The Best American Mystery Stories, Volume 17

by Lisa Scottoline

  The silence wasn’t probable cause for arrest, by a long shot, but it drew Savary to focus on Lamont, who had been arrested the previous week on Felicity Street for possession of crack cocaine with attempt to distribute. Savary hurried back to headquarters and pulled up a mug shot of Lamont, scooped up a copy of the videotape from the Jeanfreau murder, and headed straight back to his car.

  On his way to the FBI Building on Leon Simon Boulevard, Savary called an old friend on his cell. Elvin Bishop had played middle linebacker at St. Augustine while Savary was the team’s star defensive end. Both were good enough to bring two state championships to St. Aug, but these particular Purple Knights both passed up college ball. Bishop’s knees required orthopedic surgery after their senior year, and Savary passed on playing for Southern Miss for a full academic scholarship to Xavier.

  “You busy?” Savary asked when Bishop called back. He’d left a voicemail and hoped his friend was in town.

  “Just got out of a meeting.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Now?”

  “I need a favor.”

  The FBI compound, surrounded by a twenty-foot steel-and-brick fence, was guarded by Department of Justice police, who stopped Savary at the gate and directed him where to park his unmarked police car. The homicide detective did not have an official U.S. government “secret” clearance, so he remained in a first-floor, windowless waiting room until Bishop could come downstairs to meet him.

  At five-ten, Bishop was stocky, his face filling out from his high school days. He flashed the familiar easy smile as he approached. Savary stood and they shook hands, slapped each other’s shoulders.

  “Glad to see you’re still in town,” Savary said.

  Typical FBI custom was to have agents work away from their home for years before they had an opportunity to be stationed back home. Bishop spent his first five years in Baltimore but returned with the glut of special agents right after Katrina and remained.

  “So, what you got?”

  Savary reached into his briefcase and withdrew the videotape and the envelope with the mug shot. “Need you to send this to Quantico. See if your lab guys can do a facial comparison for me.”

  Bishop laughed. “You been watching too much CSI bullshit.”

  “I know you got the technology. This is a first-degree murder case. You gonna help me, or do I have to call Coach on you?”

  They both laughed at that, although a call to Coach Washington would prod the old man to tongue-lash Bishop. Washington might be retired, but these were his boys and he was still around to coach them.

  “Remember that damn hook-and-ladder play?”

  “Never forget something like that.”

  St. Augustine Purple Knights versus their nemesis, the Archbishop Rummel Raiders, the only team to beat St. Aug both years of their back-to-back state championship seasons. Their senior year, St. Aug held on to a six-point lead. Ten seconds left, fourth and goal, and the Raiders’ two sacks and a penalty had them all the way back to the St. Aug forty-yard line.

  Everyone expected a Hail Mary pass. The Raiders had beat the Brother Martin Crusaders earlier in the year with one. No one expected a hook-and-ladder. Savary drew back into pass coverage. The Rummel quarterback dropped back but threw short, to their fullback, who wheeled and lateraled to their star running back, a fleet-footed, skinny white boy—they later learned he was the star of their track team and the fastest kid in the school.

  “Vincent—I forget his last name,” Savary said.

  Vincent, the Raider running back, scampered past two linebackers, but Savary had him cut off near the sidelines with Bishop and their strong safety closing quickly.

  “Still don’t know how the boy got through.”

  They’d reviewed the videotape again and again. The four players collided at the thirty-yard line. Bishop and the safety went down, Savary pulling the Raider toward the turf, only Vincent’s legs kept churning and he yanked away and hit the afterburners.

  “Fastest white boy I’ve ever seen.”

  Vincent outraced the St. Aug cornerback and free safety to the end zone. Extra point good. Rummel 21–St. Augustine 20.

  “I bumped into Vincent right after Katrina. He’s with ATF,” Bishop said. “His great-great—I don’t know the number of greats—was wounded at the Battle of New Orleans.”

  Savary felt goose bumps again.

  Both men knew the story of Major Joseph Savary and the 2nd Battalion of Free Men of Color.

  Savary held up the videotape. “I need a Hail Mary on this one.”

  “We’ll see. Wait here.”

  “Wait?”

  “Don’t have to send it to there. The meeting I was in had our two top forensic scientists from there. Let’s see what they say.” As he backed out of the room with videotape and envelope, Bishop pointed to the far wall. “There’s coffee and muffins.”

  The coffee was weak but the pecan muffin quite delicious. Savary had a second and was dozing on a fairly comfortable sofa when Bishop came back in with an Asian man in a gray lab coat.

  “This is Special Agent Kent Yamasaki.” Bishop introduced Savary and eased behind the smallish Japanese-American, who said, “There is a ninety-seven percent probability that the man in the video is the man in the photograph. I am having a report prepared for you.”

  “Ninety-seven percent is good, isn’t it?”

  “We never go higher than ninety-eight. It’s as close as you can get, Detective.”

  Savary called Jodie on his cell on the way back to headquarters.

  “Who’s the duty judge?”

  “Joe Sayzo.”

  “Dammit.”

