Casting Bones

by Don Bruns

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Get the fuck in.’ The man stepped forward and with a hard thrust he rammed the barrel of the gun into Lerner’s soft stomach. The judge doubled over in crippling pain, tears welling in his pale blue eyes. It felt like the metal rod might come out the other side. Lerner fought for a breath, gasping, sucking in air. This guy wasn’t fooling around.

  The man in the cotton tee opened the rear door and motioned to the judge.

  Still hunched over, Lerner staggered to the door. Where were his neighbors? The loud, brassy soccer mom next door, or the retired couple with the yapping Labrador retriever across the street? Where the hell was the dog? He was out every night Lerner got home, barking in a frenzy. So the canine takes a break on the one afternoon the judge needs him?

  ‘In.’ The kid grabbed Lerner’s arm and pushed the shirt cuff from his right wrist. Peeling back the sleeve he unveiled the green coiled snake tattooed just above the judge’s gold chain bracelet. He smiled, nodding to the driver. ‘It’s him. No doubt.’

  The sting of the pistol barrel smashing into the bone over Lerner’s right ear took him by surprise. He found himself thinking, as his brain processed the pain, that the blow had been strong enough to cause a large bruise. Maybe even concussion. His entire skull throbbed. The judge shook his head, trying valiantly to keep his consciousness.

  He felt hands pushing him as he tried his best to climb into the rear seat of the black Cadillac.

  ‘It’s the right guy, James. Let’s go.’

  The voice faded in and out as he tried to suppress the nausea. Concentrating on his immediate condition he feared only that he would vomit on the soft leather seats. He did not want to embarrass himself.

  It had to be Rodger. The guy just couldn’t let it go. As a public figure of some repute, Lerner had decided that he needed a more appropriate lifestyle. He had decided that he didn’t like Rodger Claim so much anymore. You fell in and out of love with people for a variety of reasons, didn’t you? There were lots of reasons to fall out of love with Claim.

  ‘The warehouse next to the Napoleon Avenue Wharf, James. You know where that is?’

  ‘I know, Skeeter.’

  They didn’t care if he knew where they were taking him. They didn’t care if he knew their names. So obviously he was expendable. Expendable. They were going to kill him.

  ‘I’ve got money. God knows, lots of money. Hidden money.’

  A wave of dizziness came over him.

  ‘Please, whatever he’s paying, I can pay more.’

  No response.

  ‘Oh, God, please.’

  The man named Skeeter turned to him and this time he wore a tight, thin-lipped smile.

  ‘You seem to pray a lot, Judge Lerner. But I don’t think that God or Jesus is going to do much to save your soul.’

  Lerner thrust his hand into his pocket. The punk hadn’t bothered to check to see if Lerner had a phone. He could still call 911. A wave of nausea overcame him and he collapsed on the seat, his last attempt at freedom lost forever.

  3

  The pale bloated body bobbed in the muddy Mississippi, bumping the seawall just down from the Creole Queen steamboat and across from the Crazy Lobster riverfront restaurant. Detective Quentin Archer peered down as the two divers maneuvered the floating corpse to a submerged rubber sling, which hung from the small crane anchored on the brick walkway.

  Detective Adam Strand joined him, nodding at the unfolding scene.

  ‘You swallow any of that water, you’re poisoned. That’s some nasty shit, Q.’

  Brushing back his thick brown hair with his fingers, Archer nodded. ‘You should see the Detroit River. Can’t be any worse than that.’

  The grinding of the winch’s gears echoed off the concrete as the limp body slowly rose from its watery grave. A curious seagull swooped low as two officers in wetsuits grabbed the sling when it reached the plaza, gently lowered the body and pulled the rubber contraption from around the corpse.

  ‘Detectives?’ A uniformed officer motioned to Archer and Strand, inviting them to view the body.

  A crowd had gathered on the steamboat, tourists straining to see the grizzly scene just yards from where they stood. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped the area and uniformed officers faced the growing throng, waiting for a reporter to attempt an end run.

