The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  “I want you to do something for me,” she said.

  “Anything, Sophia. What do you need?”

  “Contact your lawyer, Swartz. Tell him the bank box contents are definitely a part of a criminal investigation. See if he can get the judge to have an expedited injunction hearing tomorrow. I am sure the criminal judge we are seeking the warrant from will want to talk to the judge handling Sarah’s succession. Judges don’t like to blindside each other.”

  “I’ll do it right away,” I said.

  I called Mr. Swartz. After I told him about the new developments in the criminal investigation, he hung up to call the judge. Within two hours Swartz called me back saying the expedited injunction hearing would be held tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM.

  “My God, that is fast,” I said.

  “Yes, unusually so,” Swartz commented. “In light of the fact that a judge in the criminal division had already spoken to our succession judge, I’m not surprised. No judge wants to be blamed for impeding the apprehension of the serial killer terrorizing New Orleans.”

  “I’ll meet you at your office at 9:00 then.”

  After hanging up with Swartz, I called Sophia. She told me that the criminal court judge had spoken to the injunction/succession judge. They agreed to hold off on issuing a warrant till after the injunction hearing tomorrow. Sophia and I planned to meet at the courthouse tomorrow shortly before 10:00.

  As night fell, I went on my blog to report the death of another victim of the Quarter Killer. I wasn’t surprised to see that the news had already spread through the blogosphere. People were relieved to know the task force wasn’t being dissolved and the investigation would continue. I couldn’t help but think, well, that’s a victory for the good guys. But, how could you possibly celebrate when it took another dead woman to combat political influence?

  I fell asleep early wanting to be at the top of my game the next day. I slept hard; comforted by the small victory we’d won. When morning came I popped out of bed like a bottle rocket on the fourth of July. Once again I put the Keurig to work and had my morning coffee. The news was abuzz about the latest victim of the Quarter Killer. She was only 21, a sweet-faced nursing student originally from a small town in Texas. Of course, she had parents and grandparents, younger siblings, friends, a fiancé. More than a dozen people who would grieve for years.

  Looking in my closet, I chose a black business suit to wear. I felt like a knight of the round table putting on my armor before battle. In a way I guess that was exactly what I was doing. Left behind were the party dress and the Jimmy Choo shoes. This was no party. This was war.

  Sophia was already in the courtroom when Mr. Swartz and I arrived. Jess Johnson was seated in the rear of the room. I wondered if she was there as a reporter or a friend. Could she even separate the two after her life as a hard-nosed journalist? The judge called our case, and we took a seat at the left counsel table. Rogan and the ACC lawyers sat at the table to the right. ACC’s lawyers put their evidence on and made impassioned pleas for the protection of contracts and confidentiality. Mr. Swartz called Jess Johnson, me and Sophia to the witness stand to show the judge the letter from Mark Stevens and repeat Sarah’s comments. Mr. Swartz responded to ACC’s lawyers with an equally passionate plea for the free flow of commerce and individual rights. The judge paid attention to the arguments; I think mostly to be courteous.

  After their respective arguments concluded, the judge spoke. “The court has reviewed all of the contents of the safety deposit box belonging to the decedent, Sarah Richard. The court has also reviewed the confidentiality contract between the decedent and ACC. This court finds that the confidentiality contract between the parties did not contemplate concealing any criminal activity that may have occurred by either party. The court further finds that the contents of the bank box may contain evidence of a crime or crimes. The temporary restraining order is dissolved, and the injunction is denied. Mr. Swartz, your client may retrieve the contents of the bank box from my clerk immediately. Court is adjourned.”

  Mr. Swartz turned to me and said we won. I hugged the normally stiff lawyer, making him uncomfortable. The clerk handed him the envelope with the contents of Sarah’s bank box. Rogan glared at us for a few moments and stormed out of the courtroom. Sophia and I sat in the rear of the courtroom and opened the envelope. It contained jewelry, a sheet of paper with latitude and longitude coordinates written on it and an old VCR tape.

  “I’ll bet these coordinates reveal the location of the sunken ACC barge,” Sophia said. “We will be able to find it now. I wonder what is on the VCR tape.”

