The Devil's Muse

by Bill Loehfelm

  “We got it,” Wilburn said. “Simple police work. No worries.”

  “Handle that stuff,” Hardin said, “and Coughlin here can fill me in on the rest from the scene, right?”

  “I got you, Sarge,” Maureen said. “Bring me one, would ya? Six sugars. And a pack of Spirits.”

  “You’re good for it, right?” Wilburn said.

  “I got it,” Cordts said. “The yellow pack?”

  “That’s it,” Maureen said. “Thank you, Officer Cordts.”

  Wilburn scratched at the space between his eyebrows with his middle finger before walking away with Cordts.

  Maureen looked up at Hardin, who towered over her by a foot, maybe more.

  Hardin tapped his chest. “What is that tucked inside Cordts’s vest?”

  “The girl who got shot,” Maureen said, “she was wearing fairy wings. Cordts is hanging on to them for her. He has one of her sneakers, too, in his back pocket.”

  Hardin frowned, watching Wilburn and Cordts walk to the store. He let his misgivings go for the moment and turned back to Maureen. “Tell me about Sleeping Beauty, this other witness.”

  “Her name is Susan,” Maureen said. “I’m sorry about the shape she’s in. I think she’s on medication. And she’d been drinking before everything started. That’s what she told me. She gave us something good before we lost her, though.”

  “Which is?”

  “Three-N-G.”

  “She named a shooter?” Hardin instinctively looked downtown, in the direction of the gang’s territory. “She knew him from the gang?”

  Maureen shook her head. “The shooter yelled it out, right before he pulled the trigger.”

  “She get any kind of look at him? Anything to confirm what Wilburn got?”

  “That’s a negative,” Maureen said. “She said he sounded young, but that was the best we got from her. We know he shot from close range, but not close enough that he didn’t hit a car and two other people.”

  “What do we know about her boyfriend? He roll with anybody?”

  “That’s the thing,” Maureen said. “I haven’t been able to confirm, naturally, but to hear Susan tell it? No way he, the victim—his name is Cordell—no way he’s a gangbanger. He teaches music. He’s ten or fifteen years older than any of those kids in that gang, any of the gangs. Susan and Cordell, they’re a longtime couple. They live in the neighborhood. The bartender inside said they’re regulars. She knows them.” She shrugged. “They sound like normal folks.”

  “What did the bartender see?”

  “Nothing.”

  “They never do,” Hardin said. “So was Cordell the target or not? He fail a gangbanger’s cousin on his last report card?”

  “Cordell was hit three times,” Maureen said. “Susan told me the gunshots sounded like they were close, fired by someone coming at them from behind, which makes me think the shooter was definitely after him. And why announce gang affiliation for the whole street to hear unless you want the victim and/or the witnesses to know who got him? But what confuses me is the shooter throwing bullets all over the intersection. How many casings we find?”

  “Ten,” Hardin said. “So far.”

  “So why the wild spray?” Maureen asked. “Why the extra shots?”

  Hardin turned, looking behind him at the intersection, dotted with the small orange plastic cones. Maureen studied the scene, trying to see whatever Hardin was seeing.

  People walked along Washington Avenue, drifting around the ineffective streamers of yellow crime scene tape that Faye had halfheartedly strung in the last few minutes, probably on Hardin’s orders. Passersby eyed the tape and the cones as if observing a bizarre art installation, the theme and meaning of which eluded them. The intersection seemed to Maureen like a movie set where the action had ended, or hadn’t yet begun. Business remained brisk at the corner store, she noticed, with large groups of people strolling in then exiting swinging twelve-packs of beer, tearing open bags of chips, and banging fresh packs of cigarettes against their palms. What did she expect? That the neighborhood would clear out because there’d been a shooting near the parade route? Let the good times roll.

  “You think Cordts is okay?” Maureen asked. “He seems in shock or something.”

  “Yeah, I think he’s all right,” Hardin said. “He’s not a hundred percent, but we don’t have the numbers to be sending people home.”

  “He’s probably better off with us, anyway,” Maureen said. “We don’t want him sitting home alone with those fairy wings.”

  “Roger that.”

