Buckets of nails were dropped incessantly from the heavens; meticulously aimed by brooding clouds in an attempt to puncture the roof of the navy blue and wood paneled Crescent City cab as it peeled away from the Bayou Moon Lofts. 571Please respect copyright.PENANAvbOchuwGfz
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The Lofts had a Saint Joseph Street address, but were neither, ironically, named for an actual Saint, nor situated anywhere near a bayou. However, the stream inside the building did change direction every twelve hours, and sometimes had a boggy, skunk-weed type smell. The cab turned up river out of the arts district toward Canal. The Navy and yellow wagon was a pillow on the roads despite its enormous purr and was the flagship of the Calloway Cab Company with a fleet of one; the cabbie, Malik Saint-Cyr, it's Admiral.
The passenger in the rear of the cab, head pressed against its window, used her hair as a thin pillow to cushion the bumps of the craggly inner city streets. Rolling thunder and claps of lightning jolted her briefly in and out of this reality.
Wren closed her eyes, not trying to capture the sound of the rising storm between her ears like most naive souls, but to try and drown the memories out that the tempest reminisced in her head. The exercise proved to be fleeting, and Wren found herself under water yet again.
The girl gasped for air as she tried to climb out of the water. The world kept shaking around her as secondary explosions could be heard above her young eyes. Each time the compartment shook, the water increased its takeover filling the void more violently after each rumble. The many voices in her head grew louder each time. "Wren! Grab the patch!" Salt and metal could be tasted in the air between the gulps of the encroaching water; Sparks floated down from the heavens like rain. "Wren! Get up! The patch, Wren!"
"Wren. We're here." Malik spoke through the rear view mirror of the cab while silencing WWOZ's every odd-houred local music report on the radio. His look, one of continued concern and helplessness.
Wren opened her eyes and was surprised to find herself in dry clothes while there was a deluge happening outside the taxi. She looked up and found a pair of startled grey eyes floating in the mirror hanging carelessly from the windshield. After a moment of pleading for a life preserver silently with her brow, came a strained whisper: "Thanks Mal."
"You OK Chère?"
"You know me Mal. I'm good, thanks." With a masked frown.
"Right.... OK, we can talk later then since your bull shit mode is on and all."
Malik grabbed the umbrella off the blue and yellow leather seat beside him, exited the cab and bolted to the curbside rear doors that he designed himself. He opened the umbrella and door simultaneously like it was his super power. Wren hesitated as the portal was opened to the falling skies enshrouding the alley of the crime scene in the Central Business District.
With credentials and camera bag in hand, Malik escorted Wren under the giant umbrella to the uniformed officers standing watch at the edge of the taut police line cordoning off the alleyway. Wren, head down trying to insert her custom molded ear plugs, was still trying to break free from the nightmare. She raised her head to see a familiar face. "Hi Jim, we got the ca-" She started with a slight smile but was cut off.
"He's expecting you, and you're late." An unfamiliar Boston accent from the adjacent officer uttered indignantly. Her smile melted into annoyance. It was common for cops to transplant to New Orleans after the fallout of Katrina to fill the mounting employment gap, but this one was rude and gave her a bad taste in her mouth.
"Wren, this is Mike Chamberlin. He's new, and he's a dick when it's raining." Jim, the more familiar officer, said unabashedly. "Go on in."
Sergeant Jim Taggerty, a tall officer at six foot five, and commanding like Patten riding atop a tank, lifted the police line with one hand and smiled the partners through. In complete fluid succession he whipped around, smile evaporated from his mug, and stared into the darkest depths of the soul that was now trying to leap from the body of the young cop that had just chosen to open his mouth without his Sergeant's permission. No words were spoken; no words were needed. Officer Mike received the message loud and clear.
-<>-
The lieutenant was easy to spot in his police issued London Fog and handlebar mustache, but the tanned man in the Trilby was new to her eyes. The detective had finished his conversation with the lieutenant and was walking out of the newly erected makeshift canopies as Wren and Malik crossed under the yellow police tape.
The two parties passed each other halfway down the alley from both destinations and volumes of data were exchanged between the detective and the girl in split seconds of time. She noting his frame: small but muscular; tall but unobtrusive; dark tanned tones of a scruffy but pleasant face, Mediterranean in decent if she had to guess; soaked curls peeking out from under his drenched hat; stylish, expensive wardrobe insinuating he came from money; chestnut eyes that deceived his stealthy sadness and fatigue. She couldn't help but think that he was able to see inside her. She felt vulnerable, naked, exposed. Music started to obtrusively creep into her head. Who was this guy? She shoved the opening lines to “Killing Me Softly” by the Fugees that was encroaching on her thoughts out of her head with a shudder and a look of contemplative surprise garnished with an eye roll.
He scribbled into his internal wheel book how she walked with a slight misstep on the left side; her hair slightly fizzing with the storm, the way she clutched the camera bag to her chest like she was protecting it - no, she was hiding something. He delved deeper. In split seconds he noted her painted, neutral and trimmed finger nails; her conventional but stylish wardrobe, exquisitely clinging to her angelic frame. She was endowed but fit, he could tell she went to great lengths to take care of herself; he also had a strong suspicion that she could 'take care' of herself if the proverbial poop hit the propeller. He could see her sadness hidden well in her eyes; the flirty grin as their eyes locked notwithstanding.
