Natchez Burning

by Greg Iles

  While the army had played an important role post-Katrina, the tide of anarchy loosed during those first seventy-two hours of the flood had been stemmed by snipers operating under wartime rules of engagement. That story could never be told, of course. Rumors had leaked out, as they always did. Police officers on loan from other states had reported encountering significant numbers of corpses with unexplained gunshot wounds (wounds that a Navy SEAL sniper had described as “180 grains of due process”)—but the biblical scale of the destruction had made it easy to write off most of those deaths with only superficial inquiries. Where the public was concerned, Forrest Knox didn’t mind anonymity; it was the foundation of his strength. But a small cadre of powerful men knew that it was officers like him who’d stepped up to provide the last line of defense against chaos, and they were working hard to show their gratitude by having him moved into his boss’s job: superintendent of state police.

  At issue now was the future of the city. Unlike most of America, Forrest’s political patrons saw Hurricane Katrina not as a natural disaster but as divine intervention. In less than a week, the apocalyptic storm had purged New Orleans of the human filth that had infected and almost killed it. The flooding caused by levee breaches had triggered the largest forced resettlement of a minority population in America since the surviving Indians were moved onto reservations. The benefits of this mass exodus were plain to see: prior to the hurricane, New Orleans had perennially posted the highest murder rate in the country, as well as the lowest standard of living of any major American city; after three hundred thousand residents fled (among them nearly all the city’s poor blacks), the city’s homicide epidemic disappeared along with them. New Orleans’s murder rate was now lower than it had been in decades. But no one was under any illusions. If those poor blacks were allowed to return to the once-teeming hellholes of the St. Thomas, St. Bernard, Desire, Florida, Calliope, Lafitte, Melpomene, and Iberville housing projects, the blight of violent crime would return with them.

  Forrest’s patrons meant to make sure that this did not happen.

  Already they were pushing hard to have the housing projects demolished to make way for “mixed-income” developments, which would profoundly alter the demographic landscape of the city, skewing it whiter and more affluent. Any black tenants who did return to the city would be forced to find housing on the periphery, far from tourists and the new breed of citizen. This transformation wasn’t easy. Since the 1940s-vintage projects had been built in the brick barracks style, they were some of the few buildings to survive Katrina with only minor damage. But politics could work miracles: many of the public housing developments had been chained against returning residents, and the wheels were already in motion to condemn most of them.

  The economic incentive was enormous. The Iberville housing project alone—which stood on priceless land between the French Quarter and Tremé—would over time be worth hundreds of millions to the right developers. And the old housing authority projects weren’t the only targets. Six weeks ago, Governor Blanco had lifted the ban on evictions, and landlords lost no time using “unpaid rent” as an excuse to kick out “undesirable” tenants who had fled the city for safer ground. With New Orleans’s poorest residents relocated to other cities, black leaders had lost the heart of their constituencies. With luck, regulations would soon be passed that would focus rebuilding efforts on those areas that fell in line with the vision shared by those who would own the future. Areas like the Lower Ninth Ward would initially be left to rot, while those with immediate “gentrification” potential would be exploited by eager developers. Eventually the dead zones would be bulldozed flat and the wreckage hauled away. Sparkling new homes would rise from the ruins, homes that attracted the kind of people who knew how to work and live in harmony with each other.

  But for this vision to be made real, America would have to buy into the notion that New Orleans was safe—and open for business. The NOPD was about the last agency on earth capable of accomplishing that objective. Historically, the city had always accepted a certain amount of police corruption (the French Quarter’s reputation as a den of iniquity being one of its main attractions), but since the 1970s the city had descended ever farther and faster down a slope from whence there seemed no return. By 1993 New Orleans led the nation in homicides, and its police force had become so ineffectual that the Justice Department considered federalizing it. Two years later, after four NOPD officers were charged with murder, a black female cop had executed her former partner and two Vietnamese children during an armed robbery. As the sickening details of that crime emerged, Louisianans began to realize that this sordid affair was only the tip of a submerged volcano. Yet it would be another ten years before Katrina swept in like the wrath of God and accomplished what mortal men could not.

  Forrest looked back at those years as literally the antediluvian period of the city. A new future was coming, one very different from that envisioned by the black and mixed-race “leaders” who’d controlled the city’s political machine Before the Deluge. He would put none of this in his report, of course. He would cite studies by conservative think tanks and bleeding-heart liberal groups alike, all of whom agreed that the city was in danger of dying. The stinger would come in the tail of his assessment, where he would quote U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration officers who’d reported that young black thugs were already returning to their old haunts, trying to stake out new turf before their rivals in the drug trade could get back to the city. You didn’t have to lay it on very thick for that kind of story to scare the living hell out of white corporate types.

  Forrest’s secure cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He usually didn’t answer it while at headquarters, but with the problems back in his home parish, he felt he needed to. Sure enough, the code name on the LCD screen told him the call was from an informant in the Concordia Parish Sheriff’s Office.

  “What you got?” Forrest said by way of an answer.

  “Mayor Penn Cage and Henry Sexton came to Walker’s office a little while ago. They had a bone with them. They said it came out of the Jericho Hole.”

