The Unforgiven

by Heather Graham

  He was helping her? He was still the enemy. He might be trying to find a way to prove that poor George Calabria was here, in New Orleans, and chopping people up again!

  “Miss Delaney? I’m sorry for your loss. I’m Detective Ryder Stapleton. Please come to my office if you don’t mind.”

  She had to crane her neck to take in the detective. She was seated; maybe that was why the two men seemed so tall. But, of course, she’d seen the one before, the Florida cop or agent or whatever. His name was Daniel Oliver. He stood a good six-three, had a broad-shouldered and lean-muscled body, a clean-shaven face with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw, dark hair and piercing amber eyes. He was probably considered good-looking by most, but she had noted that for only a few minutes back in Orlando. Because after she’d seen him testify—seen the way he’d looked at George with fire in those eyes—she’d written him off as a complete ass, rude and ridiculous.

  And here he was again.

  But at least he was getting her to a cop who might listen to her.

  She’d see him long enough to get where she needed to be, and then he’d be out of her life again.

  She briefly wondered what the hell he was doing in New Orleans.

  It didn’t matter.

  “Miss?”

  “Thank you,” she said to the detective, rising with all the dignity in her, nodding briefly to the officer who had been so quick to dismiss her, and heading in the direction Ryder Stapleton indicated.

  The detective was about the same age, she thought, as Dan Oliver. He was nearly as tall, and a little kinder-looking, with a broader face, fine cheekbones, warm gray eyes and sandy hair. He looked tired; she figured such work had to make you a little worn-out.

  He had his own office—not huge, but comfortable—and there were two chairs in front of his desk. He indicated she should take one of them while he walked around the desk. Dan Oliver waited until she was seated.

  Then he sat next to her.

  She gritted her teeth. And then she almost smiled.

  They’d beaten him once. Because George wasn’t guilty. The man had obsessed over George because of circumstantial evidence.

  But they’d beaten him.

  If he started up on George now, they’d beat him again. And maybe this time, he’d realize that George wasn’t involved.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking at Ryder. “Trust me, I understand murders take place all over the country, and many may be similar in method and madness. But as, uh, Mr. Oliver explained to you, I saw firsthand the work of a madman.” She sighed deeply. “I’m a tour guide here in the city. I’m also aware there were a number of axe murders here in New Orleans and environs, taking place back in 1918 and 1919. I understand more fully than most people how myths can grow, how stories can be exaggerated and, yes, how killers can carry out copycat actions.”

  Ryder watched her, nodding gravely.

  At her side, Dan Oliver was silent.

  “I, of course, was not at the crime scene in Orlando, but I believe Mr. Oliver was.” She glanced his way at last. “Or Special Agent Oliver or Detective Oliver or whoever he is now. I experienced the one scene. He saw the other. And the crime scene today?”

  Dan Oliver was staring at her with those piercing eyes of his. She realized suddenly he most probably hadn’t just gone after George Calabria out of meanness. He had been deeply horrified by the crimes committed, and to him George had appeared guilty.

  She turned back to Ryder quickly.

  “I know killings often have motives. I also know they can be random. I’ve read a lot. I’m not an investigator, of course, but I’ve read that serial killers seldom stop, that they stay active until they’re incarcerated or killed themselves. There have been exceptions or times when they take a break. There might have been killings in other places—other countries, even—that we don’t know about. And this killer might have discovered the unsolved case of the Axeman and decided New Orleans might be the right place to strike. My parents were killed twelve years ago, and the killer—or killers—struck again six years later. And now. There might be a pattern here. Something in the motive that means killings must happen six years apart.”

  “Six years... Maybe there is something to the number six,” Dan said quietly.

  “All right, Miss Delaney,” Ryder said. “I can understand why you’re so concerned, and why you think these killings are related. Sure, you’ve read, so you know about copycat killers. These cases could be totally unrelated. Even your case in the Keys and the one in Orlando might be separate.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Your parents were killed on a boat,” he pointed out.

  “But the older couple and their niece in Orlando were killed in their home. Just as these people were killed now.”

  Katie glanced at Dan Oliver again. She couldn’t begin to fathom what he was thinking. His face was totally impassive.

  “Listen,” Ryder said, “I understand how you both feel. And yes, murders like this aren’t common, thank God. I will bear in mind during the investigation all that has happened in the past.”

  “Ryder—” Dan began.

  “Look, I called you, right? I want to solve this. I want every piece of information available on this killer. If it is the same guy, I want to get him this time. If it isn’t, I’m still interested in seeing how this killer—or these killers—are copying the Florida murders or the old Axeman of New Orleans. We’re all on the same side here,” Ryder said. “Our forensic teams are still going over the scene. You know that, Dan. We’ll do everything in our power.”

  “That means calling Florida for every record available,” Dan reminded him.

  “I will get everything transferred,” Ryder promised. He looked at them both. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” he said to Katie.

  She nodded. “Thank you. If you need me to describe what happened, what I found on the boat that day, I can do so.”

