AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "So what now?” Borgo asks.

  "Search warrants."

  We climb back into the Chevy and he asks, “Warrants? As in two?"

  "We'll need a description of his building and the exact location of his condo for the first warrant. You'll search there for the jogging clothes he wore while I take him to Charity with the other warrant.” He keeps looking at me, so I explain. “Get his blood for typing and DNA testing and get a doctor to look at that thorn injury."

  As soon as we secure the warrants we call for a marked car to meet us at the Lake Marina Tower. Officer S. Panola, whose platoon switched around to the evening shift, meets us. Her regular partner, who also has cornrows, is male, six three, two-fifty, with a nameplate that reads E. HAWKINS, greets us as we park and goes in to find the manager so we don't have to kick down Gault's door.

  I ask for another car to meet me at the USCG substation, and my buddy Sidney Tilghman is waiting for me outside the station.

  "Well, well, this is fast work."

  I give him a quick rundown and ask that he put Gault in the back of his unit, in the cage, and follow me to Charity Hospital.

  "Want I should ask him anything, slick like, you know? Maybe he'll slip up and say something."

  Yeah. Right. So I tell him, “Sure. See if he'll tell you he killed her."

  Tilghman pulls up his uniform pants as I lead the way into the substation. Addams isn't there, but Gault is, and I step into his office, pull out my ID folder, and read him his Miranda rights before telling him, “We have a search warrant for blood and skin samples. You'll have to come along with us."

  He takes his time getting up, and I see Tilghman is antsy as he eases around me and says, “Keep your hands where we can see them."

  Gault limps around his desk, eyes darting between the sergeant and me, but not meeting my eyes. I show him the warrant. His eyes don't even blink.

  "Show him your knife,” Tilghman urges me. When I don't, he tells Gault he's a lucky man, I usually slice some hair off when I nab a killer. “You behave now,” Tilghman continues, “and I won't cuff you till we get out to the car. Get feisty and I'll slap them on and march you out in front of all your men like that.” He pats Gault down.

  I'm sure the enlisted men can see outside as Tilghman cuffs Gault behind his back before slipping him into the back of the marked police car.

  "This isn't necessary,” Gault says in a gravely voice.

  "You ride in my car, you get cuffed.” Tilghman shuts the door.

  * * * *

  The ER at Charity is crowded, as usual, and smells of alcohol wipes, Pine Sol, and body odor. We ease through the waiting room, and an Orleans Parish sheriff's deputy comes around to escort Tilghman and his handcuffed prisoner to an alcove, where Tilghman takes off the cuffs, and I go hunt down the duty police surgeon.

  Dr. Sam Martinez is short, young, and energetic and quickly takes two swabs from inside Gault's mouth before securing a blood sample from his left arm. As the warrant instructs, the doctor examines the injury at the back of Gault's neck and nods to me.

  "The wound is consistent with fingernail scratches,” the doctor says after he dresses the wound in a fresh bandage and steps away. “Can't be positive, but it's consistent."

  "Says he fell in some bushes."

  "Possible,” says the doctor. “But unlikely."

  I thank him and Tilghman slips the cuffs back on Gault, and we leave for the Detective Bureau, where we uncuff Gault again before putting him into an interview room to simmer for a half hour.

  "Coffee?” I ask Tilghman, who shakes his head.

  "Hope you got the right guy, Cochise,” he says with a grin on his way out.

  "Cochise was Apache,” I tell him, and he waves back over his shoulder.

  * * * *

  After I turn over the swabs and blood sample to a crime lab tech, I take two coffees into the interview room, where Gault stands behind the small table in the room.

  "Sit down,” I say. “Have some coffee."

  He folds his arms.

  Gault won't cop out, won't even talk to me after I read him his rights again and have him put his initials on a waiver-of-rights form. He signs on the line that says he does not waive his rights and wants to speak with a lawyer before answering any questions. He folds his arms and leans back in the chair, ogling me for a long moment. Then he smiles.

