A Killer Like Me (34 page)

“I’m not in trouble,” Gaudet said. “Of course Dannisha is okay.” He slid the briefcase under one arm and reached out for the stack of cash Murphy was holding.

Murphy pushed his partner’s hand away.

“Come on, man, I need that money,” Gaudet said.

Murphy took a step backward. He raised the bundle of cash and fanned it with his thumb. All twenties. None fresh. “This is at least a thousand dollars.” He pointed at the briefcase. “You must have fifteen just like it in there.”

“I told you, it’s for an investment.”

“What kind of investment?” Murphy said. When it came to women, cars, clothes, or money, Gaudet couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was a born braggart. “What the hell are you into . . .
partner
?” Murphy spit out the last word.

Gaudet stepped forward. His face had lost its trapped look. Now it just looked hard. “I need that money.”

Murphy drove his left hand into Gaudet’s chest and shoved him away. At the same time he swept his sport coat back with his right hand and grabbed the butt of his pistol. “You take another step toward me, I’ll put a bullet in your knee.”

“I’m not threatening you, partner. I just need that money back.”

“Don’t ‘partner’ me,” Murphy said. “Real partners don’t screw each other over like this. Because when you get caught doing whatever it is you’re doing, PIB is going to think I was doing it with you. I’ve got enough trouble with those cocksuckers without you adding to it.”

Gaudet shook his head. “I wouldn’t do you like that, brother.”

“Bullshit, you’ve already done it.” Murphy glanced around the parking lot and dropped his hand from his pistol. “They could be watching you right now. And if they are, they just got both of us on video arguing over a briefcase full of cash.”

“It’s not like that, Murphy. Everything is cool. Nobody is ever going to find out about this. If you want, I can bring you in on it.”

“I don’t want in on anything,” Murphy said. “All that time in narcotics, all that money we seized, did you ever see me take a dime of it?”

Gaudet raised his eyebrows. “Free food, free drinks, dead men buying our lunch. What the hell do you call that? Don’t get so self-righteous with me, motherfucker. I’ve seen you do plenty of shit.”

Murphy stared at Gaudet. “A lot of things about this job are gray, but there is a line. You know it and I know it.” He jabbed a finger at the briefcase clutched under his partner’s arm. “And you crossed it. Worse than that, though, is you dragged me across with you.”

Gaudet glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go somewhere, and I need that money you’re holding. As soon as I get back, we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“Where do you have to go at six o’clock in the morning with a hurricane coming and the whole city shut down?”

“That’s not your concern,” Gaudet said.

“Tell me what you’re into, Juan, and I’ll help you get out of it. We’ll come up with something. We always do.” Murphy held up the stack of cash. “Otherwise, I’ve got to take this to the captain. You can explain it to him. If it’s just an investment, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

For a moment they stared at each other without speaking, the silence broken only by the sound of the wind whipping through the trees. Then Gaudet turned away. He slammed the trunk closed and walked toward the driver’s door. “Keep it then.”

“You’re forcing me to go to the captain with this,” Murphy said. “That’s the only way I can protect myself.”

Gaudet looked over the roof of the Caprice. “And if I tell you, then what? You’re going to forget about it? You’re going to pretend it didn’t happen?”

“I’ll help you get out of it.”

“It’s bigger than you can imagine, and it involves people you can’t touch.”

Murphy stared at Gaudet for several seconds. “Tell me who bought you.”

“Nobody bought me. I had an opportunity and I took it.”

“How much is in the briefcase?”

“Twenty g’s,” Gaudet said. He pointed to the stack of bills in Murphy’s hand. “Nineteen now, but you can keep that as a taste of what you’re missing.”

Twenty thousand dollars. The drug trade was the only business Murphy knew of that dealt in that kind of cash. But he and Gaudet didn’t work drug cases anymore. They were homicide cops. Murderers didn’t have money. “Where did you get it?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why? If you’re so determined to rat on your partner, what does it matter where it came from? The funny thing is, it’s not even dirty money. It’s business money. It’s legit money.”

“Is that why you’re carrying it in a briefcase, wrapped up with rubber bands? Is that why you’re running scared?”

