Pure Instinct

15

Alex Sincebaugh felt the summer breeze cascading through his hair as his car sailed over great Lake Ponchartrain's shallow, brackish basin, the hum of the car in sync with Hank Williams's most melodic ballad, “I'm So Lonesome, I Could Cry,” the D.J. asking for callers to ring him up with the bluest blues they'd ever felt, something to top the line about the whippoorwill that “sounds too blue to fly.” Alex switched off the radio for the golden silence of the waters here, waters which served the city in countless ways. In winter, they warmed the frigid air coming in from the north before it chanced to the city's perimeter; in summer, the lake served as an ideal playground for boaters, fishermen and picnickers, although most of her waters were now too polluted to allow swimming, particularly along the southern rim by New Orleans. The northern area, however, remained a prime source for hefty trout, crab and shrimp any time of year. Named for Louis XIV's naval minister, the huge lake connected via narrow straits to the Gulf of Mexico, and little wonder it was a favorite dumping ground for mafia hits.

To clear his mind, Alex liked to drive, so he'd taken off early from his apartment and meandered about the city streets, gathering his thoughts, honest to himself about not wishing to be alone in his place. He'd become fearful of sleep, and to banish it and the creeping boredom, he'd even driven the twenty-four miles from the Jefferson Parish shoreline to Man-deville. The roadbed, perched just a few yards above the waters of Lake Ponchartrain, was blatantly advertised as the world's longest bridge, and at midpoint Sincebaugh could see neither shore from the famous causeway. However, the near-blinding, brilliant sunset was plain Southern beauty, like a fire in the sky, the light dancing arcade-fashion along the giant catfish scales created by low-lying, slow-moving vapor clouds which mirrored the bay waters. It was nearing eight P.M., and he was too exhausted and frustrated to sit around at his place.

Lake Ponchartrain, forming New Orleans's northern boundary, was in fact more of a bay than a lake; still, nobody- especially the tourists-had to know that, he told himself as he fished out his two dollars for the toll, reentering the city at the now-famous Lakefront-Bayou St. John district and City Park, where jazz and food spiced up life.

From there, Alex drove to a nearby coffee shop where he'd found the lights dim enough to go easy on his eyes but bright enough to read the Evening Star Gazette and the Times-Picayune. He didn't feel like going back to his place, at least not directly, and he knew that sleep would evade him, and he feared the recurrent dream he had been having since the death of the first Hearts victim, young Victor Surette. He also knew that he looked like hell, that he was not working on all four burners, and that soon his C.O. would call him in for a complete dressing down, now more than ever since he'd made a public spectacle of himself, infuriating Landry in the process at the Toulouse Street Wharf before the press moments after Dr. Desinor had left the scene.

They'd argued openly and loudly about the psychic, and Lew Meade's high-handed FBI forensics guru, Coran, as well.

Alex felt alone and confused and at odds with everyone. At the same time that he was glad to learn of Frank Wardlaw's dismissal, he found something about the self-assured Coran which equally rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, just her officious manner, the way she conducted herself, maybe the way she took control and that emotionless exterior. Where had she put her feelings? Were they something she took out from that black bag of hers only when the occasion called for it?

Maybe he was just being foolish, childish and petty even; maybe none of it mattered; maybe Coran and maybe even the psychic detective could do a better job than he and deYampert. Fuck it all.

It wasn't that he hated women by any means, but maybe he did harbor a little fear of women who came on so bloody strong as Coran-and perhaps Kim Desinor as well. The two women had much in common, he surmised, and each was as talented or as crafty as the other-cunning folk, they'd have been called in the days of the witch trials. And each was alluringly attractive, each as beautiful in her way as the other.

Damn. He cursed the thought of feeling in the slightest attracted to Kim Desinor, though he knew he was. He'd felt something between them, some intangible and fairylike spark of intense desire that rose so quickly it was extinguished in its own rush to escape the moment he'd taken her in his arms there on the wharf. She too had to have felt it, despite her words and her coolness.

Yes, he was physically drawn to her, but at the same time, for some goddamned unaccountable, unexplainable reason, this Dr. Desinor's very presence on the case had him recalling in glaring and vivid detail the Vietcong doctors in that hellhole of a concentration camp where torture and human experimentation were routine, daily occurrences. Why such horrors should return now so vividly, he did not know, but he felt that she was the catalyst, the one who let loose the horrors. He didn't know why she had this effect on him, and no doubt it was totally unintentional on her part, but she did, and it was unpleasant, and yet there was something so erotically appealing, seductive and charming about her that he wanted to pursue her, no matter the consequences. He wanted to learn more about her, and this strange paradox of feelings had had hold of him from the moment he saw her step off that Lear jet today.

