Big Easy Evil

by Heather Graham

  She answered. “Hey, anything?” she asked.

  “I’m going to autopsy. Danni, this place is filled with…things. Vampire mannequins, giant spiders, skeletons…anyway, I’m going to autopsy with Larue. I want to find out if Jimmy was killed by the axe and then ripped up, or…”

  “I hope it was the first.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I think so. Quinn, what do you know about the Axeman of New Orleans?”

  “He killed a lot of people and was never discovered. Oh, he wrote a letter to the paper—or, at least, it’s assumed the killer was the one who wrote the letter. He talked about killing—and about the belief he’d never be caught. He never was caught.” Quinn was silent a minute. “He was active in 1920, or something like that. Danni, he can’t still be alive.”

  “There were some other strange murders after. And there was a detective team, or a father and a son, really, trying to discover what happened in other murders that occurred decades later—one of them in 1972.”

  “What were the names of the detectives?” he asked.

  “Garfield.”

  “Garfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know a Garfield. Eric Garfield. He retired when I was with the NYPD. He was a good guy; his son became a cop, too, I think, but not here, not in NOLA. I’m not sure where he went, but…Danni, look him up. I think he still lives in NOLA somewhere. Danni, you have to be careful; maybe you should meet me at the morgue. You can wait in reception.”

  “I think I should find retired policeman Garfield,” she said.

  “Danni—”

  “The other murders were decades ago. And according to dad’s book, there was only one murder each time. Or, at least, that anyone knew about. I’ll be all right; I have wolf. I’ll keep in close touch; I promise!”

  She hung up before he could argue.

  Her laptop was upstairs; she quickly headed out of the basement—which was really just about street level, steps led upward to entries to the house, to the shop and to the kitchen door—and headed for her studio where she kept her easel, another desk, and all her art supplies.

  And where, when she could, she worked.

  And where sometimes…

  She sketched or painted. And when she did, interesting things appeared on canvas.

  “First things first, Wolf,” she told the dog.

  She sat at the desk there and flipped open her computer and looked up Eric Garfield, grateful for the Internet. Of course, not everyone popped up on the Internet, but…

  Stan Garfield, retired detective, NOPD, was on social media. She found his page. He was now a grandfather; pictures of children and puppies littered his feed.

  She flipped out of the social network—she could message him, but that would take too long.

  She was thrilled to discover he had a phone number that was listed!

  She dialed the man, her fingers shaking.

  When he answered, she quickly dove in. “Hi, Detective Garfield, you don’t know me, but, I was hoping you’d give me a few minutes—”

  “Not detective anymore, miss. I’m retired.”

  “Yes, sir, I know, but I need to speak to you about some old cases and some research you were doing—”

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “My name is Danni—Danielle—Cafferty. I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but—”

  “Cafferty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You’re Angus’s kid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She heard a long sigh from the other end.

  “I knew your father,” he said quietly.

  She wondered if that was good—or bad.

  But, he then asked. “When do you want to meet?”

  “Now?” she suggested. “Anywhere you like.”

  “Here,” he told her wearily. “I heard about the murder in the Garden District. You can come on over. Come on over now. I’m in Treme, not far from St. Louis #1 and Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel.” He gave her an exact address and she thanked him and then remembered her promise to Quinn.

  “Sir, do you like big dogs?”

  “Love them. Bring your dog; come on over.”

  Chapter 3

  Larue had connections and abilities in New Orleans.

  Quinn was glad to see he’d arranged for Dr. Ron Hubert to perform the autopsy on James Hornby.

  Hubert had gone through his own traumatic situation when a painting done by one of his ancestors had appeared in New Orleans; he had worked with Quinn and Danni and their crew before.

  He wasn’t surprised to see Quinn.

  He was halfway through the autopsy when they arrived, and greeted them both with a nod.

