Thrill Kill

by Don Bruns

  ‘I’ll try to drop off a can of Chill this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Anything, anything at all would be appreciated.’

  ‘I’ll do all I can, Detective. And I’ll probably give it to Ma. Let her handle it, feel it. I know deep down that she still has the touch. She still communicates with spirits, quietly, deep inside her mind.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Archer turned to leave and heard the soft whisper, a voice he didn’t recognize. One word.

  ‘Q.’

  He spun around but the old woman had lost her focus and was staring at the ceiling.

  NINE

  The fifth killing took place on Canal Street that night during one of the biggest parades. Throngs of people lined the street as the lighted floats passed by. A paddle steamer sailed along the designated route, its wheel churning and puffs of white vapor drifting skyward from its smokestack. The boat was followed by a pirate ship complete with billowed sails and pirates with scarved heads and patches over one eye who tossed throws to the assembled rowdies. The next float featured a fire-breathing dragon snorting as flames shot from its nose. As the crowds oohed and awed and dived for the cheap souvenirs that were tossed from the float, someone shoved a knife blade under the breastbone of a bystander, working it under his ribcage and into the heart. The killer caught the lifeless body in his arms and gently laid him on the ground.

  There were dozens of law enforcement officers monitoring the parade, thousands of people with cell phone cameras snapping lasting memories, yet no one saw a thing. The victim appeared to be just another drunk passed out on the sidewalk. But when a beat cop almost stumbled over the body, he nudged it with his foot. That’s when he saw the blue can of Chill and the thick pool of blood. That’s when all hell broke loose.

  Krewe Bachus was incensed when two state troopers, sirens wailing and lights flashing on their cars, pulled across Canal Street, stopping the parade dead in its tracks. Members of the organization screamed their protests and a rowdy group stormed the troopers’ cars. A large crowd assembled quickly and became unruly, almost riotous, as dozens of uniformed patrolmen surrounded the murder scene. The mob pushed and shoved, screaming for the parade to continue. Some of them tried to get close to the crime scene, throwing beads and doubloons at the officers. The smart ones tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the parade. It was evident that whoever committed the murder had moved on, blending in with the group pouring out of the neighborhood.

  A belated canvass of those that stayed in the vicinity proved nothing. Was it a copycat murder? Was it one that made no sense, with no correlation to anything else, or was it tied to one of the other victims? Due to the press coverage, everyone in New Orleans knew about the Chill thrill kills, and any killing with the blue can appearing at the site would be counted. Still the question remained, why the can of Chill in the first place?

  The can had been fingerprinted. The gas had been sampled and the aluminum swabbed for DNA. The Chill thrill kills were number one on the priority list, in a city where a new priority developed seemingly every two or three hours. They moved fast on this one.

  The victim was identified as Trevor Parent, an attorney from the Garden District. He had handled adoptions for people who had the fifteen to twenty-five thousand dollars to spend on finding a US newborn baby to be a part of their family. Foreign kids, forty thousand or more. American kids, foreign kids it made no difference. Parent made a small fortune hooking up babies with couples who felt they couldn’t live without a child. The man’s name had been in the papers recently regarding his relationship with the Cuban government. Parent was setting up a US facility that handled Cuban children. Now that relationships were normalizing with the southern neighbor, there was a wealth of opportunity. He’d been involved in mediating the adoption of children from Ecuador, and now with US–Cuban relations easing he intended to take full advantage of that prospect. Until tonight. His window of opportunity had slammed shut rather abruptly.

  The attorney was a forty-two-year-old scumbag. If he saw an opening he took it. If there was a chance to make a buck at the expense of needy couples or children who were in limbo, he jumped at it. Trevor Parent was a player in the trafficking of humans, and not just a player. He was a game changer. His Cuban connection was extensive, if not exactly legal, and legitimate adoption agencies were crying foul when they found out how his operation worked. All the same, a lot of his connections seemed to be with friendly politicians. Congressmen, senators, commissioners, council members who, it was rumored, possibly shared in his wealth. It was strictly rumor. A Parent who helped other people become parents. A strange twist of fate.

  Levy met Archer at a coffee shop on Severn Street in Metairie. The Morning Call was open twenty-four hours, and being thirty minutes from the Quarter, Levy suggested the location, halfway between his home and Archer’s.

  ‘Another Chill kill,’ Archer said, checking his watch. Nine p.m. ‘This guy made some enemies, but was it random or does it tie into the other murders?’

  ‘How many cases are you handling at this moment?’ Levy sipped the dark coffee.

  ‘I’m not even sure. Why?’

  ‘Solve this one, Q, and you won’t have another one tomorrow and the next day and the next. At least it won’t be a killing with a Chill can involved. This is a serial killer and it doesn’t stop till somebody finds the reason why. Why are the murders happening and why is the can showing up?’

  ‘I keep thinking that it’s more than one person. The MO isn’t the same. Some are shot, some are knifed. And not even knifed or shot in the same way. The gangbanger took multiple stab wounds, so did the bank teller. This guy, a single wound to the heart.’