  I lock eyes with him and for long seconds, neither of us moves. I hear the distant beat of war drums echoing in my brain. No, it's my heart thumping as I look into the eyes of this killer. I clench my fists and fight the urge to wring his neck. I'm reminded of the legend of the leering Cheyenne renegade called Wolf Who Hunts Smiling. I reach around for my knife wanting so badly to eviscerate this monster sitting across the table from me, wipe that smile off the earth, just as my ancestors wiped the Cheyenne renegade from the land of the living. But I let out a deep breath, take another in, and feel the rage in me slowly subside as Gault's smile fades and he tries a hard look now. My face remains expressionless. A plains warrior never shows emotion, especially to the white-eyes. I leave him in the room with his untouched mug of coffee and chicory.

  I can tell from the grin on Borgo's wide face, as he crosses the squad room, that it went well at the condo. He's bouncing on his toes as he shows me the ripped and bloody collar from Gault's gray USCG sweatshirt, then shows me a small plastic bag secured with red evidence tape. Inside is a broken purple fingernail.

  "Found it in the dirty clothes hamper with the sweat suit.” Borgo beams. “Did he cop?"

  "No. Wants to talk to his lawyer."

  Borgo looks at the closed interview room door and shakes his head. “Like to know why, man. What brought it on. Did she rebuff him? Did he just pounce on her?” He looks back at me now. “Maybe he hates women with tattoos, nose piercings."

  I shrug. “So long as we get the who right, it's all that matters."

  He bounces again. “Man what a thrill, finding that nail."

  I nod again and have to say it. “Yep. The nail in the coffin."

  "Man, that was fast work. Getting it in the first twenty-four hours, right?"

  "Good thing,” I tell him. “I start on vacation tomorrow."

  He laughs. “Where ya’ goin'? Disney World. Get away from all this ... funk?"

  "No.” I stretch out my back again, fighting off a yawn. “Putting Sad Lisa into dry dock for maintenance. Heading for home."

  "The Dakotas?"

  "Vermilion Bay.” I narrow my eyes at him. “That where you go on vacation, Disney World?"

  "Naw. I'm a hurricane watcher. Take my vacation days piecemeal. Go where the big storms hit. Went to Florida three times last year."

  The tiredness doesn't hit me until we walk Gault over to Central Lockup, alongside Police Headquarters on the stretch of cement we call “Hollywood Walk,” where three TV cameras follow us, Borgo leading the way.

  Borgo's telling me about a new tropical depression that'll probably end up in the Gulf of Mexico. “It'll have a name starting with K,” he tells me, but I'm not listening.

  I haven't slept for over twenty-four hours, and I smile wearily for the cameras, like my daddy used to smile after a good hunt in the swamp. Of course Borgo was right, the first twenty-four hours of a murder case are the most important.

  * * * *

  THURSDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 2005

  A month to the day after the murder, I stand beneath the live oak where Monique Lewis lost her life. There's nothing to indicate anything happened here, but everything else is different now. This is the only tree left standing in West End Park. Maxim's Crab Claw Restaurant, where Monique worked, and all the other restaurants are gone, the boatyards mere shells of buildings, all destroyed by that K storm Borgo first alerted me to. Hurricane Katrina.

  Monique's tree is the only living thing here, even the bushes are dead. A thick coat of gray brown dirt covers the entire area, more like a moonscape than a park. A lingering odor of petroleum permeates the air, mixed wit
h the stench of mildew and death—dead fish, dead cats, dead dogs, probably several humans we haven't found yet in the wreckage.

  The park where Gault claimed he'd tripped is littered with abandoned cars and pickups, along with dozens of sailboats and other pleasure craft flung here, most of the boats in pieces. The sun looks the same as it sets over Lake Pontchartrain. But there are no pelicans gliding above the open water, no gulls dancing over the water beyond the restaurant pilings, no stray cats anywhere to be seen.

  I suck in a deep breath of sun-baked air and tell the tree, “We got the results of the DNA test today, and it's an exact match.” Thankfully, the FBI lab is functioning better than NOPD. I look at the ground where Monique had lain in death. “Just wanted you to know.” I take in another deep breath before going on. “Wish I could tell you why, what brought on his rage. Maybe you already know that, maybe you don't. But you're the one who caught him, you know, digging your nails fighting back, drawing blood and skin.” I keep looking at the spot where Monique died and wish there is more to say, but there never is.

