No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘Fire away.’

  The young man backed off, studying the officer. ‘Funny you’d say that, “fire away”.’

  ‘Your question?’ Leroy said.

  ‘Do you recognize me?’

  The officer studied him for a moment. ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘I’m André Brion’s kid. You remember him, don’t you? I’m Joseph Brion. Just thought you should know.’

  Leroy blinked and that’s when the kid shot him, right between the eyes, spraying blood, brain and bone inside of the cruiser.

  ‘I knew the guy, Q. Stand-up cop. On the force maybe twenty-five years? Joined around 1992. Damn, this is so sad.’

  ‘Not the case I wanted to draw, Levy.’ Quentin Archer wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Oh? In our line of work what case do you want to draw?’

  The two homicide detectives watched in the sweltering heat as a photographer circled the blue-and-white cruiser, taking pictures from every conceivable angle. Archer stared at the blue crescent-and-star emblem on the car and thought about how someone could dedicate his service and eventually his life to protect others only to be unable to protect himself. He’d seen the TV stories about cops who were ambushed, but to be confronted with one of his fellow officers blown away in a squad car … It was a lot to handle.

  ‘And no one saw anything?’ Archer surveyed the area. Three employees from the drugstore stood on the sidewalk, a handful of tourists snapped photos with their cell phones and a couple of motorists slowed down to see what the commotion was all about. Other than that, it was an average afternoon. Except a cop was dead.

  Officer Leroy remained slumped over the steering wheel, his chin resting on the plastic and his computer screen still glowing. The radio blared as a dispatcher called for an officer in the French Quarter to respond to a drunken brawl. It wouldn’t be Leroy.

  ‘This time it’s personal, Levy.’

  ‘When she’s done shooting pictures, Q, the ambulance is here.’ He motioned over his shoulder. ‘Personal or not, they’re here.’

  Archer turned and saw the white-uniformed attendants, a stretcher and body bag by their side. They had shown up, just like that, when his wife was killed in Detroit. Two attendants, a stretcher and a body bag. It was personal then, too. Death was serious enough. Death by murder was beyond serious. Someone wanted you dead. Someone felt that the world was a better place if you were gone. Or someone felt that murdering you righted a wrong. Maybe the act of murder avenged a crime. And of course, there was always revenge killing. All those thoughts played into the investigation. And then, this may have been just a random killing. Then again …

  ‘No sunglasses, Q.’

  ‘No body cam on the uniform. Probably wore it on his glasses.’

  ‘The killer took them?’

  ‘That would be my guess. Unless they’re in the dash or on the floor.’

  Levy nodded. ‘Body cams aren’t much good if they disappear. It’s pretty clear the officer looked right at the killer when you look at the point of entry of the bullet. Leroy powered down the window. There would have been a clear picture on the cam.’

  ‘When they go over the vehicle, I’ll make it a priority. If it’s in the car, we’ll find the camera.’

  ‘It won’t be there. The killer took it, Quentin. Leroy was too good a cop not to have it with him. Especially on a call.’

  Archer glanced at a uniformed officer standing watch over the scene, the bullet camera attached to the right temple of his sunglasses, following every move his head made. Leroy didn’t have the glasses or the bullet cam on him.

  ‘The department spent about 300,000 bucks on those cameras. I think we bought like 400 something. These little units are so sophisticated, when you witness something, you click on the camera and the camera, get this, Q, the camera records the fifteen seconds before you activate it. So it’s always shooting but saves fifteen seconds before you turn it on. Amazing.’

  ‘And when the criminal takes the camera away, all the technology in the world isn’t worth squat.’

  ‘That’s what I said. They’re only effective if we can view the content. So where do we start?’ Levy asked.

  Archer surveyed the growing number of onlookers, then glanced up.

  ‘Apartments up there.’ He pointed. ‘Offices and shops across the street. Somebody saw something. Somebody always sees something. As always, let’s start there.’

  ‘Maybe something they didn’t know they saw.’

