John Raven Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  She’s not at The Getted Bar nor Wayne’s Funky-Butt Pub nor a real slimy dive called Grapp’s off Franklin Avenue. At two-thirty, as I climb back into the Caprice, my partner calls me on the radio. His voice is low and serious.

  “10-19 So. Roman. Our perpetrator just arrived with two other subjects.”

  •

  Jodie and I set up in my Caprice a block up So. Derbigny at the corner of Fourth Street. Tony Dunn, with the arrest warrant and search warrant, sits down Derbigny just past Third Street with an unhappy Elmer Fudd who wanted to sit with Jodie so badly he called ‘dibs’ out loud. Jodie looked at him as if he was retarded. It took Jodie a good twenty minutes to calm down. “Like I’m up for ‘dibs’. I think I’ll swat that fat fuck across the back of his head.”

  We have ten units, a total of twenty officers, armed and ready. We plan to wait until four a.m. to hit the house. Give ‘em time to get good and drunk or good and sleepy. The FBI waits up Washington Avenue. No way they’re dirtying their hands on the apprehension. Bob Kay, with Gonzales in what is now the command car, is parked beneath our tree on So. Roman. He hasn’t called for SWAT. This is a Task Force Operation. Kay left Darlene Wilson with Felice. I think that’s the best move we’ve made all night.

  Mullet had gone inside with a tall blond biker and a Latino-looking biker. Their three bikes are still parked out front, two on the sidewalk. At two a.m., the main lights go out. The light from a TV in the front room goes off shortly before three. Forty-five minutes later, we climb out of our units to don our gear.

  I put on a black Kevlar helmet and wrap an armor-plated bullet-proof vest around my torso. So does Jodie. I help Jodie adjust her helmet. We follow Tony Dunn and Elmer Fudd to the front door, which has only a door lock, no dead bolt.

  Mercier and Costanza are right behind with two uniformed officers who will cover the door, and our backs, once we go in. Other officers climb into the back yard and surround the house on both sides.

  I move next to Dunn as he lifts his right foot and slams it against the door just above the lock. The door crashes in and Dunn goes in low. I go in high with my nine-millimeter in my right hand and my flashlight in my left.

  No one’s in the front room.

  Dunn reaches the hallway as I crouch at the other door. Mercier and Costanza step in.

  Jodie shouts, “Police!”

  Mercier tosses a flash grenade down the hall as Costanza tosses one in the room ahead of me. We duck and close our eyes as the grenades go off.

  I rush into the kitchen with Costanza right behind and it takes a moment to see we’re alone. Someone shouts behind us and a shotgun erupts. Several quick shots follow and I lead the way back into the front room.

  “He’s down,” Mercier yells.

  Voices shout outside and a hail of gunfire erupts from the backyard. Twenty seconds after we entered, we turn on the lights to find the blond-haired biker dead in the hall. The other two never made it off the back porch. All were armed with sawed-off shotguns.

  Jodie checks Dunn and Mercier then turns to me and Costanza to see if we’ve been hit.

  The back porch is covered with blood and smells of gunpowder. Five shadows move toward us, like black-clad ghosts. They’d made sure no one got off the porch. Costanza eases forward and check the Latino. Dead.

  As he moves to check Mullet, pulling the long hair away from the man’s face, it hits me. It’s not him. He’s too small.

  “Dammit!”

  I back into the house, pushing my way past Elmer Fudd. Dunn makes a loud burp sound followed by a ‘Zowie’ and two pings, like sonar from some submarine.

  Where the fuck is Mullet? I press my back against the wall, close my eyes and think. The chanting returns, as if I push an invisible ‘play’ button. I feel a sudden calming as I shut out the voices, the footsteps, the smell of death.

  Blood! I see blood.

  Sandie.

  “Where you going?” Jodie shouts behind me as I run to the front porch and leap off. Kay and Gonzales pull up behind me as I drive away. Punching the accelerator, I head the wrong way down Third Street to Claiborne. I make it to Jackson Avenue in five heart-wrenching minutes, running every light, nearly causing three wrecks.

