Teneum - The Thin Line

Teneum

The Thin Line

The Thin Line of Good and Evil

and

Within the Temples:  Bloodletting

Roger C. Bull

Teneum

The Thin Line

Copyright © 2013-2020 Roger C. Bull

Restricted material. This book is copyrighted by Roger C. Bull. No part of this document may be copied electronically or otherwise without the expressed written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. It is a creation of the imagination of the author.  Any similarity of persons or events is strictly coincidental.

(Table of Contents)

DEDICATION

This book is for my brothers and sisters in blue, who walk that Thin Blue Line on a daily basis.  They risk their lives and sacrifice their personal time and conveniences in order to prevent the misbehaviors of humanity from become overwhelming chaos.

Along with first responders, let us not forget their families. They scratch and scrape to make ends meet.  They take extra precautions to protect their children, who endure the taunts of those who have no respect for authority.

My continued appreciation goes to the men and women in uniform who risk their lives daily in keeping the peace and protecting victims of crime around the world—especially to the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office and the New Orleans Police Department and the other 62 federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies in the metropolitan New Orleans area.  As each year passes, the risks continue to grow in that line of work.  God bless you, Peacekeepers!

—Roger C. Bull

KILLED IN THE LINE OF DUTY:

Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office

Sergeant Louis Cannaliato

Detective Kenneth F. Smith

Deputy Merlin Brune

Deputy Robert Cochran

Deputy JoAnne Couzynse

Deputy Kathleen Briscoe

Lieutenant Curtis Denton

Deputy Stephen C. Newitt III

Deputy James Clarius

Deputy Joshua E. Norris

Detective David Michel, Jr.

Gretna Police Department

Corporal Charles Ferdinand Vorbusch

Westwego Police Department

Patrolman Milton J. LeBoeuf, Jr.

Town Marshall Walter H. White

Orleans Parish Criminal Sheriff’s Office

Lieutenant Sidney A. Zaffuto

Assistant Chief Investigator Ronald C. Brady

New Orleans Police Department

Police Officer II Rodney Renee Thomas

Police Officer Alfred Louis Celestain, Sr.

Police Officer Nicola Diane Cotton

Police Officer Thelonious Anthony Dukes, Sr.

Police Officer George August Tessier, III

Police Officer Alva Ray Simmons

Police Officer Christopher Wayne Russell

Reserve  Officer Johnnie Mae Clanton

Sergeant Morris Cavaliere, Jr.

Detective Joseph C. Thomas

Police Officer Chris D. McCormick, Sr.

Police Officer Ronald A. Williams, II

Police Officer Talton E. Jett, Sr.

Police Officer Darren Ahmed

Police Officer Earl Joseph Hauck, II

Police Officer Thomas Michael Phillips

Police Officer Noel Smith

Patrolman Gregory J. Neupert

Patrolman Ronald Duplechain

Captain Thomas J. Albert, Sr.

Detective Joseph R. Tardiff, Jr.

Patrolman Dennis J. McInerney

Sergeant Edwin C. Hosli, Sr.

Patrolman Kasimer Zinga, Sr.

Patrolman Paul A. Persigo

Patrolman Philip J. Coleman, Sr.

Deputy Superintendent Louis Joseph Sirgo

Cadet Alfred E. Harrell

Patrolman Victor E. Bordeaux

Patrolman Peter Edward Bergeron, Jr.

Patrolman Delmar E. Stone

Sergeant Lloyd E. Verrett, Sr.

Patrolman James D. Clayton

Patrolman Thomas F. Jackson

Patrolman Charles T. Kramer

Patrolman Gilbert D. Benitez

Patrolman Joseph J. Enright, III

Patrolman Dennis R. Fremin

Patrolman Allen C. Steele

Sergeant Paul L. C. Paretti

Patrolman Lawrence H. Pool

Patrolman Percival A. Johnson, Sr.

Patrolman Harold J. Powell

Patrolman Benson J. Walker

Patrolman George W. Heaney

Patrolman Marvin R. Morton

Patrolman Charles R. Johns

Detective Nicholas G. Jacob

Patrolman Leslie J. Oster, Sr.

