No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  SIX

  Joseph Brion sat on the steps over-looking Jackson Square. He stuffed the end of a shrimp po-boy sandwich into his mouth and started chewing, staring at the stately, glaringly white, St Louis Cathedral with its towers and dark spires framed against a cloudless clear-blue sky, and the statue of Andrew Jackson out front, his horse rearing up as the famous soldier, later president, held the reins with his left hand and waved his hat with his right. The words engraved on the stone base were quite clear. THE UNION MUST AND SHALL BE PRESERVED. A striking pose by a striking figure.

  Brion had watched entertainment acts perform on these cold, concrete steps. His father had brought him as a child and they’d witnessed Dixieland jazz, acrobats who did handstands all the way up and down the concrete formation, magicians who could levitate people in the audience and the frizzy-haired banjo player, his favorite, who played something like five instruments at the same time. Drums, a kazoo, the banjo, an accordion and he couldn’t remember what else. He could hear ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’, in his head.

  Oh, I want to be in that number, when the saints go marching in.

  At first, his father told him it was about the pro football team, the New Orleans Saints, and the song referred to number eight, Archie Manning, quarterback for the Saints for ten years. Manning had nine losing seasons and was sacked three hundred forty times. Not a stellar career, but his father had been a huge fan. It turned out, the song was written long before Manning and his sons Peyton and Eli played the game. Joseph Brion remembered his pop as quite the kidder.

  He felt a chill run through his spine. This place, the concrete steps were mesmerizing. So many of his childhood memories had happened here. He and his pop. They’d had quite a time.

  ‘Hey, mister,’ a young boy about six years old stood one step down, pointing at him.

  He stared at the kid, then glanced up and saw the mother, a heavy-set black lady, who was wrapped in a too-tight red dress.

  ‘Lady, is he yours?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that around your neck?’ the child pointed again.

  ‘Sammy, stop. The man has a tattoo. Now leave him alone.’

  ‘No, it’s OK.’

  ‘It’s like a necklace,’ the boy said. ‘Is that what it is?’

  ‘It is a necklace,’ he said. ‘It’s called unity. People, events that stay together, that are connected. When someone leaves the unity, it falls apart.’

  ‘It goes all the way around your neck,’ the child said. ‘It didn’t fall apart, did it?’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ he nodded, ‘but it’s printed on my skin. Things change and I can’t undo the printing and there are some people and events that have gone away. Connections have been broken. The necklace is a memory of when everything was perfect.’

  The young boy looked to his mother, not at all sure what the strange man had said.

  ‘Have a good day,’ she smiled at him, hugging her son tightly and quickly walking away.

  He usually savored a po-boy sandwich; deep-fried shrimp, with a rich, mayonnaise-mustard rémoulade sauce, but today his heart wasn’t in it. Nor were his taste buds. Today he was probably the most wanted, hunted man in New Orleans, and for the first time in his life, he’d killed someone. He’d planned it. He’d executed the act with precision. Still, it was hard to deal with the emotions. Oh, he’d had some skirmishes with the law before. Shoplifting, some petty crimes, but obviously, nothing like this. There had been an assault charge when someone who worked for him collected a drug debt but decided not to pay him his share. It was a small debt, but he felt the man needed a lesson. Breaking the man’s face and dislocating his shoulder got Brion thirty days in the city jail. Worst place he’d ever been. The New Orleans jail was a rough sentence.

  He smelled the sour odor of hot sweaty horses even before he saw the two carriages pulling up in front of him, letting off their tourist passengers. The sad-looking animals, their heads lowered in shame, were toweled off by the carriage drivers, and those same drivers surveyed the area for the next couple or family to put the horses through their torture again.