  A scraping noise turns me around and it's Borgo walking up behind me. I hadn't seen him since the storm. We've been scattered around, trying to keep the city from dying from the inside after being blown apart from the outside. Borgo nods toward the tree, then tells me the Coast Guard Station's gone. Blown down.

  "I saw it."

  "That other hurricane's gonna hit us,” he says.

  "Rita? I thought she was headed for Houston."

  "She's a Category Five now, got the third lowest barometric pressure ever recorded in the Atlantic basin, and she's huge, like Katrina, covers most of the state. We're on the east side, the bad side. We'll get the tidal surge again.

  Jesus, the words tidal surge ring like a funeral bell in my ears.

  "The levees won't hold,” he adds, and I turn away, wondering how the hell we'll be able to weather the next blow.

  Copyright (c) 2007 O'Neil De Noux

  * * * *

  CONVERSATION WITH O'NEIL DE NOUX

  The stories of O'Neil De Noux are suffused with the atmosphere and history of New Orleans. Whether he is writing of the 19th century detective Jacques Dugas, the 1940's P.I. Lucien Caye, or (as here) the contemporary homicide detective John Raven Beau, Mr. De Noux all but turns the Crescent City into a character in its own right. Mr. De Noux has published five novels, a true crime book, and three story collections, including New Orleans Confidential, a book of Lucien Caye tales.

  AHMM: John Raven Beau, the New Orleans police detective featured in this story, is a different sort of character. He's part Cajun, part Sioux, a native of the area and yet an outsider, it seems, among his peers. Can you tell us how you came to develop this character?

  OD: After reading the Cheyenne series by John Edward Ames (writing as Judd Cole), I was inspired by the grit and courage of the Cheyenne and their cousins the Sioux. I felt the stoic determination of the plains warrior matched well with the often grim determination I felt as a homicide detective. Since I'm half Cajun, I wondered what it would be like to combine a Cajun's spirit of living life to its fullest with the tenacious nature of a Sioux warrior into one being.

  AHMM: Where do you see Beau going into the future?

  OD: Like New Orleans, Beau is on the cusp of a new existence. The catastrophe of Katrina has scarred the city permanently, and it will scar Beau as well. It's survival of the fittest now in the city, not just the strongest, but the people and neighborhoods smart enough to adapt. As criminals return to take advantage of a depleted police department, Beau and his compatriots will need every bit of courage and intelligence to cope. Ever the loner, I see Beau withdrawing into himself and evolving into a more ferocious character, hopefully softened by his Cajun side and the honor code of the plains warrior.

  AHMM: You were living in the New Orleans area when Katrina hit and the levees broke. How did you survive the storm, and what have things been like for you in the year and a half after the storm?

  OD: With the help of family and friends, and the generosity of strangers, we survived a hard year. A doctor and his wife in Lake Charles made sure of that by providing housing for my family (and three other families) for eleven months. They are the most generous people I've known. Thanks to FEMA and the SBA (there a some very helpful people in our government; it isn't all bad), and a very good realtor, we were able to sell our storm-damaged home and buy a new one above the flood plain just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans.

  AHMM: How has the hurricane affected your writing?

  OD: The first few months (when I had no computer) I couldn't write. But later my writing actually thrived. We were only able to find part-time work, which left more time to write, and I wrote two novels and a dozen short stories in the year A.K. (after Katrina). Haven't sold the novels or all the stories, but I'm still going strong.

  AHMM: You have also been a homicide detective and a private detective in New Orleans. How much do you draw on your own experiences for your stories?

  OD: Very much. My father was a cop, so was my brother, and I've lived with it all my life. I act and think like a cop naturally (drives my family and friends a little crazy at times because I'm always on). I know what's inside a cop and how we would react to situations, psychologically as well as physically. I've put a lot of my adventures in my stories and novels, fictionalizing them as I go along, even my P.I. adventures.

