Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘So,’ Levy sipped at his now lukewarm coffee, ‘this Dushane sits at the bar. He’s not that social, he’s nursing a drink and two customers that he doesn’t know named Archer and Levy walk up, stick a gun in his ribs and lift him off his seat. That could happen, right. He has no immediate hostages and we haul him out either front door or back.’ The detective laid his hands out on the table. ‘Could that happen?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve seen guns drawn in clubs before,’ she said. ‘With the terrorist threats, with the mass killings in theaters and nightclubs, it probably would freak a lot of people out. You understand?’ She pushed her soft blonde hair back from her face. ‘It would scare the hell out of me.’

  ‘If we announce that we’re police?’

  ‘A lot of married guys are going to head for the exits, Quentin. That’s the last thing they want to hear. And, some people fear the police as much as the terrorists, Detective Archer. I’m sure you are aware of that. And if you overplay your hand, we have customers who are packing. They may get involved. The quieter this whole thing is the better. We could have a remake of the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.’

  ‘Can you help us?’ Archer asked.

  ‘I don’t see where I would fit in.’

  ‘You would tell us what’s going on.’

  ‘Just how would that work?’

  ‘We’re just two customers. You flirt. Just like you did the other night. We’ll buy you a drink, talk about other favors and you keep coming back to us when you know something. Like when Dushane shows up. Like if the girls are in the back dressing room. Like if he’s coming out to sit at the bar, when the girls are entering the club.’

  ‘I can probably do that. But, boys, I can’t go down for this. If that gang got wind that I was feeding you information, I don’t want to think what could happen to me. You’ve got to promise me.’

  ‘And we’ll keep you out of it. Tonight in the club, just do what you always do. I mean, whatever that might be.’ Levy got a little red in the face.

  ‘What is it you think I do, Detective? Since you’ve never been in a strip club, what do you imagine goes on?’

  ‘I don’t even want to know.’

  ‘Final question,’ Archer interjected. ‘Is there a time frame when he shows up?’

  ‘No. But we’re open till six in the morning, so plan on possibly a long evening.’

  ‘When do you leave? What time does your shift end?’

  ‘Apparently not until you guys yell, “Police.”’

  ‘She’s right. It could be a long night, Q.’

  ‘Could be a long morning, Levy.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘It’s a crap shoot, Archer. We either put five girls at risk in a back alley or put a room full of dancers and pervs in danger. I don’t know.’

  ‘So you’re not looking forward to it either?’

  ‘Not so much, pal. Watching naked girls dancing is enticing, but I don’t like the prospect of having firearms on display. That element frankly scares the hell out of me.’

  ‘Then we get him when he leaves,’ Archer suggested.

  ‘Like we did at the pizza place?’

  ‘That didn’t work out so well, did it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This guy is a psychopath,’ Archer said. ‘No matter how we approach it, he’s not going to care who he takes out. There may be casualties. But one thing is certain. If the opportunity arises …’

  ‘We’ve got to take him out.’

  They agreed to see each other at the office later in the morning to flesh out their plans. In about four hours. Archer nodded as they went their separate ways.

  Archer had refrained from discussing the conversation he’d had with the senator. Until he heard from Beeman or some other superior, he wasn’t about to make alternative plans. There was a possibility of stopping the thrill kills tonight or early tomorrow morning and that was priority. Number one priority. And if anybody in his department tried to rein him in he was going to fight like hell to get Dushane White.

  His cell vibrated and he checked the number. Detroit, but he didn’t know the number. Hesitating, he took the call.

  ‘Detective Archer?’

  ‘Yes.’ He checked the time. Four a.m.

  ‘I am so sorry to bother you at this hour, but I just found out that Bobby Mercer … this is Maurine Sheldon, a prosecutor in Detroit, and—’

  ‘I know who you are. Thank you for your interest in the case.’

  ‘Detective, I probably woke you from a sound sleep, but I just was made aware that you’ve had contact with Officer Bobby Mercer. We have a warrant for his arrest and had no idea he was in New Orleans. Are you in any danger?’

