Taunting (The Flint Files Book 1) Read online

  Leon Spencer wasn’t a bad guy. In fact, he was just like most people. He was usually decent and tried to do the right thing. It’s just that culture and skin color interfered with the right thing all too often.

  Despite his mother’s best efforts, Leon had dropped out of high school to run with his bros from the projects. He had a major case of what his mother called “attitude.” A single arrest for intent to distribute had made him a felon. Two years in prison hadn’t helped his attitude or his chances. Leon wanted to go straight and get a job. Going straight was the easy part. It was the job part that gave him trouble.

  A black man in New Orleans started out a full step behind. A black felon was a mile behind that. His PO did what she could for him, but employers were few and far between. Leon vowed not to get back into drugs, but a man’s gotta eat. So did his two Baby Mammas. Leon wasn’t going to steal, but if something just fell in his lap, well, that was another story.

  There was no question the guy was dead. White, maybe eighty, skinny dude. What he was doing in a church cemetery after dark was a mystery. Leon had seen somebody lower the guy to the ground and run off. Being a Good Samaritan, Leon ran over to see if he could help the victim. “Dead” isn’t real conducive to being helped. Leon brushed aside the photo before trying to start CPR, but there was a lot of blood and Leon didn’t really remember how to do CPR anyway.

  Whoever killed the man had left his watch and a huge motherfucking ring. And, Leon discovered that his wallet was still there. Why somebody would go to the trouble of offing a guy and leave the goods behind was a mystery. Since Leon couldn’t help the fellow, he helped himself.

  The wallet had more than four hundred dollars in it. There was rent for this month with a few bucks left over. Leon figured the Rolex would go for about a thousand at a pawn shop, and the ring might get another couple hundred. So, Leon scooped up his finds and beat feet to a pawn shop he knew. The owner didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  He got eight hundred – cash! – for the Rolex and $75 for the ring. Leon would be able to buy his Baby Mammas and his kids some things, pay his own rent, and maybe have enough to tide him over for a month while he looked for a new job. Leon worked cleaning cars at a used car dealership and didn’t make shit.

  The pawn shop owner, of course, had cheated Leon. Both of them knew it, neither one particularly cared. The Rolex should have fetched Leon more than a thousand, and if the ring was real it was probably worth between five and ten grand retail. 1989 San Francisco Superbowl rings were pretty rare. Even if it wasn’t real, the stone was. That alone could be pried loose and resold for almost a thousand.

  A patrol officer found the body and called it in. A murder on the grounds of Martyrs Episcopal Church got the desk sergeant’s attention. He dispatched a unit and called Corporal Thibedeaux. She’d worked one of these cases before and might be a good asset to have on the ground. Anyway, she was a relatively new Corporal, and they needed to have their chains jerked occasionally.

  Carly arrived on the scene seconds before Detective Melvin Brown. She breathed a sigh of relief that it was somebody who knew his way around a murder. Some of the newer detectives looked on patrol officers as their servants. Brown knew better, which probably had something to do with his phenomenal solve rate.

  They dusted the picture for prints, took a photo of the results and sent them in. Leon Spencer, convicted felon. Murder seemed out of his league, but you never knew. Brown called Flint, who was in charge of the Martyrs murders. Flint pulled up fifteen minutes later; New Orleans just wasn’t a big city. Crime scene techs arrived two minutes after Flint. They bitched about the detective doing the fingerprint work. Corporal Thibedeaux reminded them that the perp might still be in the area.

  “But, ya know, I’m just sayin’.” That was one of the crime scene guys.

  “But, ya know, fuck you.” That was Corporal Thibedeaux. They shook hands and agreed to get on with their jobs.

  Melvin had called Leon’s PO at home to get his address. The PO complained that the address was at her office, which Detective Brown observed wasn’t his problem. As Danny Flint was pulling up the PO was giving Brown Leon Spencer’s last known address, which turned out to be a cousin’s basement.

  Leon’s poor cousin never knew what hit him. A tallish black guy and a medium-height white dude were at the door. Police detectives looking for Leon. The cousin might have said something about Uncle Tom. Detective Brown might have said something about being sorry for his fist slipping and knocking out two of the cousin’s teeth.

  Leon went quietly. He knew it was too good to be true anyway. He still had the cash, hadn’t yet given it to his cousin for rent. Next time he’d need to be quicker to get rid of it. Fortunately, the watch and the ring were long gone.

  Leon didn’t want a lawyer. He was really quite bright, although he hadn’t used his brains as much as he should have as a kid. He knew the lawyer would tell him to say nothing, he’d spend several days in jail – maybe several weeks because nobody he knew would bail him out – and things would go downhill from there. He hadn’t killed anybody, hadn’t really stolen anything since the guy was already dead, so he’d handle this on his own.

  “Mr. Spencer, what happened?” On television the grizzled detective would have been all over the suspect, in his face, knocking his chair around and in general acting like an asshole. Melvin Brown knew that simple straightforward questions were usually the best route to simple straightforward answers. Yet again he was proved right.

