Faces in the Crowd

Faces in the Crowd

D. A. Ratliff

A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery

Fireworks exploded over the city, lighting the sky with multicolored embers. My ears rang from the concussion as the sound waves pummeled my eardrums. My partner, Hank Guidry, stood a few feet from me, stoic, as he gazed at the crowd, his eyes slowly scanning the faces watching the fireworks. We had images of our perps, but finding them in this mass of Fourth of July celebrants was daunting.

It was ten p.m., and everyone from young children to drag queens filled Jackson Square in the French Quarter to enjoy the fireworks show. But somewhere in the crowd were domestic terrorists bent on causing harm. I glanced at my phone, the images of the suspected terrorists looking back at me. I first saw those faces during a meeting with the FBI in New Orleans Police Superintendent Hendriks’s office.

When we realized we were dealing with home-grown terrorists, the FBI joined the investigation. The superintendent made the introductions. “Detectives Eli Boone and Hank Guidry, meet Special Agents Veronica Massey and Jim Chavez, FBI Domestic Terrorism Taskforce.” After we exchanged courtesies, Hendricks got to the point.

“As you know, there has been a string of explosions and vandalism within the arts community. There have been numerous injuries, a few severe, but no deaths so far. We have received text messages from the terrorists claiming increasing activity and targeting tourists. They call themselves For the Poor. They believe politicians divert too much money to tourism efforts in the community and not enough to people in need.”

Massey added. “We have information that they are playing a major disruption of the Fourth of July Celebration at Jackson Square.”

Hank, always the pragmatist, asked the obvious. “Why not cancel the fireworks?”

Superintendent Hendricks shrugged. “You get the mayor to agree with that in an election year. I want you two to serve as our representatives on the task force along with your team. Please have your unit in the main conference room at two p.m. for an FBI briefing.”

Four days later, Hank and I stood on the plaza at Artillery Park, overlooking the main entrance to Jackson Square. The crowds jammed the sidewalk, but the city barricaded the steps to the Artillery Plaza as the fireworks barge had anchored in the Mississippi River behind the park.

Details from the briefing drifted into my thoughts while I surveyed the faces in the crowd. There have been eight attacks using remotely detonated pipe bombs filled with tiny finishing nails. Four occurred in the French Quarter—two jazz clubs, a drag bar, and a voodoo shop. The others were at a famous Garden District restaurant, a cemetery, Louis Armstrong Park, and the Audubon Zoo. The worst injuries were at the restaurant where the bomb shattered windows, glass cutting several diners, along with burns suffered from the tablecloths catching fire.

We had little information. A rudimentary sketch of two people, but we suspected at least four or five were involved. Two vehicles, a black or dark blue SUV and a gray van seen on CCT cameras in the vicinity of the attacks, may be involved. Speculation was all we had.

Massey’s FBI profiler had concluded the group was weak, using scare tactics, and injuries appeared secondary to their mission. They surmised that the next target would be soft with few bystanders. I didn’t believe that. They were lucky that more people were not present at the ordinarily busy locations they had chosen. They speculated that their modus operandi was to enter the target, place a box containing a pipe bomb inside, walk away, and then detonate the bomb. If that was true, then why go for a soft target? Go where the largest crowds are to do the most harm and provide the most cover.

Something nagged at me. The FBI assigned Major Crimes at the entrance of Jackson Square so the Federal agents could cover the fringes of the Quarter where they suspected the terrorists would attack. But they don’t know New Orleans the way we do. My gut tells me they are wrong.

I walked to Hank. “Been thinking.”

He grinned. “About the dinner we missed, 'cause I am.”

“Yeah, I’d rather be at Mama Leone’s right now having Spaghetti Pomodoro. But no—the FBI is wrong about the target.”

“How so?”

“I think this group is going for something big.”

“Tell me.”

“Think about it. Every place they have targeted is a high terrorist area, in the Quarter, a famous restaurant, the Zoo… they aren’t shying away from tourists. So, where will the most contained group of tourists be tonight?”

Hank stared at me, walked to the railing, and pointed. “There.”