  ‘Ma’am, I’m a homicide detective with the New Orleans Police Department. I’m a former detective with the DPD, and half of that force is out to get me for turning on Mercer and my two brothers. On both of those counts I’m not sure I could be in any more danger.’

  She was quiet.

  ‘Yes, Mercer was here this afternoon. Surprised me. I could have put a bullet in him but I didn’t. And I have no idea what his intentions are, but I know he killed my wife and I hope you are on board with Tom Lyons and his team because I want that bastard to pay. Big time.’

  ‘I think we can nail him, Detective. And I’m very concerned that you’ve had contact and he is in your town.’

  ‘I am as well.’

  ‘I’m in touch with Detective Lyons, and we are in touch with your New Orleans department. We’ll find him. Sorry to wake you.’

  ‘Thank you for the call. Believe it or not, I’m still up working on a case.’

  ‘I guess we all are on call twenty-four/seven, Detective,’ she said.

  ‘A friend of mine recently reminded me that if crime is up at all hours, we’ve got to be available.’

  ‘Detective Archer, I will leave you with this. It isn’t my job to get personal in my cases.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘I have to deal with the facts. I have to make sure that all the information I need is in hand. My feelings about a case have nothing to do with whether we agree to prosecute or not. You guys have to present enough information to make the case. You’ve been around long enough to realize that.’

  ‘Of course.’ He had no idea where she was going with this.

  ‘Detective Archer, I don’t know you. But between me and you, damn, I want this son of a bitch. I’ll deny I ever told you this, but I would push for the death penalty.’

  ‘Except,’ Archer let go a long sigh, ‘Michigan doesn’t have the death penalty.’

  ‘In this case, it’s a pity. But, Detective Archer, we can get this guy for life. If and when we catch him.’

  ‘I want him more than you do.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. I lost a son ten years ago. A victim of a drug-related drive-by shooting. It’s a violent world we live in, Detective Archer. I try every day to gain some ground. Again, sorry for the early call.’

  The early morning chill sent shivers down his spine and he pulled his jacket tightly around him, turning up the collar and shoving his hands in his pockets.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  One block from the Cat’s Meow he sensed he was being followed. Ducking into a doorway he waited. The dull roar of bass-driven music echoed down the street and he strained to hear the sound of footsteps. He waited thirty seconds before he stuck his head out from the hiding place and glanced down the street. Nothing. Archer’s heart was racing as he stepped out and retraced his steps. Two, three, four doors down and it was the same. He saw nothing. He wasn’t crazy. Someone was following him. He knew it. A couple of drunks in dark suits stumbled down the middle of Bourbon and passed him without a look.

  Closing his eyes for a moment he pictured a car, coming up the street and veering onto the sidewalk, heading straight for him. Imagination was a funny thing. His own New Orleans force had been alerted to Bobby Mercer, but he was the only one in danger. Mercer had threatened him and there were no cops in sig
ht right now that could help him.

  Archer walked slowly back toward his cottage, wondering where his stalker was. There was someone back there. A block before the club he heard the thumping bass and some off-key wailer singing a Creedence Clearwater Revival version of ‘Rolling on the River’. ‘Left a good job in the city.’ Well, it hadn’t been that good a job. But it sure followed him wherever he went.

  Spinning around he saw the man, a dark jacket, collar turned up and a black stocking cap pulled low on his forehead. Reaching for his Glock he pulled it from his holster. Don’t ever go for your gun unless you plan on using it. Don’t ever shoot unless you plan on killing someone. The credo of the force. But this was justified defense. He had no intention of using it, no intention of killing someone. He just hoped it would scare off his attacker. The man kept coming.

  ‘Don’t come any closer, friend.’

  His finger rested outside the trigger guard. Too many cops killing too many people, unarmed, not threatening. Too many officers fearing for their own life, caught up in the moment, working off an adrenaline rush. Pointing his gun at the thug, he measured the steps. How close would the man get before he would call his bluff?