Gaudet glanced at his watch again. “I’m not running scared. I’m just running late.”

Murphy stepped out from behind the car. He dropped his hand back on his gun. “Tell me where you got it.”

Gaudet glanced around. They were alone in the parking lot. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Okay, hero, I’ll tell you. I got it from the mayor.”

“What?”

Gaudet nodded. “See, I told you you didn’t want to know.”

“How?”

“I’m working with the mayor’s Rebuild New Orleans Task Force.” Gaudet tapped the briefcase. “This has got nothing to do with the department.”

“Does he remember that it was you and me who put his brother in jail?”

“He remembers.”

“Now you’re his bagman?”

“Personal representative.”

“So now what?” Murphy said. “You’ve got to deliver the cash to him before the storm hits.”

Gaudet shook his head and smiled. “I told you this was bigger than you could imagine.” He gave the briefcase a shake. “This isn’t for the mayor. This is my cut.”

“Katrina money?”

Gaudet nodded.

Now Murphy understood.

The federal government was pouring billions—
tens
of billions—of dollars into New Orleans with no oversight whatsoever, attempting to make up for its slow response to the disaster and trying to erase the television images of thousands of Americans, mostly poor, mostly black, stranded on rooftops and bridges, broiling in the summer sun with no food or water.

Federal agencies like FEMA and the Corps of Engineers were handing that money directly to the city. It was the perfect setup for the biggest swindle in American history.

“Juan, listen to me. I can help you get clear of this. We can go to the U.S. attorney together. We can say we’ve been working an undercover corruption investigation. We didn’t tell our supervisors because we didn’t know how far the corruption went. We can put the mayor in prison. You’ll come out of this smelling like a rose, probably with a promotion.”

“You couldn’t put the mayor’s brother in prison, and you caught him red-handed holding a kilo of cocaine. What makes you think you can put the man himself in prison?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“If you get crossways with the mayor again, he’ll put you down for good this time.”

“What you’re doing is wrong.”

“No one is complaining, Murphy. It’s not like these contractors are victims of a crime. They’re getting hundreds of millions of dollars of government money. You think they care if they have to kick back a half million here, a half million there?”

Murphy felt his face flush with anger. “I’ll take you down with him if I have to.”

Gaudet laughed as he tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. “I like you, partner, but you don’t know when to back off.” He cranked the motor and jammed the transmission into reverse. Murphy had to jump out of the way to keep from being run over.

As the Caprice spun around in the parking lot and raced away, Murphy looked at the stack of bills in his hand.

By 6:30
AM
, every detective in the Homicide Division was in the office. Every detective except Gaudet.

“Where’s your partner, Murphy?” Captain Donovan shouted through his office door.

Murphy thought about telling the captain that his partner had just run off with a briefcase full of cash. Then he decided to wait. Maybe Juan would come to his senses. The story about the two of them conducting an undercover investigation into a widespread kickback scheme at city hall wasn’t bad. They could sell that to the feds, especially in a city as notoriously corrupt as New Orleans.

“Well?” Donovan asked. “I’m waiting.”

“He had to make a stop on the way in,” Murphy said. “He’ll be here soon.”

Donovan looked at his watch. “Classroom in two minutes. That means everybody.”

As Murphy drifted toward the academy classroom with the rest of the detectives, he tried to put Gaudet out of his mind. He had enough problems of his own to worry about. He didn’t have time to worry about anyone else’s.

If, and that was a big
if
, he survived the next few days—if he didn’t kill himself, didn’t get arrested, didn’t drown, didn’t get crushed by a falling tree—then he would decide what to do about Gaudet.

Four long rows of connected desks spanned the classroom from wall to wall. Behind each row were ten molded-plastic chairs. Murphy took a seat at the end of the back row. A couple of minutes later, Captain Donovan stepped up to the lectern at the front of the room.

He glanced at the assembled detectives, then looked straight at Murphy. “Where the fuck is Gaudet?”

Murphy didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

Still focused on Murphy, Donovan said, “I told everyone to be here at six.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s now ten minutes to seven, and everyone is here except your partner. So where is he?”

