A crime lab technician took the Ruger to the lab for firearms examination to check if it matched the spent casing found at the crime scene and the bullet removed from Jack Hudson’s brain at the autopsy. Savary went back to Jeanfreau’s and checked the candy bars. The Milky Way wrapper found under Oris’s bed matched the lot number from the Milky Way bars still on the shelf at Jeanfreau’s.
He wasn’t at his desk ten minutes, just starting his arrest warrant, when the crime lab called. “It’s a match. Casing and projectile from the crime scene came from the Ruger. And we got a good print from one of the cartridges. It’s from your suspect’s right index finger.”
Savary looked at the wall clock hanging above the unofficial logo of NOPD Homicide, an art deco illustration of a vulture perched atop a gold star-and-crescent badge. Six o’clock. He should be finished with the warrant by the time he usually called his girls. Then he’d see the judge. Then go ruin Oris Lamont’s evening.
Elvin Bishop smiled as soon as he spotted Jodie Kintyre with Savary in the windowless FBI waiting room. Jodie was in no smiling mood. The special agent’s silver suit, coincidentally, nearly matched the color of Jodie Kintyre’s skirt suit. Joseph Savary’s suit was as dark brown as his eyes. Bishop brought a manila folder to Savary.
“Official forensic report on your videotape and photo comparison. SA Yamasaki wants to hold on to your evidence and will be available for court testimony.”
Savary made the introductions, then gave his old friend a brief rundown on the Oris Lamont arrest as they sat, Jodie on the sofa, the two men in soft chairs.
“He lawyered up,” Savary said, “but we’ve got a good circumstantial case against him.”
“Good. Glad I could help.”
Jodie held an envelope up for Bishop, said, “You can help a little more.”
Bishop took the envelope, which was unsealed, removed the letter inside, and read it, slowly. He looked up at Savary afterward, for a long moment, then at Jodie.
“You serious about this?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Jodie’s voice was low and firm, her face deadpan. “I’ve been a homicide detective for fourteen years. The new superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department doesn’t sign a letter like that in jest.”
“Misprision of felony?”
“Your boss and the U.S. attorney here in New Orleans like using this against crooked cops, don’t they?” Before Bishop could answer, Jodie continued, “We have no sympathy for crooked cops either, but what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
Bishop turned to Savary, who said, in a deeper voice, “Shooting someone in a store is no different from shooting someone on a bridge.”
“You’re talking about the Danziger shooting?”
“No, you are. We’re talking about Felicity Street. We’re talking about an entire neighborhood committing misprision of felony. I have a list of names.” Savary gave his old friend a hard look, then let his face relax into a slight smile.
“It has to be a federal crime,” said Bishop.
“My killer committed a federal crime,” Savary answered. “Eighteen U.S.C. nine twenty-two (g) makes it a federal crime for any person who has ever been convicted of any felony to ever possess any firearm regardless of whether it is inside or outside his home. This is a blanket federal ban on all felon gun possession and is punishable by up to ten years in federal prison.”
Bishop looked at Jodie as she pulled out a sheet of paper and quoted, “Misprision of felony. Eighteen U.S.C., section four. Whoever, having knowledge of the actual commission of a felony cognizable by a court of the United States, conceals and does not as soon as possible make known the same to some judge or other person in civil or military authority under the United States shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than three years, or both.” Jodie looked up, recited the rest of the statute from memory. “This offense, however, requires active concealment of a known felony rather than merely failing to report it.”
“An entire neighborhood actively concealed a convicted felon with a gun, concealed a murderer from me. From justice,” Savary added.
Bishop took in a deep breath. “I’ve been working the Danziger case.”
“I know. That’s why we came to you.”
“Those cops met the requirement of active concealment.”
“So did Oris Lamont’s friends, relatives, and neighbors. I’ll be happy to lay my case out to a federal grand jury.”
Bishop looked at the door, started to get up, sat back down, and shrugged. “You gonna call Coach on me?”
“I’m serious about this,” Savary said.
“I’ll take it to the ASAC.”
Assistant special agent in charge-Savary ran it through his mind.
“Indict one person for misprision of felony on this case,” Jodie said, “and it’ll put the fear of the Lord in people. A tool we can use.”
Savary stood first, stepped toward his friend. “Tell your ASAC it’s about time the FBI, with all its might and money, went after street crime here in the murder capital of America, instead of spending all your resources chasing politicians, bad judges, and bad cops.”
Bishop stood and Savary put a friendly hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’re not saying lay off crooked cops, judges, politicians.”
Jodie stood. “He knows what we’re talking about. Street crime.” She came over, extended her hand for Bishop to shake.
As he did, he narrowed his left eye, his face softening. “You know, this could work.”
Savary almost reminded his friend that was what the Gene Wilder character said after reading Baron Frankenstein’s secret notebook in Young Frankenstein.
Jodie had the last word as they were leaving. “You know how much the U.S. attorney loves being in front of TV cameras? Our superintendent intends to take this to the TV stations if you guys do nothing. Misprision of felony. It’s got a nice ring to it.”
As they left, back into the steamy afternoon, Savary asked his sergeant, “You think this’ll work?”
“Not a chance.”
“I don’t think so either.”
“But they’ll have to think about it.”
Jodie turned her face to the sun, closed her eyes, and repeated the oldest NOPD saying, one dating from the dawn of the department, back when NOPD was caught in a war between Irish street gangs, Sicilian mafiosi, wharf thugs, and a corrupt city government.
“It isn’t NOPD versus the criminals. It’s us against the world.”
The Sailor in the Picture by Eileen Dreyer
FROM Crime Square
THE PHOTO IS ICONIC. A young nurse is caught in the arms of a sailor. Her leg is curled, her foot up, her head impossibly far back as people run past, laughing, waving, dancing along the black-and-white reaches of Times Square. You can almost hear the car horns blaring, the church bells, the shouts and singing and laughter. Joy, relief, triumph, a nation gone mad with giddy, mindless delight. Japan has surrendered and the world celebrates.
The photo has hung in the old woman’s house as long as anyone can remember. It’s a bit yellowed and spotted now, faded from years of sunlight and cigarette smoke. But wherever old Peg O’Toole has lived, the picture has hung right over the overstuffed tweed chair in the living room. And when anyone asks why, she just shrugs.
“It was the moment that changed my life,” she always says.
And nobody knows how to answer, because they know what she means. At least, they think they do.
“It was an end,” she says, her rheumy eyes distant and thoughtful. “And a beginning. The world changed that day.”
And every time she answers, she wonders if she should tell the truth. She wonders why nobody notices that the photo she has isn’t the one that is so famous. The picture Mr. Eisenstadt took when he followed that sailor who was kissing all the girls in Times Square. Peg saw the sailor, too. In fact, he kissed her on the way by. But her kiss wasn’t worth capturing. She was too far away to be in the famous shot, caught only in one of the other five Eisenstadt took, her feet visible in her heavy work shoes just beyond a bystander. She was facing her own sailor, but no one could see how they met.