Doing the Devil's Work

by Bill Loehfelm

  Seated at a squat metal desk on the other side of the window was a short, heavyset black woman about Maureen’s age, clad in a dull green-and-gold sheriff’s uniform. Her cheeks were high and square, her features reminding Maureen of an Egyptian statue. Her dark hair was pulled tight over her scalp and clipped in the back. Her uniform strained around the folds of her soft body. Maureen couldn’t read her name tag. She tapped on a smartphone, not looking up as Maureen spoke.

  “Excuse me, I’m Officer Maureen Coughlin, from the Sixth District.”

  The sheriff’s deputy said nothing, fixated on her phone. The clicks of her nails on the screen of the phone set Maureen’s teeth on edge.

  “I’m here to see about a prisoner,” Maureen said. “A woman I brought in last night. I need some additional info for my paperwork.”

  “I wasn’t here last night,” the deputy said.

  “No, but that computer you’re getting paid to babysit, it was here last night.”

  “What I meant was,” the deputy said, “I wasn’t here last night, so I don’t remember you, or your prisoner, so I’m gonna need some information from you before I can help you. Did you check the screens?”

  Maureen turned, reading the flat-screen monitors hanging high on the lobby wall. The names and processing status of prisoners flashed ten at a time. The city certainly had enough people in custody, she thought, working their way through the system. She didn’t see Madison’s name. Could she have bonded out already? Once she was gone she wouldn’t be on the screens.

  Maureen turned back to the deputy. “I don’t see her. I’d like to get back on the street as soon as I can. Maybe you can help me?”

  The deputy, expelling a long sigh, set down her phone, and rolled her chair to the computer. “Item number?”

  Maureen flipped open her notepad. “Twenty-six fourteen one nine.”

  The deputy moved her mouse around, clicking a few keyboard keys. She frowned at the screen. “You sure it was last night?”

  “I guess technically it was this morning,” Maureen said. “Between three and four. Has she bonded out?”

  “She’d be off the screens, but she’d be in the system. I should be able to see her. Gimme that number again.”

  Maureen did so, but all she got was another shake of the head.

  “You lost my prisoner,” Maureen said.

  “Hold up. Item number probably went in wrong, is all. Let’s try it another way. The prisoner’s name?”

  “Last name Leary. Madison Leary.”

  “Nope. DOB? Social?”

  “Didn’t have either of them. She had no ID on her. That’s the info I’m here for. I thought maybe y’all could get it from her.”

  “She might have gone in as a Jane Doe.”

  “That shouldn’t be,” Maureen said. “I just told you her name was the one thing we did have.”

  The deputy lifted her hands from the keyboard as if it had burned her. “I’ll unlock the gate and you can go around the other side, have a look at what we got wandering around in holding.”

  “I shouldn’t have to. She shouldn’t be in holding. I brought her in eighteen hours ago.”

  “This your first arrest?” the deputy asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “Then you should know,” the deputy said, “that a lot of things ’round here shouldn’t be, but are. If she ain’t in the computer and she ain’t on the screens, then she must be in holding and hasn’t been processed yet, probably because you left us with no information on her.”

  Another deputy, this one an obese white male with a sweaty shaved head and tiny ears, pink splotches coloring his neck, wandered over in the direction of the window. He clutched a giant plastic Saints mug in his hand. He nodded at Maureen when she caught his eyes. He waddled over to an empty desk where he started a phone call he conducted in a hushed voice.

  The female deputy looked up from her computer, lips pursed and a skeptical frown on her face. “So I’m guessing no driver’s license number for this mystery prisoner, nothing like that.”

  “She wouldn’t give us anything but her name. I got the impression she’d been through the system already, so I thought y’all would have information on her. I guess I was wrong.”

  “I guess you were.” The deputy used her long nails to pick at something in her teeth. She glanced at her companion, then back at Maureen. “Gimme what else you got. I’ll call her ’scrip over to LE intake.”

