Chuck Hustmyre: A Killer Like Me

By Wednesday afternoon, less then forty-eight hours after the storm, the power was starting to come back on. By Thursday night, half the city had lights, including the Star amp; Crescent on Tulane Avenue, where Murphy found a seat at the bar.

He had spent all day Wednesday and Thursday locked in an interview room at PIB, grilled by Lieutenant Carl Landry about the deaths of Detective Juan Gaudet and serial killer Richard Lee Jeffries. In all that time, Landry only once acknowledged, and even then reluctantly, that Murphy had saved Kiesha Guidry’s life.

At six o’clock Thursday night, Murphy had walked out of the PIB office without handcuffs on. He considered that a victory. He drove straight to the Star amp; Crescent.

The video had helped. Homicide had recovered Jeffries’s camera. The last segment of the video showed Murphy, battered and bleeding, ripping the bonds off Kiesha Guidry’s wrists and ankles, slinging her over his shoulder, and then limping away as he carried her to safety.

Murphy was on his first beer when a familiar voice spoke behind him.

“I heard the lights were back on, so I figured you’d be here,” Kirsten Sparks said.

Murphy looked over his shoulder. “Pull up a chair. I think I might owe you a beer.”

“You owe me more than that, hero, but I’ll take a beer as a down payment.”

Murphy signaled to the off-duty cop behind the bar.

“You see the front page today?” Kirsten asked.

He nodded. “Landry showed it to me.”

“Is that where you’ve been?”

Murphy took a long sip of his beer. “For two days.”

“The AP picked up the story. CNN and Fox have both called. Bill O’Reilly wants me on his show. I’m surprised he hasn’t called you.”

“I lost my phone.”

“There’s definitely a book deal in it for you, probably a movie too. ‘Hero cop saves mayor’s daughter’. ”

“I doubt I’ll get a thank-you card from the mayor,” Murphy said.

Kirsten leaned closer and whispered. “Gaudet’s calendar was a gold mine. Wait until you see tomorrow’s front page. I wouldn’t be surprised if the feds indict Guidry next week.”

“I’m going to have to testify before the grand jury. Tell them about the calendar. About what Juan told me before… he died.”

Kirsten laid a hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to sound so gleeful about the story. I know this has to be really hard on you.”

“Juan was a big boy. He made his own decisions.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their beers, both lost in their own thoughts.

Kirsten broke the silence. “Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you find out about the house on Burgundy?”

That was the same question Lieutenant Landry had asked him at least fifteen times. Murphy told the PIB man that he was driving back to the office for the search-warrant briefing when he got an anonymous call. His cell-phone number, along with the Crime Stoppers tip line, had been at the bottom of one of the articles about the serial killer.

Murphy claimed the caller told him about the house on Burgundy. He said he drove by the house to check it out. He tried to call in on the radio, but he couldn’t get through.

Like Katrina, Catherine had knocked out NOPD’s radio system. Of course, that hadn’t happened until hours after Murphy claimed he tried to call in, but that was splitting hairs. Who could say, except Murphy himself, whether his radio was working that evening or not?

“What number did the source call from?” Landry had asked.

“It was blocked,” Murphy said.

“Why didn’t you call Captain Donovan on your cell phone?”

“I tried to, but nobody answered. I guess they were busy briefing for the search warrant.”

“Where’s your phone?” Landry had asked.

“I lost it during the storm.”

It wasn’t a great story. Murphy knew that. But it was the best one he could come up with on short notice. Landry could subpoena his cell-phone records, but given everything that had happened, that might be a can of worms even PIB didn’t want to open.

“Murphy,” Kirsten said.

“Huh?”

“How did you find out about the house on Burgundy?”

“I got an anonymous tip,” he said.

Kirsten finished her beer.

Murphy watched her gulp down the last couple of swallows. He found it sexy as hell. “You remember our first date?” he said.

She set the empty beer bottle on the bar. “You took me to DiGiulio’s on Saint Charles.”

“All you drank was a glass of wine.”

“So?”

“So on our second date, you drank whiskey.”

She shook her head. “I know what you’re getting at, and that wasn’t our second date. It was our fourth. Plus we had gone out to lunch a couple of times in between.”

“So did you invite me to stay over that night because you liked me, or because you had been drinking whiskey?”

She smiled. “A little of both.”

He smiled back at her as he waved at the bartender, who was camped at the far end of the bar watching the TV news. Murphy saw his picture on the screen. The story of him gunning down the serial killer and rescuing the mayor’s daughter had been on every news broadcast for three straight days.

Murphy nodded toward Kirsten’s empty beer bottle. “You want another one?”

She turned toward him, a slightly seductive glint in her eyes. “I like beer,” she said. “Whiskey’s better.”

Murphy sits alone in his car. Beyond the glowing dashboard clock, the street is dark. It’s late.

In the three weeks since the storm, he and Kirsten have been seeing each other again. After his marathon interrogation, PIB has left him alone. He even managed to stay in the Homicide Division.

Mayor Ray Guidry is going down for the count. The feds have impaneled a special grand jury to investigate allegations that he demanded huge kickbacks from Katrina contractors. According to the Times-Picayune, several of the contractors have agreed to testify against him.

Murphy has almost stopped thinking about Marcy Edwards.

Things are going well. Except that for the last several days he has felt a certain… restlessness. A sort of jumpiness creeping into his body that demands action.

Staring through the bug-splattered windshield of his unmarked police car, Murphy sees an aging BMW sedan turn the next corner. As the car’s headlights shine in Murphy’s direction, he sinks lower in his seat. The car glides to a stop at the curb in front of a dark house in the middle of the block. Murphy glances at the clock. It’s 10:25. She worked even later than usual.

A tall woman with long dark hair climbs out of the driver’s seat. She slings her purse over one shoulder and drags a thick leather briefcase out behind her. She bumps the car door shut with her hip and treks up the walkway toward her front door.

Murphy watches as the lights come on inside the house.