  I take the stairs three at a time, withdrawing the Glock on my way up. Sandie’s door is cracked open. The door frame’s been shattered, the floor littered with splinters from the frame. I lean close and listen. All I hear is my heartbeat. I peek in.

  The only light filters through the open window at the far end of the living room. I think there’s a fire escape there. The curtain floats in on the summer breeze. I step inside and ease through the living room toward the first bedroom. Empty. So is the second bedroom. I move back through the living room and stop at a creaking noise at the far end of the room near the open window. I go down on my haunches and wait long seconds.

  I creep silently into the kitchen and wait. The hair on my arms tingle and I feel goose-bumps. Someone’s there. I feel it. I strain to hear. Breathing. I hear breathing. Ahead and off to my left. I raise the Glock and a flash is instantly followed by the explosion of a large caliber weapon. The refrigerator door flies open and another round strikes it.

  As the echo dies down, I hear screaming. A woman’s voice screams behind me as I wheel around and rush back into the living room. A large figure jumps out the window. A chrome revolver reaches back in and sprays the apartment with four more shots. I duck back into the kitchen as the cabinet below the sink opens and Sandie crawls out.

  “Beau!” She reaches for me. “Beau!” I pull her to me and take a second to make sure she’s not hit.

  “Stay!” I push her away and race back into the living room, firing three quick shots at the window as I rush it. There’s no return fire. I wait two seconds and carefully peek out at the black iron fire escape. There’s a noise below. Two more shots ring out, echoing with the sound of thunder. Magnum rounds. He’s reloaded.

  I hear hurried footsteps. He’s running away. I crawl out on the landing and see the big fuck, greasy hair flapping behind as he heads down the well-lit alley behind the apartment house. There’s a high brick wall in front of him. He’s going the wrong way.

  I hurry down the ladder and tumble to the pavement as another round strikes the ladder above me. Jumping into a doorway, I hear him slap the wall a good thirty yards away. He’s trapped. I let it sink in a couple seconds and then call out, “Mullet!”

  He lets out a yell of frustration, more like a growl.

  “You’re trapped. You stupid fuck!”

  A bullet strikes the wall near me. I hear feet running. He’s rushing me. Another shot ricochets above me and I have to do the unexpected. I dive out, flat on my belly, arms straight out and aim at him. He fires again and I squeeze off a round, which strikes him, sending him head first to the pavement. Mullet screams and rises, holding his left leg. He points his gun at me again and I hear it click and click again. He’s out of bullets.

  I get up. He wavers as he stands, points his revolver at me and pulls the trigger again. It’s a Colt. I recognize the classic ramp sights.

  “Click it again and I’ll blow your brains out!” I step toward him and he throws his gun at me, missing me by inches. Even hunched over, he’s a bear of a man. Mullet sucks in a deep breath and lunges at me and I drop my aim and blow out his right knee.

  He collapses five feet in front of me. Stepping around him as he writhes, I press the muzzle of my Glock against his temple.

  “Quit moving!” I search him carefully, then step back and holster my weapon.

  Mullet’s face, slick with sweat, glares at me. His teeth gritted, he’s in real pain. Good. I slowly back away and find his gun up the alley. It’s a .357 magnum Colt Python with a four inch barrel, standard issue walnut checkered grips. I look around for my radio, which has fallen out of my back pocket. I find it beneath the fire escape ladder. Making sure my voice is calm, I call headquarters.

  “Go ahead, 3124.”

  “I need
a Homicide Supervisor and an EMT unit. I have the suspect down.” I give them Sandie’s address and tell them we’re in back, in the alley.

  Jodie cuts in, “Suspect? Did you say suspect?”

  “I’ve got Mullet.”

  The fool is trying to crawl away. I step back over and nudge him in the left leg where I shot him and he doubles up.

  “Stay still, fuck-head!” Unsheathing my knife I slice off a strip of Mullet’s shirt and wrap it around his knee cap, which causes the big man to flatten out. He breathes heavily, eyes closed tightly now. I pat him down, make sure he doesn’t have another weapon.

