by Don Bruns
‘You’re right. They’re going to play this very carefully. Does Mercer know that you guys have the surveillance video of someone stealing that car?’
‘We don’t think so. But he is so plugged in I just never know. The guy has lookouts everywhere. You found that out. It’s why he’s still walking the streets. He may have heard we were reviewing a video. I can’t be sure. You understand that I’ve got to be extremely careful with this, Q.’
Tom Lyons was one of his best friends, who’d had his back for years in Detroit. The last thing Archer wanted was Lyons or his two partners to get burned. One person had already been killed because of his drug investigation. He prayed no one else would die, but he knew there was that chance.
‘You understand, my friend, the three of us working it, if we get it wrong we are toast, man. Burned. Scorched. Not to be insensitive in any way, buddy, but we need to go very slowly.’
‘I appreciate what you’re doing, Tom. Thank God you’re willing to work it. What’s the question?’
‘If we get a little closer, are you willing to come up and talk to the prosecutor? You’ve got your cell and proof that Bobby calls and threatens you from time to time. You’ve got evidence in that phone that your brother Jason calls and harasses you. And your brother’s on the run from the law. Someone may be able to get a lead on his location through your phone. Prosecutor says your testimony and your phone may be what pushes this over the top. After we get evidence on that stolen car.’
Back to Motown, back to the family that wouldn’t stand up for him. Back to the town that still held his brother Brian in jail. The town where his father, a former police captain, wouldn’t even acknowledge him because he’d put Brian in jail and because Jason was now a fugitive. Back to the city where a handful of cops wanted him dead for ratting out his blue brothers.
‘Prosecutor is Maurine Sheldon, Q. You know her. She’s straight up. I don’t think she’d back off with a threat. I mean, we get the right stuff and she’ll be all over this. But it’s got to be right.’
He knew her. She was a straight shooter. ‘If we can get Mercer for Denise’s murder, hell yes. Hell yes. I’d be there tomorrow.’ Of course that would be impossible the way things stood.
‘We’ll be in touch, Quentin. Be safe.’
‘I worry about you guys, Tom. It means a lot, the time the effort you’re putting into this. Thank you for keeping the faith. And you be safe. Be safe.’
Five minutes later Archer, Levy and Beeman walked back into the office followed by three more detectives.
‘Extra eyes, Q. Can’t hurt,’ Levy said.
Archer quickly explained how the video worked, then started at the beginning, dragging his finger slowly over the screen, showing everything the camera’s two fisheye lenses saw.
‘Stop, Archer. Can you back it up a second or two?’ Beeman pointed at his screen. ‘I saw something.’
He stopped the motion and set it back ten seconds. They watched with rapt attention, the three new observers looking over the trio’s shoulders.
‘Right there,’ Beeman said, ‘guy reaches in his jacket pocket …’
‘And pulls out a pack of cigarettes,’ Levy wryly commented.
‘And so it goes,’ Archer said.
Cueing it up again, Archer continued to direct the action. Twenty minutes later his phone rang again, and he checked the number. A New Orleans area code. Thirty minutes later they took another break.
Archer called the number back, and Mike answered.
‘French Market.’
‘Mike, this is Quentin Archer. You called?’
‘I did. I have some information regarding the murders involving the can of Chill. It’s not verified, but …’
‘I don’t care, man. Tell me what you’ve heard.’
‘I put out an APB, Q.’
‘Civilians have an all-points bulletin?’
He could hear the smile through the phone. ‘I do. That’s why you check in with me, my friend. The man with the plan. Action Jackson.’
‘So someone has given you information.’
‘They have. The can of frigid gas is used to cool something. White wine, carbonated beverages and anything else that needs to chill. To be honest with you, we sometimes use it here. People expect us to keep all the whites in a chiller, so don’t tell anyone, OK? But, you know that this canned gas is also responsible for a certain cheap high, right?’
‘You spray it up your nose, don’t you?’ Nothing new to report. Mike had yesterday’s information.
