Unbalanced: A New Orleans Story

By Linda J. Gummow, Ph.D.

Just fired by the New Orleans Police Department, transgender African-American ex-cop, Jamie Travers, is given a second chance—to get payback by taking on an impossible murder case. The New Orleans Police Department has the wrong guy, and it's up to her to tear their case apart. In her way are her ex-wife, a defense attorney who sleeps with suspects, a thoroughly unlikable client, powerful enemies in the police department, and a pile of circumstantial evidence. If that weren't enough, the killer is stalking her, and she's having visions. Are Voodoo spirits reaching out to her, or is she going crazy? Can she find the serial killer before he finishes the job and adds her name to his kill list? But to solve the case, she's got to confront her past—face her fears—and learn to trust.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Gummow
• Release date: Oct 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393698043

Linda J. Gummow, Ph.D.

Dr. Gummow is a clinical neuropsychologist who currently lives in Florida with her husband, Robert, and two chihuahuas, Minnie and Max, who make sure that Linda writes each day. Linda is retired from clinical practice and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction books. 

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Unbalanced

L. J. Gummow

Copyright © 2018 L. J. Gummow

All rights reserved.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

––––––––

Members of the Games Afoot book club gave me the confidence to continue writing—Janet Allen, Veronique Brito, Rob Conger, Lonette Seaton, and Jo Varney. A special thanks to Laura Young whose insightful comments put a fledgling author back on track and to Amy Collins, New Shelves Books, whose help launching this book was priceless.

Thanks also to Robin Ludwig, Robin Ludwig Designs, for the fabulous cover design.

CHAPTER 1

Life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all. — William Goldman

THE WOMAN STANDING in the doorway of the Whichever Tavern in the outer reaches of the Vieux Carré might have been stunning were it not for the streaks of mascara drawing ebony roadmaps on her mahogany cheeks, the sodden red strapless cocktail dress clinging to every contour, the wind snarled umbrella hanging uselessly from her hand, the sag of her shoulders making her look older than her years, and her bare feet. No one noticed the forlorn figure who stared across the crowded bar with leaden eyes. The Whichever was filled to capacity with Mardi Gras tourists who’d stumbled into this out of the way bar after the parades had ended.

All eyes were trained on a transgender Natalie Wood look alike stripper who was skillfully plucking off pieces of her costume while gyrating seductively, flipping her brown, bobbed hair, and lip synching to Let Me Entertain You.

The bartender, Newt, waved in recognition. Jamie, over here. He pointed to an empty stool at the end of the bar and watched his roommate and part-time bartender, Jamie Travers, pick a path through the acrid smoke-filled over-crowded room.

Her progress was halted by a drunk patron who staggered onto her unprotected toes. Sorry ma’am, he drawled in an exaggerated slow Texas style. These boots are kinda clumsy.

Jamie forced a thin smile and limped to the safety of the stool and Newt’s friendly face. He watched mutely as she slammed what remained of her umbrella on the rough surface of the bar. He pulled a bottle of scotch from under the counter and poured a large snifter. Here, this’ll warm you up. Must’ve been a rough detail at Paw Paw’s Place. He waited expectantly for her explanation.

She tossed back several long swigs, wiped her moist face with a napkin, and sighed. The worst. Some jerk liberated my raincoat, I had to walk 6 blocks to get a parking space, and the straps on my heels busted. I wish Paw Paw didn’t insist that his security detail blend in with the customers, she said pointing to her dress. This dress is ruined. I lost track of the number of pinches, rubs, and grabs. I’d quit, but I’ve got alimony and child support to pay.

With a noticeably sardonic expression, Newt said, Don’t want to ruin your high, but your ex-wife called five times tonight. She said to get her checks to her tomorrow, or else. Then she said that the refrigerator was on the blink and for you to stop by tomorrow and fix it. That woman’s a royal pain. Jamie took another slug of scotch, rolled her eyes, and grunted in agreement.

Oh, there’s this. He laid an envelope marked Immediate Response Required in bright red letters next to her glass. A courier from New Orleans Police Department dropped this happy bit of correspondence off this afternoon. Don’t those suckers ever get tired of pestering you?

Like a braille reader trying to make sense of a sentence, Jamie ran her fingers across the envelope’s letters. Her expression didn’t change as her fingers tried to tease a message through the paper. As her fingers studied the lines, a shudder started at her finger tips and then moved and amplified until her body quivered. She made no move to open the envelope.

