* * * *
Officer Panola's shift ends at seven, and she and Tilghman depart. So do the NOPD men. The Levee Board cops and JPs long gone. Borgo and I finish up with the three cooks. All have alibis and seem genuinely shook. None has a scratch mark. We focus our interest on the cook who hasn't shown up for work this morning. Cedrick Smith lives in the Sixth Police District, better known as the Bloody Sixth, where there are more murders than the rest of the city combined. Smith is described on the police computer as “black male, thirty-eight, five nine, one-eighty, no tattoos, scars, or marks.” A convicted felon, Smith is also a registered sex offender on parole after serving ten years of a twenty-year sentence for violating Louisiana Revised Statute 14:43—simple rape.
Before departing West End Park, Borgo and I go over the canvass notes. Two fishermen had been located, identified, and interviewed. Both saw a jogger in the area, a white male in a gray running outfit. A six-year-old son of one of the fishermen thought he saw two joggers, both white males. The license plate numbers of all cars parked in a two-mile radius is added to our notes.
At 6:32, Levee Board cops had stopped a jogger with gray clothing along nearby Lake Marina Drive, securing his pertinent data and checking to make sure he hadn't been scratched. The man lives at the Lake Marina Tower, one of the new high-rise condo complexes overlooking the lake. He's a lieutenant in the U.S. Coast Guard named Bruce Addams.
"What now?” asks Borgo.
"We search for Cedrick Smith, then go to the autopsy. But coffee is first on the agenda."
"All right. Where?"
"My houseboat. I'm gonna need my car."
"Houseboat?"
I tell him about Sad Lisa moored over in Bucktown. He knows how to get to Bucktown, but it'll take him a good ten minutes, skirting the marina to Old Hammond Highway to cross the 17th Street Canal into Jefferson Parish for a quick run up Orpheum Avenue into Bucktown.
Crossing back over the pedestrian bridge, I see the lake's calmed down, the gray-brown water not so choppy. White seagulls squawk overhead while pelicans are perched on the remnants of a restaurant battered to pieces by Hurricane Georges a few years back. Three cats prowl the bridge, and I remember the feral cats back home, back along the swampland around Vermilion Bay. I like to see cats around. Cats mean fewer rodents.
My Cajun daddy loved cats, put leftovers out for them. Occasionally, when a coon came for the leftovers, my old man would peek out of our Cajun shack on Bayou Brunet and shoot the coon with his .22 for our supper. He'd shoot the possums, too, but we'd use that greasy meat for fish bait.
I grew up in an old Cajun daubed house my great-grandfather built by hand, its walls filled with swamp mud to keep out the weather. We went hungry some nights, when the hunting and fishing weren't good, feasted when it was good. We lived off the land, the great bayous, the brown water bay, the bountiful swamp.
Once when I was five, I heard the call of a swamp cat, a bobcat searching for a mate out in the marsh. The howl sent shivers through me, and I ran downstairs to tell my parents there was a swamp monster out there. My daddy laughed and set me straight. Later my mother mimicked the cry of the mountain lion for me, and that astounded me. She could mimic any bird—cardinal, oriole, hawk, even the multicalls of the mockingbird. But that was long ago, my father gone now, my mother back up in South Dakota with my relatives, the Oglala Sioux. You see, we're direct descendants of Crazy Horse's younger brother, Little Hawk. At least, that's what my grandfather tells everyone. To the Sioux, birth records go by word of mouth.
I put on a pot of strong coffee and chicory, warming milk for café au lait. Borgo arrives and I offer Hot Pockets, microwavable ham and cheese wrapped in a flaky crust. I'm so hungry, I eat two. Borgo eats four with three brimming cups of coffee. Looking around Sad Lisa, he tells me I must get plenty women with a setup like this.
"Not really. It's old, creaky, and drafty. Couple girls got seasick when the lake got choppy and the canal began to rise and fall."
"Couple? Hope it was one at a time.” Borgo raises his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.
* * * *
Cedrick Smith isn't home. His neighbors say he lives there all right, but he stays with a woman back-a-town in the Broadmoor section, off Claiborne and Napoleon. That doesn't narrow it down much, so we leave business cards and head for the coroner's office.
