When I see fit, I shall come and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to not only amuse me, but His Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don't think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.
Undoubtedly, you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night [March 19, 1919}, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:
I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain and that is that some of your people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.
Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and it is about time I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy.
The Axeman
“Do you think the letter was really from the Axeman?” Danni asked.
“I actually do. The fellow sounds sick as all hell. Nothing was ever stolen. And there were many Italians in the city, but I don’t believe there was a mob connection. Everything was ransacked when the killer could, he left behind bloody clothing…I think that…”
He paused.
“Yes?” Danni said softly.
“I think that, like his letter suggests, he was just evil. Whether related to the damned devil or not, he was just evil.”
She looked at him. “I read about later murders you and your dad investigated.”
He nodded. “Murders—attacks—committed ala the Axeman. Maybe committed by a descendent? Most scholars and crime writers—and even fiction writers—seem to think the murders were committed by a man named Momfre or Monfre or some configuration of the name. It’s possible he did have descendants and those descendants…”
“Descendants what?”
Eric shrugged, as if very careful about what he was going to say. “Maybe a man’s descendants can inherit his evil. And maybe…lord knows, I don’t! Maybe he sold his soul to the damned devil, or some such thing. That, of course, is not an official statement.”
“Evil exists,” Danni said softly. She kept her hand on Wolf’s head; Eric seemed like a very decent man.
But there were papers and posters and articles referring to gruesome murders everywhere.
She was safe, of course. She had Wolf. And this man just might have answers or, at the least, clues to give them.
“Where did the ‘beasts’ come into it all?” she asked, aware her voice was barely a whisper.
“Ah!” His eyes brightened. “That’s an aspect my dad investigated and, in a way—a very strange way—he might have found an answer.” He hesitated again. “Truth is what we believe to be true—almost the same as…well, something really being true. Anyway, my dad did find something.”
“Please!” Danni said softly.
He was still a minute. Then he said, “You are Angus’s daughter. You won’t think I’m…crazy.”
“No, sir, I will not,” Danni said.
He took another minute.
“Very well, then. I’ll show you what my father found.”
Chapter 4
Quinn had Larue drop him at Danni’s house on Royal Street so he could pick up the car. He also wanted to check in with Billie and Danni—if she was there. He doubted she was. He had learned he couldn’t shadow Danni as if he were an over-protective hen, but, then again—he loved her. That made it hard. He had friends that were couples also, who were cops, or both with the FBI—and they made it.
And he knew he and Danni would, too.
Though he couldn’t control his feelings, he could control his actions.
He went through the front of the house, the business entry, into the shop—The Cheshire Cat. Bo Ray Tompkins was there, just as he should have been, weaving between customers. Clean and sober, he was a cheerful looking young man with a quick smile and easy way. He was great with their clientele, which, at the moment, was booming.
After all, it was Halloween week. The place was packed.
Bo Ray nodded to him and grinned; all was good.
Of course, it was. Angus had kept a good shop, and so did Danni. She was an excellent buyer—and she kept the shop intriguing, if not quite as intriguing as the basement!
She was a fine artist herself and sold a lot of her own sketches and paintings—and artwork by friends in the local community as well. She also found the most unusual and fun and/or interesting pieces of jewelry, clothing, and other knickknacks. The place was decorated with a number of antique pieces—benign pieces—and reproduction pieces that were high end and ever-changing when someone wanted to purchase something so unusual. But Danni was never in a hurry to sell the pieces, and while awaiting the right buyer, they gave the shop its character, and those included a Victorian coffin—filled with fun and unusual pendants, bracelets, and more. An Egyptian sarcophagus stood near the counter, and in October, it was kept slightly open, had shelves inside, and offered little pumpkins and other such paraphernalia.
Bo Ray left people admiring one of Danni’s pieces—a charming oil painting of a black cat with huge gold eyes sitting in a field of flowers—and came to him.
“All is well here?” Quinn asked him.
“All going well. Danni will be happy—she bought some cute little semi-precious jewelry pieces from a local artist and they’re going like hotcakes. Oh, and someone stopped by with some little pumpkins they want us to take on. Told them I had to wait for the owner on that. But, in here, all is well. Crazy good business during Halloween.”
“Great,” Quinn said. “Billie here? Danni?”
“Danni and Wolf left on foot. Billie just went down the street for a minute—to see Natasha.” He glanced around the shop and then looked at Quinn and lowered his voice and said, “The murder in the Garden District, huh?”
“Yes. Nothing unusual has gone on here, right?”
Bo Ray shook his head. “Not that I know about, but…Billie wanted to see if Natasha had anything to offer on the subject.”
