Shades of Grey
Written by JL Schneider
Published by JL Schneider at Smashwords
JL Schneider is the exclusive owner and copyright holder on this publication
Smashwords is JL Schneider's Ebook Publisher and Distribution Platform
Prologue
The hard dirty concrete I am standing on is cold. My feet are cold and numb; it’s beginning to get painful. I take a deep breath of the cold night air and am greeted with a very unpleasant odor. This place has place been used as a toilet. The smell is not overpowering thanks to the cold, but very unpleasant. I’ve been here for 3 hours and haven’t moved more than 2 feet in either direction. I wonder for the hundredth time if I’m doing the right thing. I hear things moving in the darkness behind me. I know it must be rats, but I need to push them from my mind. I can’t stand rats, and can’t afford the distraction.
I feel the weight and the coolness of the High Standard Victor tucked in my belt. The feeling is both reassuring and ominous. If all goes as planned the High Standard will take a life tonight, if not, the gun will probably be found on my dead body. I know the High Standard weights 46 oz. empty, but right now its clip contains 10 rounds of Federal 22 Caliber Long Rifle Hollow Point ammunition. I know the velocity and trajectory at various distances for this ammunition. I have studied the charts and tested the rounds. As far as I’m concerned 10 rounds are 9 too many. I don’t plan on requiring the drop compensation I studied, I hope not to need exceptional accuracy, if it can deliver the bullet 2 feet and penetrate ¼ inch of bone; that will be all I need.
My name is Jesse Carr. I guess you could say I am a hired killer. Although I have killed before, this will be the first kill where I have no idea why this man must die. I am somewhere in South Philly, standing in a very dark, very cold, very smelly alley. How I got here and why is a long story, but for now all my attention is focused on the dive bar across the street.
It’s 2am. I followed my target here 3 hours ago and watched him park and enter the bar. I have been told his name is Raymond James Dunn. His friends, I doubt he has many, call him Rambo. The picture I have matches the man I followed here. He is 6’ 2” 245 lbs, shaved head, muscular body, ruddy completion. I understand he has a disposition to match his looks. He carries a Glock Model 19 9mm in an ankle holster in the inside of his right calf and a 9 inch switchblade in his left pants pocket. He is left handed. I have been told he is quick to act with either of these weapons, and has done so many times. He has a scar on his right shoulder from a bullet he had the misfortune of stepping in front of. He walks with a limp because of the bullet he still carries in his right leg. He has a wife, Angel, and a girlfriend, Dawn. He lives at 902 South Broad St. just down the street from the fire station. He drives a 1997 white Cadillac Deville. He meets his girlfriend, Dawn every Thursday at the Marriott Downtown. I don’t guess it’s for dinner. He is an ex-cop who got fired. Why, I don’t know or care? The only other thing I really need to know about him, my employer told me, he needs to die. I don’t know Dunn, until today I had never seen him before except in a photo. What he did to bring me here is beyond my pay grade. I know these things because the man I am employed by told me so. His Caddy is currently parked next to a fire hydrant 20 feet from the dive bar entrance. This I know because, I watched him park it.
I was parked just down the street from Mr. Raymond James Dunn’s house for 6 hours in my rented Taurus. No one in the neighborhood seemed to notice or care that a stranger was parked there. I removed the license plate on the off chance someone would notice. No one did. I guess I am lucky, because Mr. Dunn is home on this particular day and made his exit about 6 PM. He drove to the downtown Marriot Hotel where he turned his Caddy over to a Valet. My guess, he is meeting with Dawn, but I don’t know or care. I followed the Valet, watched him park Dunn’s car and waited. I really have no specific plan, I just hope at some point to get Dunn alone and close.
The Valet retrieved the car about 10 pm; presumably Dunn had finished his business by then. Dunn drove south with me in trail. I had no idea where he is going, but since his house was North, I knew it wasn’t home. The neighborhood got seedier and seedier the further south we drove. Quite a step down from the Marriott.
He parked his car by a fire hydrant and entered the What’s Up Bar. I don’t know what’s up, but it definitely isn’t this place. The windows in the front are painted over. A small amount of light escapes. The door is dirty and without a lock or handle. Patrons use a rope attached to the door to enter, classy joint. I guess it’s a 24 hour establishment. The music from the interior is loud. No neighbors around here to disturb. As Dunn slowed to park I drove 2 blocks and parked the Taurus, legally. I walked back and now still stand freezing my ass off in this smelly alley. My hope is he didn’t leave while I was parking. Since his car is still here I assume not. But, assumptions can get you killed.
Several interesting patrons have entered and left the What’s Up Bar over the past three hours, but not Dunn. From the clientele I’ve seen, Dunn isn’t here for the company. A fair amount of what appeared to be hookers entered and very few left. I doubt Dunn is here for that, since my assumption is he just met Dawn at the Marriott. He is dressed in what is obviously a very expensive suit. The other patrons were dressed as if they lived on the street. I don’t know if there is a back or side exit, I’m too afraid to be seen and remembered to check that out. I haven’t seen a police car since I’ve been here. I’m not sure if that is a good sign or not but if I had to guess, I would say they don’t want to be in the neighborhood either.
