The Stalking, page 9
She knew the importance...
Still.
There was—by necessity—something cold and chemical about the way the body was treated. No matter how compassionate a man or woman might be while conducting the procedure. By nature of their profession, they had to set certain feelings aside.
She, Fournier and Andre stood by while the basics were completed. Trudeau had been thirty-seven, five-eleven, approximately two hundred pounds. Law enforcement had his records, so those simple facts were known. His last meal, the doctor said knowingly, had been gumbo, consumed three or four hours before death. Tests, of course, would confirm that, but Cheyenne had the feeling that this young ME would know.
Gumbo, of course, could be found in just about any restaurant in New Orleans, but when media went out asking for help with information, it might become important. Cheyenne and Detective Fournier had been on Trudeau’s trail through the night, but if they found where he’d eaten dinner, that information could lead to people with whom he’d had contact. Since Lacey Murton’s photograph had been found in a restaurant, they might find the second deathly photo at the last place Trudeau had eaten. Though Cheyenne hoped that wouldn’t be the case.
“Well, I mean, the cause of death is obvious—in simple terms, a knife to the throat. He bled to death. As to method of death...”
Maybe, despite his youthful passion for the job, the good doctor had also wanted to be an entertainer: he let his words draw out dramatically.
Fournier interjected, “He killed himself! Fiercely going for his throat rather than face law enforcement!”
“Ah, no,” Dr. Morley said, frowning.
“No?” Fournier’s disappointment was palpable.
“I don’t think so. Our dead man was obviously right-handed, which would have meant that he would have taken the knife across his throat thus.”
Dr. Morley demonstrated on himself with a pretend knife.
“The slash wound across the throat goes from his right to left—something that a person intending suicide would, in my humble opinion, not do. It appears to me that his attacker was left-handed and caught up with him from behind, clutching Trudeau’s back against his own body and swiping right to left.”
Fournier still appeared disbelieving. “No,” he said simply.
“I will be ruling it a homicide,” Morley said. “You’re welcome to question my findings and demand a second opinion.”
He turned on Cheyenne, almost as if it were her fault the autopsy hadn’t confirmed what he’d believed.
“So, who the hell killed the suspect?” he demanded.
Cheyenne glanced at Andre and then said, “This is just a theory. But I believe the real Mortician might have seen Trudeau getting all of what he sees as glory and attention—obviously, a man who leaves pictures of his victims to be found, and then his victims exposed as if prepared for a wake, wants attention. Even if he was setting Trudeau up for a fall, if he then felt that Trudeau was stealing his thunder, that the ruse had worked too well, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the man.”
“There’s also the possibility that he was waiting on killing Lacey Murton because he wanted to make sure that her time of death proved that Trudeau hadn’t killed her,” Andre said. “Lucky for us—and for Lacey,” he added quietly.
Fournier looked at the young ME. “You’re certain, kid, you’re really certain?”
Kevin Morley arched a brow. “That’s Doctor kid, Detective,” he said, and smiled.
Fournier had the grace to wince. “Sorry, sorry...just...”
He turned around, starting for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To cancel my cruise—before I lose it all!” Fournier called over his shoulder, and then he stopped and turned back, looking at Cheyenne and Andre. “Guys, keep me up to speed, okay? I didn’t know anything about your trip out to Broussard. I’m happy to have you all be lead, but hey, make an old man look good, huh? Keep me in the loop!”
“Sure,” Cheyenne said.
“Of course,” Andre told him.
“Guess he didn’t mean right now, this second,” Dr. Morley said. “You can tell, you know, when someone was right-handed or left-handed. And I doubt this guy was ambidextrous. I mean, if you’re going to slice your own throat, you make it good, right?”
“Hey, I believe you,” Cheyenne told him. “I don’t believe that the Mortician would commit suicide, anyway.”
“Fournier is a good guy—he’s been the detective on several of the cases when I’ve been the ME,” Dr. Morley said. “He does give it his all, but I think he just really wanted that vacation.”
“Probably needs it,” Andre said. “Anyway, thank you.”
“Naturally, you’ll receive the full report,” Morley told them.
“Great,” Andre said. “Will you do us a favor, though? If you think something, but it’s not a fact to put on paper, will you call us?”
Morley appeared pleased with the question. “You bet.”
Out on the street, Andre said, “Okay, we found Lacey Murton out at the Justine place. And you thought from the beginning that someone from the old case had to be involved. Let’s head back to the board at my house and then check on all our contacts out in Broussard.”
“All right. I’m going to call the hospital while we’re on the way, make sure Lacey is doing okay. I’m sure they would have contacted us, but...”
“It never hurts. I’m going to make a few calls, too, once we reach my place.”
It didn’t take long. And in a city where parking was at a premium, Andre once again managed to find street parking.
“No courtyard or garage at your place, huh?” Cheyenne asked him.
“No, sadly. The houses are just about wall to wall here and my parents didn’t even keep a car when we were living in the Quarter. They’d rent one when they wanted to go out of town somewhere. Anyway, I’m almost surprised that they keep this place, but as much as she loves warm water and the beach, my mom loves Louisiana best.”