Patrolman Frederick L. Braud

Patrolman George O’Donnell

Patrolman Fred Krummel

Patrolman Herman O. Raschke

Sergeant James J. Adams

Patrolman James A. Ranna

Detective James T. Ford

Captain James L. Daniels

Patrolman Albert E. Oestriecher

Patrolman Cornelius L. Ford

Corporal George P. Weidert

Patrolman Ernest A. Grillot

Patrolman William Blumstein

Patrolman Lester H. Johnson

Detective Richard Connors

Detective Albert Wiebelt

Patrolman Frank C. Mahen

Patrolman William C. Grunwald

Patrolman Anthony Lynch

Patrolman Jacob Uhle

Patrolman Lemmie L. Fortenberry

Patrolman George E. Heno

Patrolman Timothy Lynch, Jr.

Patrolman Pat Manning

Patrolman Roselius Folse

Corporal Alfred J. Beyl

Corporal Charles A. Giblin

Detective Theodore A. Obitz

Detective Patrick J. Kennedy

Patrolman Frank P. Connor

Patrolman William Brown

Captain Garry Owen Mullen

Superintendent James W. Reynolds

Patrolman Francis A. Burke

Patrolman Dennis Egan

Patrolman Joseph Lacoste

Patrolman Charles Merritt

Patrolman John Carroll

Patrolman Robert J. Cambias

Patrolman Charles Doyle

Patrolman John Thomas

Sergeant Gabriel J. Gabe Porteous

Corporal John F. Lally

Patrolman Peter J. Lamb

Captain John Day

Corporal Thomas Duffy

Corporal Richard Fitzgerald

Corporal Anthony Cleary

Patrolman Martin Trimp

Patrolman John Teen

Patrolman John H. Keller

Patrolman John Petaway

Patrolman Albert Turegano

Corporal Thomas Fitzgerald

Patrolman John Hurley

Superintendent David C. Hennessy

Police Officer John Coffee

Police Officer Alexander Algeo

Police Officer Daryle S. Holloway

Patrolman James Arthur Bennett, Jr.

Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Department

Chief of Narcotics Dominic R. Verdi

Deputy Sheriff Douglas James Landry

Deputy Sheriff Gerald G. Bubrig

Slidell Police Department

Sergeant Earl Lucien Alfred

St. Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Office

Deputy Sheriff Samuel D. Gowland

Deputy Sheriff Joseph Estopinal

Deputy Sheriff August Esteves

St. Charles Parish Sheriff’s Office

Deputy Sheriff Jeff G. Watson

Deputy Sheriff Nelson Coleman

Deputy Sheriff James Allen Arterbury

Sheriff Louis Ory

St. John the Baptist Parish Sheriff’s Office

Deputy Sheriff Jeremy Michael Triche

Deputy Sheriff Brandon Joseph Nielsen

Captain Octavio Rafael Gonzalez

Code Enforcement Officer Edmond J. Songy, Jr.

Deputy Sheriff Barton Joseph Granier

Detective Lieutenant Sherman Ray Walker

Deputy Sheriff Harry Anthony Troxliar, Sr.

Constable Ignace Rousselle

St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office

Sergeant Linden Beau Raimer

Deputy First Class Hilery A. Mayo, Jr.

Sergeant John William Bonnell, III

Sergeant Louis Henry Wagner, II

Covington Police Department

Officer Clarence Marigny

Mandeville Police Department

Deputy Marshal Gus Gill

Deputy Marshal Jake Galloway

Slidell Police Department

Sergeant Earl Lucien Alfred

Louisiana State Police

Corporal John Ray Kendall

Trooper Duane Allen Dalton

Trooper Hung Nguyen Le

Sergeant George Douglas Johnston

Master Trooper Stephen H. Gray

Police Officer Andre Keith Williams

Trooper William Michael Kees

Trooper Damon L. Robichaux

Trooper Donald Charles Cleveland

Sergeant Clarence J. Miller, Jr.

Trooper William C. Warrington

Trooper Lamon Weaver

Trooper Huey P. Grace

Lieutenant Joseph D. Ferris

Trooper Rudolph H. Miller

Trooper Francis C. Zinna

Sergeant Eli L. Smith

Trooper James N. Pollard

Trooper Wilmer L. Moody

Trooper Ulis Floyd

Trooper James T. Brownfield

Patrolman Victor A. Mossy

Patrolman Frank J. David, Sr.

