By Christmas the cold was back, and a chilling wind ripped across the country straight from Canada, blowing over Lake Pontchartrain, dropping the temperatures into the thirties. Combined with the ever-present high humidity, it chilled the bones of men and women living in subtropical New Orleans.
Avery Concannon retired at the end of the year, little more than two weeks before the trial of the decade began in Orleans Parish Criminal Court. Although Jacques Dugas passed No. 40 Basin Street at least six times a day, checking the sporting women out on the front porch when the weather occasionally moderated, he never saw Marie Adams.
* * * *
Monday, 16 January 1888
According to the three English language newspapers Dugas usually read, along with the French L'Abeille, the first carnival ball that year had been quite a success, the masque ball of Twelfth Night Revelers at the French Opera House ushering in the Mardi Gras season on January sixth. The great tragedienne Clara Morris concluded a most successful run at the St. Charles Theatre, while Modjeska stirred theatergoers in Camille with Maurice Barrymore as Armand. Such national luminaries had to share journalistic attention with the two most talked-about New Orleanians of the new year—Crimson Kate and Pierre Troisville.
The crescendo culminated with lavish cartoons adorning the front pages, Troisville depicted as a studious man with horn-rimmed glasses, dropping a book to reach a hand out toward a scantily clad Crimson Kate; Troisville strolling down Basin Street while Crimson Kate sticks a naked leg out to trip him; and the most salacious, a half-page depiction of No. 40 Basin Street engulfed in the fires of Hades as it draws men and women into the fiery pit.
Captain Gray held up that particular front page to Dugas as he arrived outside the courtroom on the day of the trial. Gray smirked. “Came out yesterday morning and last night No. 40 had a line outside waiting turn."
Marie stood at the rear of the group of women waiting by the courtroom door. She turned to Dugas as he approached, a sad smile coming to her face. In a sky-blue dress, two matching blue ribbons in her long hair pinned back on the sides with blue barrettes, her face was not painted, only a hint of red lipstick on those full lips. She was the same ... no ... her eyes had changed. The youthful gleam of anticipation, of innocence, was replaced by a knowing maturity. She was such a beautiful woman, Dugas felt his heart pounding as he stopped two feet from her.
"Why, monsieur, you still take a girl's breath away in your crisp uniform."
Dugas just stared into her eyes. He hoped his eyes were saying what he could not, that at an elemental level their eyes were speaking, but the moment ended with a bustling of the crowd behind him.
Pierre Troisville, resplendent in all white, was led by attorney Alfred Gastinel in a light blue seersucker suit, a most distinguished criminal attorney, according to the Louisiana Gazette. They breezed through the gathered and strolled into the courtroom. Gray led the police contingent, three of his bulls as well as Dugas, to the right side of the courtroom, while Marie and the women went to sit on the left side of the room, which became immediately crowded.
District Attorney Ellis Finney, short and heavyset, with a full stock of silver hair, wore a light gray suit and red tie. Judge Roman addressed the jury of twelve men, which had been impaneled the previous day, warning them of the salacious information forthcoming in this case and advising them to quit reading the newspapers and forget what they'd read. As if that would work.
The first witness was the Orleans Parish coroner, Dr. LeMonnier, who described the wounds on Kate's body. He examined the bowie knife, confirming it as the probable murder weapon.
Dugas was the second called to the stand. He searched the audience and found Marie in the second row.
After stating his name and rank, his deep voice echoing through the hushed courtroom, Dugas told what he'd seen upon arriving at No. 40 Basin Street, describing the scene in minute detail.
"The deceased lay on her back,” Dugas began, “across her four-post bed, her head hanging over the side. Her nightclothes were ripped and gashes were visible on her body.” He described the sea of blood glistening on the hardwood floor beneath the bed.
"The rest of the room,” Dugas was quick to add at the end of the description, “was not disturbed."
Finney brought sheets of paper to Dugas and asked him to identify them. It was Fancy Laval's statement. Dugas was asked to read it aloud and did, giving the court Laval's claim to have heard a “blood-curling” scream, which drew him to Madame's room. Finding Monsieur Pierre Troisville rushing from the room, they collided, at which time Troisville produced a large knife and cut Laval's left arm. Laval saw the victim on her bed, pursued Troisville, and caught him on the back porch, where Troisville slashed his other arm. Laval struggled for the knife with the big man, cutting Troisville, who dropped the knife, kicked Laval and got away. Laval tried to go up to check on Madame Kate, but did not make it past the kitchen, where he stopped to stem the flow of blood from his arms.
Dugas finished reading and added, “And that was where I found him."
Finney was finished with him.
Alfred Gastinel, tugging down his suit vest as he rose, began his cross-examination with, “So you took no statement from Mr. Troisville, is that correct?"