3:30 AM, out he comes. Of course, he isn’t alone, let’s not make this easy. He is with a short wiry man in a dark suit. These two look nothing like the other characters I have seen entering or exiting. They stand and talk for several minutes. I can’t understand what is being said, I guess it makes no difference to me. They look around like they feel me watching. I’m squeezed in the shadows against the cold damp wall and pray I am not visible. The short guy shakes hands with Dunn and reenters the bar. Dunn lights up a cigar, his face illuminated in the flame looks even harsher than before. He stands there for several more minutes puffing away. My nerves are so tight I feel like I am about to explode. I have to pee. If I move now he will see me immediately and the last thing I need is a firefight on the street when I am outgunned. Finally he heads for his car.
Time to move, I can smell his stinky stogy as I move out of the alley. He is walking briskly toward his car. I cross the street and walk as if to enter the bar. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He presses the remote and I hear the Caddy chirp. I am twenty feet behind him. He slowly opens the door and sits in the front seat. He is a large guy and it takes a couple of seconds for him to swing his legs in. Before he can close the door I am standing beside him blocking the door with my body. I had pulled the High Standard from my belt as I crossed the street and held it tight against my right thigh. I point the gun at his head. He turns and looks, a sudden shock registering on his face. I squeeze the trigger, nothing I forgot to take the safety off. He makes the last mistake of his life. Had he sprung from the car he could have taken me before I moved, but, he reached for his ankle holster instead. I managed to flick off the safety and squeeze the trigger. This time the 1000 fps round hits him in the throat. He grabs for his throat. I lean in and touch the barrel lightly to his temple. The next pop is muffled by his head and the inside of the car. He falls sideways across the front seat. I lean in and squeeze off 2 more shots, just to be sure. They both hit him in the jaw and from the angle, travel up into his brain. The noise is muted by the car interior.
No time to examine my work, I begin walking away from his car. I tuck the High Standard back in my belt. I forgot to put it on safe. I remove it, click it on safe and tuck it back. A quick glance around, nothing, no lights coming on, no curious patrons. I guess gunshots are a frequent occurrence around here. The two block walk to the car feels like miles. I am numb from fear and cold. I get in the Taurus and notice my pants are wet. I pissed my pants. Christ, what a hitman. I’m shaking so bad I can’t drive. I sit there numb wondering why I feel nothing for this man. I just took a life and all I worry about is getting away, I have no emotion about the killing at all. I finally am able to put the keys in and start the car. I hear sirens in the distance. I drive away and for some reason u-turn and drive back toward the What’s Up Bar. The interior lights are still on in the Caddy. From my side I can’t see Dunn, but I guess he is still there. Where else would he be with 4 bullets in him. I catch the faint smell of a cigar. I guess it’s still lit. No cops, no onlookers. I continue to drive and head toward my hotel. I just fulfilled my first contract. How was I to know it would be far from my last?
Chapter 1
Jessie Carr
Jessie Carr was born on October 3rd 1948 in Hotel Dieu Hospital, New Orleans, LA. He was an only child of middle class parents. There was nothing particularly outstanding about Jessie. Average grades through school, average size, and average weight. When Jessie entered high school he began to excel in track and field. He was fast but his real talent was distance. He set school and state records in the mile run. Another trait became apparent, Jessie was a born leader. People gravitated toward him and followed his lead. His personality made him instantly likable.
Jessie was offered several track scholarships and accepted one from Louisiana State University. Unfortunately for Jessie during his first semester he discovered his love for partying. Louisiana State has a very active party scene and Jessie jumped into it with both feet. His grades and athletics suffered. His Coaches and Counselor tried but were unable to get Jessie back on track. At the end of his first semester he failed all his subjects and lost his scholarship. He returned to New Orleans and began working low wage jobs. His partying kept him moving from one job to another, never able to sustain a decent work record.
When Jessie turned 19 he was making minimum wage and because of it, was unable to move out of his parent’s house. He desperately wanted to be on his own. The Vietnam War was in full swing and Jessie felt it was only a matter of time before he was drafted. Jessie’s self esteem was at an all time low. He thought of joining the Marines but didn’t feel he had what it took. He thought of the Navy, but didn’t want to spend six months on a ship. He considered the Air Force but really wanted to see some action. On October 4th 1967, the day after his 19th birthday, he enlisted in the Army. Times being what they were he was able to ship out the following week and began basic training Monday October 14th.
During basic his stamina and leadership abilities were immediately noticed. He completed basic on November 22nd and began Infantry training on November 25th. Shortly after completing the Advanced Infantry course he entered Ranger School. Due to the pressure from the Pentagon to get more men into Vietnam the training was accelerated and Jessie completed his Ranger training on February 17th 1968. He was given leave until February 25th 1968 and was headed to Vietnam on February 28th.
The Army had been slow deploying sniper into the field and because Jessie had fired expert in training he was assigned to an in country sniper school. Jessie had completed Ranger training at the top of his class and again finished at the top of his class in the two week sniper school. On March 17th Jessie was a newly minted U.S. Army Scout Sniper.
