by Jim Riley
"Stay down. Don't move." He shouted much too loud to be so close.
His partner pushed past him and went directly to Earl Washington's body, still tied to the chair. One quick check of the corpse's pulse confirmed his suspicions.
"He's dead. Blood is drying up. Looks like he's been dead a while," the second cop stated.
"We'll let the medical examiner figure all that out. At least the detectives won't have to work too hard to solve this one," replied the first.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because we already have a confession."
The second cop pointed at Donna, who remained on her stomach. "You mean her?"
"Sure. Didn't you hear what she said?"
"No. What was it?"
"She's told someone on the phone she just shot Mr. Washington. My guess is the day got tied to the chair is the late Mr. Washington."
"I wonder who she was talking to," the second cop mused out loud.
"It was me. She was talking to me." A feminine voice sounded right outside the door.
Both cops turned and saw the long–legged strawberry blonde addressing them. Niki continued.
"Why is Donna in handcuffs?"
The first cop hooked his thumbs inside his gun belt and smirked. "Because she just admitted killing that chap tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey over there," nodding in the direction of the deceased stockbroker.
The second cop backed up his buddy. "If you were on the phone with her, then you heard her say it."
Niki stepped into the room. She addressed the second cop.
"You admitted you didn't hear her say anything. So don't go making things up. That won't go over with Samson."
At the mention of the head of homicide in East Baton Rouge Parish, the policeman lost his smirk. Then the first cop stepped forward.
"I heard her say she shot Mr. Washington. It doesn't matter who you know, it won't change what I heard."
"What you heard was Donna trying to explain what happened before you pointed your guns at her and barked orders. I heard that over the cell phone."
The first cop displayed his impatience. "I don't know who you are, little Missy, but you're about to be in the same position as your friend there for interfering with a police officer in his line of duty."
Niki gave him a knowing smile.
"I wouldn't try that if I were you."
He scoffed, looking at her lean frame. "Says who?"
"Says me." A deep, baritone voice boomed from the hallway.
Both policemen took an immediate step back from the brute of a man that loomed into the office.
"Sorry, Chief. We were about to teach this little lady a lesson about smarting off to cops."
Chief of Homicide Samson Mayeaux laughed, a rare experience for anyone to ever see the hard man do so.
"The only lesson that was about to be taught was by Miss Dupre. That's Niki Dupre, you numskulls. She would have kicked your ass is so high, you’ll be crapping through your ears."
Niki turned to the chief. "Hello, Samson."
Samson grinned and gave the strawberry blonde a big bear hug, forcing Niki to gasp for air.
"Good to see you, Little Girl. Did these idiots give you a hard time?"
"No. They were perfect gentlemen," Niki laughed.
"Who is that?" Mayeaux pointed at Donna.
"Donna Cross," Niki replied. "She works with me."
Mayeaux turned to the two cops. "If you two perfect gentlemen will uncuff and help Miss Cross to her feet, and apologize to her, I might be able to keep Miss Dupre from kicking your asses."
The two cops did not appreciate getting dressed down by the chief in front of civilians.
"Now!" Mayeaux huffed, seeming to grow another six inches in stature.
The first cop hurriedly took off the cuffs and helped Donna to her feet. He started to say something before glancing at Mayeaux. Instead, he mumbled, "Sorry, Ma'am."
His partner followed by muttering under his breath. Mayeaux called after them as they walked down the hall. "Be careful. Miss Dupre also has very good ears. Now keep everybody but the medical examiner out of here until I can figure out what happened."
The cops trudged outside past yellow police tape. Other squad cars had arrived, along with an ambulance and a fire truck. Both of those were sent away.
Inside, Chief Mayeaux surveyed the situation with keen eyes, leaving no detail of the office, the body, or Donna without scrutiny. After fifteen minutes of silence, the medical examiner came down the hallway. She walked directly to the body.