Getting there early, we position the black body bag containing Monique Lewis at the front of the line so she'll go first. Sipping coffee we picked up from a nearby CC's Coffee Stand, pretty good coffee and chicory, we wait in the hall outside the morgue with the reeking smells of formaldehyde, dried blood, and cigarette smoke.
I put the pathologist's findings in my notes. Monique is exactly five ten in length (cadavers no longer have height, they are prostrate and therefore, long) and weighs one thirty-five. Cause of death, strangulation. Manner of death, homicide. The postmortem exam confirms no evidence of sexual assault. Beneath Monique's fingernails the pathologist finds blood and skin from her attacker. Monique has five additional tattoos and I list them.
The crime lab tech, who arrives late, will rush the blood from under the fingernails for typing and DNA fingerprinting. I push him on the subject, and he nods nervously. Late for the autopsy, he's got a lot of catching up to do, starting with breaking out the Duraprint spray to see if he can get fingerprints from Monique's neck. He tries but can't.
The Sioux believe in the spirit world, believe in vision quests, ghosts, and communicating with the dead. My Cajun daddy believed in purgatory, heaven, and hell, like a good Catholic. I don't know what to believe, but I let my mind tell Monique Lewis, as I stand next to her body, that I am Sharp Eyes of the Oglala, and I will catch who did this to her.
I can tell this white woman my secret tribe name because the words do not cross my lips. If there is a spirit world, she can hear me and know this plains warrior will track down her killer, no matter how long it takes.
"What were you mumbling back there?” Borgo asks as we leave.
"Mumbling?"
* * * *
Monique Lewis lived in a garage apartment behind a three-story house in need of a new paint job. The garage could also use a paint-over and new railing for its stairs. The woman in the house, who I hoped would be the landlord, says the landlord lives in Mississippi. She gives us the name and address of the landlord as she tells us she's never seen Monique, who must keep odd hours.
We use Monique's house key to get in and find a very neat apartment smelling of flowers and incense. Scented candles in small glass jars line the window sills. A search of her closet, chifforobe, and dresser drawers reveals she lived alone. No address book, however, and no computer; but plenty of books, a CD player, videotape deck, and a TV. No cable. Lots of CDs, rock mostly, and movie tapes, a variety from musicals like An American in Paris to the crime film Scarface, the Pacino version.
"There were only four Beatles,” Borgo says as he points to the five posters on the bedroom wall. “So who's this guy?"
It's a young, bearded man with soft eyes sandwiched between posters of Paul McCartney and George Harrison. I tell him, “Cat Stevens."
"Yeah? The guy who went Muslim, right? Gave up the music."
I always wonder if the previous owner of my houseboat named her Sad Lisa from the Cat Stevens song. Or maybe they knew a Lisa who was sad. No way to know, since I bought it at an estate auction. Couple died together in a car wreck. I thought of changing the name, but somebody wanted that name, and it seems to fit the boat. Unlike the white-eyes, we Sioux don't readily change the names of things.
There's no granola in the kitchen, just corn flakes and Cheerios. Borgo finds an expired driver's license from Vancouver, Canada. Monique looks like a teenager in the picture. There's no phone in Monique's apartment, so I call the information in on the radio to have it forwarded to the coroner's office. We canvass the neighborhood but come up with nothing useful.
"You too tired to go on?” I ask Borgo when he yawns.
&n
bsp; "Naw. First twenty-four hours are the most important, ain't they?"
So we split up. He'll search for Cedrick Smith, while I go interview Lieutenant Bruce Addams, United States Coast Guard.
* * * *
About a mile and a half from West End Park stands a Coast Guard substation, a two-story, white Victorian-style building with a round portico atop, a lighthouse actually, galleries around both stories, and a red tin roof. It rests on a point of land jutting into Lake Pontchartrain just as Lakeshore Drive makes a dogleg turn from north to east. I park in an “official business only” parking spot next to a gray government sedan.
The lake is dotted with sailboats on this breezy morning. Inshore, a pair of braver guys glide by on parasails, standing on surfboards. The air is rich with the scent of cooking from the restaurants adjacent to the USCG substation.