Jessie was assigned as a scout for several snipers during the next two months. In June he was assigned as a scout for Carl Rome. He was to be Carl’s spotter for the remainder of his tour. They became friends and could almost read each other’s mind. Carl introduced Jessie to CWO Shelby Wilson, a rotary wing pilot, and they became friends. Their method of operation allowed them extreme latitude in their movement and they were able to get together with Shelby frequently. Their skill in the field became legendary. Their tours ended at approximately the same time. Jessie returned home but missed the camaraderie and action of Vietnam. He had fallen in love with his old High School sweetheart, Rachael, and during his leave they saw each other often, but the call of combat was strong. He and Carl volunteered for a second tour and were again paired as a sniper team. Carl taught Jessie how to move silently and track in the field, and Jessie taught Carl how to party and drink. When not in the field they drank and raised hell together, often with Shelby.
Jessie corresponded with Rachael but Jessie told her he planned on a third tour. Jessie received a letter in December during his second tour. Rachael was marrying a doctor and was having a child. Jessie was still in love with her, but wished her well.
With one week left in their tours Jessie was wounded in a firefight with a patrol. The patrol had stumbled upon their hide. They had killed the patrol to a man but Jessie had taken a bullet to the leg. He was air lifted out and shipped home a week later. Carl completed his tour and returned home. He visited Jessie in the hospital. They discussed another tour but the wound had dampened Jessie’s enthusiasm. Carl would return to do a third tour, but Jessie decided an Army Career was not for him, he was discharged on October 19, 1973.
Jessie returned to New Orleans, returned to night school, and completed a degree in Business. While he was in school he began a clerical position with a design firm and upon graduation was promoted to a management position. He married and was at peace with the world until almost 20 years later.
Chapter 2
August 16, 1993; a clear hot Monday in New Orleans, I worked late and arrived home just past 8pm. The house is quiet and still. No barking dogs, no wife. I called and got only an echo. Strange, she was supposed to be home all day. I grabbed a beer and walked up the stairs. Empty rooms and silence was all that greeted me. No reason to worry, she probably went to visit a neighbor or ran to the store.
Two hours later I was still alone. I called around and no one had seen or heard from her. Now I was beginning to get worried. At 11 PM the phone rang. The nightmare had begun. I rushed to the hospital where the police said they had taken her. Long on speculation and short on details, the police said she had been raped and tortured. The police wanted to know where had I been? I guess the husband is always the first suspect. She had been found near the river batture by a jogger. I had seen men torn apart by war, but nothing could prepare me for what I saw that night. Much of the next hours were a blur. She had been brutalized, raped, tortured, and burned. Mercifully she passed away before morning.
I had no answers, the police had no answers. She was buried 3 days later and I was supposed to move on. I wish I could have. I called the police daily for weeks. No answers no suspects. 2 more women were found in the same area and in the same condition.
Finally on October 3rd, my birthday, a suspect was taken into custody. James Allen had been caught as he grabbed a woman from her home. Finally justice would be served. Louisiana has a death penalty and I was sure it would be used in this case. What a fool I was. James Allen was from a wealthy family and had the legal consul of the law firm of Buckle and Shuster, high priced, high powered, and highly connected. It seemed Mr. Allen’s rights had been violated during his arrest. No evidence from his arrest would be allowed and the woman he had grabbed had disappeared. He was released and couldn’t be touched. The cops were pissed, the DA was pissed, I was pissed, but nothing could be done.
It was an unusually hot October that year. The heat did nothing to improve my mental state, which was very bad. I just couldn’t believe the justice system would fail so miserably. My friends said that in the end, James Allen would pay. James Allen was only 31 years old. It just seemed like a long time to wait for God to collect his due. I considered moving, to try and put the past behind me, so many memories in my house. But why should I be the one to run? I hated James Allen and his legal team, but, most of all, I hated myself for doing nothing. I tried church, I tried booze, I thought of suicide. My mood got progressively worse. Sometime during the last week of October I made up my mind. I had to do something. If the law couldn’t do anything about James Allen, then I would. But what, I was just your average guy. I had served in combat, had weapons and tactics training. I had killed men before, but that was combat. I knew whatever I did had to be fast and it had to be brutal. I spent another miserable month hating myself and dreaming of revenge. I had a little insurance money but drank and pissed most of that away. I didn’t work and took the small pension offered me. I couldn’t think of anything but death. I knew it had to be me or Allen. No other outcome was possible.
The first week of December I formulated a plan. I wasn’t going to just kill Allen, but wanted him to know why he was dying and who was doing it. I wanted him to suffer the way I knew my wife and the others had suffered. With a plan of sorts formulated in my mind, I set things in motion. I used an assumed name and leased an old warehouse on the Mississippi River. It was used at one time to store cotton offloaded from ships and the warehouse had been abandoned for years. The walls were 2 feet thick made of heavy brick, the place was virtually soundproof. The beauty was that both adjacent warehouses were empty. I really didn’t care if I got caught, as long as I had some quality time with Mr. Allen.
Chapter 3
Monday December 16th dawned a cold dreary day. The skies were heavy and ominous. I had followed James Allen for the better part of two weeks and he rarely varied his schedule. Monday he was in his office, his daddies business of course, for 9 AM. He took lunch around 11:30 AM, during which time he consumed several martinis. His usual lunch mates apparently had to work for a living and returned to work around 1:30 PM. James consumed a few more martinis and headed for home. He lived alone and never left until 9 PM to head for his favorite bar. If he stuck to his schedule no one would miss him after lunch. I waited outside the Acme Oyster House on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter while he dazzled his friends with bullshit. He normally left between 2 and 2:20 PM, drunk. This day he didn’t disappoint. At 2:16 PM he stumbled out of the restaurant. His car was parked in a lot on Poydras St. since he worked at One Shell Square, several blocks away. This walk presumably sobered him up enough to drive home. Today it wouldn’t matter.
