Erica Spindler - Last Known Victim

“Where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”

Spencer slipped into the interview room. Patti glanced at him and he motioned her to the hallway.

Patti stood. “Why don’t you take a moment to work on that answer.”

She followed Spencer into the hall. “What’s up?”

“Officer Lee finished searching Franklin’s vehicle. He found this tucked under the driver’s seat.”

He handed her a plastic evidence bag. The bag held a gun. Standard issue Glock.45. The preferred weapon of the NOPD.

“The serial numbers have been filed off,” Spencer said.

Glocks’ serial numbers were found in three places: the right side of the slide, the right side of the barrel and the underside of the front of the frame. She turned the bag over and inspected the places the numbers should have been.

Should have been.

Removing a gun’s serial number rendered it virtually untraceable.

Patti looked at Spencer; she saw from his expression that he was thinking the same thing as she.

Sammy had carried a Glock. It’d never been found. But they had retrieved a bullet from his body.

“I want ballistics done on-”

“I’ll call the lab.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” She reentered the room and caught the suspect picking his nose. She sat and slid him the box of tissues. He had the decency to look embarrassed. “My colleague just informed me of something very interesting.”

“Lucky you.”

“Sorry I can’t say the same about you.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about the gun.”

Under the tan he seemed to pale. “What gun?”

“The Glock. The one hidden under the driver’s seat of your van. The one you filed the serial numbers off of.”

“It’s not mine.”

That brought a smile to her face. “No? Then whose is it?”

“A friend.”

“I need a name, Ben.”

He pursed his lips, as if deciding whether or not to answer. She supposed he was doing a mental scan for someone to pin this on.

“What if I told you that gun had been used in a murder?”

She saw that she had gotten his attention by the way his expression altered. She could almost hear the “Oh, shit, I’m totally fucked!” running through his head.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said.

She laid her palms on the table. Her cell phone vibrated but she ignored it. “What if I told you it had been used to kill a cop?”

Now he looked ill. “I want a lawyer.”

“Of course you do. You need one, Mr. Franklin. I can assure you of that.”

“I found the piece.”

“Where?”

“In City Park. It was half buried, folded up in a towel inside a black garbage bag. I tripped over it. I swear!”

City Park. Where Sammy’s badge and the Jane Doe had been found. “Where in the park?”

“The lagoon. The one by the art museum, along City Park Avenue.”

A ways from where the badge had turned up. But considering the size of the city and where Sammy had been killed, suspiciously close.

“When was this?” she asked.

“A while ago.”

“How long? Best guess.”

“A year. Yeah, that’s right. It was starting to get hot.”

“You have the towel?”

“Please.” He shifted. “Besides, it was a mess.”

“A mess. What does that mean?”

“Stained.”

“Blood?”

“Dunno. I tossed the towel and kept the piece. I’ve never fired it.”

“Why’d you file the serials off?”

“I didn’t!”

“Maybe because you knew the gun belonged to a cop?”

“No! I found it that way-”

“I guess you’re just an all-around bad guy, aren’t you, Ben? A rapist and now a cop killer.”

“This is bullshit! I’m not saying another word until I have a lawyer.”

Patti wanted to push more but knew better. Besides, until the ballistics report came back, she was operating on little more than wishful thinking.

“Then let’s get you some representation, Mr. Franklin.”

Patti pushed away from the table, stood and crossed to the door. There she stopped and looked back at him.

“You never told me, where were you during Hurricane Katrina?”

“Stuck on a fucking roof for three days. Where were you? Looting stores?”

“No, Mr. Franklin. I was rescuing assholes like you from rooftops.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007

2:50 p.m.

Stacy sat slumped behind the wheel of her parked car, watching the house. Nice place. Very upscale. Garden District address.

Location. Location. Location. Wasn’t that a Realtor’s mantra, after all? Seemed Mr. Gabrielle followed his own advice.

She reviewed what she knew about the suspect-forty-six, married with two kids, successful businessman. Friend to the Audubon Zoo and the library.

Frequented titty bars-one in particular. Manufactured and distributed methamphetamine.

Not your typical Realtor.

Her cell phone vibrated; she saw it was Spencer.

“Yo,” he said when she answered. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Keeping an eye on Gabrielle’s house. Figured I’d do a drive-by of some of the properties he’s got for sale.”

“This a solo recon?”

“With my captain’s okay. How’d you know?”

“I know you, Killian. It’s Saturday. You’re working undercover all night. Where else would you be on your day off?”

“Are you suggesting I’m all work and no play?”

“Sorry, babe, but I call it as I see it.”

“That’s not what you said last night, babe. ”

“Don’t be bringing that up. I’m in public.”

She laughed softly. “What was Patti’s big find?”

Spencer explained about the fridge magnet and visiting Quentin and Anna. “We got a big hit, right out of the gate. Ex-con. In possession of a Glock.45 with the serials removed.”

“You’re running ballistics?”

As no two weapons left identical impressions upon discharging, every spent bullet and casing carried a sort of “fingerprint.” A technician would fire this gun into a box of thick gel, retrieve the bullet and compare its markings-or fingerprint-to the ones from the bullet taken from Sammy using an Integrated Ballistics Identification System machine.

“Could it be so easy?” Stacy asked. “After two years of not knowing?”

“Patti sure hopes so. She’s overseeing it herself. Poor bastard,” he added, referring to the ballistics expert. “He’s going to have her hot breath on his neck until she gets an answer.”

“Uh-oh,” she said as the door to Gabrielle’s home swung open. “There’s activity.”

“Meet me for a burger later? Shannon’s at five?”

She agreed and hung up.

Marcus Gabrielle was a handsome man. Dark hair and eyes, nice build. Today dressed in tennis whites. The picture of health and personal success.

Stacy shifted her gaze to his wife. Blonde. Pretty. Looked to be considerably younger than Gabrielle, maybe ten years. They had two kids, a boy and girl. From the dossier, she knew them to be seven and nine. Cute. Appeared to be well behaved.

Stacy narrowed her eyes, studying the foursome. They were smiling, conversing with one another. Relaxed. Happy. The picture of the American dream.

American nightmare, more like.

They crossed to the Mercedes sedan parked in the drive. Gabrielle opened the car door for his wife; she kissed him, then slid into the vehicle. The kids piled into the back seat.

Stacy shook her head. Why would Gabrielle take the chance of messing that up?

Greed. Zero love for anyone but himself. Totally screwed value system.

Same old story.

She still didn’t get it.

Gabrielle watched until the Mercedes had turned right at the end of the block, then he headed to his own vehicle-a silver Porsche Boxster. He tossed his equipment bag in, then climbed behind the wheel.