by Don Bruns
Joseph wandered the streets, ending up on the banks of the Mississippi. He passed by police on every corner, red-and-blue lights flashing on top of their cars as if that was enough to keep the rioters away. Officers, either sitting in their cars ready to respond at a moment’s notice, or standing stoically beside their cruiser, daring someone to hurl a brick, pull a gun or pick a fight.
The riot squads were nowhere to be seen, probably regrouping for tonight’s possible unrest. The evidence of last night was everywhere. Shards of plate-glass windows, burned-out stores smelling of wet ash, cars that had been destroyed with chunks of concrete and tire irons. Couches and chairs had been pulled to the street, soaked in kerosene and set ablaze. The pungent odor of a gas-fed fire and the smoky smell of burned upholstery lingered in the air.
Beer bottles, empty bourbon bottles and red plastic cups littered the pavement, and the cheap, hand-lettered cardboard signs were tossed into vacant lots and people’s front yards. One of them in big block letters read, SAVE OUR HOOD. A couple of mangy dogs roamed that same neighborhood, looking for a kind neighbor who might offer them a bite to eat. Most of the residents were either hiding inside or they had left the neighborhood after last night, preferring to stay somewhere else until the trouble blew over.
On the river, they partied. A paddlewheel steamer moved down the Mighty Miss, a Dixieland band playing standards, and drunken revelers shouting out lyrics to the songs. Across the river, every bar in the French Quarter was packed with people looking for release, a little debauchery, something different from the humdrum existence of their dreary, ordinary lives.
Pop had been shot by a cop, a business colleague. Mom was confined to a wheelchair, imprisoned in her body and her mind. Their son was now hunted, a cop killer who had never explored the party experience. He’d never understood the need to abandon sanity, to wallow in the depths of self-gratification. Joseph Brion raised a middle finger, a ‘fuck you’ to all of them. His mission was established, his focus laser sharp.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
He turned and looked into the pale face of a uniformed police officer.
‘Please, raise your hands.’
His eyes traveled down this man’s body. Waist level, the belt carried a Taser, heavy steel handcuffs, a baton, pepper spray, a radio and an empty holster. The cop’s gun was aimed at his head.
THIRTY
He called Beeman.
‘Sarge, I’m going to Algiers. I think this guy is over there. But can we run a check, see where he lives and get a couple squad cars over there, assuming he’s in our jurisdiction?’
‘If we can find his home, Archer, we’ll dispatch immediately. I don’t know how many Joseph Brions we’re going to find.’
Algiers wasn’t a large area, but he was totally unfamiliar with the terrain. Looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. That was pretty much what he was doing. Finding a black man with a tattoo around his neck. It was a crapshoot. Late afternoon presented a better chance than exploring in the dark of night. And the dark of night was going to be filled with force and fires.
It had come down to homicide detectives actually running traffic control during Mardi Gras, Jazz Fest and other major events. The force was slim and every officer in the department was called on for a number of jobs. At this time, he’d actually prefer traffic control to this case, but there was a cop killer in Algiers and he couldn’t let that go.
The riot took place over a two-block area. Walking that area, he figured he would see a number of people. Joseph Brion, if that was his real name, would try to blend in. Ball cap, cargo shorts, a T-shirt and a necklace tattoo. He knew the type. Head down, hands in his pockets. Probably half the pedestrians fit that description minus the tattoo, but Archer had a hunch. A feeling that this guy would try too hard.
He checked his peripherals, walking through the devastated district, sidestepping sharp slabs of glass, the charred remains of vehicles and furniture. There were few pedestrians, most of them staying inside, but the majority of walkers were just like him. Curious onlookers who had come out in the relative safety of daylight. They’d hid in the dark of night, under bedding or crouched in the corner of a room in their home. Now, in the brightness of a new day, they braved the sunlight and assessed the damage, wondering if tonight was going to be another evening of terror.