  “Larue, Quinn,” he said. “As you can see…we’re about halfway through here. And, while such a thing as this can never be happy, as far as our victim goes…there’s a bit of good news. He didn’t suffer long. The blow to his head caused an immediate blackout and nearly instant death. The other injuries you see here occurred post mortem.”

  And they could see the injuries, certainly. The man’s arm had been nearly ripped from his body. Bite marks were all over the body.

  “What caused the injuries—the bites?” Larue asked.

  “Different creatures, as you can see by the differences in the size and the damage. I’d say you had a few dogs on him, and—I have some testing to do, of course—but it also appears as if he was attacked by squirrels and birds.”

  “Squirrels?” Quinn said.

  Hubert shrugged. “That’s what I believe at this moment.”

  “And…birds?” Larue asked.

  “Vultures, kites, hawks…more testing,” Hubert told them.

  Larue looked at Quinn.

  “That’s…we believed he was killed right before he was found. Do you have a better time of death?”

  “I was there last night,” Hubert reminded him. “I was off—I’d just poured a brandy in my living room and was setting in for a nice night of reading when you called. And I told you then he’d been killed very recently—perhaps an hour and a half before I got there at nine-fifteen. Perhaps less.”

  “Then how the hell did those beasts have time to get at him?”

  “Larue, you’re the detective,” Hubert said.

  “And how did they all disappear so quickly?” Quinn wondered aloud.

  Hubert looked at him. He didn’t speak out loud, but Quinn knew what he was thinking.

  You’re the guy who figures out what strange and evil things are going on!

  “Quinn, damn, you know I—of all people!—will be happy to help in any way I can. But, how animals got a hold of this man so quickly, I do not know. Oh, I believe he was killed on site. How he got there, I don’t know. But, I’ve gone through blood loss and taken into consideration what was done to the body, and I believe he walked right into that backyard Halloween cemetery, got an axe in the head, died—and was chewed. As to the nature of the beasts…” He broke off and shrugged.

  “Do we have an infestation of rabid squirrels in the city?” Larue asked, frowning. “If so—”

  “Nope. Squirrels aren’t rabid. We’ve tested some of the saliva,” Hubert said. “Hey,” he added quietly. “I’m on this, I’ve pulled in every favor with every lab tech out there. I promise you—I’ll be doing my part.”

  Quinn knew Hubert would do as he said.

  “Anything else?” Larue asked.

  Hubert nodded. “Believe it or not, it might have been merciful. Mr. Hornby was suffering from cancer of the pancreas. He might have gone through hell before he died.”

  “Small mercy,” Quinn noted.

  They learned a few other facts.

  James Hornby had been six-two, one hundred and ninety pounds. He’d suffered shrapnel wounds when he’d been in the service.

  He’d had somewhere between three months and six months left to live.

  They thanked Hubert and stepped back
into the bright Louisiana sunshine.

  Larue looked at Quinn.

  “What the hell? Squirrels? Birds?”

  “At least it wasn’t a grizzly,” Quinn said. “Or a single beast. Beasts…were involved. A pack of animals descended upon him.”

  “Vultures…that, at least, makes sense. But squirrels?”

  “None of it really makes sense,” Quinn said.

  “No. And what scares me most…”

  “Is it might happen again,” Quinn said grimly.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The same thing you would suggest,” Quinn said.

  “Interview the squirrels?” Larue asked dryly.

  “If only we could. No. Interview every person in close contact with—”

  “The victim--James Hornby?”

  “You take that on. I want to know more about Casey Cormier and Sean DeMille—their friends, and the people at that event company where Sean works. Curious he was called out when he was, don’t you think?”

  ***

  Eric Garfield’s place wasn’t far, just across Rampart Street.

  Danni truly loved her city. All of it. While The Cheshire Cat was in the French Quarter, or Vieux Carre, Treme was not far. Canal Street and Esplanade were boundaries for the Quarter, and the Mississippi River and Rampart Street completed what was more or less the oblong box that made up the section.