As he left the restaurant I had been standing on the corner of Iberville and Bourbon. My car was in a lot one half block down Iberville. As soon as he left the restaurant I headed for my car. I pulled out of the lot and headed for Canal Street. My timing worked out perfectly. As he crossed Canal St., I pulled up to the curb. He had never seen me before because I had never made it to court. I rolled down the passenger window and motioned to him, “Hey Mr. Allen let me give you a lift you’re getting all wet.” At first I thought he was just going to ignore me, but he turned and approached the car. He leaned in the window, “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you well.” I smiled “Hop in, it’s too damn cold out there, let me give you a lift. I’m Bill, from Accounting.” I didn’t even know if he had an Accounting Department but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He gladly accepted the ride. For all I knew, maybe there really was a Bill in Accounting. As I pulled away from the curb, and before he could even speak, I swung the nine inch ASP Tactical Baton I had in my right hand. As I swung it the metal ASP fully extended to it twenty six inch length and caught him in the forehead. His head bounced off the passenger side window and he fell across the front seat unconscious. Thankfully he hadn’t noticed the plastic I covered the seat with. Drunk, stupid or both, I didn’t care.
I drove to my warehouse on Tchoupitoulas St. I parked on the elevated ramp by the door. James Allen was an overweight 6’ 3” bulk. Unloading his limp body from the car was tough. A few times he slipped and fell to the concrete floor, but he never complained. Between the booze and knock on the head he was in no condition to do anything. The previous week I had anchored a chair in the middle of the warehouse. I had carefully drilled the old hard concrete floor and bolted down the metal chair I had purchased from a Salvation Army Store. Before I anchored the chair I had spread a ten by ten foot piece of clear plastic under the chair. I stripped Allen’s clothes off and securely tied and duck taped him to the chair. I checked my knots carefully. I placed a rag in his mouth and put duck tape over it. I couldn’t have him skipping out before I was finished. I had seen what the Vietnamese had done to some unlucky GIs and understood how to make him suffer. I just hoped my nerves were up to the task. I had a picture of my wife and newspaper clippings with pictures of the other two women Allen had tortured. I’m not sure if I had these to show him or to fuel my rage.
I went out, drove a few miles to a neighborhood restaurant, and grabbed a beer and poboy sandwich. When I returned I parked my car around the block. Leaving it parked at the entrance may have caused a police cruiser to stop and investigate since a large portion of these warehouses were abandoned.
Allen was just beginning to stir. I guess I hit him harder than I thought or maybe he bounced off the floor a few more times as I dragged him in. I squatted in front of him. He looked at me with no recognition in his eyes. “Don’t know me do you?” I waited and still nothing. He was now conscious and struggling at his bonds. I took the gag off. He yelled and screamed for help then he settled down. “What do you want, I’ll pay you, just let me go.” I let him yell till he couldn’t anymore. I took my wife’s picture from my pocket and held it in front of him. “You recognize this woman? You should you piece of shit, you raped, tortured and murdered her.” I got the reaction I had hoped for, sheer panic in his eyes. He summoned strength through his panic and struggled even more. He wet himself and almost got me, I could smell his fear. At that moment I had no soul. He tried to lie his way out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I didn’t do anything.” I hated this creature and loved his helplessness. I explained his situation. “Let me explain this to you, you’re all alone. You can scream all you want, no one will hear you. You took my life away from me. She was helpless and you tortured her, now it’s your turn. I’m going to hurt you like you hurt her.” He belonged to me. He tried with all his might to break free. He let his lunch and drinks go spewing them on the plastic covering the floor, I barely made it clear. I was enjoying this more than I should and I hadn’t even begun.
In Vietnam there was always a chance of being captured. Before deployment all newly minted Rangers attended training on how to handle yourself if captured. We were taught that the fear of torture was just as powerful as the act. I knew Allen had reached that point. His fear was physically painful. Just to make it even more real I removed a pair of pliers from my pocket and smiled. His bowels let go. Now we were having fun.
I let his situation sink in for awhile. Now that the time had come I almost felt sorry for him, but not quite. “So Mr. Allen, or may I call you James? You ready to have a little fun?” I could have shot him, or slit his throat, or any number of quick solutions, but I just couldn’t. I took the pictures of my wife and the others from my pocket and looked at them. I couldn’t believe she was gone. My rage flared and I hit him in the mouth with the pliers. Teeth and blood flew. He screamed again. “I have money, lots of money, please don’t hurt me. I’ll give you anything.”
I smiled at him, “Allen, there is only one thing you have that I want, your life.” I grabbed his scrotum with the pliers and squeezed as hard as I could. “You probably enjoyed using this thing on those women, how do you like it now James, does it hurt?” His hands were tied to the chair with his fingers extended. I grabbed his little finger and bent it back till it popped. The more he screamed the more it fueled my rage. I hit him in the nose with the pliers. Nose broken; blood flowing everywhere; as suddenly as my rage had peaked it subsided. I felt drained.
