Doing the Devil's Work (2 page)

It’s funny, she thought, the things being a cop does to your brain. Bizarre, the comfort that comes with finding what you were looking for, no matter how gruesome a thing it was. She hated surprises, in life and on the job.

The dead guy was a white male, Maureen saw.
That
was a surprise.

She approached the body. He appeared to be in his late twenties to early thirties, though it was hard to tell from the swelling and decomposition. He was flat on his back. He’d died wide-eyed with surprise, his mouth hanging open, his chest soaked in blood from a heinous wound slashed across his throat. She’d discovered a homicide.

The deceased’s hands were sticky to the elbow with blood from his failed efforts to staunch the massive bleeding that had killed him. Blood had pooled around him on the floor, the stain looking like a dark hole opening beneath him, waiting to swallow him. He had dirty blond hair, grown long from neglect more than style, Maureen guessed. She had no idea what color his T-shirt had been before all the blood. His jeans were undone and pulled down around his pale, hairy knees, his little dick lying shriveled against his fat thigh. He had taped-up work boots on his feet and his belt had a large round buckle bearing the number 88. He looked like the kind of guy, Maureen thought, who hadn’t smelled much better when he was alive than he did when he was dead.

She considered for a moment going back to the unit and getting some latex gloves. She could take some time to herself, as long as she could stand the smell, and spend a few minutes with the crime scene. She could see what she could learn, give the detective who caught the case a head start. Whether or not that was a good idea, though, depended on which detective showed up. Maureen couldn’t know who would arrive to take over. She didn’t need to be stepping on the wrong toes. And the reek of a body, it had a way of feeling like it was seeping into your skin. She walked out onto the porch, keyed her radio, called in her discovery, her location, and a request for a homicide detective.

Behind her on the block, she heard the shuffle of feet and the distinctive creak of screen doors. People were headed inside; they knew more cops would be coming, and asking questions. The party was over. The scent of a corner-store cigar drifted her way. Hushed voices came nearer. Other neighbors were curious and lingering, emboldened by THC and alcohol. Good, she thought. The block party meant less knocking on doors and rousing people out of bed. As soon as she got some help securing the scene, she could start canvassing the block and asking questions. Until then she had to stand guard over the body.

Maureen wrinkled her nose, but not from the smell of the cheap cigar or the dead body. Thanks to her job, she was growing accustomed to both odors. She scrunched her lips into a tight bud, her brain up and running. She’d found what she’d expected: a body. But that of a dead white boy with a savage neck wound, who’d been left for days in a black, gang-troubled, working-class neighborhood like Central City—that didn’t fit. That didn’t belong. Not at all.

2

Ninety minutes later, the red, white, and blue emergency lights of multiple vehicles whirled in the night and spotlights chased away the shadows, casting the block in a movie-set glare. The block party had ended. Crime lab was on the scene, photographing the body and the house and gathering evidence. Three other units had arrived, as had the detective in charge. Maureen looked around. Half the Sixth District overnight shift seemed to be on the scene. She wondered who was out patrolling.

By now, most of the block’s residents had been interviewed, either by Maureen or by one of her fellow officers. The interviews didn’t take long. None of the neighbors had heard or seen anything useful or telling. Nothing unusual about that, Maureen knew. The interviewing officers hadn’t even learned who had reported the body. Whoever had called all about the bad smell hadn’t offered a name. People seemed surprised though, Maureen had noted, that it was a dead white boy who’d brought the NOPD homicide experience to their street. Some waxed cynical about it, daring Maureen to contradict their claims that, watch, one dead white guy would get more attention than a whole block of live black folk. Especially if it turned out that a black person had killed him. She didn’t argue. She listened, nodding her head, writing down page after page of lies and complaints. If you listened, she figured, or at least did a convincing job of acting like you were paying attention, people felt respected. They remembered the feeling. Next time, or maybe the time after that, she came around asking for help, she might just get it.