  Brion studied his options, sipping a watered-down cola from a cheap plastic cup. If no one had seen him shoot the officer, the possibilities were endless. If no cameras had captured the act, he could leave town, or stay. He could watch the cops chase their tails, laugh at the media reports, because there were no leads. He could move on to the next phase of his business. Three more events. He’d scoped out the area in Bayou St John. Three days he’d walked up and down that street. He saw no evidence of any surveillance camera in the area, but technology being what it was, cameras were everywhere. Private residents, city sites, businesses and every street corner in the world. Hopefully there were none that captured his crime. He was fairly certain. The only camera he was certain of was in his possession. Officer Leroy’s body cam. He’d stripped the sunglasses and the camera from the cop and that camera was never going to be evidence in the shooting. He was pretty sure that his somber face and the barrel of his gun would be front and center on the video. So no one was ever going to view that picture. He’d made sure of that.

  A clown-costumed character hand-pulled a small cart front and center to the sparsely populated stairs. The man had dressed himself to look like Weary Willie, the Depression-era character made famous by Ringling Circus clown Emmett Kelly decades ago. Brion’s father had shown him pictures, videos, of the world-famous clown and now, this imposter was setting up shop. Pulling out a broom and a bucket for ‘contributions’, the impersonator started sweeping the street. Brion remembered an Internet video of Kelly, sweeping the spotlight, chasing it off center ring in a Ringling Brothers Circus production. This guy was no Emmet Kelly. The shows he’d seen with Pop, the atmosphere, it wasn’t the same today. The entertainment just wasn’t like it was when he was a kid. He desperately missed his pop. Missed his childhood. And Pop had promised to take him to the Ringling Brothers Circus. It was something they were so looking forward to. Ringling had recently shut the circus down. No more elephants, prancing horses, no more high-wire acts or clowns. The circus wasn’t coming to town again. Ever.

  Stuffing the sandwich into a paper bag, he gave the terrain one last look, remembering his loving father, remembering the city that his pop had referred to as the Big Easy, as one big circus with endless possibilities. That all ended twenty years ago, and nothing he could do was going to bring it back. But that didn’t stop his mission. He’d mapped out his agenda, the locations, the timing, and the victims. After all these years, he needed revenge.

  Brion caught bus 88 on St Claude at the fringe of the Quarter and rode the line to the Lower Ninth ward. Stepping off, he walked by empty lots, overgrown with tall grass and weeds. Vines crawled up cement steps with no porch or house at the top. A rusted-out Ford truck rested on blocks, it’s tires long since removed. The nice thing about living in the Lower Ninth, you didn’t have a lot of neighbors. And the crime rate wasn’t that high. Basically because no one lived there. There was nothing to steal, no one to assault. The neighborhood still struggled to come back from the devastation known as Katrina. A long, slow climb.

  A mangy dog snarled at him, a rumbling growl deep in its throat. Its brown fur was matted and the animal’s teeth bared. Pets had been abandoned during the storm and today they continued to reproduce, mangy feral relatives of their ancestors.

  Bald tires covered the next lot and sodden old couches and chairs were scattered like colorful sea sponges. The Ninth was a dumping ground for animals, tires and furniture, and there was an odor of rot in the air. He shook his head in disgust as a black snake slithered by on the broken sidewalk; a raccoon warily watched him, mostly hidden in the tall weeds. The press had announced that slowly the neighborhood was coming back. Very slowly. It had a long way to go.

  He walked up the steps to his small shotgun house and opened the door. The gray cat, called Cat, brushed against his leg in a friendly manner, he thou
ght because she was still thankful for the rescue six years ago when a Rottweiler was threatening to eat her. In reality, this time her bowl was empty, and she was sending a signal. She was hungry. He took five steps to the tiny kitchen and picked up the bag of cat food.

  ‘I was about to do that,’ the voice startled him. She seldom came out of her small bedroom.

  ‘No problem, Mom.’

  She pushed her unkempt gray hair back from her worn face and adjusted the threadbare blanket over her lap. Nodding at him, she spun the wheelchair around and pushed it the few feet back to her room. He heard the door slam. She was in a mood. A mood she’d been in for years.

  ‘Mom,’ he watched her go and yelled out, ‘will you want some dinner? I’ve got half a shrimp po-boy.’ She didn’t answer and he put the sandwich in the refrigerator. Twenty years ago, her endless possibilities had ended as well. She decided she had nothing else to live for and waited every day for the good Lord to take her. And the days dragged on. And on. And on.