  AHMM: You are now working as a police investigator at Southeastern Louisiana University. How is this job different from being a detective in New Orleans?

  OD: The biggest difference is a lack of violent crime, which is due to several factors—a good student body, good faculty and staff, and a full-time police force focused on the safety of all. Most of our problems come from people off campus.

  AHMM: Have you been inspired by the different setting to start a new series of stories?

  OD: I have been inspired and plan to set some stories on a college campus in the future. Haven't found a hook yet.

  AHMM: Who have been your literary influences as you developed your career as a mystery writer?

  OD: Joseph Wambaugh led the way for us cops-turned-writers. I've read everything he's written. Elmore Leonard and Harlan Ellison have been a big influence by example and, in Harlan's case, by personal input. The late and great George Alec Effinger taught me how to write a short story. I sure miss him.

  AHMM: What, in your eyes, makes New Orleans so conducive to the literary imagination?

  OD: George and I discussed this often. It's the dissonance, the inharmonious clash of a people dedicated to having a good time and violent crime from people who want what they don't have and figure taking it is easier than earning it. It's an unrelieved tension that rises until relieved.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  MY LIFE IN CRIME by Janice Law

  It started the day Billy J showed up at school in a real leather jacket and a pair of Nike Zoom LeBron IIs. The leather was class, man, but LeBron IIs! The coolest shoes on the planet. I'm not the biggest kid on court, but I got a killer outside shot, and I'd sure fly with shoes like those. As I kept telling Mama, all I needed to take my game to the next level was better equipment. But Mama, who wasn't my mom at all but my grandmother, had old-fashioned ideas and was all the time telling me that Payless sneaks were good enough if they “kept the wet off my feet."

  So there I'm dreaming of LeBron IIs with the special support straps that would lift my game, when in comes Billy J, fresh from a trip to Sportslocker and the top leather shop in the mall. He's wearing a four hundred—dollar bomber jacket and my LeBron II shoes. Mine. Are me and the guys interested? Do we want to know how this could have happened when Billy J's so dumb the corner dealers won't touch him for a runner? Sure we do. Fortunately, Mitch, who lacks the cool and self-restraint that gives me a bigger game than you'd expect from my size, comes right out and asks him.

  Billy J, moving and styling like some newborn rap star, says, “It's the settlement.
"

  And being that dumb, he tells us the rest, starting with how his cousin knows a guy who knew another guy, plus confusing legal and medical stuff with relatives’ contacts we don't need to bother with here. Some of my guys are losing interest before Billy J gets to the point, but I still got one eye on the LeBron IIs, and I keep my ears open. The deal was pretty simple once Billy J finally spits it out. The night of the accident, his brother Wesley drives the family car along South Main at eight P.M. “Eight exactly,” says Billy J. “No later, no earlier. Super important.” He goes on about this till we get the picture.

  Anyway, Wesley's on his way to his night shift at McDonald's, and he has his sister Meghan with him, giving her a lift to a friend's house. They're rolling along Main, right at the speed limit, which impressed Billy J, “'Cause my brother's a speed king,” when “Boom! Bang! Crash!"

  Billy J's got minimum verbal, as you can soon tell from talking with him. What's happened is that the guy who knew the other guy who's some far-off Billy J relative has come out of a side street and lost his brakes and piled into the back quarter panel of the Billy J family car.

  "The bullet car was done professional,” says Billy J, like this is some sort of job, a career path like Mr. Dawkins is always going on about, how we need a “career path” to take us from where we are to someplace none of us can imagine. Perhaps I can put down “bullet car driver” next time.

  "They hurt?” I ask.

  Billy J gives me a look. It's a scary thing, I tell you, to see a loser like Billy J in fancy gear with a scornful look. “I told you, done professional. Not a mark on them."

  "How you get money for that?” asks Kev.

  "Whiplash,” says Billy J and nods his head. “The doctor said Wes was one bad case, and Meghan was almost worse. They had to have therapy and everything."

  "You got to pay for that,” says Mitch. “How they get health insurance?"