  “I don’t even know anyone with a VCR player,” I said. Jess joined us and I asked her, “Do you know anyone who has a player for this tape?”

  Jess said, “I have one in my storage shed. I’ll bring it to you later tonight. We can all watch it together.”

  Sophia looked at me with trepidation in her eyes and said, “You’d better give me the VCR tape. I will take it and log it in as evidence after we watch it. It would be better evidence at any criminal trial if I had custody of it. I saw the anger in Bart Rogan’s eyes when the judge ruled. I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone right now. What are your plans?”

  “I am heading home to update my blog,” I said.

  Sophia placed the VCR tape in her purse and zipped it up. Then she asked, “Do you mind if I come with you?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “I’d feel much better if you did.”

  “OK, then I’ll get my car and follow you home,” she said.

  Sophia and I left the courtroom. I headed to my place in my car, she in hers. We talked on our cells along the way. She had already Googled the coordinates retrieved from Sarah’s safety deposit box. The coordinates intersected at a spot 50 miles off the coast of Barranquilla, Colombia. Sophia told me Barranquilla was Colombia’s fourth largest city. A port city, Barranquilla was most likely the destination of the ACC barge before it sunk.

  We arrived at my condo and sat at my kitchen/conference table. I opened my computer and brought up my blog. Sophia asked to use my bathroom and I pointed her down the short hallway that led to my bedroom. I started blogging about the morning’s events.

  I heard the toilet flush and shortly after, a crash, like Sophia had fallen over my dresser. I called out, “Sophia are you OK?” I heard murmured groans and stood to go check on her. Then he emerged from the hall. Him, the tattooed man Sophia called El Serpiente, the serpent. He had Sophia’s gun in one hand and a long knife, like the one Jim Bowie made famous in the early 1800s, in the other hand. Blood was dripping from the knife blade. Sophia’s blood. I shrieked.

  The Serpent pointed the gun at me and said, “Callate! Te sientas.”

  I knew what that meant: shut up, sit down. Stunned, scared, and worried about Sophia, I sat, my eyes welded to his. My heart pounded in my ears. My breath went short. I struggled to speak through my dry mouth.

  “OK,” I said.

  His eyes were dark and cold, a nasty smile on his lips. He slithered up to the table where I sat. I could hear Sophia’s labored breathing in the hallway.

  “Your friend, she’s bleeding on your floor. Tell me where the tape is,” he said.

  He laid Sophia’s gun on the kitchen table across from me, too far for me to reach. He pointed the bloody knife at me and said, “Maybe you live if you tell me where the tape is. You no tell, I no shoot you. I use my knife. Soon you tell. Next, I cut the head from the puta cop. You watch me kill her. I make you hold her head after I cut it off. Your bitch friend, Sarah, she no tell. I cut her throat. You tell?”

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his. I didn’t answer. I glanced at Sophia’s gun to see if it was within my reach. I knew if I told him where the tape was, he would kill me and cut off Sophia’s head anyway. All I would gain is a faster death. Maybe, I could reach the gun if I caught him off guard. I glanced
quickly at his eyes. He looked like he’d be very happy to take it slowly. He smiled a viper’s smile and started toward me.

  Boom! Boom! Explosions from the hallway deafened my ears. Blood spattered all over me, covering his face and mine. The Serpent fell forward, slamming into the table and rolling off to the floor. I could see Sophia lying on the floor, gun in hand, her pants leg pulled up slightly exposing a second holster strapped to her leg. She shot the Serpent using the police double-tap method, hitting him in the head and neck. Sarah’s murderer was lying dead on my kitchen floor. He couldn’t hurt me or anyone else again.

  I grabbed my cell and called 911, “Officer down, officer down.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. The operator took my address and dispatched EMS and the police. I ran to Sophia. She had two stab wounds in her back. Blood pumped from her wounds with each beat of her heart. I pressed a towel against the wounds to try to stop the bleeding. She looked at me with fading eyes. I did my best to comfort her till the paramedics arrived. Her eyelids slowly lowered and color abandoned her face. Her chest still rose and fell ever so slightly.