Officer Neill A. Yarborough, Sr.

Senior Trooper Steven J. Vincent

Mississippi River Bridge Authority

Police Officer Andre Keith Williams

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Table of Contents

Epigraph

Acknowledgements

Multiple Murderous Mayhem

BOOK I

The Thin Line of Good and Evil

Prologue

December121998

December121999

January11999

February 25th, 1999

Blarney or Breakthrough?

Working Lunch

Murder and Mystery

Dylan O’Brien

Back to the Tower

Heritage Harmony

Into the Lair

Scoping the Playground

Hiding Place

Early Morning Surprise

Captain Quakes

Back in the House

Operation Leprechaun

March 16th

Discovery

Not So Elementary

Predictive?

555 Canal Street

Back at the Sixth

Frantic

Italian Cars in a Multi-cultural City

Hatching C.A.T.C.H.

Up and Away

Hot and Ready

Life Goes On

Dastardly Deed

The Set Up

Hmm! The Cheese Smells So Good

Sideways on Planning

Sad and Angry News

Knocking Heads

Before He’s Caught

No Show on Constance

Tony

Sunrise... Wake Up!

Word’s Out!

Dapper Dan, Who’s this Man?

After Hours

Proposal

Meet the Hood

Dante Returns

17 August 1999

Droppings

Evidence, but...

PPKS Walther

Fort Apache Attacked

Lucky Charms or Four Leaf Clover?

Double Dagger Danger

Skull and Cross Bones

Tracking Friends

Hitting the Brick Wall

Pulling in the Partner

The Video

Details. Always Details.

Making Time

The Range Master

Qualifications

Tongue and Cheek

Assassin Known

The Telephone Tease

Deceptive Decisions

Capcha Time

The Stop

BOOK II

Within the Temples: Bloodletting

Five Years after The Shop

Desk Bound

Surprise Comes in a Pretty Package

New Day

Where’s Flanagan?

The Hoe-down

Dylan Towers

Making Man from Clay

Parting Shots..., Again

Two Guys – Two Lies

The Plans of Mice and Men

Revealing

Forward to the Past

Big Easy, We’re Back

Upheaval in the Big Easy

Within the Temples: Bloodletting

Ameed by Any Other Name is Amid

Temple Sinai

Congregation Anshe Sfard

Metro New Orleans Homicide Task Force

Muslim Religion versus Islamic Culture

4300 Block of St. Charles Avenue

Remembering a Hero

Remorseful Revelation

Congregation Beth Israel

Mole?

Uncexpected Aid

Cryptic Messages

Saturday

Jackson Square

Hyatt Regency Hotel

Back at the Superdome

New Orleans City Hall

Almost There...

Notify City Hall

Meanwhile at the Dome

Orleans Parish Prison

Epilogue

Cast of Characters

Support Your Local Animal Shelters

Table of Contents

EPIGRAPH

According to the Holy Bible, God gave mankind the freedom of choice, to do good or evil.  Mankind, in a relentless agenda, takes every opportunity to exercise both choices.

—Roger C. Bull

(Table of Contents)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my wife, Karen Bonvillain Bull, for her continued encouragement; for her constant efforts to help me improve my writing while she struggles to find time to work full time, to cook and to write her own murder mysteries; and for her loving understanding.

To The Fairhope Writers Group for their empathy, for their demands to improve our work and for their excellent insights and critiques.

To ATF Special Agent August Palumbo (retired), N.O.P.D. Sergeant Warren Pope (retired), J.P.S.O. Homicide Detective  O’Neil De Noux for their tips and examples, and Homicide Detective Marco Nuzzollilo—thank you for your assistance (Awaiting your book, Marco).

Readers, thank you for your support, reviews, and emails.  I especially wish to thank Tom Bonvillain, Tony Roberts, John Raynor, George Fonteboa and Robert A. Walker, et. al.

Readers:  please find a Cast of Characters on page 460 to help you maintain focus on the individuals in this story.