Alex had managed to endure the gross indignities and suffering placed on him in Vietnam largely through the process of mind over matter. After a while, he was no longer present, freed from the pain and humiliation by mere will and a kind of mind control his captors had no notion of or cure for. It infuriated them, challenged them, took them to new heights of cruelty, but he was no fun for them any longer since he felt not a thing.

He looked down at his scarred hands where the nails had grown back, covering the now-tough tissue beneath. He seldom thought of those times nowadays, because the moment one such image came even remotely close to his consciousness, it was extinguished by a fail-safe mechanism which he didn't fully understand but did truly bless.

The tortures were beyond cruel and sadistic; his scars attested to that. His ex-girlfriend, Allie, was one of the few women he'd allowed close since Vietnam, and even then she'd only seen him in the dark. He was careful to be up and dressed before dawn whenever she stayed over, except for that last time when she'd gotten him drunk and talking and sleeping in the next day. She must have seen the scars, understanding for the first time his total sensitivity to her touch, for while she hadn't said a word about the ugly tattooed back, they'd never again slept together. And soon she'd disappeared altogether. Since then, he'd been unable to feel comfortable around any woman, until that moment when the eel had so frightened Kim Desinor and he'd instinctively taken her into his arms to comfort her.

He'd pulled over to the coffee shop, gathered his newspapers up, and stepped inside. The old friend behind the counter had his usual coffee waiting as he liked it the moment he walked through the bell-clanging door, having seen him park on the street out front. As Alex now read his newspaper and sipped the rich Peruvian black coffee, he grew increasingly depressed over the stories now beginning to appear in the press with lurid headlines about the “Thief of Hearts Circus” being conducted by the city, and the cops were the clowns. Speculation, theory and conjecture of every stripe filled the pages of the Times-Picayune alongside shots of Dr. Jessica Coran, whose purpose on the case was fully outlined. In a sidebar piece, there was a smaller photo of Kim Desinor and a story on the psychic “connection” citing the fact she was called in to help the bungling cops.

Sincebaugh scanned what he could stomach of the stories, gathering in what little information was released to the press about Desinor, his curiosity aroused. He went on to read the press versions of the killer's supposed motive and modus operandi, and most of what the press carried was nonsense verging on supposition about the heart-pounding case, little of it founded in fact. Still, Sincebaugh detected one truth: There were enough half-truths and twisted logic among the stories to know that the rumor mill was operating at peak efficiency, despite a gag order in the Department. Leaks were being fed to the press, and he placed blame for the unplugged hole at Frank Wardlaw's doorstep, for the few details that were true were all technical in nature, items that could only be gotten from the coroner's reports, items only he and deYampert and a handful of other cops working these cases knew about, all of whom were sworn to secrecy.

His blood boiled when he found details about the type of weapon used in the murders embedded in one story, details that were accurate: a cleaver-styled cutter in one murder, a specialized butcher's knife in another, a possible rib-cutter?

Such information was crucial to the case and should remain confidential; now that it was public knowledge, every butcher in the city was a target for his neighbor's fears, suppositions and allegations, and every nut case with a Swiss Army knife would want now to confess. They'd be showing up in droves tonight and tomorrow at every precinct sergeant's desk with cleavers in hand, stories well rehearsed about precisely how they did it, all chewing up valuable investigative hours.

True, every precinct in the city had at least two men working the case, separately and without task-force unity, and any one of these men might have spilled information to a shrewd reporter, but Sincebaugh wondered about Dr. Frank Wardlaw in this respect since he'd been under such fire from both above and below, and especially since the most vital information leaks had coincided with Wardlaw's being dismissed. The man certainly had more friends in the Fourth Estate than in the NOPD.

Sincebaugh felt like putting his hand through a window, felt like hitting or arresting someone, but he instead sat granite like and lowered the headlines just as the shop bell rang and two young punks dressed in natty, moth-eaten army fatigues stepped in. The fatigues were army-surplus issue.

Sincebaugh had never liked the wholesale wear of army fatigues, not since it had become the in thing; he believed a man should earn the right to wear them. Aside from this disgruntlement, he sensed trouble welling up from within the two punks the moment he saw their eyes.

One's eyes roamed about the place while the other's eyes fixed on Tully, the old man behind the counter, who'd started his shop here in 1962 after moving from New Jersey. He often told Alex he missed his family “but not a damn thing else there.”

Sincebaugh knew he'd have to time everything to the second to take out the two punks without anyone being hurt. He pretended to laugh at one of the comics and carried the paper over to Tully, saying, “Here, old man, you gotta read this. This Calvin and Hobbes kills me. Read this.”

“ No time for papers,” Tully dourly replied. “I got customers, Alex.”

“ Take a look. Will it kill you to take a fuckin' look?”

