Yellow Mama E zine

New Orleans bound

 

by

 

Sandra J. Cady

 

 

 

           “Have a good time in New Orleans,” some of my fellow detectives said. “Wish we were going.” Less generous and overheard, “How did she get picked to go?” I enjoyed meeting other officers at conferences and made some valuable contacts over the years who assisted me in my career plus I’d always wanted to explore New Orleans. And off I went.

          Before the panel discussion on “New Touch DNA Technology and How It Can Make the Difference in your Investigation,” I turned to the women next to me and introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Sam Roma, Detroit Police Homicide.”

          She gave me a friendly smile, “Katie Smith, Kansas City Homicide.” She appeared about ten years younger than me.

          “Kansas or Missouri?” I asked.

          She chuckled. “A lot of folks don’t know there’s two Kansas Cities. I’m KC, Missouri and looking forward to this part of the investigator conference. It’s important to have knowledge of the latest techniques, especially if your department has access to it.”

          “Yeah, we have access but it takes a while before getting the results. We use the state lab to send in touch DNA and it can only be used for murder investigations.”

          “I know what that’s like, sister,” Katie responded with a grin.

          The panel discussion began. Katie asked particularly good questions at the end and impressed me with her intelligence. We spoke afterwards and found we picked the same topic for the next panel. After bonding further during the sessions and breaks, we decided to go out on the town for dinner together.

          “I’ve got reservations for Commander’s Palace. I’ll just call and add a plus one.” Katie tapped her cellphone briefly speaking to the restaurant as we left the conference center. I gave a little gulp since this restaurant would be beyond my department’s daily travel food allowance. However, I always dreamed of going there and would cover the difference with my own funds. After all, who knew the next time I might ever be back in New Orleans?

          Katie’s department allowed her to use a rental car, and she expertly drove from the conference hotel to the Garden District while I gawked at the old mansions and beautiful landscaping. Even though Detroit and New Orleans share a French background, many historic homes and even churches in Detroit were torn down to make way for its expansion into a large metropolitan city. Some of the streets and landmarks in the Garden District displayed signs with names familiar to Detroit’s history.

          The turquoise blue and white façade of Commander’s Palace was distinctive and the building larger than I expected. The place wasn’t humble in its advertising. When we walked in, several signs on the wall exclaimed “The Best Restaurant in New Orleans.” As I read the creole influenced menu with the restaurant history attached, I learned it had been around since 1883 and under the guidance of the famous Brennan family since the 1970’s.

         We had both changed from business pantsuits into dresses for this special occasion. Katie looked gorgeous in a mint green silky caped creation with matching heels that set off her pale complexion and mahogany brown hair. My short sleeve A-line dress was a Honolulu blue shade like the Detroit Lion’s used for their uniforms and I wore dress flat shoes in the same color. We turned a few heads as we entered.

       During a superb meal and a bottle of wine, both of us discussed how we became homicide investigators. We continued to talk as we made our way through dessert.

       “I’ve always been attracted to murder,” Katie told me, tilting her head and arching her eyebrows as though to check my reaction. “My dad was a homicide detective and would tell us about his cases until my mom told him to stop because he was scaring us. I wasn’t afraid although my older brother did have a few nightmares after these discussions. I sensed my father considered me his favorite child even though he never told me so. Mom died in an accident along with my brother when I was a teen so they never got to see me become a police officer. My dad lived long enough to voice his pride when I became a police officer. He died several years ago from early dementia.”

         “I’m an only child and, after my father, who was a Detroit fire fighter, was killed in an armed robbery I knew I wanted to be a police officer just like my mom.”

         I didn’t bother telling her my mom was paralyzed in this incident which occurred when I was thirteen. Some things are too personal to share completely and evoke my old guilt about not warning my parents that something bad was going to happen that night. It was the first time my abilities came to me. I ignored the premonition since I intended on my boyfriend coming over while my parents were gone. As I matured, I realized there was a rule to my sixth sense. I only received a paranormal warning when something bad was about to happen to good people. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work with many of the criminals I encounter since most of their moral compasses are long extinct.

          “Sounds like you have a strong sense of justice and retribution,” said Katie.

          “I’d put the emphasis on justice and leave the meting out of retribution to the prosecuting attorney’s office. I do take work/life balance seriously and make time for my family. My husband manages an intensive care unit at a major hospital in Detroit and my daughter is in her first year of college at Michigan State University.”

