Casting Bones

by Don Bruns

  ‘We went through the house, and you’ll never guess what we found.’

  ‘If you found the pot, it was pop’s.’

  ‘Ex-cons aren’t allowed to have illegal substances, you know that, right?’ Strand folded his hands, calm, methodical.

  ‘Hell, man, you gonna bust me on a chickenshit weed charge? That’s all you got? You better get somethin’ bigger than that. Bring me my lawyer, cop.’ His eyes were bright and wide open. Strand could see veins on his forehead. The suspect was working up a head of steam.

  ‘Didn’t even see the pot. Maybe your old man smoked it while you were here. He does seem a little out of touch.’

  ‘Then let me go, muthafucker.’

  ‘Well, we considered that. Letting you go. But then Detective Cassidy, he was helping me search the house, he found a gun, Antoine.’

  The boy’s jaw dropped, and his eyes almost popped out of his dark head.

  ‘A Sig Sauer P290. Little thing, but we found it.’

  Duvay started to get up, shackled to the table. He jerked at the chain and leaned toward the detective.

  ‘You lyin’ sack of shit. There be no gun. You makin’ it up, you dirty no good cop.’

  ‘Got it, Antoine. I didn’t find it. Cassidy did.’

  ‘Fuck this Cassidy. Prove it’s mine.’

  ‘We’re working on it, but in the meantime, young man, we’ve got reason to hold you for a little while.’

  ‘You gonna prove that this gun was the murder weapon? Are you?’

  ‘Hard to do. By the time a bullet goes in and out, through flesh and bone, it does so much damage you can’t usually tell what gun it came from.’

  ‘So you can’t prove shit.’

  ‘The fact that you have a gun—’

  ‘I never owned a gun. In my life.’

  ‘The fact that we found a gun, that might be good enough. Ex-con, kid who had a vendetta against a judge, and a gun that could have been the murder weapon. You do the math, hotshot.’

  ‘Oh, Lord Almighty. You can’t be serious.’

  ‘We’re building a pretty good case here, Antoine.’

  ‘Fuck your case.’

  Now the hands had become fists and Strand raised his voice.

  ‘Look, you little turd, I’ve got a case. You confess, right now, and we can make some good things happen. We can take away some of the bad things that are going to happen to you. But if you don’t confess, then everything is off the table. Do you understand me?’

  ‘You, you mouth, you told me this the last time we talked. “Plea,” you said. Well fuck you, motherfucker. Where is my lawyer, dude? I’ll tell him what I know.’

  Strand stood back, not sure what the young man was saying. So he did know something? The detective shook his head, not certain where to take the next line of questioning. In an instant it was forgotten.

  ‘Damn. I want an attorney. Don’t fuck with me any longer, you piece of shit. Give me my attorney now.’

  ‘You’re positive there isn’t anything you want to say?’

  Strand felt the pressure. He was losing the battle and he didn’t want it to be over. Not yet.

  Duvay looked like he might explode. His eyes were wide open, his voice gravelly and he appeared to be shaking.

  ‘Bring me my attorney.’ He screamed at the top of his voice, straining at the chain. ‘You better damned well have me an attorney. No more stallin’ cause I got nothin’ else to say!’

  Strand stood slowly, knocked on the door and an officer opened it.

  ‘Send in Witter.’ Bitterness dripped from his words. ‘Antoine Duvay wants to lawyer up.’

  16

  ‘Ma spends her time at Water’s Edge Care Center. End of the French Market. I’m sure you’ve seen it.’ Leaning over the table, her hands clasped in front of her.

  Archer sat back in the booth and nodded, not exactly sure where the facility was located.

  ‘It’s a home for dementia patients.’

  ‘Your mother. The practitioner?’

  ‘Let me tell the story, Detective. Then you can decide if you want to take it seriously. OK?’

  Archer quelled his desire to ask more questions and settled back to listen. If this was going to help solve the crime, then so be it.

