by Mark Johnson
“One-sixty-three, got one refusing to stop, northbound Scenic River, brown older model Toyota, Alabama tag 2Adam96Edward43. Occupied one time, white female, speeds 35 to 40.”
Scenic River Drive is aptly named. Its narrow curvy lanes hug the bank of the river, sheltered by massive live-oak boughs dripping curly gray tresses of Spanish moss from the fern- and azalea-lined lawns of raised Creole mansions. Three bone-jarring sets of speed bumps (or “traffic calmers,” as the Mayor’s Office euphemistically refers to the damn things) precede its dead end at a 90-degree intersection with Clubhouse Road, which heads east from the riverside in a long straightaway with a dogleg left to Dauphin Island Parkway.
There are no other units anywhere near the lower parkway, and if I don’t get her stopped before the parkway, or at least get right on her tail by then, she’s got a pretty good chance of getting away in the parkway’s four lanes of traffic.
It’s my first pursuit in an unmarked detective car, and we’re not really supposed to do pursuits in detective cars because of our limited, interior-mounted blue lights, none of which are visible from the side.
I’ve slammed my noggin three times on the roof of my car, which is now making a loud scraping noise from underneath (later found to be my dragging tailpipe), thanks to the mayor’s traffic calmers, and I’m anything but calm. I’m almost caught up with her when she makes the right angle onto Clubhouse Road and stomps it. I’m right behind her, and my ten-year-old, 243,000-mile-old Crown Vic begins to shimmy and shake as we top 60 on a poorly paved two-lane in a residential neighborhood. If somebody pulls out of a side street or driveway, it’ll be ugly.
Lieutenant Andrews gets on the radio and asks me the reason for the pursuit. I groan silently: Andrews is a notorious chase terminator. Gotta make this sound as serious as possible.
“Active 29 for probation violation, known suspect in a recent felony theft. Suspect attempted to ram my vehicle just before she ran, LT, so it’s Reckless Endangerment, too.”
I hold my breath. No reply from LT. Whew. I keep filling the radio with speed and location reports to keep LT off the air. We’re nearing the parkway. Other units advise they’re heading my way, but they’re still north of I-10.
Heather blows right through a stop sign at Clubhouse and Gill, turning east onto Gill to avoid the red light at Clubhouse and Dauphin Island Parkway.
LT asks about traffic conditions and speeds. I lowball both.
“Approximately 45, approaching D.I.P. on Gill. No traffic.”
Without even braking, Heather runs the stop sign at the end of Gill and crosses two (blessedly empty) southbound lanes of D.I.P. in a squealing 90-degree left drift that sends a northbound Buick bouncing up over the east side shoulder and into somebody’s backyard at D.I.P. and Tallahassee. Unfazed, Heather zooms away northbound, weaving in and out of traffic.
I hafta slow and look both ways before following her and lose visual by the time I get northbound on the parkway. Other units are now approaching southbound on the parkway, and they’re below I-10, so we’ve still got a pretty good chance to close in and cut her off. But then LT returns to the air.
“Did we get a tag number, operator?”
“Affirmative. 2A-Adam96E-Edward43, comes back to a brown ’96 Toyota Corolla four-door registered to Heather Thibodeaux, active 29 probation violation.”
“Terminate pursuit.”
Damn! Another sixty seconds, we coulda had her, LT. I don’t know who I’m more pissed at: Kelly Ann, for claiming she didn’t know who the other female was at the victim’s house, Heather Thibodeaux for nearly ramming her beat-up old Corolla into the front end of my beloved (but equally beat-up) old Crown Vic, or LT for being such a wuss.
Later that day I get a call from Kelly Ann. She’s all apologetic and hyper. I’m thinking she just sucked the pipe before calling me.
“Did you catch her, Detective Johnson?”
“No. The lieutenant terminated the chase. ‘Threat to public safety, too close to the school zone,’ you know.”
“Boy, I’ll say! She was a threat to my safety, that’s for sure. Did you see that, Detective? I had to dive out of her way or be killed! Isn’t that, like . . . I don’t know, vehicular . . . reckless . . . aggression or something? It’s gotta be against the law, I know that much. I want to press charges. And what she did to my daddy’s yard! That’s property damage, right? We’re gonna need new sod, and the azalea bush: there’s nothing left of it! Just jerked it right out of the ground and dragged it off with her!”
