Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

So he sat in his car, watching the right side of a shotgun double from half a block away, waiting for a red Camaro to drive up, a red Camaro that might never arrive. Surveillance was so much fun.

The handheld police radio lying on the seat beside Murphy squawked. “Twenty-five fifty-five to twenty-five fifty-four.”

It was Gaudet. Murphy picked up his portable radio and keyed the microphone. “Twenty-five fifty-four, go ahead.”

“What’s your twenty?”

Murphy gave him the address, then added, “It’s one way, lake bound. Come up from the river side.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

“Kill your lights before you turn onto the block.”

“Ten four.”

In his rearview mirror, Murphy saw Gaudet turn off his headlights a block away and slid his piece-of-shit Caprice in behind Murphy’s even-bigger-piece-of-shit Taurus.

Murphy watched as Gaudet slipped out of his car and crept up the right side of the Taurus. For a big man, Gaudet could move like a cat, sneaky when he wanted to be. He eased into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. “What’s up?”

“Did you win?”

“What?”

“The case,” Murphy said. “Did the good guys win?”

Gaudet shook his head. “Judge granted a continuance.”

Murphy nodded. It happened all the time. You spent two days in court waiting to testify, then the case was continued.

“What you got?” Gaudet asked.

Murphy pointed through the windshield. “The one with the porch light on. That’s the last known address of a guy who was cruising around the courthouse just before the victim was killed.”

“Who is he?”

“The car came back to a kid named Jonathan Deshotels. He took a fall on a rape charge two years ago.”

“Why isn’t he in prison?”

“He got probation.”

“For rape?”

“He pled to sexual battery.”

Gaudet’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. Is his old man Charles Deshotels?”

Murphy shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“If so, his old man is a big-shot attorney.”

“I never heard of him.”

“He doesn’t do criminal work. He specializes in contracts. Right now he’s negotiating with the city for a bunch of Katrina contractors. Heavy-duty shit, like hundreds of millions in FEMA money.”

“So he knows people,” Murphy said. “So what?”

“He knows important people, and you can bet he called in all kinds of favors to get his shithead son off of a rape charge.”

Murphy shrugged again. “Fuck him and his dad.”

“What did his record look like before the rape?”

“Arrests for burglary and felony theft, but no convictions.”

“What’s the game plan?” Gaudet said.

“For now just a knock and talk. I want to find out why he was in that area at that time.”

“What if he cops an attitude?”

“We’ll take him to the office and sweat him.”

“He’ll call his old man quicker than shit, I bet.”

“Not if we don’t let him,” Murphy said.

They watched the house. An hour passed. Neither said a word. They were used to it.

Gaudet broke the silence. “You talk to Kirsten yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You going to?”

“I’ll give her a call tomorrow,” Murphy said. “Maybe I’ll go by her house.”

“You know she still hates you.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it,” Gaudet said. “You had sex with her best friend.”

“It wasn’t quite as simple as that.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“Janet and I went out a few times before Kirsten and I ever started dating. It was Janet who introduced us.”

Gaudet laughed. “But you screwed Janet after that.”

“I was drunk.”

Kirsten was supposed to have met Murphy at a party at Tipitina’s on Napoleon Street. Janet was bringing a date and was going to join them there. Not long after Murphy showed up, Kirsten called and said she couldn’t make it. She was a reporter for the Times-Picayune and was going to have to work late on a big story for the next morning’s paper.

Even before he made it to Tipitina’s and got Kirsten’s call, Murphy had stopped at the Star amp; Crescent for a couple of beers with the boys. Someone bought a round of car bombs, a pint of Guinness with a shot glass of half-and-half Jameson’s and Bailey’s dropped into it. Murphy was hammered by the time he made it to the party.

Janet’s date had stood her up too. She and Murphy hung out together. Later, Janet said she was too drunk to drive and asked Murphy for a ride home. At her uptown apartment, not two miles from the house Murphy shared with Kirsten, Janet invited him in for coffee. Ten minutes later they were tangled up on the sofa, sweaty and naked.

Afterward, he felt like shit. He just hoped Janet would keep her mouth shut. She didn’t. A week later she blabbed the whole thing to Kirsten. That night Kirsten kicked him out.

That had been a year ago.

“She’s probably over it by now,” Gaudet said.

“Just a minute ago you said she hates me. Now you say she’s probably over it. Make up your mind.”

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” Gaudet said. “She’s definitely not over it.”

“Thanks, partner.”

A couple of minutes later, Murphy said, “It’s a good story. Even if she does still hate me, she won’t be able to pass it up.”

“You think she’ll keep your name out of it?”

Murphy nodded. “For an exclusive like this she will.”

“Because if she doesn’t-”

A red Camaro rolled past them, its aftermarket pipes rumbling and popping. It jerked to a stop half a block away.

C HAPTER S ix

Thursday, July 26, 10:30 PM

“You want me to go old-school on him,” Gaudet said, “snatch him by his hair and pull him out in the yard?”

“Let me talk to him first,” Murphy said as he and Gaudet climbed out of the Taurus and approached the house on foot.

Murphy knocked. He felt exposed standing under the bright porch light.

From the other side of the door a woman’s voice asked, “Who is it?”

Gaudet whispered, “You want me to go around back in case he runs?”

Murphy shook his head.

“Who is it?” the voice said again.

“Police,” Murphy answered.

“Who?”

“Bitch is stalling,” Gaudet whispered.

“Po-lice,” Murphy shouted, splitting the syllables. Some people were just too stupid to understand complex words. “Open the door.”

The knob turned. The door opened a crack. One eye, half framed by stringy blonde hair, peeked out. “What do you want?”

“We need to talk to Jonathan.”

The door opened a little more. The blonde glanced at the red Camaro parked out front.

“He’s, uh…”

Gaudet laid a meaty palm on the door in front of her face. “Open up or go to jail.”

The girl backed away and folded her arms across her chest. The two detectives stepped through the door. Murphy noticed the heat first. The inside of the house was like an oven.

“The AC’s busted,” the girl said. She was stringy like her hair, with hollow cheeks and muddy eyes, wearing a shapeless housecoat.

Murphy heard a baby crying. “Where’s Jonathan?”

“Feeding the baby.”

“We’re not here to arrest him,” Murphy said. “We just want to talk to him.”

The girl disappeared into the back of the house.

Murphy’s eyes swept the living room. It had been furnished from the Fred Sanford collection. Across the room, a banged-up TV sat on an overturned beer crate. Near the front door was a threadbare sofa and a scarred wooden coffee table, on top of which lay a pile of unopened mail.

Murphy took a step toward the table with the intention of thumbing through the mail, when Deshotels strolled in from a back room. The young felon didn’t say anything. He just stopped at the edge of the living room and stared at the two detectives like he was used to cops snooping through his personal belongings and knew better than to mouth off.