  As the paramedics worked on her, I asked, “Will she make it?”

  “She’s lost a lot of blood. We’ll do our best.” Then, they sped off to the hospital.

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  Devil’s Disciples

  The police swarmed my condo. Uniformed officers walked in and out of my place without purpose or cause. They all wanted to curse the body of the tattooed man who stabbed a fellow law enforcement officer. Even though she worked for a different agency, she was one of their own. Each took the attack personally. It was as if they wanted the Serpent to come alive so they could kill him again personally, each one of them. I felt the same way, except that I was still shaking from the gunshots.

  Finally, a female sheriff’s deputy walked me outside to sit on my front steps. I assured them I wasn’t injured but they had the paramedics check me anyway. Detective Baker arrived on the scene and quickly walked over to me. I lunged at him, throwing my arms around him. All my pent-up emotions escaped, and I bawled. He patted my back, assuring me everything would be OK. I knew it wouldn’t, but it felt good to hear anyway.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No, he never got the chance to lay a hand on me. When he came at me, Sophia shot him dead. She saved my life,” I sobbed.

  Baker looked over the scene like an eagle surveying the landscape. Unhappy with what he saw, he barked orders to secure the scene and get those units out of his crime scene. CSI arrived and cordoned off the entire condo.

  Detective Baker returned to me and asked, “Did he say anything to you or Inspector Garcia?”

  “He must have ambushed Sophia from behind. I didn’t hear him say anything till he approached me with the bloody knife. He called her a cop puta. He admitted he killed Sarah too. He wanted me to give him the VCR tape from Sarah’s safety deposit box. That’s all he said before Sophia shot him.”

  Baker looked around and asked, “Where is the VCR tape?”

  “It was in Sophia’s purse,” I said.

  He left me, waking through the sea of police around my condo, to search the house for the tape. He asked several of the officers and CSIs if they had the tape. All said no.

  Baker exploded, his nostrils flaring. “Find that fucking tape if you have to stay here all night. No one goes in or out of this place till it’s found. Not even the coroner.”

  After answering all questions for at least six people at least six times each, I drove to the hospital to check on Sophia. When I arrived she was just coming out of surgery. Several police officers held vigil. They whisked Sophia to intensive care. The officers informed me that the deep stab wounds had pierced her lungs and she was in a coma. She’d lost a great deal of blood before paramedics were able to stabilize her. It would be touch and go for a while, but at least she was alive.

  I wondered if Mr. Jenkins or Mr. Bennett, Mark Steven’s killer, were still in the hospital. I asked a candy striper seated behind the nurses’ station, texting on her cell phone, about both. Mr. Bennett went to jail and had some form of hospice care but Mr. Jenkins suffered another stroke was still in the hospital. I made my way to his room. There was Gertie standing watch like a loyal, trained German Shepard. She seemed withdrawn, staring into empty space but perked up when I knocked on the open door and entered the room.

  “Oh, hello, Alexandra. How nice to see you,” Gerti said. “Honey, look, it’s Alexandra. She’s come to visit you.”

  Mr. Jenkins looked up at me. His face cracked ever so slightly with a nearly imperceptible smile. This man who once commanded attention and respect in every room he entered lay helpless now. His eyes revealed his resignation that he would never leave this room. He managed to speak louder than his condition should allow.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, Mr. Jenkins?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry for Rogan. Mark Stevens and Bart Rogan made Sarah betray herself. Alexandra, no good ever comes from compromising your principles. It always comes back to haunt you. You can delay the reckoning, but it will come. Now it’s my turn to pay,” Jenkins said. “When you make a deal with the devil, one day the devil comes for you. He comes at a time of his choosing. All your begging, crying and screaming won’t stop him. He comes and he takes what is his, what you gave him.”

