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In Plain Sight
D. A. Ratliff
A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery
The Big Easy, a popular tourist nickname for New Orleans, evolved from the laid-back, easygoing attitude of a city known for jazz, gumbo, voodoo, and Mardi Gras. The locals rarely used that nickname, and neither did the police. The word easy was unknown in the New Orleans Police Department as crime never slept in Orleans Parrish. But sometimes, it crept up on us when we weren’t looking.
Now, we were looking. My partner Hank Guidry and I were on our way to meet with Captain Desmond Dixon of NOPD District Seven. Dixon contacted our commander, Captain Lourdes, with suspicions regarding a possible serial killer in his district. Lourdes believed Dixon’s concerns were valid enough for Major Crimes to investigate and sent Hank and me to speak to him.
However, there was a catch. Dixon’s official request was one thing, but his private conversation with Lourdes was another. Dixon revealed that he made it a habit to review all outstanding cases in a new command, and what he found in the open homicide files proved disturbing. Lourdes didn’t fill us in completely. He said he would let Dixon do that but cautioned us to tread lightly.
As we drove along Read Boulevard, about to turn onto Claiborne and the district station, Hank chuckled and pointed to the powerlines over the intersection next to the fire station, where several pairs of athletic shoes hung from the wires. “I don’t see that often anymore. Sneakers hanging from the powerlines.”
“Sneakers? Are you from the twentieth century? Kids don’t call them that now.”
“How would you know?”
“I asked my son if he wanted new sneakers for his birthday. He let me know that was not the proper term. According to him, the cool kids say “kicks.”
“Eli, you always tell me that I’m not cool. I haven’t seen sneakers or kicks, if you prefer, tossed up like that in a long time. Gangs sometimes do it to mark territory, but not in these neighborhoods. Where I grew up in Gonzales, it was common practice during high school.”
“Back in the dark ages.”
Hank uttered, “Smart asteroid,” and then snickered.
We walked into the station lobby, surprised to find Captain Dixon waiting. He ushered us into his office, and after pleasantries, I got straight to the point. “Captain Loudes said that you suspect you have a serial killer. Why?”
He pointed to a stack of files on his desk. “In the past year, we have had six young men die from suspected fentanyl overdoses—all found partially clothed or nude in remote abandoned buildings in the areas. Each victim had fentanyl in their blood, and the ME’s office called all accidental overdoses. I found the investigative work to be a bit sloppy, and honestly, no one made any connection between the ODs.”
“What changed?”
Dixon answered. “The City Council ordered a report on drug use in the districts, which they plan to release next month. Two days ago, forensics sent the findings for drug-related crimes to each NOPD district commander for review. What caught my eye was data on the fentanyl found in those six overdoses. The report is looking for markers to help us trace illicit drugs in the district to the same dealer.”
Hank frowned. “I was under the impression your drug issues were a lot less in New Orleans East than in the city.”
“It is, but we have our share.” The captain shifted his weight, not looking at Hank or me. Something was weighing heavily on him. He shook his head before he spoke. “My gut told me something was wrong as soon as I arrived. There’s an unsettling vibe here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Detective Boone….” He paused. “I fear someone here is covering up for a serial killer or at least a dealer. The report linked these six so-called overdoses to one source of fentanyl. They searched evidence records and found that the same chemical makeup in the fentanyl that killed these six young men had been ID’ed in several fentanyl deaths four years ago.”
“I know it is possible to trace drugs back to the manufacturer or the illicit labs that make them. Did they ever tie those drugs to a dealer?”
“Yes, but he’s doing twenty to life, so he’s not involved.”
“Some of his old crew?”
“Possible. What worries me is that I asked forensics to retest the drugs confiscated from the original case. They requested the drugs from the evidence locker, but that bag of fentanyl had disappeared. We assume someone stole the evidence since we found the exact drug in these six cases.”
“You said the investigations were sloppy. How so?”