Open the damn thing! Newt shouted. No good comes from putting stuff off.

The letter . . . it feels bad, she mumbled.

Newt grabbed the letter and ripped it open. I’ll bet you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll read it. It starts out, ‘Dear Mr. Travers.’ He frowned in disgust and looked up from the letter. Now, don’t that just bust your ass? The SOBs at NOPD can’t even get your sex right. Since they canned you after you changed your gender, the least they could do is call you by your legal name, Ms. Travers. He searched Jamie’s face for a response, but she sat eyes downcast, motionless, and expressionless. It goes on to say, ‘After reviewing your exit materials, we find that you failed to give us your locker combination. We cannot open the locker without this combination. If we don’t receive the code in 14 days, we will charge you a $250.00 fee to open the locker.’ He searched her face again. No response. They sign off real friendly. ‘We wish you success in your future endeavors.’ He threw the letter on the bar. Just give them their stupid locker combination and be done with them.

I, I saw something in that letter.

I hate it when you go all spooky on me! he said as he refilled her glass. He leaned his elbows on the bar, eyes bright with curiosity. What’d you see?

I was floating above New Orleans, but I couldn’t see any landmarks—everything was smeared and twisted. I could see the flashing lights of police cars, hundreds of them. They were like termites, angry red and yellow termites, piling every direction out of their hive. She crossed her arms and shuddered reacting to a cold wind only she could feel. Someone is going to die tonight. NOPD isn’t finished with me.

The moment Jamie paused, police sirens shrieked past the tavern. Other sirens screamed in the distance. Fireworks exploded overhead. The stripper’s music ended, and the Natalie Wood look alike ran from the stage wearing only a large white fur muff and improbably high silver stiletto heels.

CHAPTER 2

Life’s not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis — e e cummings

FROM HER 14th floor aerie in the Boniface Building, Micheline Verret studied the New Orleans skyline. Wearing only a throw, she resembled a smooth gleaming white marble sculpture, a Mazarin Venus. She watched the rain sketch slow wavy patterns on the window. She liked the rain. She felt safe when wrapped in the warm private blanket of rain.

Below, there were no pedestrians on the wide sidewalks, no traffic on the busy thoroughfares, no glimmers of light in the windows of the high-rise buildings, and no staff manning the entrances of the luxury hotels. The early morning quiet was pierced by sirens racing toward the nearby French Quarter—too many sirens to be anything but a homicide involving a tourist. The death of a local would be handled with much less drama. Things were returning to normal. Mardi Gras parades had been rerouted for two years after Hurricane Katrina flooded the city.

This year, the parades returned to the French Quarter, all krewes were marching, and murder had reclaimed Mardi Gras.

She gulped the last of her wine and stubbed the remnants of a roach on the window sill. Time to go home. Home meant Tony. Her nose wrinkled thinking of the musty, gin-soaked smell of him. As she searched for her clothing, she recalled the night of lovemaking. Red was energetic, but it was time to move on. He was becoming predictable, not exciting. She had several new candidates in mind, inexperienced and lovely. Her shirt, jacket, and skirt were behind the couch, and her bra was draped over her desk chair. Dressing quickly, she thought about tomorrow. She had to get some sleep and then prepare for Monday afternoon’s habeas corpus hearing in federal court. Where were her panties, pantyhose, purse, and shoes?

The first two items were stuffed between the sofa cushions. But finding her shoes and purse was a challenge. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled on the silk carpet rummaging under each piece of furniture. They had found their way under her desk. As she reached for her shoes, she heard the office door open. She turned to face an intruder.

How did you get in? She fumbled through the clutter in her purse trying to find her gun. The intruder picked up the bust of her father. Put that back, she said trying to stand, but the intruder’s blow was swift and efficient. She fell like an angel—long wavy pale blonde hair, startled wide periwinkle blue eyes, and white suit.

CHAPTER 3

No one ever told me grief felt so much like fear. — C. S. Lewis

IRISH CHANNEL DISTRICT residents were asleep—most of them, anyway. A cell phone summons ended Tank Rooney’s slumber. Nothing good happens at five AM if you’re a worn out New Orleans Police Department homicide lieutenant.

