“Yes, baby. I see it.”
Savary left headquarters, heading uptown to his small apartment near Audubon Park. He would pass his ex-wife’s house, the one he still paid the mortgage on, but would not stop. Joint custody in Louisiana meant his ex was the custodial parent, but he got his girls every other weekend and every other holiday. He fought for those visits even harder than he fought to solve murders. He barely knew his father. His girls would not suffer this.
It had been a Sunday morning, just before six A.M., January 8, 1815, and the men lined behind the Rodriguez Canal strained to see through the heavy fog. Bagpipes echoed across the plain as the British army came at the quickstep. Major Joseph Savary, commander of the 2nd Battalion of Free Men of Color, stood near the center of the American line, not far from General Andrew Jackson. A rocket rose into the sky near the swamp to their left and the fog lifted to reveal the enemy columns in all their splendor — red coats, shako hats, steel bayonets atop their muskets.
The column near the river rushed the exposed redoubt just in front of the American line. The column coming along the swamp, closer to Savary’s position, rolled toward them, sixty men abreast, the column so long its end could not be seen. It was a magnificent spectacle until the American cannons opened up.
A maelstrom of fire and shells — grapeshot, canister shot, chain-shot and black iron cannonballs — ripped through the British lines. Still they came, and Savary’s men were finally able to join the firing. Major General Sir Edward Pakenham in his black commander-in-chief jacket and his best friend Major General Samuel Gibbs were cut down not far from Savary’s position. Later, Andy Jackson would claim it was one of Savary’s men who shot General Pakenham.
As the British attack faltered, eventually to fail, Major Joseph Savary learned his brother had been killed down the line. Etienne Savary was one of the eight Americans killed that morning. The mighty British army, veterans who had defeated Napoleon’s finest in Spain and Portugal, suffered over two thousand casualties. Major Savary buried his brother in an above-ground tomb in the city they helped save. He had his brother’s name carved into the tombstone above the words “Killed in action at the battle of New Orleans.”
Nearly two hundred years later, Major Joseph Savary’s descendant and namesake felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he stepped away from a shotgun house in need of a paint job at the corner of Felicity and Freret Streets. The door slammed behind him. Detective Joseph Savary had just eliminated another suspect, Willie Nelson (no relation to the singer), a nineteen-year-old convicted serial purse snatcher just released after serving two years at Hunt Correctional Center. That left one name on his list of those who’d had run-ins with police around Jeanfreau’s, a list Savary had made quick work of, eliminating one dead guy, one in jail in Mississippi, and the others who had fairly solid alibis. What pricked Savary’s goose bumps was the fact that no one had said anything about the last name on the list, Oris Lamont, also nineteen. Every other name had come up in the interviews except Lamont’s. In his short lifetime, Oris Lamont had managed to get arrested five times as a juvenile and seven times as an adult, charged with aggravated burglary, simple burglary, auto theft, simple robbery, carjacking and a new drug charge. There was a lone conviction. Simple burglary. He served fourteen months of a ten-year sentence. Lamont had spent his entire eighteenth year in prison.
The silence wasn’t probable cause for arrest, by a long shot, but it drew Savary to focus on Lamont, who had been arrested the previous week on Felicity Street for possession of crack cocaine with attempt to distribute. Savary hurried back to headquarters and pulled up a mug shot of Lamont, scooped up a copy of the videotape from the Jeanfreau murder, and headed straight back to his car.
On his way to the FBI Building on Leon Simon Boulevard, Savary called an old friend on his cell. Elvin Bishop had played middle linebacker at St. Augustine while Savary was the team’s star defensive end. Both were good enough to bring two state championships to St. Aug, but these particular Purple Knights both passed up college ball. Bishop’s knees required orthopedic surgery after their senior year and Savary passed on playing for Southern Miss for a full academic scholarship to Xavier.
“You busy?” Savary asked when Bishop called back. He’d left a voice mail and hoped his friend was in town.
“Just got out of a meeting.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Now?”
“I need a favor.”
The FBI compound, surrounded by a twenty-foot steel-and-brick fence, was guarded by Department of Justice police, who stopped Savary at the gate and directed him where to park his unmarked police car. The homicide detective did not have an official U.S. government “secret” clearance, so he remained in a first-floor, windowless waiting room until Bishop could come downstairs to meet him.
At five-ten, Bishop was stocky, his face filling out from his high-school days. He flashed the familiar easy smile as he approached. Savary stood and they shook hands, slapped each other’s shoulders.
“Glad to see you’re still in town,” Savary said.
Typical FBI custom was to have agents work away from their home for years before they had an opportunity to be stationed back home. Bishop spent his first five years in Baltimore but returned with the glut of special agents right after Katrina and remained.
“So, what you got?”
Savary reached into his briefcase and withdrew the videotape and the envelope with the mug shot. “Need you to send this to Quantico. See if your lab guys can do a facial comparison for me.”
Bishop laughed. “You been watching too much CSI bullshit.”
“I know you got the technology. This is a first-degree murder case. You gonna help me, or do I have to call Coach on you?”
They both laughed at that, although a call to Coach Washington would prod the old man to tongue-lash Bishop. Washington might be retired, but these were his boys and he was still around to coach them.
“Remember that damn hook-and-ladder play?”
“Never forget something like that.”
St. Augustine Purple Knights versus their nemesis, the Archbishop Rummel Raiders, the only team to beat St. Aug both years of their back-to-back state championship seasons. Their senior year, St. Aug held on to a six-point lead. Ten seconds left, fourth and goal and the Raiders’ two sacks and a penalty had them all the way back to the St. Aug forty-yard line.
Everyone expected a Hail Mary pass. The Raiders had beat the Brother Martin Crusaders earlier in the year with one. No one expected a hook-and-ladder. Savary drew back into pass coverage. The Rummel quarterback dropped back but threw short, to their fullback, who wheeled and lateraled to their star running back, a fleet-footed, skinny white boy — they later learned he was the star of their track team and the fastest kid in the school.
“Vincent — I forgot his last name.” Savary said.
Vincent, the Raider running back, scampered past two linebackers but Savary had him cut off near the sidelines with Bishop and their strong safety closing quickly.
“Still don’t know how the boy got through.”
They’d reviewed the videotape again and again. The four players collided at the thirty-yard line. Bishop and the safety went down, Savary pulling the Raider toward the turf, only Vincent’s legs kept churning and he yanked away and hit the afterburners.
“Fastest white boy I’ve ever seen.”
Vincent outraced the St. Aug cornerback and free safety to the end zone. Extra point good. Rummel 21 — St. Augustine 20.