  Forrest felt a seismic shift, as though the floor had rumbled beneath his feet. “What was the result of their visit?”

  “They got their nose bumped. I heard Sheriff Dennis yelling at them from my desk. They looked unhappy when they left, but they were talking about the FBI.”

  “I see.” Forrest heard footsteps approaching his door. By the sound of them, he was about to receive a visit from the only man in the building who outranked him. “I’ll have to call you back.”

  He clicked END and barely got the phone back in his pocket before Colonel Griffith Mackiever opened the door and took a seat in the chair opposite Forrest’s desk. Five foot ten, with iron-gray hair, Colonel Mackiever had the grip of a lumberjack. A former Texas Ranger, he seemed to believe he knew everything there was to know about law enforcement, and for the time being, Forrest had to act as though he agreed.

  “How you coming on that report?” Mackiever asked.

  “It’s slow going. But I’m making some headway.”

  “I’d just as soon you slow it down some more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mackiever raised one eyebrow. “We’ve got no business trying to act as a municipal police force within New Orleans. It’s still a mess down there, but we aren’t the answer.”

  “Isn’t that exactly why they need us in there, sir? We all know they’ve been fudging their crime stats for twenty years; it’s only a matter of time before the drug gangs move back in. There’s no way the NOPD is going to be able to handle them.”

  Mackiever watched Forrest closely as he spoke. “Ninety-eight percent of the criminals who left are still gone,” he said, “and with the projects locked down, they haven’t got much to come back to.”

  “They’ll be back, sir. Most of them went to Houston, and the Texas justice system is a whole new reality for them. They screw up over there, they get serious prison time. No �
�� they’re coming back.”

  “Well … that’s a matter to be worked out between the NOPD, the FBI, the DEA, the BATF, and the district attorney’s office. We cover the state, not New Orleans. I want your assessment to make the case for us staying out of there, and I’m going to review it as soon as you’re finished.”

  “Sir, I wonder if your chief of staff wouldn’t be better suited to write this report.”

  Mackiever had a strange expression where he scowled with the lower half of his face while his eyes told you he was just playing with you. He used that expression now. “I know your feelings, Knox. And I wouldn’t have chosen you for this, if it was up to me. But the governor asked specifically for your opinion, as chief of Criminal Investigations, so I’m going to give it to her.”

  “My opinion?” Forrest echoed, feigning ignorance.

  “That’s right. Some heavy hitters in this state seem to think you might make a good replacement for me after I retire. But until that day, I’ll treat you as any superior officer would.”

  “Which means?”

  “When I want your opinion, I give it to you.”

  The colonel got to his feet and walked out, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Bastard,” Forrest muttered. He got up and closed the door, then returned to his desk and lit a Marlboro in violation of regulations.

  In truth, Mackiever was right. The drug gangs hadn’t yet started to return, and if Forrest had his way, they never would. He’d already taken advantage of the storm to eliminate a few dangerous witnesses and business competitors. He’d been well paid for some of those actions, while others he’d carried out to settle personal scores. His cousin Billy’s meth operation, for example, would run unchallenged for at least a year in the southern half of the state. But Forrest had far bigger plans, and if his patrons wanted state troopers patrolling the streets of New Orleans, he’d do his best to give them that.

  Thinking of Billy brought the informant’s phone call back into his mind. Taking out his secure cell phone, Forrest called Alphonse Ozan.

  “Talk to me, boss,” the Redbone said.

  Ozan’s voice brought back a memory of last night: pulling away from Cherie Delaune’s house trailer, after giving the Redbone thirty minutes alone with her. “How’d it go?” Forrest had asked. “You ruin her?” Ozan had laughed and said, “Oh, yeah, boss. Next time Ricky try to hit that, he gon’ fall in.”

  Forrest forced the lurid scene out of his mind. “I want you to find out everything there is to know about the mayor of Natchez, Mississippi. Especially people with grudges against him. A former prosecutor always has a shitload of enemies rotting in prison. You need to check Texas, mainly.”

  “No problem,” Ozan said, sounding enthusiastic. “I bet Huntsville is full of guys who’d like to carve his liver for him.”

  “If we’re lucky, some of his old pals have wound up in Angola in the past few years.”

  Ozan laughed. “True dat, boss.”

  “Call Snake, too. He’s gonna hear that Henry Sexton and Cage went to see Sheriff Dennis with some bone they pulled out of the Jericho Hole, and I don’t want him to panic. Reiterate what I said last night: nobody touches Henry Sexton unless I give the word. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Find out about Cage’s fiancée, too. The newspaper publisher.”

  “Lookin’ forward to it, boss. She’s a hot one, that girl. I seen pictures.”

  Forrest ended the call there, but Ozan’s predatory laughter echoed in his ears for a long time.

  CHAPTER 36

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you kept this from me!” Caitlin snaps, her eyes flashing with anger. “What else have you held back?”

  She’s talking about Glenn Morehouse and his interview with Henry Sexton. There’s nothing quite like confronting an angry and intelligent woman who also happens to be your lover.

  “You obviously figured out Morehouse was a Double Eagle on your own,” I point out. “I didn’t need to tell you.”