Her share of the interviews done, a fresh cigarette in her hand, Maureen leaned against the chain-link fence at the end of Magnolia, away from the lights and action, the metal wire biting into her shoulder. Quinn and Ruiz, two officers from her platoon who had helped with the canvass, smoked with her. Quinn stood a shade over six feet tall, wiry and angular, all elbows and knees and nose. He reminded Maureen of Disney’s Ichabod Crane, but with the blond hair and casual lilt to his voice and stride of a California surfer. And a growing bald spot. Ruiz, his longtime patrol partner, was a green-eyed beer keg on short legs, olive skinned, acne-scarred, quiet. He was always restless, like a large animal unnerved by a sound it couldn’t identify. From a distance, he seemed kind and competent, but his size made Maureen uncomfortable. Especially up close. She had a bad history with large men.

When they worked a crime scene together, which was often, Maureen sometimes felt as if Ruiz was watching her. The attention wasn’t sexual. She knew that look. He just paid more attention to her than to any witnesses or evidence at the scene of the crime. That feeling is on you, she told herself over and over. You’re bringing it to the job. Don’t see enemies where they aren’t.

“We were shut out,” Quinn said, shaking his head.

“Y’all got nothing?” Maureen said. “You work this neighborhood for ten years and they do you like that? Nobody talked to you?”

“Everybody talks,” Ruiz said. “Just nobody says anything.”

“Maybe everyone knowing us,” Quinn said, looking back over the block, “worked against us. I saw three guys I’ve busted without even looking real hard. I know half the cats out here tonight by their first names.”

“Maybe,” Ruiz said, “it’s true that nobody really knows anything.”

“You talking about them or us?” Quinn said. A ping from his cell phone indicated a message. He shrugged, grinning, rolling his eyes, reaching into his pocket. “Anything’s possible, I guess.” He checked his message. “About fucking time.” His faced darkened as he read more, his forehead creasing in a scowl. “Again with this shit.” He handed his cell to Ruiz, who read the message, produced a sympathetic grunt, and handed back the phone.

“Your son again?” Maureen asked.

“Quinn’s ex again, more like it,” Ruiz said.

Quinn had a young son, ten or so, Maureen recalled. The boy’s mother and Quinn did not get along. They hadn’t been romantically involved since the pregnancy was discovered. If not for the child, they would have nothing to do with each other. The boy was undersized for his age, and got bullied badly in school. Maureen had heard a lot about the situation, as did anyone on the NOPD and the streets of New Orleans within earshot of Quinn when his phone rang. This is the price, Maureen thought, of getting to know her coworkers better.

“It’s Sunday night, right?” Quinn said. “Friday afternoon his mother takes him to get his stitches out and I don’t get a report from her till now. Okay, it’s only five stitches in his chin, and everything’s fine, but still, I’m the boy’s father and I’m paying the fucking bill.” He turned to Ruiz. “You saw that last bit, about the new school because he’s getting pushed around? Again with that noise. Fuck that. I can afford that?” He turned to Maureen. This happened when his ex came up, Maureen had noticed. By being female she somehow became a stand-in for Quinn’s ex when he got worked up over her. “There’s KIPPs and charters and all that shit now,” he said. “He doesn’t have to go to the Catholic school. So he’s a little short. He’ll grow. He’s a normal fucking kid, it’s
her
that makes him feel like there’s something wrong with him. Always taking him to the doctor, tests for this, tests for that. Jesus. Kid’s a fucking mess because of her.”

Not just the kid, Maureen thought.

Ruiz, himself happily married and the father of two daughters, put a big hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Like you said, bro. He’ll grow up. Kids bounce back.”

“He’s ten,” Quinn said. “He hasn’t even hit puberty yet, already she’s cut his balls off.” He looked over at the abandoned house, shaking his head at the sirens, the lingering neighbors, the trash tumbling around in the street, the scent of a freshly sparked joint. “Those fucking schools she likes cost a fortune. Every one of them.” He tossed his notepad in the tall grass. “Fuck this. Why are we standing here like a bouquet of dicks? They don’t care. We don’t care. Fucking pointless, the load of it. Rue, let’s roll. I’m outta cigarettes.”

He stalked away. Ruiz hesitated for a long moment.

“He’s getting worse,” Maureen said. She retrieved Quinn’s pad from the grass, gave it to Ruiz.

“It’ll pass,” Ruiz said. “He’ll smooth out. He goes through phases. You haven’t been around that long.” He raised his chin and narrowed his eyes at a tall figure, Detective Sergeant Christine Atkinson, from Homicide, walking their way through the red and blue lights. “Just the same, let’s keep it in house.”

