
“We’ve recovered a projectile in the room. We think another is still in the brain.” The agent talks lowly, his voice deep and sad. “We’ve also found two partial latents on the handcuffs and one very good print.”
I cut in. “I have a copy of Mullet’s fingerprints in my briefcase.”
The agent turns to me and asks, “Whose prints?”
Kay explains and the agent nods. Apparently he’s been told of the thin lead I’ve been following.
“We’ll need an original set,” he tells me and I’m on my way to Criminal Records for Lloyd ‘Mullet’ Singletary’s fingerprints.
An hour and a half later, when the FBI fingerprint expert looks up from my desk and tells me it’s a match, I feel my neck redden, my pulse rise, my eyes narrowing. I don’t have to ask him to repeat it because Captain Picard does and the expert looks down through his magnifying loop and says, “Positively.”
Dunn lets out an excited whistle.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Kay looks stunned. Picard is amazed, as if I’d pulled a rabbit out of a hat. Gonzales blinks at me as if he’s suddenly in The Twilight Zone. I look at Jodie and there’s a knowing look in her hazel, cat eyes. I know. It’s solved, but far from over.
Elmer Fudd pats me on the back as I reach into my desk drawer for a warrant form. And I wheel and grab his arm. My partner steps forward and pulls my hand away.
“Don’t congratulate us,” Gonzales says. He lets go of Fudd’s hand. My partner’s voice rises, “Don’t anyone fuckin’ say it was a good job, because it wasn’t.”
The faces around us don’t understand, except Jodie who softly reminds everyone how we were supposed to be following Mullet. I know it’s my fault. It’ll always be my fault. At least, when I finally look in my partner’s eyes I don’t see as much anguish there. At least he isn’t blaming himself as much as I. Then again, it was my surveillance.
Jodie softly says, “In a few hours, we’ll be witnessing the autopsy of a twenty-two year old boy who’s dead solely because he wore blue.”
•
Strong coffee and chicory keeps me going, for now.
It’s nearing midnight as I sit in my Caprice beneath the So. Roman oak. Jodie brushes her hair out of her face as she peers through the binoculars across the playground to the unpainted wooden house. My keen, sharp Sioux eyes, are too tired to do us any good.
At least Gonzales is home, hopefully getting some sleep. I swallow the last of my coffee and its heat momentarily soothes my scratchy throat. I know I’m pushing exhaustion, but I can’t go home, not yet.
The autopsy of Peter James surfaced the second bullet, lodged at the base of his skull. It isn’t in as good shape at the other bullet, but firearms examiners are sure it came from the gun that killed Cochran and Stevens. They’re also sure they can make a match if we come up with the Colt Python.
Jodie forced me to eat a Wendy’s double-stack with cheese a little while ago, but it did little to ease my bellyache. I can’t find Sandie and can’t find Felice and no one, not even the entire department and the FBI can locate Mullet.
Dunn put out an All-Points-Bulletin and we have people set up outside The Honky Chateau, Pluto’s, Hog Heaven and the Raton bar. Fel Jones has units checking every known biker hang-out in the city as well as Jefferson and St. Bernard Parishes.
Felice hasn’t been at the apartment where we stashed her. And her auntie hasn’t seen her for days. We’d cruised the bars along Chef Menteur until four a.m. Sandie hasn’t answered the messages I’ve left on her machine, nor the two notes I slipped under her door. Jesus to hell, why am I always a step behind? God, don’t let me get an informant killed too.
“I hope we catch this bastard alive.” It’s the third time tonight Jodie has reminded me we need to know who was with Mullet on Tchoupitoulas Street.
“I know. I know.”
Jodie looks at her watch and tells me Wilson and Willson will be relieving us at midnight. Then she surprises me with, “Think I’ll write a book about this case.”
Why not? The public loves true crime stories.
“It’ll prove my devolution theory.”
I almost smile.
“No doubt the human race is devolving, moving backward, crawling back into the fuckin’ primordial soup.” Still peering through the binoculars, she adds, “Take Mullet. He’s closer to a Neanderthal than even a Cro-Magnon, much less a Homo Sapien.”
A car turns off Washington behind us, but it isn’t our relief.
“Hell,” I tell Jodie. “The Sioux still wonder why the inferior white men were able to take the sacred lands from the people God chose to care for that land.”
She bats her eyes twice at me before going back to her watch.
“To the Sioux, the Black Hills of Dakota are the center of the universe. It was ours from the earliest times, until the white devils came and took it. Man for man the Sioux were superior. Yet the white devils prevailed. Maybe the Neanderthals were meant to rule.”
“Center of the universe? That why your mother went back?”
