The Imposter
Authors: Judith Townsend Rocchiccioli
THE IMPOSTER
by
Judith Townsend Rocchiccioli
Copyright © 2013 by Judith Townsend
Rocchiccioli
All Rights Reserved
Published by
Bluestone Valley Publishing
Harrisonburg, Virginia
Judith Townsend Rocchiccioli
Chaos at Crescent City Medical Center
Viral Intent (December 2013)
The events and characters in this books
are fictitious. Certain real locations and public figures are mentioned, but
all other characters and events described are products of the author's
imagination. Any references included at the end of this book were correct at
the time of publication.
This book is dedicated to my son, Eric Townsend
Rocchiccioli and his wife, Kathryn Cosby Rocchiccioli, and my daughter, Tracey
Townsend Rocchiccioli Cash. Many thanks for the wonderful years of love you
have given me and all of those grandchildren!
Once again, it has taken a village for me to write
this book! Many thanks to Dr. Julie Sanford and Dr. Donna Trimm for their beta
reading and editing of
The Imposter
as well as Alice Tutwiler for her
review of the book prior to publication. I would especially like to thank
Jennifer Mandell of Bluestone Valley Publishing for her excellent input and
final editing of the manuscript. Also, as always, I wish to think Eric
Blumensen for his fantastic cover design and his assistance with the final
preparation of the book.
"Holy
Shit, Mary, Mother of God! What the hell is wrong with people? Are they
crazy, stupid, or just nuts," hollered Jack Françoise to no one in
particular, even though he was sure his rants could be heard through the bull
pen of the 8th Police District. "Honest to God, two tourists with their
throats torn out in the deepest, darkest part of the Quarter. What is
wrong
with these idiots? I don't even go in that part of the French Quarter. No
one needs to go down there, no one in their right mind
wants
to go down
there, not even NOPDs swat team in full combat gear. Holy Shit, can anybody
be that stupid or that drunk?! I just don't get it."
Newly
minted New Orleans Police Commander, Jack Françoise, sat behind his massive,
but deeply scarred, walnut desk at 334 Royal Street glaring at two crime
reports placed in his in-basket for review. A big, burly man who tended
towards overweight, Jack looked distinguished in his Commander uniform and his
polished medals matched the glint of silver in his hair. A man's man, Jack
commanded the respect of almost everyone he met. He stared out of his tall
office windows, already heating up in the August sun, but saw nothing. His
attention returned to the crime sheets, and as he reached for his coffee cup,
his administrative assistant and PR guy knocked at his door frame.
"What's
up, Jason? Did I wake everybody up yelling?"
Jason
Aldridge grinned at his boss. "Well, maybe a few left over from the night
beat, but they were due to go home anyway," Jason joked.
Jack
shook his head. "Did you check out these murders in the Quarter last
night? What the hell?”
”Yeah,
pretty bad. Young people, too, from what I heard. Kind of similar to that
woman they found in that abandoned warehouse near Canal over in the First
District several years ago. By the way, the Coroner's Office just called and
they want you over there ASAP. It's about this new case, the one they are
investigating in the Quarter now."
"Yeah,
I just bet it is," Jack muttered sarcastically. "Who's working the
scene in the Quarter? Think I'll go over there on my way to see the M.E."
"I
think Bridges caught the case, but he's probably gone now. Don't know who is
head of the forensic team. I can check for you.”
"Never
mind, I don't care. If the M.E. calls back tell her I'm coming, but am
stopping by the scene first."
"Will
do, Capt'n! Whoops, Commander," Jason stumbled over his boss’s title and
smiled apologetically.
"Just
call me Jack. Skip the title. I don't act like a Commander anyway. Didn't
even want to be one. I was and am happy in the trenches and on the street.
But, as you know," Jack said wryly, “I never planned to leave them."
Jason
nodded, "Yeah, I know that. I'm sure you'll always be a beat cop, no
matter the title. You've never left the streets before, and you're too damn
old and stubborn to start at this late date," Jason acknowledged, waving
his boss out of the office. His heart swelled with pride as he watched the
big guy leave the 8th district office.
Jason
loved being Jack's right hand, a job he had just formally assumed several
months ago when Jack had risen in the ranks. Jason had more respect for Jack
Françoise than he'd ever had for any one man. Françoise could come across as
a total police asshole, but deep inside, he was kind and generous and a true
advocate for the citizens, particularly the victims of murder and violent
crimes in New Orleans. Jack was also tenacious, bull-headed, and hard to work
with, but Jason was used to this as well. Sometimes, Jack's dark moods
surfaced when he reached a dead end in the crimes he sought to solve. In
Jason's mind, Jack was a hero and always would be even though Jack would never
claim fame or recognition for the cases he solved.