  Archer bent down, rubber gloves on, and gently rolled the body, running his hands over the man’s rear pockets. He pulled out a wallet. Opening it, he glanced at the driver’s license. Then he pulled open the soaked wallet pocket where the deceased kept his money.

  ‘Wasn’t a robbery.’

  ‘No?’

  Separating the wet bills, Archer said, ‘Must be a couple hundred bucks.’

  Strand glanced at the bills.

  ‘Not that anyone would miss the money much now. You know what I’m saying?’ Strand studied Quentin Archer for a moment.

  Archer frowned. He still didn’t know Strand that well.

  ‘Hey, it’s a joke, OK? Money stays where it is. Well, someone must have gotten something out of it. Look at this. Shot right through his eye.’

  They studied the wound, a round hole bored through the right socket.

  ‘Wasn’t the water after all.’

  Archer shook his head. ‘Do you know a David Lerner?’

  ‘Judge David Lerner?’ Strand rose from his kneeling position and brushed at his trousers.

  ‘I’m new in town. You tell me.’

  ‘Yeah, I know of him. Works in the juvie section. Tough guy. Kids don’t want to go before him. They usually get a long sentence.’

  ‘Kids won’t have to worry anymore.’

  He palmed the driver’s license, handing it to Strand.

  ‘Jesus. Somebody’s kid didn’t like his sentence.’

  ‘It would appear.’

  Archer reached into the man’s inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Studying it for a moment, he handed it to Davis, another detective, who was standing nearby.

  ‘Davis, have lab pull the SIM card and use discovery software on the computer. See if we can retrieve contacts, calls … you know the drill.’

  ‘A judge.’ Strand looked out at the water, shaking his head. ‘That’s gonna stink up the place. And we had to draw lead on this one. There’s gonna be some serious pressure on this case.’

  A department photographer snapped pictures, walking around the body taking close-ups and long shots from every angle possible. A young lady from NOPD with a video camera was filming the entire event. Photos and video often helped when you stumbled on the scene of a crime. In this case Archer knew that this wasn’t the scene of the crime. Could have happened anywhere.

  ‘Detective,’ the photographer called to Archer, ‘check this out.’ He pointed to the right arm, a gold bracelet dangling from the wrist.

  ‘A judge with a tattoo?’

  ‘We see the tattoos every day, just not on people like a judge. And a snake? I would bet a lot of people consider a judge as low as a snake.’

  Archer nodded. He filed it away for future consideration.

  An ambulance drove up slowly, giving the crowd a blast of its siren to move them along. No rush. The damage had already been done.

  ‘Welcome to the Big Easy, Q.’ Strand and Archer watched the attendants hoist the gray body bag onto a stretcher. ‘Let’s see what a Michigan cop can teach us Louisiana boys.’

  And just for a moment, Quentin Archer shuddered, staring at the bag covering the swollen body of a high-ranking judge. Fighting back the nausea he felt, his eyes clouded over. The pallid corpse seemed to have an aura, a faint shimmering light that emanated from within, shining through the vinyl. Just for a brief moment. He closed his eyes to block the vision. Like he’d tried to block the vision of his wife, after a Detroit driver hit her on a sidewalk then sped off.

  That was a sensation he had hoped would never happen again. Archer put his palm to his forehead, searching for a fever. He was light-
headed, a little warm and his stomach was queasy. He’d seen some pretty gruesome deaths before, and they’d never affected him like this. There was something different about this, but nothing he could put his finger on.

  ‘Q, you OK?’

  Adam Strand raised his eyebrows, noticing the look on Archer’s face, flush, with perspiration dotting his brow.

  ‘Sure. Fine. It must be …’ he trailed off, not sure what it must be.

  The two detectives stripped off their gloves.

  ‘You want to sit down, partner?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Really, I’m good.’

  ‘Look, the crack about the judge’s money—’

  Archer shook his head. Regaining his composure, he walked over to the four other detectives on the scene, two in sport coats, the others in long-sleeved shirts and ties.