Lieutenant Bruce Addams greets me with a friendly handshake. He's in khakis, short sleeved, with double silver bars on his collar. He's about five ten, one-eighty maybe, with close-cropped reddish hair and brown eyes. Clean shaven, he has no cuts on his face, neck, or arms. According to the information the Levee Boards cops secured from his driver's license when they interviewed him earlier, he's thirty-six and lives at the Lake Marina Tower across the street from the New Orleans Marina.
"The name's spelled with two ds,” he tells me. “No relation to Gomez and Morticia.” A big smile this time.
"Who?"
"The Addams Family. TV show. Movie with Raoul Julia, Angelica Huston?"
I shrug, then remember and say, “Guy dressed up like Frankenstein?"
"No, that's The Munsters."
We had a TV when I was a kid, but only three channels. I get that twinge in my gut again, knowing I missed a lot growing up. Guess I'll never get used to it. I sit in a gray metal government-issue chair across from his desk as he sits and goes over his morning activities, his usual jog, gives me a timeline, and maps out his route from Lake Marina Drive over to West End Park, once around the park and up West Roadway to the point and back again. A two-mile jog. He never dipped down into the restaurant area.
"Did you see anyone?"
He saw two fishermen, one with a young boy.
"Any other joggers?"
"No, but Eric jogged the same route this morning."
"Eric?"
"Lieutenant J. G. Eric Gault, my exec. He called in sick after his run. Fell down. Be in later today."
I ask and discover Gault also lives at the Lake Marina Tower in a condo two doors down from Addams.
"Any other joggers here?"
"No, sir."
"What were you wearing on your jog?"
He tells me he wore standard-issue gray USCG sweats, pants, and shirt and white running shoes. Nikes.
I hear my call sign on my radio, pull it out, and respond to Borgo, “Go ahead, 3139."
"Got the subject in my unit. Heading to the office."
"I'll be right there."
I leave my card, asking Lieutenant Addams to call when his exec comes in.
"No problem."
As I stand I ask to see his driver's license, and he tells me he's from Detroit as he hands me his Michigan license. I take down the necessary information, then ask to see his dog tags. He blinks, shrugs, digs into the open collar of his khakis, and pulls his dog tags over his head and tosses them to me. I note his blood type. Like most people, including me, he's O-positive.
Before I leave, he asks, “What's this all about?"
"Someone was killed at West End Park this morning."
His eyes widen. “Well, if I can help in any way.” He extends his hand and we shake again.
* * * *
Cedrick Smith is graying along his temples. He wears a black T-shirt and blue jeans, black boots. He's sitting in the folding chair next to my desk, and I look at him carefully. There are no scratch marks.
"Crime lab just called,” Borgo says, handing me a note.
Preliminary blood typing on the blood from under Monique's fingernails is AB-positive. My heart beats a little faster as Borgo goes for coffee for all three of us. I'll have to look it up on my chart, but as I recall only about four percent of the human population has AB-positive blood.
As I settle in the small interview room with Cedrick Smith and our coffees, I ask Borgo to go check Smith's record again, call his probation officer if he has to, get Smith's blood type.
"It's O-positive,” Smith tells me. He produces a blood donor card to confirm this.
I pull out my Miranda warning card to read Smith his rights. He nods and says he'll talk because he's done nothing. Still he looks wary. I ask him why he didn't show up for work this morning. He gives me an elaborate alibi, how he was at his girlfriend Lucy's house, gave me the address, said he was with six other people, gave me their names, said he drank too much and didn't wake up until nine o'clock. He went home and found the detective waiting for him.
"What's this about?"
I watch his eyes carefully as I ask if he knows Monique Lewis.
"Who?"
I describe her.
He nods. “Skinny white girl. Cleans up. Yeah, I seen her. I don't know her."
I tell him she was murdered.
He closes his eyes and leans back, shaking his head. “No wonder you scooped me up. I'm a registered sex offender in Jefferson Parish.” His eyes snap open. “Man, I tell you, I ain't raped nobody, ain't done nothin'.” He extends his arm. “Take my DNA. Check it."
I turned to Borgo. “Get the crime lab over. Let's get a swab from his mouth before we let him go.” Smith has no problem with that, and NOPD will have his DNA on file.