Ruiz, not waiting for Maureen’s reply, nodded at Atkinson as he walked past her in pursuit of Quinn. Atkinson was a tall blonde in her late forties, partial to old blue jeans, older cowboy boots, and faded men’s button-down shirts. She had a chaotic mop of curls hovering around her head, huge hands, and the wide back and shoulders of a lifelong swimmer.

“So the dead guy isn’t the property owner,” Atkinson said to Maureen.

Maureen shook her head. “There’s a man’s name across the bottom of the signs. I did confirm
that’s
the property owner. You want me to get you that number?”

“I’ve already got it,” Atkinson said. “Thanks, though. He’s on his way.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Quinn and Ruiz have nothing for me, I take it.”

“Not the slightest,” Maureen said. “It’s been a tough canvass. The usual resistance.”

“Well, damn. I’d hoped you all would make this an easy one for me.”

Maureen smiled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Was there somebody squatting in the house?”

“Nobody on the block said anything about a squatter,” Maureen said. “And judging by the signs, I don’t think they were even worried about drugs. They wanted the place cleaned up. The whole rest of the block, it took years, but they’ve rebuilt after the storm.” She shrugged. “They’re trying to work, put the kids through school. Normal-life shit. They’re pissed this last house has been left to rot. Like a reminder.”

“Hard to blame them,” Atkinson said. “You think he’s a gutter punk?”

“Nah. The clothes weren’t right,” Maureen said. “I didn’t see any tattoos. And they hardly ever make it this far uptown.” She knew Atkinson was testing her. The detective had already reached her own preliminary conclusions. “It’s not impossible, but I don’t think so.”

“Tell me, then,” Atkinson said, “what you think happened in there.”

“My first thought is the obvious one,” Maureen said. “Sexual assault, going by his pants being down. He gets her into the house, whips it out, she whips out her weapon, previously hidden on her person somewhere, and slashes him dead.”

“Why go into the house with him, then?” Atkinson asked. “Why not show the weapon before she’s trapped?”

“Drugs? They went in the house to get high, he got wrong ideas, started feeling romantic, got aggressive, and things went bad.”

“Possible,” Atkinson said. She dropped her cigarette in the street, crushed it out. “Drugs are always a good place to start. That’s no small wound he’s got. Ugly. Whoever cut him got him with something special. Something she, presuming it is a she, which I’m not sold on, had on her. Nothing found in the house could do that.” Atkinson sucked her teeth. “I’m not so sure the killer is female. There’s some serious strength behind that cut.”

“You could do it,” Maureen said.

“I eat. I exercise,” Atkinson said. “Sometimes I even sleep. I’m not a spirit in the night like this guy. He wasn’t in that house with someone he met at the gym.”

Maureen shrugged. “Okay. Same narrative then, only he’s in there with some guy. Maybe one of them was tricking. There was no ID, nothing on the body at all. No phone, no money. Maybe he got robbed as well. Looks like it.”

Atkinson unleashed a long sigh. Squinting, she gazed over the block. “What’s your take on his belt buckle?”

Maureen was surprised at the question. “I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe he played high school football and eighty-eight was his jersey number. Or it’s his favorite race car driver?”

“High school football?” Atkinson asked.

“He look like college material to you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Atkinson said. “I thought you’d know this. In certain circles, eighty-eight means ‘Heil Hitler.’”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s supposed to be like code,” Atkinson said. “The letter ‘H’ is the eighth letter of the alphabet. So eighty-eight makes ‘HH,’ or ‘Heil Hitler.’ It’s a way for neo-Nazis and Aryan Brotherhood and any other wannabe groups to signal each other in public. You know, without attracting the attention of someone who might want to punch their teeth down their throat, or cut that throat.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Maureen said. “Fucking idiot. Well, no wonder he ended up dead, wearing that around here. Heil Hitler. Seriously? I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that guy. Even dead he didn’t look right.”

“You know, you don’t have to do that,” Atkinson said. “In fact, it might be better if you don’t.”

“Do what?”

“Decide how you feel about the victims, make judgments on them.”

“He was a Nazi, for chrissakes, or at least he wanted certain people to think he was.”