Chapter 3 Midtown 9th

Tuesday July 13th 1982 07:25

Armed with a fresh Polaroid photograph, Patrolman Phillips rapped on the battered metal door of the apartment to the left of the victim’s door.  Within a second or two, the occupant’s eyeball filled the peephole, installed in the top center portion of the door. Patrolman Phillips’ aggravation increased while he waited for the resident to respond. 

The door opened after seven or eight knocks, and a dark skinned man with a pocked face peered from behind the half open door.  The man’s face was like an abstract of the moon, with scars and craters running its surface.  The occupant’s eyes searched from left to right repeatedly, giving him a shifty appearance.  Without knowing the first thing about the man, one would call him a low-life, someone to beware of.  His features, his mannerism all screamed career criminal.

“Open on up I’ve got a few questions for you.” Patrolman Phillips told the skinny sweating black man as he peered past the partially open door into the small apartment.

“You got no cause to roust me man, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong…” The defensive occupant complained halfheartedly in the local dialect of the city.  The black man didn’t waiver from his position, neither inviting the cop in nor trying to bar him from entering.

“No one is rousting you sir,” Patrolman Phillips patronized. 

“I am conducting an investigation and I am relying upon you to do your civic duty and cooperate in this investigation.”  The Patrolman informed him, as if reading a prepared statement from a card.

“But if you’d rather,” Patrolman Phillips warned, “I can always drag your ass down to the precinct for questioning...?” The patrolman replied in a polite, although menacing tone.  If there had been a stalemate, Patrolman Phillips had broken it efficiently.

Reluctantly, the apartment door opened.  Dejected, the black man backed away from the door and allowed the white officer to enter. As the occupant slowly retreated into his hovel, Patrolman Phillips stepped further into the apartment. A wave of heat slapped the officer in the face and the stench of the black man’s apartment assaulted the Patrolman Phillips senses.  Clearly, the occupant wasn’t big on housekeeping.

The policeman scanned the squalid apartment searching for weapons or contraband, any potential threat or violation.  Instead, piles of filthy clothes, empty food containers and other debris littered the room.  After assuring himself that there weren’t anything waiting for him, the patrolman focused his attention of the witness.  The wiry black man appeared to be in his late 30’s or early 40’s and showed signs of having lived a very rough life.  He was slightly underweight, yet had a puffed abdomen.  His bloodshot eyes showed a glint of yellow around the disclaria, probably from jaundice or hepatitis.  If the man’s idea was to live fast and die young, he was well on his way to accomplishing his goal.

Inside, the apartment had a single window, which was open wide to reveal wrought iron bars, which blocked all but the hot air and morning sunlight from entering the confined space.  A small electrical fan sat precariously perched on the windowsill blowing oven-like hot air from outside into the cramped room.  Patrolman Phillips suspected that the resident was probably using the fan to air out the room to hide the aroma of Marijuana or crack, rather than trying to deliver any cooler temperatures to the overheated apartment. The police officer instantly despised the tenant for forcing him to endure the cramped filthy apartment. The sooner he could end the interview and flee the confined space, the happier the cop would be. 

The perspiring occupant was under the influence of alcohol and or drugs. His breath and body odor reeked of cheap liquor possibly consumed the previous night. Or had he been drinking all morning long? Patrolman Phillips ideally wondered. It appeared that ever fiber of the black man’s body shook from the effects of alcohol poisoning, or a bad case of nerves. The occupant’s eyes were so bloodshot that they almost glowed red. Patrolman Phillips guessed he had been franticly hiding his dope as a sea of cops swarmed the neighboring apartment.

“What’s YOUR name?” Patrolman Phillips asked the witness as he divided his attention between his clipboard and the nervous occupant.

“Wwwwwhy you need dat?” the witness stammered, wishing to maintain his anonymity.

Frustration silently ate away at Patrolman Phillips patience.  His shift should have ended an hour ago and yet he found himself with the bullshit detail of questioning a junky, who wanted to play stupid games.  See no evil, hear no evil and never talk to the cops, was the motto these people lived by.  Patrolman Phillips knew the game yet hated it with a passion.

“I need that because I’m the Cop and you’re the one who I’m asking questions to, smart-ass.”  Patrolman Phillips replied shortly. 