  Gerti cried and took her husband’s hand. What could I say? He was dying and he knew it. Was this his way of making peace with his life? Was he apologizing to me or Sarah? Did it really matter? He just needed to say I’m sorry to someone. All his political deals and ethical compromises led him to this sad and lonely moment. A moment to purge his soul before he died, a futile attempt to secure redemption. A redemption I knew he would not find. I had learned that redemption never comes from your words. It comes from your actions. Sarah redeemed herself. Mr. Jenkins did not. I felt sorry for what he’d done to himself. But his words were true. The devil always collects.

  I left Gerti and Mr. Jenkins alone to share what time they had left together. I traveled to the cafeteria to get some food. Food? I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. The hospital had organic food without pesticides. I needed to rid my life of pesticides, I thought. Now was as good a time as any. The quiet time eating was just what I needed. When I finished, I returned to Sophia’s floor. She was in her room.

  A police officer was standing guard in front of her door. He called my name as I approached. He knew me. Most of the officers knew me now. I guess it made sense. I was both part of the case and part of the investigation. Sophia was still comatose, and I sat in silence, watching her breathe. There had been so much sadness over the last few months. I wanted to shed the pain of my mother’s death, Sarah’s death, Jenkins’ fall and Sophia’s near death, but I couldn’t. Bart Rogan caused these losses, and he would cause more if he weren’t stopped. Fate dealt me this hand. Now I had to stop him or suffer more pain.

  I sat in Sophia’s room for more than an hour, just watching her. She had faced down death. God willing, she was going to survive. The doctors asked me to leave. They wanted Sophia to rest undisturbed even though they didn’t think she was aware of anything but were erring in favor of caution. I can leave, I thought, but where can I go? I can’t go to my home. My condo is a crime scene. I could go to Sarah’s house. It would soon be mine. Yet something in me said it wasn’t safe to go there. The battered women’s center, that’s where I needed to go, I too was battered. I showed no bruises, cuts or scars. But I was damaged. Damaged by the evil that commandeered a man’s soul directing him to do its bidding.

  I spent the night at the center. I told Susan all that had happened. She comforted me, just like she had comforted so many victims of attacks over her many years at the center. Her strength buoyed many women through impossible events and unspeakable tragedies. She was a rock. I wondered what brought her to this place in her life. W
as she born to do this work? No one knew her story. I was determined to find out, but this was not the time to ask.

  The next morning my phone rang. It was Detective Baker. “Got a strange request for you,” he said. “Garry Bennett wants you to visit him. We have only been letting him see his immediate family but we will make an exception for you. Do you want to see him? I don’t think he has much time left.”

  Part of me wondered why he wanted to see me. I really didn’t know him. He didn’t know me. But my journalist instincts kicked in. “Yes,” I said. “When?”

  “Like I said, he doesn’t have long. He may not make it till the morning or he may last for months. Can you see him today?”

  I agreed to go straight to the Parish Prison to see Mr. Bennett. What a horrible place to spend your last days. Orleans Parish Prison – or Central Lockup as it is affectionately known – is notorious for its inmates and police brutality. It is rumored around New Orleans that if you piss the cops off, you’ll be placed in a cell with violent offenders who will exact punishment the cops can’t get away with. Detective Baker accompanied me to the jail. A sheriff’s deputy escorted us to the infirmary and there lay Gary Bennett.

  Detective Baker waited in the hall while I spoke with Mr. Bennett. He was pale and virtually lifeless. He spoke to me in a raspy voice.

  “Alexandra, my time is short. I must unburden myself of a grievous mistake I made. I killed the wrong man.”

  “Mr. Bennett, I...” I interrupted.

  “Please, Alexandra, just listen. I don’t have long to live. Please just listen,” he repeated. “A tattooed Hispanic man approached me weeks ago and told me Mark Stevens was the Quarter Killer, who murdered my daughter. He said that if I killed Stevens, my family would be taken care of. I knew at the time I was dying and would have gladly killed the Quarter Killer, no strings attached. I said yes and my family was assured security. I saw on the news the man who was killed in your house by the Interpol agent was the same man with whom I’d made the deal. I also know now that Mark Stevens was not the Quarter Killer. He was a patsy and so was I. Please find my daughter’s real killer so my soul can rest.”