Too Far Gone

18

New Orleans, like most cities, had far more vehicles on the roads daily than the roads were designed to handle, and New Orleans had far less money than was necessary to maintain them. Even at eight A.M. on a Saturday, the interstate resembled a parking lot. The outbound lanes were packed, the inbound lanes flowed. Manseur explained that normally there was less traffic going east toward the Lakefront, their destination, than into New Orleans. Hurricane Katrina was making a beeline toward a city normally known for its open, welcoming arms. Sometimes open invitations came back to bite you on the ass.

Manseur drove as fast as he could-moving in and out of the traffic, using the shoulder when necessary, and using his dash light sparingly. He didn’t want to attract any attention to the fact that a plainclothes car was racing to an emergency. Alexa knew that news producers, camera operators, and reporters snooping for stories to fill the airwaves monitored the police, fire, and emergency frequencies, including the restricted tactical ones, which they hacked into. They also encouraged motorists to call in tips, like when they saw blue lights on dashboards. One of the benefits of cellular phones was that any motorist could call the cops from anywhere-and the downside of that was that they allowed any motorist to ring up any of the newsrooms to report police activity. People were helpers or hinderers, depending on whom it was that was dialed and about what.

Detective Kennedy followed Manseur’s Crown Vic in a nondescript Chevrolet sedan.

“We should involve Kennedy in a meaningful way,” Manseur told Alexa. “Or appear to be doing so. I don’t want him throwing a wrench in the works, accidentally or intentionally.”

Manseur turned off Robert E. Lee Boulevard and onto a narrow street where neatly kept houses on small lawns faced one another across the pavement. Two squad cars had sealed off the block and a third waited in front of a Volvo SUV, while a policeman stood at the rear bumper. Manseur stopped thirty feet behind the Volvo, reached over to the glove box, and pressed the trunk release. Alexa stepped out into the gathering early-morning heat as Manseur went back to the open trunk. Kennedy walked over from his car and stood watching silently.

A uniformed officer built like a pigeon strolled up to Manseur.

“Sergeant Walker,” Manseur said, “this is Agent Keen with the FBI.”

“We sealed the scene and left it just like we found it. I called it in over the phone, like we were told to. Looks like it got rear-ended. Doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. I can’t believe shit-birds haven’t found it and taken it for a joyride, or to a strip shop.”

Manseur reached into his car trunk and removed four surgical gloves from an open box. He handed Alexa a pair, then shoved several evidence bags into the pocket of his suit jacket. He lifted out a 35mm camera and put the strap around his neck.

“Since it was rear-ended,” Sergeant Walker said, “it’s likely a road-rage incident.”

“Never know, till you know,” Manseur said. “That’s all, Sergeant. We’ll take it from here. Detective Kennedy, take notes for me?”

“Yes, sir.” Kennedy took out his notepad, slipped off the rubber band, and flipped the pad open.

The dismissed policeman walked back to his cruiser, leaned against the trunk, and crossed his arms to watch the process like there wasn’t any other thing in the city needing his attention.

Manseur lifted the camera to his eye and took a picture of the ground behind the Volvo. “Subject vehicle damage consists of a dented rear door, skinned bumper, and a broken left rear and clear plastic and red turn-lens covers.”

Alexa noticed shards of broken clear glass before Manseur knelt to take a close-up shot. Using a pair of long tweezers, he collected a half-dozen larger pieces, which he dropped into a clear evidence bag. “Broken headlight fragments,” he said for the record. “Glass, not plastic, and heavy glass.”

“Taillight lens cover?” Kennedy asked.

Manseur moved closer to the rear of the Volvo and inspected the damage. “No. I’d say a sealed-beam headlight. It’s real glass. Older vehicle, most likely.”

Taking out a pocketknife, Manseur used it to scrape flecks of green paint into a clear bag. “Green paint transfer from second vehicle.”

Alexa took each of the evidence bags from Manseur after he sealed them, and followed him around the Volvo to the driver’s-side door.

He opened the door carefully so he wouldn’t destroy any print evidence that might be on the handle, and looked inside, using the camera to document the state of the cabin.

“Air bag’s deployed. Wallet’s on the console.” Manseur leaned in and lifted the open billfold. “Sixty-two dollars, American Express, Shell, Visa, and a MasterCard, all in West’s name. Three pictures of his wife and daughter. Receipts for meals and gasoline, looks like. One blank check, folded.” After dropping the wallet and contents into a bag, he knelt and looked at the floorboard. Lifting something by its edges, he held it so Alexa could see it. “License on the floorboard next to the accelerator pedal.”

“He took it out of the wallet to exchange information with the other driver,” Alexa said. Of course it could be a road-rage incident, but Alexa doubted it, for a couple of reasons, the most obvious being that Gary West wasn’t there and hadn’t called anybody or turned up.

In the console and glove box, Manseur found a flashlight, a box of tissues, an owner’s manual, an insurance card, the car registration, maps, and a few receipts.

Manseur took three pictures of the interior. “Take a look inside, Agent Keen,” he said, stepping back.

Alexa leaned in without touching anything. She saw the brown specks that dotted the headliner, the passenger seat, the passenger-side window, and the dashboard. They looked like tiny comets. “Blood spatter. Might have happened while he had the license in his hand. That’s most likely why he dropped it.”

“Gunshot?” Kennedy asked.

“No,” Alexa said. “Low-velocity impact.”

“Like he was punched in the nose?”

“Could be, but I doubt it,” Alexa replied. “More likely a sap of some sort. Something short and heavy.”

“Why short, or heavy?”

“Because the apex of the door would have negated use of a long object like a baseball bat or golf club to inflict the injuries that produced the blood spatter.” Alexa turned to inspect the inside of the driver’s door, studying the damaged panel. “This gash in the door is round. A pipe or a wooden club could make a mark like that, but it might be something else that’s round. I’m no expert on blood spatter, but I know enough to say that whatever he was hit with left castoff on the windshield when the perp drew it back, making the scratch on the door panel. Struck at least twice, because there’s splatter in two distinct directions. First one when his head was in one position, the second when it was in a slightly different position. Seat belt probably held him upright.”

Manseur nodded his agreement. “Air bag must have stunned him. He recovers enough to get his wallet, and then he opens the door, or it was opened for him, and zot. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Make a note for the crime-lab boys to check the patterns real close and see how many times he was struck. Tell them to type the blood in case there’s more than one donor. Perp might have left some of his. Probably not, but you never know until you know. That’s about all we can do out here. Get this vehicle under a tarp, then get it on a flatbed and to the lab. I want it gone over with everything we got to go over it.”

“And make sure your lab knows we’ll expedite anything they need from my lab,” Alexa added.

Alexa and Manseur spent several minutes checking around and under the Volvo, while Kennedy followed with his pen’s point hovering over his open notepad.

Manseur started heading for his car, then turned. “Kyler, I need you to canvass these houses to see if anybody saw anything relevant to the incident. After you do that, go back to HQ and write it all up. And remember, you are to talk to nobody but me about this.”

After making notes on each evidence bag with a Sharpie marker, Manseur put them all into one large paper bag, which he sealed, labeled with a case number, signed, and dated. Taking a screwdriver from his toolbox, Manseur went back to the Volvo and removed the license plate. Back at his car, he slipped the plate into a paper bag, tossed it in the trunk, and slammed it.

“This looks bad,” Alexa said.

“Well, it sure doesn’t look good,” Manseur muttered.