  ‘I volunteer at Water’s Edge three days a week. I talk to the patients, take them on walks, and basically spend as much quality time as possible with them. I have no training in this field, but with Ma being a patient there …’

  She sipped her coffee and he tipped his beer, quenching his thirst.

  ‘Possibly six months ago, one of the patients spoke to me. Out of the blue. We were on an outing.’ She paused for a moment. ‘We take the patients up on the levee and spend an hour with them. I try to engage them in conversation.’

  ‘I understand.’ Archer, ever supportive.

  ‘I’m out with Ma, another woman and a man. And they are just sitting there, non-communicative. I bring up different topics, like how nice the river is, or how warm the temperature is, and this day no one was responding. Some days they do, some days they don’t.’

  ‘This has to do with your information regarding David Lerner, right?’

  Cordray frowned. ‘Let me tell my story, Detective Archer. Be patient. This isn’t easy.’

  Archer signaled the waitress for another beer. Technically he was off the clock and right now he needed a drink.

  ‘The man, Rayland Foster, was staring at the river water, zoned out, and I heard his voice. Not from his mouth. His mouth had nothing to say.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re saying.’

  ‘His voice was inside my head.’

  ‘So you were channeling—’

  ‘Mr Archer, I heard him. As clearly as I can hear you.’

  The detective scrutinized the young beauty. She was struggling with the story, trying to make a spiritual connection sound credible.

  ‘And he said to me, ‘the judge, the judge who will be killed, he belongs to Krewe Charbonerrie. Someone must be told.’

  His sandwich long since forgotten, Archer leaned across the booth, looking into the young girl’s face.

  ‘Solange, that’s it, right? Solange, help me out here. I want to hear your story, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Six months ago someone communicated with you about the death of the judge? But the murder just happened.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the timeline.’

  There was a moment of silence at the booth.

  ‘All right, go on.’ He was used to getting right to the heart of the matter. Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts. Dragnet. Joe Friday.

  ‘Krewes are the backbone of Mardi Gras. Since 1857, Krewes, the families of wealthy locals, have sponsored our holiday. Some of the Krewes are social. They build the floats that you see during our celebration, they make the costumes and purchase the throws – doubloons and beads – that are tossed to the crowds. You may have heard of Rex? Or Mistic Krewe of Comus? Krewe of Proteus, and the Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club?’

  She leaned into the booth, her face a little closer to his and he could detect a delicate scent, like frangipani.

  ‘And some of these Krewes are made up of rich, highly influential members of society who have the power and influence to control whatever they want. And,’ she paused, ‘they often want everything.’ Solange sat back in the booth and closed her eyes, saying nothing else.

  After fifteen seconds Archer figured it was OK to talk.

  ‘Solange, so what? What does membership in a society have to do with a murder? And, let’s assume you are right. The judge was a member of this Krewe Whatever-you-said. Does belonging to this Krewe make a person a target for murder?’

  ‘Krewe Charbonerrie. Named after a young group of radicals in the early 1800s who tried to overthrow the French government.’

  She stared into his eyes, making a strong connection. He shrank back into his booth as she continued.

  ‘Membership, as I understand
it, is very restrictive and very pricey. The Krewe is open only to the rich and powerful.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It struck me that a judge in the juvenile system, while powerful in certain circles, is probably not a rich person.’

  ‘So he was a member. Someone sponsored him. Gave him the money to join the organization,’ Archer said. ‘Isn’t that possible? Or maybe he inherited a lot of money. A lot of folks are not what they appear, Miss Cordray.’

  ‘It was a voice of desperation, Detective. This Rayland Foster wanted to be heard. He was telling me, six months out, that this killing had been planned. I had no idea where to go with the information. There was no dead judge when he spoke to me, and I was confused. You, Detective Archer, were not even on the force at that time. You were still dealing with your problems in Detroit.’

  Archer blinked. What could she possibly know about his problems?

  ‘You see, I had no idea who to contact, or whether I even should. I had no name, no time frame, nothing.’