“The writeups were all different. The vics were nude or partially clothed and found in separate locations, but they may have died elsewhere and their bodies dumped. We found no clothing near the bodies.” He bit his lower lip. “The lead detective never followed up on the possibility that the vics did not die on the scene or where their clothes were. He just walked away from the investigation.”
“Who was the lead detective?”
Dixon’s eyes locked with mine. “Detective Lieutenant Martin Foster.”
I heard Hank suck in a breath, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. “Didn’t he retire a couple of months ago?”
“I’m sure you know the story, Boone. We allowed him to retire.”
“I do know the story. Drunk on the job is not a good career move. Have you spoken with Foster about the status of these files?”
“I tried to reach him two weeks ago, but his phone is inactive, and his house is vacant. We put out a trace, but no one knew where he was, and I never caught up with his son, Evan. Left several messages, but he never answered. Some of the vics were kids of some pretty powerful people here. We have a NASA facility and a Coast Guard base in New Orleans East. I’ve got some unhappy parents with considerable clout on my butt about this. I am not looking forward to telling these families someone might have murdered their sons.”
I sensed Dixon’s frustration. “That’s never easy, Captain. We’ll do what we can to figure out what happened. Who was Foster’s partner?”
“Detective Sergeant Cassie DeLong, she was with him for two months. She’s in and out a bit. CID uses her on occasion for other districts. A rookie detective, Jonas Parker, was assigned here a month ago. He’s now her partner.”
“Okay, I need the case file numbers so we can review them. Have DeLong and Parker here at nine in the morning. I want to review these files with them and start reinvestigating these cases.”
~~~
Hank sat his bottle of Peroni beer on the tabletop so hard the people three tables over in Mama Leone’s restaurant winced. He looked a bit sheepish but continued with his rant. “That son of a… should have been kicked off the force years ago.”
“Did you work with Foster long?”
“Long enough. We were patrol officers out of the sixth. He wasn’t my partner, but we worked calls together. He was a jerk. Know what I always say. Some cops wear the uniform, and some let the uniform wear them. He was the latter—he thought the uniform made him special and powerful, and he liked to throw his weight around. Just skirted the line enough to stay out of serious trouble. He made detective long before I did, but I’m not sure where he got assigned first.”
“After reading those case files, I am surprised he passed the detective exam. That was some very sloppy police work. I don’t know much about Captain Wellstone, who was at the Seventh before Dixon, but not for long.”
“Didn’t he get sick?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. Do you know anyone who might have remained friends with Foster?”
“Maybe. Roy Lafite seemed close to him and covered for him. I think Roy retired, but I can see if I can find him.”
Our pasta arrived, served by Uncle Matteo, Mama Leone’s brother. He sat down, and we spent the rest of the evening talking about baseball. I’ve had worse ways to spend an evening.
~~~
At nine a.m., Captain Dixon escorted his detectives into the conference room where Hank and I waited and introduced us.
“Detectives, this is Detective Sergeant Cassie DeLong and Detective Jonas Parker.”
DeLong surprised me. “Nice to meet the infamous Detectives Elijah Boone and Hank Guidry of Major Crimes.”
“I’m sure we are not that infamous.”
Dixon sounded annoyed as he told the two to sit down. “Eli, I notified these two that they will report to you and Detective Guidry to reopen these six cases. I will expect a daily briefing on your progress.”
He spun and left, closing the door harder than necessary behind him. His use of my first name told me he was sending a signal to his detectives that we were close and had his back. That would work for now.
As I started to speak, Parker snorted. “I guess the old man told us.”
I didn’t have a chance to react. I have seen Hank ticked off before, and Parker’s comment triggered him. He hated disrespect more than I did, and I despised the behavior. His tone as he chastised the younger man left no doubt. “That’s enough, Detective Parker. Captain Dixon is your commanding officer, and you will respect him. I don’t want to hear comments like that again.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Detective.”
I glanced at Hank, nodded slightly, and began. “Captain Dixon is concerned about the investigations into these six cases. There are considerable inconsistencies in the reporting. We will begin as if we have never investigated these cases before. Let’s start with the first case. Case A-012035-23, Leonard Markovich.”