Jason
smiled as he considered that magical way Jack disappeared from press
conferences and the media. He was sure Jack planned to keep it that way, even
as a Commander. He was as humble as he was caring and altruistic and Jack
flat out hated the press. Jason smiled to himself as he reflected on his
years with Jack Françoise. An honorable man, Jason thought, closing the
Commander's door quietly as he left the office.
Jack
hated the blast of August heat that momentarily blinded him as he exited the
8th District office. He jumped into his vintage, police-retrofitted, silver
Cadillac, which was parked in a no parking zone on the side of the building,
and headed down towards the Canal crime scene on Burgundy. He parked,
illegally of course, at the corner of Toulouse, knowing that all NOPD in the
area knew his car and would never ticket him. He trudged down towards the
scene, wiping the sweat off his brow with a white linen handkerchief.
Jack,
as hardened as he was to street scenes, turned his head away from a man with a
needle in his arm and a guy lighting up his crack pipe while sitting in a
doorway. He was convinced that neither man had seen the inside of a house or
had a meal or shower in days. He quickly glanced inside a vacant, burned out
building on Canal noting several others vagrants boldly smoking crack, not
caring who or what could see them. The bottom of the barrel, the dregs of
humanity, hung out in this part of the Vieux Carre. The Commander hurried his
pace towards the crime scene. He could see the yellow tape several blocks
away. He thought about what a bitch it would be to climb back up the hill in
the August heat. He hailed the CSI team chief processing the scene.
"Yo,
Vern, what's your ornery ass doing up so early in the morning," Jack
asked, slapping the forensic chief on the back. "I thought you were
working nights!"
Detective
Vernon Bridges stood up, turned and faced Jack smiling broadly, "Why
Commander, what in the world are you doing down here in this hell hole this
early? With your big promotion and all, I never expected you'd leave your air
conditioned office on Royal Street," Vern joshed, pumping the Commander's
hand.
Jack
returned the grin, happy to see his old friend. "Vern, you know me
better than that. I get the hell out of there every chance I get so I don't
have to write reports and go to meetings. I hate all of those damn
meetings." Jack shook his head and sighed, "These bureaucrats are
crazy. They even meet to decide where to place the water fountains."
Jack rolled his eyes and Vern laughed heartily.
"Well,
then, who writes the reports and goes to the meetings? Isn't that why you got
the big pay raise?" Vern teased his old buddy.
"Jason
goes. He likes meetings, and as my assistant, it is his job to make me happy.
So, he goes to the meetings and writes the reports, and that makes me happy.
Besides, he's glad to get me out of there so he can do his own thing. So,
what do we have here," Françoise questioned, gesturing toward the crime
scene.
Vern
pointed to the two chalk-etched bodies on the ground and groaned, "The
meat wagon took the bodies away an hour or so ago. Two kids, probably late
teens or early twenties. Most likely tourists. They were pretty tatted up,
lots of body piercings. Looked Goth if you ask me, but then, what the hell do
I know? Black clothes, black hair, black nail polish and lipstick on the
female vic, lots of metal."
Françoise
shook his head, "Geez, not again. The report said their throats were
torn out, sort of like an animal had attacked them. Anything else?"
Vern
searched out his digital camera and flipped to a couple of shots. "They
also had their wrists slit."
"Not
much blood around here," Jack said. “Has anyone hosed down the streets?
Had city maintenance been through here before they were found?"
"No,
I don't think so, although they often come through before dawn. We waved off
one truck when we got here a little after 5."
"Who
called it in?" Jack asked.
"Anonymous.
Someone dialed 911," Vern said, shrugging his shoulders. "Figures,
doesn't it. Probably the sick SOB that did it. I got a funny feeling that
he is sitting somewhere close, watching us work the scene. Been thinking that
all morning," Vern ended, looking around the area at the rundown buildings
and dark alleys.
"Could
be. It's happened before. Any possibility they could have been killed
somewhere else and dropped here? Any witnesses?"
"Shit, Françoise,
you think we got a fairy godmother hanging out down here in no man's land?
Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything, and, the truth is, everybody we've
seen is smoking a crack pipe, shooting up, or is drunk or drugged out of their
mind."
"Yeah,
got'cha. Figures. Get the troops to canvass the neighborhood. You may get
lucky. Keep me posted. I am off to the Coroner's Office. The M.E. sent for
me to talk about these two vics.”
"Will
do. See you, Jack. Hey, by the way, looks like the male may have been upside
down on that wrought-iron fence at one point. See the blood on the concrete?
Stay out of trouble and meetings," Vern joked as he turned back to the
scene.
“
Upside
down, what the hell,”
Jack muttered to himself as he began his hike back to
his car
. “Damn, it's hotter than the gates of hell already.”