Crescent City Detective

by Vito Zuppardo

  They walked through the squad room, which was nothing more than a large room with desk situated in groups of fours. Truman picked up a morning newspaper off a desk on their walk through and showed Mario the headlines.

  “The Second Attempt in Two Months” was on the front page of the Times-Picayune.

  “Kate made the headlines,” Truman said.

  “She’s lucky. Most of the times, headlines feature you in handcuffs or a body bag,” Mario said as he opened the door to the meeting.

  At a small conference table sat Chief Parks at the head and District Attorney Gilbert James. Immediately Mario and Truman knew this was more than just an informal meeting to brief the chief on Kate’s attack. The district attorney seldom showed up for a briefing. That was why he had an assistant and attorneys on staff. They sat in these boring meetings and just reported him the facts.

  “Detectives, take a seat,” Chief Parks said. “You know District Attorney James?”

  “Yes, I do. Good morning,” Mario said as he sat next to Truman.

  “I asked DA James to sit in because we have found some information in Kate’s attack that crosses over into another case,” the chief said. “I would like you to bring us up to date before we go into more detail.”

  Mario flipped through his notepad. It was a straightforward case. Darrell and Rodney were recruited to assist by acting as a lookout and Rodney got pressured into grabbing Kate and getting her in the truck. He didn’t bring up the involvement of Zack and his friends, wanting to focus on the suspects that committed the crime.

  It didn’t matter. Chief Parks quickly went to why these men were on the scene.

  Truman spoke out as the lead detective and explained there was a third man, Howard Blitz, a much larger man than Dave and Zack. He assisted and managed to overpower the kidnappers and got them to the ground. Then the police showed up.

  Gilbert James leaned over and whispered to Chief Parks. She looked down at a folder in front of her and reviewed some notes. She paused, then asked, “Mario, you know these three men. What were they doing in the area?”

  Truman intercepted the question again and started to respond but was cut off. “Let Mario answer this, please,” the chief said.

  Mario ran through his mind what he was going to say and couldn’t find anything questionable with his reply. “Zack is a retired New Orleans detective and offered to watch the house once the surveillance team completed their obligation.”

  “Did they have guns?”

  Mario didn’t flinch. He knew that was the question she wanted to ask from the start. He paused, looked at both of them, and replied, “No, not to my knowledge.”

  “Sounds like you are skating around the question, detective.”

  “No, madam, I’m not. I didn’t see any weapons.”

  She didn’t believe for a second that two elderly men and Howard took on four young thugs who the reports showed had three guns between them. Her frustration intensified with every lie Mario told her—she just couldn't prove him wrong.

  Mario reiterated that Zack was a retired detective and a damn good one. One of his best skills when on the force was negotiating. He could see they were not buying his story.

  The chief turned to the district attorney, rolling her eyes. “Do you have anything?”

  “I would like to ask. Why do you think Judge Bernard set the bail so low on Darrell Jefferson? Three of them made bail within a few hours.”

  Mario wasn’t ready for that question. If answered truthfully, it could blow up like a keg of dynamite. He stuck with a simple explanation—he never questioned how a judge ran his or her court. It was short and to the point. Based on their expression, they bought it—for now.

  “Did you go see the judge this morning?” Gilbert James asked, brushing over his district attorney logo on his jacket.

  Mario was well aware of the DA’s tactics. He fiddled with his badge many times during interviews, but that was in the early years starting out on the police force. It showed power and put you in control of the conversation while making the other person uneasy. Mario wanted to laugh at such an unprofessional move used on a seasoned detective. Besides, DA James knew the answer to the question before he asked. And Mario had no plans on disappointing him. So he smiled and gave him what he wanted.

  “Yes, I visited the judge.”

  “For what?” the DA asked.

  Truman was surprised at the question, and even more amazed at Mario’s answer.

  “I was on my way to the office, and I wondered why the bail would be so low, so I stopped at the judge's chamber and asked him.”

