Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Bates had been on a date, enjoying a whiskey over at the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone when Gormley called.
Desiree had worn that plunging number, teasing him whenever she leaned forward, touching his arm and laughing at whatever he said.
Maybe he would take her out again tomorrow and ask her to wear that same dress.
He ran the light over the man’s body and noted a patch of clothing had been seemingly cut from his shirt.
Strange.
Bates clicked off the light and turned it around.
He used the narrowend of the device to pick through the dead man’s clothing, finding a chain on a belt loop that disappeared into a pocket.
Bates carefully tugged the chain and found a wallet attached to it.
He flexed the D ring at the belt loop and set the wallet and chain to the side.
In the dead man’s other pocket, Bates found a set of keys.
The man’s fingernails showed residue of a light brown substance. That would have to be cleaned.
He glanced around to ensure he was alone. Detective Sergeant Gormley was back in the main living room talking with Officer Tim Rayne. Rayne wore the blue shirt and tie of the NOPD, crescent-shaped badges on his chest.
Bates jerked his head, beckoning them outside.
He stood up and handed the wallet, chain, and keys to Gormley. “Get rid of this.”
“You got it.”
Gormley and Rayne followed Bates inside and up the stairs. All three policemen had to step carefully on the polished wood to avoid slipping in the cloth booties that covered their shoe soles.
At the top landing, they stopped and looked down at a man holding a Desert Eagle pistol who had taken multiple gunshots to the chest and at least one to the head.
“Notice the grouping,” Bates said.
“Tight,” Gormley said.
“Yep.”
Bates looked both ways down the hall.
“Otis!” he shouted for Dupuis.
“Down here, sir,” came the reply from the left.
Bates turned and saw the tussled sisal carpet and blood streaks on the wall.
He had done five years in Homicide. While the other two cops waited behind him, he lowered himself to a crouch like a baseball catcher and shined his penlight along the floor molding, where fibers tended to collect.
Five feet forward, he noticed something on the molding.
He got to his feet and moved carefully down the hall.
Gormley and Rayne waited. They had seen their boss at work and knew when to shut their mouths.
Bates bent down to examine what appeared to be dark animal fur, bunched up, atop a slight film of dust on the floor, which meant it was recent. It was too coarse to belong to a cat.
“Did anyone mention a family dog?”
“There wasn’t one,” Gormley said.
“Maybe she got one a week ago or something?” Rayne offered. “You know, because she was nervous after the kid thing happened.”
“Yeah?” Bates asked, turning slightly. Rayne was young, had a lot to learn. “Then where is the damn dog?”
“Gunshots could have scared him off?”
Gormley took it as an opportunity to correct the younger officer. “No dog toys in the yard, dish in the kitchen, or kibble in the pantry.”
“That’s why he’s the detective,” Bates said. He jerked his chin at Gormley. “Bag that fur, Hound. We should check it out before the CSIs do.”
Bates stood and entered the bedroom, his eyes drawn to the dead woman on the floor beside a chair in the room’s center, a bloody hammer beside her.
What a way to go.
Beyond her on the balcony was a massive body with a gunshot wound to the face.
Sergeant Otis Dupuis stood to the side of the dead woman with his thumbs in his belt loops.
Bates didn’t like that and nearly told the patrolman to stand up straight.
He was a COPE man. He had been Army, hadn’t he?
Airborne or something? He should look like a COPE man.
Then Bates reconsidered. He needed Dupuis for this.
No sense in pissing him off right now. Might even be good to give him a little positive reinforcement.
Dupuis had promise and it was important to build a base of supporters.
“You keep the CSIs out of here, Swampy?” Bates asked. Dupuis was from Jean Lafitte, Jefferson Parish, down Highway 45. The hardscrabble town was built on fill dirt poured into the swamp, named for an infamous pirate. Thus the name.
“Yes sir, Lieutenant,” Dupuis said, syllables softened by a lazy Cajun drawl.
“Nice work. Talk us through what we got here.”
Dupuis hitched his pants, removed his thumbs from his belt loops, and pointed out the features of the scene.
“We have two deceased males and one female. Windows are smashed on the door that was locked in place, glass outward on the balcony. Wood splintering in the corner. I think it will match the brass casing from the Draco AK pistol over there,” he said, pointing at the weapon on the floor.
“Those fucking things,” Bates said. “What else?”
“Foot scuff on the sill, outside, like somebody hopped it.”
“And?”
“Room has been tossed. The way these books and papers are knocked all over the floor suggests the perps were looking for something. Contusions on the woman’s hands and feet indicate torture, sadism, or an interrogation.”
“And the rest of the house?”
“Upstairs rooms are tossed like this one. Downstairs doesn’t show signs of a search, so either they knew what they were looking for was on the second floor or they did not have time to toss the lower level.”