  Archer understood. The girl didn’t want a repeat of her mother’s mistake.

  ‘But knowing now what I know, I believe very strongly that this information is correct. Mr Foster knows.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He believes that the death of David Lerner is related to the judge’s membership in this Krewe.’

  ‘David Lerner, belonging to a Krewe—’

  ‘As I said, a very expensive Krewe. You must put up one hundred thousand dollars just to apply. Then, if you are accepted into Krewe Charbonerrie, another one hundred thousand dollars is required. Detective, the cost to join this organization is two hundred thousand dollars. Not an insignificant sum.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I think, if you look into it, you will see that a judge in this city makes about one hundred fifty thousand dollars a year. Maybe one ten after taxes. So where does he come up with the membership money?’

  ‘So, he spent almost two years’ salary to belong to this club.’

  ‘Krewe. It’s called a Krewe. On the surface, the judge did not show a large inheritance and his investment strategies were suspect.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I know, Detective. I know.’

  Archer nodded in frustration. ‘We’re working on his background.’ This wisp of a girl seemed to have all the knowledge at her fingertips and his department had just started. It pissed him off.

  ‘I have a very strong feeling, Detective, that if you look into his membership to Krewe Charbonerrie, you will find your killer. At the very least you will find the reason he was killed.’

  The why factor.

  ‘It’s that simple?’

  ‘It may be. Mr Foster feels it’s very important.’

  ‘But he never vocalized that feeling. You just told me that. You never heard him tell you that.’

  ‘He put his information in my head.’

  ‘Who is this Mr Foster?’

  ‘He is at this time a pathetic, failing man. He’s sick, old, and his family doesn’t see him anymore. And besides his dementia, he has mobility issues. He’s confined to a wheelchair.’ She paused. ‘And he is insanely rich, and he has made everyone in his immediate circle rich.’

  Archer missed any empathy in her description of the patient.

  ‘Who was he? What’s his past?’

  ‘He was an industrialist. Rayland Foster made a fortune in the chemical manufacturing business, and in the process poisoned as much of the Mississippi River as he possibly could. According to everything I’ve learned, he dumped tons of waste into our river. He used people and natural resources like they were his personal property. From what I have heard, he was not a nice man.’

  The beer gone warm, he pushed it aside.

  ‘And was he in this Krewe?’

  ‘Detective Archer, he was the grand leader of this Krewe. A powerful, cruel man who won his place by domination.’

  ‘Apparently that power has ended.’

  She smiled faintly, shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘Maybe. But as long as he lives, he poses a threat. You may find this hard to believe, Detective, but when someone is impotent, they often find other ways to impregnate. As long as this man is alive, he is a concern.’

  ‘That’s it? Rayland Foster, in a nursing home with no way to communicate to the outside world, is still a danger?’

  ‘Detective, this reprobate wears the tattoo of a coiled snake on his right wrist.’

  The coiled serpent. He’d seen it on Judge Lerner’s pale, bloated hand. Maybe she was on to something.

  ‘The snake is a voodoo symbol, but apparently it is the symbol of Krewe Charbonerrie as well. Rest assured, his tattoo and the symbol of Krewe Charbonerrie has nothing to do with the spirit of voodoo. I can guarantee that. I feel very strongly that his tattoo physically ties him to the Krewe.’

  Reaching into her bag, the petite lady pulled out a small brown pouch. ‘This, Detective, is for you.’

  Archer picked it up and studied the brown cloth. It fit in the palm of his hand. Whatever was inside was lumpy, uneven, like tiny twigs and stones.

  ‘It’s gris gris,’ she said. ‘Powerful stuff, made from a swamp man’s ingredients.’

  ‘Swamp man?’

  ‘Matebo, a man my mother holds dear. That’s not important.’

  ‘And this gris gris?’

  ‘I made it for you. Keep it with you at all times.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘It will keep you safe.’

  ‘Am I currently in danger?’