I walked out the warehouse to get some fresh air. I had intended for this to last for hours, but my rage had turned to sorrow. Not for him, but for what it had done to me. I had had enough. A few minutes later I reentered the warehouse and stood in front of Allen. He was shaking and bleeding. I just shook my head, “I wanted to make you pay, but look at you. You aren’t worth it you useless piece of crap. I hope you fucking rot in hell.” I took a K-Bar from its sheath in the small of my back, when he saw it he went into an even further panic. I slashed it right to left as hard as I could. The first swing caught him in the side of the head and slid across his face. His face was laid open. I recovered and swung again, left to right. This time it caught him in the throat. Between the weight of the K-Bar and the vicious swing it nearly decapitated him. He spasmed and tried to scream, but all that came out was blood. He died within minutes. Now it was me who was physically ill. My anger had left me exhausted and drained. I was bloodied and sick. I walked out of the warehouse leaving him tied to the chair. It was now dark and no one was around. I walked to my car in a daze. I don’t remember driving home but found myself in the shower trying to cleanse my soul.
Chapter 4
I slept the sleep of the dead. I awoke after 9 AM dazed and disoriented. Had it all been a dream? I stumbled out of bed and in the bathroom found my bloodied clothes. Not a dream, these were real. I showered again as if this would help cleanse me, it didn’t.
I went downstairs, made some coffee, and thought of the evening before. Was I the bad guy here? Had I really felt so good while doing this? Problem was, I was still unhappy and my wife was still gone. I hadn’t solved anything. James Allen was gone, but my heart was still empty. I didn’t want to have to face anyone with what I had done. I had to clean up my mess.
The weather was still miserable, cold and wet. The weather matched my mood. I drove to the warehouse and parked in front. The wharf rats had fed well that night. Allen was missing parts I hadn’t taken. The strong smell of blood permeated the warehouse. Allen was a sickening sight. His eyes were missing and some of his toes were gone. It was difficult not to be sick just looking at what was left. I wanted to make sure Allen wouldn’t float, I had seen many bodies in Vietnam floating in rivers. Using my knife I opened his belly to let any air out. I unbolted the chair from the floor and dragged it and Allen to the rear door of the warehouse. The large doors were used when ships were being unloaded. I opened the door and dragged my package to the river’s edge. I spotted a large piece of pipe that had been abandoned on the wharf, tied it to the chair for extra weight, and dumped the load in the river. I knew the currents would carry it south but how far and for how long I didn’t know.
I went back inside and gathered up his clothing. For some reason before dumping the clothes I checked his pockets. In his wallet I found, $430.00 cash, a Buckle and Shuster Attorneys at Law business card, and 5 driver’s licenses. One of the licenses belonged to Allen, one belonged to my wife and the two belonged to the other two victims. One was from a woman I had never heard of, Jasmine Simmons. Who was this person? Was she some poor undiscovered victim? My heart stopped. That arrogant bastard had carried souvenirs of his kills. Now I felt justified, I had done the right thing. His pocket also contained his house keys and his driver’s license supplied his address. I knew instinctively I would find other souvenirs there. There was a real chance of getting caught but I had to go. I threw his clothes and shoes in the river, and pocketed his wallet. I cleaned up as much as possible by picking up the plastic sheet. I had dropped the pliers and K-Bar the day before. The K-Bar had been given to me in Vietnam by a friend. He and I had become close. I hoped he would approve of its use. I threw the pliers and plastic sheet and Allen’s clothing in the river, cleaned the K-Bar as best I could, and locked up and I left the warehouse forever.
I headed for his house. It was around noon when I passed in front of 2669 Broadway. Broadway is a beautiful old money neighborhood. The area is located adjacent to a beautiful park and is considered a premier location in New Orleans. Allen’s house fit right in, it sat back on the oak tree shaded street. Perfectly maintained landscape framed the pure white single story old New Orleans style home. A front porch with wrought iron handrails led to beautiful leaded glass front door. The house and surrounding area was magnificent. it reeked of money.
No one seemed to be around. No car in the driveway, no one on the sidewalks. I parked up the block and walked back. I stood under a towering oak across the street trying not to look to suspicious and watched for 10 minutes. No movement, nothing. I put on gloves and walked up the walkway, climbed the stairs to the porch and rang the doorbell. No noise from inside. I prayed there was no alarm system waiting for me. I held my breath, put the key in the lock and opened the front door. I stood and listened, no audible alarm, no barking dog, and no noise from within. Finally I took a step inside and closed the door. Allen was a neat freak. The living room was large with beautiful oil paintings on the wall. I know nothing about art, but these looked expensive. I looked for an alarm panel or some indication the house might be alarmed, but saw nothing. A large bookshelf on the right contained hundreds of books, all perfectly placed and in perfect order. I stood motionless for 5 minutes waiting to hear a police cruiser outside, nothing. I moved straight through the room and entered the kitchen. Once again everything was in perfect place. The kitchen was immaculate with all new and expensive looking appliances and cabinets. I came back into the living room and entered a hallway on my right. The first room to the right was a bathroom, small but modern, obviously the guest bath. Directly across the hall was a small bedroom, fairly neutral in color with only a bed, dresser, and chair, the guest bedroom. At the end of the hall was a closed and locked door. The other rooms had not been locked but for some reason this one was. I took a half step back and kicked the door near the lock, the frame splintered and the door swung open, the master bedroom.