‘You do, Detective. It practically freezes the nasal passage, not that I can personally attest to that, and apparently it freezes the brain. It induces a temporary sense of euphoria. As in most cases of drug induced ecstasy, people will step outside their boundaries. They will lose sight of their common principles, their core values, and act stupidly. They are couillion.’
Archer wasn’t always clear about the Cajun language but he let Mike continue. It must mean stupid.
‘So it would make sense to some that with a whiff, or as it’s sometimes called a “huff” of this Chill gas, someone’s mind, their will, might be compromised.’
‘We’ve considered that possibility, Mike.’
‘My contact, a trusted friend and confidant, has told me he believes that is what has happened.’
‘That’s it?’
‘What I am led to believe is that the courage to kill someone at large is helped by huffing the gas. Now hold on. What you may not know is that the reason for the killing goes a little deeper.’
‘Mike, get to the point.’
‘You always like to know why, Q. It’s an initiation. To a gang.’
‘Initiation? Murdering people?’
‘My sources tell me there’s a street gang called Warhead Solja that requires new members to kill a random stranger, which they achieve by getting the kids to take a hit of Chill and leave the can by the body. Last but not least, they snap a picture of the body next to the blue can as proof that they did the deed.’
He sat there with the phone frozen to his ear. Archer was stunned. He shouldn’t have been. He’d been through a number of gruesome murders, two brutal beheadings, bloodbaths, he’d been through the deliberate, violent murder of his wife, he’d seen children gunned down in drug wars, and even discovered a body hanging from the Ambassador Bridge over the Detroit River. He’d seen a local judge with a bullet in the brain pulled from the Mississippi River, but to randomly kill innocent people simply to get into a gang was hard to grasp. Very hard to grasp.
‘Q? You still there?’
‘Jesus Christ. Your city may have reached a new low, Mike.’
‘I’m thinking you may be right, mon ami.’
They were both silent for a moment. Finally Mike spoke.
‘It’s only a rumor, Detective. I’d like to think it’s not true, but then you would have to find another explanation.’
Archer had no other explanation.
‘I prefer my job to yours. My mission is to make people happy with food, drink and a sparkling personality. To enhance their unique experience in New Orleans. Your job … to deal with the merde. I could not do that. Could not.’
‘Merde?’
‘The shit, Q. The shit.’
FIFTEEN
‘No shit?’ Levy just happened to use the English word, probably not knowing the Cajun one.
‘No shit, Levy,’ Archer said.
‘That’s new,’ the detective said. ‘I know Warhead Solja and this hasn’t popped up in the past.’
‘What do they do?’
‘Christ, what don’t they do. Prostitution, drugs … they’re really big into heroin. And they work some of the strip clubs. Both the people and the drugs.’
‘They sell in the clubs?’
‘We’re pretty sure they supply drugs to some of the girls. Well, they also supply some of the girls, period.’
Archer nodded. Alexia Chantel had given him a heads up, but he hadn’t known who was de
aling. Now he did.
‘Random killings, Levy. Yet maybe there’s a deeper connection. What do you think now?’
‘Not at my pay level, Detective.’
‘I think we need to find out who killed Trevor Parent at the Bacchus parade and why. That may answer some questions. For some reason, I don’t believe that he was a random stranger for some punk initiate to earn his wings. Someone is using the Chill cans as a decoy.’
As Beeman and the other three detectives entered the room, Archer filled them in on his phone call. To a one they were silent, shaking their heads.
Finally Detective Boudreau spoke up. ‘There are a lot of sick fucks out there, Archer, but this is the kind of stuff we’ve got to nip in the bud. When these assholes are killing each other, it’s one thing. But an initiation that requires murdering innocent people? Not on my watch.’
‘Then let’s make this video work.’
For the third time Archer started the video. Twenty minutes into the viewing Detective Bellerose asked him to stop it.
‘Back it up, Q. Maybe five seconds. When you scanned the far right corner of the screen there’s a quick movement that caught my eye. Physical contact with two people. I could be wrong. Maybe it was something else.’
