by Don Bruns
The officer nodded. ‘We’ll move block to block. It’s probably better than riot duty. Less chance of getting our asses handed to us.’
‘Don’t be too sure. Vacant buildings?’
‘The guys are checking garages, sheds, storage buildings.’
‘Can we spare someone to recheck those? Our guy could be under a tarp, pressed into a corner, maybe hiding in the rafters.’
‘Detective, whatever it takes to find this guy. We all take it very personally. You know that.’
Back in the car, he turned to Levy.
‘You’re Joseph Brion. You know that we’ve identified you. You know we’ve got your picture, we know about the tattoo and now we are aware of the shirt around your neck. We are canvassing the neighborhood where you were last seen. What’s your next move, Detective?’
Levy paused and sipped his black coffee. He starred out the window, watching the fading hours of a warm September afternoon.
‘The law enforcement numbers here are impressive. They may have dwindled for tonight, but the police are still here in force. State Troopers are here, the Sheriff’s Department has a significant number of their staff on the ground. Even the National Guard still has armed soldiers in the riot zone.’
‘All true,’ Archer said. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘There is one element that has more numbers than you do.’
Archer studied him.
‘The rioters, Q. They outnumber all the uniforms.’
‘And?’
‘I’d use them. If I can get the rioters riled up, in a frenzy, you have to pull your cops off the search detail. No one in law enforcement is going to be looking for me. They’ll be trying their damnedest to minimize the damage, quell the tide if you will. What good is a riot if you can’t use it for personal reasons?’
‘How would you do that? The crowd is already up for a good riot. Maybe a little less crazy than last night, but …’
‘Q, I’m winging this. No idea if this has any validity. This Joseph Brion has been arrested and did time, am I right?’
‘He beat up a drug runner who worked for him. We never got him on drug charges, but apparently the guy was one of his runners.’
‘I’m a small-time dealer with a couple of guys who work for me. They do what I tell them, because I pay them, and they know I have a history of violence. If you don’t do what I ask, you stand the risk of bodily harm.’
Archer smiled and slapped his hands on the steering wheel.
‘So, you call your boys and tell them to rile the crowd.’
‘That’s what I would do.’ Levy nodded. ‘A few more incendiary devices thrown at the riot squad, maybe some gun shots. Let the cops know that this time it’s serious. If you’re responsible for a couple more officers’ deaths, it doesn’t really matter. The punishment for two is the same as it is for four.’
‘It makes sense, Josh. But I don’t think this is going on just to cover your tracks. You’re not trying to escape. Based on the fact that you are here, in the heart of the riot, I think you have one more mission to accomplish. I think you’ve got one more job to do, then you don’t care what happens to you. I just don’t know what that mission is. You need one more thing to happen to finish the puzzle. If we figure that out, we can take this guy off the street and stop any more destruction he may have planned.’
‘Why did Brion decide to show up in Algiers of all places?’ Levy placed his coffee in the cup holder. ‘Here, where he had to defend himself. Before we knew who he was he could have been miles, states away. Hell, he could have traveled to Cuba. He could have escaped to Jackson, Mississippi. No one would know him and it’s 80 percent black. Or your hometown, Q. Detroit’s 80 percent black. He could have blended in very well. He could, should, be long gone. Without another mission he should have been on the road. Instead, he stayed here, in his home town where people know him very well, and chose the most dangerous neighborhood in the entire state of Louisiana right now. Something is going down. You know that.’
Archer felt the buzz in his pocket before he heard the ring. Grabbing it, he answered.
‘Archer.’
‘Q, it’s Beeman. I hope you are safe. I’ve got another piece of news for you. Do with it what you will.’
‘What is it?’
‘We found two reports on truck hijackings that took place around the same time that Nick Martin died. Both witnesses, drivers in this case, told the identical story. Another truck ran them off the road. One was on a side road and one was at a detour.’