  Sayzo was as anti-police as they came. Better known as “Lack of PC Sayzo,” the man rarely saw enough probable cause in officers testifying at preliminary hearings, forcing the DA to produce fact witnesses, who were hard enough to get to court for a trial, much less a hearing. Sayzo saw even less probable cause in most warrants.

  “I don’t have enough for an arrest warrant,” Savary said. “I was thinking I have enough for a search warrant. I’ll go talk to the suspect, case he wants to cop out.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  Neither had to mention the fact that Judge Marcus Summers was next up as duty judge. That would be tomorrow. A retired state trooper, Summers understood probable cause for what it was, “a reasonable belief that an individual committed a specific crime.” Far from the “beyond a reasonable doubt” necessary for conviction, PC was what every cop strived for. It was up to the DA to present a case “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Damn attorneys. Shakespeare had it right. First, kill all the lawyers.

  Two sheriff’s deputies brought Oris Lamont, who was young and thin, like the killer in the video, into the small, stuffy interview room at Orleans Parish Prison where Detective Joseph Savary sat behind the small table with a Miranda rights form. He’d filled out the pertinent details of name, address, date, and time.

  Lamont sat in the chair across the table from Savary and reached for the mini digital tape recorder next to Savary’s hand.

  “Don’t touch it,” Savary said. He introduced himself and asked, “You have a lawyer?”

  “Not yet.”

  Savary started reading Lamont his rights.

  “I know them,” Lamont interrupted.

  Savary continued until he reached the waiver portion and read, “I understand what my rights are. No pressure or coercion of any kind was used against me to waive my rights. At this time, I am willing to answer questions without a lawyer present.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s not about any chicken-shit drug charge.”

  Lamont’s dark brown eyes went wide. He leaned back in the folding chair. He tried smiling. Savary pulled a crime-scene photo from his briefcase, a photo of the exterior of Jeanfreau’s from the afternoon of the murder. Lamont looked at it but his eyes revealed nothing, not even recognition of a place he must have passed hundreds of times
in his short life.

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no murder.”

  “Who said anything about a murder? I could be a robbery detective for all you know.”

  “You got a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.” Savary pushed the waiver forward. “You’ll have to sign the waiver to talk with me.”

  Lamont folded his arms. Savary shrugged, picked up the waiver form, and said, “You can go back inside then. With your padnas.”

  “I got no padnas.” Lamont reached for the form, signed it, said, “I want you to tell the judge I cooperated. Damn drug charge.”

  “When was the last time you were in Jeanfreau’s?”

  “Man, I don’t know. It’s been a while. A year or so.”

  “Really? You know there’s video inside. You sure you didn’t drop in, get a cold drink?”

  “Nope. I mean yeah. I ain’t been inside.”

  “You remember Mr. Hudson, don’t you?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that old man or any charge he put against me.”

  “I’m not here to talk about shoplifting.”

  Savary tried different tacks. What had Lamont heard about the murder? Was he outside when it happened, maybe saw something? Oris Lamont insisted he hadn’t been at Jeanfreau’s for a year. Savary turned on the tape recorder, read Lamont his rights again, and recorded the young man’s statement, how he hadn’t been in Jeanfreau’s for a year. As he was ending the statement, Savary casually asked, “Old man Hudson”—that’s what Lamont called him—“what did he mean when he touched his chin?”

  “Huh?”

  “When he touched his chin. Was that a signal?”

  Lamont laughed. “That’s no signal. Band-Aid on his chin kept comin’ off, the old fool.”

  “When was this?”

  “No time in particular. I just seen him do that.”

  Lamont added nothing else of value. Didn’t seem overly concerned about the matter. Only added, “I need your name.”

  Savary passed him a business card.

  “I wanna give it to the judge on this cocaine case. Show him I cooperate with the police.”

  Savary went to the morgue early the next morning, caught pathologist Dr. Jess Gomez before the man started on his first autopsy.

  “Go back down to the record room,” Dr. Gomez said. “See the investigator. I usually put everything in my notes. Only put what’s pertinent in the autopsy report, but my notes are more detailed.” Savary found it an hour later. Jack Hudson had a clear Band-Aid on his chin on the day he was murdered.

  “All this may be enough for an arrest warrant,” Jodie said as Savary typed out a search warrant on his computer. “It’ll sure be enough for a search warrant.”

  The right honorable Judge Marcus Summer of Criminal District Court agreed and signed the search warrant for Oris Lamont’s shotgun single house, a block off Felicity Street at the corner of Magnolia and Melpomene. The house smelled of burned cabbage and creaked heavily as the detectives and uniformed officers came through the front door. The place seemed to rock beneath their weight.

  Lamont’s mama wasn’t happy with all the police in her house and being forced to remain in the living room with her five-year-old daughter, who wore a pink dress and hugged a stuffed Sponge Bob doll.

  Savary found a Milky Way wrapper under Oris’s bed, as well as two Baby Ruth wrappers and an Almond Joy wrapper. He also found a Ruger nine-millimeter with six rounds left in a ten-round magazine under a loose floorboard beneath Oris Lamont’s single bed. His mama never saw the gun before. He looked at the little girl and those big eyes stared at the semiautomatic.

