Mystery!

by Chantelle Aimée Osman

  Betsy watched him for a moment, her brow furrowed. Whatever it was she was looking for, she must have either found it or decided to let it drop and move on.

  “Okay, so we’ve got a sicko who likes to chop up women, take some body parts, and make sure they can’t stare at him from the Great Beyond. Anything there that is gonna help us get some idea of who this perv is?”

  John checked to make sure they were relatively alone before bending down to the bottom right drawer in his desk, He opened it up, and motioned Betsy to look inside. Reluctantly, she looked down.

  “John, you know you’re not supposed to remove evidence bags from the crime scene.”

  He shook his head quickly, dismissively. “I’m not worried about that, Bets. Look inside the bag.”

  Betsy’s eyes dropped back to the bag, then opened wider. “Ah shit, John.”

  Her partner nodded. “Exactly what I said.” As his partner fingered the police issued restraints through the bag, John said, in a tense whisper, “We’re lookin’ for a cop, Bets.”

  “Captain, I’m worried about Detective Macnaghten.”

  Captain Gonzalez leaned forward in his chair, “What do you mean by ‘worried,’ Doc? Like he’s not getting enough vitamins? Spending too much time in the holo-vids?” His words wore a veneer of easy sarcasm that was belied by the intensity of his gaze and the clenched fists that rested on his desk.

  The doctor sighed. “No, sir, I mean I’m worried about him. He’s been having blackouts. He can’t seem to account for the time he’s lost. Time when he was…unattended…”

  “Oooh, you’re worried about him. Worried about what he might be doing with his lost time. I’m sorry, you see I thought that sort of thing was highly unlikely. I mean, that’s what you sold the brass on when they forced this little program of yours on me, right? Less than one percent chance of negative outcomes? Too many safeguards? Lollipops and unicorns crapping rainbows out of their asses, right?”

  “Captain, I know you were skeptical of this program at the outset, but…” A bark of laughter exploded from the other side of the desk. He’d been a little bit more than a skeptic. “But, even you can’t deny that the program has been an incredible success. Detective Macnaghten’s skills as a homicide investigator are unparalleled in this department. The clearance rate for homicide has gone up dramatically since we brought him in.”

  The captain shoved the first two fingers of each of his hands into his temples, pushing and rubbing so hard that it looked like he was trying to compress his brain. “Doc, I never doubted that this program would help solve homicides. That wasn’t ever the problem. The problem was, and is, the danger of letting someone like that loose on this city with a badge and a gun, regardless of how much we monitor him.” He looked up from the surface of his desk, staring directly into the doctor’s dark eyes. “And here you are, telling me the thing I was worried about might be happening.”

  “I’m not saying we have a doomsday scenario here, sir. I think that’s highly unlikely. I’m just saying that there are gaps in his memory that are…concerning.”

  The captain had come up through the ranks. He’d walked a beat, interrogated suspects, and been lied to by the best. He didn’t think the doc was outright lying to him, but she was certainly more concerned than she let on.

  “Listen, Doc, this is your program, but you’re running it in my department. You better do what it takes to become real certain real quick. Who knows what might—” His eyes widened. “Madre de…you’re thinkin’ about this Port Street thing, aren’t you?”

  The doctor’s eyes flicked away from the captain. “I’m not thinking of any specific—”

  “You better figure this out now, Doc. Because you don’t want me to figure it out for you. I’ll pull the plug on this program, on Macnaghten, and maybe even on you.”

  “Hey, there, bud, watch where you’re goin’!” The drunk tourist shouted as he reeled away, beer sloshing out of his open cup and onto the sidewalk of Bourbon Street. The world might change, but Bourbon Street remained essentially the same.

  John wiped a splash off his sleeve and looked up at the display overhead. In most cities, this sort of establishment would be hidden away in some ritzy private residence in an exclusive neighborhood on a quiet street, whereabouts known only to a select clientele. Of course, New Orleans wasn’t most other cities, and Bourbon Street wasn’t most other streets. Here they advertised it on twenty-foot high holo-displays. You wanted to see what was going on inside? Just look up. It didn’t leave much to the imagination.

