Author's NOte - Forgot to mention in the intro, Rated T for strong violence and language (including sexual and racial slurs), some sensuality, torture and thematic elements
HARRIET TUBMAN HIGH SCHOOL, ALGIERS
Gangster rap music blared from multiple car stereos, causing a rumble in the ground as Pride and LaSalle made their way toward the front door of Harriet Tubman High School. This was the New Orleans that tourists rarely saw but was just as real as the French Quarter or the Garden District. While Algiers Point with its ferry terminal and rowdy bars was one of the city's hip neighborhoods, the rest of Algiers remained as downtrodden as it had always been. Several NOPD school resource officers manned the metal detectors at the main entrance, some holding electric wands scanning for hidden guns and knives. Obviously this being a high school rather than an airport, they couldn't subject students to physical searches without just cause.
Several of the teen students stared at the NCIS agents in a hostile manner, some of them taking out their cell phones and snapping pictures and sending text messages. "Let's keep moving, Special Agent Pride," the officer said, ushering them down toward the principal's office. "Pretty soon the whole of Algiers will know you're here."
"Thanks for the heads up, um, Officer Taggart," Pride said, looking at the cop's name badge. "Aren't you supposed to helping build trust between these kids and law enforcement? Isn't that part of your job description in addition to physical protection?"
"Easy for you to judge when you're in your comfy little bachelor pad slash office in the Quarter. You know the city well, but not in the way that we do. It's only gotten worse since you were with NOPD."
"Well being this is your post, I'd like you to join us with Mr. Thomassie," he said.
"I gotta keep the peace out front," Officer Taggart replied. "Over a thousand students, and I'm the only resource officer they have the budget for."
Thomas Dalton Thomassie was the principal of Harriet Tubman High School, one of the city's oldest high schools with a history as complex as New Orleans's. Previously named after legendary Confederate general P.G.T. Beauregard, the South Louisiana native who ordered the rebel cannons to open fire on Fort Sumter in 1861 to challenge the Union blockade, it was renamed after Underground Railroad conductor Harriet Tubman during the wave of political correctness that swept the city under the past several mayoral administrations.
They heard some sly comments about secret agent men and the "po po" from some students who walked by giving them dirty looks.
"Mr. Prescott really is practically white!" Pride heard one tough looking teenage male say to one of his friends. "They sending all these guys from some agency and bullshit! Nigger like us gets killed, shit…they investigate more when some tourist gets their fancy ass rental car stolen! But for some reason they treating Prescott like he some cracker ass motherfucker that got in the crossfire or something!"
Pride took a mental photograph of the young man's gang clothing.
"All eyes on us," Pride said, ignoring the high school student's comment.
"Just keep moving to my office, please," Thomassie said in response.
Thomassie's office wasn't well apportioned
They both breathed more slowly after they went into the small office and took a seat. Pride wanted to make a comment about how perhaps NOPD has been less hands on in this neighborhood because of Black Lives Matter cases and the biased media coverage of them making police afraid to do their jobs in fears of a confrontation with criminals going wrong but bit his tongue.
"They can deduce this is about Mr. Prescott," Thomassie said.
"Lieutenant Prescott to us," Pride said.
"Mr. Prescott," Thomassie said again. "We don't give two shits about fancy military ranks or about the Navy quite frankly. Recruiting our young men, sending them off to die in some far away battlefield just so the white man's economic interests can be protected."
"I'm simply here to do my job, Mr. Thomassie. I see we aren't welcome by everyone in this very building, but I understand Mr. Prescott is a very respected member of this community and we would appreciate any information you or anyone else here might have that can help us solve his murder."
"Well obviously the gangs here aren't too pleased with his competing influences," Thomassie said, sounding from his tone that he didn't like to admit all of this neighborhood's problems was because of mainstream society.
"So you admit Prescott IS having a positive influence here."
"In the way that you might deem positive. Getting people to leave this community, work for the man, utilizing his connections in corporate America."
"Corporate America?"
"Yeah, he does all these outreach with the petrochemical industry, promotes partnerships and such so students can go on internships. He also promotes technical training programs for city youth to help them get jobs in these industries. Garner Plastics in particular, for example. He's set up many opportunities for students with internships and shadowing opportunities there in their chemical plants but everyone knows there's more to it than just that." He said the name of that company with particular disgust. "There's something fishy going on about him. There has to be. Garner Plastics practically owns him if you ask me."
