Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘I understand that if we get turned, you are going away for a long time, Blount. Now you’d better understand, because my friends down here are very concerned. No more killings.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll fix things.’

  But he wasn’t sure he could. He wasn’t sure how much control he’d have when the boys got riled up. Holding the phone away from his ear, he picked up the napkin and blew his nose.

  ‘You put out some feelers, Blount. Find out who is working on those murders in the homicide division. Best we know who we’re dealing with. Someone we can put in our pocket, if need be, or deal with in other ways. Precaución, Blount,’ he said in Spanish. In English, he added, ‘Don’t fuck this up.’

  ‘I’m on it, Manny.’

  ‘I’m talking to some of the big shots in your country, Blount. They’re not happy either.’

  ‘Can’t we deal one on one with this? Why bring them into it?’

  ‘Because they’ll take the biggest hit. Me, I’m insulated. You and your petty gangs, you’re pissants. But those players, they put up the bucks. They run the show and they need to know. We’re talking world headlines, Blount.’

  The call ended and the silence was deafening.

  Blount sat in his booth, staring at the phone. He mopped his brow with the damp napkin, took a sip of the beer that had turned warm and bitter, and took a bite of the pasty, red beans and rice that had turned cold. Next time, don’t answer the damned phone. Just let it buzz and buzz and buzz.

  The department called a press conference, asking, begging the media to go public and request that any video be turned over to the police. Any cell phone photos, any professional videos, anything at all. They asked the parade attendants to review any digital content they may have. Check it to see if they had even a glimpse of the murder. While the phones were usually clogged with leads on any outstanding case, this time they were eerily silent. Apparently no one had seen anything. Or the revelers were afraid to come forward. Afraid of paybacks.

  ‘It’s the first time we can pinpoint the time and place of these murders with precise accuracy,’ Sergeant Chip Beeman said, ‘and no one saw anything. It defies logic. There were hundreds of cameras, thousands of people, dozens of law enforcement officials and—’

  ‘You’ve been over it a dozen times, Sergeant. Sometimes things don’t work like they should. We can only push so hard. I’ve got a lead. Not much promise but it’s a contact that’s come through before. I’m hoping this person can give me perspective.’

  Beeman stood at Archer’s desk, his palms flat on the gunmetal-gray top. ‘Perspective hell, I’m hoping this person can give you the killer.’

  ‘I’ll know when I talk to them.’

  ‘OK, when do we hear from this lead, Archer?’

  Archer checked his watch. Nine thirty a.m. ‘I’ll let you know in an hour, Sarge.’ Standing up he walked out the door. He could feel the veteran behind him, and knew he was calling him names under his breath. Negative energy is what Solange called it. Beeman was negative energy. Solange Cordray was positive energy. There was no question she brought tension to the table, her antique oak table, and she brought stress and pressure to the situation, but she kept the narrative alive. Positive. She may not be aware, but she held the answer to why. He knew it.

  He drove a department car, a repossessed drug dealer’s 2015 gray Nissan Altima, and actually found a parking spot in the Quarter. She hadn’t called and he was hoping she was still at her shop.

  Even this early in the morning the crazies were out. An obese man in a purple tutu and bra meandered arm and arm with a woman who was dressed like a purple-green-and-yellow jester. They bumped Archer as they walked by, and he shook his head and kept walking, smelling the sweet odor of marijuana right around the corner.

  Arriving at her store he tried the door. Locked. He glanced around, looking for a coffee shop where he could kill some time, and as he took a step back she opened the door.

  ‘Detective.’

  There was a broad smile on her face. Either she had something positive to tell him or she was very glad to see him. He briefly hoped for the latter. Then he realized it could be both. Positive energy.

  ‘Ms Cordray.’

  ‘Please, come in.’

  He stepped inside. While the incense stick was not burning, the air was heavy with the sickeningly sweet perfume that had permeated the cypress walls, the heart pine wooden floor and the low-hanging chandeliers for fifty years. Lavender, patchouli, orange and cinnamon. They sat at the old oak table and she produced the can of Chill, setting it dead center.

