The Jar of Nephren-Ka

Kinsey's Apartment

New Orleans, Louisiana: 3:19 PM, Tuesday, June 5th, 1984

By the time I left the CPS intake center, my stomach was loudly protesting. I drove down to a little greasy spoon I remembered in this part of town and had the best plate of crawfish etouffee since leaving the city four years ago. Then I jumped back in the cruiser and drove the two miles to Washington Ave.

I drove past the apartment complex, scanning the area for anything that looked out of place. The apartments themselves were squat, cinderblock structures with cheap tan siding. They were in one big U-shaped building, two stories tall, with doors along the outside and a small, sad courtyard in the middle. There was a gallery on the second floor that wrapped around the front, providing access to the apartments on the second floor. A central, wrought-iron staircase twisted upwards to connect the courtyard and the upper floor.

A pitiful little sign proclaiming the place 'Washington Manor' hung out front. I chuckled internally at the name. Owners of these dives were always calling them the such-and-such 'estates', or 'manor', or 'arms'. I already knew the place was a dump just by the name.

Across the street from the apartments, taking up an entire block, was a large cemetery, crumbling stone vaults reaching like dead trees towards the dingy gray sky. A rust black iron fence surrounded it, topped with triangular points that reminded me of spearheads.

Cars littered the curbs along both sides of the street. Most were old sedans or banged up trucks, though there were a few newer economy cars. Along a side street, I saw a dark brown third-generation LTD; maybe an '80 or '81 model. There were two men sitting in the vehicle, both white, young, and dressed in button-down shirts. The passenger was eating a sandwich, but the driver had his head on a swivel.

I drove past, not so much as turning my head in their direction, and circled the block. On the far side, well out of sight, I parked the car at the curb, moved my firearm to its holster, and went around to the trunk. I removed a small leather bag, a map of New Orleans, a pair of black leather gloves, a small hammer, and a flashlight, stowing them all in pockets in my blazer.

This done, I walked back around the block casually, staring straight ahead as if I was intent on some destination. I came up behind the LTD, watching the passenger mirror as I approached.

The passenger seemed absorbed in his sandwich, a po-boy from the looks of it. It was overfilled, and with every bite, bits of shrimp and lettuce escaped the clutches of the bread to find freedom on the back of his right hand.

I crossed the sidewalk quickly at a 45-degree angle, squatting so my head was level with the window as I reached the car.

The man in the passenger seat turned his head to the open window, eyes widening in surprise as he looked me over. His mouth was too full to speak, but his left hand was pawing around the center console, blindly trying to find the driver's arm. It finally found the driver's elbow and clamped down.

"What's it now, fer christsakes," the driver complained, and turned to face us. The color drained from his face.

"Can I help you, mister?" he said, voice kind of unsteady.

Definitely not a thug.

I nodded. "You two work for Mr. Coventry?"

They shared a brief glance, then the driver nodded.

"Good, we're on the same team." I produced my card. "Any activity today?"

The passenger passed my card to the driver, who looked it over before speaking.

"Sorry buddy, I appreciate any help, but we can't divulge information until it's cleared by Mr. Coventry." He smiled apologetically.

I nodded again. "Piece of advice? Park farther back and in the shade."