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Authors: Polly Iyer
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house, blue door, black tarp. Called it in.”
Yes . Lucier’s adrenaline took over. “Address?”
Beecher told him.
“On my way.”
* * * * *
W hen Lucier arrived on the scene, Beecher and Cash were about to canvass what remained of the neighborhood.
“Seeing what’s around, I doubt we’ll get anywhere,” Beecher said. “But we’d be remiss if we didn’t try.”
Lucier had moved to New Orleans in his early teens from Cambridge, Massachusetts. He loved his adopted city, but every time he saw neglected areas like this, he struggled to hold back the anger. Greed, politics, and apathy were the great curses in modern-day America, and the victims were those without a voice, mainly the poor. The Lower Ninth Ward proved a good example.
“You never know,” he said.
“Didn’t I just see you?” Charlie Cothran said, arriving on the scene shortly after Lucier.
“This is your lucky day, Charlie,” Lucier said.
“I was about to go home, but when I heard this might be the guy you mentioned, I said I’d take the call to see for myself.”
“They unwrapped the tarp enough to make sure,” Lucier said. “It’s him all right.”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
With no electricity, the CSU set up lights inside the shuttered house. Lucier and Cothran walked into the back corner where the body lay covered except for the head. The foul smell turned Lucier’s stomach; so did the visual.
Cothran bent down and, with the help of one of the techs, unwrapped the tarp, shaking his head when he observed Mathieu Soulé’s deteriorated body. “Guess he won’t be raping any more eleven-year-old innocents, will he?”
“Other than the fact he’s dead, the penis jammed in his mouth makes that a no-brainer, which I’m sure was the point.”
“Don’t know who’s sicker, the murderer or the victim,” Cothran said. “Better get on with my job.”
“I’m going to check with Barlow.” Lucier considered Boots Barlow the best crime scene tech in all of New Orleans. He found her outside studying the ground wearing booties over her ever-present boots, hence the nickname. “What do you think, Boots?”
“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Don’t think. Know. Two people. They parked on dirt. Nothing unusual about the tire treads, but the footprints are another story.”
“Why?”
“The ground is hard because we’ve had almost no rain, but it’s soft enough to show they were wearing booties to cover shoe treads.”
“You mean like cops wear at a crime scene?” He put out his foot. “Like these?”
“And these.” She put out her foot too.
“What about the tarp?”
“I didn’t want to mess with it until Doc did his thing. I’ll go over it at the lab, but two guys wearing booties are going to be wearing gloves. I doubt I’ll find anything. These guys were careful. I may find something on the victim though.”
“Lieutenant,” Cothran called from the door of the house. “Could you come here, please?”
“Catch you later, Boots. Let me know what you find.”
“Sure thing.”
Lucier walked back to the house.
“Take a gander.”
Cothran had turned the body. A beer bottle protruded from Soulé’s rectum. “As if they had to make their point again.”
* * * * *
L ater , when Lucier and his team returned to the district, he asked, “Okay, anyone know Alba or Feldman?”
“I was at the academy with Alba,” Cash said. “Nice guy but a little on the light side.”
“What do you mean?” Lucier asked.
“A dimwit,” Beecher said.
Cash shook his head. “Not exactly. He was fine with the physical stuff, but some things took him longer to absorb. Frankly, I was surprised he passed the tests.”
“What’d I tell you? A dimwit.”
Lucier shook his head. “Sam, it’s better if you don’t use words like that.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Beecher said. “I’m supposed to be politically correct. Okay, how’s this? He’s stupid.”
“Closer,” Cash said.
“Jeez.” Lucier pinched the bridge of
Yes . Lucier’s adrenaline took over. “Address?”
Beecher told him.
“On my way.”
* * * * *
W hen Lucier arrived on the scene, Beecher and Cash were about to canvass what remained of the neighborhood.
“Seeing what’s around, I doubt we’ll get anywhere,” Beecher said. “But we’d be remiss if we didn’t try.”
Lucier had moved to New Orleans in his early teens from Cambridge, Massachusetts. He loved his adopted city, but every time he saw neglected areas like this, he struggled to hold back the anger. Greed, politics, and apathy were the great curses in modern-day America, and the victims were those without a voice, mainly the poor. The Lower Ninth Ward proved a good example.
“You never know,” he said.
“Didn’t I just see you?” Charlie Cothran said, arriving on the scene shortly after Lucier.
“This is your lucky day, Charlie,” Lucier said.
“I was about to go home, but when I heard this might be the guy you mentioned, I said I’d take the call to see for myself.”
“They unwrapped the tarp enough to make sure,” Lucier said. “It’s him all right.”
“Let’s take a closer look.”
With no electricity, the CSU set up lights inside the shuttered house. Lucier and Cothran walked into the back corner where the body lay covered except for the head. The foul smell turned Lucier’s stomach; so did the visual.
Cothran bent down and, with the help of one of the techs, unwrapped the tarp, shaking his head when he observed Mathieu Soulé’s deteriorated body. “Guess he won’t be raping any more eleven-year-old innocents, will he?”
“Other than the fact he’s dead, the penis jammed in his mouth makes that a no-brainer, which I’m sure was the point.”
“Don’t know who’s sicker, the murderer or the victim,” Cothran said. “Better get on with my job.”
“I’m going to check with Barlow.” Lucier considered Boots Barlow the best crime scene tech in all of New Orleans. He found her outside studying the ground wearing booties over her ever-present boots, hence the nickname. “What do you think, Boots?”
“Oh, hi, Lieutenant. Don’t think. Know. Two people. They parked on dirt. Nothing unusual about the tire treads, but the footprints are another story.”
“Why?”
“The ground is hard because we’ve had almost no rain, but it’s soft enough to show they were wearing booties to cover shoe treads.”
“You mean like cops wear at a crime scene?” He put out his foot. “Like these?”
“And these.” She put out her foot too.
“What about the tarp?”
“I didn’t want to mess with it until Doc did his thing. I’ll go over it at the lab, but two guys wearing booties are going to be wearing gloves. I doubt I’ll find anything. These guys were careful. I may find something on the victim though.”
“Lieutenant,” Cothran called from the door of the house. “Could you come here, please?”
“Catch you later, Boots. Let me know what you find.”
“Sure thing.”
Lucier walked back to the house.
“Take a gander.”
Cothran had turned the body. A beer bottle protruded from Soulé’s rectum. “As if they had to make their point again.”
* * * * *
L ater , when Lucier and his team returned to the district, he asked, “Okay, anyone know Alba or Feldman?”
“I was at the academy with Alba,” Cash said. “Nice guy but a little on the light side.”
“What do you mean?” Lucier asked.
“A dimwit,” Beecher said.
Cash shook his head. “Not exactly. He was fine with the physical stuff, but some things took him longer to absorb. Frankly, I was surprised he passed the tests.”
“What’d I tell you? A dimwit.”
Lucier shook his head. “Sam, it’s better if you don’t use words like that.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Beecher said. “I’m supposed to be politically correct. Okay, how’s this? He’s stupid.”
“Closer,” Cash said.
“Jeez.” Lucier pinched the bridge of
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