“You want to play games with me?”  Patrolman Phillips asked as he shot him a look as hard as nails.  “We can do this the easy way - or we can do it the hard way, but either way - you ARE gonna do it MY way!”  The Patrolman promised him as he placed his right hand on the black metal asp holstered on his utility belt. 
With a practiced flick of the wrist, Patrolman Phillips could produce the telescoping baton in the blink of an eye. 

“Nnnna man - I got no p’oblem wit you axing me some questions man - hey I was just jivin’ wit you man….” The now extremely nervous black man replied in a quiet respectful, stammering voice. 

“I’m Dwayne Washington, man…”  He eventual said as he relented to the cop’s demand.

Patrolman Phillips cradled his metal clipboard in his left arm as a makeshift table.  He took several seconds to capture other vital information from the witness, including the man’s birth date, social security number, the name of his employee** along with other mundane details before he continued his actual questioning.

“See Dwayne, that was easy - right?” The cop asked sarcastically.  “Now what about we talk about the woman that lives next door?”  He asked as he produced the Polaroid photo of the victim. 

The black man took the photograph without even looking at it.  He handed it back almost instantly.

“What’s HER name?”  Patrolman Phillips asked slowly, as if talking to a mildly retarded child. 

“Well you see man, it’s like dis, da bitch only been here like two or tree months an’ like the only time I eva seen her - she like wouldn’t give my ass da time a day.  I mean she be one fucked-up bitch, like she ain’t right in the head...  Shit...  Like if I tries to axe her somthin’ she be all psycho and what have you.  Bitch be claiming some voices in her head be telling her some jive bullshit.”

“So, what are you tellin’ me Dwayne?  You know what her name is or what?”  Phillips asked the witness in a bored flat tone.  Patrolman Phillips didn’t have the time or interest in catching the N’awlins jive & shuffle, the locals put on for the cops.

“I think da bitch once told me her name was Cake - or Cookie, or some jive bullshit like dat.  I HONESTLY don’t know what her real name was Officer….” Dwayne told the white officer trying to remain on the cop’s good side.

Phillips asked, “Did she live there by herself or did someone else live there too?”
Washington slowly raised both his arms, palms-up as he tried to convince the white cop of his complete ignorance.  “I mind my own business man…”  Washington attempted to assure the cop.

“Uh-ha…”  Phillips responded in unveiled disbelief.

“Now, how about telling me what happened here this morning?” Patrolman Phillips coaxed the dead woman’s neighbor.

“I don’t know nothing mista, I was mindin’ my own damn business…”  Mr. Washington stammered instinctively, repeating the N’awlins party line, verbatim.

“Have you been in here all last night?  Did you see or hear anything going on next door?" Patrolman Phillips asked in a callous way.

"Shit Man - I was down on Bourbon Street until like two or two thirty when they started closing down the bars."  Dwayne said slowly with a slight slur from too much alcohol. 

"OK Mr. Washington” He replied, using his best professional attitude.  “So that means you got in your apartment around what time?" The officer asked, trying to get the witness to open up.

"I don't know man - it must have been like 3:00 or something like that." Dwayne said, hoping not to say anything that would get him into trouble, yet satisfy the crazy white cop’s persistent questions.

“And when you got in, you didn’t hear anything going on next door, right?”  Patrolman Phillips asked.

Dwayne Washington nodded his head in agreement with the officer.  "Na Officer when I got home - it was all quiet - usually that fuckin' bitch is up and raising hell all night long, but I thought she was out 'cause I didn't hear nothing." Dwayne said trying to convince the aggravated Cop in front of him that he was going to be a model of cooperation.

“Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night or this morning?”  The officer asked, looking for any signs of increased nervousness.

“I… I’s wit my boys.”  Dwayne stammered, slurring his words.  The stench of alcohol from his breath was overpowering.  “Benny an’ dem could tell you I was with dem all night…”  The now even more anxious neighbor explained.

"Right now it's Tuesday morning - OK?  When was the last time you saw your neighbor?”  The officer asked.

“Gee – “, Dwayne began as he squinted his eye and scratched his head as if he were doing complex algebraic calculations in his head.  “I thin’ the last time I saw her was like last Tuesday – or something like dat.”  He finally answered.

