by Roger Johns
D I E P I T K I N The only thang missin is good old E D.
Wallace stopped the video, too embarrassed to watch it to the end. She looked at Chief Shannon. She knew this had to be hard on him. He was the first black police chief in Baton Rouge. He had been born and raised in the city and came up through the ranks. It was a proud moment for the town when he took the job. Now, despite prodigious efforts on his part, the specter of racial violence seemed poised to cast its shadow over the community yet again.
It had been less than eight hours since she had arrested Eddie Pitkin and already things were heating up.
“Where did this happen?” Wallace asked.
“Out on Larkens Ferry Road. That truck full of goofballs pulled up next to a school bus full of black children—a church group out on a field trip. One of the kids in the bus shot the video.”
“Where do people come up with this shit?”
Shannon shrugged. “Wherever they get it, there must be a lot of it there, because reports like this are popping up all over. It’s only a matter of time before there’s a physical confrontation.”
“Chief Shannon, I know this is a sensitive case. And I know that Jason Burley believes my relationship and my conversation tonight with Craig Stephens have compromised me, and that I’m just adding to the danger.”
“That’s his theory. It’s not my theory. But before we get into that, I need you to focus on this video and all these other reports of unrest that are coming in. In the short time since Pitkin’s arrest hit the news cycle, things have gotten really edgy really fast. The street is heating up. The pastor who sent me this video had the good sense to keep it off the internet, but who knows how long that’ll last.”
In spite of herself, Wallace couldn’t drag her eyes away from the image on the screen. The girl with the banner looked high on a cocktail of hatred and glee, her hair blowing wild, her mouth frozen open in mid shout. The rest of the kids in the truck were offering their middle fingers to the children on the bus.
“As you can imagine, time is of the essence. And we’re going to be under a fucking microscope. Every single thing we do will get scrutinized and second-guessed in the most public way possible. So, we can’t be seen as dragging our feet and we can’t be seen as shutting down the investigation prematurely. We damn sure can’t be perceived as hiding anything the public or the defense has a right to know, but, at the same time, we can’t afford to prejudice public opinion by showing just the inflammatory stuff, either.”
Wallace closed the laptop, unwilling to continue seeing the faces in the truck.
“It makes the spot between the rock and the hard place seem desirable, by comparison, wouldn’t you say?” Shannon asked.
“There are a lot of things I’d like to say, but none of them would be very productive.”
“Let’s you and me take stock of things, Detective. I’m putting together a sort of ledger in my head—the pros and cons of you continuing as the lead investigator.”
“If you want me off the case, Chief, please, just do what you think is right for all concerned. I won’t like it, to be perfectly honest, but you’ll have my full cooperation.”
“I think what’s right for all concerned is for me to tell you about the pros and cons of you being on the case and for you to give this a good hard listen.” He smiled to indicate that he appreciated her attempt to let him off the hook.
“Sorry.” She smiled back, feeling like she was in the principal’s office.
“On the negative side, I’m getting pressure from the boneheads in City Hall to … how do I say this … put a more optically correct officer in charge of this investigation.”
“Jesus.”
“He was not among their recommendations. Which brings me to the other negative on my list. And this one, to my way of thinking, is the more important one.” He paused until she gave him an expectant look.
“I understand a video exists of you arresting Eddie Pitkin. It’s already available on YouTube and every form of social media you can think of. I haven’t seen it yet, but that will change just as soon as you and I are done here. My point in bringing it up is that this case and that video have the potential to put a big fat target right in the middle of your back.”
“Nowadays, police activity is routinely recorded by citizens. Even before that, blowback from arrests was always a source of danger. It’s just part of our job.”
“But this case is touching a very raw nerve. Not just in Baton Rouge, either. You’re the only detective with a personal connection to Eddie and his family. That’s going to intensify public scrutiny of you.” He jabbed his finger in Wallace’s direction to emphasize his point. “Things could get very dicey.”
“If you’re asking me whether I want you to take me off the case, my answer is no. And if your next question was going to be ‘Who would be a suitable replacement?’ my answer would be that there’s no one on the force I dislike enough to saddle with this.”
Shannon chuckled. “We both know that’s not true. But look, I don’t want your sense of pride to get you killed.” He stared at Wallace. When she didn’t respond, he smiled and nodded slowly. “Fine. So let’s look at the plus side of the ledger.”
Wallace knew he was going to keep her on the case. He wouldn’t bother taking the time to explain his reasoning in such detail if he had already decided to replace her. She should have felt elated, but she felt only worry, instead.
“Although I’m in the distinct minority on this, personally, I think your relationship with Craig Stephens is an asset. You will be seen as someone who is not inherently predisposed against the suspect, someone who has a foot in both camps, so to speak, more willing to take an evenhanded view of things and conduct an unbiased investigation, someone willing to go where the facts lead instead of leading the facts where the prosecution wants them to go.”
“Pardon me for saying so, Chief Shannon, but that’s a really subtle point, a really slender reed to hang something this important on.”
