Chuck Hustmyre: A Killer Like Me

Murphy made a show of looking at his watch. “It’s five thirty. Take a couple of hours to get your affidavit together. Meanwhile, I’ve got one more lead to run down. While I’m doing that, I’ll work the phone to try to find us a judge. Let’s meet back here at seven thirty and we’ll see where we stand.”

“Shouldn’t one of us go sit on the house,” Doggs said, “in case the guy comes back?”

Of course you should, but I can’t let you do that.

Murphy shook his head. “If he spots you before you spot him, he’ll be in the wind and we’ll never find him again.”

“But we know what he’s driving,” Calumet said.

“You know what he was driving three months ago when he dumped that body off Michoud Boulevard,” Murphy said. “What if he’s driving something different now? What if he drives right past you and sees you watching his house? After everything this guy has done, you don’t think he’s paranoid? He probably sleeps with his eyes open.”

Calumet shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Murphy knew the young cop didn’t mean it.

“What if we can’t find a judge?” Doggs said.

Murphy hesitated for several seconds, trying to appear thoughtful. “You were right about what you said earlier. It’s possible to search the house without a warrant, but we have to show we’ve exhausted all reasonable efforts to get a warrant and that someone’s life is in imminent danger.”

“Given the circumstances, that doesn’t seem that tough,” Doggs said.

“First we’ve got to try to find a judge,” Murphy said. “And before we do that, we’ve got to put together an affidavit. Otherwise, when this case gets reviewed by a bunch of bleeding-heart judges and ACLU lawyers, it’ll look like we didn’t even try to get a warrant.”

The two young detectives looked at each other, then turned around and walked out of the squad room. Their disappointment in Murphy’s mentorship was obvious.

As Murphy watched them go, he knew he had only two hours to find Richard Lee Jeffries.

Monday, August 6, 5:45 PM

The driveway in front of 127 South Saint Patrick Street was empty. Murphy circled the block looking for an old Honda Civic with a new set of Goodyear Aquatreds. There wasn’t one.

He parked across the street, in the back lot of Saint Anthony of Padua Catholic Church. He watched the house until six o’clock. There was no movement and no change in the lighting. It didn’t appear anyone was home.

Murphy was reaching for the glove compartment when his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed Restricted. It was either a police number or it was Kirsten. He pressed the ignore button. He pulled the hood of his raincoat over his head and cinched the drawstrings. The rain was coming down in sheets.

His police radio crackled. “Homicide Division to twenty-five fifty-four, Detective Murphy.”

It was Calumet’s voice. Murphy picked up his radio and keyed the microphone. “Twenty-five fifty-four, go ahead.”

“Call the office ASAP,” Calumet said.

Murphy set the radio back on the seat and grabbed his cell phone. He dialed the main number for Homicide.

Calumet answered on the first ring. “Murphy?” The young detective sounded excited.

“Yeah.”

“Can you get back here by six fifteen?”

Murphy glanced at his watch. That was in less than fifteen minutes. “Why?”

“For a briefing.”

“What briefing?”

“We got the search warrant.”

“What!” That was impossible. They couldn’t have done everything he had told them to do.

“Yeah, we got the warrant.”

Murphy took a deep breath. He had to sound like a detective who wanted to arrest the most prolific killer in the city’s history. “How?”

Calumet’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The captain overheard me and Doggs talking about putting together a warrant, and he asked what kind of information we had. Once we laid it out, he told us to leave off all the murders except the dump job in the east, the one where you found the tire track. He said that’s the only one we need to link Jeffries to right now.”

And the captain is right, but that doesn’t help me.

“You got it signed already?” Murphy said.

“Doggs is on his way back from the judge’s house right now. The judge lives uptown, on the river side of Saint Charles, said he rode out Katrina and he’s going to ride out this one.”

What a fucking disaster, Murphy thought. “I’ll head back,” he said. “Wait until I get there to start the briefing.”

“This is awesome, huh?” Calumet said.

“Yeah, awesome.” Murphy pressed and held the end button to disconnect the call and to turn off his phone. Then he switched off his radio.

From inside the glove compartment, he pulled out a zippered black leather case about the size of a pen and pencil set. The case held his lock-picking tools. Several years ago, the department had sent him to Miami to attend a weeklong lock-picking course. Sometimes when you were executing a search warrant or an arrest warrant, it was better to sneak in than to smash your way in.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

When Murphy opened the car door, a gust of wind nearly ripped it from his hands. The wind was driving the rain down at a forty-five-degree angle, hard enough to sting his face.

There were lights on inside the main house, but the apartment was dark. Jeffries’s mother had probably left the lights on to deter looters, except that in a couple of hours there wasn’t going to be any electricity to power the lights. Last time, it had taken three months to get the power back on in most of the city, longer in New Orleans East.

The homes on either side of the Jeffries house looked empty too. Murphy approached the sliding glass door at the front of the apartment by walking up the left edge of the driveway, next to a low brick wall that separated the Jeffries’s small patch of yard from the one next door. He was glad he was wearing a dark-colored civilian raincoat and not his NOPD jacket with POLICE in reflective tape across the back.

After a glance up and down the street, Murphy pulled a pin rake and a tension wrench from his leather case and crouched in front of the lock. He worked both tools simultaneously for five minutes, but he couldn’t get the lock to spring open.

All of his training had been on standard door locks and dead bolts. The glass door had a lock similar to a file cabinet. In theory, it should work the same as any other lock, but it didn’t. He changed to a different rake. Then he tried a pick.

Nothing worked.

He looked at his watch. It was already 6:15. How long would Doggs and Calumet wait for him before they gave up and came on their own? He had to search the apartment before the task force showed up. There had to be something in here that would lead him to Jeffries.

Murphy jogged back to his car. He opened the trunk and pulled out his tire iron.

The glass door had an aluminum frame that was a little loose in the jamb. Murphy forced the beveled tip of the tire iron between the frame and the jamb, just above the lock. The door was designed to slide to the left along tracks at the top and bottom. Murphy snapped the tire iron to the right and broke the lock apart. He pushed the door open a couple of feet and stepped through. A heavy drape hung across the doorway. Murphy shoved it aside, then slid the door closed behind him.

The apartment wasn’t completely dark. The drape had concealed a light coming from a back room. Murphy felt like shouting “Police,” which was what he usually did when he entered a house looking for a murderer. But this was different. He didn’t say anything.

He pulled down his rain hood and stood still, listening, his right hand gripping the butt of his Glock. Nothing moved inside the house. Murphy reached back and pulled the drape closed, leaving only a narrow gap through which he could see the street. He laid the tire iron on the nearby bed and drew his pistol. Then he slipped a flashlight from his raincoat and crept forward.