  ‘I told you there was energy emanating from the can.’

  Archer nodded. ‘Energy absorbed, energy released.’

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled again, and Archer caught himself. Her soft face, the line of her neck. This was a lady who was a lead in one of his cases. He couldn’t afford to get foolish about an instinct. He folded his hands on top of the table.

  ‘So did the energy tell you anything?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pushing her long hair back, she grasped the can with her other hand. She handed it to Archer. ‘Do you feel anything at all?’

  He wanted to. Didn’t believe but wanted to believe. But nothing resonated. Nothing at all. It was a cool can, maybe two-thirds full of a substance he didn’t understand. He so wanted to be on the same page as the voodoo girl, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Possibly the energy has been depleted,’ she said. ‘There was only as much to give as was absorbed.’

  ‘But you felt the energy?’

  ‘I did. And I got some very strong vibrations.’

  ‘Something I can use?’

  She nodded. ‘You have sent out a message to everyone in the surrounding area that you want pictures, video, cell phone captures of whatever they saw at Bacchus. Am I right?’

  ‘You are.’ Apparently the request had been broadcast successfully. At least the voodoo lady was aware of it.

  ‘You will get nothing useful back.’

  ‘That’s not exactly helpful,’ he said.

  ‘No. But it’s not because the footage isn’t there. ‘This blue can and its owner are front and center in every home. Hundreds of people have witnessed it. But they all focus on something else. You must find the person who filmed the murder but focused on something else. But whether or not they know it is another thing. They have no idea what they filmed. Until that person focuses on what’s important instead of the actual celebration, no one will be able to help.’

  ‘So, what? It’s been shown on TV? It’s gone viral? Is that you mean?’

  ‘I cannot tell you more than I have. Only that it is available to thousands. Find out who was filming that one video. Then concentrate on what is happening beyond what they focused on. The individual viewers you are appealing to are useless. Not one of them captured this murder.’

  ‘Everyone was filming. I’ll guarantee you there were camera phones, DLRs, Super-8s everywhere.’ He put his hands in the air. ‘It’s almost impossible in this day and age to do anything in a public place and not be on camera.’

  ‘Only a few were filming for the masses. Somewhere in that statement is the answer. It’s the best I can do, Quentin.’

  It took him a second, and he started to get up, then smiled. She’d breached formality, and also shared something that, if true, could jump start the investigation. The problem was, he had no idea what she was saying. Find one image, then concentrate on something totally different. Maybe she was on to something. And maybe she was crazy. Probably a little of both. Regardless, he felt an attraction that he hadn’t felt in a while. And that bothered him. She’d called him Quentin. It felt right and it felt very wrong.

  TWELVE

  The French Market on Decatur was half-full, a full hour before lunch time, with customers already peeling red-shelled crawfish and spooning spicy grilled oysters from their shells. Bushy-haired Mike with the big eyes was busy behind the bar, selli
ng specialties and mixing drinks.

  ‘Detective Archer, mon ami.’ The gregarious bartender smiled and waved. ‘What brings you to our humble restaurant?’

  ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘For you, of course.’ He put down his towel and signaled to a girl at the other end of the bar to cover. Together Archer and Mike walked outside and stood on the cracked, pitted concrete sidewalk. The bartender crossed his arms, hugging himself against the chill in the air.

  ‘You may have heard. Yesterday an attorney named Trevor Parent was killed up on Canal Street.’

  ‘I know the story, Q. So sorry to hear it. A knife to the heart and no one saw anything.’

  ‘Pretty much the whole story. Except, my voodoo friend—’

  ‘Remember, I know your friend. The lovely Solange Cordray,’ Mike interrupted. ‘She stops in from time to time. She orders the oysters you like so much. A very bright, friendly lady. I knew her mother as well.’

  Past tense, Archer thought. ‘Yes. Well, the bright friendly lady seems to think that there was someone who has video of the murder. A someone. One person. And that person doesn’t know what they have. Whoever shot the video, their focus was on something else.’