I entered the bedroom. I had a feeling that if he
had anything from the killings he would want them there. The bedside
table contained nothing unusual, in the corner I spotted a roll top
desk. Obviously an antique or wonderful reproduction. The desk was
cherry wood with beautiful brass hardware. I tried the roll top, but
it was locked. The drawers were also locked. I still had my K-Bar,
this desk was so beautiful I hated to desecrate it, but I pried it
open. In the bottom left hand draw I found women’s underwear. I
recognized one pair as my wife’s. I presumed the other belonged to
the other victims. I felt even more justified in what I had done. Now
I wished I had it to do all over again. I put the underwear back
where I had found them, hoping the cops may one day discover them.
There was nothing of interest in any of the other drawers or under
the roll top. As I turned to walk out I noticed the phone on the
bedside table. The message light was blinking. More curious than
anything I pressed the play button. The first message was from his
secretary wondering why he hadn’t shown up at the office. The
second was a hang-up, but the third was from Mr. Barry Shuster ESQ...
He had missed Allen at the bar the night before and wondered where he
had gone off too. I’ll never forget his exact words “Don’t tell
me you got some other babe to party without me. I hope you at least
bring me some pictures”. He laughed and hung up. I stood there
stunned, could this mean what I thought? This piece of shit had known
Allen was guilty even as he sprung him from jail. How could he, his
attorney was part of it. The realization stuck me like a knife.
Pictures, Shuster had said pictures, if there were picture they had
to be here. I had to search more. I went back to the desk and opened
every envelope and drawer. Back at the bedside table I rummaged
through everything. There were condoms, lubricant, and sex toys. I
noticed one of the drawers on the right side night stand wasn’t as
deep as the other. I found a false bottom in the draw. An envelope
contained pictures. My wife and the others nude and helplessly tied
gagged and brutalized. There were several sets of pictures of women I
couldn’t identify. Presumably one was Jasmine Simmons. Her driver’s
license showed a woman with long red hair, I wasn’t able to see her
face in the picture, but clearly one of the women had long red hair.
Allen was in the pictures, nude and smiling. Someone else had taken
the pictures, and I think I knew who it was.
I decided to have another look around. Maybe there were more false draw bottoms I had missed. The right bottom desk draw also proved to have a false bottom. When I opened it I was saw a large brown envelope. It was stuffed full. I looked inside and it contained several banded stacks of money. What was Allen into? I knew time wasn’t on my side, but I had to continue to look. Nothing else of interest in the desk or the night stands. I lifted the mattress from the bed. There I found the mother lode, 20 plastic wrapped packages of a white power. I didn’t have to be a detective to figure out what they were. Our boy Allen, in addition to a murder and rapist, was a drug dealer. I knew I should have just run, but I couldn’t. I took the sheet off the bed and wrapped the drugs and money in it. Time to get out of here. I checked for anyone outside, seeing no one I left. I made it back to my car without seeing anyone and headed for home. I had no idea what my next move was, but it was sure to involve Mr. Barry Shuster ESQ.
Chapter 5
At home I watched the news to see if anyone had found Allen, nothing. I opened the sheet on the kitchen table and counted the cash, ten bundles of cash. $200,000 dollars total, I guess the drug trade was profitable. Now I had the drugs to deal with and had no idea what to do. Then it hit me, Mr. Barry Shuster ESQ. probably also knew of Allen’s drug trade. I decided to find out. I took out the business card Allen had in his wallet and called the office of Buckle and Shuster Attorneys at Law. A female voice answered and I asked to speak with Mr. Shuster. I was told he wasn’t in, but would I like to leave a message? I gave her a false name and asked her to have Mr. Shuster call me. She asked what the call was pertaining to. I told her that Mr. Shuster and I had a mutual friend, Mr. Allen, and I had a message from him. Giving a false name was probably useless since he could check my phone number, but I was betting Shuster didn’t want any cops sniffing around.
At 5:33 PM my phone rang; it was Shuster. “Who are you and what do you want?” I laughed, “I’m Jessie Carr, that name mean anything to you?” He was silent for a moment, then. “No should it?” I laughed again, “Ok, let’s try this one, Julie Carr.” That got his attention. Your buddy James gave me a package for you. What do you want me to do with it?” I could tell he wasn’t buying it. He was quiet for several seconds trying to figure out what I knew or didn’t know. I broke the ice “I guess you don’t feel like talking. I’m the reason you buddy missed meeting you last night. Look, I got a package, I want to give it to you.” I could hear the nervousness in his voice, “Ok, tomorrow I’ll call you and set something up.” I laughed again, “Bullshit, I’m coming over right now, thirty minutes.” I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I knew I wanted to meet this man face to face. I was betting he was up to his ass in murder, rape and drug.