Cedrick Smith squints at me. “You're lettin’ me go?"
* * * *
Lieutenant Addams calls just as I'm getting off the phone with Monique Lewis's mother in Canada. Lieutenant J. G. Gault is at work now. I tell him we'll be right over. On our way, I give Borgo the lowdown on what I learned from Monique's mother. “She sounds old. Her daughter's been gone fifteen years. Last time she heard from Monique she was in New Mexico or Arizona. Never married. Our victim has two sisters and a brother who's coming to pick up the body.” Then I tell him how Monique has a daughter being raised by one of her sisters.
Gault is about four inches shorter than me, around five ten, but heavier, two hundred pounds at least, mostly muscle. His light brown hair is boxed into a flattop, looking crisp and hard. He also wears khakis, a single silver bar on his collar. He limps as he moves to shake hands. I was hoping for a bandage or two on his arms or hands, but no luck there.
As he shakes my hand firmly, I nod at the limp, watching his deep-set blue eyes. “What happened?"
"Fell jogging this morning."
"West End, right?” Lieutenant Addams asks from behind his desk.
"That little bridge in West End Park."
I remember a bridge over a man-made pond.
"What time was that?” I ask.
Gault describes the route he took, similar to Addams's route but earlier in the morning. No, he didn't run near the restaurants either. I ask to see his driver's license, which turns out to be from Oklahoma. He's thirty-three but looks much younger.
I let Borgo take over the conversation, as planned, and watch Gault carefully, not that I learn anything from his body language except he's tense. Very tense. But he looks Borgo in the eye with each answer and looks at me, too, as he answers each question with no problem.
"What were you wearing on your jog?” Borgo asks.
He glances at Addams and shrugs as if we're boring him and tells us USCG gray sweats and black running shoes.
"What brand?"
"Reeboks. And if I remember what color socks, I'll call you.” He winks as if he's joking, but the bite of his words tells me differently. Addams furrows his brow momentarily. Gault sighs, reaches back to rub the back of his head, and says, “Sorry to snap. My leg's hurting."
"Have you seen a doctor about it?” I ask.
"Naw,” he smiles. “It's ju
st a sprain. Ace bandage."
As we stand to leave, I ask to see his dog tags. He hesitates a moment and Addams says, “I think it's routine."
Gault gives me a hard look, one I'm sure intimidates enlisted men, but has no effect on me, and I let him know with an expressionless stare back at him. He stands and reaches into his shirt and I see he has a V-neck white T-shirt under. He doesn't take the tags off, making me come to look. I watch his eyes as I reach forward to examine the dog tag. I try not to react to Gault having AB-positive blood.
I ease around him toward the far wall to some sort of nautical instrument, a ship's wheel encased in glass with a long glass tube extending beneath it, looking a little like a thermometer, and ask, “What's this?"
"Barometer,” Addams says.
As I turn, I see Gault has backed toward a side wall, so I move that way to a wooden sailing ship atop a small bookcase. The name plate under the man-o-war tells me it's the U.S.S. Constitution.
"Old Ironsides,” says Addams.
As I move between Gault and the bookcase, he shifts quickly and I look down at his injured left leg. He says, without prodding, “Need to work it out."
"Any reason why you keep facing me?” I step around him and see a patch of white at the back of his neck. “Is that a bandage?"
"Yeah. When I tripped this morning, I fell in those bushes by the little bridge. Thorns stuck me."
I nod as I ease over and shake Addams's hand, then thank Gault and lead Borgo out. As we get into our car, I see Borgo can't hold it in any longer and he asks, “How'd you know about the bandage behind his neck?"
"Well, she didn't scratch his arms, and they were the same height."
I get behind the wheel and Borgo shakes his head. “That's it? That's how you came up with it?"
"You have to be more observant, amigo."
"It's pisano. I'm Italian. So, where to now?"
"Bridge."
It's a rock and concrete bridge over the edge of a man-made pond at the far end of West End Park. As we examine the bushes, Borgo states the obvious. “Azalea bushes and that's a camellia bush. No thorns here.” We check each bush carefully, not a branch bent or broken, not a leaf missing, and no human tissue scraped on thornless branches.
AHMM, July-August 2007 Page 2