Dwayne Washington had dealt with law enforcement officials throughout his youth so many times that he had long ago developed a philosophy of never telling the cops anything – or no more than was absolutely necessary.  Although he also knew, the surest way to end-up in the emergency room in Charity Hospital was to get too wise with these crazy white bastards.  Everyone knew they just itched for a reason to beat on innocent black men such as himself.  Dwayne had heard too many stories of friends of friends vanishing into thin air after running afoul of the local cops.  Who was to say what they would do if they ever got him alone in a holding cell?

Mr. Washington offered no insight to Patrolman Phillips’ question, so the tired cop attempted another tactic.  “Did you work yesterday – Monday, Dwayne?"  Patrolman Phillips asked trying to remain calm.

"Shit man - I mean ah, Officer”, the witness quickly corrected himself, attempting to feign an air of cooperation.  “I sure did work Monday…" Dwayne said in a slow almost retarded cadence.

"Well Officer - Like I told you before…  I’s work on the West Bank on dem barges, and I don't keep no regular hours, so when I finally get off work, I's go down to the bar and have me a few drinks with my boys. And last night was no 'ception." Washington said feigning some degree of cooperation for the police officer's sake and his own safety.

“Yesterday, did you see any strangers in the building?  Anything out of the usual?”  Patrolman Phillips asked, hoping to catch a break.

“Shit man... I mean officer, like I said before, Ya you know man - I works on them barges and I ain’t…”

“…And you ain’t home on a regular schedule…  Ya, I know.” Patrolman Phillips completed the sentence for the witness, to show that he was tiring of the continuous line of bullshit the witness was feeding him.

Dwayne Washington blinked several times as if stunned that the police officer was almost able to read his mind.  Phillips scribbled more notes to his clipboard as he fought the urge to grab Dwayne Washington and smash the grin off his face.  The police officer didn’t consider himself prejudiced but the smirk on Washington’s face bothered him more than he could stand. 

Dwayne Washington stood in the room feeling he had scored a minor victory in a heavyweight fight.  He has stung his opponent, not knocked him down, but landed a solid punch in his opponent’s breadbasket.  Mentally Dwayne danced around the imaginary boxing ring in his mind.  Having survived several rounds that had beaten him down severely, he felt a renewal of energy and decided to take more control of the next round.

“I can tell you one thing, ever since that Bitch moved in here dis place has gone to shit! Man dat is one scanky ass white trailer park trash bitch!”  Mr. Washington volunteered making sure to express his low opinion of white folks and his former neighbor in particular in the process.

Patrolman Phillips concluded that he had gotten as much information possible from the frightened and intoxicated neighbor.  He concluded his interview in short fashion and thanked the witness for his time and trouble.

Patrolman Phillips exited Dwayne Washington’s apartment as cautiously as he had entered it.  The police officer ensured that his back was never to the witness as he backed out of the doorway into the main hall.  Once Mr. Washington had closed his door, Patrolman Phillips organized his paperwork and looked towards the next apartment.  One down, one to go, he thought to himself.  He inhaled deeply to mentally prepare himself for the next pigpen that probably awaited him.

Reluctantly patrolman Phillips wrapped on the other apartment door.  Immediately, the door opened and the resident cordially invited the policeman inside.

“Oh Officer! Please do come in – it’s entirely too hot to be standing out in that hall.”  The young man said.  His deep southern drawl sounded like he had just stepped out of a scene from Gone With The Wind.  The man smiled at Patrolman Phillips in a peculiar manner, almost as if he were flirting with the armed uniformed policeman.

Unlike either of the previous apartments, the victim’s or Dwayne Washington’s, this apartment was immaculate.  It was clean, decorated and comfortably air-conditioned.  Although the efficiency apartment was sparsely furnished, it had a homey feel to it.  The furniture was used but well maintained and smartly arrange. 
The air smelled fresh, the floors were spotless.  The apartment’s occupant was equally dissimilar from that of the murder victim or Dwayne Washington.  The occupant appeared to be freshly washed, sober and ostensibly cooperative.

“How may I help you officer?”  The young man asked.  His accent sounded out of place on streets of The Big Easy.  He was slight in build with delicate features.  His skin was pale; it almost appeared to be translucent, as if he rarely went outside before sundown.  The occupant moved gracefully through the small living room into the galley-like kitchen.  He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of mineral water.  “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or water?” He asked with a lilt to his voice as he invited the police officer to enter.

