No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘I’m going to find him, Josh. I’m out of ideas. I’ll get back to you once that’s accomplished.’

  ‘Good luck, Q. And don’t get involved in this evening’s festivities. Promise me you won’t do that.’

  ‘No riot gear, no protection, Josh. I’m not the brightest guy in the world, but I won’t go near the riot. I promise you.’

  ‘Our numbers are dwindling, Quentin. We can’t afford to lose any more.’

  He walked along the bank, staring at the muddy water until he saw the commotion up ahead. An ambulance and two police cars, lights flashing. Jogging, he reached the scene and recognized Detective Rory James.

  ‘Detective James, is this the officer that was shot?’ He motioned to the ambulance.

  ‘Detective Q. It is. We’re just wrapping up. He had his Glock and Taser out so he was either trying to defend himself or arrest someone.’

  ‘Either of them fired?’

  ‘No. Didn’t appear to be.’

  ‘And no sign of—’

  ‘I’ve got some men out scouring the area, but there’s not much here. Most people are laying low until this thing settles down. I sincerely doubt we’ll find anyone who saw the shooting, and if we do, well, this isn’t a very sympathetic neighborhood when it comes to the police. Especially when it involves a white officer.’

  The two men watched the white-and-gold EMS vehicle with the gold fleur-de-lys on the side as it slowly drove away. Another officer down. Homicide’s worst nightmare.

  ‘What are you doing over here?’

  ‘Working Johnny Leroy’s murder.’

  ‘Over here? That was Bayou St John, right?’

  ‘Story is the man who killed him was spotted at the riot last night.’

  ‘You don’t think—’

  ‘That my guy is your guy? I don’t think much anymore. Anything is possible, Detective. Who was the officer?’

  ‘Young guy, Bob Durand. On the force for two years.’

  ‘Chances are slim it was Leroy’s killer, but there have been a lot of strange things involving this case. We’re looking for a black man, fond of cargo shorts, a baseball cap on backwards and a pistol, apparently in his pocket.’

  ‘Hundreds of those guys down here right now.’

  ‘Apparently he has one distinguishing characteristic. He has an original crown-of-thorns tattoo around his neck. A necklace.’

  ‘One of a kind?’

  ‘I talked to the artist who designed it. He says the shooter is a man named Joseph Brion.’

  ‘Any lead on exactly where he might be?’

  ‘No, just here in Algiers. It appears he lives in the Ninth, and we’ve got a team who is going there now. But my guess is he’s watching this riot from the sidelines. I would imagine he’s left his home for good. He’s over here now, just waiting. I just don’t know what he has planned next.’

  James gazed out at the river, the distraction of a mostly peaceful body of water flowing gently down to the ocean. He wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘Maybe he had this killing planned next. It would be nice if they’d give us one day off, Quentin. Everybody just take a break. Don’t kill somebody today. Don’t plan on killing somebody today. Everybody take a deep breath.’

  Archer nodded.

  ‘You’re going back to the office?’

  ‘After we’ve canvassed the area. I doubt we’ll turn up anything but you know the drill.’

  ‘Rory, you see a kid with a tattooed necklace, crown of thorns, call backup. You’ll probably need it.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  She relived the moment behind her eyelids, squeezing them tight. She’d seen something, sensed something, yet she couldn’t find it. The scene had been played for her so she would have some sense of the killing, the death of the young man. She was too blind to know what it was. Ma wouldn’t understand, and Matebo was too far down the river this late in the afternoon.

  The old man had once told her that clairvoyance, seeing into the past and future, had to be accompanied by wisdom. The wisdom to interpret the vision. And she tried to apply that to the casting of bones, the reading of tarot cards, even tea leaves or images in candle flames. And she often did interpret the message. She had the wisdom to find the answer, the solution. But this time was different. She’d been given the entire vision. As if her own film company shot the complete episode and handed her the reel. The truck, the road, the forest of pine trees. How was it she could read pieces of bones on a canvas map, very mumbo-jumbo with no specific direction, yet when given the movie version with every detail clearly defined, she couldn’t figure it out?