Hank and I compiled a list of questions regarding information in the case files so we could compare them to each other. Then, we would review whatever forensic data we had using the same questions, followed by comparisons. We finished at eleven thirty-five. We told DeLong and Parker to take a break and that we would call them back.
As the door shut, Hank leaned back in the chair, hands on his head. “Eli, I’ve seen a lot of sloppy police work, but this is criminal.”
“We need to clear these cases, but I’m worried this is the tip of the iceberg. How sloppy were his other investigations?”
“Don’t say that, or Lourdes will have us looking at everything Foster touched. So, what next?”
“I want to see the physical crime scenes and talk to forensics and the MEs. Come on, let’s grab those two and head out.”
As the four of us walked to my SUV unit, Parker whined. “It’s close to lunch. Can we stop somewhere? I’m hungry.”
Hank didn’t take a breath before he reacted. “You’ll eat when we finish. Get in the car.”
~~~
We were done at fifteen minutes past four when we dropped DeLong and Parker at District Seven. Parker nearly ran into the station, and Hank started laughing. “I bet he’s heading for the snack machines.”
“You are a bad dude, Hank. Making that poor guy suffer.”
“He has to toughen up, or he won’t make it. I’m betting that he doesn’t make it.”
I turned onto Read Boulevard. “Hungry?”
Hank nodded. “Starving.”
We stopped for fried chicken and ordered inside before we got on I-4 and returned to the city. I will admit that I was hungry, too. I savored a bite of mashed potatoes as Hank devoured a chicken tender before I spoke.
“I have some takeaways from today. First, my gut tells me these cases are related. Second, I think the vics died elsewhere, dumped where found, and thirdly, I don’t think they took fentanyl willingly.”
“You think someone killed these kids?”
“Call it gut or spidey sense, but I do.”
“I’ve learned to go with your spidey sense, but if that’s the case, we have little evidence to prove it. However, I’m concerned with the forensics reports not attached to three case files and an incomplete one on the fourth. I looked on the forensics lab site but can’t find those three reports.
“I know but… I feel these deaths are related to more than the drug used.”
“Since they were never linked, we don’t know if these kids knew each other.”
“We need to find out. We are going to have to talk to the families. When we get back to the office, I will call Forensics and set up meetings tomorrow morning. You start calling the vics’ families and setting up meetings at the station. Try to get them all there tomorrow. We need to find Foster, so see if you can get hold of that officer you said knew him. ”
~~~
Hank and I met at the Major Crimes to update Captain Lourdes, then headed to the Seventh, where we did the same for Dixon. Before leaving, we reviewed the questions we wanted to ask at Forensic with DeLong and Parker.
Hank tapped me on the shoulder as we walked behind them to the car. “See that bulge in Parker’s coat pocket?”
“Yeah?”
“Our boy tucked a snack cake in his pocket before we left.” Hank had a hard time stifling a laugh.
I didn’t try. I laughed. “Detective Guidry wins again.”
Parking at the New Orleans Police Crime Lab located on Lakeshore Drive, the smells from Lake Pontchartrain triggered a memory of a past case. The then-mayor of New Orleans got his hands bloody with drugs and murder, and I ended his reign on a pier not too far from the crime lab. It took a while before the city council forgave us for airing their dirty laundry. Most who supported the corrupt mayor lost in the next election, and those who won, at least for a while, walked a tightrope.
Word had come from above that we were working on a touchy situation because the crime lab’s director met us at the door and escorted us to a conference room where several techs were seated. They looked nervous, but I’d be anxious, too, if someone questioned my work.
Case by case, chronologically, we spoke with the lead technologist, and the answers were not very satisfying. The field techs who collected evidence from the first three cases followed proper guidelines. Starting with case four, I noticed a change. The tech who oversaw the data collected on cases four and five stated that she prepared and finalized a report and attached it to the case file. Those reports were not part of the file. The tech on case six stated that, per his usual work method, he had attached an open file to the main case and then updated it with data and notes as he received information.