Chapter 6
6:30PM a typical winter night in New Orleans. It was windy and starting to rain, a cold front is coming our way. I crossed the Mississippi River Bridge and took the first exit. My destination is One Shell Square, which is on Poydras Street. Shuster’s office is on the 22nd floor. It’s after hours and there is plenty of parking on the street. Parking Meters in New Orleans don’t have to be fed after 6 PM. I entered the still open building, there is a security guard in the lobby, but he is more interested in the women leaving then anyone coming in. I catch the elevator to the 22nd floor. I know this is probably the dumbest thing I have ever done. There must be security cameras all over this building. On 22 I find the door of Shuster’s office. Room 2217 has a glass door with Buckle and Shuster Attorneys at Law painted in gold on it. I try the door, it’s unlocked. I enter into the waiting room, no receptionist at the desk. A hall to my right, I call out Shuster’s name. The door at the end of the hall opens and Shuster is standing there. I know it’s him because I saw his picture on TV when he had sprung Allen. He is tall and lean, around 30 years old, but he looks like a kid. He is dressed in a charcoal grey suit. His red and grey tie is loose around his neck. He has a very concerned look on his face. I walk up to him “Well Mr. Shuster, I’m Jessie Carr.” We don’t shake hands but I notice his right hand is behind his back. I follow him into his office. A very large office, very fancy, mahogany desk, bookshelves, oil paintings on the walls. The office of a successful man. The view from the window is magnificent. Downtown New Orleans all lit up. He sat in his chair behind his desk; I notice both hands are below the desk and out of sight. I sat directly across from him. We just stare for several minutes. I break the spell “Your buddy said to says hi.” No response. I try again “So, Allen gave me something for you, no interest? I reach down into the bag I carried in and retrieve the single bundle of drugs I had brought with me. When I look up I am staring into the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol. From my angle it looks like a 2” pipe, but is probably a 9mm or 40 caliber; now what? I place the package on his desk. He looks shocked but doesn’t commit to anything. I guess it still my turn. “Look asshole, I have your money and your drugs, so how do you want to play this?” I am hoping a little bullshit goes a long way. He lays the pistol on the desk, but keeps his hands very close. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but what do you want?” He just proved to me he is involved up to his butt. I laugh, “Mr. Allen is out of the picture and you now have a new partner.” He tells me again he doesn’t know what I am talking about, I know just from the way he said it he is full of shit. “Look, I have you $200,00 and nineteen more of these. I could keep it all or share it with you, but I can’t move this much drugs. That’s why I’m here.” He says “I should just shoot you and call the cops.” I laugh again “Sure, that’s a great idea. The cops will tear this place apart and no doubt find more evidence. If you weren’t involved up to your neck I would already be dead.” Now he is hooked.
The small talk and posturing continue for several minutes, just a bunch of crap on both our parts. I am buying time because I really don’t have a clue what to do next. I have no idea how much these drugs are worth, but I assume a lot. “I came here to make a deal, I already got your money, I want more. Another 200K and I give you the drugs. Then you never see me again.” Like any good attorney he offers a deal. “No, way too much money. I want the product, and I’ll give you 100k more. That’s the deal.” I smile, “You drive a hard bargain, but ok, deal.” I have no intention of giving him anything but I need time to think. He asks “Where is the product?” I point outside, “Trunk of my car parked right down the street. Where is the money?” He nods, “I have a safe, the money is in it.” Another bullshit statement, but I pretend to buy it. Then he makes a mistake, he reaches across the desk with both hands to retrieve the one drug bundle. I hit him as hard as I can with a right cross. The blow sends him sideways sprawling over the desk top. I grab the pistol, the shoes on the other foot now.
He staggers to his feet, blood pouring from the corner of his left eye. My hand hurts like hell; I can imagine how his eye feels. “Sit down you piece of shit.” He uprights his chair and sits. “Keep your fucking hands where I can see them.”
Now my dilemma, what to do? I would like to give him the same treatment I gave to Allen, but that would be much too noisy here. He want to bargain. “Look, keep all the money and the drugs, just don’t hurt me.” He is scared shitless. I don’t blame him. I need to know if he is just a drug dealer or was also involved with the murder of my wife. “I know you and Allen killed those women. I know you took the pictures, I saw them.” He turns pale, now I know, he was there. I sit staring and numb, here is another animal who took my life away. I don’t know what to do. He makes the decision for me. He lunges toward me. His right leg hits the desk and he doesn’t make it all the way across. I hit him on the side of the head with the pistol as hard as I can swing it. He flies sideways across the desk and crashes on the floor. He is dazed and begins to get up. I hit him in back of the head with the pistol. He goes down hard and doesn’t move. I wait for him to try and get up, he doesn’t. I stare at his prone body for several moments. I reach down and feel his neck, no pulse. His head is twisted at an odd angle, neck broken. The piece of shit got the easy way out.
I stand there with a bundle of drugs, a pistol, and a dead body. I think I have a problem. I go around and put the drugs in his desk drawer. I wipe everything I think I may have touched. I wipe the gun and place it with the drugs in the drawer. I know I’m screwed anyway, someone surely saw me entering this building. But what else is can I do? I look at his desk calendar to make sure my name wasn’t written on it. It isn’t. I leave his office, lock both the office door and the main entrance and head for the elevator. I take the elevator to the lobby. No security guard in sight. I exit the building, walk to my car, and head home to wait for the police.