‘Were there any signs of another truck interfering when we did the investigation? Anyone who saw the confrontation?’
‘No. There were no signs that any trucks were in the vicinity. No witness saw any sign of anger, road rage or reckless operation.’
‘Any tire tracks from an oncoming vehicle?’
‘I read both reports. They were brief, to the point, but apparently no one could find proof that there was another vehicle involved in the hijacking.’
Solange had seen the evasive action of Martin. She claimed she was witness to the zigzagging performance of his driving. He felt foolish believing her vision, but she was under the impression that the driver was avoiding someone. Or, as she had suggested, the driver was under the influence. Now Beeman was telling him that two other victims reported the same thing. It wasn’t drugs or alcohol, of that he was now sure. Somebody, twenty-five years ago, had found a way to run trucks off the road, then steal their loads. And those somebodies had never been apprehended.
How it mattered to his Johnny Leroy case he had no idea. Except that Leroy had been the first responder to Nick Martin’s death. He was the first to explore the evidence and make determinations that would affect the final results. And Solange Cordray seemed to think this was an important link to the murder of Officer Leroy.
Instead of the case tightening, it just seemed to spread out. The main objective was to find Joseph Brion. First step. Most important step. And with Levy and the support of every cop on the force, that was going to happen.
‘Thanks, Sarge. I’ll get back to you if we have any questions.’
‘Archer, it’s always dangerous out there, but tonight is off the charts. You know that. The riot, a cop killer …’
‘I’ll be safe, Sergeant.’
‘You’d damned well better be. You get killed tonight, it means we’ve got to go out and find somebody else to take your place. Apparently cops don’t grow on trees. Human resources wants you alive, Archer.’
‘Thanks for the sentiment.’
THIRTY-NINE
Brion was pretty sure he knew the routine. They would check residences first. Assure the neighborhood residents that they were on top of the situation and make sure all citizens were safe. That made sense. Then, they would start with parked cars, garages, empty buildings and sheds. Tool sheds. So his time was limited. He felt certain they’d be barging in any moment now. He wasn’t keen on shooting another policeman or having them shoot him. Still, he touched his gun for reassurance.
He pushed on the shed door, opening it two inches. Peering out he could see the neighborhood seemed quiet. He tried to get his bearings, gauging where he was and how he could get back the crowds. Considering everything, that seemed like the best idea. He’d find a way to get to Fox Glass by seven, forget going there now. His immediate problem was finding cover.
The shed was behind a yellow frame shotgun house. From his position he could see that the carport out front was empty and there was no sign of a vehicle parked on the street. He could take a chance that no one was home. But the husband might have the car, the wife might be inside. A kid could be looking out through a bedroom window. Damn. There had to be a way. He couldn’t just walk outside with the shirt around his neck because they were looking for that, but he couldn’t walk around with the tattoo exposed either. Cops would be swarming this neighborhood. There had to be a better disguise, some sort of diversion.
Tying the voodoo shirt around
his waist, Brion opened the door, tugged on the lawnmower and pulled it into the yard. He furtively glanced around the area and saw no one. Nobody was sounding the alarm. He pushed the door shut and started pushing the lawn mower toward the sidewalk. Just a young man going home from mowing some lawns. A guy had to make a living doing something, right? It might just be the best disguise he’d ever come up with.
The crowd was growing. Five o’clock and workers were getting off. This was a great place to let off a little or a lot of steam. The unemployed had finally gotten out of bed and were heading down to the riot-torn area for a look around, to see the remains of the mess they’d made the night before.
Air horns blared in the early evening, followed by shouts and chants. Drivers in rusted autos laid on their horns, threatening people to keep them from driving on the area streets. It was the job of a few to clog the traffic. The after-five hour was warming up fast. No riot squads yet. They were preparing, several blocks away, hoping some early craziness would wear a few of the protestors out.