  He eased himself down in the worn leather easy chair that his father had relaxed in, nights on end. It was always his father’s chair and he never forgot that. Flipping on the remote, he settled on the local news channel. Of course, the stories were all sidebars on the shooting. Speculation, stories about Officer Leroy’s legendary awards and commendations. Nothing about the Leroy that Joseph Brion knew. Nothing even close. They should have interviewed him. He poured himself a tumbler of Hennessy and changed the channel. The news didn’t change. He should have been energized. Should have been elated. Should have been high-fiving his friends. Instead, he felt an emptiness. A dull ache. He’d eliminated a problem, not exposed one. There was still work to be done, and it all fell on him. There were others involved, but he had taken the mantle of responsibility. He would shoulder the work. His posse had his back. He paid for that service. They would be there if he needed them, but he’d made the decision. He’d suffered the greater loss and therefore he was going to give more than anyone else. There was work to be done. He took another sip of the cognac and closed his eyes. In the darkness, he felt his father, grasping his hand, keeping him close as they walked into the big top. Cotton candy in one hand, his father’s hand in the other. The possibilities were endless. Until they weren’t.

  SEVEN

  ‘You saw this man from the window here?’ Archer sipped a cup of green tea as the young woman nodded. The window provided a broad, almost aquarium view of the street.

  ‘I heard the noise.’ She motioned to the older gentleman, sitting in a recliner, his head bobbing on his chest. ‘Raymond said it was a car backfiring. I don’t know what that means. Apparently, cars with faulty engines or bad gasoline used to make a banging noise?’

  ‘Before your time,’ Archer said.

  ‘Anyway, I walked to the window and looked down on the street. Same view that you can see.’

  It was a spectacular view from Archer’s perspective. You could see up and down the whole street from only two stories up.

  ‘The police car was parked in front of the drugstore,’ she continued. ‘I assumed an officer either needed some medicine or there had been a problem. Maybe a robbery. I’ve been coming here for several months and there isn’t a lot of excitement in Bayou St John. It’s pretty quiet in this area of the city. But I thought the sound was a lot like a gunshot. In my neighborhood, we have some gangs and in the evening, we often hear weapons being fired. There’s a certain popping sound. You get used to it. It happens a lot. I’m pretty sure the sound was a gunshot.’

  ‘Can you tell me about the man who you saw?’ Archer wanted any identification. Whatever she could describe was better than what they had now. Anything.

  ‘I only saw his back. He had a T-shirt on and cargo shorts. By his arms and legs I knew he was black. Slightly muscular, maybe five ten, although it was hard to tell. He was walking but walking fast and I was trying to put together everything I heard and saw. The gunshot, the police car and the man walking down the sidewalk. It wasn’t that important, you know what I mean? This is New Orleans, Detective. A lot of things happen. But I was trying to figure it all out.’

  ‘Did you observe the officer in the car?’

  ‘The windows were reflecting the sun, Detective. I recall that, but I don’t remember seeing anything in the car. You say that the driver’s window was open but maybe it was the sun blinding me. I didn’t pay a lot of attention. I was just aware the car was there. I thought maybe a policeman had fired the shot.’

  Archer wanted a positive ID, but he would take what he could get.

  ‘Tell me everything you can about the man walking away.’

  ‘T-shirt, baggy shorts, a cap, and he kept shaking his head like he was talking to himself. Probably was.’

  ‘Any sign of a weapon? Something in his hand?’

  ‘Both hands in his pockets, Detective. I remember that. He was hustling down that sidewalk, shaking his head and his hands in his pockets. I remember thinking, This man is having a conversation. Maybe with the devil. Then I realized that he might have shot someone. I had no reason to believe it was the police officer in the car. I didn’t know there was an officer in the car. But, you know how sometimes you just have a feeling?’

  Archer had a brief moment where he thought he should hook her up with Solange Cordray. Apparently, several people had epiphanies.