  A scan of the DNA database had identified the victim as one Angelique Quinones, a Creole girl and a registered courtesan. Not some Molly pulling Johns into dark alleys and cheap flop houses because she couldn’t afford the school, registration fee, or genetic upgrades. An honest to goodness courtesan.

  “This city, am I right?” Betsy gestured toward the back of the drunk tourist. “Anyway, you ready to do this, John?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. You got any contacts here?”

  Betsy gave him a side-glance and a smirk. “At Madam Falchon’s? Come on, John, what kind of girl do you think I am?”

  “I don’t think you want the full answer to that one, Bets. These places tend to be pretty…insular…it’d be nice if we had an in.”

  “I got you, partner, but, seriously, I’m a Midwestern girl with a degree in psychology who’s never walked a beat and lives on a cop’s salary. I wouldn’t have ever had an occasion to deal with these guys, and certainly couldn’t afford their services. I’m guessing this means you don’t have anything either?”

  He shook his head. “Never worked this part of the Quarter when I was on a beat, except during Mardi Gras, and that’s all about makin’ sure drunk tourists don’t piss in the streets or cross the parade lines.” John reached up and grabbed the toothpick resting between his lips, using it to dig some remnants of fried oyster po’boy from between his teeth. He threw the toothpick into a public trashcan. “Guess we’re gonna have to do it blind. Might as well get started.”

  Betsy grabbed the door handle and pulled, revealing a rectangle of darkness against the bright New Orleans sun. John grabbed the edge of the door as it swung back, and followed.

  The interior of Madam Falchon’s was about as different from the outside as it could possibly be—tasteful furniture, calming music, well, but not too brightly, lit. There was even an actual human attendant at the front desk. A real luxury in a world where replicants cost next to nothing.

  The attendant was short and slim, his eyes darted nervously from Betsy to John and back, nervously jumping in and out of a smile, as if unable to settle on the proper expression.

  Betsy’s badge was out of her pocket and in front of the man’s face by the time John got there. “…Detective Betsy Campbell and my partner. We’d like to talk to someone about one of your employees. Who’s in charge here?” She was good, but she had all the subtlety of a charging rhino.

  “Madam, I…I am currently responsible for the operation of this establishment.” The attendant reached up to straighten his already straight tie, nervously pressing the red cloth flat against his white shirt. “Is there something in particular I can help you with?”

  “Well, you can start off with your name, Mr…”

  “Trudeau, madam.”

  “Yeah, okay, Mr. Trudeau. Tell you what, you can call me Detective Campbell, or ma’am, or even Betsy, but please, don’t call me madam again. We clear?”

  His nervous hands had moved down to his cufflinks, returning again and again to ensure that they were properly clasped. “Yes, mad…Detective Campbell. Would you mind terribly moving this conversation to my office? I don’t want to disturb our clients.” With a nod of his head he indicated the waiting area where a couple of men and a woman sat in what looked to be very comfortable reclining chairs sipping tea out of porcelain cups.

  “Sure, whatever works for you.”

  Trudeau moved from behind the counter to an opaque door that
slid open silently as he passed through. Probably some sort of biometric scan, John thought. Gesturing them to follow, he walked down a marble floored hallway and into an office larger than Macnaghten’s apartment. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the Champ du Mars and the Eiffel Tower. Synth windows. Expensive, but, then, so was everything else here.

  Trudeau seated himself behind a large glass desk, and gestured for them to sit in the chairs across from him. “I’m sure that if you will look, Detective, you’ll find that our licenses are in perfect order. We are a reputable establishment, with—”

  “Listen, we don’t care about what kind of Mollies you’re running out of this place…” Trudeau winced Betsy’s language. John actually felt a little sorry for him. Courtesans were highly respected and sought after professionals, earning their title only after years of rigorous study and training. Comparing them to prostitutes was like comparing a paint-by-numbers to a Van Gogh. “…We didn’t come here to pull your chain on some ordinance violation.”