(Table of Contents)

MULTIPLE MURDEROUS MAYHEM

In the darkness of madness

In the middle of morass

A city suffers squalor

And sequenced lost esteem.

Leaders thought corrupt

Soldiers teased by temptresses

Souls tainted by greed

Hearts painted by power.

Into the night

The knight rides his steed.

Armed with Death's scythe

To change the course of Time.

Naught is Chance.

Agenda steadfast.

Knock, knock, knock

At the crimson door.

Death.

Death.

Death.

(End)

(Table of Contents)

BOOK I

The Thin Line of Good and Evil

Prologue

Six, Seven...December 4, 1998, 1:38 A.M...

The stark contrast of the yellow Porsche pulling up to the Second Street entrance to the park is prominent against the background of late 1800s and early 1900s houses in that area.

The playground is dimly lit.  Most of the lights, especially near the restrooms, are broken, shot out by the local thugs.  The neighborhood enveloping the park are single and duplex shotgun houses, with gingerbread ornamentation on the eaves.  The houses are in disrepair, with faded and chipped paint.  The surrounding narrow streets, made for carts pulled by mules, are full of potholes, daring your vehicle's tires to stay inflated, daring your suspension system to maintain alignment.  The air is musty with that old, moldy odor and the dank mixed-smell of chemicals, diesel and products from the marine traffic on the Mississippi.  The blight, in such an exciting city, is depressing.  Yet, life continues..., bleakly.

The sound of leather-soled shoes with solid arch supports can be heard along the cracked and broken sidewalks of the 700 block of Second Street.

As the dark haired man, wearing an expensively cut linen suit, an off-white Fedora, and sporting a rosewood walking cane, stops at the entrance to the Clay Square playground. The wrought iron gate is open.

There in the dark corner of the exterior of the restroom stand two young black men, in their early to mid twenties.  They wear the local garb: blue jeans and hooded sweatshirts.

They spot the stranger, who they know is out of his element in this neighborhood.  No one comes here in an expensive ride, much less in fancy do-dad clothes.

We gotsa mark.  E-z money, the first young man says.

Looks like we can bankroll our next buy, Jockomo.

Dis ain’t from yo hood, man.

Hey, cracker, you lost, man?

The mid-thirtyish man, with the bright blue eyes, walks confidently towards them. He passes the restrooms and the smells of urine and fecal matter, but he elects to ignore the odors and replies, When he’s within five feet of the two thugs, he says, No. No, not at all. This is the place I was looking for. The Clay Square playgrounds, right?

Looka dat  fan-ceee walking stick.  Dat shiny brass ball on da top.  I  like dat man.

Yeah man.  Hey, that’s some expensive shoes you got there. Giv’em to me..., da stick and da shoes, Jockomo demands while pulling a Glock 9 mm black matted handgun from his rear waistband.

Before Jockomo aims the weapon, the stranger whips his cane in a wide circle from rear to front and whacks the gunman across his wrist.  The sound of cracking bones heard.  The gun drops to the ground.

The second thug jumps for the weapon.

I don’t think you want to do that, the stranger says calmly.

When the young wanna-be gangster looks up, he sees that the man in the expensive suit has a Walther PPKS, an updated version of the James Bond 007 model, 7.65mm European or .32 caliber U.S. The gun, with a silencer, is drawn and pointing at his head.

Hey, man. We jus' be jokin' wit ya. Ya know, just havin’ some fun.

You want some fun. How about this?

The stranger aims the weapon at Jockomo and places one shot into the gangster’s head—right between his eyes.  A yellowish-red flare of fire and smoke erupt from the  end of the barrel.  A flash momentarily lights up the area near the victim and the shooter.

Jockomo slams to the ground, blood pooling below his head.  The spray splatters all over the other thug’s face, chest and arms.

What’s your name, young man? Pointing to the body on the pavement, I know that’s Jockomo.

I’m Jefri.

"No, you are not Jefri or Jeoffry or even Jeff. You’re Alfred.  My sources tell me that you and Jockomo are the two biggest cocaine and meth dealers on this block. You two have wreaked havoc in this neighborhood far too long.

How many kids did you two kill with your sales?  Fifteen? Twenty? More?

No, mista. Ya got us all wrong...!