“Yes, there—Café Du Monde. Every tourist goes there. The lines are always long but excessively long and blocked tonight. It is one of the city’s iconic landmarks, and there are a lot of people—perfect target.”

I tapped my radio. “All units, Boone. 10-12. 10-43, 10-89. Information, bomb threat. Suspected target Café Du Monde, proceed with caution. Refer to your bulletin for descriptions. Suspects may be on foot carrying boxes. Report suspicious activity, do not engage.” I turned to Hank. “Get them in position.”

It was time to call the boss. “Agent Massey, nothing concrete, but I believe the target is Café Du Monde. There's no sign of suspects yet.”

“Why.”

“They want to do the most damage. Café Du Monde is iconic and crowded with people right now. My gut tells me that’s the target.”

She fell silent, and that wore on my nerves. Come on, Massey. Don’t make me pull rank because I will. She finally spoke. “I’ll redeploy the task force.”

As I heard Massey barking orders, one of my team, Detective Peyton Brenner, calmly spoke through our earpieces. “Two individuals, each carrying two boxes, exited a gray van in the lot behind Café Du Monde.”

Hank pointed to the parking lot, where a gray van had pulled to the far end. “He’s waiting. They’re going to plant the bombs and escape down the alley behind the shops.” Hank began running for the stairs before I could react.

I followed Hank as I called for backup to Brenner’s location. As we reached the patio outside of Café Du Monde, my team converged on the suspects. Hank continued running toward the van, yelling for uniformed officers to follow.

The two suspects stood near the open-air tables, each holding only one box. I pulled my weapon as I heard the watch commander order the bomb squad to my location and for officers to clear the area. My heart pounded, and I willed my pulse to slow—no time to be adrenaline-fueled.

“Put down the boxes and hand me the detonator. It’s over.” I inched a bit closer to them. “You’re not getting away. By now, my partner has your driver in custody. Let’s not hurt anyone else.” Behind them, Detective Brenner and his partner, Detective Ramon Rodriquez, were closing in.

The terrorists, a man, and a woman, were scared out of their minds. They were young and, I imagined, idealistic but still terrorists of the worst kind. They were one of us.

“Come on, put the boxes down.” In my ear, I heard the watch commander tell me a sniper was in place. I didn’t want it to come to that. My eyes locked with Ray Rodriquez’s. The former Marine knew what I wanted done. A glance and nod of his head toward Brenner, and they holstered their weapons. On my signal, they moved in, wrapping one arm around the suspects and grabbing the boxes with the other.

Uniforms swooped in and restrained the two while Brenner found the detonator, an old cell phone, in the man’s pocket. We had two bombs. Where were the other two?

I yelled to the crowd. “Folks, there are two bombs still here. Does anyone see a tennis shoe-sized box? If you do, don’t touch it. It’s safe, but don’t touch it.” Shouts of “I found one” and “over here” rang out, and the boxes were immediately secured for the bomb squad.

Hank appeared. “Well, I see you didn’t need me.”

“Did you…”

“Yes, the driver is in custody, and there were six more bombs in the van.”

“Good work, Hank.”

“And to you, too. But now for the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“The paperwork. This part’s easy, but I hate the paperwork.”

~~~

Hours later, after completing interrogations and the dreaded paperwork, we sat in the squad room, exhausted. Massey and Chavez joined us, bringing coffee and beignets.

Massey smiled. “You saved Café Du Monde, the least we could do.” She took a bite. “Besides, these things are delicious.”

Hank, face covered in powdered sugar, asked about the accomplices. “Did they give up the names of the others?”

“Yes, there were two others. We have agents headed to pick them up. All college students bent on saving the poor from the greedy bastards.”

I shook my head. “Greed is bad, but there are better ways.”

“Well, detectives, after we all get some rest, my partner and I would like to take you to dinner to thank you for recognizing the target and making the arrests. You name the restaurant.”

Hank and I exchanged glances and simultaneously uttered, “Mama Leone’s.”

Spaghetti Pomodoro is in our future.