AHMM, Jul-Aug 2005 Read online

  Berger blanched and Beau asked his questions. Berger's answers were quick with no hesitation. The first questions were background. Berger was forty-five, born and raised in New Orleans, owned a candle store on Magazine Street, lived at 315 Brioche since it opened for occupants, a year ago.

  "What was your relationship with Wendy Smith?” Beau asked.

  Wendy was a neighbor and friend, but their friendship was never personal.

  "She likes our candles. The candle shop I own is called All You Need Is God Scented Candle Emporium. She thought it was a clever name."

  Beau looked up from his notes.

  "We're nonreligious,” Berger said. “Everybody loves God and The Beatles, so I came up with the name."

  "You ever go on a date with Wendy?"

  "No. I'm a good twenty years older than her. We had coffee once at the Starbucks, but that was after she came by the emporium a couple of weeks ago."

  "Ever been in her apartment?"

  "No."

  "Has she been in yours?"

  "No.” Berger looked directly at Beau, eyes still red, but without the typical evasiveness of the guilty. He was very sharp. Beau kept his questions short and Berger answered with short responses.

  The last time Berger saw Wendy was the day before yesterday, six P.M. In the hall. She was on her way out, wearing a red dress and looking very nice. He had no idea where she went or if she went with anyone.

  "Do you know anyone who would have hurt her?"

  "No,” Berger said. “Was she robbed?” Tears in his eyes again. “She wasn't ... molested, was she?"

  "We don't know. Did she have a boyfriend?"

  It took Berger a minute to compose himself before answering, “She went out with Freddie MacDonald.” Freddie lived upstairs, right above Wendy. Berger described him for Beau.

  "Do you know if anyone has a key to Wendy's place, besides Wendy?"

  "Our landlady. Lives uptown. And Freddie. He has a key to my place too."

  Beau narrowed his eyes. “Why Freddie?"

  "He was the first one in the building and is like our fixer, if something goes wrong. We've had mail problems and circuit breaker problems. Freddie's handy."

  Beau moved to Berger's activities that day, learning he'd awakened at his usual eight, arrived at the emporium at eight forty-five and remained there until six, went straight home and watched TV—Friends, Seinfeld, Frasier, ER—then went to sleep.

  Beau watched the man's face carefully. “How did Wendy's shoe end up under your kitchen table?"

  He shook his head, eyes wet again. “I have no idea."

  "Did you hurt Wendy?"

  "No, sir. No. Never!"

  The interview continued for another hour, but Berger stuck to his story, even when Jodie knocked on the door and came in with a torn white shirt she'd found crumpled in Berger's dirty clothes hamper. She showed Berger and the camera the plastic evidence bag with the torn bloody piece of shirt found next to the body.

  No tears this time. Fear and incredulity filled Berger's eyes. He was good.

  Jodie stepped out with the evidence after leaving Beau a note.

  "Do you have a new iron in your apartment?” Beau asked.

  "Iron? Yes. My old one broke."

  "What did you do with it?"

  "Put it in the garbage.” Berger went on to explain they all used the dumpster behind their building. When asked about the envelopes and torn bills with his name on them, Berger said he'd thrown them away too.

  He had no idea how they came to be next to the body.

  * * * *

  Jodie was sitting at her desk, which abutted Beau's near the center of the squad room. Government issue gray metal desks.

  "It was one of the bricks,” she explained. “We found hair and blood. Nothing on the iron except two latent prints.” No way to lift fingerprints from a dusty brick. “He cop yet?"

  "Nope. And I don't think he's gonna."

  Jodie picked up her mug and headed for the coffee pot. Beau followed, flipping through his notes. “You know anything about TV shows?"

  "What?"

  "Friends. Steinfield. Frasier, and something called ER. Those real shows?"

  Jodie shook her head. “You got a TV on your houseboat. I've seen it. You ever turn it on?"

  "Yeah.” Beau grabbed one of the extra mugs. “I watch movies. The news sometimes, but I don't have time for TV shows."

  "Well, it's Seinfeld, and those shows come on Thursday nights, like tonight."