  “I saw this guy get killed and went over to see if I could help him. He was dead and I couldn’t help him. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I took his ring, his watch and his wallet. You took the cash from my pocket already. The watch and ring are at Diamond Deluxe Pawn. I don’t know nothin’ else.” Leon hoped the detectives believed him. Fortunately for him, Brown and Flint had nearly sixty years’ experience between them. They believed him.

  An hour later they had everything Leon could tell them. Officer Thibedeaux, still dressed in a little black cocktail number, went by the pawn shop and was direct with the owner. “It’s a murder. We already know you bought the ring and the Rolex. Hand them over and give me a statement. Now.” He did. He should have been smart enough not to buy a Superbowl ring. If it was fake it wasn’t worth much. If it was real it was traceable. Shit.

  Brown took Leon’s statement while Flint called legal assistance. Yes, the cop called a lawyer for the suspect. It would make life easier later on. He also called the prosecutor’s office, which sent over the duty newbie.

  The two lawyers arrived at the same time. They glowered at each other and both demanded to talk to the suspect. Flint was used to babysitting, so he told them like it was.

  “The suspect waived his rights and specifically refused a lawyer. Counselor,” (he gestured at the legal aid woman) “you’re here as a courtesy. Leon Spencer was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He witnessed a murder and went over to try and help the guy, who was already dead. Leon helped himself to a watch, a ring and a wallet. He’s already given back the cash and the wallet, and told us where to find the ring and the watch. Both were recovered by NOPD minutes ago.

  “Mr. Spencer has already made a statement and has given us information of value in an ongoing investigation. We are disinclined to recommend the prosecutor file charges.”

  The legal aid woman started making noises about her client’s rights. Flint let her make noise.

  “Counselor, first, Mr. Spencer has never asked for a lawyer so, at the moment, you don’t have a client. I called you because the interests of justice seem to come together here for both him and the police. Did you hear the part about us recommending the prosecutor not file charges? My partner and I will both testify that we believe he is innocent of murder.

  “Mr. Spencer is a felon on parole, and his PO has vouched for his efforts to get right with his life. You’ll each have copies of his statement in a few minutes. Please read it before doing anything else. Neither Detective B
rown nor I will ask him any more questions until after he has consulted with his attorney – if he decides to have one.”

  The young guy from the prosecutor’s office started making noises next. Danny took him aside and explained that Leon Spencer was the first solid lead they had found in the Martyrs murders. Surely the prosecutor didn’t want Mr. Spencer’s potential testimony impeached by an arrest for theft or murder? Prosecutor called his supervisor at home. One side of the conversation was all that Danny Flint needed to hear.

  “Detective Danny Flint … yeah, Melvin Brown’s his partner … yes, that Melvin Brown … the detectives are sure he’s not the killer … testimony in the Martyrs murders … yes ma’am, sorry to disturb you.”

  Opie Taylor (that’s how Flint thought of the prosecutor) allowed as how the prosecutor’s office was reserving the right to file charges in the future and yadayadayada and as far as they were concerned Mr. Spencer was free to go and yadayadayada Bim Bam Boom. Legal Aid (who brought Shirley Temple to Flint’s mind) started protesting.

  “Counselor, you’ve already won. If he accepts you as his unrequested lawyer, you have a client. He’s in interrogation room three and he’s free to go. Please quit while you’re ahead.” She quit while she was ahead.

  Melvin Brown interrupted the party to hand out copies of Leon Spencer’s sworn statement. The prosecutor sat down to read his, the legal aid woman stood up and paced. Both were nodding their heads. Melvin thought that if both the prosecutor and the defense attorney were happy, they must have done something wrong.

  Shirley Temple spent two minutes with Leon while Opie Taylor played “My dick’s bigger than yours” with the detectives. He gave them all sorts of orders to do things they already had planned to do, and some other orders they fully intended to ignore. Such is life.

  Shirley Temple and Leon walked out the door directly behind Opie Taylor.

  Leon Spencer had given the detectives their first description of the killer. Average height, average build, probably a man but Leon wasn’t sure, wearing a trench coat, couldn’t see the face or hair. Not much, but it ruled out all the midgets and pro basketball players in New Orleans. That was a start.

  And they had footprints.

  Chapter Seven

  Daryl called an all-hands meeting to review the latest murder. Both the crime lab and the medical examiner’s office put the case on a fast track. William Henderson’s identity, contained in his wallet, was confirmed from his fingerprints. He had served in the Navy in the mid-1960s. Cause of death was exsanguination due to a stab wound upward through the abdomen into the heart.

  Footprints came back to a relatively expensive brand of dress shoe, size nine and a half-D. Martyrs Church was in an upscale part of the city, so “relatively expensive” was probably average for the area. The dress shoe bit was unusual – most night time murderers wore boots or athletic shoes – but Danny had seen stranger things. More than one perp had worn bedroom slippers, and one even had on ballet shoes. Dress shoes were atypical but not out in left field.

  A hand print on the back of Henderson’s neck indicated slightly larger than average hands. Silverstein used a computer program a friend in the Atlanta PD had sent him to get an approximation of the perp’s physical description. Silverstein reported the results. “Somewhere between five feet eight and six feet three. Weight between one sixty and two forty. So, if the suspect is male, that brings the suspect pool down to a mere eighty thousand people. Of course, that’s in New Orleans itself and doesn’t take into consideration the suburbs.”