  “White female, about five-eight, one-ten. Brown hair, long and straight, one blue eye, one green. No visible tattoos or scars. Blue T-shirt and black jeans. I brought her in on possession of stolen property and robbery charges. The eyes. You’d remember her eyes.”

  “Wait a sec.” The deputy swiveled around in her chair. “Theriot, didn’t you work last night? In the back?”

  Theriot listened as Maureen repeated the description. “I remember her,” he said. “She was a live one at first, screaming crazy shit when we first touched her. Spitting, clawing, like a cat in a bathtub.” He shrugged. “Then the lights went out. She went limp on the floor. Like someone had thrown a switch. For just a second I thought she’d stroked out or something.”

  “The lights went out, or you put ’em out?” Maureen asked.

  Theriot raised his hands. “I did no such thing. Neither did my partner. She was giving us trouble then she collapsed. Lying on the floor, staring off into space like a zombie. Wouldn’t talk, wouldn’t even stand up.” He shrugged again, as if instantaneous catatonia made a curious footnote to an otherwise bland story. “We thought it was some kind of seizure, or, like, psychotic episode. We put her down as a ten-fifteen M, called an ambo for her. That crazy shit is above our pay grade. We don’t have the resources.”

  He tilted his head at the computer. “Could be we never got her in there. ’Specially since y’all gave us so little to work with, information-wise.” He sipped his soda, shook the cup, rattling the ice. “The EMTs strapped her down on the gurney and took her away. Paperwork’s around here somewhere, I’m sure. My partner filled it out before end of shift.”

  “They took her to LSU Public?” Maureen asked.

  “It’s the only game in town anymore,” Theriot said.

  “Has she come back?”

  “Why would she do that?” Theriot asked.

  The female deputy looked over one shoulder, then the other, twisting way around in her squeaky chair as she did it. She stared right at Maureen. “You see her here, Officer?”

  Outside, Maureen found Preacher waiting for her by the cruiser, gazing up at the unfinished jail like a man alone in a museum wrangling with a work that eluded him, his hands in his pockets. His Bronco was parked a few spaces away. She was surprised to see him, and not in a good way. Twice in two days he’d arrived in her orbit unexpectedly. Not only was he on the streets, this time he had left the district. She felt like he’d caught her up to no good, and like he somehow knew her prisoner had gone haywire, despite the fact she had only just learned about it herself. Like it was her fault. What was worse, she knew he could tell at first sight how guilty she felt.

  As he turned to face her, hearing her boots on the wooden ramp, the ringing in her ears intensified, she felt light-headed again, and the bitter taste of her ill-gotten Percocets returned to her tongue. Like her body was trying to rat her out. Preacher could always tell, often before she could, what she was really after. She’d gotten the same “I see through you” vibe from the therapist she’d seen, the main reason she’d stopped going, no matter what she told Nat Waters.

  She felt being the first to speak was of vital importance. “What’s up, Preach?”

  Preacher frowned. “You’re listing to starboard. Your ankle acting up?”

  “It’s good,” Maureen said, convinced she was not favoring her injured foot. “Fine. Stiffens up now and again. What brings you out here?”

  “What’re you doing for it?”

  “Not much I can do,” Maureen said. “Rest, ice. It’s one of those t
hings.” She smiled, pained by how fake she knew it was. “You got someone inside?”

  “I’m here for you, actually,” Preacher said. “I need to talk to you.”

  That didn’t help. “Anything fun?”

  “That body from Magnolia Street,” Preacher said. “We have an ID.”

  It was all she could do not to laugh out loud from relief at the change in subject. “That was quick. Do tell.”

  “Turns out, he was already in the system,” Preacher said. “Edgar Cooley. Twenty-six. From out of state, originally. Last known address was a West Virginia trailer park, but that was four years ago. Let’s say there are some gaps before and after in his résumé. And I don’t think he was in the Peace Corps during his downtime.”

  “Anything that points to his killer?” Maureen asked.