“ Hey, Alex, easy, friend…” Tully eyed him suspiciously and ambled over. The old man had started to grab the paper when Sincebaugh brought it crosswise into the eyes of the closest kid. The other one, closer to the door, turned and ran without hesitation. Alex decked the first punk, still fighting with the newspaper, before he could bring his gun to bear.

“ Call a cop, Tully!” Alex shouted over his shoulder, snatching free the punk's concealed weapon.

“ What? What for? You are a cop! 'Sides, what'd they do, Alex?”

Alex pushed the kid's weapon into Tully's hand. “They tried to knock over your place! I'm going after the other one!” Sincebaugh had seen the direction the second young fool had taken, and he was now in his car, in pursuit, calling it in. His adrenaline rush was exactly the fix he'd needed. A good collar might do wonders for his sagging spirits, he thought now, his eyes scanning the urban jungle for his prey. He saw an army-green and brown blur dart down an alleyway just as his car passed. The kid's camouflaging fatigues blended into the cityscape. But Alex's twenty-twenty vision fixed on him. It was him. He just knew it.

He called in his location and the fact he was leaving his vehicle in pursuit of the kid felon. Behind him he heard sirens, other cops rushing to the scene, but he wanted this one all to himself. He wanted to bust somebody, anybody, maybe belt the creep around a little while he was at it.

He found himself rushing too fast through the alleyway and out the other side where he could have easily met with an ambush. Instead there was silence all around. He saw nothing, no one, only a deserted courtyard, a high, wooden fence badly in need of repair, still swaying from someone's having recently vaulted over it. There was a padlock on the gate.

He inched forward and pulled himself to the top of the fence, eyes in windows following him now, a light Louisiana downpour, silver and fresh, cascading from nowhere and everywhere at once, drenching him in its warmth and calm, making him feel alive.

He now leapt over and onto the other side of the fence and into the alley. A cat scurried from behind some rubbish and pails.

“ Toss the goddamn gun away, kid, and come outta there with your hands showing high! Now, goddamn you!”

No response.

“ Do it, damnit, or I'll fire through the cans! So help me, punk!”

No response.

“ Does this son a falow lifin' — bitch think I'm playing games with him?'' Alex shouted to the sky, his months of frustration bubbling dangerously to the surface. All his training as a police officer told him no, but his finger on the trigger said yes. He aimed at a can, pulled his aim to the bottom, fired and sent up a powerful thunder from his. 38 which rocked the trash can, the bullet going harmlessly through the lowest point of the metal trash bin and into the earth below it, no doubt leaving a gaping hole through the bottom. Instantly, in response, a gun came flying out over the trash heap, landing at Alex's feet.

“ That better be all you're packing, kid.”

He saw the boy's hands, white and pale, come trembling up over the top of the trash. Shaking, the kid stepped out into the open, pleading for mercy.

“ What kind of mercy did you two have in mind for Old Tully back there, kid?”

“ We… we needed the money.”

“ Shut up and turn around and spread your legs.” He handcuffed the kid, who looked to be perhaps eighteen or nineteen, younger than the other kid. Then he Mirandized the boy, his anger subsiding.

The boy kept talking the entire time. “I didn't want to do it. It was Will's idea, all his. He's done time.”

The familiar phrase was like a red badge of courage to the young street punks of New Orleans. “Sounds like you're going to do some time now, kid. Hanging out with the wrong crowd, son.” God, he hated sounding like his father. “Come on. You can tell it to the judge.”

Only now, coming out of the alley and handing the kid over to a uniformed officer, did Sincebaugh realize that he'd actually not seen either boy's weapon at the time he had struck out with the newspaper, and that neither of them had actually made a truly threatening gesture before he himself had acted on instinct. Alex knew that a smart lawyer could get either or both off, especially since there were no witnesses to the so-called “crime.” In point of fact, there had been no crime. Still, Sincebaugh knew that he was the only one who knew this, and that all he needed to do was call it a crime in progress.

Yet there was one witness, Tully. He'd seen the whole thing, and by now the old man had pieced it together clearly enough in his mind that he'd provide the necessary details. And with the younger kid squealing so loudly, no one would be any the wiser. Still, Sincebaugh wondered: How did I know? Was it their movements? Their clothes? Their eyes? A combination of all of it? Or did it just come with years of experience on the force, a second sight or blue sense as some called it? Was it any different from the second sight which Dr. Kim Desinor purported to both have and control, or was there an intrinsic difference?

Again he was reminded of Vietnam and how he had survived capture while better men had succumbed to an eternity there.

Ben deYampert was almost home from Little League practice with his kids when he heard the radio call come over, instantly alert, recognizing his partner's involvement. It was as though Alex had gone out looking for trouble and found it, like he was playing James Arness in Gun smoke or something. Son of a bitch is just spoiling for trouble with Landry and the brass. It figured with all the anger he'd been bottling up inside and no place to loosen the cork. Something had to give.