  The arm around his neck took him by surprise. Someone was behind him, the stalker now running toward him. Damn, two of them. No visible weapon from either attacker, only an arm around his neck from the person in the rear. If he shot the man running at him, it would be a case of an unarmed assailant gunned down by a bullying police officer. As if the New Orleans PD needed another black eye. But if he didn’t do something soon, he was going to be assaulted front and rear. Feeling the squeeze, the pressure on his windpipe, and gasping for breath, Archer pulled the trigger wide, the deafening explosion bouncing off the walls of buildings for several blocks. Chips and dust flew from the stone facade of the wall next to him. He felt the arm around his neck release its grip and he watched the first attacker stop dead in his tracks, not sure what had just happened.

  Spinning around, Archer hit the man behind him with his Glock, breaking his nose, blood spraying from his face. He landed on the ground, his hand covering the broken cartilage. Immediately Archer turned and the other attacker was half a block up Bourbon, running as if his life depended on it. The detective clenched his teeth. It did.

  When he turned back, his assailant had struggled to a standing position. The man’s hands were in the air.

  ‘Don’t shoot, man. Don’t shoot.’

  ‘Do you have a problem with me? You put your arm around my neck and try to choke me?’ A small crowd gathered on the other side of the street.

  ‘Absolutely not, my brother. Don’t know you, don’t know anything about you. I was paid to put you down.’ Blood dripped from his chin, but he kept his hands up.

  ‘Kill me? Honestly, you were going to kill me?’

  ‘No, no. There was no killing from my end. Give you a scare. That was all. My partner and me …’

  Holding the pistol on him, Archer called for backup on his cell. He studied the young man for a moment, a purple hoodie with LSU embroidered on the front, ball cap with the New Orleans Saints logo and LeBron James Nike shoes. Like the kid was going to the big game, just not sure which one.

  ‘Who paid you?’

  ‘Cash transaction. I don’t know him.’ He sniffed, finally rubbing his hand over the bloody mess on his face.

  ‘Bobby Mercer? Short, stocky guy?’

  ‘Maybe. A short stocky guy but I didn’t get his name.’

  ‘Are you carrying?’

  The man nodded. ‘In my belt.’

  Archer removed a Raven MP-25 from the man’s waist, then cuffed him with a disposable hand restraint. The wood grip gun, a Saturday night special, was available on the street for probably twenty-five bucks. Not that accurate with a tendency to jam, but with enough power to kill a man. Archer knew the gun and was sure of that. And he was pretty sure the guy had been sent to kill him. Probably with that small pistol.

  A squad car pulled up to the curb and a uniform shoved the man into the back seat. Archer handed him the weapon.

  ‘Someone said they heard gunfire, Detective? Was a firearm discharged?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, officer.’ He was required to report it, but it was his word against theirs. ‘Take good care of the prisoner and I’ll file paperwork in the morning.’ And morning was fast approaching.

  A white cargo van pulled into the large garage in Treme, parking next to a luxury tour bus. Two men stepped out, the skinny one opening the luggage doors and climbing in. Crawling on his stomach to the rear he started pushing the corrugated cartons to the opening, his partner picking them up and carefully placing them in the rear of the van. Opening the third carton, the partner pulled out an envelope, slitting it open with his pocketknife. He sprinkled the white dust into his palm and licked it like a kid licking raw sugar. It only took a moment. Closing his eyes and rocking back and forth on his heels, he knew it was the real stuff.

  ‘It’s pure, Jimmy.’

  ‘Save a taste,’ he shouted from inside.

  ‘One of the perks, my man.’

  A souped-up Buick pulled into the garage and three men with surgical masks jumped out, guns drawn.

  ‘Keep loading,’ the lead man said.

  ‘Hey, pal. You don’t want to mess with this. Seriously, this is—’

  The one loading the van pulled a Smith and Wesson 9mm from his belt and fired, the bullet hitting wide of its intended target. The three men opened fire, eight shots hitting the man’s body as it twisted and turned. The dying man took an involuntary step backwards, slamming against the white van, his blood spattering the paint job with a grisly pattern.