  “That’s for Atkinson to decide. You can get more from her. You’re gonna want to talk to her, if she doesn’t come looking for you first.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “When I said this guy was in the system,” Preacher said, “I meant the federal system. He was a federal fugitive. The U.S. marshals are interested in him. The FBI, too. They’ll come looking for Atkinson since she caught the case. They might come looking for you since you found the body.”

  “Well, damn,” Maureen said. “Our boy was a celebrity. And I had him pegged for some two-bit trick. What did he do?”

  “He shot a bunch of cops.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “He lit up four locals in West Memphis three years ago in a traffic stop. He had some high-powered shit in his car. Military grade. Blew two units into complete junk. Left one guy in ICU for six months, another lost his left hand. Nobody died, thank the Lord. He was in a stolen car, waited until backup arrived to open fire.”

  “That motherfucker,” Maureen said. “Man, who gives a fuck who killed him? You know, Atkinson said he was a Nazi. He had a Heil Hitler belt buckle. I saw it. So you got this information about him from where?”

  “Around. I can remember hearing about the shit in Memphis some back then. We were worried about copycats here in New Orleans. It made national news when it happened.”

  “I wasn’t up on anybody’s news three years ago,” Maureen said. “Sorry.”

  “Be careful with the feds,” Preacher said. “That’s mostly what I wanted to tell you. With the consent decree being finalized, we got enough heat on this department. This loser, Cooley, there’s some other guys he ran with, at least back then. The feds are interested in them, too. They figure Cooley wasn’t alone here in Louisiana. I believe them. His kind of coward never acts alone. What he was doing in New Orleans, it might be a lead for them. He might tie into this network of hate-group loonies they’ve been looking at, some shit like that. I’m hearing it might reach back to the Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City. Point being, this shit runs long and deep. We’re gonna hear about it if the FBI or the marshals think we fouled some evidence or blew their lead. There’s no telling these days. Heads might roll, yours even, since you were first on the scene, things get bad enough.”

  “You got nothing to worry about, Preach,” Maureen said. “Everything was on point. I kept the house locked down until the detective arrived. You know Atkinson runs a tight ship, and I didn’t mess with anything, didn’t let anyone else mess around. There’s not gonna be anything for anyone to complain about.”

  “I don’t doubt you, Coughlin, but someone wants to jam us up, they can often find a way. We’re a fallible group. How was the canvass?”

  Maureen shook her head, hands on hips. “You know, like it’s our fault the feds lost track of this asshole for three years. Oklahoma City was almost twenty years ago. Where they been since?” She hesitated, thinking of Quinn’s tantrum. He probably hadn’t done his best work. How much did that matter, though? “The canvass was fine. Typical. I mean, I did my part, I’m sure everyone else did theirs, too. It’s not like I was supervising. You know how these things go, Preach. You taught me. We never get anything at the time we’re asking questions. We’re out making nice and making friends, hoping someone calls us later.”

  “Well, let’s hope somebody on Magnolia Street liked you, Coughlin.” He scratched at the rough stubble on his throat. “Much as I hate to admit it, doing the feds a solid right now would make everyone look good.” He met her eyes. “I’d especially be happy if that favor came straight out of the Sixth District, from cops under my command. What’s good for the Sixth is good for the department is good for the city. Whatever anybody needs, the feds, Atkinson, we need to provide, with smiling fucking faces.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Maureen said. “Speaking of favors, I was about to call you when I saw you here. You remember Sergeant Hardin from over the Eighth?”

  “Absolutely. He helped with that thing in Jackson Square.”

  “When I was done inside, he called me on my cell. He’s on the night shift tonight. He asked me to come see him, but to keep it quiet. He’s got a friend of mine, as he put it in the message, in an interrogation room. This okay with you?”

  “You finally have friends in this town?” Preacher asked. “News to me. About time.”

  “Low, Preach. That’s low.”

  “You’re right. But I’m not wrong, am I? He say a name?”

  “He did not,” Maureen said.