One of the techs appeared exasperated. “I finished that report, filed it, and verified that I had attached it. I did the work and have my work files to prove it. Why the report is not there, I have no idea.”
“Do all of you keep work notes? Logs?”
They all said yes, and I looked at the director. She threw up her hand before I could ask. “No worries, I will have all of them send you a list of evidence collected and their work files. We are as concerned about this as you are.”
We left forensics with more questions than when we arrived, and I wasn’t happy. We headed to our next stop, the coroner’s office, and while on the way, I had Hank contact Captain Lourdes requesting an investigation into the IT records. I wanted answers on what happened to the files.
We met with three of the medical examiners who performed the autopsies, finding nothing out of the ordinary. We returned to District Seven to begin interviewing family members, and Hank sent Parker to pick up lunch. The young detective left muttering.
“You are riding Parker pretty hard.”
“He needs to be put in his place a bit. I called his former supervisor last night. She said he was a good beat cop, advanced quickly, and took the detective exam as soon as eligible. But she said he could be sarcastic and sometimes bucked authority.”
“And you don’t?”
Hank chuckled. “Maybe I see a bit of young me in him, but he cannot be disrespectful. So, a little humility might help.”
The first family members to arrive were Scott and Leona James. Their son, seventeen-year-old Dawson, was case number three. Hank and I met with them in an interview room. DeLong and Parker observed from the media center.
Scott James got right to the point. “We assume you have information regarding our son’s death. My wife and I have never believed that Dawson willingly took fentanyl. He was a great kid and an exceptional student. He wanted to go to college and become an engineer, like his mom and me. Someone took that away from him and took him away from us and his brother and sister. Tell us what you know.”
We took them through the new observations regarding the fentanyl found in his system and that we had reopened the case to determine the connection between the other deaths. We asked a series of questions regarding Dawson’s activities and friends, information that was sketchy in the original investigation.
By the end of the day, after talking with members from all six families, we had learned something that Foster should have known. The victims were or had been members of a high school computer club started by IT employees who worked for NASA Michoud. One of the parents said they would send us the contact information for the club—a tenuous connection at best, but the only one we had. By seven p.m., we were ready to leave when Captain Dixon called us to fill him in.
We entered his office, and he motioned for us to sit as he pulled a bottle of bourbon and three glasses from a cabinet. He scoffed as he poured a shot for each of us. “The first captain I had when I became a detective told me a good commanding officer kept bourbon in the drawer and knew when to drink.” He handed us a glass. “Salut! Now tell me what I probably don’t want to know.”
I took a sip of my drink and then gave him the news. “The victims were all past or present members of a computer club for high school kids started by IT employees at NASA Michoud. We should have a contact number shortly.” I paused, steeling myself with another sip of bourbon. “Captain, forensic reports are missing from three files and only a partial for the fourth. As you turned the investigation over to Major Crimes, I have asked Captain Lourdes to open an investigation into why the reports for cases three, four, and five were missing and why case six has only a partial report. But beyond that, as you already know, the case files are sketchy at best.”
“Eli, do you think Foster removed those files?”
“I don’t know, but we need to find him.”
“I tried again today. I can’t justify calling an official BOLO on him, but I can discretely ask the watch commander to have his units keep an eye out for him. I doubt he’s in the area if he’s hiding, but best I can do.”
“We have some feelers out, Captain. Hank knows someone who worked pretty closely with Foster. Hopefully, we’ll get a break soon.”
~~~
I planned to drop Hank off at his car at headquarters when Roy Lafite returned his call. After a brief conversation, Hank ended the call. “Time to get a beer.”
We headed to Charlie’s Pub on St. Charles Avenue. Roy Lafite waited at a corner table with a pitcher of beer and three mugs in front of him. He greeted Hank warmly, and Hank introduced me as Roy poured our mugs full.
Hank gulped his beer and grinned. “Nothing better than a draft. Thanks for seeing us.”
“You got questions about Marty Foster. Not surprised. I heard he got himself into some trouble.”