  “I don’t see a need to make you go through that now, Miss Delaney. When I’ve read all the reports...well, I may ask you to come back in.”

  Katie nodded. There was nothing else she could do. She stood. “Thank you,” she said to Ryder. It somewhat pained her, but she turned to Dan Oliver, who had risen as well, and said “Thank you” again.

  Ryder also rose. They all just stood there for a few seconds, and Katie turned to leave at last but then turned back.

  “Are you a cop here now?” she asked Dan.

  He seemed to take a long time to answer. “Private investigator.”

  “Ah. Well, please, don’t forget, if I can give you anything at all, do call me.”

  She didn’t ask them to keep her abreast of any information.

  She was just a civilian. They wouldn’t tell her anything.

  She headed out of the office and the police station at last.

  Outside, she walked to her car, a little SUV that allowed her to tool around the city, including the French Quarter, with comparative ease.

  Sitting in the vehicle, she couldn’t help but relive the awful day when her parents had been killed. And the trial when George had been accused of the Orlando murders.

  Something inside told her the killer was the same.

  And while a half dozen law-enforcement agencies had searched for information on Dr. Neil Browne and Jennie, nothing, nothing had been discovered on them. They might have been ghosts—except they hadn’t been. They’d been flesh and blood.

  They had either become shark food in the Atlantic, or...

  They had been the killers. George said he didn’t know much about them. Yes, he had said they were friends. He and Anita had met them at a dockside bar in Coconut Grove. They’d been so nice. They’d claimed they were from New York. Thinking back, he’d never even asked if they were from New York State or New York City. They had simply been so friendly, so engaging, that George had
asked her dad if it was all right to ask them out on the diving adventure they’d planned.

  She was startled, jumping in the driver’s seat, by a tap on her window.

  She turned. It was Dan Oliver.

  Katie rolled down the window.

  “It’s the same guy,” he said flatly. “Or duo. I don’t think more than two people could be involved.”

  “George didn’t do it,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Let’s hope he didn’t. I mean, your testimony was so passionate, I’m pretty sure it’s the reason he got off.”

  She forced a smile over clenched teeth.

  “Or he might have gotten off because you had nothing but circumstantial evidence.”

  “Well, if it proves he’s not in New Orleans, I’ll believe you.”

  “George isn’t in New Orleans. After the trial, he said he was moving far away. He wanted to forget everything, change careers even, anything that could fill his mind with something else. He...he hasn’t stayed in touch. He needed a new life.” She hesitated. “I know he lived just about a block away from the house where the people were murdered in Orlando. And he was on the boat when my parents were killed. But George isn’t a killer. I knew him well.”

  He nodded. “Well, you might prove to be right. One way or another, I sincerely believe we need to rehash everything. Something has to give this guy away.”

  She nodded.

  But Dan didn’t leave. After a moment, he said, “I have a question. I still don’t understand how George knew nothing at all about what happened when, as you said, he was on the boat.”

  Katie sighed. “Yes, he was on the boat. He knew another boat was approaching, but Anita was coming up on the dive platform, and the other boat was sidling along on the forward port side. I’m sure you read his testimony.” She paused. “According to George, Anita came up worried because the two of us had become separated. My father was a stickler for diving dos and don’ts, such as you always dive with a partner. So George was talking to Anita, trying to calm her down, assure her I did know what I was doing. Next thing he knows, he gets a blow to the head. He was still looking at his wife, in midsentence. Then nothing. He woke up on the beach with vague memories of realizing he was in the water and had to survive somehow. How he got there, I don’t know. Luckily, somehow, maybe he grabbed onto a piece of flotsam, and it brought him in to Annie’s Beach. He’s a great swimmer and diver—or he was. He’s like me now. He hasn’t been in the water since. Anyway, he made it to Annie’s Beach. That’s where he was found. He was airlifted to the hospital on the mainland. His doctors can tell you that he sustained a serious blow to the head.” She paused again, staring at him hard. “You know all this. You have every report on what happened. You have his statement. I don’t understand what it is you don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand a blow to the head,” he said. “There were six people on the boat. Your parents, George and Anita, and the mysterious Dr. Browne and Jennie Whoever. Browne and Jennie, disappeared. Your parents and Anita, dead. And George, alive, survived an axe murderer and the open ocean all the way to the beach while only semiconscious?”

  “Think what you want. This is going to make you think again,” she said.

  “Maybe your good buddy will prove to be innocent,” he said. “I promise you, though, whether he had anything to do with any of the murders or not, I won’t stop this time. I won’t stop until we have the truth and solid, irrefutable evidence.”

  “But you’re not even a cop anymore. Or an agent of any kind.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a licensed private investigator.”

  “And living in New Orleans?” she asked dryly.

  “Yeah. I have family here, too.”

  “Right,” she muttered. “You knew I was here. Is that why you came?”

  “What?”

  “Were you following me after the trial, trying to see if I’d crack or something?”

  “What? No, God no! I told you, I have family here. Don’t be so...full of yourself!”

