They range in age from twenty-four to fifty-seven. Two are young and white. One is middle-aged and black. One is Pakistani American. One was born in Indonesia.

They have different income levels. Different education levels.

Different marital statuses. Different immigration statuses.

Some have criminal records a mile long. Others have never had a parking ticket.

One posts on white supremacist message boards. Another has ties to radical Islam. A third is a lapsed Buddhist.

“What are they saying?” I ask.

“Not a damn thing,” he says. “They just spar, laugh, and keep on wastin’ our time. Like they’ve been trained to string us along. But none of them have lawyered up. Can you figure that? Nobody.”

“So why do you need me?”

He opens a heavy metal door marked with black numbers and nothing else.

“One of them is a local,” he says. “Some guy who’s worked off and on in some kitchens in the city. I’m hoping that … ”

“I can get him to talk.”

Cunningham nods as we enter a room looking into a small interrogation cell, via a two-way mirror. Inside the room is a table, and a middle-aged, beefy African-American male, who smiles and says, “How many times I gotta say it? I’m not talkin’ to y’all. No, sir.”

His FBI interrogator, a linebacker of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gruff New Jersey accent, looks like he’s about to jump over the table and wring his neck.

“How many times do I have to ask, Mr. Broussard: What can I do to change your mind?”

The suspect shrugs. “Nothing. Y’all are outsiders. Simple as that.”

Outsiders.

“Who’s the guy?”

The room is filled with NOPD brass and FBI agents, and Cunningham manages to wrestle a sheaf of papers from a desk, and he says, “Reginald Broussard, age forty-nine, currently unemployed, worked in a number of restaurants including—”

I hold up a hand. Look through the two-way mirror.

Outsiders.

Reginald is smiling like he has all the time in the world.

I ask, “Was he a gunman or tractor driver?”

“Driver,” Cunningham says.

“He kill anybody?”

Cunningham shakes his head. “Nope, lucky us, lucky city. For some reason, his tractor stalled out right after the concussion grenades went off. When he got it started, he started after the crowd but the krewe behind him didn’t like what they saw. So a bunch of macho guys dressed like mermaids swarmed over him and took him down before he could do any real damage.”

“Tell me about his marital status.”

“Single.”

“Family?” I ask.

He flips through a few more sheets of paper. “A sister who lives in the city, works as a nurse at Tulane. A niece he dotes on, Melissa. Whatever money he’s earned has gone into a college fund for the little girl. She’s ten.”

Cunningham looks up. “Is that helpful?”

“More than you think,” I say.

CHAPTER 89