“He retired, but we have some questions about an open case and need to talk to him. We can’t find him and hoped you might know where he is.”
“Retired? No, I retired and bought this bar with my son-in-law. Marty got canned, and they called it retirement. This case you have questions about have something to do with that?”
I shrugged. “We just need to ask him some questions.”
Hank leaned forward. “Roy, we both know Foster was sloppy. There are some issues with a few cases he worked on before he retired. We’ve called and texted him, but nothing. He’s not at home and hasn’t been for several weeks. Do you know where he might go—a friend’s or relative’s house?”
“The last time I saw him, he stopped in here about two months ago and told me he’d left the job. I asked him what he would do—live off the great pension we get. He laughed and said he wasn’t sure. His kid was out of a job, and he had to help him.”
“Can you think of anywhere around here he might go for a while?”
Roy shrugged. “The only place I can think of is his grandmother’s old fishing camp. Last I heard, and it was years ago, he still went there to fish. Went there once with him. None of us had been on the force long. Old houseboat on the canal. After he made detective, I didn’t see him much.”
After getting directions to the camp in Hopedale and giving Hank and Roy time to talk about the good old days, we said goodnight. We planned to head there first thing in the morning, but an early morning phone call changed our itinerary.
~~~
Captain Dixon had been cryptic. His seven a.m. call simply told us to come to the station now. As we turned off Read Boulevard, a patrol car sat on the side of the road underneath the canopy of sneakers slung across the power line.
The desk sergeant directed us to Dixon’s office, where he waited with a couple we had interviewed late yesterday afternoon.
“Detectives, you remember Carl and Janice Bronson.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, they… I’ll just let them tell you.”
Carl Johnson took a deep breath. “As we left yesterday, my wife noticed the shoes hanging from the wires on Read.” He glanced at his wife. “She thinks a pair of those shoes belong… belonged to our son.”
“Mrs. Bronson, what makes you think those shoes belong to your son?”
“I thought about this last night. I just happened to look up when we left and saw the shoes. Something kept nagging at me. I haven’t gone back into my son’s room since— well, they didn’t find any of his clothes….” She paused, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t know what shoes he was wearing that day.” She stopped, and her husband continued.
“There’s a pair of black shoes with white soles and that big white swoosh on the side hanging there. We think those are Mick’s. The ones he had were not in his closet.”
We left the Bronsons in the captain’s office. We walked out with Dixon and summoned DeLong and Parker to join us. The five of us walked to the intersection.
The captain stood, arms folded across his chest, and I could tell he was fuming. “Detectives, there are six victims and six pairs of shoes hanging from that wire. I am gonna be really ticked if that evidence has been in plain sight all along.” He turned toward me. “Detective Boone, get these shoes down now and find out who they belong to.” With that, he headed back to the station.
Hank and I exchanged glances. We’d been partners long enough that I had no doubt what he was thinking. This case was a total cluster whatever. But we also both knew we were dealing with a serial killer who was laughing in our faces.
“DeLong, call forensics and tell them to get here yesterday. Parker, go to the fire station and tell the captain we need a ladder or bucket truck.” Neither moved, and I barked, “Now,” louder than I intended. They moved.
Hank and I stood by as the production unfolded. Once forensics arrived, Entergy, notified by the fire department, shut off the power for that line segment. A firefighter and a forensic tech went up in a bucket and cautiously retrieved the shoes. I had the shoes taken back to the station, where they were logged in as evidence under the captain’s authority and placed in an interview room with a police officer present.
“DeLong, Parker, call all the families and see if you can get them in so they can identify the shoes. If they can’t come in immediately, ask if they would be willing to preliminarily identify the shoes from a photo. Also, check with the fire captain and see how long they keep footage from the security cams. We might get lucky and see who stopped to throw shoes. Detective Guidry and I need to leave for a bit.”
Hopedale was a forty-five-minute drive, but I made it in thirty-five. We found a rickety houseboat docked on the canal, where Roy had said. The car parked in front was registered to Martin Foster. Sound from a radio or TV came from inside. Before stepping on the deck, Hank knocked on the hull and yelled for Martin, but there was no answer.