  ‘Could she be a little more spécifique?’

  ‘She only says that thousands of people have access to the video. Which I guess means that thousands of people may have seen the murder but they all were focused on something else. She has limited information. You tell me you know everything that goes on in the Quarter and—’

  ‘And technically, the murder didn’t happen in the Quarter. It happened up on Canal and several blocks away.’

  ‘Mike, you are obviously well connected. You’ve helped before. I really need to nail this thing down. Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated.’

  The man nodded. ‘Give me a day, Detective Q. I want to help. Whoever is committing these hideous acts is disrupting lives and giving my city a bad name.’

  Archer gave him a wry look. ‘Your city doesn’t need much help. I think there’s quite a bit of tarnish to go around.’

  A pigeon hopped by, pecking at something on the cracked concrete. Mike laughed out loud. ‘I think you are correct. We are a tarnished city. Sometimes I wonder if our “bad ass” reputation is the reason we are so successful. So many people flock here hoping some of that bad image wears off on them. Some of our visitors want to be bad-ass coonie, Q. Yet they don’t realize the implications. This isn’t a game we play here, it’s deadly serious. It’s a strange thought, but there’s some truth to it. We are truly a unique city.’

  ‘Ear to the street, Mike.’

  ‘See me tomorrow, my friend.’

  His phone rang as the bartender walked back to his restaurant.

  ‘Archer.’

  ‘Home invasion, Detective. Laurel and Peniston, uptown. Man and woman both dead, three-year-old child with injuries on life support. Officers have a suspect in custody. How soon can you be there?’

  He cringed. ‘On my way.’ Archer just wished the pace would slow down.

  Case Blount called the cell number. Delroy Houston picked up.

  ‘Blount. You calling to warn me about more murders?’

  ‘Actually I am, Delroy. I got a rather urgent call from one of my suppliers in South America. They’re very concerned that the police will find a link between us and some of these killings and that our operation will unravel rather quickly.’

  ‘Your fat ass will end up in prison, Blount. Give me a break. That’s the big concern, isn’t it?’

  ‘Trevor Parent? Stabbed on Canal Street. Was that you?’

  ‘Hold on, Blount. I don’t get my hands dirty. You know me better than that. But, we did find out that Mr Parent was working both sides. You were shipping some of his young mothers over to Nasta Mafia. I told you, man, Warhead Solja can handle the traffic. I’ve got plenty of places to put them. Too bad about attorney Parent, but concerning all those poor mothers who had to give up their babies, we should have had first pick. You send those women to us, understand? I told you, we don’t need no competition. I tried to explain that, Case. You just didn’t listen. Be more attentive, my man.’

  ‘So you had him killed? In the afternoon in front of thousands of bystanders.’

  ‘Don’t know nothin’ about it.’

  Blount opened his center desk drawer and pulled out a silver flask. He reached for his side table and picked up a plastic cup, then set it back down. A small pour wasn’t going to do it. He leaned back and took a long swallow directly from the shiny container. It burned good all the way down, warming his sizable belly.

  ‘Damn it, don’t you understand that the cops are all over this? All they’ve got to do is tie this murder to Blake Rains and that gangbanger in Little Woods and we are all taking a fall.’

  Houston was quiet for a moment. Blount could hear him, his shallow breathing, thinking about his response.

  ‘You think we killed Blake Rains?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Blount asked.

  ‘Did you have him working with Nasta Mafia?’

  It was Blount’s turn to be quiet.

  ‘How was it, Case? Did you have Rains send people to Nasta for placement? Was that crooked politician in Little Woods working with Nasta Mafia? Bad territory, my friend. I understand his body got moved to Six Flags but make no mistake, we know that mover and shaker was killed in Nasta Mafia territory. Maybe they killed him.’ He laughed. ‘Again, after I told you we would handle all the traffic? There is such a simple solution here. Make us your exclusive client and your problems go away. Do I have to hit you upside your white-ass head? We get the business. That’s it.’