He loved the shotgun home built by his great grandfather. He had sought the wealth to be found in the mythical gold-paved streets of America, but the only work Grandpa Rooney could find was digging a six-mile canal connecting the growing American District with the Mississippi River. The bloody ditch had to traverse yellow fever and cholera plagued swamp land. Landowners, unwilling to risk the lives of their valuable slaves, hired the desperate Irish immigrants who wouldn’t question the work conditions. The second-generation Rooney men were screwmen, packing cotton onto waiting vessels. His father, however, had been a police officer. There had never been any doubt—Tank would join the force.

Stubbing his toe on the door sill, he hopped into the hall. Rooney, he whispered, his voice still harsh with sleep. He didn’t want to awaken the other members of the household.

Hey, it’s St. James. We got a homicide for you at the Boniface Building. We notified your guys. They’re on the way in. Get your butt down here yesterday.

Stephen St. James was the one of the first African-Americans to be promoted to homicide lieutenant, but this was before Micheline Verret humbled him on the witness stand. After a series of probing questions, St. James charged and grabbed her throat before the deputies could restrain him. The publicity following the assault on an officer of the court brought about an investigation by the Police Review Board. He was suspended from duty for six weeks, demoted to sergeant, and reassigned to the Fatality Unit.

It wasn’t surprising to find St. James at a murder scene. As part of the Fatality Unit, he would be among the first to be called to a death scene. What was odd was St. James contacting him. Dispatch usually gave Tank his assignments. He was the lead detective, and St. James had no business hanging around at the scene. As he listened, he paced the long hallway which bisected the home. Who’s the vic and why are you still at my crime scene?

This is huge. I mean huge. That bitch Mickey Verret is worm food. St. James snickered as he waited for the drowsy lieutenant to catch up. She finally got hers.

His face lengthened as he absorbed the news. In major cities, homicides usually don’t touch the detectives investigating them—a drug dealer dies during a drug exchange, a tourist is robbed and murdered, or a man you never met kills his wife. This death touched him. The last time he saw Mickey was only two weeks ago. She was a speaker at a rally before an execution. Set against the grim backdrop of Angola State Prison, in the floodlights of a midnight execution vigil, she spoke passionately about the upcoming execution of her client. Dressed in trademark white and carrying a candle, she parted the surging crowd, ignoring the jeers, placards, and shoves of pro-death penalty advocates. Over the clamor, she pleaded with the crowd. Wasn’t it morally wrong for the state to take a life, no matter what the reason?

He recalled her cross-examination in a recent murder trial. The slip of a woman knew his case better than he did. Her soft voice and penetrating blue eyes were hypnotic. He found himself agreeing with her, even as he tried to resist. The jury found her client not guilty. Cops involved in the case were fit to be tied. That bleeding heart Verret got another bad guy off, the superintendent fumed during a press conference.

He reined in his reminiscences, returning his attention to St. James. You’re screwing with me. Get out of my crime scene.

Not to worry, old man. We got your back. Dial wants me to help you out on this one. Everything’s covered. Coroner and the techs are on their way. Dial’s put on more guys, and District 8 officers are putting up a perimeter.

He sighed. There was the we again. Don’t do another thing until I get there. Stay away from the body. Don’t mess with my evidence or foul up my investigation. If one could slam a cellular phone, his abrupt end to the phone call would have resounded for blocks.

St. James’ parting reassurance, he’d protect Tank’s back, didn’t stem a rising tide of anxiety. Huge, the man said. No, this case was nothing short of titanic. It was the iceberg which could sink NOPD. Son of a bitch ain’t got a lick of sense.

Muttering every expletive in his considerable arsenal, he stormed into the bedroom, turned on the overhead light, and searched the clothes valet for yesterday’s clothing.

CHAPTER 4

Life is like a dogsled team. If you ain’t the lead dog, the scenery never changes. — Lewis Grizzard

TANK DASHED THROUGH the pouring February rain into the Boniface Building. TV reporters, huddled under umbrellas, were already camped, hoping to grab an interview. Pulling his jacket over his head, he called to the officers, Keep ’em back. A few reporters ventured into the downpour, shouting questions at his retreating back. Had to get this crime scene buttoned down before the supervisor, the mayor, and the district attorney arrived.

Shaking off the soggy Mardi Gras throw adhering to his shoes, he scowled at the night security guard. Guy seemed to be enjoying himself. Got a name?