We climbed on board and noticed a locked padlock outside the door. Hank peered into the tiny living quarters through a window beside the door. He stiffened, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle. “Eli, call for an ambulance and, I guess, the State boys.”
Hank took a photo of the padlock and one through the window before he broke the door. The stench, which I thought was from the brackish water, was not. The foul odor coming from inside made me retch.
Martin Foster lay on an old cot in his own filth. Emaciated, his skin had a gray pallor, and his hair and beard were unkempt. I made the calls while Hank took more photos of Foster and the conditions in the houseboat.
Hank turned on the faucet, but no water came out. He turned to me. “Eli…”
“I got this. Got water in the car.” I rushed out and grabbed a couple of bottles of water and a roll of paper towels. By the time I returned, Hank had roused Foster.
He took a water bottle and held it to Martin’s lips, letting him wet his mouth. “Come on, Marty, wake up. We’re here to help.”
I handed Hank a wet paper towel, and he wiped grime from Foster’s face. “Who did this to you, Marty?”
Foster’s eyes were unfocused at first, but he finally recognized Hank. “Hey, Guidry, that you? Need a drink. He promised he’d bring me a bottle.”
“Yeah, it’s me. Now tell me, who left you here?”
“Evan. He said he’d bring me a drink.”
“Who’s Evan?”
“You remember… my son.”
“Did he lock you in here?”
“I found out… he was killing those boys… I saw the shoes in his car… then.” Foster closed his eyes.
“Then what?” Hank wiped his face again, and Foster roused.
“Saw them on the wire at the station… he taunted me. I tried to cover for him, but he kept killing them. He’s going to do it again…”
Foster passed out as we could hear sirens approaching. As Hank went out to flag them down, I called Captain Dixon and filled him in. Before we ended the call, he requested a warrant issued for Evan Foster. He also told me that four families had ID’ed a pair of shoes belonging to their sons.
~~~
We returned to the station three hours later and were in the conference room when Parker and DeLong burst in, both talking simultaneously.
I raised my hands. “Slow down, what’s happening?”
DeLong took a breath. “Parker and I decided to look at any recent missing teens. We figured from the new forensic information that the killer—Evan Foster—must have taken these kids a day or so before he killed them. So….”
Parker interrupted. “There’s a high school kid. His parents reported he didn’t come home from school last night. We checked. He’s in that computer club.”
DeLong added. “We called the guy from NASA, who the parents said was the club’s founder. One of the original members was Evan Foster when he was in high school. After graduation, he stayed with them as a college mentor. They caught him hacking personal information and kicked him out about a year ago.”
“Good work, very good work. Any clues as to where Evan might be?”
Parker nodded. “The guy from NASA told us they used to meet in a computer repair shop because it had several server connections, but it closed down, and they meet now in a computer lab at the tech HS. He could be there.”
“Address?” Hank and I grabbed our radios and hurried out the door, with DeLong and Parker following us.
DeLong waved her phone. “Texting you.”
Behind her, Parker was calling dispatch to send units to that location. They might turn out to be decent detectives, after all.
~~~
The small strip shopping center consisted of empty stores and broken, weed-filled asphalt, with one exception. A car parked behind the center and out of sight of the road was registered to Evan Foster. Captain Dixon had rolled up behind us as three other units arrived. We stayed out of sight, but that also meant we didn’t have eyes on the storefront.
Parker came up with a plan. He removed his coat, tie, and weapons belt, slipping his gun under his shirt. He parked his unmarked unit in a far corner of the lot, visible from the deserted computer shop. He grabbed his iPad and strolled into the parking lot, pretending to be a real estate appraiser if asked. Parker spent about ten minutes walking along the front, taking photos and jotting down information. Once done, he drove off and parked behind our location.
“I couldn’t get a good look inside without being obvious, but I did get a peek. Pretty sure I saw not only movement inside but also a pile of clothes.”
“Good work.” That came from Hank, along with a slap on the back.