An empty blue-and-white car was the target for ten young men, who rocked it, five on a side. No Molotov cocktails, no bricks through the windshield. Not yet. Just a rocking, back and forth, back and forth until the car went over on its side. A cheer arose from the surrounding spectators as the window glass shattered and the car crunched against pavement.
The rockers all gathered on the bottom side and started pushing. Armed officers stood back, guns drawn but only watching. It took all of forty seconds before the vehicle was completely turned over, resting on its top.
A dumpster that had hidden behind a sandwich shop had been rolled to the street and someone had set the greasy residue of French fry oil and remnants of meat sandwiches on fire. The orange flames crackled and reached for the sky as the smell of roasted beef and pork permeated the air.
Disguised as a humble lawn guy, Brion saw the commotion and rejoiced at the fact that he’d traversed the path back to the zone. A policeman had actually nodded to him as he walked down the sidewalk, scared out of his mind. Maybe the cop admired a little ingenuity, some entrepreneurship. He’d nodded back, ready to go for the gun in a moment’s notice. It struck him that the officer was fortunate to still be alive. The last two law enforcement officials he’d confronted hadn’t been so lucky.
A loud cheer erupted as someone tossed a torch onto the belly of the cop car and the gas tank erupted into a towering flame with thick black smoke blotting the sky.
Still the armed officers stayed back. Still the riot squad stayed several blocks away. Cameras were recording the incidents, and even with their faces masked, there would be some who would be identified.
The squad car’s sudden explosion was surprising and deafening, shards of hot metal hurling through the air, spraying the bystanders. Those close by fell to the ground, scrambling to get as far away as possible.
Brion left the mower on the sidewalk and jogged to the nearest gathering, joining in the high-fiving, the exuberance of defiance against the establishment. Damn. Black lives mattered. Of course they did.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring up at the ceiling stain, seeing nothing. She was an emotional wreck. Ma, Quentin, Matebo, the spirits, sometimes it seemed too much to deal with. And she was reminded of something a Christian friend of hers had once said: ‘God will never give you more than you can handle.’ She wasn’t Christian and neither was she quite sure that there was any truth to that statement. Right now she was overwhelmed, about at a breaking point. If there was a god of the Christians, what he had laid on her was just about over the limit.
People depended on her strength. They looked to her for their own peace of mind, and that was a lot to lay on someone. When they looked in her eyes, they wanted to see themselves reflected, but with her strong sensibilities, her determination, her morality and inner beauty. And she doubted if she had any of those characteristics. Was she a charlatan, a scam artist who made a living by fooling the public? All she wanted was to be relieved of obligations. She wanted the spirits to leave her alone. Yet she was engaged with them. They floated through her thoughts. Her job was to tend to the needy.
She weighed the matters over in her troubled mind, but as much as Ma was her main concern, she kept coming back to Quentin’s problem. Finding why officer Johnny Leroy was killed, and where the killer was now. Leroy had some serious problems. His spirit had spoken to her. And she knew it had something to do with the death of the truck driver Nick Martin, whose life had been snuffed out at twenty-nine. Leroy had something to do with that death, and not just because he was the first responder.
Like Quentin Archer felt chased by the haunting memory of his time in Detroit and the death of his wife, like she felt chased by the demons and spirits she encountered on a daily basis, Nick Martin had been chased the night his truck crashed. She was pos itive. Yet she had seen nothing except a bright reflection off his windshield. Distracting, but no sign of something chasing him.
Solange closed her eyes and one more time relived the vision she’d seen after drinking the root-of-dandelion tea. Her clairvoyant moment. It was nighttime. From the driver’s perspective the trees would have hidden even the moon. Her view was from above. Like a movie shot from high above the action. The only light on that dark, desolate road was from the headlights of Nick Martin’s truck. And then it hit her. He’d been chased by himself.
