by Emily Ford
The Detective jogs down the street towards the skyscraper hotel and the chaos surrounding it. “Christ,” he curses under his breath. A group of spectators and at least two news crews are already at the scene hovering just outside of the yellow police tape.
“Detective,” a police officer calls to him.
“Christ, Danny. Get all these people back, and tell them to go home.”
“We are behind the police tape, Detective!” calls a female voice from the crowd. “We have a right to be here. The people of this city have a right to see this.”
“I haven’t even seen this yet, Ruth,” he answers, annoyed.
The news reporter approaches him and positions herself and her cameraman between the Detective and the police tape. She signals her cameraman to begin filming. “Detective Jenkins, can you confirm that this death is connected to the recent murders in the city?”
The Detective holds his hands up in front of the camera. “I can’t confirm anything right now. I don’t have any details, Ruth,” he says as he slides around her and ducks under the police tape.
“Who is responsible, Detective? Do you have any leads? Why are they doing this?”
“What makes you think I know? If I did, the police department would have held a press conference by now.”
“What is the significance of the Tarot card inside the victim’s mouth?”
“What? Goddam it.” He loathes it when the reporters find out about a crime before he does. He scans the crowd of first responders and moves away from the police tape. “Danny!”
A young police officer scrambles towards him in response.
“How the hell does the press know about a Tarot card? Are we just telling everyone everything now?”
“No, sir, I-”
“Get them the hell back from my crime scene!”
“Yes, s…sir!” Danny stutters. He and another officer rush over to the reporters and gathering crowd to herd them father away from the scene.
Ruth yells over the shoulders of the corralling officers. “How long are these murders going to continue, Detective? This city isn’t safe!”
Ignoring her questions, the detective inspects the scene. A well-dressed man’s body lies supine in the middle of Canal Street, his head having exploded from the impact after what the detective assessed was a long fall. The shattered glass around him glistens in the morning sun. Fresh streams of blood pour out from under the body and roll into a street drain at the curb.
An officer hands the detective a pair of blue latex gloves. “Thanks,” he says and shoves his hands into them. He’s after one thing: the Tarot card wedged inside the dead man’s mouth. Crouching, he pulls it out slowly. One side is blank, save for bloody smudges. On the other side, The Fool smiles beneath more smears of blood. “Shit,” the Detective mutters. An evidence technician holds open a plastic bag, and he carefully drops the card down into it. “Who’s the suit?”
“His identification says he’s Vincent Dupre, from Brooklyn. That’s your old neighborhood, right, Detective?”
“Yeah,” he answers, distracted. He cranes his neck back to look up at the top of the skyscraper hotel towering above them. “He fall off the top of the Marriott?”
“We think so. We have a team up there to check things out, sir.”
He gives a nod of approval. “Let me know what you find out.”
“Detective, there’s more,” calls Johnny, a plainclothes police officer walking briskly towards him.
The Detective’s protégé wears a sober expression. There are few people whose opinions matter to the Detective, and Johnny is the youngest. Despite being one of the younger members of the force at twenty-nine, he’s arguably the most disciplined and diligent member. His service in the Army as a Military Police officer enabled him to learn and adapt quickly to the rigors and requirements of civilian law enforcement. His reputation as a by-the-book lawman, combined with perfect manners and pristine personal hygiene, painstakingly ironed uniform, sharp military haircut and always closely-shaven face, sparked the other officers on the force to coin the phrase “Johnny Justice” when referring to him.
The Detective waits for his protégé. “Johnny – more what?”
“Bodies. On the roof,” he says as he points to the top of the hotel.
“Damn it. Okay, let’s go,” the Detective says. “Johnny, you come with me. Danny you keep these people back, understand?”
“Yes, sir!” Danny answers.
The Detective leads the way into the hotel lobby, with Johnny close behind. They step into the elevator and press the button for the top floor. When the elevator doors close, Johnny breaks the silence and turns his concerned expression to his mentor.
“What are we looking at, Detective? Gangs? Mafia?”
The Detective sighs and rubs his chin. “Could be either. Could be something else, too. I don’t know. The thing with the Tarot cards bothers me. Most of the time when someone leaves a calling card it’s likely to be a serial killer or something other than organized crime.” He notices the puzzled, pensive look on Johnny’s face. “You all right?”
Johnny stirs from his thoughts. “Yeah. I just can’t understand this kind of thing, you know? As long as I’ve been in this line of work, I still can’t understand it.”
“What? Guys getting thrown off buildings?”
“Murders. I could never be the kind of man that commits cold-blooded murder.”
“Johnny, man is ugly. There’s nothing worse than us.”
“Sometimes I don’t see how God allows these things to pass.” Johnny usually keeps his religion to himself, but his occasional mention of it makes the Detective even fonder of him. A moral man in the midst of corruption deserves respect even from a jaded, hard-nosed crime fighting veteran like himself.
“God?” The Detective snorts as the bell rings and the elevator stops at the top floor. “When’s the last time you saw God in New Orleans?”
The elevator door opens to the top floor of the hotel. Adjacent to the elevator, two police officers guard the entrance to the stairwell. One of them opens the door to the stairwell for the Detective and Johnny and they climb the two flights of stairs leading to the hotel rooftop. Once outside, they follow the trail of police officers and forensic unit personnel to the scene of the crime.
The bodies lay where the men died, all in fine suits, just like the man that landed on the street below. Some are face up, some face down, but all have dark pools of blood around them.
The Detective and Johnny pause to examine the first body they come to. An evidence technician approaches to give them an update.
“No bullet casings, no bullet wounds. Each victim has multiple lacerations to the major arteries. They pretty much bled out, so our guess is the weapons used were knives or other sharp objects.”
“Other than knives?” the Detective asks. He squats down to get a better look at the body.
The evidence technician nods. “Some of these wounds are too deep for a small knife blade, even for a hunting blade. It had to be something bigger, like a machete ... or a sword.”
“Any weapons found?” He studies the bloody gash across the dead man’s throat.
“None, sir,” the evidence technician responds. “We’ve looked extensively.”
“And the Tarot cards?”
The young technician raises his eyebrows. “All of them had cards in their mouths.”
“My God,” Johnny says.
“God isn’t here today, John,” the Detective says soberly. “What about IDs? Where are these guys from?”
“Hey, Jones,” the evidence technician calls to his partner. “IDs on these guys?”
“Yeah,” his partner answers. “Looks like they’re all from New York.”
“Your old neighborhood, Detective?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “How long have they been dead?”
“Judging by the state of the bodies and lack of rigor mortis, I’d say less than an hour.”
The Detective stands. He tu
rns to Johnny. “All right, I want hotel surveillance footage, from this building and surrounding buildings, I know they’ve got ‘em everywhere. I want footage from outdoor cameras, indoor cameras, elevators, stairwells. I want tourist videos. Question everyone you see. They may not have seen who did this but maybe they saw something that can help.”
“Got it,” Johnny affirms.
“Whoever did this could be close.” With his hands on his hips the Detective slowly rotates to survey the surrounding buildings, his eyes gliding over rooftops and windows of neighboring buildings. “They might be watching.”
