Chapter 1 ver 3 Midtown 9th

Tuesday July 13th 1982.

At 06:26 line 26 lit up and began flashing.  Another call was coming in.  The dispatcher fingered the button for the phone line.  The address and phone number for a pay phone on North Salcedo Street appeared on her display.  Yet another desperate caller from a desperate section of the city, the dispatcher thought.
“Nine-One-One, What is your emergency….” Claris Johnson said routinely into her ill-fitting headphone.   

For a fraction of a second, the phone-line was silent, except for background street sounds.  When the caller finally spoke, Claris noticed that the caller’s voice was feminine, yet not female.  The caller’s accent had a pronounced southern drawl and inflection, more at home in Appalachia rather than the Big Easy. 

“I think she's dead…” The caller sobbed in a shaky, frightened voice, with a flair for drama a 13-year old girl could only prey to one-day achieve.  Claris rolled her eyes and silently mouthed the word “fairy!” as she prepared to take the required information from the caller.

“I need for you to calm down and tell me who's dead.” Claris instructed the caller as she took control of the conversation. 

“The place is 743 North Salcedo Street, Apartment #1 - you best do something!  She was just screaming and screaming.  Then she went way too quiet...” The caller continued trembling with fear and anticipation, dripping with that pronounced heavy Appalachian accent.

The 911 operator began entering the required information for the call.  “Okay this screaming you heard, was it kids, or people fighting or some kind of domestic dispute?”  Claris attempted to cull additional information from the caller.
“It was a woman screaming, in her apartment.  They’d been tearing up the place all night long.  Throwing furniture, slamming things, it sounded real bad.”  The informer told her in confidence.

“OK and you said the address is what again?”  Claris asked wanting to be sure the caller’s story didn’t change.  Some people called the police emergency line just to see the flashing lights of the police car.

“743 North Salcedo Street, Apartment #1.  Hurry!”  The voice pleaded with the operator.

Without warning, the line went dead which left Claris with choices to make.  She could, file the call as a hang-up, or request a patrol car to check the address for a possible 10-103 - a domestic dispute.  If the call turned-out to be a false alarm, her boss would hear about, eventually he would give her an earful because of it.  If on the other hand, the call was legitimate, somebody’s life could depend on a police officer’s response.

♠

Officer Pete Phillips had been on The New Orleans Police Force for five years. He still drew the crappy hours and the patrols that senior officers didn’t want. He often felt he didn’t receive the respect his fellow officers enjoyed.  Tuesday morning was no exception.  He sat at the wheel of his cruiser at a traffic light on Tulane Street at 6:48 AM.  He still had an hour and a half left on his shift.  For the last 30 seconds or so, he had been staring at the rear end of a smoking taxicab stopped in front of him, at a traffic light. 

The traffic light changed from red to green. The taxicab began rolling forward.  The squad car’s radio crackled to life with an assignment.  “Dispatch - Bravo One Five... Possible 10-103 in progress. 743 North Salcedo Street, Apartment #1.” The dispatcher commanded him.  A code 10-103 was police shorthand for a domestic dispute.

Patrolman Phillips keyed the microphone and in a practiced, detached tone replied, “Bravo One Five, 10-4”, acknowledging the assignment. He changed the direction of his cruiser and headed towards the intersection of Bienville and North Salcedo. 

Of all assignments, police officers despised domestic disturbances the most.  Usually, some drunken fat pig was beating his teenage wife to a bloody pulp - again.  And no matter how many times one witnessed it, it never ceased to amaze officers how those very same battered women would turn on the officer the second he tried to effect an arrest.  The officer would end-up arresting both parties and the kids would end-up with someone from DFS. No one ever came out a winner, the police officer sadly thought to himself.

It only took 7 minutes to reach the address, which was surprising due to the atrocious state of repair of New Orleans’ Mid-Town streets.  High-speed maneuvers in the midtown area were difficult due to the numerous potholes.  Considering the time of the morning, in an odd way, it surprised Patrolman Phillips to find the building so quiet. The relative quietness gave him hope that the assignment was going to be bullshit; otherwise, he’d have to fill-out tons of paperwork for the rest of the morning. 

The patrolman reached toward the center console of his Ford Crown Victoria and grabbed the microphone.  He keyed the transmit button on the microphone. “Bravo One Five, Ten-Ninety-Seven at Seven Four Three North Salcedo.”  He updated his status with the dispatcher. He then put a fresh incident sheet on top of his metal clipboard and began filling it out.

The dispatcher gave a curt acknowledgement.  The chatter of assignments, license checks and the daily avalanche of police activities continued.

Patrolman Phillips eventually opened the cruiser’s door and stepped onto the curb in front of the building.  He inspected the surrounding area for activity, but saw nothing out of place.  743 N. Salcedo St. was quiet as a tomb.  He slowly ascended the stairs to the building.  The officer carefully entered the building. 

A solitary light bulb dangled in the cramped hallway, which cast odd shadows along the walls.  His only company was scurrying roaches that raced along the floor and across the walls.  The scratching of mice or worse, rats, could be heard coming from one of the dark corners of the building.  Patrolman Phillips instinctively withdrew his black metal flashlight for additional light and reassurance.  He scanned the oppressively hot, dark, cramped, hallway until he discovered apartment number One. Warily the Officer approached the apartment door.  He felt like someone was watching his every move, though he put that out of his mind.  He was all alone, he reminded himself. 

