After a deep breath, she managed an acknowledging nod. “I’m going,” she said. There was nothing here, anyway, except the depressing story of a man who, like her, had lost most of the things that made life good.
Before getting up, however, she took a final look through the films she’d just perused. And then she saw it. An article she’d somehow missed while scanning headlines for references to Romain Fornier: Man Writes Victim’s Name in Blood.
She read it quickly, with an overwhelming sense of urgency.
Most people know the name of Adele Fornier. We’ve seen her picture on TV.
Searched for her. Loved her, even as strangers. And now we mourn her. When she was taken from her own street more than three weeks ago and disappeared without a trace, we had hopes of seeing her safely returned to her father. Instead her body was found March 2nd in a park restroom.
There was more, but it was a recap of what she’d read. She skimmed over the text until she reached the last paragraph:
There is much about the crime we don’t know. The police are keeping a tight lid on the case so that they have a better chance of apprehending the murderer. The father has begged for our discretion, as well. But, according to the man who found her, there is one chilling detail he will never forget: her name written on the wall above her—in her own blood.
The hair on the back of Jasmine’s neck rose as she stared at that last sentence, but her mind rejected what she read. Writing in blood was what forensic psychologists called a signature—some unnecessary or added flourish while committing a crime—and it was as unique to the perpetrator as choice of victim or method of murder. Was it possible that Kimberly’s kidnapper and this man, this Francis Moreau, had the same signature?
It had to be possible. Francis Moreau was dead by Fornier’s hand. But the man who’d sent her that package was alive as of four or five days ago….
“Ma’am, we’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
It was the vampire librarian again, and this time his voice was impatient.
Jasmine stood and edged away from him. In her current state of mind, she was unwilling to let a stranger get too close. But she knew her imagination was running away with her. He only wanted her to leave so he could go home. He didn’t realize that, for some kids, Christmas might not be all about Santa this year.
The more Jasmine thought about it, the more she wanted to speak to Romain Fornier.
After returning from the library, she spent three hours in the lobby of her hotel
—before the bar downstairs got too busy—searching the Internet for information on him, but came up empty. A few of the articles she’d seen in past issues of the Times Picayune showed up. And there were other Romain Forniers—a musician and a Jet-Skier and someone who appeared to be a fairly famous French painter. But that was it. Even LexisNexis, to which she had paid access, yielded no clue as to Romain’s current whereabouts.
But she doubted he’d left southern Louisiana. He’d been born here, grown up here, married here, and he’d come back here after his service in the military.
She tried directory assistance for Mamou, but there were no Forniers. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though. With all the publicity surrounding the trial, it was very likely he had an unlisted number. Or maybe he was living with someone else. Even if he wasn’t there, maybe he had family in the area who could tell her more….
When she Googled the town, she found a summary that estimated the population in June of 2005 to be 3,400. Numbers had probably dropped since then, unless a lot of hurricane refugees had chosen Mamou as a place to relocate. But it had a significantly higher unemployment rate than the state average, so she’d be surprised if it had been appealing to displaced families. Regardless, in such a small town someone would know Romain Fornier. Given the news coverage, there probably wasn’t a single citizen who hadn’t heard of him.
It was nearly ten o’clock and the music and voices from downstairs were getting loud. Doing her best to tune out the noise, Jasmine finished the half-eaten sandwich at her elbow and switched over to MapQuest for driving directions.
Mamou was three hours and eighteen minutes west of New Orleans.
Her father was actually closer, although he lived in the opposite direction….
Frustrated by that random thought, she pushed it from her mind and decided to rent a car and drive to Mamou first thing in the morning. She couldn’t meet with the sketch artist until next Tuesday, anyway. And she had to learn more about the man who killed Fornier’s daughter, more about the investigation and how it had unfolded.
Moreau’s method of operation might help her figure out the psyche of the man she was dealing with, or maybe something Fornier knew might prove valuable.
But Hurricane Rita had struck after Hurricane Katrina and completely destroyed some of the coastal communities to the west. She wasn’t sure how much of Fornier’s hometown remained. Nothing on the Web site gave her any indication.
Waiting until the person at the front desk had finished dealing with another patron, she raised her voice above the music coming from below so she could be heard. “Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
Vaguely reminiscent of the girl Jasmine had seen there earlier, this woman was older and heavier. “Do you know anything about the town of Mamou?”
“Not much. I’ve never been there.”
“You’re married to Mr. Cabanis, right?”
“Yep. This is a family affair.” Folding her arms, she leaned against the counter. “Are you planning to visit Mamou?”
“If it wasn’t too terribly damaged by the hurricanes.”
She walked over to study the computer screen, which showed a map of the state. “I don’t think it was. It’s farther north than the towns that were hardest hit.”
That was hopeful. “Do you know where I can rent a car?”
“Sure, come on over to the desk and I’ll make a reservation. When do you want to pick it up?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“If you’re hoping to see Cajun country, you don’t have to drive that far. They offer swamp tours from right here in New Orleans. Although I’m not sure what’s available this time of year.”
“No thanks. The idea of heading into a swamp makes me uneasy.” Even Skye’s home, located in the San Joaquin River Delta, was too isolated for Jasmine’s tastes.
“Think an alligator might getcha?” Mrs. Cabanis asked, chuckling.