  ‘And then we ask why. When we figure out why the officer was killed, we’re almost there. Was it a random shooting?’ Archer squinted in the blinding sun. ‘If it was random, that makes it really tough. We’re taking shots in the dark, but if there was a reason …’

  ‘Somebody Leroy arrested in the past?’

  ‘So we go through twenty-five years of his arrests. It’s a lot of paperwork but we may need to do it.’

  ‘It’s a place to start,’ Levy said. ‘I looked up the New Orleans Officer Down memorial page on-line. Since 2000, there have been six officers who died from gunshot wounds.’

  ‘Now it’s seven.’

  ‘And one is too many.’

  They were silent for a moment. Every day they wondered if they were going to be next.

  Levy finally spoke. ‘Let’s canvass the area again. If we strike out, we go through his arrests. Find out who is still alive, who’s on the street. Then we track them down.’

  ‘Even someone in prison, they could connect with a friend, relative, and ask for help.’

  Archer nodded to the paramedic team and they approached the car. Two paramedics, a body bag and a stretcher.

  ‘It’s going to be a tough case, Q.’

  The detectives watched as the men carefully removed the corpse from the vehicle. They slipped him into the body bag and placed the bag on the stretcher.

  ‘I’ve never been on a case where a cop was the victim,’ Archer said, ‘but my guess is that we’ve got the weight of the entire force behind us on this one. How many cops?’

  ‘About 1,100 and some,’ Levy responded. ‘Should be more, but with our budget and the defections …’ He let the sentence drift off. Everyone on the force was overworked.

  ‘I heard there were defections,’ Archer said. ‘I’m not surprised but what were the reasons?’

  ‘In 2014, 500 cops resigned or retired, Q. 500 cops. Feds came in, said they were restricting us from work on private security details during our off-hours because too many of us were abusing the system. Man, when you start out on the paltry pay we make, the officers needed that extra income. And it was like eight years since we’d had a raise. I don’t have to tell you; this job is no picnic. They resigned. Retired. And the staff was short. Not just short but depleted. We were, we are in short supply. The Feds make unreasonable demands and force unfunded mandates on us and we are screwed. On a regular basis.’

  ‘You’re still here.’

  Levy shrugged his shoulders as they walked across the street. ‘Where would I go? I’m too young to retire and I actually know this job pretty well.’

  ‘I think you do it pretty well, but you could make more money somewhere else,’ Archer said.

  ‘I could. But cops like Johnny Leroy, he didn’t go anywhere else. I can stick it out if I feel like I’m making a difference. You know?’

  Archer knew.

  ‘This guy was respected, right?’

  ‘Medal of merit, medal of commendation, Purple Heart, this guy was golden, Q. Helped out at the Boys and Girls Club for God’s sake.’ Levy pointed back to the hand-carried stretcher. ‘The entire force is ready to do whatever needs to be done. You know that.’

  ‘I got run out of Detroit for doing my job, Josh. I don’t take anything for granted anymore.’

  The paramedics slid the body into the vehicle and the EMS ambulance pulled away, leaving the scene quietly. No siren, no rush. The damage had already been done. The seven officers on the scene removed their hats, holding them ove
r their hearts. A silent tribute to a decorated officer. One of their own.

  THREE

  ‘He was a cop’s cop.’ John Harris, superintendent of police spoke to the small assembly. Office workers and cops who were in the building. Archer and Levy stood in the back row, weary from the day and tired of the press and their insistent questions. There were no answers. Not yet. When Harris raised his hand and nodded, they slipped out. All the recognition, for good or bad, would come later. Right now, there was work to be done. A killer was on the loose and they needed some clues. Fast.

  ‘We’ve got people running arrest records. Any idea what his average was?’ Levy asked.

  Archer glanced at Levy as they entered the elevator. ‘These guys, they deal in a lot of stuff. Petty theft, shop lifting, rape, DUI, traffic violations, battery, drugs … maybe fifty arrests per year?’

  ‘Higher.’

  ‘Oh, so, this is a test. You’ve got the correct number, right? You’ve done your homework? I haven’t and I have no idea. I’m not in the mood for a guessing game, Josh. You tell me.’

  ‘One twenty.’