"And why do you think that?" Pride asked with an even expression, trying to hide how disturbed he was that he was speaking to a high school principal. So this is what city schools were like these days?
"Why would someone who was in the military, who graduated at the top of his class in LSU's chemical engineering program come back here to Algiers to teach high school chemistry? He must be running from something, or have secrets, or be doing Garner's bidding. And I do find it suspicious how he managed to trust recently remodel his house in Metairie. But I guess if you impress the right people on the school board, you get a free pass."
"You must not be inspiring your students with your idealism."
"No, Prescott and I differed greatly in what would 'inspire' us, Special Agent Pride."
Pride looked around the office and noticed the Obama campaign sticker, the picture of Malcolm X, and the Colin Kaepernick jersey on the wall.
"I see. You clearly don't seem too pleased that Prescott teaching these students that there's a world beyond….this. Anyway, anyone I should speak to regarding these gangs? Honestly its been a long time since I've been with NOPD, and even then, my unit didn't work this part of town too much."
"See? Of course you didn't," Thomassie scoffed. "As for the gangs, I'm sure they'll find you vs the other way around. The problem with them is they ain't here in school, why their lives so messed up."
"This is your school. You know of any direct threats that any particular students or gang members have made against Prescott?"
"Nothing specific. Now if there's isn't anything I can help you with, I've got a busy day ahead of me. Despite our differences, Prescott's death is a very difficult for this school and I must help tend to things."
"Of course," Pride said, "I'll show myself out."
ALGIERS NEIGHBORHOOD
Pride and LaSalle saw several violent looking young men along the street as they pulled away from Harriet Tubman High School.
"See them?" LaSalle said, pointing out the window at a group of rough looking youths hanging out on a dilapidated street corner, in front of a liquor store. "The way those doo rags are tied, some of that same gang was in the school."
"I noticed it too. The BGE. Local affiliate's been growing rather quickly these days," Pride said, shaking his head.
"Black Guerilla Family? The guys that drove an RV filled with $3 million worth of drugs from Mexico all the way up to Philly recently?" That had been on the national news, especially since that bust was followed up by a shootout that left two gang members dead and several police officers injured in a wild shootout in North Philadelphia.
"Yes indeed. The gang originated at San Quentin prison in California as a way for black prisoners to protect themselves from both the skinheads and illegal immigrants, but the Garners, a local crime family based on the Lower Ninth, became affiliated with them after LaShawn Garner met several members of their Baltimore outfit when he was in federal prison in Arizona."
"Well I guess we better pay LaShawn and his homies a visit," said LaSalle.
"That's where we're headed now, and we're almost there."
LAROSE LIQUORS AND FOOD STORE, WESTWEGO
The SUV turned off the Westbank Expressway, entering the industrial suburb of Westwego. After passing by several large port facilities along the Mississippi River, they took an off-ramp onto a street dominated by warehouses and small businesses. While most of the BGF's members in Greater New Orleans lived in the city, the gang owned properties throughout the metro area. NOPD had always suspected a lot of their illegal activities, including their drug storage, was in suburban areas, outside of their jurisdiction.
LaRose Liquors and Food Store, a run-down bar, liquor store and quick mart, was a known hangout. There was still a rusty canopy that used to have gas pumps, but it was clear its gas station days were long gone, and the electronic signs were instead used to advertise cigarette prices and the fact that there was a pharmacy coming soon. Pride knew this from his NOPD days when he had many dealings with LaShawn Garner and his crew. While LaSalle had never dealt directly with the BGE outfit in New Orleans, he knew of their existence as did every law enforcement officer in the state. In fact, the BGE had gained considerable resources in recent years and additional outfits were forming in cities across the country.
Typical gangster rap music about "bitches", "hoes" and "niggers" blared as Pride and LaSalle exited their car and walked across the trash-strewn parking lot toward the liquor store and bar. The smell of marijuana smoke was thick in the air, even though this was clearly not a licensed dispensary. But that investigation may have to wait for another day.