Patrolman Phillips’s skin crawled as he realized that the victim’s neighbor was a flaming homosexual.  An odd uneasiness filled Patrolman Phillips, which he fought to control.  Silently the policeman told himself to focus on the task at hand.  All he had to do was ask the little fag a couple of simple questions. 

Maintaining his position at the door, Patrolman Phillips replied, “No, I don’t want anything to drink.  I am conducting an investigation.”  The policeman said stiffly.  “I need some information regarding the woman that lived next door.  But before we get into that, can I have your name and phone number for our records?”  The policeman asked uncomfortably.   

“Oh, that’s no problem.  My name is John, John Carter.”  The neighbor said flirtatiously.  “Unfortunately I don’t have phone service at this time.  To be honest with you, I don’t think anybody in the building has a working phone.” The now very chatty young man answered the officer.

Patrolman Phillips noted the young man’s name and noted that he, like Dwayne Washington didn’t have a phone number.  Even though the apartment had a window air-conditioner, a trickle of sweat broke from Patrolman Phillips brow.

“The woman that lives next door, do you know her name?”  The policeman was concerned showing politeness could be misinterpreted as some kind of sexual interest in the witness. 

“You have to excuse the mess officer”, the man said absently.  He ambled about the small apartment, turned on a light and found a shirt to cover his bare chest.

“Yah, her name was Jessica something-or-an-another.  She moved in about 4 months ago.”  The witness told the policeman without the need of coercing.  Unlike Patrolman Phillips previous interviewee, this one wanted to talk.

“This morning the woman next door was found dead.”  Patrolman Phillips said stiffly.  He maintained his distance and kept a level detached eye on the witness.  “We’re asking everyone in the building if they saw or heard anything.”

“Oh I just knew it!”  Mr. Carter said with a dramatic flair. “I always knew that eventually she’d do herself in.  For the last two or three days she’d locked herself in her apartment making all kinds of noise, throwing shit around, just raising hell.” The young man said in a confidential tone of voice, as if he were sharing the latest gossip across the back fence with a trusted neighbor.

“So tell me Mr. Carter, did Miss Jessica, live alone - or did she share her apartment with someone?”  Patrolman Phillips asked, taking advantage of the talkative neighbor.

“Honey I don’t think anyone would be crazy enough to shack-up with that piece of works.”  The witness looked at Patrolman Phillips with wanting eyes.  The officer recognized it and stood almost at attention, uncomfortable from the gay man’s unwanted attention. 

“I mean, the girl was as nutty as a fruitcake!” Mr. Carter said in an overly dramatic way.  “I remember last month!  I guess she was turning tricks - well anyhow, it was like 5 or 6 o’clock in the afternoon, and I’m just fixing myself up, getting ready to go out for the night - and all of a sudden I heard this absolutely blood curdling scream come from next door in the hallway!  Now mind you, I’m not some kind of nosey-body or anything. Well anyhow - I rushed out the door to see what all the commotion was about and her John comes running out of her door with his ding-dong wrapped in a hand-towel with just all kinds of blood squirting out.  Darlin’ it turned-out the sick bitch tried to bite it off, and between you and me - this guy had a nice dick - if you know what I mean….” John Carter said with a perverse giggle.

The openly homosexual young man before him repulsed Officer Pete Phillips, but his job forced him to question him.  From what this nosey-body had just told him, he had the victim’s first name, he also had a possible motive and perpetrator to Miss Jessica’s death.  Had her former client beat her to death for having previously savagely biting him?  The cop had to fight his urge to run from the apartment in order to perform his job.  It was up to the officer to control the interview.

"Mr. Carter, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me to make a formal statement.  I promise it won’t take very much time and it’s real important that a detective talk with you as soon as possible.  I’m going to have to ask you to get dressed and take a ride with me.”  Patrolman Phillips informed the witness.

John Carter nearly jumped with joy at the prospect of having to change his clothes.  He stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama bottoms and nearly pulled them off before the officer stopped him.

“Sir, I’m going to step outside while you change.  I’ll be waiting for you in the hallway.”  Patrolman Phillips informed him as he quickly exited the apartment, for the safety of the hot hallway.