Ben rushed his kids home and didn't stop for so much as a biscuit or a kiss from Fiona, shouting that he had to take an emergency call. He heard one of his kids telling his wife it had something to do with Uncle Alex.

Ben hadn't taken time to change out of his sweat-soaked coach's uniform. He worried the entire nine and a half miles through traffic to the scene, his siren blaring atop the family van.

Was Alex flat on his back, a bullet hole in him? Would he be hauled off in an ambulance before Ben could get there? Was he critical? What was going on? Nobody seemed to know.

Alex was a good partner and a fine man, someone Ben had confided in over the years, a man whose opinion he'd sought in all things, from purchasing his first home, to speaking to a divorce lawyer, to his daughter's taste in guys. They'd partnered together for so long, they'd become what cops calleid an old married couple. Ben had picked Alex as his partner after Alex's last partner, Keith Tyler, had been killed in a running gun battle, the wound opening up a grapefruit-sized hole in Tyler's head thanks to a single cop-killer bullet used by the backwater creeps that Alex and Tyler had gone after.

Some said that Alex, in those days, had a death wish, and that Tyler's death was the result, that it was somehow on Alex's head, due to his irresponsibility, but Ben didn't believe it, and when he visited Alex in the hospital, he was doubly sure. Alex had taken two hits behind a Kevlar vest, but Alex had also taken out the men who had killed his partner, a pair of wild-eyed drug dealers. Ben greatly admired his partner and while Alex confided very little, Ben often found himself confiding a great deal, about his kids, his wife, problems at home, money woes, almost everything.

Now he greatly feared for Sincy. No news was coming over the radio. No one could tell him what was going down, what had happened, nothing.

He raced demon like to the scene.

“ You son of a bitch, Alex! You'd better be okay!”

When his van couldn't get past the congested street filled with police cars, their strobes menacing the night, Ben leapt from the passenger seat and raced the half block remaining, huffing and out of breath before stopping just outside the big plate-glass window of the coffee shop and staring in, seeing that Alex was alive and well and calmly going over the shooting with Internal Affairs detectives inside. Ben took a deep breath and pushed through the door.

“ What the hell happened, Alex?”

“ Little simple armed robbery attempt's all.”

“ This camera operating?” asked one of the IAD officers.

“ Sure… sure,” said the old man, Tully. “We got the whole thing on video! I shoulda thunk of it myself. Now youse guys'll hafta see we're tellin' it just the way it happened. Right, Alex? Wonder if that I-Witness Video or maybe The Crusaders program would be interested in this?”

Alex realized only too late that he'd painted himself into a corner.

“ Who knows, Tully.” Alex's reply came out flat and heartless, his fear of the tape rising in his constricted throat. He could only hope that the angle was with him, shielding his and the kid's hands.

The IAD cop, a thin and sallow man with no upper lip named Hanson, asked Tully for a ladder. Ben sensed the sudden uneasiness in his partner.

“ You guys got what you want?” Ben barked at the IAD men.

The other IAD man grumbled that they did, for now. “Then I'm going to buy the lieutenant here a drink. So, if you don't mind?”

The IAD guy on the ladder fumbled about with the camera's mechanism near the ceiling. Finally, the machine released the tape, freeing the two IAD cops to leave. Hanson rushed out ahead of his partner, an even younger guy who gave Alex and Ben a sophomoric grin and a big thumbs-up sign, saying, “Looks like a good collar, Detective; fairly simple, cut and dried. We'll just file our reports. Say, aren't you the two guys who're on the trail of the Heart-Taker? Some disgusting creep, huh? Boy, what I'd pay to be in your shoes; real police work.

This crap with IAD is driving my balls numb.”

Alex and Ben exchanged a knowing look. Most IAD guys were so young and inexperienced because no cop wanted such duty, and so the NOPD had taken to putting its best and brightest and most recently finished Academy types directly into Internal Affairs. That way no one knew them and they had no conflicts of interest, or so the thinking went. Of course, the Department was losing in the long run.

Big Ben nodded, smiled at the clean-shaven kid and said, “Maybe some day, kid. What's your name?”

“ Hirschenfeldt, sir.”

“ We'll keep you in mind when something comes open, Hirsch-felt, how's that?”

Alex turned into the booth where most of his newspapers still lay, trying to hide the uncontrollable laughter erupting volcano like at Ben's nasty little tease.

The IAD guy was all wide-eyed and smiling now, stumbling for the door like a lovesick suitor who'd just asked his secret love to go to the dance with him and been surprised with an acceptance.

“ Terrific…wow,” he sputtered, “great… really…” He backed from the coffee shop, the bell announcing his departure.

Ben immediately turned to Alex. “Now, you want to tell your fat, old wife what the fuck happened here, Sincy?”