  ‘The councilman took a knife to the heart.’ The low hanging ceiling fan spun lazily over their table and Levy shook powdered sugar over his beignet. He took a bite, slowly chewing it. ‘You’ve been over the backgrounds of each individual. None of them are similar.’ Wiping his mouth with his hand, he continued. ‘You’ve looked at the locations of the killings. One is rather puzzling, but the others are in different sectors of the city. First, think about why there would be random killings. There are reasons for murder. A jealous lover, like my case yesterday. Then there’s money. Someone either wants the vic’s money or thinks the vic wants theirs. Revenge. The killers believe they have been singled out and they want payback, like Columbine. Religious zealots, who think they have been called upon to murder the infidels.’

  ‘And then there are those who are just batshit crazy. The guy dressed like the joker who mowed down a theater crowd. The guy who killed all those partiers at the gay club in Orlando. We’ve had dozens of those,’ Archer said, shaking his head. ‘They are breeding a different type of criminal, Levy. There used to be reasons behind murder. Now …’

  ‘None of these seems to fit.’

  The two were silent for a moment, contemplating the situation.

  Finally Archer spoke. ‘You’re right, Josh. There’s a common reason. The vics may not be tied together but there’s a reason that the Chill can still pops up.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Archer sipped his tea, watching a young couple cuddling at a table across the room. The intimacy distracted him. Thinking of Denise, the kiss from Alexia Chantel and his feelings about Solange Cordray.

  ‘Q?’

  ‘Yeah. What if there are two whys?’

  ‘You’re losing me.’

  ‘We’ve alluded to this. Maybe there are two reasons for people being killed.’

  ‘Still with that one common theme? The can of gas?’

  ‘Someone will have a reason to kill random victims. I don’t know what it is, but there’ll be a reason. Then someone else has a reason to kill people who are connected to each other: maybe they were in a financial scheme together, but whatever it was, this person, to hide the underlying scheme, uses Chill to blend in. Make it look like it was part of the random killings.’

  ‘We’ve considered that and maybe that’s it, they’re u
sing the canned gas as a decoy. It’s a thought.’

  ‘It’s as good as anything else we’ve got.’

  ‘Why?’

  Archer shook his head. ‘I don’t know why, but we’d better find out in a hurry. You’re right. This could happen every day unless we find the answer.’

  TEN

  She studied the can at a distance, before finally lifting it off the worn, weathered oak table. ‘This was found last night?’

  ‘During the parade.’

  Brushing back her wiry, coal-black hair, she held the can to her forehead.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Inanimate objects absorb energy, Detective Archer. Therefore, they give off energy. It’s up to us to detect that energy.’

  ‘And how do you do that?’ He studied her figure, her soft shoulders, the swell of her small breasts. He breathed a deep sigh. A major distraction.

  She set the can down. ‘Right now my room is thick with energy. Radio waves, sound waves, that heater, the light, the undetectable tremor of the earth as it rotates. And we are surrounded with spiritual energy. Finally, there’s human energy. Your negative energy when you entered my store.’

  ‘I’m not negative.’ He unfolded his arms and pushed back the wooden spindle chair from the table. Gazing down he was aware of the oiled-wood floor and as his eyes rose he noticed, for the first time, the object in the corner. Just to the right of gris-gris bags and a collection of ointments. A small six-inch statue of a figure in robes stood in the middle surrounded by cut glass or tiny crystals. Sweet-smelling incense burned from a stone basket.

  ‘You are skeptical. That comes off as negative energy.’

  ‘I came to you for help,’ he said. ‘I must have some positive energy to believe you can help me find the killer.’

  ‘It’s up to us, to me, to isolate the energy that comes from this can. And believe me, there is energy coming from this can.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘I believe I can. But once that’s done, I’m not certain it will give you the answers you are looking for.’

  ‘At this point, I’ll take anything.’ He gave her a grim smile.

  ‘I sense your frustration, Detective Archer. If I can help in preventing a murder, of course I will.’

  ‘Do you need to keep the can?’

  ‘Yes. For a day.’

  ‘We’ve taken all the information we needed, fingerprints, DNA samples, but I’ll still need it back.’

  ‘I’ll have it here for pickup tomorrow.’

  ‘Ms Cordray—’

  ‘You can call me Solange.’

  ‘I can, but it’s not entirely comfortable. We don’t know each other that—’

  ‘Detective Archer, we know each other better than either of us will admit.’

  ‘So you can call me Quentin. Or Q.’

  She studied him, a whimsical smile on her lips. ‘And maybe that’s a little too familiar as well. After we get to know each other a little more …’

  ‘Ms Cordray, I look forward to working with you. I trust there won’t be any monetary consideration, because to be frank, the department doesn’t have any money. And if they did, I’m not sure your invoice would be looked on favorably by accounting.’

  ‘No, Detective.’ She laughed. ‘No pay is required.’

  ‘I just saw that sign on your counter, about payment in advance and …’

  ‘If you came to me and asked about love advice, financial advice, then I would obviously charge you.’

  ‘I probably could use advice on all those subjects, but …’

  ‘If you asked me about your family situation, about your brothers and your departed wife …’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I’ve said too much.’

  ‘No.’ He was emphatic. ‘What would you say?’