  She controlled her temper and gave him an icy smile. “Right. Well, anyway, excuse me. I need to get back to work. I’m sure you do, too. Private eye, huh? Guess you’re on the big cases!” she said in a mocking tone.

  He didn’t reply. He stepped back from the car.

  Katie revved her engine. She’d been sitting too long.

  And ridiculously, the day was still young. Well, it was about three in the afternoon, but for many in New Orleans, that was early. The French Quarter did have a nice supply of locals, but it was also a tourist-driven city.

  Plenty of rides awaited her in the afternoon and early evening. And working might—hopefully—keep her mind off things she couldn’t control.

  Even as she drove, heading back to Treme and the stables, she groaned aloud.

  Tonight, everyone would be talking about the murders. And they’d have heard there had been an axe murderer busy in New Orleans just over a hundred years ago.

  And that’s what they would all want to hear about tonight: the grisly deeds of the long-gone Axeman of New Orleans.

  * * *

  “Listen,” Dan said, striding back into Ryder’s office, “I—”

  “I knew you’d come back,” Ryder said, sighing. “Dan, come on! I called you. Obviously, I want you involved. You’re one of the best investigators I know. But you know as well as I do that investigations demand patience, too. I have cops out in the neighborhood going door-to-door. We have the medical examiner prepping the bodies today, autopsies tomorrow, as you also know. Our forensic people are gathering everything.”

  “I know. I want to make sure I am a consultant on this case. Officially.”

  “I’ve asked the powers that be. Don’t go making them think you’re obsessed or personally invested, or I won’t have any luck.”

  Dan frowned, taking his seat in front of Ryder’s desk again. He thought Ryder had hesitated, that he was thinking or worrying about something.

  “What?” Dan demanded.

  “You know... Well, the great powers that be tend to be more generous toward outside consultation when there’s a reason, when a victim, survivor or family member has hired an investigator. For two reasons. Gives us extra manpower and makes sure the victims know we’re doing everything humanly possible.”

  “Well,” Dan said, “since the Rodenberry’s son is on maneuvers in the Middle East, it might be days before he even knows his parents have been murdered. Their closest other contact—their live-in help—was killed with them. What other family is there?”

  Ryder hesitated. “Well, better than nothing, there’s Miss Delaney.”

  Dan’s frown deepened. “Her folks were killed twelve years ago in Florida.”

  “She’s still an interested party, since we might be dealing with a serial killer.”

  Dan sat still and silent. The likelihood of Katie Delaney wanting anything to do with him was slim. “That doesn’t seem probable,” he said finally.

  “But not impossible. Talk to her. She may want your help.”

  “Aw, come on, Ryder. Your department hired me on the drug murders last year that took place in the Seventh Ward. And the year before that—”

  “This is different. Sad but true. In a city the size of NOLA and with the tourism and everything else that haunts this town, there are bad things that happen. This is different. This is going to put the police on edge and the citizenry in a frenzy. The media will play it for all that it’s worth. I’m afraid of being stonewalled. See what you can do.”

  “Okay. You’ll keep at it in the meantime, right?” Dan asked him.

  “You know it.”

  Dan stood to leave. Ryder was a good guy and would do all that he could for him. He knew the routine, too.

  He headed out.

  On the sidewalk, he took a few moments to breathe. Th
en to his own surprise, when a taxi came by, he hailed it and asked the driver to take him to the Garden District. He was going to go to the Garden District Book Shop and find anything he could on the Axeman of New Orleans.

  But when he reached the bookstore, he looked across the street at Lafayette Cemetery.

  He hadn’t lied to Katie Delaney: he had plenty of family in New Orleans. However, most of those family members were in a vault in Lafayette Cemetery.

  It was beautiful, the oldest of the city-operated municipal cemeteries. Like in all the burial grounds in New Orleans conceived utilizing aboveground vaults, those spaces bore the mark of time, adding to a haunting and somewhat mystical appearance of the place. Begun in 1832, it held more than seven thousand dead, and while that was nothing compared to a few of the big cemeteries in New York, like many of those NY cemeteries, it held the dead from dozens of countries and American states. There were at least a thousand family vaults, laid out in a crosslike pattern with beautiful avenues and foliage where possible.

  His family’s tomb was in a row behind the horizontal beam of the cross. The name Oliver had been carved into a stone archway at the top of the tomb. The first Oliver who had come to New Orleans had immigrated from Ireland around 1810, along with large numbers of other Irish as well as German immigrants who had settled the Irish Channel area around the same time. While Louisiana had a city named Lafayette west of New Orleans, Lafayette was once the area now encompassing the Irish Channel, the Garden District and the cemetery, hence the name of the cemetery.

  He wasn’t sure why he’d come to stare at the family tomb.

  While he’d been born in Florida himself—his mom had been a Gainesville native—he’d always loved New Orleans.

  He was still fond of his home state, but he’d been haunted by the murders there—and the feeling that justice had not been served.

  He’d had to leave.

  As, apparently, had Katie Delaney. Then again, her cousin had been here. He had become her legal guardian. But, as an adult, she’d chosen not to go back.