John Miller - Too Far Gone

“What’s in yur box, Lee-lund?” the boy asked.

“Rusty old cottonmouth,” Leland said. “’Bout big around as your empty head.”

“Naw it ain’t, Lee-lund. Tell me what’s really in it.”

“Tails.”

“Whut kind of tails is it?”

“Nutria,” Leland answered just gruffly enough to discourage further conversation. “What else would it be-catfish tails?”

Grub snorted. “State gives four bucks a tail on swamp rats. How many is it in your box, you reckon?”

“I reckon forty-one,” Leland said.

“How much that add up to in money?”

“Four dollars times forty-one. Figure it up.”

“Ninety-one dollars,” the boy said, a worried look on his face.

“I’m lucky they ain’t paying me by your calculations.”

“How’s that, Lee-lund?”

“Because you’re a idiot and I’d starve to death on account of it, you scrawny little dog fucker.”

“Big as you are, you ain’t missed any meals, you…you. Ijit your own self,” Grub hissed, spreading his legs wide apart and freeing his eel-like penis through a ragged hole in his crotch with hands that looked like he’d been working on diesel engines. “Tickle this, Lee-lund Tickle-ay.”

“It’s Ticholet, you wormy retard.”

“Lee-lund Teesh-o-lay this, goober-puller.”

Leland climbed from the boat slowly, lifted up the crate, and lurched suddenly sideways right at the boy, who sprang off the perch and ran guffawing toward the gasoline pumps outside the store.

“Somebody should gut that little idiot and bait gator hooks with his meat.”

As he walked up the dock toward the store, Leland Ticholet threw back his head and barked his laughter at the sky.

New Orleans, like most cities, had far more vehicles on the roads daily than the roads were designed to handle, and New Orleans had far less money than was necessary to maintain them. Even at eight A.M. on a Saturday, the interstate resembled a parking lot. The outbound lanes were packed, the inbound lanes flowed. Manseur explained that normally there was less traffic going east toward the Lakefront, their destination, than into New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina was making a beeline toward a city normally known for its open, welcoming arms. Sometimes open invitations came back to bite you on the ass.

Manseur drove as fast as he could-moving in and out of the traffic, using the shoulder when necessary, and using his dash light sparingly. He didn’t want to attract any attention to the fact that a plainclothes car was racing to an emergency. Alexa knew that news producers, camera operators, and reporters snooping for stories to fill the airwaves monitored the police, fire, and emergency frequencies, including the restricted tactical ones, which they hacked into. They also encouraged motorists to call in tips, like when they saw blue lights on dashboards. One of the benefits of cellular phones was that any motorist could call the cops from anywhere-and the downside of that was that they allowed any motorist to ring up any of the newsrooms to report police activity. People were helpers or hinderers, depending on whom it was that was dialed and about what.

Detective Kennedy followed Manseur’s Crown Vic in a nondescript Chevrolet sedan.

“We should involve Kennedy in a meaningful way,” Manseur told Alexa. “Or appear to be doing so. I don’t want him throwing a wrench in the works, accidentally or intentionally.”

Manseur turned off Robert E. Lee Boulevard and onto a narrow street where neatly kept houses on small lawns faced one another across the pavement. Two squad cars had sealed off the block and a third waited in front of a Volvo SUV, while a policeman stood at the rear bumper. Manseur stopped thirty feet behind the Volvo, reached over to the glove box, and pressed the trunk release. Alexa stepped out into the gathering early-morning heat as Manseur went back to the open trunk. Kennedy walked over from his car and stood watching silently.

A uniformed officer built like a pigeon strolled up to Manseur.

“Sergeant Walker,” Manseur said, “this is Agent Keen with the FBI.”

“We sealed the scene and left it just like we found it. I called it in over the phone, like we were told to. Looks like it got rear-ended. Doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. I can’t believe shit-birds haven’t found it and taken it for a joyride, or to a strip shop.”

Manseur reached into his car trunk and removed four surgical gloves from an open box. He handed Alexa a pair, then shoved several evidence bags into the pocket of his suit jacket. He lifted out a 35mm camera and put the strap around his neck.

“Since it was rear-ended,” Sergeant Walker said, “it’s likely a road-rage incident.”

“Never know, till you know,” Manseur said. “That’s all, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here. Detective Kennedy, take notes for me?”

“Yes, sir.” Kennedy took out his notepad, slipped off the rubber band, and flipped the pad open.

The dismissed policeman walked back to his cruiser, leaned against the trunk, and crossed his arms to watch the process like there wasn’t any other thing in the city needing his attention.

Manseur lifted the camera to his eye and took a picture of the ground behind the Volvo. “Subject vehicle damage consists of a dented rear door, skinned bumper, and a broken left rear and clear plastic and red turn-lens covers.”

Alexa noticed shards of broken clear glass before Manseur knelt to take a close-up shot. Using a pair of long tweezers, he collected a half-dozen larger pieces, which he dropped into a clear evidence bag. “Broken headlight fragments,” he said for the record. “Glass, not plastic, and heavy glass.”

“Taillight lens cover?” Kennedy asked.

Manseur moved closer to the rear of the Volvo and inspected the damage. “No. I’d say a sealed-beam headlight. It’s real glass. Older vehicle, most likely.”

Taking out a pocketknife, Manseur used it to scrape flecks of green paint into a clear bag. “Green paint transfer from second vehicle.”

Alexa took each of the evidence bags from Manseur after he sealed them, and followed him around the Volvo to the driver’s-side door.

He opened the door carefully so he wouldn’t destroy any print evidence that might be on the handle, and looked inside, using the camera to document the state of the cabin.

“Air bag’s deployed. Wallet’s on the console.” Manseur leaned in and lifted the open billfold. “Sixty-two dollars, American Express, Shell, Visa, and a MasterCard, all in West’s name. Three pictures of his wife and daughter. Receipts for meals and gasoline, looks like. One blank check, folded.” After dropping the wallet and contents into a bag, he knelt and looked at the floorboard. Lifting something by its edges, he held it so Alexa could see it. “License on the floorboard next to the accelerator pedal.”

“He took it out of the wallet to exchange information with the other driver,” Alexa said. Of course it could be a road-rage incident, but Alexa doubted it, for a couple of reasons, the most obvious being that Gary West wasn’t there and hadn’t called anybody or turned up.

In the console and glove box, Manseur found a flashlight, a box of tissues, an owner’s manual, an insurance card, the car registration, maps, and a few receipts.

Manseur took three pictures of the interior. “Take a look inside, Agent Keen,” he said, stepping back.

Alexa leaned in without touching anything. She saw the brown specks that dotted the headliner, the passenger seat, the passenger-side window, and the dashboard. They looked like tiny comets. “Blood spatter. Might have happened while he had the license in his hand. That’s most likely why he dropped it.”