  “So if Cordell was the target,” Maureen said, “for whatever reason, and the shooter got as close as Susan said, I’m wondering how Cordell’s not dead with eight or ten bullets in him and how we have so much collateral damage.”

  “I’ll show you,” Hardin said. He took a step back from Maureen. He turned his back toward Downtown. That way he faced the same direction the shooter had likely been walking in when he had opened fire on Cordell. “Guy comes walking up Baronne Street and moves into the intersection, gun in his waistband, maybe his pocket. He’s rushing, he’s nervous. He’s been following them, maybe for a couple of blocks, getting up the nerve. When he sees Cordell and Susan moving into the crowd, maybe heading for the bar”—Hardin raised his arm and made a pistol shape with his fingers—“he realizes he’s losing his chance, he rushes after them, heads right for them, and he draws. He’s got Cordell lined up at close range.”

  “Okay.”

  “But then,” Hardin said, “this happens.” He bent his knees, closed his eyes, and turned his head to the side. “Bang, bang, bang. Meanwhile Cordell has taken another couple steps.”

  “I think I got it,” Maureen said. She copied Hardin’s stance. “First couple shots hit Cordell, one on the back of the thigh, another two in the ribs, but as our shooter keeps firing, the gun barrel keeps jumping from the recoil. He loses control. His eyes are closed. One miss gets the little girl on her daddy’s shoulders, he hits the car, throwing shrapnel in that lady, and so on.”

  Maureen lowered her arm, nodding her head as the thoughts clicked together. “It matches what Susan said. She talked about him sounding young. Wilburn’s witness said he’s young, too, probably a juvenile. So he’s a kid, our shooter, and he’s terrified of his own gun.”

  “I bet we’ll find him with piss stains down the front of his pants,” Hardin said. “And we will find him. Good thing he was so afraid. In a way. He probably put several rounds in a rooftop or in the sky that would’ve gone into more bystanders.”

  “Or into Cordell,” Maureen said. “And then we’d have a homicide on our hands.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Hardin said.

  “A hit or a crime of opportunity?” Maureen asked.

  “A bit of both,” Hardin said. “I bet anything this kid was heading down to the route with that gun on him, or cruising the neighborhood looking for whoever he thought Cordell was. He’s probably new to Three-N-G, looking to make his bones and an older member gave him a target, a job. Or maybe they don’t want him and he’s expendable. Our catch rate at these parade shootings is pretty good. Somehow the dopes who do these things forget they’re boxed in and surrounded by cops.

  “Maybe it’s the first time he’s ever carried a gun with the serious intent to use it. He’s absolutely jacked up, on adrenaline, nerves, probably some other stuff, too, God knows what. He saw his chance to hit Cordell and blew his wad, totally lost it. Happens a lot on their first time. They go out in the East and out by the old amusement park where it’s empty and practice shooting, like they’re commandos or something, but they’re never ready for the first time they pull that trigger in public, on a real person. Only the born killers don’t shit themselves over the first time. This kid wasn’t that. If our shooter was a born killer, Cordell would be dead and that lady wouldn’t have seen a thing.”

  “As for talking to Cordell himself?” Maureen asked.

  “That’s not for us t
onight,” Hardin said. “The detective will get with him. Tomorrow, the next day, whenever he’s well enough to talk. But if what his girl says about him is true, I don’t see how he was the real target. Wrong place, wrong time for him, I’m afraid. Our shooter fucked up his homework is my best guess.” He sighed. “Which means his own gang might be out to kill him now.”

  “Who’s the detective on duty tonight?” Maureen asked. “He’s got his work cut out for him.”

  “That’s another thing I wanted to discuss with you,” Hardin said.

  “Don’t even say it.” Maureen raised her hands and backed away. “Don’t even. I can’t stand it.”

  “Indeed. It’s Drayton. I’m sorry,” Hardin said. “Get ready for a long fucking night.”

  “Why is it him again?” Maureen asked. “It was him last night, and the night before, and the night before that, too. He’s like a curse.”