“Yep.” After my father died, my mother returned to the Black Hills, to her family, to the center of her universe. I didn’t, of course. I guess the center of my universe is my father’s center – the flatlands of Louisiana. Although I feel the fierceness of the Lakota in my blood, I am also a Frenchman, like my Daddy.
Another Caprice turns off Washington and p
ulls up behind us. I see Two-L’s oversized head behind the steering wheel. Without even a wave, I start up the engine and drive away.
•
The alarm clock wakes me at five p.m. to the echo of the Lakota death chant. Rising, as if from another trance, I feel groggy. A quick shower later, I don another black tee-shirt, black jeans and black Reeboks. Between petting and feeding Buck, I slip my Glock into its canvas holster at the small of my back, and slip my obsidian knife in its sheath, tying it around my calf on the inside of my left leg. I pull on another navy blue dress as I leave.
Starting up the Caprice, I realize I’m still hearing the chant, in the back of my mind. My hands shake as I hold the steering wheel.
“I’d better eat something.”
I pull away quickly. Passing Flamingo’s, I see Angie leaning against the counter and talking to Cecilia. I hit the brakes and slide into the parking lot. Cecilia scolds me as I enter, telling me I shouldn’t spray shells all over the place. Angie smiles, grabs a menu and starts for my booth.
“No, I need something to go.” I’ll wolf it down as I drive.
“Oh.”
I order the usual, skipping the drink. Angie passes the order slip to Joe who has already started my burger.
“Why the big hurry?” Angie’s voice is low and serious.
“Did you know him?” Cecilia asks from behind me.
I shake my head and Angie’s eyes seem to grow darker.
“Know who?”
I tell her another police officer’s been killed. Her mouth draws tight. A whiff of Joe’s burger passes over us, smelling so damn good.
“So you’re going to play shoot ‘em up again,” Cecilia asks.
Angie leans forward. “What does that mean?”
I turn and give Cecilia a stern look. And she rolls her shoulders. That’s what I get for sliding on her shells.
“What does she mean, shoot ‘em up?” Angie’s voice wavers.
I stare back into her eyes and tell her Cecilia’s joking. We’re searching for a killer, but the last thing we need to do is shoot anyone. She doesn’t seem convinced. Angie leans an elbow against the counter. “Guess you won’t be watching TV tonight. Mayerling is coming on.” There’s that word again.
Joe flips my burger and drops onions on top.
“What’s Mayerling?”
In a distant, hollow voice, Angie tells me it’s about a tragic love affair between an Austrian Crown-Prince and his mistress. Watching her explain the sad story, I force myself to not look at my watch. Jesus, I’ve got so much to do.
Joe slaps cheese on my burger. He seems to sense I’m in a hurry.
“I think you’d like it,” Angie says.
I nod as she stares intently into my eyes, again. For several long seconds we remain motionless. Joe quickly packs the burger and fries into a paper bag, stuffing extra napkins inside and clears his throat to get Angie’s attention. As Angie passes me the food, I see something in her eyes that makes me want to stay. She doesn’t even try to hide it. And I have no response.
“Be careful,” she says as I back up and pay Cecilia.
I nod and try to give her a tip. She wants no part of it.
“See ya’ later,” I say and turn to leave.
“What’s with the big knife?” Angie asks behind me.
Backpedaling, I answer quickly, trying to be funny. “I’m not supposed to shoot anyone, but no one said I couldn’t scalp ‘em.”
The disappointment in Angie’s eyes makes me feel like shit.
Is he dead?
I slip another note under Sandie’s door, figuring I’m heading for the Chef to search for Felice, when headquarters calls me on the radio.
“A Reverend Holliday is calling you from Charity’s Emergency Room. Want the number?”
“Negative. I’ll head there.”
Whatever the reverend wants can’t be good. Nine minutes later, I park the Caprice behind Charity Hospital and jog up the ER ramp. Holliday, also in all black, stands just inside the door. The look on his face confirms, it isn’t good. He raises his left hand and shows me one of my business cards.
“You know a girl name Felice Marquee?”
Jesus, no.
Holliday nods over his shoulder. “She’s been beat up.” He lowers his voice, “And raped.”
I wince and my stomach feels as if it’s twisting in a giant knot. I follow the reverend through the waiting room of bent-up folding chairs and coughing people to the trauma rooms which reek of alcohol swipes and other sickly-smelling antiseptic odors. Holliday stops outside the fourth cubicle and opens the curtain for me, but stays out. A nurse stands over Felice who lies on her back beneath a green sheet. Her bare feet are exposed.
I open my shirt to show my badge and the nurse goes back to dressing a long wound on the left side of Felice’s jaw. I see black stitches there. Easing around the bed, I move up to Felice’s face and her eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. Her lips are swollen twice their size and bruises mark both sides of her face.