“Let’s talk about the vics. Start with this guy,” Bates said, pointing to a man in the corner whose face was a mess of bone, blood, and brain matter.
“Latin male, hard to tell how old he is. Face caught at least two rounds, maybe more. Tats visible on his arms and neck. Still holding the Draco.”
Bates walked past the dead woman and pointed his penlight at the muscled Hispanic man on the balcony. His face was blotted with tattoos.
“And him?”
“Latin male, about thirty, maybe a little older,” Dupuis continued, looking at his notepad. “There are bite marks on his right forearm, bicep, neck, and even the right side of his chest around the armpit.”
“Dog. What did I tell you?” Bates said, looking back at Gormley and Rayne.
“You knew there was a dog?” Dupuis asked.
“Dog hair in the hall,” Bates explained.
“Looks like the guy downstairs, just bigger,” Rayne offered. “Same kind of shirt and tattoos.”
“Same smell too,” Gormley added.
“I was getting to that,” Dupuis said.
“So, who killed him?” Bates asked.
Dupuis flipped his notebook closed and looked at the other officers.
“Same person who killed the dude on the landing and downstairs on the back porch?”
“Why kill downstairs man with a shovel and these three upstairs with a firearm?”
“He wanted to keep it quiet downstairs,” Gormley offered.
“Why didn’t the John Doe downstairs have a piece?”
“Excuse me, sir?” Dupuis said.
“Draco AK pistol on the floor over there probably belongs to the stiff who got chewed up by Cujo. This poor fucker without a face is still holding his. Dead asshole at the top of the stairs has the Desert Eagle cannon. But the guy outside is unarmed?”
“Maybe our perp killed him with the shovel and took his weapon, used it on the rest of the crew,” Rayne said.
“Maybe. But who does something like that? Did you find any brass?”
“Just one casing from the Draco so far.”
“Think this guy cleaned up after himself? Grabbed his brass?”
“A more thorough search will tell.”
He lowered his eyes to the dead woman, her hair matted and tangled in a drying pool of blood. “What about her?”
“Multiple contusions to the feet, shins, knees, hands, and wrists,” Dupuis said. “Will probably match the bloody hammer on the floor. Ligature marks on her limbs and the plastic ties indicate she was zip-tied to the chair at her ankles, arms behind her back.”
“Until someone cut her out,” Rayne said.
Bates turned to Gormley. “What did you find in the kitchen?”
“Open bottle of red. Some sort of roast in the oven. Very well done when I got here. The chrome faceplate was smeared with blood.”
“So, she had invited someone for dinner.”
“Yeah,” Gormley said. “That someone killed the rest of these fucks.”
Even though they were inside with the lights on, Bates examined the woman with his penlight.
She was dressed up in a silky blouse and nice pants.
She was also barefoot, which to Bates’s way of thinking meant she was probably comfortable with whomever she had invited over.
He let the light linger a little too long over the thin silk concealing her breasts.
The three subordinate men exchanged a look.
Bates shook his head. “Looks like Mrs. Staub had a date. He interrupted a robbery. Whoever he was, he cut the zip ties and tried to revive her. That’s why she’s out of the chair. He took at least one weapon from the man he killed on the back porch.”
“And why did he leave? Why not call 9-1-1 and wait for the cops? Be a hero?” Dupuis asked.
“Maybe he knows how we treat heroes?”
“What?”
“Never mind. Maybe he spooked or maybe he’s on probation, doesn’t want to get caught up in some shit. Who the fuck knows.”
“How you want to handle this?” Gormley asked.
Bates spotted the vintage Tudor dive watch on Leigh Ann’s wrist. He remembered when it was on Connor’s.
“Did anyone else come up here?”
“Just Detective Kile, but he took a quick glance and told me to secure it.”
Bates knelt down, removed the watch, and slid it into his pocket, noting how loose it was on her wrist. It had been sized for a man.
“She must have a jewelry box in here. Take everything shiny.”
“That the story, Lieutenant?” Gormley asked. “Robbery?”
“Connor Staub lived here. He OD’d, so we have a direct drug tie, but maybe he was also dealing to kids in the Garden.
This could be a hit from a rival in the Ninth, looking for Connor’s stash.
They tied up poor old Mama Staub and asked where she hid her valuables.
When she didn’t deliver, they tortured her and killed her either on purpose or by accident.
In the middle of all that there’s an argument or somebody on the crew gets greedy.
He turns on the others, takes the jewelry, splits it with the getaway driver.
I’d buy that. We’ve seen shit like this before. ”
“That works. But what about her dinner date?” Gormley asked.
Bates thought for a moment.
“That guy could be a problem.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Find him. Then eliminate the problem.”