Detective Archar questioned in his head the effectiveness of 'freelancers' intervening in crime scenes. He looked back in wonder of how this was better than paying professionals a salary to do a potentially more proper and thorough job. He caught himself staring at the fair maiden's ass, Lauryn Hills interlude infringed on his thoughts as she walked toward the smell of death lingering at the end of the alley. “whoa, ah ah ahhh, whoa ooh wha oh woah…” the intoxicating hymn infected his auditory cortex and he caught himself in mid-lift of his hand to physically swat the song away and flung his hand deeper in his pocket in an attempt to not look asinine.571Please respect copyright.PENANAns50inKOVc
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He shook it off and snapped forward walking right into the scorned stare of big Sergeant Jim Taggerty who did not look too thrilled at someone ogling his compatriot. Jim was not afraid to show it; he didn't care who it was. Detective Archar was not afraid to stand his ground either, and hid any shame he might have felt.
"I see you like to take care of things, Sergent. Am I right?” The detective's slightly muddled northern Irish accent bleeding through. Jim stood there erect and motionless except for the slight nod of acknowledgement to the detective's observation. The detective pivoted and looked back at the scene in the alley with the rain coming down around them. "Well, make sure no one further contaminates the scene until a full accounting of the area can be conducted. This is now the scene of a serial murder."
Detective Archar turned and headed for his car. He could hear the sergeant in the background barking orders to place sandbags and to get more tarps out as he departed.
-<>-
As soon as they reached the large crude shelter erected over the immediate area of the murder scene, Wren made a beeline to the opposite corner and knelt down on her feet, knees never touching the ground. She pulled two white booties from her camera bag and slipped them around her boots. Malik grabbed the bag from her and Wren went to work with her camera right away.
She thought it was helpful to get the perspective of the dead for the first shot. She squared up to the deceased's eye line and as the shutter clicked, an image of a dead man lounging on a couch made of trash came into view on the camera's screen. The second was the shot of the victim’s last view, the brick wall. She adjusted herself and shot from multiple angles fanning out in spirals in order to capture every essence of the scene before it was erased by time, weather and human contamination.
"Auriana Wren. I thought you would never come off your vacation. You know I had to use a former photojournalist, without a clearance, for the last case? He was horrible. Took three shots and the arrogant prick asked for a check. Three shots. Three! And he forgot to shoot the body!" The lieutenant exclaimed a little louder than usual since he saw she was using her custom ear plugs specifically made for adjustable sound attenuation.
"I was only gone for three weeks, boss." She rebuttled in between rolls of thunder. Malik gave him a silent look that told the Lieutenant that the time she took off was out of necessity not want. The lieutenant seemed to understand and allowed her to work how she preferred: silently, without any interruptions. The camera clicked as the tall man's possessions were documented.
Closeups of the body were last on the list. She captured the branded eyes, the unclothed feet and torso and a small fiber of what looked to be a cotton fabric situated between the fingers of his left hand. She examined in awe the indentations of the three green teardrops found on the dead man's chest.
She was in an information gathering mode. None of the data was being processed at this time, she was simply in the moment, capturing the evidence as she saw it. She tended to see small details rather than the big picture in situations like this. She saw the fiber, though miniscule, had a tint of red or pink. The eye brands and chest indentations showed signs of layering, not unlike water marks on canyons, consistent with each other. She noticed that rigor had set in on the pale caucasian body and she spotted what she thought was a hint of shock on his face.
When she was finished documenting the scene to her approval, she started putting away her gear. Over her shoulder she asked the lieutenant who was still hovering, but quieter now, "The other body?"
Lieutenant Toussaint looked perplexed and said nothing.
"The other photographer. The other body. Less than three weeks ago."
"Oh, right." He retorted. "Similar cases. Both white males, mid 40's, no shirt or shoes. The first vic was found tits and toes up in the Audubon Park Pond. Had the three green teardrops on his chest and a crescent in the left eye. The star in the right is new to this one."
Wren came to a full stop and stood up, looking at the whole screen now for the first time. Thunder rocked the alley and a flash of lightning lit fire to the rain.
"Crescents and stars?" She muttered under her breath instinctively pulling the silver crescent moon charm dangling from her neck. And then she saw it. All of it. The celestial bodies seared into the eyes, the three drops on the chest, the alley itself, another dead body floating through her life.
Malik saw the look of terror forming on her face. It was not the first time he'd witnessed that, but he was in near shock himself. "Wren... Auri. What is i-?"
"Where are we?" His voice was halted by the unexpected question. She turned her face to his. "Mal, Where are we?" She demanded.
The rain and flashback had clouded her spatial acuity so much so that she didn't recognize the alley she ran by at least once a week. One of the allies that she's taken pictures of during her time in college after the Navy. Her left knee buckled slightly and she turned to look at Lafayette Street where she almost met the grill of a dump truck head on earlier this morning.
Malik confirmed her suspicion. "Just up the street from Lafayette Square, between Carondelet and St. Charles. What's wrong Wren?" He was starting to get concerned.
Lieutenant Toussaint noticed the uneasiness as well. "Did you know this victim, Ms. Wren?"
"No. I'm- I'm just having a fucked up day."
"I better get her home, boss, so she can process those pics for ya. Some coffee to warm us up might help too." Malik was wise to when she needed help or was about to have an 'episode,' that's why she liked having him around.
Malik deployed the umbrella and Wren followed under his wing a few steps and stopped. She looked over her shoulder at the body again and told the Lieutenant he should check the hands for fibers. "And you should check for other victims... some time ago outside the grid. I... I don't think these are the first." With that, they walked off to the distant percussion of a retreating storm. Wren slightly shuddering with each bang of the drum; Captain Toussaint grimacing a stoic uneasy frown.
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