Have I. My sources are irreproachable.

Irri wut?

Sound. Tell no lies. Definitive.

Mista... No, mista, don’t!

The stranger calmly raises the Walther and fires another shot.  It makes the sound of a pellet rifle, a slight swoosh, not the loud bang that would wake up the neighborhood, simultaneously  another flash lights the area temporarily.

The stranger smells the fresh blood mingling with the odors of cordite (gun smoke) and the chemically polluted river, just blocks away, as he picks up the two spent casings in his lambskin-gloved hand, removes a small plastic bag from his left coat pocket, places the items into the bag and zips the bag shut.  He calmly turns, walks out of the park from whence he came...

Meanwhile...

The crime ridden Irish Channel of  New Orleans has borders with Tchoupitoulas Street to the south, Delachaise Street to the west, Magazine street to the north and Jackson Avenue to the east.  It is a microcosm of its larger area, known by the N.O.P.D. as the Sixth District.  Beat cops call it the Animal Kingdom or Fort Apache (Originally named before the Bronx police station adopted the name).  It is located at 1930 Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard at the intersection of South Rampart Street

This is a story of unimaginable death and mayhem that is  known only to the New Orleans Police Department homicide division. Their division covers the entire city on both sides of the river.  The homicide detectives call themselves the Grim Reapers.

The Grim Reapers

Our day starts, when yours ends.

The Sixth District Police Station...

The 80s architecture of the station was so modern in its time.  The red and gray brick building with the green metal roof has large windows on the first and second floors, divided by a red roof overhang.  However, that was a decade ago.  The building, on Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard, shows the abuse of weather, climate, lack of maintenance.  The ceilings have water stains from several thunderstorms and a few hurricanes.  More than one restroom has plumbing leaks, rust-looking stains in the bowls of the basins and toilets. 

Inside the first inner door, you enter the roll call room.  It has suspended ceiling tiles.  The room has its share of damages from shotguns that were triggered by being slammed on tables or chairs.  Pock marks from bird shot speckle the tiles.  Some of the officers’ lockers have dents from fists pounded into the doors, after frustrating, irritating shifts dealing with the emotional stress, and from the public antagonism towards the officers’ actions.  The floors are no longer the cold gray asbestos tiles that were removed years ago. They now display peel-and-stick linoleum tiles with the same gray color.  The walls were a dull, light gray with brick red trim on the chair rail molding, window and door molding and crown molding.  Being the Irish Channel’s only police station, everyone in the neighborhood wondered why the interior wasn’t green, white and orange.

Through the roll call room to the door on the left, it leads you down the hallway to the interrogation rooms, the detective offices and, at the end of the hallway, the District Commander’s office.

The lead investigator of the Irish Channel serial murders is the savvy Detective Sergeant August Gus De Noux.  He’s about five feet six  inches tall with black wavy hair and, as the girls would  say, one of those pencil thin ‘sexy’ French mustaches.  His dark brown eyes are much like a puppy dog’s heart warmers, when he’s in a jovial mood.  However, when he’s serious, they become cold steel knife blades that cut right through you.  He might be small in stature, but he is a lean-mean-crime-fighting machine.

The work on this case is on-going for about four and a half months. De Noux and his partner, first year investigator Dante Nuzzollilo, grind out exhaustive hours researching the evidence, collecting leads from confidential informants and performing surveillance on possible suspects. 

Dante is about five feet nine inches tall with brown curly hair and brown eyes with dark shadows below them.  He has a barrel chest, big hulking hands and strong arms.  He sports a mustache, also, but his is a dark, bushy lip warmer.  He too has a mild and a dangerous side.

On this late night, actually this early hot, sticky morning in August, about 2 A.M., De Noux asks Nuzzollilo, What do we have? 

Responding to the 60-something graying detective, Nuzzollilo says, There’s been five known hits, using professional assassination techniques.  The scenes are wiped clean, no fingerprints, no suspect DNA, no extraneous debris left behind. All spent casings from the gunshots are gone, probably picked up by the shooter; and, the worst news of all, no witnesses—not live ones, anyway.

De Noux to his 30-something partner, "I’ve never seen a series of hits like this freaking case.