  There was a flash of light. Brilliant, she recalled. And the flash was brief, during a nighttime scene. She was surprised she could see everything so clearly during a dark evening. The scene was so clean, so vivid. Had the moon been that bright, or was this just a cinematic effect. To let her see the vision? But that bright spark on the windshield, as if the glass had briefly reflected a golden fire. Then as the truck twisted and turned, the flash was gone. It all happened so fast, yet the impact was so strong. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Death happened in an instant. One moment you were there, and the next moment you weren’t.

  Solange breathed deeply and opened her eyes. The loud beating of a bass drum and the shrill blare of horns from the street told her a funeral procession was marching by. Possibly the spirits giving a nod to the passing of the truck driver many years ago. She walked to the entrance and opened the creaking door.

  Four pall-bearers carried the polished wood coffin, and a ten-piece, red-and-gold uniformed brass band trailed behind, playing a mournful version of St Louis Blues. The trombones and wailing trumpets echoed off the brick-and-stucco shops, their metallic harmonies telling a tale of despair. Leading the parade was the professional mourner, decked out in a top hat, long-tailed coat and cane. He waved the wand, encouraging the onlookers to join him in singing.

  Been to da gypsy, to get my fortune tole

  Cause I’m most wile bout my jelly roll.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

  If my blues don’t get you

  Then my grievin’ must.

  Without thinking she closed her eyes and said a prayer that the deceased would pass peacefully into the next life. Her intercession with the spirit world. It was part of her makeup, in her blood. Somewhere in the distant future, someone would test her DNA and shout out, ‘Voodoo. She is part voodoo.’ There would be a celebration, and maybe even Ma would be there, celebrating that Matebo was right. Her connection to the spirit world would never end. Never, ever end. The spirits wouldn’t allow it.

  Joseph Brion spent fifteen dollars, buying a cheap souvenir T-shirt that sported the slogan New Orleans Voodoo with a smiling skull dead center. It didn’t matter what it said. He needed a piece of cloth he could tie around his neck, and the extra-large shirt did the trick. He told the questioning clerk it was for his extra-large brother-in-law. And it tied around his neck like a scarf. He was almost embarrassed that he was afraid to show off his unity confirmation. The necklace he’d designed to show how close he was to family and friends. Right now, it was safer to hide the ink, so the shirt performed the task. Occasionally a very subtle breeze stirred and blew the cloth up, but he was relatively sure no one would notice.

  Timing was everything now. It was still three and a half hours before the appointed time. His meeting was scheduled at seven, and even the threat of the riot wasn’t going to stop this summit.

  Now that another officer had been killed, they’d be scouring the streets, the sidewalks and back alleys even more thoroughly. Brion was fairly positive they wouldn’t have a description of him on that shooting, but security being what it was, you never knew. There could have been a witness, there could have been a camera.

  Three squad cars pulled up to the shotgun house. The narrow wooden home, partly hidden by tall grass and weeds, was deep in the Ninth, and nobody liked to make calls in the Lower Ninth. Four officers stepped out, two s
taying in their car in case the suspect tried to make a run for it. Three approached the porch, one headed for the rear of the home. Warily they climbed the steps, afraid the rotting wood would collapse, and afraid of what might be on the other side of the door.

  The three officers activated their body cams, and one knocked loudly on the door with his baton. The other two stood there, Glocks pointed at the entrance.

  ‘Joseph Brion, open the door. Police.’

  There was no response.

  ‘One more try, Sam.’

  ‘Open up, Joseph, we’ve got the house surrounded.’ He beat on the old wooden door again, the battering baton sounding almost like pistol shots.

  Finally, it creaked open, and the officers were looking at a small, wizened lady in a wheelchair. Curled up in her lap was a gray cat. A far cry from the cop killer they’d expected to confront. Her sunken eyes took them in, obviously noticing the drawn pistols.