The generous light provided by his flashlight revealed a small plastic hotel-style “Do Not Disturb” placard hung from the apartment’s doorknob.  Patrolman Phillips found some private ironic humor in the door plaque as he loudly wrapped on the battered wooden door.

“N’awlins Police … Open-up!” The Patrolman loudly commanded several times as he continuously banged on the apartment’s door. 

The repeated pounding on the door produced no response from the apartment’s occupant, which irritated Patrolman Phillips.  Annoyed the officer placed his hand on the doorknob and absently turned it. Shocked, the patrolman realized that the door was unlocked.  Something was wrong.  The 700 hundred block of North Salcedo was not the kind of neighborhood where people left doors unlocked. 

The door lazily creaked open under its own power. The building was too quiet.  Once again, Patrolman Phillips felt eyes burning into his back! The hallway became confining as the sound of rodents became louder.  Beads of perspiration formed on his brow as an uneasy feeling descended upon him.  The patrolman longed for the safety and comfort of his patrol car once again.

As the door continued to open wider, Patrolman Phillips retreated into the hallway.  He sought the protection of the hallway wall closest to the apartment’s door hinges.  Silently he prayed that the Kevlar vest worn beneath his uniform would protect him.  Patrolman Phillips discarded his metallic flashlight in favor of his service weapon, a Glock Model 18, 9x19mm semi-automatic pistol from its holster.  His left hand grasped and instinctively pulling back and agilely released the pistol’s return slide.  He chambered a copper-jacketed hollow-point 9mm round into the pistol’s breach. His right index finger engaged the trigger safety while his left hand moved to support the lightweight polymer pistol grip. He held the weapon upright with both hands, slightly in front of him approximately eye level in the standard safety ready stance.  Patrolman Phillips was uncertain if his next action would be to fight or flee, as he prepared himself for what awaited him in the unlocked apartment. 

With the apartment door still ajar and no indication of activity, Patrolman Phillips extended his left arm until his palm rested tentatively against the door.  He applied pressure against the open door while remaining solidly against the dark wall, out of the possible line of fire.  The door creaked open wider.  He called out in a loud authoritarian tone, “Police - don’t you move none!”  Any trace of boredom that had previously been in the officer’s voice, vanished.

From within the doorway, a familiar odor hung in the hot, confined room. Phillips’ nostrils flared as the stench assaulted him in the narrow doorway where he held his position.  For a moment, Patrolman Phillips felt dizzy as if drunk or seasick.  The room seamed to sway although he willed himself to maintain his vigilance.
The apartment was dark and silent.  The cop’s eyes fought to adjust to the dim light.  His ears listened for any movement.  With his free hand, Patrolman Phillips grasped his metal flashlight and illuminated the room.  A lone figure on the bed remained motionless, partially hidden beneath what appeared to be a threadbare green woolen military-style blanket.  A bare foot stuck out from one side of the tattered blanket. 

Patrolman Phillips lowered his weapon, but did not immediately holster it. For the moment, he required the reassurance that his weapon in hand provided.  The figure on the shabby bed showed no signs of life.  Patrolman Phillips realized the coroner was going to have an addition to his workload today. If there had been a domestic disturbance here, it ended, violently.

To confirm his suspicion, Patrolman Phillips lifted one corner of the green woolen blanket to reveal a lifeless nude Caucasian female laying face-up.  He placed his fingertips to the victim’s neck to check for a pulse only to feel to steely coldness of death. Patrolman Phillips replaced his service weapon in his holster. He then keyed the microphone attached to his left shoulders’ epaulet of his uniform to update dispatch of his status.  “Bravo One Five - Dispatch” he said in a detached yet professional tone prior to allowing his finger to slip off the transmit key of the microphone.

“Dispatch, One Five - Go?” crackled over the radio clipped to his utility belt.

As he observed the state of the body, he could see numerous bruises and cigarette-sized burns across most of her arms, legs and torso.  The officer doubted that she had ever been a beautiful woman, but the victim’s present condition could only be described as beaten and abused, both by drugs and alcohol and by some kind of sick bastard. 

The Officer again keyed his microphone and continued “Ah, dispatch be advised I am 10-15 at Seven Four Three North Salcedo, Apartment #1.  Female Caucasian, unknown age, multiple contusions, probable 10-30 at this locale”.  He replied crisply, over annunciating his words to compensate for the static and garble of the radio system. 

The radio crackled for several seconds before the police dispatcher replied, “Received Bravo One Five, one Caucasian female DOA at 743 North Salcedo Street, Apartment #1. Advise Watch Command possible 10-30.  Unit will be Ten Fifteen…” Several more seconds passed until the dispatcher added, “Bravo One Five - watch Command advises you to wait for a detective to complete his investigation before the body is moved.”

“Roger dispatch.  Bravo One Five – is code 13.” Phillips replied.  The police officer’s voice carried no trace of apathy. He was stuck waiting for a hotshot detective to confirm he had discovered a dead body.  His scheduled patrol would end soon, but he was stuck, waiting.

The patrolman realized that it took anywhere between half an hour to several hours for the detectives and coroner to finally arrive at the scene.  Knowing that he had time to kill, he withdrew from the heat and stench of the confining apartment and headed to the front stoop.