          I paused to take a large forkful of creole cream cheesecake expecting Katie to tell me a bit about her personal life in return for my disclosure. Nothing was forthcoming and she concentrated on eating her cinnamon roll apple cobbler. Sensing I hit a delicate nerve somewhere, I speculated she may have just come out of an unhealthy relationship and just didn’t want to talk about it or perhaps it was my statement regarding retribution.

         I attempted to pick up the conversation. “I arrived yesterday afternoon and did some exploring of the French Quarter. I found the beignets and chicory coffee excellent at Café du Monde. On my walk back to the hotel, I discovered a spot with a great shrimp poor boy. Before departing New Orleans, I also definitely intend on having a muffaletta sandwich.”

Katie finally looked up from her dessert. “I know a place that’s famous for their muffalettas. I’ll make sure we get some before you leave.”

         Traveling back to our hotel on Canal Street, we changed into jeans and T-shirts. Katie suggested we go for a stroll to walk off the calories. She amazed me with how well versed she was in the history of New Orleans as well as familiar with the area. Bars on Bourbon Street were in full swing and she pointed out those famous for blues, jazz, and zydeco. Picking up her pace, she told me she would show me a quieter area since the clubs seemed a little too raucous for us tonight. Oh well, I could come back tomorrow after the end of the conference and do some exploring of the music scene on my own.

          We passed by the Mahalia Jackson Theater in Louis Armstrong Park. The theater was dark tonight with the parking lot empty. I then noticed the absence of crowds unlike the French Quarter.

          “Aren’t we getting too far away from our hotel?” I asked. The long day at the conference plus the large meal and wine were starting to make me extremely fatigued.

         “I just want to show you the Tremé a bit and then we’ll turn back. It’s not too much farther.”

Evidently, Katie was in better physical condition than me since she showed no signs of being tired. Perhaps she was even younger than I first thought. When I get back home, I’ll up my yoga routine and add some cardiac training to stay in shape. I started to stumble as Katie went down a narrow street with no lights and no people.

          Stopping suddenly in front of what looked like an abandoned house, Katie said, “We’re here.”

        “Whash you mean? Ish this spot historically significant?” I slurred my words as she guided me up the steps and sat me down on a chair on the front porch as she got out a set of keys and opened the door. I wasn’t just tired. I’d been drugged.

        “Wait a minute. I’m not going in there…leaving now,” I said.

         As I stood up and started to fall, Katie caught me and dragged me into the house as I blacked out. That was my last memory until I woke up secured to a wood chair.

         Well, why don’t you come and trade places with me now I thought, flashing back to comments from those who questioned how I got selected to go to this damn conference. I kept my eyes closed so my captor could not see I was awake and kept my breathing even although my heart was beating out of my chest with anxiety. Hearing Louis Armstrong singing La Vie en Rose in the background made me angry. One of my favorite songs would now be ruined by the memory of this moment and the perpetrator knew it since I confessed my love of Armstrong’s version of this song last night.

         Tied to the back of the chair by ropes around my arms and chest, I subtly flexed muscles to check the bonds while looking as though I was still unconscious. Nope, they were professionally tight. The music stopped. Hearing light footsteps leading away from me, I listened as a door closed and a lock snicked in place. A car door slammed and a vehicle took off down the street. Slowly opening my eyes, I found myself alone in a small kitchen. The light coming through the window blinds indicated either early morning or dusk.

         How did I get into this fix? Trust in a fellow conference goer. Clever Kate probably never signed up for that next session and just used the opportunity to further befriend me. No hint of what was about to happen entered my mind until the last moments on the porch. Maybe if I had been more alert and a little less enamored of the city, I could have spotted something suspicious.

This must be what the inside of a shotgun house is like. My view included the front door as well as the back door with a very narrow footprint. One of the last fuzzy memories I recall before I passed out was walking in a neighborhood with these types of homes and Katie helping me into one. Why would a fellow officer do this? Katie definitely gave off police vibes and knowledge. If that was her car I heard leaving, she must have returned to the hotel to get it when I was unconscious.        Telling myself to focus, I concentrated on the few precious moments I might have to escape.