  The DA raised his voice. “Without notice, you walked into a magistrate’s office and chatted about a case that he might be assigned? You know a judge that sets bond usually oversees the trial.”

  Mario started to answer, and Gilbert cut him off. “Just a second. Are you aware that Rodney made bail and is on the street as we speak?”

  “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  “Why would you jeopardize a case by talking to a judge?” the chief asked.

  Mario thought and realized he needed to give them something. They were fishing for information. Mario had no intention of telling the truth—there was no reason to do so at this time. He said he was just following procedures and questioned the judge because he lived on Saint Charles Avenue right next door to where an attempted kidnapping took place. In fact, the lookout car and two suspects were at one point sitting in front of his house. If they thought this would hurt their prosecutor in court, the judge would recuse himself—if in fact it was appointed to his bench. Mario felt there was a good chance he might consider Judge Bernard a witness.

  Truman exhaled and declared, “Mario and I talked about speaking to the judge. As the lead detective, I wanted to know if the judge saw something important.”

  Once Mario knew Truman had his back, he furthered, “The judge wasn’t available at home yesterday, so I went to his chambers this morning. You know the sooner you talk to a witness—”

  “Yeah, Mario, I was a detective once too,” Gilbert said. “You talk to witnesses as soon as possible, while details are fresh in their mind.”

  Gilbert glanced at the chief. “I didn’t know the judge lived on Saint Charles Avenue. I guess a visit to his chamber is justified.”

  The room went silent. Mario gave a slight smile, and Truman acknowledged with a nod of his head.

  A knock at the door broke the silence, something they all welcomed. It was the chief’s assistant, barely opening the door. “Excuse me, Chief. You called for Olivia Johansson.”

  Olivia approached the chief, who met her halfway. They shook hands and Olivia took a seat, putting her briefcase on the conference table. “Good morning, everyone,” she said, opening her briefcase.

  Mario couldn’t help but wonder why they were digging into his visit with the judge? How did they find out so quickly? Surely Judge Bernard didn’t call—BB, yes. She will do anything to move up the ladder of employment. BB must have called the DA.

  “Detective Mario?” the chief asked, snapping him out of his daydream.

  Mario sat up in the chair and replied, “Yes, sorry, I was thinking of the case.”

  “Olivia, what do you have for us?” Chief Parks said.

  Olivia stood up, something Mario had told her to do earlier at the start of her career. If you wanted to control a meeting, you stood and had people looking up at you. Her confidence came through no matter if she was talking to the chief, mayor, or even the governor. He gave her a little smile and his full attention.

  She went through the kidnapper's truck, and as expected it was reported stolen to the police yesterday. It belonged to a firefighter stationed at the Magazine Street Firehouse. His vehicle had been parked on the street during his twelve-hour shift and was recognized by his coworkers.

  The chief wanted to know if the fireman’s captain could confirm his whereabouts. Olivia assured her the log sheet reflected the crew was on alert the entire nig
ht and no calls came into the station. Durning the time of the attack, the fireman in question was confirmed by four people to be making breakfast in the kitchen.

  “Olivia, do you have anything of substance?” Mario said, trying to hurry her along.

  She shot Mario an unpleasant face and said, “Getting to it, Detective.”

  From her briefcase, she pulled a plastic bag containing a small bottle with a little liquid left at the bottom. She was sure it was chloroform and had it brushed for fingerprints. After matching the prints from a juvenile arrest, it was no doubt Rodney’s. At the very bottom, there were two more prints, small but enough to identify.

  Olivia was a perfectionist and explained everything in detail. Mario, on the other hand, just liked to get to the point as quickly as possible. His impatience showed, and he wanted more proof but quick to hang on these guys and lock them up for a long time.

  Olivia showed a solid hit on the bottom print and confirmed it was Jack’s fingerprint.

  Mario was skeptical. “Jack Warren? A dead man’s fingerprints on the bottle?”