"Can I help you?" the man behind the counter said after staring at the two NCIS agents for several long moments.
"I'm here to see an old friend," Pride said. "LaShawn and I go way back. "
"Oh is that so?" the young man said. He was dressed in urban street attire, complete with a doo rag and gold chains. Some people clearly took living the stereotypical Hollywood produced gangsta life too seriously.
"What's goin' on here now, Moe?" another young thug said, walking across the store. "What are these crackers doing here? You know them?"
"You go by Moe now too, CJ? See, I know you too. Like I said, me and LaShawn are intricately connected."
"Yeah, eeny meeny miney Moe! Got that name in prison, heard he was everyone 's bitch."
"Fuck you, T!" CJ said, shoving the man against the beer cave. There was clearly tension between these two.
"Dwayne Pride!" another loud voice boomed as a much taller, older black man came out of a door marked "employees only."
"So you do know, like know this guy," LaSalle said in his Alabama twang.
"Christopher, this is La Shawn Garner. LaShawn, this is Agent Chris LaSalle from NCIS."
"NCIS, well you really moving up in this world now, is that right?" LaShawn said with a chuckle. "And the fact that you brought this little hillbilly protégé of yours tells me this ain't a social visit."
"First of all, I ain't no protege," LaSalle said. "I'm the second highest ranking agents after King here. Also, hillbillies by definition come from the hills and I'm from Mobile. I might be a redneck, maybe halfway coonass by now given all that time in the bayou with Pride here, but at least get your slurs straight." LaSalle said back with a satisfied look on his face. Whether a coonass was a subset of redneck was a debate for another day.
LaShawn ignored the comeback. "Yo Moe! Grab these fellas a cold one, will you? Get Dwayne Pride here a Dixie. Guess Mr. Roll Tide here can get a Bud or whatever. T! Git cho black ass back to work, ya hear?"
"Sure thing, dad," CJ replied as he went into the cooler, grabbing a bottle of locally brewed Dixie beer and a Bud Light. LaShawn sat down on one of the tables next to a large window with a view of the former gas station outside. Seating was limited here since most of the sales were to go and they wanted to keep it that way.
"You want me to keep on an on for you, boss?" another gangster youth said, walking toward the NCIS agents menacingly in a ghetto swagger.
"It's fine, T Dawg," LaShawn said. "Mr. Dwayne and I are very old friends. Like I said, go finish the work I assigned you or you ain't getting paid for it."
"Acquaintances," Pride corrected him, "But I've known him since you were in diapers."
"Anyway, go double check on that shit over in Gretna. I'm tired of those guys playing games with me," he said.
"You got it boss," the other man said, adjusting his black doo rag as he shoved the door open and swaggered out of the store in his baggy pants.
"So, what's with this new nickname? CJ sounds more tough, don't it?" LaSalle said. "I've heard some things about you on the way here."
"It's what they called me at Dixon," he said, referring to the Dixon Correctional Institute in Jackson, Louisiana where he had served four years for possession of drugs with the intent to distribute and resisting arrest after leading NOPD officers on a long foot chase through the Lower Ninth Ward. He was eventually paroled on good behavior.
"His love for a particular Mexican place that I don't particularly care for" referring to Moe's Southwestern Grill, but guess that's what was in the vicinity every time he could get food delivered. Yeah, a New Orleans nigger who likes black beans over red beans. Lawd."
"If I had to do chain Mexican, I'd stick with Chipotle," LaSalle said. It wasn't even his intention but turns out he was "bad cop" for this meeting.
"Now y'all probably wondering, why would CJ here still go by that name he got in prison, now that he's back on the streets. Tell these badge wearing gentlemen why, son."
CJ nodded. "Cause I want to be done with the street life. And this thing about prison, it serves as a reminder that I was there, so I don't go back there."
"You see, Dwayne," LaShawn said to Pride, "C.J. here is now a sophomore at Dillard University. I got no problem with people trying to, how you white folks like to put it, to better themselves. I got no problem with anyone trying to get our kids out of this life."
"You're talking about Prescott, aren't you?" LaSalle said.
LaShawn nodded. "See I know the real reason why you came to see me. You think I have something to do with his murder."
