He stared at the body on the ground. New Orleans, N’Awleans, his city. He loved it. He’d been born right here in the city, literally in the lobby of one of the fine old residential hotels, since his mother had found it deplorable to whine about labor pains before it was necessary. He’d gone away to college, he’d tried to see the world. He’d come back. There was just something about the place. It was his. It was not crime-free. It was naughty, tawdry. It was jazz, it was beauty, it was dark waters of the mighty Mississippi. It was crawfish-etouffee, the best damned food in the entire world, a city riddled with ghost stories, tales of voodoo queens, and more. It had entered into contemporary times with the same woes and troubles ailing it as created hard times in other big cities—drugs, crime, homelessness, inflation, unemployment. Some called it a city of the wicked, a city of the damned. Well, it might be, but it was his city, his city of the damned. Whatever he could accomplish to save it from the actual grips of hell, he was going to do.
This seemed pretty cut and dried. Anthony Beale, small-time hood, prosperous pimp. He’d messed with somebody bigger; he was a bad man come to a bad end. It should be one for the books.
“It does make me think of the cemetery stiff,” Pierre said suddenly, even as the thought occurred to Sean.
“Woman’s body,” Sean said. “And cut to pieces.” Even such a description was an understatement.
“Jane Doe,” female Caucasian, twenty-five to thirty years of age, five feet five, one hundred and twenty-five pounds, had been found in one of the old above-ground cemeteries outside the French Quarter just last week. She’d been found lying on top of one of the tombs, naked and disemboweled, almost as if a modern Jack the Ripper had taken a turn with her. Body parts and her internal organs had been neatly laid out beside her. The murder had sent the city reeling into shock; it was still the topic of conversation for residents and tourists alike. Naturally, such a crime—with no suspect under arrest—led to wild speculation and a great deal of fear.
“All that cutting, and almost no blood,” Pierre said glumly, referring to their Jane Doe.
“Decapitated,” Sean continued with a soft whistle. “Maybe we’ve got ourselves a connection here.”
“A prostitute and a pimp,” Pierre agreed. “We’ve got to pray that there’s only one guy evil enough to do such deeds in the city. Let me get this guy to the morgue, and see what else I can find.”
“You still have our Jane Doe on ice?” Sean asked.
Pierre nodded. “Yes, she’s still with us.”
“Maybe we can take a look at them both. Put our heads together on it.”
“Sure thing,” Pierre agreed. He shrugged. “Put their heads together on it,” he said dryly, without humor.
“I can tell you something right now.”
“What’s that?”
“Our murderer was a southpaw. Left-handed.”
“What?”
“On both victims,” Pierre continued. Again, he touched the severed head with a gloved finger. “See the way the throat was slashed? It had to have been an extremely sharp knife wielded with considerable strength. Actually, it is not easy to sever a human head.”
“That’s good to hear,” Sean said.
Pierre nodded, rising. Sean rose along with him. “Gentlemen, are we done here?” Pierre asked Bill Smith and the other milling cops. “May I take this fellow on into the morgue?”
“Sean is senior homicide man here,” Bill said. “I’ve got all my pictures, though, Sean. If you’re set, LePont can have the corpse.”
“He’s all yours, Pierre,” Sean said.
LePont made a motion to his assistants. A body bag was brought, and Pierre stepped away from Sean.
“Give me a few hours, then come by and see me. I’ll give you whatever I’ve got.”
“Thanks,” Sean told him.
“Days like this make me glad I’m the photographer,” Bill said.
Sean arched a brow. “Nice pictures?” he queried skeptically.
Bill shook his head. “The pictures haunt you. Stay with you. You can wake up in the middle of the night seeing those damned pictures in front of you. But at least I don’t have to find the wacko who did this.”
“Wacko?” Sean echoed thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of our guy in such a term, to tell you the truth.” Bill stared at him incredulously. “Okay, so you think someone quote unquote normal could have done something like this?”
Sean shrugged. “Define normal. My first instinct was that this guy crossed somebody bigger. It seems like a very methodical kill. The severing of the head is not an easy thing to do— Pierre has just assured me of this—and this head was not just severed, it was done so neatly. There’s no blood. There should be pools of blood here. The obvious would be that the guy was killed elsewhere, and dumped here. The head was severed with a purpose, and put back in place so perfectly I didn’t realize it wasn’t attached until Pierre started moving it around. There’s some system and reason here.”