Archer ran the video back then stuttered it forward.
‘Right there. Can you freeze it?’
He did. The six men leaned in, studying the still picture. It appeared a man in a gray hooded sweatshirt had his hand up another man’s jacket. The picture was somewhat blurry and the man with the hood had it pulled tight over his head.
‘Not conclusive,’ Archer said with a twinge in his chest. The surveillance camera in Detroit that should have framed Bobby Mercer wasn’t conclusive either but he knew it was him. He wished the rat bastard a slow, painful death.
‘How long can we keep him in frame?’
‘He’ll be there another three to four seconds, then the camera has moved on.’
‘Damn.’ Levy put his finger on his computer screen. ‘Let’s see the next three to four seconds, then see if we can blow up some of these scenes.’
Archer again stutter-stopped the video. Running it one frame at a time. Although the picture was blurred and out of focus, the man’s hand seemed to stay under the jacket for maybe two seconds. When it emerged, it was holding something. All six officers looked intently.
‘Blow it up, Q.’
He did. It was a blur. A fuzzy blob of a picture. Each detective stared, feeling like they needed an eye exam. Gradually, the focus got a little better as their eyes adjusted to the pixels. Then the room got louder as each one of them realized what they were seeing.
The hand appeared to hold a knife.
‘Damn,’ Beeman said. ‘Got to be. How many seconds left before the camera leaves that scene?’
‘According to what I’ve seen the last two hours, we’ve got another two seconds, Sergeant. At that point the camera and the parade continue to move ahead.’
‘Well,’ Levy studied his screen, ‘We’re one hundred percent beyond where we were thanks to Detective Bellerose,’ he hesitated, ‘but we’re still in the dark as to who this is. If we …’
Archer stroked the screen as the man in the gray hoody looked up. Up from the knife he had in his hand.
‘Clean that picture up, Q, and we’ve got our killer.’
‘Just one killer, Sergeant. It’s a great start, but as I told you, my source said there are several.’
‘Regardless, send that picture to the lab. Put a priority on it. When and if they can clean that picture up, we’ve got a clear shot of at least one of the Chill thrill killers. Boys, this may be the break we needed.’
It was after six when he caught the streetcar on Canal. The old black man wearing suspenders and his bowler was busy chatting up the driver as Archer climbed on board. He wondered if the man spent his days riding back and forth on the cars. Three young boys about twelve or thirteen huddled in a seat, giggling and sharing something on a cell phone. He sat in a seat by himself, pondering the events of a long day.
It started with Solange, the voodoo queen, telling him that his can’s energy spoke to her. Then there was street-smart wild-haired Mike with his questionable connections, describing a gang initiation that involved the Chill cans, and finally there was a 360-degree camera that might have unveiled one of the killers if the tech department could clean up the image of the man’s face. A big if.
Without voodoo, phantom informants and high-tech equipment, none of which he truly understood, this case would still be a total mystery. When he got to his stop he jumped off and walked briskly to his cottage, ignoring the smell of spicy shrimp, Krystal Burgers and the wafting odor of garlic and onions. He also ignored other odors of stale beer and vomit, common smells in the Quarter. He just wanted a hot shower and a beer. The pounding bass pouring out of the Cat’s Meow reverberated off the wooden bench and the short brick walk that led to his porch. That same porch where a brown paper package was propped against his door.
No address, no identifying marks. Just a thin, book-size package wrapped in brown paper. Archer hesitated, knowing that his Detroit connections often sent threatening letters and unusual gifts to his New Orleans home. He’d come home to find a dead cat on this same porch, and one night someone had entered his home, smearing rabbit blood on his bed sheets.
He pulled out some latex gloves from his sport coat pocket. Because he was called to crime scenes on a near daily basis Archer kept a pair of the thin gloves on him at all times. It was best to touch nothing with your bare skin during the first stages of a murder investigation. Then he checked the tape on the door, undisturbed, and studied the parcel.