I call her name but she doesn’t react. I call out again and the nurse moves her head over Felice’s and nods almost imperceptibly.
“She’s ignoring you, officer.” The nurse’s voice is as antiseptic as the smell here.
“What’s her condition?”
“The doctor’s outside.” Again the chilly voice. “Dr. Adams.”
I find Dr. Adams when he steps out of the next trauma room to write something on a clipboard. I identify myself and ask about Felice’s condition.
“She’s stable. Lacerations on her chest and face. Probably a broken rib or two. We’ll have to set her jaw, which is fractured and she’s been raped, multiple times.” His voice is staccato and without feeling. He moves past me through another curtain into another trauma room.
Reverend Holliday sits in the waiting room. I tell him Felice’s condition and ask how he knows her.
“I don’t. One of the nurses called me when she found your card.” He rubs his unshaven chin. “Told you I’d put word out everywhere about this case. Including your name.”
I thank him and ask if he’ll call Felice’s auntie while I call headquarters. A half hour later, while the good reverend comforts Felice’s auntie, I escort two detectives from the Sex Crimes Unit to Felice’s cubicle. Dr. Adams joins us as they hand him a rape kit.
I wait in the hall beyond the waiting room. I can’t let this get to me. I have to remain calm, keep my mind clear. I have to fight the rage growing inside. The death chant starts up again, echoing from deep within. I want to shout. I want to yell. I want to run, somewhere, anywhere. I want to chase down the men who did this and scalp them. Maybe slice a throat or two. I want to feel their warm blood on my hands.
Jesus, help me.
Although my radio’s turned down, I hear Kay’s voice call me. I pull the radio out of my back pocket, turn it up and tell Kay to go ahead.
“I’m working with you tonight,” he says. “Pick me up at the office at eleven-thirty.”
“You there now?”
“10-4.”
I walk to the nearest pay phone. He answers as if he’s in a hurry and before I can tell him about Felice, he says, “Sandie just left a message for you.”
“Where is she?”
He pauses at my shouting. “Don’t know. She left the message with the desk. Here, I’ll read it to you. ‘Been getting your notes. Will call soon. I’m getting close’.”
“Dammit!”
“What’s going on?”
Calming myself as best I can, I tell him about Felice. When I pause for a breath, he tells me he’s coming right over and hangs up on me. Out in the waiting room, the auntie looks at me with loathing. Holliday moves toward me. He has a question. “What’s going on with these search warrants in Desire? You know white boys are doing this.”
“Everybody knows now. We have a suspect. The FBI ran those warrants, but won’t be running any more there.”
“Your suspect’s a white boy, correct
?”
I nod and thank him again for calling me about Felice. He puts two heavy hands on my shoulders and tells me I don’t look so good.
“I’ll look worse before this is over.”
Ten minutes later Kay rushes in. His vest is outside his shirt tonight and he carries a shotgun to go along with the nine-millimeter on his waist. He’s accompanied by two uniformed officers who both look like rookies. Before he reaches me, the two Sex Crimes detectives step out of the trauma room.
Both are black, the woman is Sergeant Darlene Wilson. Short and stocky, her skin is only a shade darker than mine. Her eyes, however, are much darker brown. They flash fiercely as she tells us a elderly white couple found Felice lying along Almonaster Avenue, almost ran her over. They brought her directly to Charity but left before anyone got their names. Almonaster, that’s only a mile or so from Chef Menteur Highway.
“Felice say anything?” I ask.
“She grunted a few sentences. Said she was working for you. They’re setting her jaw now.” Darlene glares at me. “She was raped multiple times. Why wasn’t anyone backing her up?”
I could say she didn’t want any backup. I could explain how she wouldn’t even let me know where she was going. But what’s the use? It’s my fault. I sent her out in the night and this is what she got.
Darlene turns to Kay. “We’ve got units hitting the Chef bars.” She and the other detective step away from me as if I’m the source of the stink in the room. I look at Kay and he’s all owl-eyes as he stares back.
“I’ve got to find Sandie.”
He nods. “I’ll stay here and talk to Felice when she’s ready.”
As I head for the door, Kay tells me not to worry about So. Roman. He’ll get someone to take my watch there.
At midnight, I’m pulling away from the Honky Chateau. I’ve already talked with the two task forcers, who are set up outside waiting for Mullet. I’d described Sandie to them, went in the bar myself to make sure she wasn’t there.
I head for the next bar. I’m hitting every Bywater bar Sandie and I checked out that night she told me she first heard about the badges. I’m checking every one. A night watch juvenile team has been checking Sandie’s place periodically, but our elusive red-head is no where to be found. I have a bad feeling.
John Raven Beau Page 16