Murphy had to say something. “I don’t know, Captain. He told me he had to stop somewhere, but he didn’t say where. Have you tried his cell phone?”

Donovan’s face reddened.

“How about you call his cell phone, Detective, and tell him that if he’s not here by the time this briefing is over, he is going to find himself back in uniform patrol, working night watch in the Seventh District, effective immediately.”

“You want me to call him now, sir, or wait until the briefing is over?”

“Right now.”

Murphy grabbed his notebook off the desk and walked out of the room. He already had his assignment: find the serial killer.

In the hallway outside, Murphy stared at his cell phone. Should he call, or just say he called? This shit was going to get deep. PIB, the DA, the U.S. attorney—they might already be investigating Gaudet. They could subpoena Gaudet’s cell-phone records, maybe Murphy’s too. He knew he needed to play this one straight. He had a direct order to call Gaudet, so that was what he was going to do.

Murphy flipped open his cell phone and dialed his partner’s number. The call went straight to voice mail. Murphy hesitated for a second. Whatever message he left might one day be played to a jury. The FBI might be tapping Gaudet’s phone right now.

“Juan, it’s Murphy. It’s almost seven o’clock. Captain Donovan told me to call you. Roll call started five minutes ago, and he said you better get yourself here quick, or your next police car is going to be a blue and white with the number seven written on it.”

Murphy hung up.

A man in a suit was walking down the hall toward Murphy. He was short and balding and wore horn-rimmed glasses. In his left hand he carried a large buff-colored envelope. When the man was a few feet away, he stopped and stared at Murphy with watery blue eyes so magnified by his thick lenses that he looked like an owl. “Are you Detective Murphy?”

Murphy slipped his cell phone into his jacket pocket and nodded.

The man stuck out his right hand, but instead of offering to shake Murphy’s hand, he held up a big set of government credentials. The letters
FBI
were printed in big blue letters across the top. Below that was the man’s photograph, his name, and the words
Special Agent
. “I’m Special Agent Walter Donce, FBI.”

In Murphy’s experience, FBI agents always identified themselves the same way, as if they expected theme music to break out while they were saying “FBI.”

“What do you want, Agent . . .” Murphy glanced at the bottom part of the agent’s credentials again, which the man still held up like a battering ram.

“Donce,” the man said. “Special Agent Walter Donce.”

“What do you want, Agent Donce?”

The FBI man slipped his identification back into his pocket. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve had our Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico work up a profile of your serial killer.” He raised the envelope in his left hand. “If you have some time, I’d like to go over it with—”

“I don’t have time, Agent Donce. I’m busy trying to catch the killer, not psychoanalyze him.”

The FBI agent looked almost hurt. “All I’m trying to do is help, Detective.” He gave the envelope a little shake. “I have a tool that might be of use to you.”

Murphy shook his head. “A profile isn’t going to help me catch this killer. I’ve been saddled with your profiles before, and I’ve seen them mislead entire investigations. I’ve seen them cost lives.”

“A criminal profile is not a blueprint. It doesn’t tell you who the killer is, but it can—”

“Then what good is it?” Murphy said. “If your profile doesn’t help me identify the killer, why should I waste time reading it?”

“Serial killers share many of the same personality and behavioral traits, and identifying those traits can help us eliminate—”

Murphy cut off the FBI agent again. “I’m not looking for a personality type here, Agent Donce. I’m looking for one man.”

Murphy had no respect for profiles or the snake-oil salesmen who hawked them. As far as he was concerned, criminal profiling was junk science, like asking a voodoo priestess to assist on a case. He hoped that one day profiling would go the way of phrenology, the discredited nineteenth-century “science” of predicting criminal behavior by “reading” the bumps and dimples on a person’s skull.

There were too many cases in which innocent people had been killed because the investigators were following a profile instead of the evidence. The FBI profile of the Unabomber said he was a college student in his early twenties who drove an old car. In reality, Theodore Kaczynski turned out to be an over-forty mathematics genius with a PhD, who didn’t own a car and who lived in a cabin in Montana with no electricity.