While bending my neck forward, my legs kicked back the chair. The chair crashed against the floor hard and so did my head despite my precautions. No luck breaking the back of the chair. Even though fireflies danced in both eyes from probably being concussed, I jammed my feet on a front spindle supporting the legs and pushed as hard as I could cracking the wood spindle after several attempts. Now the chair had a definite sideways wobble. Throwing my weight to the right side, the chair flipped to that side and I placed my feet on the inside of the left support spindle and repeated my moves used on the front spindle and broke it. Reversing my maneuver, I took out the spindle on the right side.

           I panted hard from all my labors but couldn’t quit. My efforts weakened the chair but not enough for me to escape. Marco, my husband, flashed in front of my mind as did my daughter, Evangela. No way am I not coming home to them.

          I flipped the chair with my weight again so my head faced the kitchen floor with the chair seat painfully pressing into the back of my knees. I could knee walk by scooting over slowly while squishing my right cheek against the floor at the same time. I needed some sort of leverage against the back of the chair. Pushing myself to the back door, I threw myself backwards using my leg strength and smashed the back of the chair against the back door.

         Blood ran down my neck. I must have split my head open this time when I hit the back door. Scooting sideways, I positioned the back top of the chair under the doorknob tipping myself backwards a bit. Throwing my body forward while twisting back and forth, the doorknob held and the chair weakened further. After several same attempts of wrenching myself forward and then violently sideways, the wood finally split separating the back of the chair completely from the seat.

Sitting on the seat facing forward, I stood up but my arms and upper body were still tied to the back of the chair even though it was no longer attached to the seat. Walking backwards, I pushed the back of the chair against the kitchen counter and bent my knees until the top caught on the bottom lip of the kitchen counter. Ramming the top of the chair against the lip several times as I pushed up with my knees, the rope moved slowly down. Each push badly abraded the skin on my arms from the tight ropes, causing them to bleed. Once the ropes got past my hips and with the help of slippery blood flowing down from both injured arms, I wiggled my arms out and pushed the rest of the rope down to my feet.

           I couldn’t find my purse and my cellphone was in it. I needed to escape before Katie came back. The solid back door off the kitchen was key locked from the inside. I heard a car park in front of the house and the slam of a vehicle door. Shit. Frantically opening kitchen drawers, I grabbed a sharp knife and ran to the front door. A wave of dizziness came over me. I couldn’t afford to pass out. I heard someone unlocking the door. It’s got to be Katie.

         I’d only have a few seconds to surprise her. Thanks to the shotgun design of the house, she’ll see from the front door that I’m not in that damn chair anymore and she’ll react quickly.

         I didn’t hide behind the door but instead flattened myself on the wall next to where it opened. I needed to disable her fast. As the door opened with her hand still grabbing the outside doorknob, I moved forward and struck, sending the knife into her chest and pulling it back out. She dropped her purse and the paper bag she clutched onto the porch and then collapsed into the house not moving. Blood seeped from beneath her body. I stepped over her to run outside to safety but she grabbed my ankle. Screaming and hoping to alert the neighbors, I fell onto the front porch.

Viciously kicking out at her hand with my other foot, she released me. As her hand dropped down, I moved towards her, prepared to use the knife again. If she had a gun, I would have to stab her again before she used it on me.

        I loomed over her but she lay silent. I kept yelling for help but couldn’t turn around to see if anyone were coming. She could be playing possum again.

         “What’s going on over there?” I heard someone yell from the front of the house.

         “Dial 911. Get the police here fast. I’ve got a kidnapper and possible killer here. She’s wounded but may still be alive and be armed,” I said not taking my eyes off Katie or whoever she may be. Minutes went by slowly but I maintained my position over Katie.

With sirens screaming loudly, the police arrived. I stepped backwards away from Katie’s body and yelled, “Don’t shoot I’m a police officer.”

         “Drop the knife now,” someone shouted approaching me from behind. Blood dripped down the back of my neck and soaked my dress. My arms leaked crimson splotches on the porch.

“I will if you make sure you have your weapon drawn and are ready to use it on her. I’m a homicide detective and she’s extremely dangerous.” Hoping the cops have followed my advice, I threw the knife behind me and shook with an adrenaline after rush. I raised my arms while still facing Katie and awkwardly stepped backwards off the porch.