“Thanks,” Quinn told him. “If anything—”
“I’ll call you right away.”
Quinn nodded and headed through the door marked “Employees Only” and through the hall that led to the stairways, the studio, and the kitchen and to the courtyard and garage. They had a good thing going here; the house was one of the few to survive the fires that had ravaged New Orleans in 1788 and 1794, and it was very old and very well constructed—and beautiful. Billie McDougall and Bo Ray had their apartments up in the attic; he and Danni had the second floor for their personal space, and there was also room for guests when need be.
He paused, glancing into Danni’s studio. He’d never quite figured out just what talent it was—perhaps it was even the power of suggestion. But, Danni sometimes “sleep-painted.” And those paintings often offered them an insight into what was going on. He walked in and gl
anced at her easel. On the canvas, she was working on a witch standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch. A pretty witch, young, with a sweet smile, and dazzling little glitter-like sparks falling from her fingers.
He left the studio and headed on out to the courtyard, the garage, and the car.
Before hopping in, he called Danni.
She answered immediately.
He made himself speak casually. “How’s it going?”
“I may be on to something; Eric is great.”
“Always a good cop; tell him I say hello.”
“I think you’re going to need to see him yourself,” Danni told him.
“Okay, I want to stop by Horrible Hauntings, and then check on Sean and Casey…and maybe get a minute to see friends of theirs—a couple. Chrissy Monroe and Gill Martin. The two had been at the house right before Casey stumbled on the body. Anything you want to tell me?”
“Yes, there’s something all right, but…I’m still going through it all with Eric. Want to meet me here when you’re done?”
“Sure… where?”
She gave him the address. He committed it to memory.
“Danni.”
“Yes.”
“Be careful.”
“You, too.”
They ended the call.
It was now early evening; the streets were growing busy. Some people were in costume, some were not, and many were already carrying the plastic containers that held the special drinks advertised by so many of the clubs and bars.
He chaffed; it took time to get out of the French Quarter.
He headed to the CBD, anxious to get to Horrible Hauntings, see what was there, and have a bit of a chat with the night manager, Ned Denton.
The old warehouse in the CBD wasn’t far; it had long been rented out as a venue for parties, and this year, the building had been open as a Halloween haunted house since early mid-September. Quinn had heard it was good. Jeff Abernathy apparently paid his workers well, from those in construction and design to those working as “scare actors” in the venue. Still…
By the time he parked the car, it was getting dark. He was good at maneuvering the streets of New Orleans—the city had been his home, he’d been born and bred here.
But, Halloween was crazy. And parking was a nightmare.
He’d meant to just buy a ticket and go on in and survey the place a bit himself, but, even on a Tuesday night, the lines wrapped around the back. He found a security guard and introduced himself; the guard, like the rest of the city, had heard about the murders. He introduced himself as an investigator and friend, and the security guard slipped him on in through one of the employee entrances.
Like most such venues, the “horror rooms” were backed by dimly lit hallways for workers and security to utilize; they walked along one such hallway and came to a door that opened into a well-lit, make-shift office. There was a bank of screens there showing the various areas of the haunted venue, along with a desk, computer, and chairs.
Ned Denton was seated behind the desk.
He rose, surprised, but not dismayed, when he saw Quinn.
“Mr. Quinn, hello. How can I help you?” he asked.
“Sorry to bother,” Quinn said.
“Not at all. I spend most of my time watching those screens—there’s an asshole in every crowd. Some jerk who thinks it will be fun to mess with the actors and show off for his friends, or scare a girlfriend into a panic or some such thing. And, of course, just check the robotronics and all are working. Sit…and excuse me. I will be paying attention. Just watching the screens as well.”
“Thank you.” Quinn took a chair. He glanced at the screens. There were twelve of them; twelve themed areas were connected by hallways. For the most part, people seemed to be following along the route through it all just fine. Actors emerged from designated spots to pop up and scare people; motion-activated mannequins and more popped up as people walked by. People, startled, screamed delightedly. Some laughed uneasily. Some moved slowly—some hurried through.
“What can I do for you?” Denton asked.
“I was trying to find out if anything strange has gone on here at all.”
Denton leaned back, letting out a long sigh “Strange, strange as hell what happened at Casey’s and Sean’s place. I know I saw Jimmy now and then…saw him on Magazine Street. I went over this afternoon when Sean called me—he didn’t want Casey alone and he knew I’d be off during the day.” He hesitated. “Of course, the body was gone, but, I never went outside. Everything I know, I know from what Casey and Sean told me.”