  ‘He’s not here. Went to help his pa.’

  ‘Can you tell us where he went?’ Their eyes swept the living area.

  ‘Wherever his pa is. And that I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Ma’am, we’ll have to come in and check the premises.’ He flashed a warrant, and she nodded.

  ‘You come ahead.’ She rolled the chair out of their way. ‘He’s not here and I sincerely doubt he’s ever coming back.’

  They stepped over the faded welcome mat, walking into the house with modest furnishings and sparse decorations.

  ‘You,’ Sam pointed to the smaller of the three, ‘take the kitchen. Kevin, the lady’s room. I’ll do Joseph’s room.’

  Down the hall, one door to the right. The suspect’s iron frame bed was made tight, almost like a cot in an army barracks. Sam had been a Marine and recognized the style, sheets and bedspread pulled taut. A nightstand stood by the bed and one chest of drawers against the wall. The only decoration in the room was a faded poster tacked to the wall. The artwork featured a clown riding a huge elephant. The ad for Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus boasted 200 years of circus in America.

  Sam pulled the single drawer on the nightstand open and for a moment, stopped breathing.

  ‘Guys, come in here.’

  The two officers walked in, looking into the drawer where Sam was pointing.

  ‘Jesus. Sunglasses and a cam. I think we’ve got our man.’

  ‘No,’ Sam said. ‘We know who he is, but we haven’t got him. He could be anywhere and could be killing another officer as we speak.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  Archer’s phone rang and he answered immediately.

  ‘Archer, it’s Beeman.’

  ‘Sergeant, you know we’ve got another officer down, here in Algiers? A Bob Durand.’

  ‘I do. Detective James has a team out there. Any ideas?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure we’ve got Leroy’s killer over here. Could be him.’

  ‘And we’ve got sunglasses and a body cam from Brion’s house. I’m certain we’ll have proof they belonged to Leroy.’

  ‘Great news.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about who Officer Leroy’s killer is. We had him in lock-up several years ago for battery. That picture, minus the necklace, is now circulating. Hopefully someone will recognize him. Now the idea is to bring him in. Damn, be careful. This guy is one dangerous dude.’

  ‘So we’ve got a positive.’ Archer swallowed a bite of his chicken sandwich from the Dry Dock Cafe on the point. ‘I think almost everyone in Algiers is looking for him, Sarge. And I think there’s a good chance he killed the officer here. If this Officer Durand recognized Brion and approached him, it just makes sense that Brion shot him.’

  ‘If that’s true, this guy has two cop killings under his belt. There’s no reason to think he won’t go for three. Things are fucked up, Q. It’s like we’re sitting ducks for this guy.’

  Archer took a sip of his coffee in the paper cup. Sitting on a bench by the river he realized he had no appetite for the sandwich and onion rings. Things were just a little too crazy at the moment. As the Sergeant had said, things were ‘fucked up’.

  ‘Sarge, do you have anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s not going to make much sense. We did some digging on the two thieves who tried to steal the gold at Fox Glass. André Brion and Joseph Washington. I don’t know why you asked the questions about if they were charged and convicted, but the answer to the first half is yes, they were charged. We were able to find some records that indicated they were arrested and booked that night.’

  ‘Sounds right.’

  ‘So, it should also sound right that they would be arraigned the next morning. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘They were. They both pled not guilty.’

  ‘No surprise there.’

  ‘Not guilty, that’s never a surprise. The surprise, however, is that there was no conviction that we can find.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No conviction. We can’t find any record that the two of them ever did any time for the crime.’

  Archer was quiet for a moment. ‘That’s impossible. That should have been grand theft. It must just be a result of poor record-keeping back then. I mean, it sounds like everything was done by the book.’

  ‘Quentin, you asked the question. You must have some suspicions.’

  ‘Not really. There were just too many situations where these people intersected. I wanted to start at the beginning and get all the information. The beginning seemed to be the attempted gold robbery. I didn’t expect this.’