"I never told you he was murdered." Alarm bells rang out in Pride's head.
"Word travels even faster on the street than it did in your days, Pride, all this social media. What, you think he had some fishing accident?" LaShawn chuckled again.
"Well do you know anything about what might have happened to Eddie Prescott?" Pride asked. "Or any of your people? Your lieutenants? Others on the street?"
"Can't help you there, Pride, I'm sorry."
"You may want a better life for your own son here," Pride said, "But you and I both know you may not want that for everyone, certainly not in your old neighborhood. Because otherwise, you wouldn't have any muscle to hold down the street corners, no couriers to drive your stuff across to the Northshore, …"
"Trust me, good ol' Mr. Prescott can only do so much. There will always be plenty of kids in the hood doing stuff that you don't approve of. Maybe some of them work for me, maybe they don't. In any case, you've never proven that I haven't always been on the up and up."
"Don't you be threatening my old man. You may be a cop and all but…." CJ said, approaching with a hostile look on his face.
"Federal agents," LaSalle said.
"Same bullshit."
LaShawn held his hand up. "I swear that I've got nothing to do with this. You know that above all, I'm a man of my community, and Prescott was a respected figure in the community."
"Well given your immense respect for Mr. Prescott, and your obvious sadness as his demise, I imagine you will contact me if you hear anything," Pride said, getting up and handing out his business card.
"New cards, huh?" LaShawn smiled. "Not as spiffy as the NOPD ones."
"Washington issued," Pride said with a grin, "We all know they don't have the kind of flair we do here in New Orleans. But yes, call you anytime."
JEFFERSON PARISH CORONER'S OFFICE
Even though the city of New Orleans was coterminous with Orleans Parish, NCIS had a special arrangement with Jefferson Parish instead, specifically Dr. Wade's crime lab in Metairie. Wade and Sebastian dialed into the videoconference while the rest of the team was at the NCIS office.
"How are you, Miss Loretta? Honestly wasn't expecting the results this quick," Pride said.
"That's because our killer is professional but sloppy," Wade said.
"Interesting. Please enlighten us," Pride said.
Wade pointed to the body on the autopsy table. "As you can see, once we get past the decomposition, it's clear that Lieutenant Prescott was killed by a bullet to the back of the head, specifically a 9 mm round. So far, we know from the low levels of stress hormones released into his body that his killer most likely surprised him, rather than this being a execution-style murder."
"Whoever did this must have thought they covered their tracks enough, just dumping the body into the river?"
"Look at these marks on the victim's ankles," Wade said, drawing attention with her laser pointer. "The killer tried to weigh him down. Sebastian here may have some insight as to with what."
Sebastian pulled up some molecular diagrams on his computer and displayed it on the big screen for the team.
"In simple English, please Sebastian," Gregorio said began Sebastian even began.
"Okay, ummm, I work better when there's not so much pressure from…."
"Just tell us what you found," Pride said patiently, giving Gregorio a "cut it with that attitude" look.
"So, yes, in plain English, the residue found on the victim's skin includes industrial solvents found in petrochemical processing, which leads me to believe the murder took place on one of the industrial properties close to where the body was found. And we do know now that Prescott was involved with certain manufacturing companies."
"Garner Plastics is one of the largest employers in South Louisiana, with a lot of political clout in both parties. We need more than a hunch to go on site and start asking questions," LaSalle informed them.
"Maybe an informal inquiry, we might be able to make that work," Pride said. "But Loretta, you have something else, I can tell."
"I believe our killer might be familiar with our area , but without much personal experience. He knows that river currents as strong as the ones in the Mississippi can keep a body submerged for months, even years. But that's just natural river currents. It didn't occur to him that the wake from all that commercial ship traffic would churn the waters enough that he would wash up on that part of the levee."
"Hmmm, a professional assassin from out of town," Sonja said. The mystery certainly was deepening.
"Okay, team, we need to review all the guys that have made threats against Prescott so far, notice any discrepancies, anyone showing up that isn't usually there. Patton, see if you can review the Internet traffic and also the security cams and NOPD and FBI database on the Islamic terrorist groups and the Antifa people who had threatened him online or sent hate mail. In fact when we pay those guys at Tulane a visit we need to get access to their security systems."