  ‘Some people, some organizations have connections you may not have.’ Blount was developing his own full head of steam. One more deep swallow and his voice got much louder, more aggressive. Damn it, he distributed the money and if this piece of shit gangster didn’t appreciate that … ‘Christ, Delroy, you and the … you and your Warhead Solja boys get the lion’s share of the business, OK? I shove a lot your way. But you’re not the only game in town. We’ve got to spread it around. It’s the safest way to make it work. Just think about it.’

  ‘Not OK.’

  ‘What do you expect from us. You’re doing very well. I do the fucking books. I see the statements. You guys are making a shitload of money.’

  ‘We can do better. Listen, Case, and listen very carefully. We can take all the business you can send. Don’t know how to be more blunt, Blount.’ He chuckled. ‘We’ll take care of Nasta Mafia. You take care of business.’

  ‘OK, but no more killings. They stop right now. You’ll get all the business and we’ll see if you can handle it. Does that settle this turf war?’

  ‘We’ll see. We’ll see.’

  ‘We’ve got some girls from Ecuador coming into the Sister Louise school tonight. Can you deal with that? Probably twenty teenagers.’

  ‘So you’ve got leads on their families? Fake IDs showing the older ones are at least twenty-one?’

  ‘That will all be provided. Do you have jobs for them?’

  ‘Damn, Sam, it’s Mardi Gras.’ Blount heard the man slam his fist on something, apparently his frustration level peaking. ‘Case. I got girls workin’ major overtime who could use a break. I got plenty of openings. Twenty girls? Shit, I could use one hundred. You get me? Never worry about jobs, my man. And those that fight it, we got their families. You tell a girl that her family is gonna get whacked, you’d be surprised how fast they come around. And we got H, my man. Families and H. Kind of a double threat, you dig?’

  ‘No more killings, Delroy.’

  ‘Never said there were any before,’ Houston said. ‘We had nothin’ to do with them, Mr Blount. Random killings, you know? But you be sure and tell your friends in South America that we are cooperating in every way. It’s so simple a first grader could figure it out. You win, we win. OK?’

  It was two sixteen in the afternoon when he remembered. He was sittin
g at his desk, filling out paperwork on the home invasion double homicide when he thought about the parade. Archer was pretty sure a TV station carried live coverage of a portion of Bacchus. One of them, he couldn’t remember which, had promised to live broadcast local coverage. Of course they would record the whole parade as well, in order to play back highlights later. So maybe they had footage of the murder. Obviously they’d have focused only on the parade and the floats, but still there might be some crowd shots.

  There were 1,400 parade riders on thirty-one floats. Plus as many as ten thousand bystanders whose attention was glued to the Bacchus parade. WDSU had carried some of the parade on their nightly news. He remembered seeing it, lying in bed in his 600-square-foot cottage where the TV was practically on top of him.

  A quick Google search brought up the phone number and a minute later he was talking to a reporter.

  ‘We were at your press conference.’ The young reporter, Brooke, sounded very interested. Interviews usually worked in reverse. The reporter would call him, and she was the one who asked the questions.

  ‘And thank you,’ he said, ‘for getting the word out. But I want to know about your footage. Your digital content.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you’d have to get a subpoena, Detective. I mean if you wanted all the raw footage,’ the girl said. ‘We are always happy to cooperate with the authorities, within reason. But it’s the way things work here.’

  ‘So you have nothing I could look at?’

  ‘Not without a court order. We own the footage.’

  ‘I have reason to believe you may have footage of a murder.’

  ‘And after learning the facts our camera crew thought that was possible as well,’ the girl said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, we had two cameras on the ground and we filmed a lot of B roll. B roll is when—’

  ‘I’m well versed in B roll,’ he said. Archer had been involved with cases in Detroit where network affiliates’ footage had been crucial in solving crimes. He was also well aware of getting a court order.

  ‘OK. So we did a quick review of everything that was shot and it doesn’t appear there was anything that would help.’