As they walked toward the house, Cheyenne glanced his way. “Maybe I should just move my things over here.”
“Pardon?”
“Well, I know I was half-asleep and the idea of answering you last night seemed like an impossible task. While I do love the Monteleone, truly an exceptional hotel, it might make more sense to set up here. If the invitation was real.”
He was startled, and she knew that he hadn’t realized that she’d heard him the night before.
“No, no, the invitation was real—I just didn’t repeat it because, seriously, I heard myself, and it sounded like an absolutely horrible line. But I believe Jackson is going to come into town, possibly with another agent who used to be in the offices here. We’re not going to be able to be everywhere we may need to be, with the distances we’re covering.” He paused. “We could need an army for that, but another few agents who really know the territory will be better than trying to cover all that ground on our own. My place can be home base.”
“We can stop by later for my things,” she said. “Let’s do some brainstorming now. Thinking about someone who knew Lassiter well—and might have become his disciple. I feel like we’re looking for a stack of needles...in a stack of needles. But at least we can determine who might have been in the French Quarter in the wee hours yesterday—and who might have had the opportunity to kill Trudeau.”
“Because you believe that the killer killed him because he wound up being jealous of the misplaced attention Trudeau was getting.” He used his key and opened the two locks on his front door, stepping back for her to enter.
“And so do you,” she said as she stepped in, heading immediately for the parlor to the right side of the entry.
“Well, more or less,” Andre agreed. “Here’s the thing—it’s been a lot of years since the day Janine was buried.”
“But Lassiter was in prison, unless he made friends inside who came out to imitate him, which I suppose is possible. But he was kept with max-sentence prisoners. I don’t think any of his buddies are back out on the streets.”
“True. But I will ask that Angela look into all of Lassiter’s visitors. Knowing her, she’s already done a ton of research on the man, looking for anything that might help now. I’m shooting her a text to see if she can help.” He took a second on his phone and then refocused on the case board. “Okay, so...looking at what we’ve got. You do realize that half of the suspects here were about seventeen when Janine was killed?”
“I do.” She walked up to the board and studied it. “Okay, so. Janine was really beautiful—I’m not being prejudiced because she was my cousin. She was the girl who everyone else wanted to be. Popular, and with really good grades, as well. I think she was a true prize to Lassiter, and that he worked up to her.” She paused. The next bit was painful. “When he killed her, he was especially vicious. He never slashed anyone in the face—that would have ruined things when he set his victims up for his second picture. But she had wounds that went beyond what he’d done to the previous women.”
Andre’s phone rang. “That’s Angela,” he said, looking slightly apologetic, and he picked up the call.
“Angela, it’s Andre, here with Special Agent Cheyenne Donegal. We’re on speakerphone.”
“Great. Nice to meet you, Special Agent Donegal. That was great work you two did yesterday. A girl is alive.”
“We’re very grateful,” Cheyenne said.
“What can I do for you that will help? By the way, Jackson is tying up some things, then he wants to head on down there. He was there not too long ago. A serial killer jumped a ship in NOLA.”
“All help sincerely appreciated,” Andre said.
“So. The girl said that she was taken by a rougarou,” Angela’s voice mused. “How eerie was it, thinking back, that we also saw a rougarou.”
“You saw a rougarou?” Cheyenne asked skeptically.
“In a museum,” Andre said quickly.
“Yes, but it’s odd, don’t you think?” Angela asked.
Andre lifted a hand. “I’ll tell you later,” he murmured to Cheyenne. “We just came from the autopsy. Braxton Trudeau didn’t kill himself.”
Cheyenne plunged in. “From the time we found him dead, I just didn’t believe that the Mortician would have killed himself. We can’t help but think that this killer is following in Lassiter’s steps. But another theory is that it’s a prison buddy—someone with whom he might have relived his murders, someone who would have enjoyed hearing about them.”
“I contacted the state prison asking for any and all pertinent associations and contacts. The man’s lawyer saw him, and a priest. The lawyer is J. K. McConnell of Baton Rouge, but I’ve already checked him out. His credit cards don’t place him outside the city during the last three months. On the day Cindy Metcalf was taken, he was on a camping trip with his son—dozens of witnesses. The priest is a man named Father St. Anne. I’m trying to get video from the prison, and whatever they have. I can’t find a Father Dumaine Toulouse St. Anne—not anywhere. I think that this priest might not be a priest.”
“You’re not going to find him,” Andre said thoughtfully. “Those are names from here in New Orleans. You’ve got the names of three streets in the French Quarter. Whoever he is, he managed to get an identification for a fake priest.”
“Of course. I should have recognized the street names,” Angela said. “The name didn’t sound real from the get-go, but still, I searched and searched and spoke with dozens of clerks and even an archbishop. Priests visit from other countries all the time, but so far, I haven’t found anything. If this fellow used street names...well, that makes sense.”
“And who would think anything of a death-row inmate having a heart-to-heart with his spiritual adviser?” Cheyenne asked her.