Hell, even my mob informants are impressed with these jobs.

Nuzzollilo, These murders are not typical?  Cases like the Reapers normally work?

Nope. These are masterfully planned and executed. The local mob usually remove their messes with clean-up squads, acid or alligators.

Alligators? Nuzzollilo, nervously clicking his ink pen, asks somewhat surprised.

Yep.  When the mob boss, Marchanti, doesn’t like someone, he invites them to his campgrounds on Bayou Segnette. You know, Churchill Havens.  After a few rounds of cards, the poor scumbag is ‘taken out of the game,’ and his body dragged to the end of a pier and dumped—for gator food.

Damn!  Cold hearted, aren’t they.

You don’t have any idea, Nuzz.

(Table of Contents)

December 12, 1998

Eight, Nine, Ten...11:51 P.M...

With bacon sizzling and eggs frying in the background, Brett McSharry sits at the counter of CC’s Coffee House. He is on his third cup of jo (java), preparing for his night shift at the docks on the river, south of Tchoupitoulas.

Janae, dat bacon smells some good, bae.

Yeah, thanks, suga.  Keeps ya comin' back, don't it?

You know it, McSharry responds.

Out of the corner of his eye, McSharry sees a man in an expensive dark navy blue wool suit walk into the shop, orders a cup of Irish blend coffee (strong coffee with a shot of Bailey’s) then sits in a booth near the door.

The red-haired, tall, lean McSharry, in his red, black and green plaid flannel shirt, takes his last gulp, drops a tip on the bar and heads out the door.

The dapper man leaves his coffee unfinished, places a tip on the table top and quietly exits the coffee shop.  He maintains a safe distance behind McSharry. 

McSharry climbs into a 1978 Ford F150 pickup, black in color with a right front fender painted in a light, base paint gray.  He cranks the motor and slides onto Magazine Street headed east. When he reaches Third Street, he turns right.

A silver Jaguar, driven by the stranger, makes an quick turn onto Second, speeds towards the river, traveling the wrong way on the one-way street, until it reaches Chippewa and turns right.  When the Jag arrives at Third, the stranger uses the English pony to block the pickup’s advance.

McSharry pulls within a foot of the silver car, stops and sticks his head out of the driver’s side window. He shouts, What’s the matta wit’ ya, ya fu’kin’ bastid! Why ya gotta block the street for?  I gotta go ta work, man.

The window on the passenger’s side of the Jaguar opens quietly, with a slight whir of the electric motor.  A black sheep-skin-gloved hand, holding a Walther PPKS with a silencer attached, slowly raises the handgun to the driver’s shoulder height.  McSharry, have you left your wife home safely tonight?

What do ya know ‘bout my misses and meself? It’s none o’ your bizness!

Oh, it is, McSharry. It is.  The finely dressed man calmly pulls the trigger of the handgun. There’s that momentary flash from the yellowish-red flame shooting out of the handgun. The spent cartridge jumps out of the gun, hits the stranger on the left side of his face and drops to the floorboard of the Jag.

From a muffled shot, McSharry slumps over the door of his pickup.

The driver of the Jaguar exits the vehicle, opens the right side, rear door, picks up the casing.  Next he pulls a small plastic bag from his left pocket, deposits the item in the bag, zips it shut and places it back into his pocket.  He reenters the Jag, closes the window on the passenger side and puts the car into drive.  The silver automobile slowly maneuvers away from the scene.

No one notices the pickup in the middle of the roadway until 6:30 A.M. the next morning when the neighborhood stirs for the new day.  Well, no one except for a few gangster punks who deal their junk around the playground restrooms..., but they are not seeing anything.

After backing on Chippewa, the stranger turns in the correct direction on Second and drives to that entrance of the park.  He approaches the two young drug dealers.  The stranger man asks them, Have you lads seen anything?

No. Nottin, mista. We ain’t seen nottin.

Good lads, lest you seek a similar fate.

The stranger re-enters his Jaguar and silently drives away. Well, not entirely away... He circles the block and approaches the area of the drug peddlers.

As the distinguished looking man sticks a $100.00 bill out of the door and calls the gangsters to his car, Look, bro. He's gonna give us a bribe,.

