An Evil Shadow by A. J. Davidson

an appearance, but it was clear that Duval wanted Val there.
    “I would be happy to join you. As long as you bear in
mind that a police officer’s wages don’t stretch to works of art.”
    Captain Clements entered the room, his face bleak. He
indicated that he wanted a word with Val in private. They stepped into the
corridor.
    “I’ve had an urgent call from Chief of Detectives
Larson. He wants you to meet him at St Louis Cemetery Number One. An ex-cop has
been found with a knife in his back. Some guy called Trochan.”

 
 
    The St Louis cemeteries No. I and No. 2 are referred
to by New Orleanians as the Cities of the Dead. A high water table prevents below
ground burials, so the coffins were simply placed in position on the surface and
the tombs built around them: row after row of concrete Wendy houses arranged
along strips of St Antoine grass.
    Tourists flock to the cemeteries during daylight
hours, but after dark they belong to the city's malefactors. Come the new day,
it wasn’t unusual for the body count to have risen by one or more. The homicide
detectives got to spend a lot of time amongst the marble.
    Larson was made Chief of Detectives a month after Val
resigned from the police department. A couple of the detectives had called him
with invitations to a celebratory beer fest that the homicide squad was
throwing for Larson, but he told them he wouldn’t be coming along. He would
have felt as out of place as George W. Bush at a spelling bee.
    He left his car on Conti and crossed to the main Basin
Street entrance. Larson wasn’t hard to find. He and a bunch of assorted crime
scene personnel were huddled around a large tomb just inside the cemetery
gates. Val had worked with most of them at one time or another.
    The tomb was very grand, marble, with sculptured
angels, and intricate wrought-iron railings.
    A crumpled figure was lying face down on the ground
between the railings and the walls of the tomb. A trickle of blood stained the
St Antoine grass.
    Larson detached himself from the huddle and walked
over. He held out a packet of Juicy Fruit gum. Val shook his head. Larson
unwrapped the foil with one hand and slipped a stick in his mouth.
    “Chief Bosanquet,” he said. “Hope you’re not expecting
me to salute.”
    Val ignored his jibe. “How was Trochan killed?”
    Larson worked the gum for a couple of seconds before
he answered. “Skillfully. A stiletto blade into his spinal cord at the base of
the skull, severing the cord. Quick, and with very little blood. He wouldn’t
have had time to think about dying.”
    “Any leads?”
    “Just the one. He had your phone number written on his
arm. One of the detectives called the phone company.”
    They walked over to the tomb. The assembled officers
opened up and let them through. Trochan was wearing a short-sleeved guayabera
shirt. His arm had fallen through the railings and the numbers, written in
ballpoint, were as clear as a tattoo.
    “He’s been dead no less than eight hours, no more than
twelve. He had five dollars and change on him, but this was no mugging that
went wrong.” Larson nodded at the medical examiner, who unrolled a body bag and
laid it out on the path in front of the tomb. He was whistling Michael
Jackson’s Thriller.
    It was apparent that everything that could be
accomplished at the scene had already been done, and Larson had purposefully
delayed the body’s removal until Val had had a chance to view it.
    “Tell me why Trochan had your number written on his
arm?” Larson asked when the body was removed. His earlier affability had
evaporated and he was all business.
    “I wrote it there. He was doing some legwork for me.”
    “What sort of legwork?”
    “He was trying to run down Donny Jackson. I needed to
talk with him.”
    “That ass-wipe. I heard he landed a job with some sportswear
firm. He not with them any longer?”
    “No. He was fired.”
    “Why doesn’t that surprise me? What were you and
Jackson going to talk