"In my expert opinion, the cause of death were two gunshot wounds to the deceased chest. I'll have to make a full autopsy to confirm my preliminary findings."
"Meg, you only want to run up a bill. I never took a single course in anatomy, but even I know whoever put their shots in him wasn't trying to give him two more holes to breathe through," Mayeaux said.
Meg Fulton, standing only four feet ten inches tall, paid no mind to the blustering chief.
"Two shots, three inches apart. Both appeared to be fired from about three feet away, according to the GSR." She glanced at Mayeaux. "That's gunshot powder residue for the uneducated."
Mayeaux guffawed at Meg's attempt at humor.
"Yes, Ma'am," Samson replied. "I've seen it a time or two. How long ago was it put on his shirt?"
Fulton ignored the question. She looked carefully at the two entry holes of the bullets. Then she walked behind the chair to find any exit wounds. When she found them, she frowned.
"What is it, Meg?" Samson asked.
“We're looking at two different trajectories. One shot came from even with the dead man's chest. The other has an upward trajectory, indicating the shooter was on the floor.”
"Caliber?"
"I would say it's a thirty-eight or a nine millimeter." Meg Fulton responded.
"It was a thirty-eight. He used my gun to shoot Mr. Washington," Donna pointed at her gun, still laying on the floor next to her cell.
"Don't say anything else until Doctor Fulton finishes," Niki cautioned her young partner.
"But I want to tell my side. I didn't kill Mr. Washington," Donna was almost in tears.
The burly chief took two giant steps to get right next to Donna. "I know you didn't, child. The evidence is all pointing away from you."
Both Niki and Donna were confused by the statement. Donna, because she knew what the cleaning lady saw, and Niki because of what she heard her young friend say over the phone. But neither responded to Mayeaux.
"All right, Doc," Mayeaux turned his attention back to Fulton. "You've had your fun. How long has this gentleman been departed from the earth?"
"I would guess about four, maybe five hours from the amount of rigor mortis in the body and the condition of the blood from the wounds. When I get the temperature of the liver, I should be able to confirm that time frame. That's about as close as I’ll get."
The medical examiner finished her examination, and two assistants carefully bagged the body of Earl Washington. The rope that had been tied to the chair was left behind for the detectives that would follow. Niki and Donna remained with Samson Mayeaux in the office.
"What did you mean?" Niki asked. "You said the evidence pointed to Donna not killing Washington. What are you seeing that I'm not?"
Mayeaux chuckled. "I heard that the janitor lady caught you red-handed pointing a gun at the deceased."
“Yes, Sir. But—?” Donna stopped when Mayeaux gave her a hard look.
"Did she see you get that knot on the back of your head? I saw it when you were still on the floor."
"That happened way before she came in. Mr. Washington was still alive when somebody conked me."
Mayeaux turned to Niki.
"From the looks of the body and the blood, I figured he had been killed for at least three hours before the maid discovered Miss Cross holding her gun on him. I needed the examiner to confirm my observations. If your friend killed Washington, why in the world which
she continue pointing her gun at a dead man that long?"
A big sigh of relief escaped Donna's body. Niki put an arm around her attractive partner.
"Tell me exactly what happened," Mayeaux said to Donna. "Don't leave out anything no matter if you think it is important or not."
They went to the office next to the one where Washington was murdered, and Donna told the chief everything. From the phone call, the accusations she made to Washington about rigging the books, her arrival at the office, and seeing him tied to the chair.
"Then a guy knocked me in the head and I went down. I heard a shot but couldn't open my eyes. The guy put the gun in my hand, lifted it up above my body, and pulled the trigger again. Then I woke up, found my revolver and stood up. That's when the lady saw me," Donna finished.
Mayeaux looked up from his writing pad, although he had taken only sparse notes. Niki knew the mountain of a man could recite Donna's statement without missing a single word. She marveled at the burly chief's intellect.