There were young men, heads hung down, ball caps on backwards. But none of them fit the description. He just had the feeling. And after half an hour’s walk, he expanded his area, working his way to the river. Archer studied a hundred people, especially those whose shirts exposed their necks. Sometimes he got a little too close, causing people to stare at him, wondering what his motive was. A man with a sport jacket and a tie, walking through a dangerous neighborhood, where blood had been shed the night before. He was definitely out of place.
The detective felt the tight strap and holster that hugged his chest, some comfort in a strange environment. There was never a threat, but knowing he had protection was somewhat reassuring. And then he could see the Mississippi. And the French Quarter on the other side. Somewhere over there was his small, insignificant apartment and Solange Cordray’s voodoo shop and home. The dementia center where her mother lived was just around the bend. He’d become attached to certain areas of the Quarter, and obviously to certain people.
The metal bench was inviting, a chance to sit down and take stock of the situation. A chance to survey the river and survey what a hair-brained idea it was to drive to Algiers to see if he could single-handedly catch the cop killer. An act of desperation. He was sure that the thorn-necklaced man was the murderer, but with a huge squad of New Orleans cops checking everyone out, what did he think one lone homicide detective could accomplish?
Andy Brion, Joseph Washington, and now Joseph Brion, who may have killed Leroy. It was all crazy. Two of them arrested twenty some years ago. Then one of them shot by Johnny Leroy and one killed in a robbery. There was a missing link. Had to be. He didn’t have enough information. Somehow they were tied together. As Solange had suggested, there must have been a parallel universe. Another life that no one was aware of. Except maybe for Joseph Brion.
He pulled out his cell phone and called the precinct. In a minute, Beeman answered the phone.
‘Sergeant, you gave me the names of the two guys who tried to steal the gold from Fox Glass.’
‘No question, Q. Those were the guys.’
‘Grand theft. Right?’
‘I don’t see how it could be anything else.’
‘Just a crazy thought. They were charged, right?’
‘As far as I could tell. Hell yes. I’m sure they were charged. The story made the paper.’
‘OK, were they convicted?’
‘What?’
‘Were they convicted? Just because someone is charged …’
‘Well, of course they were convicted. I mean, I didn’t go that far but Leroy caught them red-handed. Grand theft. So of course they were.’
‘Can you check? And if they were convicted, I need to know how long they served.’
‘Archer, whatever it takes. But they were trying to heist thousands of dollars worth of gold. I’m certain they did some serious time.’
‘Look, Sarge, I need to know. There are way too many coincidences. Way too many ways that these people are interacting. I want to know what the consequences were. I’m trying to tie up a lot of loose ends, OK?’
‘I’ll call you back, Archer. Actually it shouldn’t take too long. However, I think on that situation you’re on a useless fishing expedition.’
‘At least my line’s still in the water, Sergeant Beeman. I’m not going to stop until I catch something.’
‘Quentin, I’ve got some other news. Saved the best for last.’
Oh, yeah. There was the question of where did Joseph Brion live.
‘We found a Brion family living in the Ninth Ward.’
‘And?’
‘Ownership in the name of André Brion, Dete
ctive. I think we’ve got him.’
‘Great. But I’ll bet anything he’s over here.’
‘We’re sending a team to find out. I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, be safe and good luck.’
Brion smiled at the officer. A disarming smile, although the policeman didn’t seem interested at all in disarming.
‘Is this because I’m black and you’ve got a riot on your hands? Believe me, Officer, I have no interest in the riot. I used to come over here with my father on the ferry and I was just reminiscing and thinking …’
‘Raise your hands, son.’
‘Seriously, sir, I’m not going to be a problem.’
‘That tattoo around your neck. The necklace of thorns. I’ve got orders. You need to raise those hands.’
And then he knew. That’s how they were going to convict him. A customized piece of art. Of all the things. He could and did blend into any community in New Orleans, be right at home, fade into the backgrounds like a piece of camouflage. Except for his crown of thorns. Shit. He was so proud of it, admired it every morning in the mirror. And that was going to be his downfall. No, he wasn’t going to let that happen. Not yet. Tonight, when the fireworks went off, maybe. But he wasn’t quite finished. There was work to be done.