  ‘I don’t have the answer, Detective.’

  ‘It makes no sense. Leroy caught them red-handed. Keep looking. They didn’t just walk away from this crime.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened, but we’re checking into it, Quentin. I don’t know if the answer has ties to the murder of Leroy or not, but we’re digging. You found out, it’s all paper shoved into file folders. Christ, I don’t know how the old timers found anything.’

  Archer remembered. Going to the precinct with his father in Detroit and hearing the clacking of manual typewriters, the banging and ringing of the carriages as detectives typed up their reports. He remembered the thick, stale smell of cheap tobacco from smoldering unfiltered cigarettes and what appeared to a young boy to be miles of metal file cabinets. The entire scene had seemed romantic to him. A total departure from his childhood at six years old. This was real adult stuff. The atmosphere was heady.

  Every desk had a stained coffee mug, half full of full-strength caffeine, and every desk had five or six manila file folders piled on them. No keyboards, no screens, no immediate background checks. He’d heard his dad say it, and he’d witnessed it. Hard police work. And no voodoo. If his father knew that he was relying on the spirit world for some of his information—

  ‘It’s just tough since we’ve never put all this information on digital files. Digitizing old records never made priority status. Too few officers were working too many cases in the here and now. There was never time to transfer information. Still isn’t.’

  ‘Sarge, when we get up to full capacity, and we have funding for all our projects, including raises for everyone—’

  ‘Yeah, when pigs fly.’

  ‘When that happens, we ought to look into that. Digital files.’

  ‘I’ll be sure and bring that up to them, Detective. I’ll tell them it was your suggestion. I’m sure it will then be a high priority.’

  ‘Until then, Sarge, I’m looking for Joseph Brion. My number one priority right now.’

  ‘Find that son of a bitch and make our lives a lot easier.’

  He got up from the metal bench, spotted a trash container down the way and pitched most of the sandwich, all the onion rings and the rest of his coffee. Find this guy, this Joseph Brion, arrest him, get him in the New Orleans jail and then worry about a decent meal.

  He’d seen this happen in Detroit. A gangster, a high-profile criminal would walk away from a charge due
to intimidation of a witness. Somebody would threaten their family, or they would suffer an unfortunate accident. More than once a witness would disappear or end up dead. It was hard to convict someone when no one would help the prosecution. But these two petty thieves had been caught red-handed. There was no question they had paid for the crime and Archer seriously doubted that they had muscle on the outside to intimidate Leroy. That just didn’t seem likely. So where was the information?

  He felt certain that it was just sloppy record-keeping. Beeman would call him back after a thorough check and let him know the charges and convictions.

  In the meantime, he needed to walk and take advantage of the daylight. He was searching for a cop killer and someone with a tattooed necklace of thorns. The constant ringing of his phone kept distracting him from that mission.

  ‘Archer.’

  ‘Quentin, do you have a minute?’

  Solange sounded as if she worried she was intruding and it couldn’t be further from his truth. Archer found that her voice, no matter what the message, seemed to calm him down.

  ‘Sure. What have you got?’

  ‘You’re going to think I’m crazy.’

  ‘I’m the one going crazy.’

  ‘Here’s what I know. Or I think I know. Nick Martin died almost twenty-six years ago.’

  ‘In a truck accident. Officer Johnny Leroy was the first one on the scene,’ Archer said.

  ‘Nick Martin was on a backwoods road,’ Solange continued, ‘where he was going, I have no idea, but his driving was erratic. He was swerving right, then left, finally going hard right and the truck tipped and slid down a slope.’

  ‘Could have been,’ Archer said.

  ‘I’m fairly certain that’s exactly what happened. But it appeared that someone was either chasing him, or heading right toward him. Please, don’t ask me how I know this, but it is very clear to me that either the driver was high on something, or trying to avoid an accident.’

  ‘So you saw the incident? Twenty-six years ago?’