  ‘Two of you pick up anything you see and someone talk to the deckhands on the Queen. We’ll cover the restaurant up there, and you’ – pointing to the other two detectives – ‘see if any of these tourists saw anything.’ His breathing had returned to normal and he felt his heart rate slowing down.

  Strand stood back and nodded.

  ‘You know it didn’t happen here.’

  ‘And you know we’ve got to cover every base,’ Archer responded.

  They walked away from the river, heading toward the Crazy Lobster.

  ‘How many cases you worked?’

  Archer put his hand to his head, a slight feeling of uneasiness still lingering. ‘Never counted them.’

  ‘As of now, we’ve got the highest per capita murder rate in the country.’ Strand pointed beyond the restaurant where New Orleans spread out into the downtown area. ‘About one hundred eighty murders a year. Mostly young kids who’ve got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Three hundred plus in Detroit.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Still, you’ve got the highest per capita. Pretty impressive.’

  ‘We duke it out with Baltimore or Flint, Michigan for bragging rights every year.’

  They reached the brown pavers strewn with green tables and chairs that sat in the brilliant sun outside the Crazy Lobster. Patrons of the trendy restaurant drank Abita beers, sucked meat from red, boiled crawfish and warily watched the two detectives as they approached.

  ‘Can you get the manager?’ Archer touched a waitress on the shoulder and she nodded, walking quickly into the restaurant. In a moment, a young black man walked out, an apron tied around his waist.

  ‘You dealing with the dead guy?’

  ‘We are. I’m Quentin Archer, and this is my partner, Adam Strand.’

  The two offered their badges and the manager nodded.

  ‘I’m Marcus Walker. We sort of talked about it while you were down there,’ he motioned to the muddy river. ‘Nobody noticed anything. My guess is the guy washed up or somebody dumped him recent.’

  ‘You don’t mind if we talk to your staff?’

  ‘Not at all. You’d do it anyway.’

  ‘We would,’ Strand said. ‘You get any judges, court people who come down here for a meal? A drink?’

  ‘Detective, we get everybody. We’re on the water and if I do say so we put out a really good product. Listen, if people don’t come here, we’ve probably catered something for them. We go to their place, you know what I’m sayin’? Sure, we do some parties at City Hall.’

  ‘Know a guy named David Lerner? Judge?’

  ‘Is it the late David Lerner? Was that his body they found?’

  Q shook his head. ‘No positive identification yet. We just wondered if you recognized the name.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve seen his name on the news. Hard guy. He gets a lot of press because of his stiff sentences. We’ve got a couple young guys in the kitchen who received some of his tough love.’ The manager offered a weak smile. ‘That’s who we’re talking about, right? Lerner?’

  ‘Has he been here?’

  ‘I can ask around. I wouldn’t recognize him.’

  ‘Let’s find out. Can you get your wait staff one at a time? Then the kitchen crew?’

  Walker nodded and walked back toward the bar.

  ‘Maybe the judge complained about some bad service?’ Strand watched the manager as he brought a waitress to them.

  ‘Or somebody didn’t like his service.’

  ‘Maybe one of the boys in the kitchen?’

  Q motioned the lady to a seat at an empty table and took a deep breath. He’d done this too many times. At thirty-six, young by most standards, he was already burned out. Detroit, New Orleans, a body in the river … same story, different city.

  ‘Hey, Q, how many murders do you solve in Detroit? What’s your percentage?’ Strand straddled a chair as Archer sat down.

  ‘Fifty percent, maybe less.’ There was only one that haunted him every day. One unsolved murder. Denise, his wife. The love of his life. One of the reasons he’d left Detroit.

  ‘We’ve got an impressive record here,’ Strand said. Highest murder rate per capita, and last year we solved about twenty-two percent. Maybe with you on board our percentage goes up.’

  Archer frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. He hadn’t solved Denise’s murder, so his track record wasn’t that good. But to be fair, he hadn’t given up trying.

  4

  His father had bitched about filing reports. Banging away on a manual Underwood, going through a bottle of Wite-Out every week to correct all the mistakes. He’d told Quentin how cops today had it easy, with computers and everything. It didn’t feel that easy.