“What was she doing at your place, Kelly Ann? I thought you told me you didn’t know her.”
“Well that’s why I called you, Detective Johnson, to explain. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, like I was aiding and abetting or something. She had just pulled up a few minutes before you got here. I had called her over here to talk her into turning herself in to you, I swear to God. I’m being honest. I was trying to help you and her both, but she saw you pull in and thought I’d set her up. That’s why she tried to run me over. Anyway, I just called to tell you how sorry I am that all this happened, and I want to cooperate fully with you, if there’s anything I can do. I was just trying to help, Detective Johnson, honest. I just like to help people who are down on their luck, you know? I guess I’m soft hearted that way. I knew she was just out of prison a couple months, and I was trying to get her on the right path, you know? But like they say, no good deed goes unpunished, I guess this proves it. So is there anything I can do to help, Detective Johnson?”
“Tell me where I can find Heather.”
“There’s no telling where she mighta run to, Detective Johnson. I know her mama lives across the bay, in Daphne. She took care of Heather’s daughter while she was in prison. But I don’t think her mama lets her come around much. Not a good influence for the child, especially if she’s running from the law, and I certainly have to agree with that, don’t you, Detective?”
Holy cow, I’m thinking, she’s totally tweaked out. Undaunted by my silence (or perhaps encouraged by it), Kelly Ann prattles on.
“So there’s really no telling where she might be. There’s lotsa dealers and lowlifes she used to run with, and other girls, too, who’d put her up for a while. That’s what I was trying to keep her away from, but we see how that turned out, huh, Detective Johnson? I bet you see this kinda thing all the time, and you think I’m a big fool for trying to help a drug addict fresh outta prison, don’t you, Detective?”
“Who was the other girl walking down the driveway, Kelly Ann?”
“You mean Vickie? Yeah, that was Vickie, Heather’s friend. Victoria Barnhart. They met in Tutwiler, but Vickie’s been out for almost a year now. She was here to see Heather, too, ’cause she heard Heather got out. Vickie just had a short stretch. Drugs. But she’s kicked. She wants to help Heather just like me, keep her outta trouble—she’s really doing well, one of the success stories. Vickie and I were sure we could keep Heather out of the life, you know? With my, like, contacts and resources, and Vickie’s example. You know, ‘If we can do it, you can too kinda thing.’”
As Kelly Ann chatters on, I’m pulling up Victoria Barnhart’s rap sheet on the Alacop database, and I see that she’s also done time in Tutwiler. And she has an alias of Victoria Thibodeaux. Wait. Not just an alias, but a DL with that name on it.
I interrupt Kelly Ann. “Is Vickie Heather’s sister? I mean, they both have dark hair, and I’m showing she has a last name of Thibodeaux, too.”
“Well, no, Detective, they’re not sisters. They’re married. Got married in Tutwiler. But they’re not really together right now. Vickie’s going by her old name, and Heather’s kinda mad at her since she got out. But I probably shouldn’t gossip about their private business.”
I’m silent, so Kelly Ann proceeds to tell me about their private business.
“The thing is, they both have hearts of gold, you know? I mean, really, in spite of what it looks like on their rap sheets. But I guess when Victoria got out,
she kinda remembered how much she liked men, and she wrote Heather about her . . . mixed feelings, I guess you’d say, and Heather kinda took it hard like, and has been upset with Vickie since she got out, because she thought they’d get back together, bless her heart, and pick up where they left off, but it’s not happening that way. It’s, like, complicated, Detective Johnson, know what I’m sayin’?
“Anyway, I’ll do my best to help you find Heather, and to help you clean up the whole damn parkway, for real. I’ll call you whenever I hear anything, I promise, really I will.”
Kelly Ann continued to call me a couple times a week with secondhand Heather sightings at all the usual places, and some new ones. She sent me to Mariah’s place down on Fowl River. Kelly Ann said she’d heard from Bone, the crack man, that Heather’s staying at Mariah’s place off and on.
According to Kelly Ann, Mariah’s “mostly out of the life now.” She has an arrangement with a guy who works on one of the rigs in the Gulf. He’s gone most of the time and gives Mariah a small allowance for when he’s offshore. She feeds his dog and keeps the copper thieves from kicking in his door.