Thinking that the stranger’s about to give them money for their silence, they quickly walk to his car.  When they are within five feet of the Jaguar, he pulls his left hand, with the bill, back into the car. Suddenly, his right gloved-hand sticks out the window with the Walther.

Two quick, flash-flash, muffled shots leave no live witnesses.

The man grabs the spent cartridges, packages them and leaves the area.

(Table of Contents)

December 12th, 1999

Two...Code 5 (surveillance) at Clay Square playground...

Alright, Nuzz, fill me in on the second hit, victim number two.

Alright.  Ya ready?

We got all night, hopefully.  Take your time.

"Alright. Here it is:

In September 1998, on the 24th, there was a professional hit behind the old Baptist church on St. Thomas Street. It was discovered at 7:45 A.M. by a mechanic, preparing to urinate between the two buildings. He said the restroom in the garage was too dirty.

The victim was John Long Legs Rutherford, a long time runner for Marchanti until he was caught skimming the bosses’ earnings from his video gambling concerns. 

His rap sheet includes five pages of petty crimes, burglaries, simple assaults, aggravated batteries and five armed robberies.  He’s spent five years in Angola for the armed robberies. They had to kick him out to make room for the bad guys. When he left Angola, he made his piece with Marchanti..., becoming a stool for his boss, doing whatever it took to make amends—including murder of Marchanti’s enemies.

His body was found between the back of the Greater St. James Baptist Church and the garage behind the church.  There was one shot between Long Legs’ eyes.  No evidence, other than the body, the blood of the vic and the brand-less footprints embedded in the mud. The prints were made by someone wearing leather soled shoes. No distinguishing marks or other evidence were located.

The coroner’s office said the cause of death was the gunshot wound. The time of death was about six hours before the body was discovered.  That put the death at about 2 A.M.  The coroner added that the GSR, gunshot residue, was indicative of a shot fired approximately five feet from the vic.

Long Legs had a cheap watch, twenty three dollars in his wallet, some sixty-seven cents in his right pocket, along with the keys to a 1992 silver Dodge Dart.  There was no known motive for the murder, well, other than a possible mob-ordered one.

"So far, the only common evidence to the two murders are the shots between the eyes, approximately five feet from the victims, the location, in the Irish Channel and no one alive to provide a witness report.

"Well, that’s not much to go on.

What’s the next case, Nuzz?

(Table of Contents)

January 1, 1999

Eleven...

Nuzzollilo, "This one’s the Candy Love case.  Two nuns were visiting their favorite night place, Parasol’s Restaurant and Bar on Constance Street.  As they approached the house next to the Parasol, they noticed the body of Love on the walkway entrance to that dwelling.  They called to the woman, thinking that she might be a bit under the weather.  When the victim didn’t respond, they opened the gate, walked up to the body and gave her several nudges. When they didn’t get a response, they checked her pulse—found the body to be slightly warm, but no pulse.  One ran to Parasol’s to call 911 while the other remained to pray over the victim.

Nervously clicking his ink pen’s retract button numerous times, Nuzzollilo continues, Candy Love is a whore and a petty thief.  She has a record of 53 priors for prostitution.  She also had several shoplifting arrests, one arrest for forgery.

De Noux, I remember some of my snitches caught syph and clap from her.

Not surprising.  But, why would a professional hit-man do her in?

De Noux, That’s what we’re here to find out, Rookie.  Go on.

Nuzzollilo shakes off the ‘rookie’ moniker and continues,  "The coroner reported a single shot between her eyes. The GSR is indicative of a shot from five feet away, plus or minus a foot.

No casings were found. No prints, DNA or other incriminating evidence was located, Nuzzollilo added.

Nuzzollilo, You got that nervous twitch again?

Whacha mean, Nuzz?

The balls of you feet and toes are squirming like earthworms on the  end of a fishing hook, he adds jokingly.

De Noux, returning to a conscientious stillness, looking serious, Thirty-two caliber, right?

Yep.

Again, Dante clicks his ink pen and continues, On the fence...  Prints were found on the fence. Those of Love, one of the nuns, and the mailman. Oh, and there were several men’s prints there, also. It appears that they are on her John" list, which she