Archer stepped back into the car. He and Levy checked dozens of vacant cars, trucks, the empty garages and sheds. So far, they’d found no one. It was nerve-wracking, hoping no one would leap from a dark space, from the rafters, a shadowed corner. The riot hour was getting close and he prayed that they would find the killer before everything went crazy. Archer believed they would find him. As he waited for Levy, exploring a small tool shed in the next property, he considered Solange and her stress on Nick Martin’s accident twenty-five years ago.
She insisted that she’d seen the wreck, and insisted that the truck seemed to be chased. And in the dark of night she saw a reflection in the windshield. A bounce of light where there was no light. Except from Nick Martin’s headlights. And all of a sudden it hit him. He knew who was chasing the Peterbilt, twenty-five years ago. It had to be.
Levy got into the car, shaking his head.
‘No luck, Q. By now, he could be anywhere.’
‘I know where he’s going, Josh. Maybe now, maybe in the next hour. I’m not sure why, but I’m pretty sure he’s headed to Fox Glass.’
‘Why would Joseph Brion visit a glass company?’
‘Do you remember that Solange suggested that—’
‘Jesus, Quentin, you’re still strong on the voodoo bit?’
‘She suggested that,’ ignoring his partner’s disbelief, ‘reflection was a part of the story.’
‘Yeah, I remember. Listen, you’ve got to give this up.’
‘Twenty-five years ago, Nick Martin wrecked his truck due to a reflection in his windshield. What reflects light in the dark of night? Tell me, Josh.’
‘A shiny surface.’ Levy was now somewhat subdued.
‘What constitutes a shiny surface in the middle of a pine forest on a desolate road in the middle of the night? Any ideas?’
Levy shook his head, and gazed straight ahead.
‘I think I know.’
‘Archer, what difference does it make? How does this little game you are playing have anything to do with the capture of Officer Leroy’s killer? It’s insane. Don’t make me sorry I came over here to help you, OK?’
‘If I’m wrong, Josh, get me kicked off the force. It’s not like that hasn’t happened before. But I believe that I know how that murder and theft happened. And I have a very strong idea that Johnny Leroy played a part in it.’
‘Because Solange says so?’
‘Josh, there are too many paths that are intersecting.’
Levy looked him in the face for the third time.
‘OK. What caused the reflection?’
‘The reflection, the
erratic driving, it’s all tied to one thing.’
‘Archer, no melodrama.’
‘I’m saying it for the first time, Josh. I need to hear myself say it.’ Archer closed his eyes, realizing how this all sounded. Unbelievable. But he was finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
He started the engine, setting the air conditioning on high.
‘I don’t know that Nick Martin, or his death, had anything to do with the death of Leroy, but let’s assume it did. Let’s agree that something drove him off the road. If he was driving erratically, wildly changing lanes as Solange suggests—’
Levy subtly rolled his eyes.
‘Then he was driving under the influence, or under the impression someone was chasing him. Or, maybe, driving toward him in something that was substantial. My guess is that whatever scared him was equal in size and stature. Possibly another truck, but there was no sign of another vehicle. We’ve got reports on two other hijackings during that time, same neighborhood, and the drivers told a story about another truck trying to run them down. Again, no skid marks, no tire tracks off the road, no sign of another truck chasing them.’
‘So your theory is there wasn’t anyone else?’
‘Oh, no. There were other players, but they weren’t chasing him with a truck. What reflects the headlights? You said, a shiny surface. Josh, what if it was a mirror?’
‘What?’
‘A mirror. Reflecting his headlights back at him. What he saw was a truck coming at him. But what if it was just the reflection of his own headlights, mimicking every move he made?’
‘So who could …’ Levy stopped in mid-sentence.
‘You know who could.’
‘That would have to be one big mirror.’
‘Put it on rollers, carry it in another semi.’
‘So Fox Glass is a glass manufacturer. They make windows and mirrors, right?’
‘Right.’
‘You’ve got this all worked out?’
‘All worked out? Are you crazy?’ Archer asked. ‘I’m just now putting it together. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