  The young girl took a deep breath, held it for a second, then let it out.

  ‘I know you are skeptical right now. But you are walking into some serious situations. I feel it. Life and death.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘You’ve been in that situation before, Detective Archer. In Detroit. You survived. This time, without some intervention’ – she pointed to the bag – ‘you may not be so fortunate.’

  Archer looked over his shoulder, searching for his waitress. Finally spotting her, he signaled for the check. When he turned back, Solange Cordray was gone.

  His eyes searched the small area, but she had disappeared and there was a sensation in his ears as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.

  17

  The streets were crowded with tourists, even at this early hour. Archer walked to his car, kicking cheap plastic beaded necklaces, to-go drink cups and beer cans into the gutter. Street cleaning was a full time job in this city. He saw the bobbing blond head in the crowd and blocked the view and the idea from his head. Just blend in, ignore the pain, the visions of her. Archer drove back to the station, deciding to check on the Krewe and on Solange Cordray’s background before he returned to his tiny cottage. The girl had grabbed his attention and as far-fetched as it seemed, he hoped she could bring some serious information to the case.

  ‘Hey, Q.’ Detective Josh Levy called out as Archer entered the bullpen. ‘We tore up the judge’s house today.’

  He turned and nodded. ‘Anything interesting?’ Another piece of the puzzle.

  ‘Not much to look at from the outside. A little place down in the Garden District. Dead end street. Guy lived alone, but lived well.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m no connoisseur of art but this guy had some classy stuff. Some pretty fancy pieces. Take a look.’

  Levy held out his iPhone as he scrolled through photographs of some of the paintings in Lerner’s home. A couple drawings of nudes, men and women, and some nicely framed city scenes, possibly Paris or London.

  ‘Nice furniture, sixty-eight-inch flat screen, and a cream-colored Jag convertible in the garage. I could learn to live like that. We’ve got the Jag and we’re going through it.’

  ‘He was a judge. You know they tend to make a little more than detectives.’ He smiled at Levy.

  ‘Strange coincidence happened while we were checking the place out.’

  ‘Yea
h?’

  ‘Welker is outside, taking a smoke break, and down the road comes a car. Now this guy, Judge Lerner, lives on a dead end street, so according to the neighbors there’s always somebody driving down this street, and turning around in Lerner’s driveway. They finally realize it’s not a through street. But this was a bit unusual.’

  ‘And you’re going to tell me why.’

  ‘The car, according to Welker, was a cream-colored Jag. Identical to the one in the garage.’

  ‘There are people who have the money to buy those kinds of cars. It can’t be that unique.’

  ‘Driver pulls into the drive, sees Welker and our unmarked car, backs up and peels out. Maybe you’re right. It could be a strange coincidence. I don’t know if we’ll ever know.’

  ‘Did you run it?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing yet.’

  ‘We’re grasping for anything,’ Archer said.

  ‘You know, someday I’ll go to law school and get me a promotion so I can afford some high-end car. But here’s the kicker. Check it out.’

  He held the phone up and Archer stared at the screen.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘A bunch of small photos that sit on his white Young Chang baby grand piano. About forty mug shots of kids that we think he sentenced. That’s Lerner’ – he scrolled to another photograph on the screen of two men standing in front of the same Young Chang, the same collection of framed mug shots in the background – ‘and the guy next to him, smiling, is the warden at the juvie prison up the river. Russell Jakes. And there are maybe a couple hundred more of these framed mug shots scattered around the house.’

  ‘He’s proud of his record.’ Archer studied the picture, wondering what kind of man would glorify his conquests.

  ‘Look, he’s got some kind of number on each photo.’ Levy pointed. ‘You can see the ones closer to the front. This smacks of spiking the ball, Detective.’ Levy gave him a frown.

  Archer paused for a moment.

  ‘You’re a cop. You should applaud the arrests, and the convictions. That’s what we’re here for.’ He knew the detective was right, but here he was, standing up for the judge.