  "All right. By the way, when you canvassed, was a Freddie MacDonald in his apartment, right above the victim's?"

  "No."

  They went back to their desks with their mugs and Jodie told him about the searches of the apartments. The shirt was the only evidence secured.

  "So your turn now?” Beau said.

  Jodie took two fresh coffees into the interview room where Berger waited. Beau started up a fresh pot of coffee just as his phone rang. It was the desk sergeant out front. A man named Freddie MacDonald was there to see them.

  As tall as Beau but a more solid two hundred and fifty pounds, Freddie MacDonald was twenty-eight, had dark brown hair, and wore a dark green jogging suit and black running shoes.

  "I heard y'all wanted to talk to me,” he said, an angry scowl on his face.

  "From who?"

  MacDonald looked confused.

  "Who told you that?"

  Standing eye to eye with Beau, MacDonald said, “Somebody left a note on my door."

  "Do you know what happened on Brioche Lane?"

  "No."

  Beau watched the man's dark brown eyes as he told him about Wendy. No shock. No tears. Just anger filled those eyes.

  "Al did it. Al Berger. He lives in apartment 2B."

  Beau pointed to the chair next to his desk and sat behind his desk with his notepad and pen.

  "How do you know Berger did it?"

  "He's always staring at her. Following her to work. Gave her the creeps."

  "When was the last time you saw Wendy?"

  He'd seen her that afternoon when she left for work. She worked one to nine P.M. He described her clothing perfectly.

  "She was upset, saying that Berger tried to push his way into her apartment when she wasn't dressed. I went and banged on his door and told him I'd snap his neck in two if he didn't leave her alone."

  "What did he say?"

  MacDonald grimaced. “Nothing. He just shook."

  "So what did you do tonight?"

  "What?"

  "It's a simple question.” Beau kept his eyes expressionless, lowering his hooded brow slightly.

  MacDonald leaned back and said, “Went to a movie."

  "Where? What'd you see?"

  He blinked and ran it off quickly. “Nine o'clock show. Coliseum Theatre. Plays old movies. Saw Young Frankenstein.” He dug into the top pocket of his jogging jacket and produced a ticket stub.

  Beau had him dig out his driver's license from a canvas wallet in the front pocket of his jogging pants.

  "Go alone to the movie?"

  "Huh? Oh yeah. I was alone."

  "You ever go out with Wendy?"

  MacDonald sat up straighter, obviously prepared for this question, and confirmed they'd been dating for six months, spent the night at each other's place occasionally but weren't exclusive. He went out with other women, but she didn't seem to want to go out with other men.

  "She could have, of course,” he volunteered, jutting out his chin.

  Beau studied the man's body language as the interview continued. The man was used to using his size, intimidating when he needed to be. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy, even telling Beau that as the interview continued.

  Freddie MacDonald was the first to move into the apartments. Originally from Covington, across Lake Pontchartrain, he was a veterinarian's assistant at the Feline Hospice on Jackson Avenue.

  "What's the difference between a hospice and a hospital?” Beau asked.

  "Couple letters in
the spelling. I hope you find enough on Berger to give him the death penalty."

  He volunteered to help.

  "We'll take it from here.” They didn't need an amateur Sherlock conducting his own investigation along Brioche Lane.

  After Freddie left, Jodie came out and she and Beau conferred.

  "We sure have enough evidence,” said Jodie. “But he's nowhere near copping."

  "Yeah.” He almost said there was too much evidence, but how silly would that sound. There was never too much evidence.

  They went with the evidence.

  At four A.M., they booked Alvin W. Berger for the murder of Wendy Smith.

  * * * *

  Beau and Jodie met outside 315 Brioche Lane the next morning after she'd attended Wendy's autopsy and he'd been to Cool's Copy Center.

  Wendy died from a single blow to the side of her head, so hard pieces of brick and brick dust were embedded in the tissue. There was no evidence of sexual attack. She died between nine P.M. and eleven P.M.

  "People at Cool's are pretty upset. Part-time worker, sixteen-year-old girl, walked part of the way home with Wendy, saw nothing, said Wendy didn't seem upset about anything."