  ‘Woah. One every three days,’ Archer said. ‘That’s impressive. Twenty-six years on the force, that comes out to …’

  ‘I figured it out,’ Levy said as the elevator doors opened. ‘That’s 3,120 collars, give or take a few.’

  ‘A lot of people who might have had it out for him.’

  ‘But it’s a list that we can work with, Quentin. There’s nowhere else to start. Someone who had it out for Officer Leroy. That’s probably who we’re looking for.’

  ‘Or, it just might be a random cop killing.’ Archer opened the door and they walked into the blast furnace that was New Orleans in September. People in the north, east and west of the country were enjoying crisp cool fall weather. New Orleans, Louisiana was boiling. And with the killing of a cop, maybe even getting hotter.

  ‘So,’ Archer loosened his tie, unbuttoning his top shirt button, ‘so far we’ve struck out on canvassing the area. I can’t believe someone didn’t see something or at least hear the gunshot.’

  ‘Oh, we had one older gentleman, lives in an apartment across the street, second floor. He remembers hearing a pop about the same time as the shooting. Said he thought it was a car backfiring.’

  ‘Must have been an old guy,’ Archer said. ‘I don’t think cars backfire anymore.’

  Levy smiled. ‘With fuel injection and computer-controlled fuel mixtures, it doesn’t happen often. Anyway, the old guy says he didn’t check it out. Just another noise on the street.’

  They quietly walked down the steps and out to the parking lot.

  ‘It’s becoming pretty serious all over the country these days, Q. Killing cops.’

  ‘There’s a lot of frustration out there, Josh. And I get that. Cops are shooting blacks and whites that are sometimes unarmed. It happened right here after Katrina.’

  ‘I was here, Q. They used a drop to make it look like the guys were packing. Sometimes it’s because cops are overreacting and killing suspects.’

  Archer knew the story well. Cops shooting someone, then dropping a gun to make it appear that the men had been carrying weapons.

  ‘Look, I know it happens, but we’re on the line every day.’ Levy stopped abruptly, staring at Archer. ‘Good cops, bad cops, I’m not sure it matters. Killing someone takes it to a whole new level. Our lives are on the line. The perps, the bad guys, they’re often a second away from killing us. If we overreact, it’s usually an attempt to save our own lives. It’s not pretty, but it’s what happens.’

  ‘I’m on the same page, Josh. It’s just that some of the blues take the roll of bullies. You remember the case we worked on where the judge was murdered. Detective Adam Strand planted a gun to make the suspect look guilty. Tried to get him to confess to a crime he never committed.’

  ‘Detective Strand was bad news from the start.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we do have some bad news cops. My former friends on the DPD who ran the drug ring and probably murdered my wife are good examples. Listen, I’d kill them given the chance. You know that, and there’s no room for them on any force. Hey, I’m not saying that Leroy was—’

  ‘Officer Leroy wasn’t a bully, Q. He wasn’t a bad news cop.’ Levy headed to the left, Archer to the right. Over his shoulder, Levy shouted, ‘I knew the man. He was a role-model cop and was about ready to retire. This is not a guy who threw his weight around. He was a responsible cop. Plain and simple.’ He paused, then softly said, ‘He stuck it out, Q. Didn’t go when 500 officers resigned or retired. He wanted to retire on his terms. Obviously, that’s not going to happen now.’

  Archer nodded. He knew a thing or two about good people who died before their time. He walked the few blocks to the streetcar stop, the oppressive heat causing him to wipe the perspiration from his face every minute or so. Finally, he reached the stop on Canal as the streetcar pulled up. He stepped inside and sat behind the driver. Best seat in the house. A firsthand view of everyone who boarded. There was no point driving his car back to the Quarter since there were seldom any parking spaces, and the streetcar was cheaper than buying gas.

  A grey-haired lady stared out the window, a ragged duffle bag between her legs. Next to her a young, attractive black lady flipped through the pages of a magazine with Denzel Washington on the cover. She didn’t seem to focus on any of the articles as she continued to thumb the paper.

  An eerie silence filled the space as people with their own problems, their own thoughts and solitude seemed to mull the concerns of their lives.

