They had to make their own way to the Lower Ninth Ward, partly by hitching rides on emergency vehicles and part of the way on foot.
The city was preternaturally still. The silence was eerie; it had never occurred to Nick that a lack of sound could create such a powerful impression. There were no horns, no engines, no radios or sirens. The birds were silent, if they were present at all; maybe they had all been blown away by the hurricane winds. Even the rustling of the trees had been reduced to a wet whisper. The only sound that could be heard anywhere was the periodic cry of a human voice echoing across the water from some unseen place.
Across the bridge, at the point where St. Claude Avenue now became a boat ramp, a single Chevy Blazer was backed against the water. From a trailer behind it, a uniformed man was busy unloading a black rigid inflatable boat.
“Where is everybody?” Jerry asked. “I thought there would be more people here to help. Who do we report to?”
“Beats me,” Nick said. “Let’s try that guy.”
They hiked their canvas duffel bags over their shoulders and descended the three blocks to the water.
“Morning!” Nick called out as they approached.
The man answered without looking up. “Yeah, how ya doin’.”
His shoulder patch bore the insignia “NOPD,” and his nameplate said “LaTourneau.” He was of medium height but lean, which made him look taller than he really was. His hair was black and coarse, wavy on top and short on the sides, just beginning to show gray around the temples. He was clean-shaven, something Nick found odd given the circumstances, and his NOPD uniform was crisp and starched tight.
The man worked quickly and deliberately, sliding the sleek black rescue craft off its trailer and into the water. The boat was little more than an oversized inner tube bent into the shape of a horseshoe, with cone-shaped caps covering each end. A rope handrail ran along the top of the tube, attached every couple of feet and lying in a scalloped pattern like icing along the rim of a cake. A single bench spanned the back of the boat, and behind it a Johnson RescuePro motor angled forward with its shielded propeller pointing into the air. On each side of the craft, in giant white letters, was the word ZODIAC .
“Cool boat,” Jerry said. “What kind is it?”
The officer didn’t bother to answer.
“Just a wild guess,” Nick said. “It might be a Zodiac.”
“I’m in kind of a hurry here,” the officer said. “The sun’s coming up, and it gets pretty hot on an asphalt roof.”
“Are you working alone, Officer LaTourneau?”
“Not much choice.”
It suddenly occurred to Nick that, in their civilian clothes, he and Jerry might look like nothing more than a couple of curious onlookers. “I’m Dr. Nick Polchak,” he said. “My colleague here is Jerry Kibbee. We’re with DMORT up in St. Gabriel.”
The acronym didn’t seem to ring a bell.
“Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team,” Nick explained.
“You boys here to collect bodies?”
“Eventually, yes. They sent us down to help with the rescue efforts first. Where is everybody?”
“Who?”
“FEMA, Urban Search and Rescue, the National Guard. DMORT told us there would be half a dozen agencies pitching in.”
“Well, if you see any of those boys, tell ’em I could use a hand.”
Nick and Jerry watched as the officer loaded his equipment into the boat and climbed into the stern, lowered the motor into the water and checked his fuel.
“So,” Nick said, “what’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“The strategy, the order of events. What do you want us to do?”
The officer stopped and looked up. “You got me confused with somebody else. I’m with the New Orleans Police Department. We’re not in charge here.”
“It’s your city.”
“Yeah, well, our city is underwater right now—about 70 percent of it, from what I’ve been able to piece together.”
“Don’t you know?”
“The
The city was preternaturally still. The silence was eerie; it had never occurred to Nick that a lack of sound could create such a powerful impression. There were no horns, no engines, no radios or sirens. The birds were silent, if they were present at all; maybe they had all been blown away by the hurricane winds. Even the rustling of the trees had been reduced to a wet whisper. The only sound that could be heard anywhere was the periodic cry of a human voice echoing across the water from some unseen place.
Across the bridge, at the point where St. Claude Avenue now became a boat ramp, a single Chevy Blazer was backed against the water. From a trailer behind it, a uniformed man was busy unloading a black rigid inflatable boat.
“Where is everybody?” Jerry asked. “I thought there would be more people here to help. Who do we report to?”
“Beats me,” Nick said. “Let’s try that guy.”
They hiked their canvas duffel bags over their shoulders and descended the three blocks to the water.
“Morning!” Nick called out as they approached.
The man answered without looking up. “Yeah, how ya doin’.”
His shoulder patch bore the insignia “NOPD,” and his nameplate said “LaTourneau.” He was of medium height but lean, which made him look taller than he really was. His hair was black and coarse, wavy on top and short on the sides, just beginning to show gray around the temples. He was clean-shaven, something Nick found odd given the circumstances, and his NOPD uniform was crisp and starched tight.
The man worked quickly and deliberately, sliding the sleek black rescue craft off its trailer and into the water. The boat was little more than an oversized inner tube bent into the shape of a horseshoe, with cone-shaped caps covering each end. A rope handrail ran along the top of the tube, attached every couple of feet and lying in a scalloped pattern like icing along the rim of a cake. A single bench spanned the back of the boat, and behind it a Johnson RescuePro motor angled forward with its shielded propeller pointing into the air. On each side of the craft, in giant white letters, was the word ZODIAC .
“Cool boat,” Jerry said. “What kind is it?”
The officer didn’t bother to answer.
“Just a wild guess,” Nick said. “It might be a Zodiac.”
“I’m in kind of a hurry here,” the officer said. “The sun’s coming up, and it gets pretty hot on an asphalt roof.”
“Are you working alone, Officer LaTourneau?”
“Not much choice.”
It suddenly occurred to Nick that, in their civilian clothes, he and Jerry might look like nothing more than a couple of curious onlookers. “I’m Dr. Nick Polchak,” he said. “My colleague here is Jerry Kibbee. We’re with DMORT up in St. Gabriel.”
The acronym didn’t seem to ring a bell.
“Disaster Mortuary Operational Response Team,” Nick explained.
“You boys here to collect bodies?”
“Eventually, yes. They sent us down to help with the rescue efforts first. Where is everybody?”
“Who?”
“FEMA, Urban Search and Rescue, the National Guard. DMORT told us there would be half a dozen agencies pitching in.”
“Well, if you see any of those boys, tell ’em I could use a hand.”
Nick and Jerry watched as the officer loaded his equipment into the boat and climbed into the stern, lowered the motor into the water and checked his fuel.
“So,” Nick said, “what’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“The strategy, the order of events. What do you want us to do?”
The officer stopped and looked up. “You got me confused with somebody else. I’m with the New Orleans Police Department. We’re not in charge here.”
“It’s your city.”
“Yeah, well, our city is underwater right now—about 70 percent of it, from what I’ve been able to piece together.”
“Don’t you know?”
“The
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