  ‘Come on out,’ one of them called to the man named Jimmy.

  ‘Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot.’

  ‘Out. Now.’

  ‘Please, man. I’m a family guy. Got a little kid. My woman’s got another one on the way. For Christ’s sake, I’m no problem. Just let me go.’ The voice from inside the luggage compartment.

  ‘I’ll come in there and gut shoot you if you don’t get out of there.’

  His head breached the opening, a pleading look on his dark face.

  ‘All the way out, and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  He crawled out, swinging his body over the edge and finally standing up.

  ‘How many cartons?’

  ‘Fifty,’ he said. ‘Take them.’

  The masked man laughed. ‘Oh, we will. We’re not working on a percentage. We’re taking everything you’ve got.’

  ‘I’ll walk out of here like this never happened.’

  ‘It did happen, my friend. Over by the van.’

  Slowly he walked to the vehicle, stepping in sticky pools of blood.

  ‘Do you want to tell your friends at Solja Warhead that this isn’t over? Would you do that for us?’

  ‘I’ll get the word out,’ Jimmy said, a tremor in his voice. ‘I promise I’ll do that. No problem.’

  ‘I think they’ll get the message anyway, don’t you?’

  ‘Please, I—’

  The man turned and nodded to the other two. ‘Don’t want to mess up the van any worse than we did, brothers.’

  They walked over to Jimmy, lifting him up by his arms, and forced him to the ground next to the bloodied remains of his friend.

  ‘You want to fuck with us, this is what happens.’

  The three men unloaded their weapons, standing back so the blood didn’t spatter on them. The explosions were deafening, as Jimmy’s skinny body jerked on the cold concrete floor.

  Thirteen shots went through the soft tissue, destroying bones and organs, and when the last shot finished resonating through the building, they stood there admiring their work. Blood, guts and gore, the carnage was everywhere. The metallic smell of fresh blood, the putrid odor of human waste and gunsmoke permeated the air.

  ‘Alexander, get in there and drag out the rest of the boxes.’

  Ten minutes later th
e last of the cartons were loaded. Two of the men climbed into the van, backing out of the spacious garage. The third backed the Buick out and rolled down the window. Reaching into the passenger seat, he picked up a blue-and-white aerosol can and tossed it at the two bodies. Let someone figure that one out. The two vehicles disappeared into the night.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Archer, you look like you drank your night away. Eyes bloodshot, dragging your ass into work.’ Chip Beeman leaned over Archer’s desk, looking him in the eye. ‘Seriously, you look rough.’

  ‘It wasn’t alcohol, Sergeant. Levy and I had a late-night meeting with a source, and I’ve got a guy in lockup who tried to kill me when I returned home. All in all, an eventful evening.’

  Beeman shook his head. ‘But you’re still alive, and there are more problems. Maybe you’ve heard.’

  ‘The senator?’

  ‘About that,’ Beeman said. ‘She’s trying to pull rank that I’m not sure she has.’

  ‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’

  ‘This lady has brought in the Feds. She wants to single-handedly control the human-trafficking issue in New Orleans.’

  ‘She called me.’

  ‘Honest to God? She called you?’

  ‘Very emphatic that we stay out of her way.’

  ‘Well, she called everyone else as well. Very sure of herself. We’re supposed to back off. From the top down, they’re saying we need to let it go for the moment and see where this is heading.’

  ‘And I agree,’ Archer said.

  ‘You do?’ Beeman took a step backwards. ‘That’s not exactly what I expected from you.’

  ‘Sergeant,’ he looked up from his desk, feeling the weariness and anxiety from a sleepless night, ‘we don’t deal in human trafficking. I have no problem staying away from that. We do deal with murders. Let her have what she wants. I’ve got a suspect in the thrill kills, and that’s my entire focus. If trafficking overlaps, I can’t help that. But let me pursue my investigation and we can put a stop to these killings. I think we can arrest one suspect tonight.’