  They recanvassed the building but came up with nothing new.

  They went over Wendy's apartment again. It was neat and smelled of lemon cleaner. She liked classical music, read romance novels, wore short skirts, and owned about forty pairs of shoes.

  It always saddened Beau, going through the home of the dead. But he and Jodie were all Wendy had left now. They were her avenging angels. They were there for a purpose, not just going through her things.

  There was no diary or even any letters, but on her answering machine were three messages from Freddie MacDonald asking her to call him. The last one, Freddie sounded hurt, “Why don't you call me?"

  "Wish this was one of those machines that logged the date and time,” Jodie said as she pocketed the tape.

  "You notice we have a Wendy, a MacDonald, and a Berger,” Beau said, and he could see it hadn't occurred to Jodie by her raised eyebrows.

  "That ain't all. Know what brioche means in French?"

  Jodie's eyes narrowed into cat eyes again.

  "It means bun, as in hamburger bun."

  "You're creeping me out, here."

  "Actually, it means any bun, but it means bun, and the homeless man's name is Carné, Spanish for..."

  "Meat,” she cut in. “Wake me whenever you're ready. I don't like nightmares."

  Beau felt goose bumps on his arms.

  The landlady dropped by as they were locking up the place and gave them the name and address of Wendy's parents in Lake Charles.

  "How long has the lock been broken on the main door downstairs?” Jodie asked.

  "About a month."

  In the hall, as Jodie put her initials on the cassette tape, marking it for evidence, Beau remembered something.

  "Did the note you left for MacDonald say to call or come in?"

  "What note?"

  "You didn't pin a note on MacDonald's door?"

  "No.” Jodie gave him that senior-partner look. “Why would we ever do anything like that?"

  She's right, Beau thought. We always take them unawares.

  "Could one of the uniforms have left him a note?” He could see it was a dumb question soon as he asked it.

  "Only you, me, and the crime lab tech went into the building last night."

  They went around back, Beau taking off his coat, passing it to Jodie before climbing into the dumpster. It was nearly empty, just two paper bags and a plastic one. None was Berger's.

  They caught the landlady, who said the dumpster was emptied late yesterday.

  * * * *

  "I have a bad feeling about this guy,” Beau said on their way to the Feline Hospice, where they discovered MacDonald had taken the day off. The vet in charge knew nothing of MacDonald's private life, said he was a good worker, liked animals.

  On their way to the movie theater, Beau felt his warrior blood rising and used the time to focus, to calm himself. A Sioux revealed no emotion, kept his face expressionless, unlike the white eyes.

  "You're in that zone again,” Jodie said as they climbed out of the car.

  "Lead on, paleface.” Beau broke his deadpan expression with a wink.

  The Coliseum was a forties-era theater at the corner of Camp and Thalia Streets, facing the corner with a lighted marquee above, posters on the walls, and an old-fashioned ticket booth, which was unoccupied that morning. In a glass case marked NOW SHOWING was a Young Frankenstein poster of a haunted castle superimposed by Gene Wilder's screaming face, with bulging eyes and a stethoscope dangling from his ears.

  "Good flick,” Jodie said on their way in.

  They found the manager inside, a portly man, balding with a combover, left to right. There was an eight o'clock showing.

  "You want your money back?” asked the manager.

  "No. Why?” Jodie.

  "Projector broke an hour into the eight o'clock showing last night. Tried to give all the money back but some just walked off. Thought you came back for a refund. I was gonna give you a ticket to tonight's performance."

  Beau described MacDonald. The manager didn't remember him.

  They thanked him and stepped away, Jodie leading them around to the side of the building where she stopped and looked up at the roof. After a few seconds, Beau was about to ask what was up when she said, “Handled a suicide here couple years back."

  Beau recognized the look on her face, sad and determined. It was the look acquired working Homicide, when you mix with death every day, when you have to go through a victim's personal things, when you link with someone you never met until they were gone.

  "This city has too many ghosts,” Jodie said, leading the way back to the car.