“It is a subtle point, but in today’s climate I’m convinced it’s important. It’ll be the kind of thing that lodges in the public consciousness on an instinctive level, so it will exert a quiet but powerful influence. And, if need be, I’ve got enough access to the media to make sure that point gets made as explicitly as we need it to be.”
Shannon reached around her and raised the screen on the laptop. He studied the ugly picture as it sprang back into view.
“That was an awfully short list of positives, Chief Shannon.”
“There’s one other thing.” He pulled his attention away from the picture and walked over to the window. He turned his head and spoke to her over his shoulder. “Burley doesn’t want you on this case, but he also says you’re the best person for the job.”
Wallace looked back at the picture. She had no trouble staring down a gun-wielding, meth-addled carjacker, but compliments made her feel uneasy and shy. “Thank you,” she mumbled at the tabletop.
“I didn’t need him to tell me that.” He gave her the questioning look again. “But I do need to tell you this. No matter how this investigation comes out, you’re going to be one of the bad guys. If Pitkin goes down, you were part of a scheme. If he’s ultimately cleared, people will accuse you of shaving points, of throwing the game.”
“I know.”
“And you can live with that?”
“I am living with it. I’m afraid of punishing an innocent man just like I’m afraid of letting a guilty one go free. Those things I could not live with.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. You’ll have whatever and whoever you need to get this done properly. And while I want you to take the time to do it right—meaning zero mistakes—I also want this case out of my hair and out of your hands and on the DA’s desk as soon as is humanly possible.”
“Understood.” Wallace didn’t like the look she saw on the chief’s face. She could tell he felt sorry for her.
“And, even with the advantages
of having you as the shot caller on this investigation, we’re still taking a risk.” He walked over and stood by her chair. “I’m going all in with this decision. I’m betting everything on Hartman, to win.”
Wallace opened her mouth to speak, but he waved her off.
“One last thing. Because we have what appears to be very convincing DNA evidence putting Pitkin at the scene of the crime, standing in very close proximity to the victim, pressure is already mounting to close out our part in this investigation. To just put everything in the hands of the prosecutor and let her and her investigators flesh out what’s left of the case.” He pushed the computer to the side and leaned against the edge of the little table. “Think of this as a test question. How long do you think I should resist that pressure, Detective Hartman?”
“As long as there’s a chance that caving in would look like a rush to judgment.” She looked him squarely in the eye.
“I’m counting on you to understand, in very practical terms, the difference between a rush to judgment and a sprint to the truth.”
“I think I’m clear on what you’re telling me, Chief Shannon.”
“I’ll want you to brief me. Directly.” He repeatedly jabbed the first two fingers of his left hand against his chest. “Every evening. I’ll want a recap of the previous twenty-four hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your next step?”
“I need to get a warrant from a judge in Pointe Coupee Parish, so I can search Craig Stephens’s lake house on False River.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Burley has been beavering away on that very matter, while you and I have been having our little chat.”
NINE
MONDAY: JUNE 4
EARLY MORNING
“I’ll stay, if you want me to,” Mason said, setting his coffee cup in the sink. “I can always reschedule my morning appointments.”
They were standing in Wallace’s kitchen. He had stopped on his way to his office, bringing the morning paper with him. Together, they had listened to news reports on the radio. As demonstrations in support of Pitkin spread across Baton Rouge, counter-demonstrations demanding Pitkin’s swift conviction and execution were springing up as well. There were relatively few of the latter, although Wallace feared that could soon change.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. No sense in both of us getting carted off by the torch-and-pitchfork crowd.” She gave him a strained smile and a gentle push toward the door. “Besides, you’ve got a jealous mistress waiting for you.”
After the case that nearly cost him his life and the use of his left arm, Mason left his years-long position with the DEA and moved from Washington to Baton Rouge to be near Wallace. Two months ago, he had opened his own business—a cybersecurity consulting firm that allowed him to use his background and his government contacts on behalf of private companies.
The new venture—what Wallace had begun to call his jealous mistress—hoovered up nearly every waking minute of his time.
“I’ll call … someday,” she said, giving him a rueful look as he stepped into the carport.
“That’s what you tell all the guys.” He opened the back door of his car and set his satchel on the floor.
“But I’m lying to most of them.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He climbed behind the wheel.
“I’d say if I weren’t. Promise.”
Wallace watched through the screen door as he backed out of her driveway.
Once his car disappeared down the street, she walked back into her den to finish reading the news. Lulu, one of her two cats, was napping on top of the paper. Boy Howdy, her other cat, was perched on a windowsill, his head swiveling in short frantic arcs, tracking the movements of the backyard critters.
Wallace pulled Lulu onto her lap and read back through all the stories related to the case. The Pitkin arrest was front-page news. It covered much of page two, as well, and a significant portion of the op-ed page.
The fact that Marioneaux appeared to have been asphyxiated was reported, but the precise details of how that had been accomplished did not appear in any of the stories.