It could be explosive, set to detonate when he moved it. Chances were slim that his brother or whoever had left it would go to such elaborate steps. There was no address, so someone had to have hand delivered it. Throwing caution to the cool breeze, he reached down and picked up the package. Lightweight, thin, very defined. Carefully tearing the brown paper, he watched for any telltale signs. No visible white powder, no ticking time bomb. He realized he should call the department, but they were short-staffed enough. And sending the bomb squad for an innocent package? Another homicide detective had quit today. Manpower was low. No reason to sound the alarm.
He kept removing the paper, layer after layer. And there it was. His heart jumped. A framed wedding photo of Archer and Denise. A silver frame that was engraved at the bottom. She was in her beautiful white wedding gown, her veil thrown back, staring at him with a loving smile on her lips, and he was in his dark tuxedo looking back, brown hair carelessly falling over his forehead. Denise had never looked more beautiful, and Archer’s eyes filled with tears.
For a moment time evaporated and he remembered the small wedding. His brother Jason giving the best man toast. ‘To my brother and best friend. Quentin Archer. Denise, may you find all the strong characteristics and the decent humanity that lives in this man.’A lot of bridges burned. Things had changed.
Archer closed his eyes. He was aware this was not meant to be a sentimental moment. It was meant to be one more reminder that he should stay out of the Detroit scene. Now he wondered if Mercer knew that they were reviewing security cameras and trying to identify him as a potential thief and killer.
The inscription was simple.
Stay out of this, Archer. More bad things are bound to happen.
SIXTEEN
It was three in the morning when the yellow school bus arrived at the gray stucco building just outside of the Quarter. Congo Square in Treme was unforgiving. A place where slaves had congregated in another century, and a place where any civilized person wouldn’t be caught dead at night, or the early morning, or at any other time of the day. Or if they were caught here, they probably would be caught dead. There were places in New Orleans, like Louis Armstrong Park and right here in Treme that you just plain avoided. At all costs. It was a great place to locate the Sister Anne School of Divinity. Even the cops trie
d to stay away.
The driver stayed in his seat as three muscle-bound men stepped up into the vehicle. The largest, a bearded man dressed in a camouflage jacket and stocking cap, addressed the tired young girls in Spanish. He first asked who spoke English. Six of them slowly raised their hands. He told them to stand, and when a pretty young dark-complexioned girl stayed seated, one of the men grabbed her by her long black hair and roughly pulled her from the seat then twisted her arm behind her back until she screamed.
‘When I tell you to do something, you will obey me,’ the leader said.
Walking down the aisle, which smelled of piss and vomit, he scrutinized each of the girls. Then, pointing to four who appeared to be older than the rest, he ushered them off the bus.
As they huddled together, tears streaming down their cheeks, he slapped each of them on their cheek, a stinging reminder of who was in charge.
‘You were sent here because your parents couldn’t afford to keep you. The harder you work for me the more money you will make. The more money you make the sooner you will be reunited with your family. Do you understand?’ He’d given the speech dozens of times.
Two of the girls nodded.
‘I’m going to ask you one more time, because if you don’t get it now you’re dumber than I thought. You don’t listen to me, you’re fucked. If you think it’s been hard, think again. The worst is yet to come. The worst, ladies. You understand? You comprender? Do you understand that if you don’t follow my instructions, you will never see your family again? Never. Get it? I will slap you silly if you don’t answer me.’
This time all four of the girls nodded.
‘I’m gonna guess you will not like your new jobs. You will take off your clothes for strange men, and they will take liberties with you. You will learn to deal with it, so that the money they pay you can funnel back to your families. Your poor, struggling mother and father, your sisters and brothers. If you cause problems, if you refuse to cooperate, your families will be in serious danger. You understand? Your mothers will be raped, your fathers will lose whatever income they have and they will be left penniless. They will die in poverty. You are the only salvation they have. It is entirely up to you. Nod if you understand what I am telling you.’