  The chief explained to Gilbert that Jack Warren was the guy that was killed by a sniper while the SWAT Team was trying to get a good sight for a clean kill on him a year earlier.

  “We never found the shooter or the gun, did we?” DA Gilbert asked.

  “No, sir. But whoever killed Jack did us a favor,” the chief said.

  Mario stood up. “So this might have a connection to the deaths at Riverside?”

  “More than that, Detective. Another print matched Doctor Walter Ross,” Olivia said, proudly looking Mario in the eyes.

  “His fancy lawyers would say Jack took it last year from the doctor’s clinic and somehow these thugs got a hold of the bottle. I’m not sure why chloroform would be used in the clinic. I’m sure the lawyers will come up with something believable—after all, he is a doctor,” Mario pointed out, shooting her theory down.

  “Yes, the doctor could make that claim. But how does he explain his fingerprint overlapping a part of Rodney’s print? Doctor Ross touched the bottle after Rodney held it—tell me how that happened?” Olivia paused—waiting for a reaction.

  Olivia went on to show the top of the bottle matched the circle found on the cloth at the scene. She assured them the chloroform was used in the attack. Olivia took a seat, as if her performance had concluded.

  “Olivia, that is good work,” Chief Parks highly praised her.

  “Thank you, Madam Chief,” Olivia said, closing her briefcase.

  District Attorney James stood and adjusted his jacket, walking over to Olivia. “That was a great job—most would have overlooked such detail. She’s a keeper, Chief.”

  The chief smiled. “Yes, she is.”

  Mario stood. “Okay, we have work to do,” he said, looking at Olivia.

  She was prepared for one of Mario’s wisecracks. Maybe something about “not bad work for a Tulane girl,” she thought.

  “Olivia, you may have single-handedly taken down Doctor Ross, who we all know is guilty as hell. Excellent job.” Mario grabbed her by the shoulders. “ I don’t think anyone else would have done such detailed research.”

  Olivia looked surprised. “No, but…no ‘good job for a Tulane Grad’?”

  “No—just a damn good job,” Mario said.

  She was in shock. This was the first positive comment Mario had ever said to her. She could barely muster the words. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Mario and Truman drove to Ora Mae Jefferson’s home, the address Rodney gave during his booking at Central Lockup. The police cruiser pulled up in front of Ora Mae’s house in a relatively new subdivision in New Orleans East.

  “Rodney might have had a bad upbringing, but Ora Mae surely gave him a new lease on life when she took him in—this is a beautiful house,” Truman said.

  Mario looked the premises over as he always did when approaching someone that just made bail. You looked at all the exit doors of the house, any entry or window Rodney could exit through if he ran. It didn’t matter what the police might want to ask. When someone had just made bail, they thought the cops were there to arrest them again.

  Truman knocked on the door, and Mario stayed at the curb to get a view of all the angles of the house, just in case Rodney was a sprinter.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Jefferson stuck her head out. “May I help you?”

  “Mrs. Jefferson?” Tuman said. He could see she had been sleeping. “I’m Detective Truman, and that is my partner, Mario,” he said, pointing to the curb.

  Mario smiled at her. She recognized him, and didn’t return the smile.

  “What do you want?” the sleepy Mrs. Jefferson asked, covering herself with a robe.

  Mario walked up to the front door. “We’re looking for Rodney.”

  “The judge signed off on his release. What do you want with him?” Ora Mae asked with an attitude that was inappropriate when addressing a police officer.

  Mario stepped onto the porch. “Madam, we just want to ask him some questions, and we would like to talk to your son too.”

  Ora Mae showed her anger and pointed her finger at them, threatening to call Judge Bernard and stop them from harassing her.

  Truman, trying to keep things calm, told her calling the judge wasn’t necessary. But she shot back, showing her influence, making it clear the judge wouldn’t take too kindly to this questioning if she called him again.