“I also checked out anyone he might have gotten close to in prison. His one buddy died of a heart attack a year ago. According to prison officials, there was only one other, and he’s still waiting on appeals—he received the death sentence, too.”
They both thanked her.
“Keep me posted. I may or may not come down with Jackson, depending on the workload here. Take care.”
Andre ended the call and looked at Cheyenne. “So, which one of our suspects might best dress up as a priest?”
“We need more—or new—pictures for our board,” she said. “Let me try to remember. Nelson Ridgeway and Katie Anson—whoops, sorry, Nelson and Katie Ridgeway now—were both friends of Janine’s. Jacques Derringer was the organist at the church. He might well be able to imitate a priest by now. Oh, he could play just about any instrument, I think. He didn’t play at Janine’s funeral, though. It was too emotional for him. We’ve looked into Emil Justine, and because it’s his property where we found Lacey Murton, he looks suspicious—but he was away when several of the kidnappings took place, up north, with solid alibis. Then we have Jimmy Mercury, your old friend. He helped catch Lassiter with you. You’d have thought that if they were buddies, Lassiter might have given it away somehow. The two of you are still friends, right?”
“Yes, I’d say we’re still friends. Not that I’ve seen much of him in years. We try to get together when I’m in town.”
“And you think it couldn’t possibly be Jimmy?”
“I don’t think so, but hell—I don’t think it could be any of these people, and yet, I agree that the killer must have known Lassiter. There were tons of people at the funeral and tons more in town who might have known Lassiter. But this is a group we know to have been in the area at the time of the original killings.”
Cheyenne was thoughtful again.
“Mike Holiday, he was really popular, too. He was in Janine’s class, a beloved football star.”
“And he’s now a bouncer at a new place in the heart of Bourbon Street. Bourbon and Gin. Jimmy told me. The new owner had called Jimmy about playing, but Jimmy said it’s not his scene—he said it was worse than a titty bar. Mike comes on at six. Jimmy doesn’t start playing until eight—a few blocks over.”
“Okay, we can hit the titty bar right after six,” Cheyenne said.
He gave her a grin. “Women do go in.”
“I know. I have been to strip bars—male, female, gay, straight. Whatever,” Cheyenne assured him.
He shrugged. “I’m not making any assumptions,” he told her. “Other business, Detective Vine in Lafayette agreed to a meeting. They’re going to give us reports on everything that the crime scene people found out at the Justine place. Having a talk with him will be good.”
“Sure. You could talk over the phone, and he could email you reports. You have another reason for going out there?”
“Of course I do. Where else are we going to find the church organist—other than at the church?”
“What about our married duo?” Cheyenne asked. “We need to see them.”
“We do,” he agreed.
“Oh, one more guy, Rocky Beaufort. He quit teaching and coaching and opened a gym here in New Orleans, right in the French Quarter. He certainly has physical capability—I guess he’d make a great rougarou. Then, so would Mike Holiday...or Jimmy. Then, again, maybe the rougarou wasn’t even big or particularly athletic. You can get away with a lot by catching people off guard.”
“Let’s go ahead and get your suitcases or whatever from the hotel. Let’s grab lunch somewhere first—sorry, I haven’t done any grocery shopping. And we’ll work on these files until it’s time to hit Bourbon and Gin.”
“That’s definitely a plan,” she said. “And if we have extra time...”
“You can show me the path you were taking with Fournier the day when you were hunting down Braxton Trudeau—and found him dead.”
“Wait—what about Katie and Nelson?” Cheyenne asked.
“Let’s call our guru,” Andre said, and pulled his phone out again.
He called Angela, not putting it on speakerphone this time because he’d called with one simple question.
Angela said that she’d get right back to them.
“Where do you want to get lunch? I don’t know about you, but I skipped breakfast,” Andre said.
She hadn’t had breakfast; she was accustomed to the morgue, but the concept of breakfast just hadn’t been appealing that morning.
And breakfast took time. She’d slept as late as possible, but she’d been in the lobby waiting for him when he arrived. There was no way she wasn’t going to be punctual.
“Let’s just go to the Monteleone. Their food is great. Then, we’ll be right there,” she suggested.
“Logical. I like it.”
“I just have my computer bag and one roller bag. We can walk.”
“I like that, too,” he told her.
He hesitated strangely before closing the door to his house, glancing back over his shoulder, though she couldn’t see what he was looking at. “Just a minute,” he told her, stepping back in.
She thought that he was talking to someone, but she knew there was no one else in the house.
Maybe he was one of those people who talked to themselves. Rationed things out aloud.
Maybe she’d imagined the sound of his voice.
He reappeared shortly, a smile on his face.
“Do you have an imaginary friend?” she asked him.
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“Sorry! Just teasing.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry—I didn’t mean to bark like that. It’s uh...nothing. Let’s get going. Every day has to count in this.” His expression was suddenly grim.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking how much every day counted. We found Lacey. News will go out that law enforcement most probably did not find the killer dead. That means, if I’m following the mind of this Mortician at all, another young woman will be taken—soon.”