  My legs feel suddenly weak so I sit cross-legged in the yellow glow of the alley lights and wait for everyone to show up. Wiping perspiration from my brow, I see my hand is shaking. I look up to check where I’d fired through the open window and see there’s a three story brick wall across the alley. Looks like the rear of some business. I shake my head. I’m in another alley, aren’t I?

  Watching Mullet sucking in breaths, I try not to envision Peter James’ head, try not to remind myself what Mullet has done. But I can’t. My hands begin to shake and I want to blow this fucker’s brains all over the pavement so badly, I can taste his blood in my mouth.

  I close my eyes and try to envision the Dakota sun setting on the Black Hills. And the death chant echoes again in my mind. Long moments later, my heart aches and yet I feel a great calming inside. My hands stop shaking. Turning around, I cup my hands around my mouth and call up to Sandie.

  She peeks out the window.

  “I got him!”

  “Good! Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  She pauses a second. “What the fuck you waitin’ for?”

  To get the whole story, Jodie would say. This slimy bastard is our only chance at getting the story. A siren echoes in the distance. Another seems to answer. Tires screech to a halt up the alley and a car door slams. I stand, spot the unmistakable form of Lieutenant Dennis Merten move out of the darkness into the alley. Flashing red lights and a high-pitched siren confirms the EMTees have also arrived.

  Merten’s coat flaps as he steps quickly. “He dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  Merten turns and tells the EMTees to fuckin’ hurry. He rushes past me and goes down on his knees next to Mullet. I step back as two white-clad EMTees race up, each carrying a medical bag. Merten moves out of their way, watches them a minute then slowly walks back to me.

  I point to Mullet’s gun and Merten glances at it before his dark face moves in front of mine. He looks at me incredulously.

  “I don’t fuckin’ believe this shit!” He shakes his head. “I do not fuckin’ believe this.”

  I give him the inexpressive, plains warrior stare. Then I turn and head back for the fire escape.

  “Where you going?”

  I point upward, jump, and grab ladder and pull myself up.

  Know what kind of knife this is?

  Six hours later, after giving two statements, after enduring another superintendent’s hearing to justify why I shot yet another person, I sit in an uncomfortable metal chair outside Felice’s room at Charity. No, in my statements I didn’t say it was my fault, although all of it is my fault. I’ll go down that road alone. What they got out of me was ‘just the facts’ as Jack Webb would say.

  My Daddy loved Dragnet and we watched it late at night on our black and white TV. I’m not about to tell anyone that on the fuckin’ department. I blink away the image and close my eyes as I hear Sandie’s voice again, asking me why I didn’t kill Mullet. Sitting on her couch, every light on in her apartment, she’d wrapped herself in a pink blanket. Her make-up smudged, her face was streaked with tears as she looked up at me. I sat next to her and tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away.

  “I heard him scratching at my door,” she said in a hollow voice. “All I could think was ... hide under the sink.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek.

  “I heard him searching for me.” She started rocking back and forth. “How’d he find out where I live?”

  “He’s not as stupid as he looks.”

  Sandie suddenly slapped my shoulder hard.

  “And you’re not so smart either.”

  She stopped rocking, leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “I found out why,” she said in a whisper. “It’s like a gang with no name. In order to become a member ... they have to kill a cop with a special gun.”

  “Mullet tell you that?”

  She shook her head. “Word on the street. Everyone’s been talking about it, especially since the last cop got killed.”

  Lt. Merten had stepped into the living room, followed by a crime lab tech with a camera. I get up to show them the bullet holes and my shell casings. Pulling me aside, Merten told me Mullet was going to make it and Jodie was in route to Charity and Kay wanted me immediately, at headquarters.

  The sound of footsteps brings me back to the present. Darlene Wilson turns the corner down the hall and heads my way. She wears a dark suit this morning. Seeing me, she avoids my gaze as she turns briskly into Felice’s room.

  I readjust my Glock and lean back and wait. Fifteen quiet minutes later, other footsteps approach. Jodie rounds the corner. In black slacks and a black jacket, she carries a carton with three Styrofoam cups. As she gets closer, I see the coffee’s from Café Du Monde.

  She sits next to me and I catch a whiff of her mild perfume when she leans close to pass me a cup. “Extra strong,” she says as she takes a cup herself.