  Mario had had enough of Ora Mae’s trash talk and grabbed the door and pulled it open. “Mrs. Jefferson, your Judge Card has been overplayed. And, in fact, it expired. You no longer have Judge Bernard in your back pocket. So, either produce Rodney and Darrell or tell us where they are. If you prefer, I can take you downtown and book you for obstructing an investigation.”

  “Mrs. Jefferson, this is a criminal investigation. You might want to be careful about protecting the whereabouts of Rodney and your son,” Truman said, more politely than Mario.

  “They're not here. Check the pool hall on Morrison Road. They might be there.”

  Truman thanked her with a smile.

  Mario locked eyes on Ora Mae—he wasn’t a fan. She slowly closed the door.

  Morrison Road was a few blocks away on the corner. A pool hall and bar was packed with cars in the middle of the afternoon. You had to wonder what was the attraction at this time of day. Truman pulled in the gravel parking lot riddled with potholes and some filled with water from the rain overnight. He parked, blocking several vehicles, and he and Mario dodged a few holes while getting to the front door.

  Immediately after entering the bar, even before their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they were walloped with the smell of smoke and stale beer. For the middle of the day, the bar had only one or two stools open.

  From the look of the patrons with dirty blue jeans and muddy boots, they must have been construction workers who knocked off early. And there were a lot of brown shirts with a coffee factory logo—a local hangout for the bean plant shift workers.

  Truman looked around for Rodney beyond the brown shirts and thought how nice it would be knowing when your work day started and ended. Police officers didn’t have that luxury.

  Mario stopped and positioned himself behind a post in the middle of the room. He spotted Rodney and Darrell at a pool table. Mario took one side and Truman the other, and they boxed the two men in the corner.

  “Put the stick down, Rodney,” Mario said, pulling his badge out and sticking it in the face of a guy that started to intervene. He was tall and overall a big man. From the looks of his dirty clothes and the Snap-on Tool logo cap, maybe a truck driver.

  “New Orleans Police. Don’t be a hero, big fellow,” Mario said, pulling his coat back and slipping his hand over his gun.

  The big guy tipped his cap. “No problem, officer,” he said, and he went back to his game.

  Truman convinced Rodney and Darrell they were only there to talk and no one was going back to jail. They looked as comfortable
as possible under the circumstances and walked outside away from the loud music and people watching their every move.

  Truman stayed with Darrell at the front of the building while Mario took Rodney to the car. It was best to keep them separated at this point.

  Mario leaned against his car, making it look like he was relaxed. In reality, he still wanted to jam his gun down Rodney’s throat and watch the bullet take out the back of his skull.

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  Mario looked at him. “Sure, puff away. Kill yourself.”

  Rodney pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke up as he exhaled. The wind caught some of the smoke and pushed it into Mario’s face, a person who never smoked a day in his life.

  “Blow smoke in my face again, and I’ll shoot you right here.”

  “The wind took it,” Rodney said.

  “Then you better hope the wind shifts.”

  Rodney took another deep draw on the cigarette. “So what do you want?” he said as he exhaled, this time facing the ground.

  “In the truck near where Kate was lying unconscious, we found a bottle. Who gave you the bottle?” Mario asked, knowing at first he would get the usual answer.

  “What bottle?”

  Mario grabbed Rodney by the shirt and pulled him forward. “Understand something, asshole. Every question I ask you, I already know the answer. So give me the correct response, or I’ll drag you back downtown.”

  Rodney pulled away. “What the fuck, man? I thought this was a friendly visit.”

  “Sorry if I led you to believe I’m friendly. Now, where did you get the bottle?”

  Rodney looked Darrell’s way then whispered, “Man, you’re going to get me killed.”

  Mario gave a short laugh. Then he stuck his face in Rodney’s, all but touching his nose. “Either the Cornerview gang will kill you or I will if you don’t talk. The difference is I will kill you quickly. You’ll never see it coming.”