  Something about the way Trudeau was looking at him made Macnaghten uneasy. The man appeared to be looking at Betsy as she spoke, but every time John would look away, he could feel the Trudeau’s eyes on him.

  “Do you know a woman named Angelique Quinones, Mr. Trudeau?” This was the first time John had spoken, and it got the intended reaction. The little man jerked at the name. He tried to hide it, raising his hand to his mouth for a cough, but it was a poor attempt.

  “Ah, well, yes, yes, I believe she’s one of our employees, though I’d have to check with personnel to be certain.” He looked at John quizzically, eyes darting back and forth between John and Betsy.

  “Yeah, do that. While you’re at it, maybe personnel can tell us if she has any regular acquaintances or admirers.”

  Trudeau kept looking between them as if he wanted to ask a question, like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure whether he could say it in front of her. Like he and John shared some secret knowledge.

  Like they knew each other.

  “Mr. Trudeau, what do you want to say to me?”

  Betsy looked at John in surprise, the question catching her off guard.

  “Detective Macnaghten, I don’t think…” The man was clearly flustered now, his face reddened and his hands shaking slightly.

  Detective Macnaghten? John hadn’t introduced himself, and Betsy hadn’t introduced him as anything other than her partner. His world felt like it was collapsing into a single point, centered on Trudeau, everything outside of it becoming fuzzy and indistinct.

  “What…what did you call me?”

  “Detective Mac—”

  “How do you know me?” Suddenly this was the most important question in the world. Trudeau hesitated, his gaze flicking to Betsy. “How. Do. You. Know. Me?” John could sense Betsy was confused, but nothing seemed to matter as much as the answer.

  “Really, Detective, I don’t think now is the…” And then John knew. He knew, just like he knew why a killer would slash up the face of his victim. Just like he knew why killers needed ritual. He just knew. Everything else in the world was jumbled, and the room was closing in around him, but this he knew.

  “Answer Detective Campbell’s question.” Now Trudeau and Betsy were both looking at him in confusion. “Did Angelique Quinones have any regular admirers?”

  Trudeau nodded, his shoulders falling and his eyes staring at the surface of his desk.

  “You, Detective Macnaghten. You have been here regularly for the last two weeks. But you already know this.”

  John nodded. He knew. His breath came in shallow bursts now, and he could feel himself going. He turned to look at Betsy, and saw in her eyes dawning realization, and sadness, and something else. What was that? It pulled at the edge of his mind.

  He blacked out.

  “Doctor, how the hell did this happen? You assured us that there was an extremely low possibility of anything going wrong.” The chief was in crisis mode. He’d made the decision to green light the program, and had pushed it through despite Captain Gonzalez’s objections.

  Gonzalez almost felt sorry for him now. Almost.

  “Sir, clearly there were some unforeseen complications, but…”

  “Unforeseen complications? Are you kidding me? This isn’t a complication; it’s a damn catastrophe. It’s an apocalypse. Do you understand the implications if this gets out to the public?” The chief paced vigorously back and forth across Gonzalez’s office, his big meat hook hands gesturing wildly, his belly swaying from side to side. “We’ve got a cop who, by all accounts, has killed and butchered three women. And once his background gets out, and the fact that we put him out there…”

  “Sir, I’m sure we can salvage Detective Macnaghten, and…” The doctor began what she hoped would be a convincing argument for her program.

  The chief rounded on her, his eyebrows raised, his face stuck at incredulity. “Salvage Macnaghten? Salvage…Do you think for an instant I give a damn about salvaging Macnaghten, or your whole program? I’m talking about the survival of the force!” Spit was flying from his mouth at this point.

  Well, the survival of the chief of the force, anyway, Captain Gonzalez thought. He sighed. Like it or not, his political future was tied to the chief’s. It was time to steer this conversation in a more productive direction.