  One day, when Q was maybe ten years old, the old man had taken him to the precinct house. Must have been summer because otherwise he’d have been at school, and when they entered the old brick building he smelled the pungent odor of sweat, smoke and burned coffee. The smell stuck with him almost as strong in memory. Even with air conditioning in all the offices and a no smoking policy, he expected to breathe in the aroma of sour body odor and cigarette smoke every time he walked into a police station.

  ‘Damn,’ Sergeant Dan Sullivan hovered over his shoulder. ‘Had to be a judge.’

  Archer nodded and continued to peck away on the keyboard. Fastest two-finger typist in the building.

  ‘I’d expect this to happen in One,’ the balding man said. ‘Across Rampart Street. But I can’t picture Lerner hanging out over there. Bad neighborhood.’

  ‘Could have happened anywhere,’ Archer replied, hitting the keys with his index fingers.

  ‘Any reports back from the interviews?’ Sullivan continued to press. ‘We can put some more manpower down there, if need be.’

  ‘Nothing yet. Strand may have heard something. He was finishing up with the kitchen crew.’

  ‘The minute you know anything I want to know. Anything at all, Q.’ He drifted down the row, talking to another detective.

  ‘Got it, Sarge.’

  The manager of the Crazy Lobster, Marcus Walker had said point-blank that some of his help had been sentenced by the dead judge. He continued to hunt and peck while detectives drifted in and out of the room.

  Thirty-two homicide detectives, all of them in a pressure cooker situation, working third floor of headquarters in a bullpen setup. An open room, devoid of personality, with gunmetal gray desks crowding each other. Sixteen on one side of the hall, sixteen on the other.

  Archer knew there was manpower if needed, and he also knew the department was down three detectives. Recruiting was apparently not going well. And the guys who had been brought in for relief were all working their own cases. With eighty-some murders already committed for the year, they were busy. Very busy.

  ‘I knew him,’ Sullivan was back. ‘Played some charity golf with him a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Raising money for what charity?’ Archer didn’t look up.

  ‘No, no. I mean, nobody would ever play with the guy. That was the problem. Judge David Lerner was a duffer with an ugly attitude and a really bad hook. Spent half the time looking for lost b
alls and bitching his head off. This one time he needed a partner, so I drew the short straw.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Charity golf.’ Archer got it.

  ‘Cocky guy.’

  ‘Not anymore, Sarge.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Archer finally looked up. ‘You got any thoughts on why someone would want him dead?’

  ‘He was a judge. A heavy-handed judge. There are probably hundreds of reasons why people would want him dead. This one may not be easy.’

  Archer turned back to the flat screen. When he had exited the force up north, even Detroit had sprung for the big flat-screen monitors. Technology was changing so fast, and he was still a two-finger wonder at typing. Get with the program, Archer.

  What had Strand told him? Only twenty-two percent of all murders were solved?

  ‘My father was a cop.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Sullivan sounded half interested.

  ‘He taught me one thing. The most important thing to look for in any case.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Keep asking why.’

  ‘“Why”?’

  ‘You start every case by asking why. Why did someone kill this person? You follow up with a why, and a why, and a why. When you run out of whys, when you run out of questions and answers, you’ve solved the murder.’

  ‘Well, you know it’s not that simple,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘No, Sergeant, I don’t know that. It pretty much works every time. And if the crime is still unsolved, it’s because you haven’t answered every why.’

  Sullivan cocked his head, staring at Archer.

  ‘We all have our methods, Archer.’

  ‘We do. Mine makes the most sense.’

  The officer turned to walk away.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant, you think of anything, you let me know. You know this town a whole lot better than I do.’

  The other equation was who. He knew why they killed Denise. To send him the sternest of warnings, that if he didn’t quit pushing the case against a certain drug ring, they would make his life miserable. But he didn’t know exactly who had committed the crime. He didn’t know yet. He kept it low-key, but there were friends in Detroit. People who were in his corner, working the edges.