‘Sir,’ the officer was now reaching for his Taser. He couldn’t shoot what appeared to be an unarmed black man. That would spark a riot far worse than the one in progress. So, he’d probably taser him. Except, except that the officer didn’t know Joseph wasn’t exactly unarmed.
‘Officer, I am carrying a gun.’
The policeman squinted, not quite sure he’d heard the man right and not sure what to make of the confession.
‘I have a carry license, so it’s all aboveboard.’
Of course he didn’t, but it sounded right. Defuse the situation.
‘You have a gun?’
‘I’m going to pull it out.’ Brion slowly reached into his pocket. Looking the officer directly in the eye.
‘Sir …’
‘And I’m just going to drop it on the ground.’ He imagined this was almost exactly what happened to his father. Jack Leroy told Pop to reach for his weapon and drop it, and as André Brion drew the Smith and Wesson from his pocket, Officer Jack had shot him. Pop would not have pulled a gun on Jack. His business partner, his friend. Joseph was sure of it. But by all appearances, Pop had drawn down on the officer.
‘So, please, don’t shoot, don’t tase me. Let’s not start another riot, Officer. Wouldn’t be a smart move.’ He was pretty sure the cop hadn’t radioed the information. The instrument was still on his belt. That was the one positive thing in this interaction. Protocol said he should radio for backup. This was a maverick who thought he could pull it off by himself.
He pulled the Smith and Wesson from his pocket with his right hand, his left hand held high in surrender.
The police officer had one hand on his Taser and held his Glock 22 in the other when Joseph fired his first shot. The round went through the policeman’s throat and he dropped the Glock. Brion saw the shock and recognition on the man’s face. The second bullet caught him in the forehead and he staggered, blindly trying to fire the Taser before he stumbled and crumpled to the ground.
And now Joseph felt truly sorry. Devastated. The others had deserved to die. Evil men, the two of them. This man was just doing his job. Some average guy who was just doing what he was told. Leaning down, he ripped off the small body cam from the officer’s lapel. Now he owned two of them for all the good it would do him. For all the good it would do the police.
Brion walked briskly, just as he had when he’d shot Leroy. Not too fast, but fast enough to distance himself from the dead body. This time was different. An innocent person had been in the line of fire, and Joseph felt the hot tears running down his cheeks. Pop most assuredly wouldn’t be happy.
THIRTY-ONE
She’d been with Ma when she took the powerful dementia drugs. Sometimes her mother was delusional, and often she would hallucinate, shouting out incoherent diatribes. It was often as if she spoke in tongues although Solange couldn’t make out the language. In lucid moments, Ma would tell her it wasn’t the medication or dementia. It was just the spirits speaking to her, but the doctors assured Solange that those side effects were common. The medical professionals didn’t outwardly believe in spiritual intervention, so they gave no credence to the older lady’s crazy dreams. And as her condition worsened, they took her off the medication. The drugs had made her irrational, not the voodoo spirits.
Solange had never taken drugs. Never even smoked a joint. Her ex-husband had experimented, but she’d never been tempted. Not even pain medication, so the feeling she was now experiencing was unexpected. It was not so much dizziness, but a sensation as if she was floating. Not like when the spirits used her to speak, shape-shifting her petite figure to become their spokesperson, but almost a carefree, effortless feeling of flying. She could look down and see herself, huddled on the bed. And the euphoric sense almost released her from her mission. This entire experience, the dandelion tea, the prayers for clairvoyance, all were to lead to a better understanding of who killed Officer Johnny Leroy. Matebo told her this should work, told her that the potent tea would help give her clairvoyance, and she was enjoying the freedom, maybe a little too much. But she was still unsure how to find the answer, the vision the …
And then she saw it. Floating above the scene, she watched the semi truck turn down the winding road, never meant for an eighteen-wheeler. In a dream, you might see a scene like this. You might wake up and try to understand the reason it came to you. This wasn’t a dream. Solange was positive of that. She was wide-awake, alert as she had ever been, and yet the vision was totally real. Over twenty years ago, but as current as today.