  “He volunteers for these shifts,” Hardin said. “And the other dicks let him. No one else in Homicide wants to work the route with him. Would you? They’re happy he’s not back in uniform with them for the holiday. They’re glad to get the break from him. So he takes the district guys’ detective shifts, they get nights off during Mardi Gras, and he sits at the district for the night watching porn on his phone and racking up mad overtime. He knows he’s not getting called out on the street for anything less than, well, anything less than what happened tonight. I don’t think he ever even put his shoes on last night.”

  “So when he gets here,” Maureen asked, “if he ever gets here, whose job will it be to catch him up on the fun we’ve had so far?”

  “I wouldn’t do you like that, Coughlin,” Hardin said with a smile. “I know you and him have a history.”

  “He has a history with everyone,” Maureen said. “It’s not only me.”

  “I know that,” Hardin said. “I’ll handle Drayton when he gets here. And by the way, the party is just getting started. If Cordell was an accident, then whoever our real target was tonight remains a target. If this shooting is a gang thing, they have to get him now, tonight, which means Three-N-G is out there prowling the route, and strapped.”

  “I’m guessing,” Maureen said, “that word is already circulating that Three-N-G is making a move on someone tonight. And I’m guessing the real target now knows he’s in somebody’s crosshairs, so he and his boys, they’re strapped as well and looking to strike first. All of them and all of us, packed into this box together with about a hundred thousand of our closest friends.”

  Thousands of bodies, she thought, of every age and size, in every direction, on every street, each body with the potential to catch a bullet before the night was over. The thought made her sick. There was no way to protect them all, or even most of them. The high she’d felt about putting the case together evaporated. They were staring at gunfire ringing out and bodies dropping along St. Charles Avenue, at a potential slaughter that could make what had already happened tonight, Hardin’s miracle of good bad luck, no more than a prelude rendered comical in its comparative insignificance. And the city would not cancel the parades. Not tonight. Not tomorrow or the next day. That simply wasn’t a thing that happened. It was up to Maureen and her cohorts to prevent St. Charles Avenue from becoming a war zone for the next five days.

  “We have got our fucking work cut out for us tonight,” Hardin said. “You’ve heard people say Mardi Gras is a marathon, not a sprint? For us? Tonight? It’s the hundred-yard dash. Nothing but a sprint. We’re off to a good start, y’all have done good work, now let’s keep the good times rolling. I’m optimistic.”

  Maureen’s and Hardin’s radios crackled at the same time. An announcement followed the static: “Be advised, possible shooting suspect spotted on Harmony Street, heading toward the lake, on foot.”

  “Oh, shit,” Maureen said, turning, rising up on her toes, looking in every direction, her adrenaline spiked. “That’s close. It’s close.” She saw Wilburn standing outside the grocery, chatting with Laine. She keyed her mic. “Dispatch, gimme a cross street. Harmony and what?”

  The dispatcher continued her report, ignoring Maureen’s request and repeating Wilburn’s description: “African-American male, five-five. Slight build, red T-shirt, jeans or dark pants, white tennis shoes. Approach with caution. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”

  Cordts burst through the doors of the corner store and came running across the intersection, weaving through the passersby, a large coffee in each hand, the dark, steaming liquid sloshing over his wrist and hands as he ran. He didn’t seem to mind. “Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit! Holy shit, let’s go get him.”

  “Last spotted at Harmony and Danneel Streets,” Dispatch finally said, “headed north on Harmony toward the lake.”

  Hardin turned to Maureen. “You’re our best rabbit chaser. Get ready to run, Officer Coughlin. Down the hole you go.”

  12

  Maureen ran the few blocks to the intersection of Harmony and Danneel at full speed. As she slowed to a jog she realized she was alone. She looked behind her down Harmony Street, back the way she’d run, hoping Cordts would somehow be catching up to her, but she saw no sign of him. No one had followed her. Who would? Who could keep up?

  She eased down to what she hoped resembled a casual yet authoritative stride, trying to hide her labored effort to catch her breath. She thought of the pack of cigarettes Cordts had, hopefully, gotten her from the corner store. Her sprinting speed was as fast as ever. Her stamina, however, was suffering. On the other hand, nobody, she thought, but nobody, quit smoking during Mardi Gras. Especially not someone working it. She didn’t need to be born-and-raised to know that was a fool’s errand. Maybe for Ash Wednesday, though? Probably not.