         As fast as a rattler, Katie moved like she wasn’t injured at all and leapt towards her purse. Her weapon must be in it. Risking a glance behind me, I found two uniformed male cops with their weapons drawn. Whipping my eyes forward again, Katie already had a gun in her hand. If the police stopped to give her a warning, it would be the end of me.

         Both officers fired at once as she brought the gun upward aiming towards me. Before she could get off a shot, Katie fell onto the porch with her gun skidding off into the grass. One of the officers watched me closely while calling for ambulances. The other checked Katie’s body. She had a faint pulse but was losing blood fast.

         As the ambulances pulled up, one of the police officers found my badge and police photo identification in Katie’s purse. Their change in attitude towards me became dramatic once they acknowledged me as a fellow officer. EMS loaded us into separate ambulances. She was pronounced dead on arrival. I received several stitches in the back of my head with several layers of bandages swathing my arms. The emergency doctor made a compelling case for me staying overnight in case of concussion and I agreed.

         After giving my statement to two homicide investigators, my nice nurse gave me a booster shot into my IV that relieved the pain throbbing through my body. I probably would have slept but they kept coming back to check on me. Signing myself out early in the morning, I headed back to the hotel, collected my things, and took a taxi to the airport so I wouldn’t miss my flight. I didn’t have to stay in New Orleans longer since the investigators verified my bonafides with my boss.

While waiting at the airport, I called New Orleans Homicide to get an update. One of the investigators from yesterday, Detective Sergeant LeRoux, came on the line and told me what they discovered so far. Katie Smith was her real name. However, she was no longer a police officer having resigned from the Kansas City Police Department six months ago. Moving to New Orleans and buying that run down shotgun house, she’d been in the process of obtaining a private investigator license.

         “Was her resignation voluntary or was she asked to go?” I asked LeRoux.

          “Good question. She had two shootings resulting in deaths under suspicious circumstances. They gave her a break in the first one because her father was well respected and used to be a detective but told her to resign or be fired after the second was deemed not to have followed protocol.”

         “Yeah, she told me her dad was a homicide cop and died several years ago after having dementia.”

          “I wouldn’t trust anything she had to say. Police Chief Sandra Morgan in Kansas City told me Katie’s father died years ago in a house fire that killed her entire family when she was eighteen.”

          “Could it be she killed them?”

          “The Kansas City police are taking a second look at the fire investigator’s report. Also, since the police usually take care of their own, they allowed her to join without much of a background investigation at the time so now they’re taking a deep dive on her.”

         “Any theories on why she would want to kill me?”

         “You may not be the only one targeted. We’ve found two bodies in shallow graves in her backyard. Initial identification indicated they matched the descriptions of two female police officers missing in the region.”

          “Maybe she was bitter about being let go by a female police chief and decided to take it out on other female officers.”

          “Could be or she’s just a stone-cold serial killer.”

          “One last question. What was in the paper bag she dropped on the porch?”

          “Two muffaletta sandwiches. Go figure. She must have become really hungry before getting ready to kill you. Lucky for you, she went out to get food and you were able to escape.”

          “Thanks, Sergeant,” I blurted and quickly ended the call.

​

      Sandra J. Cady is a former Detroit police officer and past owner of a private investigation agency. Her bachelor's degree is in criminal justice and her master's degree is in administration. Her novel, A Game of Luck: A Sam Roma Detective Mystery, released on 4-30-26. Her short story, “High School Reunion,” is included in the mystery anthology, Crimeucopia: The Not So Frail Detective Agency. This anthology was a finalist for the 2026 Derringer Award and first runner up for the 2026 Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award. Her flash fiction, “For the Love of Writing”, appeared in the March 20, 2026 issue of Punk Noir Magazine. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and The Short Mystery Fiction Society.

​

     Darren Blanch is an Australian digital illustrator who constructs immersive visual illusions designed to linger long after first glances. Driven by a classic Norman Rockwell appreciation for raw human emotion and showing "life as life," Blanch infuses deep character depth into a portfolio that refuses to be boxed into a single genre. His work effortlessly bridges the gap between gritty pulp-noir, playful conceptual surrealism, and cinematic character studies. Navigating a progressive visual disability, he treats digital tools as a vital creative bridge - pushing the limits of contrast, color, and texture to craft complex visual narratives that move the mind and perfectly capture the spirit of a story. Portfolio: www.ivsma.art | FB: @IVSMAart | Insta: @IVSMAart