I drive out to Mariah’s place. It’s a ramshackle old cabin, up on pilings, junk cars and old boats scattered around underneath. No sign of Heather’s brown Corolla, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s not inside. I knock on the door. Somebody peeks through the window shade and sees the white Crown Vic in the driveway. I hear “Just a minute” and the sounds of a flurry of activity inside.
Eventually, Mariah opens the door. There’s the distinct smell of strong perfume, air freshener, and weed. She’s about my age, curvy, and you could tell she used to be a looker. And she looks familiar to me, but until she speaks (“Can I help you?”) I don’t realize she’s the “Frisk me first!” hooker from the Cheez Whiz. Mobile is a small town. And the circles cops run in are even smaller. But I don’t let on that I’ve placed her, and she doesn’t seem to recognize me.
I badge my way inside, look around as I introduce myself, and pull Heather’s BOLO flyer from my jacket pocket.
“Know this lady, ma’am? I’ve been told she’s staying here.”
“Of course, Officer, er Detective. That’s my friend Heather. But who told you she stays here? Nobody stays here but me and my friend Tommy, it’s actually his place, but he’s at work.”
“Several people who are in a position to know said she’s here. Mind if I check? You say there’s nobody else home? Any weapons in the house?” I walk back to a hallway and glance in an empty bedroom, notice a closed door at the end of the hall. Probably the bathroom. Probably occupied.
Mariah has followed me, talking all the while. “I won’t lie, Heather has been out here to visit a few times, but she’s not staying here, I assure you. I had no idea the law’s looking for her. What’d she do? Feel free to go on in, check the closet, under the bed if you want. If I’da known she was wanted, I woulda never let her set foot on the property, Detective. Does she have a warrant? What on earth did she do now?”
I’m more interested in the closed bathroom. As I start for the doorknob, there’s a flush (no doubt the weed) and Victoria Barnhart-Thibodeaux comes out, brushing her hair, all innocent, and acting surprised to learn that there’s a visitor. Her Tutwiler pics and DL don’t do her justice.
“Oh, didn’t know we had company, ’Riah.”
“Mobile’s Finest, Vickie. Just dropped in for a visit. And ain’t he a handsome thang!” Mariah winks at me and thrusts her best assets the same way she did at the Whiz when I first saw her. Vickie shakes her head and smirks.
“Don’t pay her any mind—uh-oh, look Mariah, I think you’ve made him blush! Just ignore her, she’s always in heat.”
“Says he’s lookin’ for Heather, can you believe it? Says somebody told him she’s staying here!”
They both laugh at the preposterousness of my information, then Vickie holds up a finger, nods her head. “Wait. Could your Confidential Informant be a rich girl who lives on Dog River?”
“Kelly Ann!” they shriek in unison, laughing even louder than before.
“That girl’s all the time stirring up the shit, ain’t she?” Mariah says. “And now she’s your CI! Not surprised she’d turn snitch for a handsome devil like you, Detective!
“Wait a minute! You’re the one who tore up Kelly Ann’s front yard chasing Heather a couple weeks ago, aren’t you? You mean you haven’t caught her yet? I want to be the first to know when you do, so I can stop worryin’ about her comin’ after me,” Vickie said.
Mariah steers us back into the main room. “Have a seat, Detective. Can I offer you something cold to drink? I know you can’t drink on duty, but we might have some orange juice or a Coke, let me check.”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“You certainly are!” Mariah says.
“Is that the last time you saw her, too, Vickie?”
“Yeah, haven’t seen her since the great chase. Thought you’da had her locked up by now. She can’t be that hard to find. Have you checked Bone’s?”
“She’s probably not that hard to find, but I do have other cases. It’s not like we got a dragnet out for her.”
“This is all about horny ol’ one-legged Randy, isn’t it?” Vickie says. “You know, I feel like that cheap bastard had it comin’. You wouldn’t believe what he makes a girl do for beer money, for just, like, twenty bucks, if he feels like really livin’ large.” She catches herself. “At least, that’s what I heard.” She raises her eyebrows and makes her eyes real wide, grinning like a kid telling a whopper.
Mariah changes the subject. “Now I’ve got a question for you, Detective, if you don’t mind?”