  “Sir.” The chief spun around to look at Gonzalez where he sat behind his desk. “Sir, there is a solution here that lets us all walk away from this.” The chief waved at him to continue. “No one else knows that Macnaghten was involved in this. There’s the guy at the courtesan lounge, Trudeau?” He looked at the doctor, and she nodded. “But all he knows is that Macnaghten came there to see one of their girls. He doesn’t even know that she’s dead. We haven’t released her name yet.” The chief was nodding.

  “The girl has no next of kin, and no real close relationships. We can spin some story to Trudeau about the girl being missing, and come back and tell him she popped up in, I don’t know, Utah, or something. Honestly, he’s apparently got some shady stuff going on out the back of that establishment, so I don’t think he’s going to check too closely.”

  The chief was calm now, the political operative in him taking over. “Okay, okay, that takes care of the last girl, but what about the other two? The people are going to expect some movement on that.”

  “Are they, sir?” Gonzalez stood up, walked to his window, and stared out at New Orleans. “They’re used to death out there. This city kills people. It’s part of its soul. It’s part of their soul. The only reason anyone cared about these killings was because they were a novelty. Once the killings stop, they’ll forget about it in a few weeks.”

  “That’s a damn cynical view of the world, Captain.”

  Gonzalez sighed toward the window, toward the city. “It’s a cynical city, sir. The tourists see booze and parties, or jazz and food, or charm and history. But even they know it’s all a lie. Just a big beautiful lie hiding a deep pool of ugly.”

  The chief, not the introspective type, grunted. “What about the other detectives in your department?”

  Gonzalez turned to look at him and shrugged his shoulders. “What about them? We transferred Macnaghten and his partner in here together a year ago. He never was the kind to form any real relationships. We transfer them back out, and no one’s really gonna care. And, it’s not like his partner’s going to say anything.”

  The chief laughed out loud at that. “Heh. Yeah.” He turned to the doctor. “Right?”

  She nodded.

  Macnaghten turned his head and stared up at the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling of the interrogation room. Interrogation rooms must be the last places in the world where they still used fluorescents. There was probably some psychological reason for that. He’d have to ask Betsy.

  As his head cleared, he realized he was cuffed to a table. Then he realized he wasn’t alone. He lifted his head to see her sitting across from him.

  “Hey, there, B
ets. Helluva thing, huh?” He gave her a weak smile.

  Betsy looked down for a moment at the hands clasped in her lap. She looked back up at him, and sadness once again evident in her eyes. “Yeah, John, hell of a thing.”

  “Listen, Bets…”

  “Doctor.” John looked at her, his brows pulled together. “Doctor Betsy Campbell, John.” She looked back down at her hands. “There are a few things I need to tell you.”

  John nodded. “I know, Bets.” She looked up, her eyes wide in surprise. “I mean, I don’t know exactly what you’re going to say, but I know that something is wrong with me. I know that I’m not like most people.” John paused, searching for the right words. The he gave a lopsided smile. “It’s what I do, Bets, I know things.”

  “Yeah, John, it’s what you do.” She tilted her head to the side as she looked at him. “Have you ever thought about why you know so much about killers? How you’re able to get into their heads?”

  John shifted his hands in the cuffs. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m a psychopath?”

  Betsy smiled. “Not a psychopath, John. You know why psychopaths are so difficult to catch until they’ve done a lot of damage?” John knew, but he also knew what the flow of her story required, so he shook his head. “It’s because most people aren’t capable of empathizing enough with a psychopath that they think the way the psychopath does.”

  Betsy paused, looking for a way forward. John waited.

  “I’m a psychologist, John. I’ve spent my life studying serial killers. I probably know more about them than anyone alive. A few years ago, it occurred to me that the best person to catch a serial killer wasn’t a great detective, but…”

  “A great serial killer.” John finished her sentence, and Betsy nodded.

  What she was saying made sense, but there was a logical gap. “Bets, we’ve known each other for ten years. You were just a kid when we started working together. There’s no way you can be a doctor,” John paused, and his hands started to shake as he came to a realization. “Unless we haven’t known each other for ten years,” he whispered.