Joe Burns, the guard mumbled, as he munched on a half-eaten doughnut and joked with a uniformed NOPD officer.

He squinted and managed to read the officer’s name tag. Smith, get your tail to work. Don’t stand there flappin’ your jaw. I need you outside. Don’t have enough men to hold back the scribblers. Could bust through any moment. Only the coroner gets through that door. He grabbed Joe’s doughnut and tossed it into a nearby waste basket. Follow me. Joe meekly followed him to the elevator. He broke the silence of their ascent. Burns, need your help. Stand here and watch the elevators and the stairs. No one comes or goes without my say so.

When the elevator reached the 14th floor, Tank erupted into the corridor, pivoted, and rushed toward St. James, the Scientific Criminal Investigation team, and the members of his homicide squad. St. James stood apart from the other officers.

Usually a gaggle of police officers generates restless, aimless chatter. A lot of policeman’s shift is spent waiting, so stories and jokes are exchanged to pass the time. This forensic assembly, most of them already wearing jumpsuits, booties, and caps, was silent—an eerie quiet in the eye of a hurricane, a tempest bound to erupt when two irreconcilable forces collided.

St. James, wiry, perilously thin, and bathed in cologne, wore an outfit straight from the pages of GQ—single diamond ear stud, Gucci watch, white T-shirt, shiny black jacket, and tattered Converse sneakers. His eyes danced, and his voice bubbled with cheer as he greeted the homicide lieutenant. Tank stared in disbelief. There the fool was bouncing about like a goddamn jumping jack. Tank just wanted the basics—paramedic data, witness information, and a discovery chronology. Then, he wanted St. James gone. The clock was ticking. Every minute St. James spent at the scene increased the risk of a blown investigation. No way to tell how much evidence he’d already corrupted.

Without giving his senior officer a chance to speak, St. James dashed down the hall pulling a notebook from his pocket. In a monotone rapid-fire voice, St. James rattled off the case specifics as Tank watched with the unblinking slit eyes of a hungry snake tracking a rat. Released the Fatality Unit to the double shooting. Two tourists got it on the parade route. Vic’s body discovered at 4:15 this morning by the cleaning lady. Her old man called it in. Vic’s on the floor in her office. Office door was unlocked and open. She was a goner. Med techs couldn’t do nothin’. Vic bled out from a blow to the head. Weapon’s a statue next to the body. He looked up from his notes. Bitch couldn’t of been dead very long. Can’t say the cleaning lady’s name. She’s a Slurpee jockey, you know, a Kamal. Can’t talk American. She was screaming some kind of useless shit, so I made a command decision. Sent her home.

Tank’s pink freckled complexion flashed magenta, the capillaries etched large by years of whiskey drinking bulged violet on his cheeks, and his bald spot thatched with strands of red-gray hair showed bone white. Arms and fists tight at his side, he took a deep breath, drawing on his last scrap of control. His twice worn denim shirt, strained to its maximum, shot a button across the hall. Voice deadly, he struck. A command decision? When were you put in command?

Don’t get overheated, Pops. Everything is copacetic. Dial says we work this together. You know, you Lone Ranger, me Tonto. St. James tipped an imaginary hat in a mock salute straight from a western movie. Not much for you to do here. Grinning, he patted Tank’s belly. Relax, better for the blood pressure.

Tank brushed the unwelcome hand away, struck by the audacity of the man. St. James was one of the few officers who referred to the Superintendent of Police, Douglas Dial, as Dial. Get the rest of the specs outa your craw and then get lost.

St. James leaned against the wall and studied his notebook. This case is open and shut. Vic spent the night here. Building was buttoned up tight as a tick, so she must’ve known the perp and let him in. He looked up from his notes. Dial says the bitch was offed by one of the pukes she defended. Dangling his notebook from his fingertips, he paused before continuing in a high-pitched, smug, sing-song voice. And I know which one did her—that piece of shit, the Boniface kid. Should’ve gone down for rape a coupla years ago. He raised his shoulders, pulled his head into the upturned jacket collar, and danced nervously, sneaker to sneaker, before shooting a sidewise glance at Tank’s stormy face. "Oh yeah, Dial’s gonna tell her big bucks old man his wife’s dead, personally. Better that way. This one’s way too big for you."