  We each take a sip.

  “Mullet’s not talking.” Jodie’s shoulders slump. “He’s down the hall in a nice comfy bed and I can’t get a damn thing out of him.” She shakes her head at this personal defeat. Hell, if anyone could get the big bastard to talk, it would be Jodie.

  “We found Cochran’s and Steven’s badges in a chest-of-drawers in Mullet’s bedroom.”

  “The Python from the alley?”

  She nods and takes another sip. “A match. And he almost killed you with it too.” She looks down, sadly, as if she’s given up on telling me I almost got killed ... again.

  “Dunn and the FBI are dismembering the place. Haven’t found Peter James’s badge yet.”

  The effect of the coffee is immediate. I sit up. Too bad it’s going to be temporary. I’m so damn tired my eye-lashes ache when I blink.

  “Any word on Peter James’s funeral?”

  “His parents are burying him back home in Oregon.”

  I stare at the closed door of Felice’s room as I tell Jodie about the scrawny man named Clyde who’d been shooting his mouth off that he used a Colt Python .357 magnum to murder cops.

  “That was the lead Felice was following.”

  “None of the three bodies on So. Derbigny were named Clyde.”

  I nod. “He has salt and pepper hair.”

  The door opens and Darlene Wilson steps out, sees us and stops. Jodie holds out the third cup of coffee. Darlene gives me a long stare then takes the cup, tucking her clipboard under her left arm. Surprisingly, she moves around me and sits on the chair to my left. After sipping her coffee, she crosses her leg and opens her clipboard.

  Looking at her notes, she says, “Felice doesn’t want any part of you. So there’s no sense waiting out here.” Her voice is scratchy but the edge is gone. “She doesn’t remember the name of the bar she was in, but it was on the Chef. The man she was looking for, Clyde, came in with four other men. They locked the door and confronted her, demanding to know why she was asking about Clyde. They tore off her clothes, beat and raped her.”

  Darlene looks up at me. “She doesn’t remember being dumped on Almonaster, but remembers someone pointing a gun at her and pulling the trigger but the gun didn’t go off. Probably a misfire.” Closing the clipboard, Darlene stands. “We’ve hit every bar along the Chef and will hit ‘em again, so there’s no need for you to go pursuing this. Understand?”

  I look her in the eye and say nothing. />
  “This is a rape case.” She turns to Jodie. “Not a murder.”

  I stand and stretch.

  Darlene asks Jodie. “Do you have any control over him?”

  I cut in. “Which way is Mullet’s room?”

  Jodie points down the hall and says it’s to the right. “You can’t miss it. Cops all over the place.”

  Darlene leaves without even saying good-bye. Jodie closes her eyes and leans her head back against the wall. With her lips pursed and her hair fluffed around her lean cheeks, with the sun streaming in from the window at the end of the hall, she looks ten years younger.

  She’s right, there’s no missing Mullet’s room. Two black-uniformed Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Deputies guard the door. Tim Rothman and a patrol officer lean against the wall across the narrow hall. When Rothman notices me, I ask him, “Where the fuck have you been?”

  “Desire. Goddamn Picard had me boldly go where no man has gone before – without transporters or phasers. Heard you’ve been up to your usual no good.”

  I pull out my Glock and hand it to him and step across the hall into Mullet’s private room. The lone window has bars on it. Mullet lies propped up in bed, his right arm handcuffed to the bed rail, both legs in bandages and suspended by ropes from the bars running down each side of the bed. His deep-set eyes glare at me. He lowers his head so his protruding brow can make his eyes more menacing. Probably practiced that look in jailhouse mirrors made of stainless steel.

  “What the fuck you want?”

  I move to the right side of the bed.

  Mullet’s greasy hair has already made a stain on the white pillowcase and the room smells bad, like a garbage left out in the rain.

  “I said what the fuck you want?”

  I pull my note pad out of my back pocket and the pen from my dress shirt pocket. “Names,” I tell him. “I want to know who was with you on Tchoupitoulas Street.”

  “Fuck you!” He defiantly sticks out his Neanderthal jaw. “I want my fuckin’ lawyer.”