"You said the guy twice, once when he hit you on the head, and once when you said he raised your arm. How do you know it was a guy?" Mayeaux asked.
Donna rubbed the sore on her head "I don't know. I guess I assumed it was a guy that hit me, but now that you ask, I'm not sure."
The chief’s eyes seemed to turn cold, black staring at Donna. She was glad she was no longer a suspect under the scrutiny of his piercing gaze.
"No, Miss Cross. When you said a guy hit you, the tone of your voice was one of certainty. You know it was the man they hit you. We only need to find out why you know."
Donna closed her eyes, rubbing the lids with the tips of her fingers. Neither Mayeaux nor Niki interrupted her attempt to recall.
Mayeaux gave her a bottle the spring water.
"Don't force it. Let it come to you. It will, if you give it a chance."
Suddenly, Donna grinned. "I've got it. I know it was a man and I know why."
"What is it?" Niki was more eager than Mayeaux.
"He was wearing a jacket. A Central High School coach's jacket. It was maroon and white, our school colors. I saw it when he grabbed my hand." Donna beamed from ear to ear.
Mayeaux's smile was almost as big as Donna's. But when the chief glanced from Donna to Niki, he saw a sullen look.
"What is it, Niki? What's troubling you?" He asked.
"I've got a sinking feeling," her tone a mixture of sullenness and doubt.
"Why?" Donna asked. "I thought you would be happy to know I saw him."
Niki put her hand on Donna's arm. "I'm glad. Mostly, I'm happy you’re okay."
"They why the downer? You look like a dog they can't find the bone he buried." Mayeaux stated.
"It's because of the coincidence, and I don't believe in coincidences."
"Me neither," Mayeaux added. "What is the coincidence here?"
“The whole world knows I'm working on the case involving Coach Bailey and the cheerleaders. What they don't know is that Donna is available to help me with my increased workload.”
Mayeaux now understood. "And that your firm just happened to catch a case where a Central High School coach murders a wicked stockbroker. You were supposed to be the one who came here tonight."
"That would be the assumption most people would make. I was supposed to die here tonight."
Mayeaux nodded.
"When Miss Cross showed up instead of you, then the guy improvised. He tried to frame Miss Cross, figuring your priorities would change to investigate her case rather than Bailey's."
Niki squeezed her friend's arm. "I would have. I would have dropped everything else to clear Donna."
"So we’re looking for someone wearing a Wildcat coach's jacket. That certainly narrows our focus a bit. There can't be more than six or seven coaches at the school."
"One of them is not at the school right now." Niki's mood did not improve.
Mayeaux thought for a second. "Two questions. Could Coach Billy be the one that wants you dead? Have you found incriminating evidence?"
Niki returned the chief's gaze.
"I'll answer the second question first. Yes, I have uncovered some information that may bury Coach Bailey."
"And the first?" Mayeaux prodded when Niki hesitated before finishing her answer.
"It's possible he could want me out of the way to prevent me from presenting the facts to his attorney. But then, those facts would eventually come out, anyway. They were not hard to find."
Mayeaux smiled. "And I know you. I believe you have taken meticulous notes about every fact you've uncovered."
Niki nodded. "Doesn't make sense, does it?"
Mayeaux rubbed his stubbled chin. "It does if you look at it from a different angle."
"What angle would that be?" Niki asked.
"You said the incriminating evidence has been easy to find?" He asked.
"Yeah," Niki responded. Then she smiled as her conclusions tracked those of Mayeaux's. "Too easy. Somebody wants me to stop here before I find out they're bogus."
Mayeaux nodded. "That would be my bet based on my limited exposure to your case. Now, you only need to find out who wants you to quit. One way or the other."
"That's the part I don't like. The one way or the other part."
19
Baton Rouge
Drexel Robinson sat in a comfortable chair in the lobby of the Riverfront hotel. He was determined to spot Sleazy Slocum when he returned down the elevator. Maybe his date would accompany him to the lobby, and the entire night would not be a frivolous waste of time.