  ‘If you have any other thoughts, recollections, please call.’ He handed her his card, then walked back to the full plate-glass window and stared out on the sidewalk two stories down. A young couple walked by, the girl pushing a baby stroller. He could easily see the child, almost bald and wearing only a diaper. The heat was oppressive and …

  ‘You’ve got a great view from up here.’

  ‘Raymond has a great view. I agree.’

  ‘You saw this man walking down the sidewalk. And all you can tell me is that he was black and wore baggy shorts. Think a little harder.’

  ‘Think a little harder?’

  ‘Close your eyes. I want you to recreate the moment. You saw this man walking away from you. Concentrate. What did his hair look like? Was his head shaved, how did it look from the back?’

  She closed her eyes. He waited. Witnesses always saw more than they remembered. They just didn’t realize what they had seen. He was actually a fan of hypnotism. The professionals could often bring new information to light. Something the witness would have never remembered on their own.

  ‘He’s walking away from you. Look at his head. His shoulders, his torso his …’

  ‘I see him, Detective. A cyclist almost ran him over, but the man never stopped or slowed down for a second. Hurrying down the street as if he needed to be somewhere else.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Archer encouraged her. ‘Look at him again. How about the hair?’

  ‘He wore a ball cap. Backwards. I’m sorry, I saw it; I think I mentioned that to you. But it’s very clear right now.’

  ‘What was printed on that cap?’ He kept a calm, almost monotone voice. ‘Keep your eyes closed.’

  ‘The cap was backwards,’ she said. ‘I think it might have been maroon. Maybe there was a logo, a mascot, an animal like a cat or tiger.’

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Archer said. ‘And your view was behind this man, correct?’

  ‘Yes, I was watching him from behind as he hot-footed up the street.’

  She was silent, obviously concentrating. Finally, ‘Saints.’

  ‘On his hat?’

  ‘No, I told you. That was an animal.’ She kept her eyes scrunched tight as if concentrating. Archer hoped she was.

  ‘The T-shirt. I don’t know why I didn’t mention that. The back of his shirt said Saints.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Archer encouraged her. ‘Colors?’

  ‘Black and gold.’

  ‘You’re doing well,’ Archer told her again. ‘Let’s again concentrate on the physical, the body. Do you remember what kind of tattoos he wore?’ Sounded like a ganger and all gangers wore tattoos.


  Her eyes still closed, she answered. ‘I assume he did, but he was in shorts and a shirt, Detective.’

  ‘Look at his arms,’ Archer coaxed her.

  Nothing.

  ‘His shorts, they came down below his knees? Baggy cargo shorts? Keep your eyes closed and see what was out the window.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, cargo shorts?’

  Her eyes squinted tight, she shook her head.

  ‘Tattoos around the ankles? On the calf. Any color? Ink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about his face?’ Mike Tyson had a tattoo on his face. Maybe he’d done something …

  ‘I can’t see his face. He’s walking away. Oh,’ she gasped. He heard amazement in her voice.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘He has a tattoo. He does have a tattoo. How did I forget that?’ An upward tilt to her voice as she sounded surprised.

  Archer nodded. ‘Keep your eyes closed. Now, tell me where it is. Look at him closely. You can see his legs, his arms …’

  ‘No, no, I don’t even remember thinking this,’ she said. ‘But there was a tattoo on his neck. Yes, I see it.’

  Bingo. Archer kept the smile to himself.

  ‘His neck.’

  She opened her eyes, a half-smile on her face.

  ‘So, you saw a …’

  ‘Wreath.’

  ‘This tattoo, what kind of a wreath was it?’

  ‘I remember it now. Like a crown of thorns. The one Jesus wore before he was crucified. It covered his neck. I don’t know why I didn’t remember that. But it was very evident.’

  ‘It covered his neck?’

  ‘I only saw him from the rear, Detective. But it appeared to go all the way around his neck. Thorns, stems, that’s all I could make out. It was a dark tattoo, and sort of blended in with his skin, but it was definitely there. I can’t believe I didn’t remember before.’

  ‘Sometimes you can wake up in the middle of the night,’ Archer said, ‘and remember something that you’d been worrying about for months. Sometimes that memory will solve a host of problems. We store a lot of information that we don’t know is there.’