  At Starbucks, Jodie ordered a café au lait. Beau took his black.

  "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

  Jodie nodded slowly.

  "There was no note on MacDonald's door. How'd he know about the murder?” Beau said. “I think he came in to make sure we were onto Berger."

  "We have to make sure no neighbor told him."

  "He lied about the note,” Beau argued. “He doesn't produce it, I'm gonna show him my knife."

  Jodie smiled, lifting her cup to her lips.

  "And another thing.” Beau flipped back through his notes. “He said exactly this, ‘I hope you find enough on Berger to give him the death penalty,’ as in enough evidence. And he told me they'd dated six months, though he went out with other women, but she didn't want to go out with other men. That message he left sounded like he was whining, ‘Why don't you call me?’”

  Jodie looked at one of the windows.

  "MacDonald has a key to Wendy's and Berger's apartments. He was mad she didn't call him back and didn't stay for the movie. Bought a ticket for an alibi, but didn't hang around for the flick. Said he was there until nine P.M. Berger was sleeping when I rousted him. How many killers go right to sleep after a murder?"

  "We have to go with the facts only. Follow the evidence."

  "I know.” Beau picked up his cup. “But the timeline fits. She was last seen about nine fifteen walking up Brioche. Coroner says she was killed between nine and eleven. Carné found her at about eleven fifteen. Berger went to sleep at ten."

  They both took a sip of coffee.

  Beau had to ask, “Ever work a case where someone actually framed someone else?"

  "Nope. Seen it in the movies and on TV dozens of times but never in real life."

  Jodie could see it in his eyes and said, “Don't say it."

  "There's always a first time."

  "I told you not to say it!” But there was a gleam in Jodie's eyes.

  * * * *

  Beau dropped Jodie off at the Criminal Courts Building for a preliminary hearing on a double murder case—man shot his wife and her boss, who were having an affair. He arrived back at Brioche Lane at two thirty P.M. and knocked o
n every door of Wendy's building, but couldn't find a neighbor who'd told MacDonald about the case.

  Patience was one of the virtues taught to Beau by his Cajun father, fishing in their pirogue on Vermilion Bay and hunting swamp rabbit, squirrel, nutria, coons, and the occasional razorback. Freddie MacDonald wasn't home, so Beau parked the unmarked Chevy on Orange Street, where he could see the length of Brioche Lane and waited, letting his mind roam back to his childhood.

  He could see his daddy's smiling face, ever-present cigarette dangling from his mouth, saw snapshots of that unpainted shack his great-granddaddy built, a Cajun daubed house, its walls filled with swamp mud which kept the place almost cool in summer and warm in winter, the outside stairs leading from the front porch up to the attic where Beau slept. They lived off the land and the bay and the bayous and the swamp, eating well when the hunting and fishing were good, not eating much during the lean times.

  Beau's clothes came from the Goodwill stores in Abbeville and New Iberia. He remembered the excitement going in with his mama to get new clothes. He didn't know they were poor until he went to school and the kids told him, many times. He was a swamp rat. Catholic Relief paid for his education. Even when he beat out everyone to be the starring quarterback at Holy Ghost High School, making all-state, winning a football scholarship to L.S.U., even then he still had trouble getting a date to the senior prom. Girls didn't want to go with someone whose family didn't even have a car, someone who lived in a shack.

  He hoped Wendy Smith had had a good senior prom. He hoped there had been some joy in her short life. He dug the whetstone out of his briefcase and sharpened his knife, one side only, and waited.

  At five P.M., a marked unit dropped Jodie off with fresh coffees. She spent the next half hour complaining about the long preliminary hearing. Damn lawyers.

  When it got dark, they spotted shadows moving along Brioche Lane, got out to find several homeless men easing into the warehouses under construction. Beau led the way, flashlight in his left hand. He smelled Andrew Carné before he found the man, sitting with another homeless man in the warehouse right across from Wendy's apartment house.

  "Hey. Hey!” Carné called out. “This is the cop I was telling you about. The Sioux guy.” He noticed Jodie for the first time and said, “And that's the fine blonde I was telling y'all about."