She watched the vehicle as it braked, dodged into the left lane, then jerked back to the right, sliding off the road into a pine forest. The truck tumbled down the embankment and slid to a stop. It happened so fast, maybe in thirty seconds, and all the while she considered the circumstances. The driver might have been high or drunk, spinning the wheel, going left, going right. It could have been a blown tire, or a malfunctioning steering system, but she was certain there was nothing in front of him, nothing behind him. His erratic driving was unexplained. Almost as if another vehicle was heading toward him, taunting him, daring this Nick Martin to meet him face to face. And Martin twisted and turned, yet there was nothing.
From her perch, her high-in-the-sky perspective, she had a bird’s-eye view of the entire area. The driver, Nick Martin, definitely drove erratically, wildly over the two-lane road. No reason, no excuse. She knew he’d died in the crash, and as far as she could see, no one was responsible for his crazy antics except for him. The moment was brief and when she silently asked for a replay, it was granted. She viewed the entire scene again.
She noticed a brief flash of light on the windshield of the truck, as if the moon or a spotlight was reflecting off the glass, but other than that, it was cast in stone. What had happened, had happened. No seconds, no revision of history. There was clairvoyance, yet no new evidence to offer to Detective Archer.
She would offer him her vision, but there was no new revelation. No ‘ah-ha’ moment where she could uncover the killer.
And as soon as the vision had come to her, it disappeared. She sat there, bathed in sweat. She knew everything and knew nothing. Not much good to a man who made his living solving crimes. And she so wanted to give him some new information.
Twenty minutes after the shooting, after Joseph Brion had walked away from the officer’s body, Archer got a call on his cell phone.
‘Q, where the hell are you.’
‘I’m in Algiers, Josh. I’m determined to find this guy.’
‘Be careful, my friend. Message just came in. Somebody shot an officer down by the river.’
Archer paused. He was by the river. A little scary.
‘In Algiers?’
‘They fo
und the body about ten minutes ago. Bulletin says it was current. Maybe twenty minutes ago. For God’s sake, be careful.’
‘The second officer in a week.’
‘Yeah. My guess is a daylight rioter.’
‘Josh, I’m not wearing a uniform. I mean …’
‘Sport coat, tie, glancing over your shoulder. It shouldn’t take anyone too long to figure out you’re a cop.’
‘Good point.’ He thought about losing the jacket and tie. But the tie was uniform, so …
‘So, what do you think is going to come from this? You’re going to stumble on the killer with the necklace? Out of the blue? Come on, Detective. You wandering around that cesspool is not good police work.’
‘We’ve got people working every angle, Josh. I could sit back and let all of those ideas come together and do nothing. Or I can come here and hope this guy is still in Algiers. Hope that he has some other business to accomplish. Don’t you ever back up against a brick wall? Figure out you’ve had enough? Don’t you ever decide to get a little more involved? Come out swinging?’
‘Right now, Algiers is the most treacherous place in New Orleans, Quentin. As you’re standing there. I really think we need you back on the mainland. Listen to me, amigo. You are in some grave danger.’
‘Tonight, maybe. But right now, I’m going to continue to look.’
‘Twenty minutes ago, someone shot blue, Archer. You do understand that? Officer down. The numbers are stacking up, man. Don’t be next, OK? You’re one of the good guys.’
‘Eyes wide open, Josh. It’s relatively calm.’
‘It’s not calm. Did you hear me? Twenty minute ago, Q. Believe me, you are a target.’
He knew that. Didn’t want to believe it. Invincible, bulletproof. However, he’d lost Denise. He’d assumed she was bulletproof as well and that hadn’t worked out so well.