  “A blind date,” Preacher said. “Fuck it. I’ve known Hardin forever. I trust him. If I wouldn’t be cool with it, he wouldn’t have called you in the first place. Go see him, and whoever he’s got over there, be grateful and do what he says. I’ll bet anything it’s payback for getting that shrieking flock of spoiled co-eds out of his face last night.”

  “Heard that,” Maureen said. Preacher’s approval eased her nerves. And there was the compliment of a veteran officer like Hardin doing her a solid. A mark in her favor in front of Preacher. Maybe she wasn’t making friends in the city yet, but she was making the right connections on the job. That mattered more to her, excited her more than lunch and coffee dates. She gestured at the cruiser. “I should get over there. He’s already been waiting and we’re one short in the district with me out here.”

  Preacher eased out of her way. He raised his chin at the intake office. “Before you go, what happened with that Leary woman?”

  The guy was psychic, Maureen thought. She’d swear to it in court.

  “Who knows about her?” Maureen answered. “She’s kind of a casualty.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Preacher said. “But she’s why you’re here.”

  Maureen said nothing.

  “She’s why you’re here,” Preacher repeated, again telling and not asking. “You’re not a social worker, Coughlin. Remember that. The city pays other people for that. They have degrees and shit. The one job you have is hard enough. Just try to do it right.”

  “That guy she was with,” Maureen said. “He was no good. There’s more to that story. You know I’m right. It’s like when I first saw Marques Greer. I knew he was in trouble, I knew there was more to it than we were seeing.”

  “As I recall,” Preacher said, “mistakes were made in the matter of Marques Greer. And you needed some considerable help.”

  “I know, I know. I’m a new cop, Preach, but I’ve been a woman my whole life. Believe me, I know a predator when I see one.”

  “And so you sprung the rabbit from the trap,” Preacher said. “You did a good thing. But when the rabbit goes back down the hole, as rabbits do, we don’t follow. It’s the natural order of things. The wild animals stay wild. We don’t bring them home and make them pets. Understand?”

  “We might need her,” Maureen said. “We want her feeling good about us if anything important comes up on Clayton Gage. And, trust me, something will. We might need a witness or something. Look at how handy a witness would be in the Cooley case. I thought looking out for her might get us on her good side. I’m trying to make friends, like on Magnolia Street. I’m trying to think ahead.”

/>   “Nice try, Coughlin. You’re so full of shit. You let me know how it goes with Hardin.”

  “Ten-four,” Maureen said, chastened. Even if she’d lied about her original motivations for pursuing Madison Leary, what she’d said to Preacher was true.

  “Ten-four, good buddy,” Preacher said, chuckling.

  “One more thing,” Maureen said. “I have to ask, how did you know to find me here?”

  “You called in your twenty to dispatch like the good soldier you are,” Preacher said. “I wish everyone left a trail like you do. You’re so by the book sometimes, Coughlin, you kill me. You chose the right side of the law. You’d make a lousy criminal. When you come back to the Sixth, bring me a Hubig’s. Sweet potato flavor.”

  7

  After double-parking on Royal Street among a pack of other units, Maureen found Sergeant Hardin standing on the marble steps in front of the classy Colonial structure that housed the Eighth District. The Eighth, in the heart of the French Quarter, with wide white columns bracketing the beveled-glass and brass-handled front doors, outclassed in appearance the modest, scuffed, and utilitarian Sixth District home base Maureen was used to. Hardin came down the slate walkway to meet Maureen on the sidewalk.

  Hardin was dark-skinned, with a smooth shaved head. He stood well over six feet tall, with a thick muscled frame. She’d dealt with him before, a real professional, calm as a glassy lake. She liked him a lot. He was high on her list of people to emulate as she learned the job. Considering the size of him, she wondered why he’d never unnerved her the way Ruiz did. Maybe because Hardin reminded her of an old friend from New York, a bouncer she had worked with at her last cocktailing job. Seemed like yesterday sometimes, her Staten Island life, the good and the ghosts. Other times it seemed a lifetime ago, or, on her best days, like someone else’s life entirely.