“Wackos do make use of system and reason,” Bill reminded him. “You told me that yourself after you took that course on serial killers up at the FBI academy at Quantico. Remember?” Bill reminded him.
“My point is that we’re not going to be looking for someone obvious—no drooling ghouls or the like haunting the city.”
“This is damned scary. Right off Bourbon Street,” Bill said, shaking his head with disgust. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The girl in the cemetery had her throat so slit the head came off, too.”
“Yep.”
“Remember,” Bill said, wagging a finger at Sean, “Jack the Ripper was supposedly extraordinarily methodical with body parts.”
“Serial killers can be classified as organized or disorganized, or they can be a combination,” Sean murmured. “An execution-style murder is usually preplanned, neat. Death is the ultimate goal. For some killers, it’s the prelude to death that matters most. Jack the Ripper’s body parts had blood on them,” Sean mused. “At least some.”
“Like I said, taking pictures is easier than going after the wackos.” Again, Bill’s voice lowered. “You gotta catch this one fast, buddy. My wife is scared out of her wits. Have you seen the headlines? Not just the Times/Picayune. The cemetery killing was so sensational, it’s been picked up across the country.” Sean exhaled a long sigh. He knew. The killing in the cemetery had been horrible, sensational, and—admittedly, Ripper-esque. The whole world saw it as a savage and terrifying event. What they didn’t see was that the cops just didn’t have anything to go on. The girl hadn’t fought—there hadn’t been a single cell of her killer’s flesh beneath her nails, not a single hair or fiber had been found on her body.
She’d had sex before her death, but according to Pierre, it hadn’t been forced. They did have sperm samples, but not a single suspect with whom to compare sperm. DNA testing was being done by the FBI, but results might take days or weeks, and Sean was afraid now that their killer could strike many times before forensic science could help them.
There had been thousands of fingerprints on the tomb where the murdered prostitute was found. The same with footprints— there had been partials almost everywhere. There was nothing at all to go on except the pathetic and unmourned body of a dead whore no one had yet so much as offered to name.
“Serial killer, like you were saying,” Bill suggested.
Sean had that uncomfortable feeling himself. “I didn’t exactly say that; we don’t know that yet.” Two decapitated corpses. A connection sure seemed probable.
“Hey, it doesn’t make me happy.”
“Bill, we don’t know anything yet for sure. There are still some differences here. When we get more verifiable information from Pierre—”
“Sean, you ain’t a cop who goes by the book, you’re a cop who goes by the gut. That’s why you’re a good cop. And you know that these killings are different.”
“We’ve got to watch what we’re saying around the media,” Sean insisted. “New Orleans is going to go sky high over this one.” He saw Jack over Bill’s shoulder and managed a grin. “There’s my boy. I’m going to collect him and we’ll do a door-to-door for witnesses ourselves. See you later, Bill. And remember, low profile on this, huh?”
Bill nodded glumly. “Sure.”
Sean moved on. Jack was still ashen, but remarkably recovered—and embarrassed. “It was just the eyes,” he told Sean. “I looked at him and felt that if I turned around and saw what was mirrored in his eyes, I’d see whatever monster had done this to him.”
“That’s all right, Jack. I’ve seen more dead men than I care to admit, but that guy is one to spook anyone. Did you get information on the street?”
Jack nodded. “Actually, I may not be very good with corpses, but I have made a discovery that might well interest you—and salvage a bit of my dignity,” Jack told him.
“You don’t need to salvage any dignity, but I’m intrigued by any discovery. What is it?”
“Follow me,” Jack said.
Curiously, hopefully, Sean did so.
Maggie Montgomery looked out the window of her second-floor office. From her vantage point, she could see the area down the street which had been cordoned off by the police. She could see the dozens of police and citizens and tourists who were hovering on either side of the line. A little shiver snaked down her spine. It’s not that New Orleans was crime-less—far from it!—and certainly not the Vieux Carre itself. But this had the look of something beyond the norm. Robberies were common enough; tourists were even warned by shopkeepers and hotel management to avoid certain streets. New Orleans hadn’t avoided the drug crimes that plagued the country, and there was no way out of the fact that illegal delights, carnal and other, were readily for sale. Over the years, the area had seen murders that were bizarre, occult related, and more. And still . . .