He reviewed his notes on Slocum's background while he watched and waited. Slocum grew up on the banks of Cane River in Natchitoches, the first settlement in the Louisiana Territory. He constantly was in trouble in high school, and those misfortunes followed him to Northwestern State University.
Though Slocum's intelligence was beyond superb, his grades did not reflect this innate asset. He rarely attended class, but managed to keep his grades high enough to remain in school.
His joy came from the part-time job he attained as a bouncer at the Blue Demon Bar on the outskirts of town. He took great pleasure in booting drunk college students into the parking lot, especially the football players who acted as if they were of a superior mankind. On more than one occasion, a starter on the football team discovered Slocum's other innate talent. He was a born fighter, able to take down much bigger and more powerful students with ease. It happened so often it affected the outcome of some football games. The head coach stopped by the bar to complain, but was told that if his players continued to be unruly, they were responsible.
That's when the idea struck the disgruntled student. He made large bets against the Blue Demons, many times more than the money he had available. Then, when some star players came to the bar, one or two would inevitably get into a brawl, and get thrown out of the establishment. During the process, the football player incurred an injury that affected their play the next day.
The quarterback received a sprained wrist. The speedy running back suffered a twisted knee. The defensive back developed swollen ankles. Never an incapacitating injury, but enough to interfere with their play. The players were afraid to tell the coaches about their injuries and face the wrath for disobeying the ban on the bar.
Then came the day of the Northwestern University game with Louisiana Tech. The Blue Demons, despite their misfortunes, were two-point favorites over the out-manned Bulldogs from Ruston.
Nobody would ever know exactly what took place at the Blue Demon Bar. After the melee was cleaned up, the star quarterback had a broken forearm. The running back's foot was smashed in several places, fractures in most of the tiny bones reaching his toes. Two cornerbacks and one receiver also sustained injuries that kept them out of the game the following day.
Immediately, the point spread changed. By game time, the Bulldogs were favored by three touchdowns. The bettors who took the early spread for Louisiana Tech could not believe their good fortune. Barring a m
iracle, they were certain winners.
No miracle happened. The Bulldogs blew out the Blue Demons. Louisiana Tech beat Northwestern by six touchdowns. The team from Natchitoches failed to score.
The bookies did okay, except for one odd bet. A student by the name of John David Slocum had placed a bet of eighty thousand dollars in favor of Louisiana Tech, a huge sum on a relatively obscure college football game. But, despite their suspicions, they paid Slocum.
That one game opened a whole new world for the young bully. He became the broker. Instead of kicking drunk students out of the bar, he talked them into making wild bets that had little chance of winning.
In another step on the road to manhood. Slocum discovered how easy it was to get away with murder. One student reneged on a large bet, refusing to pay because of the condition he was in when he placed it.
Slocum knew if he allowed one bettor to squelch on a wager, the word would spread to the other unfortunate gamblers.
One fall tradition in Louisiana's oldest city was the adornment of the cobblestone street on the banks of Cane River with millions of ornate Christmas lights. There was also a hut for Santa Claus to receive the lists from the local kids. It's sat below the cobblestone street, closer to the riverbank.
On a crisp Saturday night, Santa was shocked when he opened the door to the hut. Another Santa Claus sat in the chair. The one in the chair was dead. He turned out to be the student who would not pay the bet he placed was Slocum.
The cops questioned Slocum around the clock, almost certain he was responsible. But they found no evidence to support their suspicions.
Tired of school, Slocum moved to Baton Rouge. More people. More chances to expand his client base. But he ran into a problem. The problem was named Mac Swain.
Swain was the local kingpin of the seedy underworld of Baton Rouge. He had a hand in most of the illicit activity in the capitol city. After a few run-ins with the Irishman's enterprise, Slocum found that butting heads with the Irishman could be bad for his health.