Chapter 7
I am driving home and think about the last 24 hours. I had taken 2 lives and accomplished what, probably just bought myself a world of trouble. I pull to the side of the road and reach in my pocket. I remove the driver’s licenses I had taken from Allen’s wallet. I look at the faces. DMV pictures are so awful, there has to be a training class in bad picture taking and the class must be mandatory. Three of the faces are familiar. One is my wife and the other two match the newspaper pictures of the victims. The other is the wild card, who is she? It looks like DMV broke their rule and actually took a good picture. The woman is beautiful, long red hair and a great smile. Her address is in the Lakeview area of the city. I probably should go home and wait for the cops to arrest me, but I need to see if this person is still alive, I assume not.
I drive past her address and the house is in darkness. The house is a modest single family home on a very small lot. It actually looks like every other house in this neighborhood. All built by the same contractor at roughly the same time, probably the 1960s. Newspapers are piled up on the small front lawn. It looks like no one has been home for some time. I park and walk up to the door and knock. No noise whatever from inside, I ring the doorbell, nothing. Mail is overflowing from the box. I take one letter and look at the name, Ms Jasmine Simmons. Another letter has the same, apparently there wasn’t a Mr. Simmons.
A chill moves up my spine, this poor beautiful woman is probably laying undiscovered somewhere in the batture. Fucking Allen, I should have made him suffer more.
I return to my car in a funk. I have gained nothing for these women, only satisfaction for myself. I drive home and wish I could do something. I have no idea if Jasmine Simmons has any family, or if she does do they even know she is gone? I am determined to find out more. Maybe I could bring closure to some relative or love one.
At home I get on the internet and do a search for the name Jasmine Simmons. I get a hit on several but one jumps out immediately. A website was created by someone offering a reward for information on her whereabouts. Relatives and friends are offering $5,000 if anyone knows where she is. They say she was last seen on July 21st leaving her work. What a coincidence, she worked in the One Shell Square building. Both Shuster and Allen’s offices are there. But now what? I read down the pages to find out more about her. She is 28 years old and originally from St. Louis. She moved to New Orleans in June because she had read about the city and wanted to experience it. She had taken a job as a receptionist for Allen Enterprises. That couldn’t be a coincidence. I guess she experienced the wrong side of New Orleans. I had to remind myself she could possibly be alive, but I didn’t think so. I had hit another dead end, there was nothing more I could do. The local PD and the Feds had found no trace, her missing persons case was listed as unsolved.
Chapter 8
I spend a restless night. I knew the door would be broken in at any moment, followed by a SWAT team. It doesn’t happen. I put on the TV news at 6 am. No murder in One Shell Square, plenty of murders in New Orleans, but no high priced attorney in One Shell Square. I guess they won’t find him until the office opens at 9 am. Nothing, the morning becomes afternoon then evening, still nothing.
6 PM my cell phone rings. I look at the number, blocked. I answer, a males voice tells me we must meet. I ask who this is, he says, “all in good time”. He tells me to come to Harry’s Hideaway in the 1600 block of Magazine St. at 9 PM. He tells me to sit at the bar and he would make contact. He sends a chill down my spine when he says “I know about Barry.” What else can I do, I agree to meet.
8:45 PM and I’m sitting in Harry’s Hideaway. I’m enjoying a cold Abita Amber. I may as well drink something I like if this meeting turns out badly. It only took me about fifteen minutes to drive and park. I stood down the block and surveyed the area. This part of Magazine St. is full of small shops, restaurants, and of course, Harry’s. All the shops are closed and the restaurants are closing down. New Orleans is an early dining city, especially on a week night. Harry’s is well lit, a large neon sign illuminates on and off. It has the look of a local pub, but on the fancy side. I’m not sure what I was looking for, probably police, but I didn’t see anything unusual. I strolled inside and here I sit. The bar in about half full, low music on the jukebox. Idle chatter around me, mostly men; but a few women. Everyone is well dressed and groomed. It’s an upscale place, which explains why I didn’t know about it. Nice décor well dressed patrons. Now what?
I sit for 20 minutes. At 9:05PM a well dressed man sits on the stool next to me. He appears to be about my age with a physical build much like mine, well groomed. His dress is impeccable. His suit is obviously worth more than my car. His hair is salt and pepper, short and neatly groomed. He orders a scotch up and specifies, “Port Askaig 25 year old single malt”. I’ve never heard of this, but it sounded expensive. He glances over at me and tells the bartender to make it 2. He is served 2 and pushes one in front of me. He says “The Port Askaig 25 has impeccable balance and vibrancy.” I really have no idea what he is talking about. I’m not quite sure what to say, so I just thank him. I’m wondering if he is a gay man trying to pick me up or if he is the person I am here to meet. He settles that question, “I have to assure you are Mr. Carr, I’m Roger Buckle.” I am speechless. I just sit and stare at him. This is insane. I just killed his business partner and we are having drinks like two old friends.
We sip our scotch for the next fifteen minutes. Sorry, but this stuff taste like iodine which had an old sneaker soaking in it for three weeks. Finally, he breaks the ice. “I know what happened with Shuster. I don’t blame you for what you did.” Just then it hits me, I have his drugs and money. That can be the only explanation of why I’m not in jail. Apparently the expression on my face gave me away. He looks at me, nods and says “You know I had nothing to do with the women.” I really don’t know anything, but I need to let him talk. I guess being only a drug dealer is OK in his world. Now I really don’t know what to say. Where is this going? He looks at me “Let’s go sit at a table, a little more privacy.”