  Whatevs, as Donna would say. She had an eternity to go before she had to worry about Ash Wednesday.

  Around her on the street, Maureen observed neighbors idling on their porches, smoking their own cigarettes, chatting quietly, and generally acting unconcerned by and uninterested in the young white girl police officer who had come sprinting down their street. At second glance, though, Maureen saw that the people were not as relaxed as they made out to be in front of her. They paced their yards and driveways and porches. Radios played hip-hop and brass band music, but the volume was set pretty low for a Mardi Gras street party. And nobody danced. Nobody was laughing. She knew that people not looking at her didn’t mean they weren’t watching her.

  Inside one of the houses, a group of guys erupted into loud laughter, cranking up the music and, clapping in time, singing along loudly with an old Rebirth Brass Band song: You don’t wanna, they sang, you don’t wanna, you don’t wanna go to war.

  As she walked the block, eyes peeled for anyone hiding in the shadows, Maureen adjusted her gun belt, straightened her fluorescent vest. She took off her knit cap and wiped the sweat at her hairline with her uniform sleeve. Her nose was running again. She wiped it with the back of her glove, like a girl in a schoolyard. Nobody on the block was impressed with her; she knew that much already. She thought about lighting a cigarette.

  A tentative voice called out to her from the front yard of one of the nearby houses. She stopped and turned.

  A young woman in tight acid-washed jeans and a sky-blue puffy down jacket with a red Solo cup in one hand and a baby on her hip stood in the front yard of a faded double shotgun. She raised her red cup toward Downtown.

  Maureen trotted over to her. “You saw something?”

  The woman backed away, mute, again directing with her Solo cup, shaking her head, discouraging Maureen from coming nearer. A big man in a hoodie and baggy jeans stood over a smoking grill in the driveway, clutching a beer bottle in one hand and barbecue tongs in the other. Frowning, he followed the stunted conversation, head turning slowly from the girl to the cop and back again. Several friends hovered around him, leaning against a car in the driveway.

  “Someone called us,” Maureen said to the woman, “about someone we’re looking for being right around her
e.” She waited a moment. “Was it you?”

  “I told you,” the big man said to the woman, “take the baby inside. It’s cold. We’ll go down the parade after we eat. Muses ain’t even rolling down here yet.”

  He continued staring down the young woman, who had not moved from the front yard and who stared right back at him, hard, her dimpled chin raised and stuck forward. She sipped from her cup and resettled the squirming child on her hip. The man rolled his bald head on his thick neck. They were having a fight, and it wasn’t over yet. A couple of the man’s friends suppressed grins, covering their mouths with the backs of their hands and rolling their eyes at Maureen. The bald man let out a heavy sigh.

  He spoke to Maureen while looking at his girl. “The way she said, couple blocks, maybe. Whoever it was, though, they long gone now. Y’all are slow.”

  “So somebody came running this way?” Maureen asked. “A young guy, red T-shirt?”

  How would this girl know, Maureen wondered, what the guy we’re chasing looked like? How could she have called it in?

  The man looked over his shoulder at his buddies. He turned his low-lidded gaze to Maureen. “You it? You what they could spare? We live the other side of St. Charles, they shooting people over there, twenty of y’all would be out here.”

  Maureen wasn’t about to argue with him over the NOPD’s allocation of resources. Essentially, he wasn’t wrong. But she’d never convince him that during Mardi Gras there weren’t enough cops for the white and wealthy neighborhoods on the other side of the parade route, either, no matter what the higher-ups said in public.

  “Can you help me, please?” Maureen asked. She felt like the longer she stood there, the farther away the shooter got from her. “I don’t have all night.”

  “I do,” the man said. His buddies laughed. Maureen ignored them.

  Maureen gestured at the woman and the child. “Sir. Seriously. It’s Mardi Gras. There’s kids everywhere out here. We got a shooter on the loose in the neighborhood. Your neighborhood. He shot a girl not much older than y’all’s. There are kids everywhere tonight. You got nothing more productive to offer me than that?”