  “Is this your gun?” Savary asked the child.

  “That Oris gun.”

  Her mother pulled her away from the detective and glared at him.

  “You’re violating our rights, questioning a baby.”

  Savary gave the woman a cold smile.

  A crowd had gathered outside, kept back by two Sixth District patrol officers. Savary spotted a familiar face and went over to Reverend Milton, who moved toward him.

  “Let him through.”

  The reverend looked Savary in the eye, but only for a moment. He shook his head. “I figured the longer you worked on the case, the more likely you’d figure it out.”

  “You knew about Oris? That he had a gun. That he did it.”

  “Everybody knew, ’cept y’all.” The reverend looked over at Oris’s mother, now standing on the front stoop with her little girl.

  “Can I go talk with her?”

  Savary nodded. “We’re leaving.”

  Reverend Milton grabbed his elbow, looked him in the eye again. “I didn’t see it happen. I mean, I didn’t know for sure, ’cept everyone said it and Oris asked me not to talk to the police. He acted real casual-like. You know what I mean.”

  A crime lab technician took the Ruger to the lab for firearms examination to check if it matched the spent casing found at the crime scene and the bullet removed from Jack Hudson’s brain at the autopsy. Savary went back to Jeanfreau’s and checked the candy bars. The Milky Way wrapper found under Oris’s bed matched the lot number from the Milky Way bars still on the shelf at Jeanfreau’s.

  He wasn’t at his desk ten minutes, just starting his arrest warrant, when the crime lab called. “It’s a match. Casing and projectile from the crime scene came from the Ruger. And we got a good print from one of the cartridges. It’s from your suspect’s right index finger.”

  Savary looked at the wall clock hanging above the unofficial logo of NOPD Homicide, an art deco illustration of a vulture perched atop a gold star-and-crescent badge. Six o’clock. He should be finished with the warrant by the time he usually called his girls. Then he’d see the judge. Then go ruin Oris Lamont’s evening.

  Elvin Bishop smiled as soon as he spotted Jodie Kintyre with Savary in the windowless FBI waiting room. Jodie was in no smiling mood. The special agent’s silver suit, coincidentally, nearly matched the color of Jodie Kintyre’s skirt suit. Joseph Savary’s suit was as dark brown as his eyes. Bishop brought a manila folder to Savary.

  “Official forensic report on your videotape and photo comparison. SA Yamasaki wants to hold on to your evidence and will be available for court testimony.”

  Savary made the introductions, then gave his old friend a brief rundown on the Oris Lamont arrest as they sat, Jodie on the sofa, the two men in soft chairs.

  “He lawyered up,” Savary said, “but we’ve got a good circumstantial case against him.”

  “Good. Glad I could help.”

  Jodie held an envelope up for Bishop, said, “You can help a little more.”

  Bishop took the envelope, which was unsealed, removed the letter inside, and read it, slowly. He looked up at Savary afterward, for a long moment, then at Jodie.

  “You serious about this?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Jodie’s voice was low and firm, her face deadpan. “I’ve been a homicide detective for fourteen years. The new superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department doesn’t sign a letter like that in jest.”

  “Misprision of felony?”

  “Your boss and the U.S. attorney here in New Orleans like using this against crooked cops, don’t they?” Before Bishop could answer, Jodie continued, “We have no sympathy for crooked cops either, but what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  Bishop turned to Savary, who said, in a deeper voice, “Shooting someone in a store is no different from shooting someone on a bridge.”

  “You’re talking about the Danziger shooting?”

  “No, you are. We’re talking about Felicity Street. We’re talking about an entire neighborhood committing misprision of felony. I have a list of names.” Savary gave his old friend a hard look, then let his face relax into a slight smile.

  “It has to be a federal crime,” said Bishop.

  “My killer committed a federal crime,” Savary answered. “Eighteen U.S.C. nine twenty-two (g) makes it
a federal crime for any person who has ever been convicted of any felony to ever possess any firearm regardless of whether it is inside or outside his home. This is a blanket federal ban on all felon gun possession and is punishable by up to ten years in federal prison.”

  Bishop looked at Jodie as she pulled out a sheet of paper and quoted, “Misprision of felony. Eighteen U.S.C., section four. Whoever, having knowledge of the actual commission of a felony cognizable by a court of the United States, conceals and does not as soon as possible make known the same to some judge or other person in civil or military authority under the United States shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both.” Jodie looked up, recited the rest of the statute from memory. “This offense, however, requires active concealment of a known felony rather than merely failing to report it.”

  “An entire neighborhood actively concealed a convicted felon with a gun, concealed a murderer from me. From justice,” Savary added.

  Bishop took in a deep breath. “I’ve been working the Danziger case.”

  “I know. That’s why we came to you.”

  “Those cops met the requirement of active concealment.”

  “So did Oris Lamont’s friends, relatives, and neighbors. I’ll be happy to lay my case out to a federal grand jury.”

  Bishop looked at the door, started to get up, sat back down, and shrugged. “You gonna call Coach on me?”

  “I’m serious about this,” Savary said.

  “I’ll take it to the ASAC.”

  Assistant special agent in charge—Savary ran it through his mind.