  She could walk across Rampart and reach Eric Garfield, and she chose to do so.

  All of the city, so it seemed, had gone a bit crazy for Halloween. Decorations were everywhere. Mannequins of movie monsters, literary horrors, and more stood sentinel in front of shop after shop. In many of the more residential areas beyond Bourbon Street, she saw that locals had gone just as wild with all manner of creatures and creations.

  At one time, she thought she should have driven; Wolf was truly an amazing big dog, a wolf hybrid in truth, and many people stopped and stared, some frightened, and many others just captivated—and anxious to ask if they could pet him.

  Wolf just took it all in—as if adoration was his due and he was entirely ready to be patient and accept all the attention.

  She finally reached Rampart and she found herself looking at Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel, the beautiful old structure once known as the Chapel of Saint Anthony of Padua. It had been built in 1826 as the burial chapel for the many dying of yellow fever in NOLA—from the chapel, they could be brought straight over to St. Louis #1 for interment.

  The church was beautiful, and while it was still an amazing place and an active church—Danni absolutely loved the jazz mass there—there was something haunting and sad about it as well. And, of course, St. Louis #1 had the same haunting and sad feelings. Not to mention St. Louis #2, and St. Louis #3. The cemeteries were beautiful; they were truly “cities of the dead.” And still, in their decaying splendor, they whispered of lives lost, often far too soon.

  Danni and Wolf crossed Rampart and skirted around the church she loved so much.

  Treme was a great neighborhood. Of course, TV had embraced it, and there had been times when it had been known for drug deals and crime. But it was also where many carriage companies kept their mules and many wonderful and fascinating people lived as well.

  She glanced at her phone for the address Garfield had given her. She and Wolf had come to his house; a little one-story shotgun house, just in from Rampart. There was a white picket fence with a gate, and the gate easily swung open. There was a porch up several steps, indicating that a basement—really just the first level of the place—existed beneath the main structure.

  Like the fence, it was painted white.

  Eric Garfield had made one concession to Halloween—a blow-up cartoon character in an orange costume and holding a big bowl of candy was dead center on the left section of the yard.

  The porch door opened and Eric Garfield stepped out as she swung open the gate. He waited for her and Wolf as she approached the porch.

  He appeared to be just about sixty or so. He had a fine head of almost pure white hair, a lean face that seemed aged by both frown and smile lines, and a tall, lean, still hard-muscled body structure.

  “Beautiful dog,” he told her. “And friendly, of course.”

  She smiled. “Unless you attack me, he is a sweetie. Say hello, Wolf.”

  Wolf woofed out a greeting.

  “And you’re Danni. Danni Cafferty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on it. You, too, Wolf.”

  She entered the little house.

  “Office, my room, whatever, this side,” Eric Garfield said, indicating a doorway to her right from the entry.

  Danni and Wolf headed into the room.

  It was an amazing place. It was a library, an office—it had a comfortable couch at one end, and a large-screen TV. It also had a desk, piled high with papers.

  The walls were also covered with papers—articles, posters, pictures, and more. Some were on corkboard attached to the walls; some were just taped straight on to the wall itself.

  “Wow!” she murmured.

  “Wow is good,” he told her. “Some people walk in and think, hmm, this guy is sick as hell. But, I guess I am my dad…he passed away about six years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He was ninety—he had a good life. And he gave me one, too. But, yes, like him, I can be damned obsessive. So, anyway, I believe I know where you’re going. I—like anyone who had on a TV or computer or any form of media in the city and beyond—have heard about the murder. And I’d be curious about how the hell you heard about me—except I did know your father.” He was silent for a minute, looking at her. “And, I’ve heard rumors you’re continuing his work, and Michael Quinn is working with you, right?”

  “Yes,” Danni said simply.