  An older gentleman, pale and balding, lay on a seat, his head buried in his chest as he softly snored, his ribcage rising and falling.

  Archer thought about Denise, and glanced around the streetcar, trying to find anyone who reminded him of her. Walking through the Quarter, he thought he saw her one hundred times a week. He’d hear the snippet of a song, maybe the Temps doing ‘My Girl’, and he’d see her in the distance. He would catch the whiff of Obsession and she’d be walking the other way across the street. Even the smell of food, a hot dog grilling on a food wagon, reminded him of Denise. They’d often connected at food wagons in Detroit when their schedules collided. He saw her every day. Today, no one had any resemblance to the gorgeous, vibrant woman who had been his wife. She had been such a unique character. Warm, witty, caring …

  Archer closed his eyes for a moment, silently praying for those whose lives had been taken, even though he wasn’t at all sure there was a god or supreme being. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask for guidance, ask for salvation, ask for their eternal life. Just in case.

  FOUR

  She prayed for the marriage of her client to be successful. She lit a candle enhanced with patchouli oil, as a mint aroma filled the room. Then she sprinkled incense in the flame to encourage the gods of money to enrich another client. And she softly chanted a mantra to Loco, the god of health. The first two were for customers. One who was about to be wed, one who desperately needed money for an operation, and the third was for her own mother. Ma, who suffered with dementia, who was not in the present. Ma, who had been her mentor and best friend, who had taught her the ways of voodoo. She prayed every day, to a variety of deities, Make my mother whole again. But the prayers went unanswered. Prayers that may have fallen on deaf ears. Prayers that brought her to question her own faith. She wanted, needed, Ma back.

  Stripping down to a plain white cotton T-shirt, Solange Cordray extinguished the candle and poured herself a glass of white wine. Her voodoo shop was closed but her small apartment in the rear was open for business. No tourists looking for a doll to cast a spell. No local who wanted to know if they were on the way to prosperity. No regular who checked in every week or month to see if the path was clear. Right now, it was just her communing with the spirits. Her time to find the portal to an answer, a solution to a problem. This late afternoon seemed to offer no solutions. She felt a void, an emptiness, and she decided to close down her session.
Sometimes the gods were not cooperative. As if they got together and decided to shut her out. ‘Not this time, young lady. We have nothing positive to offer.’

  Solange never questioned them. Well, to be fair she did, but only in a confused state. Because, weighing in on the long haul, the gods responded to the majority of her requests. When she prayed for results for clients and friends, the deities often came through. It was Ma that she was worried about, and the dementia seemed to be more than the gods could handle. Here was a devout follower, Clotille Trouville, who had been a practitioner her entire adult life, and it was as if the gods she had prayed to on a daily basis had abandoned her. She would never understand the spirit world.

  Sipping her Pinot Grigio, she turned the television on in her tiny bedroom, plumping her pillow and sitting back on the bed. Breaking news. She smiled. Every story every day was breaking news. A young lady with too much hair, makeup and cleavage faced the camera.

  ‘Twenty-five-year veteran of the NOPD, Johnny Leroy was ambushed in his police car earlier today by what is believed to be a lone gunman. We now have a chance to talk to Detective Quentin Archer, homicide officer, who is in charge of the investigation.’

  The camera zeroed in on Archer’s face, somber and tight-lipped. Solange stared into his soulful brown eyes and could feel the hurt. Here was a man who dealt with violent death every day of his life, and the strain must be taking a toll. Now, a fellow officer had been killed.

  ‘Detective Archer, what can you tell us about the shooting?’

  Archer nodded. ‘Officer Leroy was killed in his car by a single bullet. He was responding to a disturbance call in Bayou St John. At this time, we have no leads and we ask the citizens of Bayou St John, or anyone else in the vicinity, to please call us with any information. As you know, crimes are often solved with the help of our citizens giving us tips.’

  ‘Officer Leroy was Caucasian, is that correct?’ The officer’s pale white face appeared on half the screen. Probably a department shot from early in his career.

  ‘Yes.’