“Sure. Anything strange happening here, though?”
“Besides the coffin in our autopsy room not popping open?” Denton asked.
“Anything at all that makes you worry…about an employee, an object…”
“An object?”
“Something might have been sabotaged in any way,” Quinn said.
“Oh. No.” Denton was quiet a minute. “Except for that coffin. It was working perfectly when we opened. Oh, we open at seven; I’m usually here by six. I was a little late today…you know. Sean and Casey…anyway, I guess that was it. The coffin. But, sometimes, anything mechanical can go whacky. But…”
“Can I see the coffin?” Quinn asked him.
“Now?”
“I know the place is busy, and, I’m sorry, but…”
Denton frowned. “You think someone might have purposely rigged the coffin so we’d call Sean in to work and…” His voice trailed.
“We eliminate everything,” Quinn said.
Denton nodded. “Just let me call one of the security guys. Uh—there will be people in the room. Could you throw on a worker’s executioner cloak and look like you’re just…I don’t know, checking out the condemned or something?”
“Sure,” Quinn told him.
“I’ll just get someone else in here,” Denton said.
He picked up his phone and made a quick call; a security officer came in and Denton thanked him. He opened a cabinet door and came out with two cloaks.
He donned one and gave Quinn the other. They looked like medieval knight capes, and they were easy to slip on.
Quinn wasn’t much in a costume mood, but…
They walked along one of the dark back hallways that had nothing but auxiliary lighting. Then they came to a makeshift doorway. Denton opened it and they slipped in.
The room was set up as if they were in a castle courtyard; false, aged brick lined the area, and there was a scaffold with a dummy and a slew of waiting coffins. An actor—an executioner—stood atop the scaffold, inviting visitors to come up to his “block,” which, of course, was covered in stage blood.
He wielded an axe.
“Rubber!” Denton assured him in a whisper.
People were passing through. The actor was teasing and taunting them.
“Ah, fear not, I’ve help!” he said, “there will be executioners a-plenty, should my arm tire! You there—you! I can see you’re guilty of the greatest heresy! Come, come!”
A girl screamed, and hurried on by—followed by her grinning boyfriend.
“There,” Denton told Quinn.
He pointed to a plain and simple coffin—the type that might be used for a heretic or a traitor sometime back in history.
“See to it!” Quinn announced. “See to the executioners, for the coffin will be waiting!”
He walked to the coffin. As he did so, the lid popped open. A decaying corpse sat up.
“There! There lies the destiny of all traitors and heretics!” he proclaimed.
That got him to the coffin. The visitors paused to watch his bit of play--which was not what he intended. Under these circumstances, it was difficult to test the mechanism. But, kneeling down by the little ledge on which it was placed, he could see there was a sensor—it had opened when he’d come near. He looked at the latches and the sensor and noted there was still a bit of fluff—fluff from one of the very cloaks he was wearing—stuck to one of the latches
.
He didn’t have gloves or an evidence bag. That wouldn’t have mattered; the cloak here might have been worn by dozens of people and touched by dozens more. He simply took the fluff—and slid it beneath his cloak and into his pocket.
He stood quickly and roared out, “There lies your fate!”
He headed back for the door by which he had entered. Ned Denton followed him.
“Hey, you’re great!” Denton told him. “If you ever feel like you’d want to be a scare actor for a bit, please, let us know!” he said, leading the way back to the office.
When they reached it, he paused, shaking his head and frowning. “Sorry, did that help you any?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But, thank you. For your time, and for allowing me such easy access.”
“No problem. It all seems so strange right now. Doing this…scaring people. When last night…a man was really murdered.” He shuddered slightly. “Anything I can do, please, just let me know.”
Quinn thanked him.
When he reached the car, he was glad he was headed up to a residential area—where throngs of people weren’t oblivious to automobiles and it was easy enough to actually just drive.
He was anxious to see Danni—and anxious to discover what Eric Garfield might have to tell them.
But, first, he had to take a ride and see Sean DeMille.
***
“1942. Her name was Gretchen Amory. She was arrested after she came to the police station and claimed she needed help. Her husband had been murdered. The police went out to the site where she claimed she’d seen his body—and it was gone. The husband, Nathan Amory, was a soldier. He never reported back to base; he was going to be deployed. Now, many people believed the man was just a coward—and disappeared so as not to have to go to war. But, if so, his wife surely never knew anything about it. She raised her children and lived to the ripe old age of seventy without ever seeing her husband again, and she swore he’d been murdered in the swamp,” Eric told Danni.
She was seated at his desk then, going through paper files.
Big Easy Evil Page 5