  Eric sighed softly. “I’ve been chasing this—like my dad—for a lifetime. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve lived a good life. I was a good cop—solved a lot of bad shit. But, this…there’s something out there. Well, there may be many things out there. But on this…what you’re looking for may well start with that clipping right there. Oh, it’s not original—it’s a copy. I may look old, but, I wasn’t around in 1919 myself. Neither was my dad. Many detectives and armchair sleuths have that letter—or copies of it. And there are lots of theories, some better than others. But, officially, the Axeman of New Orleans was never caught. That, though, is supposedly a copy of a real letter he sent to the Times-Picayune. You’ve heard of the Axeman of New Orleans, right?”

  “Of course. I grew up here,” Danni said. “I need some refreshers on the events, though. I know many people believe the killings might have been mob related—many or most of the victims were Italian, right?”

  “Yes. The first couple killed were Joseph Maggio and his wife, Catherine. They were grocers, and they were killed in their apartment over their grocery store. Their throats were slashed and then their heads were bashed in with an axe—both weapons found at the site. Oh, and the killer left his bloody clothes behind. That wouldn’t have been such a good idea today, but, back then…” His voice trailed and he shrugged. “A month or so later, Louis Besumer and his mistress, Harriet Lowe, were attacked. They survived after the attack, and the papers went wild—but, most people were concerned with the scandal of the mistress bit. Oh, Besumer was a grocer. And Harriett had to have surgery—she died after the surgery, but before she died, she said she suspected Besumer had done it. I’ve never been sure how to figure that fact with Besumer, who had a massive crack in his head—not the kind you give yourself. Besumer was arrested and imprisoned for nine months, but he was acquitted in May of 1919. Next,” Eric continued, “was a twenty-eight-year-old pregnant woman, Mrs. Edward Schneider. She was brutally attacked—but lived to have her baby. Five days later another grocer was attacked—Joseph Romano. His nieces saw the attacker escape, but they couldn’t identify him. He was described as dark-skinned, which could have meant African, Italian, Spanish…I’m not sure. Romano surviv
ed to get to the hospital, but then died.”

  “Did the nieces say anything else?” Danni asked.

  “They said the assailant wore a dark suit and a dark slouched hat,” Eric told her, walking closer and leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I remember there was a song written about the Axeman. A jazz song,” Danni said.

  “Indeed. The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz, Don’t Scare Me, Pap. It was written by Joseph John Davilla. Local publishers.”

  “And the rest of the victims?” Danni asked. “I can’t really see the Italian mob being after a group of grocers.”

  “Maybe they weren’t paying protection,” Eric suggested.

  “Maybe the Axeman had a vendetta for having purchased spoiled veggies,” Danni murmured. “I mean, he went after a pregnant woman, too. Hard to tell how he figured his attacks. Who were the next victims?”

  “Charles, Rosie, and Mary Cortimiglia. They were over in Gretna, across the bridge. Two-year-old Mary was killed in her mother’s arms. Charles and Mary survived; she accused neighbors, a father and son. An old man too feeble to have come through the panel the attacker used—and the son way too big. They went to prison, but Mary recanted—she had accused them out of bitterness, so it seemed—and the two were released. Charles and Mary divorced.”

  “They lost a two-year-old child,” Danni murmured. “They were brutally attacked. Who knows what was going on in the woman’s mind?”

  “Steve Boca, Sarah Laumann, and Mike Pepitone,” Eric said, and Danni knew he had studied the attacks backwards and forwards, and didn’t need to refer to notes. “They were the last attacked by the infamous Axeman. Boca recovered and Laumann recovered. They couldn’t identify their attacker. Pepitone died; his wife saw his attacker fleeing, but, she saw only a large, dark figure. She was left with six children. And the letter—the copy you see on the wall here—was sent in between the Cortimiglia murders and the attack on Boca. Go ahead. Read it.”

  He waited. Danni walked closer to the wall and read.

  “Hell, March 13

  Esteemed Mortal:

  They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.