The circumstances of Pitkin’s arrest, however, were very public thanks to Marla’s YouTube video, which Wallace had watched. It made her feel strange to see herself on camera. And, unfortunately, it showed exactly what had happened: Eddie affably encountering the white priest and his companions, Eddie calmly and logically laying out the facts of his grievances, and then Eddie being arrested, cuffed, and marched off by two white police officers. To anyone who saw only the video but didn’t know the whole story, it looked as if he was being smacked down for trying to advance his reparations agenda.
By the time the real reason for the arrest came out, the video had already gone viral and tempers had begun to flare. Judging by the increasingly dire reports she and Mason had listened to, the truth seemed to be adding fuel to the fire. Red-hot rhetoric was spewing from every quarter accusing the police of being part of a plot to silence and intimidate an important figure in the quest for racial justice.
And, thanks to Marla’s nice sharp close-up of the laying on of hands, Wallace had become the face of the oppressor—just as Chief Shannon had feared. The paper had run the shot, taken from the video, showing Wallace at the precise moment she was slapping on the cuffs.
She set the paper aside and tried to think through the implications of her newfound celebrity. Mostly, she worried about whether her mother and her younger brother, Lex, a Catholic priest who pastored a parish in the eastern suburbs of Baton Rouge, would become the target of people wanting to strike at her.
The prospect of threats against her loved ones had set off a low current of anxiety that kept her awake for most of the night.
* * *
It had been a long time since she had driven out to False River. As its name implied, it wasn’t really a river—at least, not anymore. At one time, it had been a bend in the Mississippi. Now it was just one of the many oxbow lakes the titanic waterway had sloughed off when it periodically jumped its banks and carved out new channels over the course of the ages.
For generations, False River had been a getaway for people in the parishes surrounding Baton Rouge. Most of the shoreline was dotted with fishing camps and weekend homes, but there were still a few stretches along the west bank that were thinly populated and relatively undeveloped. Because of that, Wallace knew it was entirely possible for someone to go unnoticed for a few days, even when the lake was thronged with visitors.
Dennis Halsey, one of the department’s newest and youngest crime-scene investigators, rode with her. For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, Dennis had taken a shine to her after their first meeting a few months back.
And he was a talker. He had talked Wallace’s ear off during the trip out to the lake. Even though her contributions to the conversation were rare and perfunctory, he didn’t seem to notice, which left Wallace free to stay lost in her own thoughts.
A few blocks before the road that ran alongside the lake, Wallace pulled into the parking lot of a property management company that handled rentals for most of the houses around the lake.
“I’ll be right back.”
“No prob.” Dennis pulled out his phone to make a call. Wallace could hear him talking before her door was even closed.
It was cool inside the office. A collection of stuffed mallards and trophy-sized largemouth bass studded the grooved wooden paneling behind the woman sitting at the desk beyond the counter. She was about Wallace’s age, dressed in khakis and a polo shirt with a name tag that read: MARYBETH. She looked up with an expectant smile.
“I’m Wallace Hartman, a detective with the Baton Rouge police. I’m hoping you can help me with something.” She held her credentials toward the woman.
“Is this official business?”
“I’m trying to find out if anyone was in residence at either of these addresses in the last several days.”
She offered MaryBeth her card.
The addresses of the houses she was interested in were scribbled on the back.
“We respect our tenants’ privacy, so I ain’t telling any names without a court order.”
“I may not—” Wallace began, but MaryBeth cut her off.
“My husband’s the chief of police here in New Roads and I tell him the same as I’m telling you whenever he comes sniffing around here looking for information. He thinks I’ll play fast and loose with him just ’cause I let him play fast and loose with me, but that ain’t the way I roll.”
The woman grinned and stared, clearly expecting Wallace to laugh at her wordplay. Her grin remained frozen in place as Wallace stared back.
“I may not need any names, if the houses were unoccupied.” She held the card out again.
MaryBeth took the card, then went back to her desk. “Gimme me just a minute, Detective. May I offer you something to drink?” she asked as she consulted her desktop computer.
“No, thank you.”
“Neither of these has been occupied for a few months,” MaryBeth said after a minute of silence. “The one that’s just a few lots away was tied up in foreclosure for a while. The bank took it back, and it’s just sitting there. They don’t want to fool with trying to rent it out, which is a shame, because I still get inquiries about it all the time. Just last week some fella offered me good money to let him have it for a solid month, but the bank didn’t even bother to return my call when I let ’em know. The other house, the one to the north, it’s a bit pricey for that side of the lake. The fella that owns it, I keep trying to get him to come down on the lease, but he’s afraid he’ll get a bunch of broke-ass college kids in there who’ll trash the place. Which, I get that, but if the house doesn’t rent, then he ain’t making any money and I sure ain’t, either.”
“Thank you,” Wallace said, making for the door before MaryBeth could share any more clever observations about her and her husband’s private life. She would check the houses anyway.
The trip from the rental office to Craig’s fishing camp took several minutes. The lake was twelve miles long, nearly a half mile wide, and shaped like the letter C, with the open side of the C facing east. Craig’s house was on the west bank, near the middle of the curve, in one of the thinly populated areas. The edges of the old asphalt road, sun bleached to a silvery gray, were crumbling into the grassy shoulder.