  ‘I would offer free advice.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Now you’re not so skeptical. You are seeking information on how this chapter in your life will play out, am I right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Here is my advice. Use what you will.’

  Archer nodded.

  ‘You are on the verge of bringing a ton of weight down on a large organization, exposing a number of people to serious charges.’

  ‘I’ve never told you anything about this.’

  ‘No. You said you would like some information on how this will play out. Should I go on, because seriously, you don’t need to know all of this.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Archer said.

  ‘Your life, Detective, is in serious danger. Your family, members of the Detroit police force and prominent figures in the New Orleans City structure are all at odds with what you are attempting to do.’

  ‘So what you’re saying is …’

  ‘What I am saying is there are people who don’t agree with you.’

  ‘Tame words.’

  ‘Yes. They vehemently oppose you. Most of these people are out to get you.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  Solange smiled. ‘Most of it is on the Internet, Detective.’

  ‘The Detroit Free Press did run a series,’ he said.

  ‘But I’ve taken it one step further.’

  ‘One step?’

  ‘While I admit to using a Google search, I have done some consulting with my spiritual guides.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘They agree. On both counts, continue your course. You are on the side of righteousness and you will win in the end.’

  ‘You feel that’s the best advice?’

  She hesitated, again touching the can. ‘No.’

  Archer looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘I don’t understand. You just said …’

  ‘It is the opinion of my spiritual guides. Legba is the god of destiny. I sense he feels it is your destiny to fight the good fight.’ She paused. ‘But I also still feel the negative energy coming back from you, Detective. You’re skeptical.’

  ‘So what are your feelings?’

  ‘Back off of everything,’ she said. ‘You may lose your life if you keep on pursuing these avenues. There is a very good chance.’

  They sat for a moment, studying each other’s face. Finally Archer stood up.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, then?’

  ‘Maybe tonight,’ she said. ‘I hope I can be of some help.’

  ‘Whatever you can suggest will be appreciated.’

  ‘Detective, wait.’

  She walked to a drawer and pulled out a small burlap bag. The bag was tied at the top with a thin rawhide strand. Solange handed him the tiny sack.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Crystals,’ she said. ‘When you go home tonight, scatter them on the floor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They absorb negative energy. There will be a lot of negative energy at your place during the next several weeks.’

  ‘A warning?’

  ‘Yes. You might say that. And add a houseplant or two. You’ll be surprised at the difference it will make. And, Detective, skeptical or not, there’s one more thing you should know.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Legba is the god who opens the gate. The gatekeeper.’

  ‘And why do I need to know that?’ Archer stood in the doorway, sorry to be leaving but anxious to get rid of the tension.

  ‘Legba transitions you from flesh to spirit. He ushers you into the other side.’

  ‘The other side? You mean …’

  ‘He’s the guy you probably should listen to.’

  ELEVEN

  Case Blount shoved down a forkful of spicy red beans and rice, wiping his double chin with the paper napkin on his oversized lap. The hot sauce he’d ladled on the dish made him sweat. The man stared at his buzzing phone, taking a gulp of his NOLA Blond Ale before he answered.

  ‘Charlain, can’t it wait until I’m done with lunch?’ He’d been in the Magazine Street diner for twenty minutes. Couldn’t catch a break. ‘I mean, Jesus.’

  �
�Hey, boss, it’s Manuel. He needs to talk right now.’

  ‘Shit.’ Another swallow of beer. ‘Put him off for an hour.’

  ‘He’s not taking no for an answer.’

  ‘OK.’ Silently he cursed. ‘Put the son of a bitch on. But this had better be good. Damned good.’

  ‘Case?’

  ‘Manny, what the hell is so goddamned important?’

  ‘Trevor Parent is important. I just heard down here. You weren’t going to call and tell me?’

  ‘Pissant adoption attorney gets stabbed. So what?’

  ‘Hold it, Case. You know damned well what’s important. Blake Rains, Trevor Parent, what’s going on, my friend? Bodies are starting to stack up and that doesn’t look good for the operation. And what’s this shit about cans of Chill? You trying to signal there’s a tie in?’

  Blount took a deep breath. Those two boys, Rains and Parent, in some capacity worked for him. Therefore they worked for the syndicate in Ecuador.

  ‘Case?’

  ‘Look, there’s some sort of a turf war going on. Warhead Solja, Nasta Mafia, two of the gangs we rely on for some of our logistics. They run people and supply drugs to some of the girls and—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about a turf war. Don’t tell me about shit like that, you understand? I don’t like it when our guys get hit. Understand, I don’t care that they are dead. I could give a fuck about slimeballs I don’t even know. A dime a dozen, those two. But I do care when someone starts to look into those deaths. There are a lot of people here in Quito who depend on us, Case. A lot of people in NOLA as well. You are aware. You got to stop this shit. Your NOLA police start nosing around and pretty soon our pretty little operation gets blown wide open. You got me?’

  What was the little spic going to do? Fly in from Ecuador and investigate the murders himself?

  ‘I’ll talk to the boys, Manuel. They get a little jealous and want to protect what they’ve got. Understand?’