  “But the time I lost.”

  “Are you in a race?”

  “Oh, come on. That’s all journalism is, and with Shad or Lincoln tipping out-of-town papers, this story’s going to break fast.”

  “You want to take over Henry’s story, don’t you? And you swore to me that you wouldn’t.”

  Caitlin is one of those rare people who never seem to blink, and now she focuses on me with the eerie intensity of a serpent watching a bird it intends to devour. “I didn’t know how big this thing was when I made that promise. I want to know what else hasn’t been made public.”

  I shouldn’t answer, but Caitlin has already begun to work her way into the story. Overnight she’s become an expert on the Double Eagle group. And while she’s been unable to discover anything incriminating on Brody Royal or Forrest Knox, she’s focused on the fact that the female whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance who disappeared two years ago vanished in exactly the same way that Jimmy Revels and Luther Davis did in 1968: without a trace—just like several other Double Eagle victims. Caitlin is already convinced that Brody Royal has been the directing power behind the Double Eagles since the murder of Albert Norris, and she doesn’t know a fraction of what I do.

  “Who do the Jericho Hole bones belong to?” she presses. “Jimmy Revels?”

  “The bones Kirk brought up probably belong to Luther Davis. He was the larger of the two men by far.”

  She mulls this over with a resentful frown. Despite all I’ve confided to her, she seems to believe that I’m trying to sabotage her career in favor of a man I barely know. It’s clear that nothing less than full disclosure will satisfy her, and on that point I must disappoint her.

  “Caitlin, I told you about Luther’s bones because it’s only a matter of time before the story gets out—from Sheriff Dennis’s office, probably. I gave you Brody Royal and Forrest Knox in spite of promising Henry I wouldn’t. But that’s it, at least for now. And you can’t print any of that, remember? Not until Henry does.”

  Two pinks moons appear high on her cheeks. “Henry Sexton is a fine investigative reporter, but he works for a weekly newspaper. A tiny shop in the middle of nowhere. It’s read by five thousand people, many of whom would prefer he didn’t delve into the things that obsess him.”

  “You can’t take over Henry’s story. And I won’t help you try.”

  She leans forward, and I feel myself pulling away from her. “Penn, this story is big. Bigger than Henry. Bigger than you or me, bigger even than your father. There’s a secret history here, and yesterday’s deaths are going bring it roaring back into the headlines.”

  “It’s the murder charges against Dad that will do that. Viola’s death would hardly rate a mention in your paper.”

  She winces at this but doesn’t argue. Nor does she address my central point. “The FBI taking possession of Morehouse’s body is unprecedented,” she says. “John Kaiser is treating this like a terrorism case.”

  “I suspect he is. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the power to do that.”

  Ninety minutes ago, Henry called and informed me that Special Agent John Kaiser had dispatched a car from the FBI’s New Orleans field office to collect the bones Kirk Boisseau discovered this morning. Kaiser refused to comment on his decision to take possession of Glenn Morehouse’s corpse, but he assured Henry that he intended to take unprecedented measures to bring the surviving Double Eagles to justice. Since I initiated Kirk’s dive, I felt I could report that much to Caitlin without breaking faith with Henry. But beyond that …

  “You can’t hold me to a promise I made in ignorance!” she insists.

  I lean back in my chair and let her reflect on the absurdity of her statement. “I’m more worried about Shad’s plans for Dad than I am about those bones.”

  “Have you figured a way to expedite that DNA test?”

  “The timing of that’s basically up to Shad, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you going to tell Tom your worries about Shad trying to fin
d a way to get his bail revoked?”

  “Not until I can get him away from Mom. He was going home before heading to the office.”

  “So what about the dogfighting photo?” she asks, jarring me back the present. “Isn’t it time to give Shad another look at it, so he can watch his career pass before his eyes?”

  “He knows what I have, and that hasn’t stopped him. I’m missing something, and that worries me. Plus, using that image is the equivalent of going nuclear. There’s no way to predict what the ultimate result might be.”

  She nods as though in agreement, but I can tell her thoughts aren’t really on my father’s problems. She’s thinking about the Double Eagles, and Henry Sexton’s secret knowledge.

  “Go on,” I tell her. “Get it out.”

  “Penn, a weekly paper simply can’t cover a case like this. It’s a matter of inadequate staff and resources. And this story’s too important now to let—”

  “This story has always been important,” I cut in. “And Henry has always treated it that way, even when no other journalist in the country gave a damn about these murders.”

  That dart went deep, but Caitlin knows I’m right. Still, I can’t deny her point. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her green eyes bright with excitement. “The Beacon is a fine vehicle for providing historical perspective, for unearthing backstory and doing patient investigation. But this is breaking news. And the Examiner can’t ignore it.”

  My internal radar goes on alert. Given the risk of libel inherent in this kind of story, Caitlin must figure Henry has reams of information that he hasn’t made public. She would probably perform sexual favors for a chance to break this story nationwide. She would for me, anyway.

  The phone on my desk buzzes, drawing our eyes to it. I press the lighted button. “What is it, Rose?”

  “Henry Sexton is out here. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed, but he says it’s an emergency.”