I turned to Dixon. “We may have a hostage situation, Captain. We need the big dawgs.”
He nodded. “Dispatch, this is Captain Dixon. I need SWAT en route to my location. Possible hostage, one perp, weapon status unknown, Code 3 dark. Park behind the center. Repeat. Do not go to the front of the shopping center.”
SWAT arrived, assessed the situation, devised a plan, executed a hostage rescue, and apprehended a serial killer. Always considerate, they left the arrest to us.
~~~
Hank and I walked into Mama Leone’s for dinner a week later. I told Uncle Matteo we needed a table for three, but Hank said we needed one for five.
Matteo sat us at a large round table. I was puzzled. “Hot date?”
“No. I asked a couple of friends to join us. I’m glad this has all died down, Eli. It’s been a crazy week, and I don’t want to live that over.”
“Neither do I.”
The front door chimed, and Captain Dixon entered. He spotted us and sat down. “So, this is Mama Leone’s. Heard a lot about this place and what happened—tough day.”
“Yeah, mass shootings are hard to recover from. The loud doorbell makes Mama happy. No one can sneak up on her again.”
The door dinged loudly again, and I was surprised to see the young detectives walk in. I glanced at Hank and shook my head. I mouthed “softie” to him, and he scoffed.
“Captain, detectives, thank you for inviting us.” DeLong was beaming, but Parker looked nervous.
Hank nodded. “You two did great work on the case. Instrumental in solving it. You deserve dinner at Mama’s.”
I ordered wine after Hank ensured Parker was old enough to drink and a double antipasto. As we stuffed ourselves, Captain Dixon asked us to update him on the status of the Forensics investigation.
“The investigators found no wrongdoing in the forensics lab. Evan Foster’s girlfriend, however, worked in the NOPD Evidence division. IT traced the changes to the case files to her workstation, and each access coincided with Evan’s visits to see her. She took him on a tour of the evidence lockers, and that’s when they took the fentanyl. She said he wanted revenge on the punks that kicked him out of the computer club, all arrogant rich kids in his mind. The DA is filing charges and may make her an accessory to the murders. She’s cooperating but knew what he was doing, so she’ll be doing time.”
DeLong asked Hank about Martin Foster. “Detective, I know you worked with him. It must have been horrible finding him the way you did. How is he?”
“Not out of the woods yet. He was extremely dehydrated and hadn’t eaten in days. Evan hadn’t been there for at least a week. They weren’t close, but Marty knew something was wrong before he recognized the shoes dangling on the powerline. He said Evan was angry about being kicked out of the club. When he saw the shoes on the line, he purposely did little on the investigations to keep anyone from connecting them, but he kept pushing Evan for the truth.”
“I don’t understand why Evan didn’t kill him.”
“I don’t know, Eli. Evan’s not talking, but the girlfriend said he liked to torture his victims, stripping them of their clothes to humiliate them, threatening bodily harm, depriving them of water, and then giving them a fatal dose of fentanyl. He then dumped the bodies in remote places. She thought he was enjoying inflicting such torture on his father.”
Dixon chimed in. “I spoke with the superintendent, and he said that the DA may go lenient on Foster. They are looking at felony obstruction of justice charges, and I imagine they will plead him out to a misdemeanor if he turns evidence on his son.”
Hank sighed heavily and looked toward me. “Better than he deserves, but he’s been through a lot. A retired fellow officer, Roy Lafite, told me he and some other guys that Foster worked with planned to help him.”
“As horrible as this all is, the families have closure, two victims saved, and the perps behind bars. That’s why we’re here. To get the bad guys off the streets.”
To our raised wine glasses and a chorus of hear-hear, Mama and her grandson and sous chef, Tomas, arrived carrying an enormous family-size platter of spaghetti, meatballs, and freshly baked garlic bread. As they served our food, I had only one thought—no better way to end a day in The Big Easy.
…
Please visit Deborah on Vocal Media https://vocal.media/authors/d-a-ratliff and her blog https://daratliffauthor.wordpress.com.
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