I shrug, and Mariah picks up a framed photograph from the coffee table and shows it to me. It’s a snapshot of a curvaceous blonde, maybe mid-twenties, in a bikini bottom and a wet T-shirt, nipples pointing aloft. She’s being presented a winner’s trophy on a stage.
“Have you seen this woman?”
I study the picture a moment. The girl is really pretty hot.
“No ma’am, I’d definitely remember her if I had.”
They both giggle. “Are you sure, Detective? Aren’t you poe-leece s’posed to be trained observers? Look again.”
I shake my head and shrug. “Why? She some kin to you? Missing person? Your daughter or something?”
Vickie hoots and Mariah scowls.
“Awww, come on, now! Shit. My daughter?”
She snatches the picture back from me and holds it up next to her face.
“Yeah, oh yeah, sorry. I see it now.”
“Give it up, ’Riah,” Vickie says. “He don’t care about some old picture.”
“First prize, at the Flora-Bama!” Mariah declares. “Aw hell, I gotta admit it was twenty years ago . . . but damn! I musta really let myself go.”
“But you still got skills, babe,” Vickie says. “Ask her about her toes, Detective.”
“Shut yo’ mouth, girl! He’s gonna get the wrong impression of me!”
“Don’t be modest, ’Riah!” Vickie says. Then, to me: “Mariah’s the only woman I know can pick a man’s pocket while flat on her back, with her toes!”
Now, that’s a bona-fide skill.
On my drive back from Mariah’s place on Fowl River, I wonder why Kelly Ann sent me out to Mariah’s for Heather, if Victoria’s hanging with Mariah, and Heather and Victoria aren’t getting along. It hits me that maybe Kelly Ann Kennedy’s a lesbian herself, with feelings for Heather. Now that Heather’s been jilted by Victoria, Kelly Ann might be angling to get Heather to move in with her at the Kennedy compound on the river. I resolve to swing by the place whenever I’m nearby to check for Heather’s old Corolla.
A couple weeks later I get a call at the precinct from a familiar husky voice.
“Remember me, Detective Johnson? It’s Mariah. Hope you don’t mind me callin’ you, but I thought you might be interested in a little piece of information, as long as you don’t let on where you hea
rd it from. You still looking for Heather? I just came from Kelly Ann’s, and she’s there right now.”
I head down the parkway and call for backup while en route.
20
Bad Bluffs, Slipped Cuffs
Police work is the only profession that gives you the test first, then the lesson.
—Mobile Police Department Training Academy
Mitch will be my backup at Kelly Ann’s. That’s a good thing: Johnny Mitchell’s ex-military, got almost twenty years on the job, mostly riding the parkway. He knows Kelly Ann and her crew even better than I do; most of the theft reports involving them are written up by Mitch. He’s a solid, no-nonsense cop who knows how to do what needs to get done.
I call Mitch on my cell while en route. He’s waiting for me at Staples and Alba Club, right around the corner from Kelly Ann’s.
“Got a good tip that my girl Heather’s there, Mitch. The one that got away when LT canceled my chase a few weeks ago?”
“Ten-four. We’ll just grab her before she gets close to the car, this time.”
“Exactly. Thing is, I’ve got a warrant for her, but not at Kelly Ann’s address. And you know Kelly Ann’s gonna say she’s not there.”
“No problem. We’ll just big-boy our way in. ’Specially if her ol’ daddy’s there, he’ll cooperate.”
“Right. I’ll take the front, you drive all the way up around back. If she’s there, she’ll run, just like last time.”
“I hear ya. Might could be some fun.” I hang up with Mitch and reach for my Taser in the gear tote I carry on the passenger seat. The boxy old X26 barely fits, without its holster, in the left side pocket of my blazer.
Old man Kennedy opens the front door at my knock. He’s white haired, bent and frail, and wearing glasses with lenses so thick his magnified rheumy eyes are big as silver dollars. I flash the warrant for Heather at him, knowing that all he can see is a blurry piece of paper. He seems surprised that I’m looking for someone other than Kelly Ann at his house.
“Heather, you say? Well I, I don’t believe I know any Heather. It’s just my daughter and me here, Detective,” the old gentleman says. “But people do seem to come and go here. You’re more than welcome to come in and have a look.”