  Grzgorczyk chimed in. “Let’s keep thinking. A white man would draw less attention than a black one in that area at night, so if it’s a white male they were at maybe thirty to thirty five thousand possible suspects. But, Leon Spencer was in the area that night, and he’s black. We’re back to eighty thousand people in the city.

  “What do we have from the search of his home?”

  Goldberg’s turn. “Nothing new. We got an explanation for the Sueprbowl ring. Henderson’s son was on the coaching staff of the 1989 San Francisco Fortyniners. Financials are boring. Henderson lived on social security, a private pension and a trust income of about $35,000 a year. He wasn’t wealthy, but well-off. A net worth of about a million dollars, half of it in his house. And, he hadn’t been killed for money. Neighbors described him as quiet and private.

  “His phone records showed zip. He made regular calls to his son in California, a daughter in Connecticut and a sister in Baton Rouge. There were occasional calls to the church and some of its members. We’ve got bupkus.”

  “It’s got to be the church,” concluded Lieutenant Grzgorczyk. “Maybe it’s some sort of religious nut. Goldberg, what do we have on the religious nut cases?”

  Goldberg wasn’t particularly helpful. “Most of them are simply too low-functioning to pull off anything of this magnitude. There are zealots of every stripe in town, but this is savagery, not zealotry. I don’t think it’s a religious nut.”

  Silverstein uncovered the reason for Henderson’s presence in the cemetery. “It was the thirteenth anniversary of his wife’s death. Guy went there every year. This was just the wrong year to go.”

  “Right now, my big question is who the next target is.” Danny was running through various scenarios in his mind. “It’s all old people. Maybe we get a list of parishioners by age and focus on that?”

  The team batted that around for a bit. They figured they could ask, but age by itself might not help. Those murdered had all been in their late seventies or their eighties, but there were a couple of nonagenarians in the congregation who were still alive.

  “We’ve mapped all of the attacks. They’re mostly clustered close to the church, and all seem to be in the Third District. But, that goes for almost everyone in the congregation we can track down.” Silverstein wasn’t being as helpful as Grzgorczyk had hoped. Nobody was.

  Chapter Eight

  The meeting was held in the sanctuary. Almost every member over the age of seventy was present, and quite a few who were younger. Father Swain decided to speak from the communion rail instead of the pulpit. He didn’t want anyone accusing him of claiming to preach the Word of God about this. That could come later.

  “We are all mourning William’s death. He died while visiting his wife’s grave, a horrid and evil thing to happen. Christians believe that God helps those who help themselves.” Reverend Swain was speaking calmly and precisely. “We’ve lost too many brothers and sisters in Christ to murder recently. And, the spate of accidents and illnesses that took so many others might be connected. We don’t know.

  “The police have asked that each of you allow them to examine your bank records. I am not an attorney…” The interruption was quick and harsh.

  “Father, you’re not an attorney. I am, and I’m their attorney. How about you stick to guaranteeing their salvation and I’ll take care of guaranteeing their civil rights.”

  Steve Clemons wasn’t exactly fat, but he was far from being in shape. The fifty-four-year-old abrasive lawyer was an avid consumer of fine food and drink, and even had a staff of two chefs at his home to satisfy his desires and whims. Clemons’s black hair was thinning noticeably, his breathing was often labored and his face looked a bit splotchy. Father Stewart was concerned about the man’s health.

  “I’ve been over this with each of my clients and explained that this is a fishing trip. Many of these people are wealthy, and the government just wants to get its hands on their money.” Clemons looked smugly at the priest, waiting for him to object.

  “You’re right, Steve.” Swain had learned that agreeing with someone was a good start toward disarming them. “I’m not an attorney, you’re the expert. My concern is with their souls and their lives, not their rights or their money. And, there’s just too much evidence that their lives may be in danger.”

  “That’s just your opinion, Father,” sneered Clemons. Clemons was supposed to be a good lawyer. Stewart Swain just hoped he could become just
as good a human being.

  “Steve, it’s my opinion based on certain facts. First, our members are being killed. The only link the police can find is the church. Somebody seems to be targeting our older church members for murder.” Clemons started to interrupt again.

  “I plan to finish, Steve, no matter how often you interrupt. If what I’m saying is nonsense you can easily disprove it. If what I’m saying isn’t nonsense then you have an opportunity to try to disprove it. But I’m going to say what I have to say. How about if you sit down and shut up until it’s your turn to speak?” Clemons had pushed the priest one inch too far.

  “As I was saying, people have been dying. A statistician tells me that the data fall under something called the Three Sigma Rule. Basically, the probability that these deaths are simply a result of random chance is around one half of one percent. That’s good enough for me.

  “I ask you to pray about this. If you are concerned about your civil rights, I’m sure Mr. Clemons can help devise an authorization for the police to examine your records that provides the maximum protection possible. If you are not concerned about your own life, that is your business. If you are not concerned about the lives of your fellow church members, I submit that you need prayer, and perhaps therapy. Please let the police look at your financial records.”