St. James had at least that much right. This case was big. Dial and St. James were accusing a member of one powerful New Orleans family of murdering a member of another connected family before any evidence had been collected. Worse yet, the accused’s family owned the building in which the murder was committed. The press and the Department of Justice (DOJ) was looking for dirt on NOPD and the homicide division, and they would be all over this celebrity murder. St. James just didn’t get it. You’re not just dumb, you’re plumb dumb. This investigation must be done by the book. I don’t believe Dial will take a chance of drawing the Feds into this. I won’t be railroaded, I won’t violate procedures, and I won’t jump to conclusions.

Can’t help ya there. Dial’s callin’ the shots. It’s a done deal.

I don’t take orders from you. Last I heard tell, I reported to the chief of the homicide division. I’m in charge ’til he tells me otherwise. He pushed St. James toward the elevator. Go.

St. James smiled, planted his feet, and shook his head. Ain’t happening, dude.

Aware he was wasting time while the team waited, Tank decided to take a wiser course—determine how much damage St. James had done in his rush to close the case. He breathed steadily and slowly until he had regained a degree of control. We’ll sort this out later. He geared up in booties, gloves, and a cap. Get your gear on, Sergeant. He summoned Lieutenant Scott and the photographer. You two, come along. The rest of you wait here until we finish the walk through.

Scott smiled at his boss. Glad, you’re here, sir. St. James wouldn’t let me enter the crime scene.

The less I hear about that jerk the better. He turned to the photographer. Take pictures of everything before and after the lab techs go in—I mean everything. His squinted eyes and throaty growl sent the wordless photographer scurrying to take initial crime scene photos. "Now, will somebody please show me the body."

St. James took the lead. She’s in the corner office.

The sickly-sweet smell of death hit him in the gut. When he saw the halo of blood around Mickey’s head, her lifeless blue eyes, the pantyhose strangling her knees, and the blood speckled white shoes, his empty stomach rolled, and tears clouded his vision.

Statue thing’s the murder weapon, St. James chirped from the doorway. The substantial brass bust, mired in a pool of coagulated blood a few inches from her head, was difficult to miss. She was having a whang-dang-doodle when things went south, St. James added. Look the sofa cushions are messed up, there’s a bottle of wine and some glasses, butts in the ashtray, and takeout boxes. Bound to be trace DNA.

Scott, make sure the techs bag everything, Tank ordered. Sweep the couch too. Take her personal belongings and electronic stuff. Her car’s probably in the garage. Impound it. He studied the room. Who put that raincoat on her? The damp, worn raincoat was not something the well-dressed Mickey Verret would wear.

Coat belongs to the Kamal. She was embarrassed by the vic’s snatch. Everything she had was out there.

St. James’ leering face and ugly laughter broke the fragile dam holding back Tank’s fury. He whirled and grabbed the smaller officer’s lapels. You looked under the coat, didn’t you? You just had to have a peek.

No biggie. Med tech had to check her anyway. No harm, no foul. St. James straightened his jacket and moved toward the body.

Wait in the hall until the photographer finishes, fool. After the photographer had captured the scene, Tank lifted the edge of the coat. As he’d anticipated, Mickey’s skirt was hitched above her hips, and her panties were torn. Perhaps St. James was right. This did look like a bash gone bad. Lifting the corner of the coat a bit more, he uncovered a tiny celluloid doll lying near her. The Kewpie, wearing only bright pink feathers and a Cupid’s smile, seemed to be staring at the body with knowing over-sized ice blue eyes. The green cane in her dimpled hand pointed in silent recrimination. The Kewpie lent an incongruous element of levity to the death tableau. Something about the Kewpie was familiar. What was it?

St. James shoved past Tank and pointed at Micheline Verret’s body. The perp raped her before he killed her with the statue thing.

Damn it to hell. Stop talking. He shoved St. James away from her body. Stay.

Scott pointed at the Kewpie. It’s an antique. Mardi Gras krewes used to throw Kewpies in the day. My mother had one just like it. What’s it doing there? Doesn’t fit somehow.

Maybe if we knew how the Kewpie got there, we might get a line on the killer, Tank said rubbing the stubble on his chin.

St. James smirked and shook his head. That dog won’t hunt. Stupid doll won’t lead you nowhere.

Tank ignored the criticism. Did you touch anything, anything at all? he