"He spoke to me."
Gastinel was surprised.
"Did he make a statement to you?"
"He said he was Pierre Troisville. That was just before he fell."
"Fell?"
"On the steps outside No. 40 Basin Street. Shortly before noon. He pushed his way through the crowd, raised a bloody hand, and said he was Pierre Troisville."
"And what did you do?"
"I watched him faint, fall back on top of some reporters."
Snickers echoed in the courtroom. Judge Roman lifted his gavel but didn't bang it as silence returned.
"But you did speak with Francois Laval on the day in question."
Dugas said nothing and Gastinel quickly turned it into a question.
"Yes,” Dugas answered.
Gastinel took in a breath and said, “I tender the witness."
Dismissed but instructed not to leave the courtroom, Dugas went back to sit with the coppers as Lieutenant Gray took the witness stand. His direct testimony was concise. Gastinel tried to chip away at Troisville's confession, but Gray could not be moved from stating—he faced the jury when he spoke—how Troisville lied, first accusing Laval, then suddenly confessing and only as what seemed an afterthought, claiming self defense.
Gastinel seemed exasperated and gave up as the district attorney continued with his case, illustrating with witnesses and documents how Pierre Troisville profited financially from his association with the victim, and yes, how they argued and how he beat Kate, causing severe injuries.
The verdict seemed assured, thought Dugas, as the third day of trial began, but that was before Alfred Gastinel wove his intricate web of confusion, portraying Pierre Troisville as a dedicated Jesuit brother seduced into a life of debauchery by the infamous Crimson Kate. Troisville's frail mother took the stand, followed by a Jesuit priest and the auxiliary bishop of New Orleans, who attested to Troisville's character as an educator, bemoaning his fall into sin. Troisville was a good-natured good fellow without a temper. Apparently the city's new archbishop Francis Janssens didn't know Troisville, for which Dugas felt certain the city's top cleric was grateful.
When Auxiliary Bishop Pency described Crimson Kate as a spawn of Lucifer, the D.A. objected twice. “Kate's father was a deacon at Trinity Lutheran Church in New York City for the last twenty years of his life."
"I meant that in a spiritual sense,” Pency explained, to which Judge Roman gently reminded the cleric this was a court of law and no place for speculation as to the works of Lucifer.
The next witness was Guido Pizini, owner of Pizini's Restaurant of Rampart Street, who testified of two incidents involving Kate and Troisville. On both occasions Kate was drunk, and attacked Troisville after hours of quarreling
.
"Si,” said the Italian, “she was always the aggressore."
Aggressor. As if Gastinel hadn't suggested that word to Pizini.
Three further witnesses came forward to paint stories of Crim-son Kate's violent temper. Finally, on Friday, Gastinel brought the trial to its climax by putting the defendant on the stand. Through tears, Pierre Troisville told of his tortured life, of his dedication to holy mother the church to his falling into sin with a most irresistible seductress. He tried, oh how he tried, to resist, but the flesh was weak.
Troisville told of the fateful morning, of Kate's tantrum, accusing him of keeping another woman, a quadroon of all things, in a shanty in Treme. When he denied the accusation, Kate came at him with the bowie knife she kept under her pillow. Troisville broke down twice, but managed to get through his story.
District Attorney Feeney went on the attack immediately on cross-examination, getting Troisville to admit to lying to Lieutenant Gray, admit his gambling and shylocking, and tell how he'd managed to amass sixty-two thousand dollars in three banks in the short years since his fall into sin. Troisville should have been on the stage, thought Dugas, as the man admitted his failings and seemed almost sympathetic, until Feeney asked about one Mollie Johnson.
Troisville became pale and evasive.
Feeney held up papers. “According to police records, you were arrested for the rape of Mollie Johnson last year, is that not so?"
Gastinel immediately objected and the judge took the attorneys into his chambers.
Dugas, sitting in back of the courtroom, sought out Marie's attention, but she didn't look around. Francois Laval did in his position behind the women of No. 40 Basin Street. His eyes met Dugas's and he shook his head.
Lieutenant Gray also shook his head. “It'll come to nothing, this Mollie Johnson incident."
"Why not?"
"She died of typhus shortly after, and the coppers who worked the case are no longer around to testify. Feeney just wanted to get it in front of the jury."
Feeney succeeded, only to have Judge Roman instruct the jury to disregard the information, since it could not be substantiated. Dugas hoped the jury had seen the guilt on Troisville's face.
* * * *
Monday, 23 January 1888
Closing arguments commenced at ten A.M., with D.A. Feeney painstakingly laying out the facts of the case, telling the jury it must “disregard emotions, disregard sympathy and stick to the facts of the case."
"Pierre Troisville stabbed Kate Kilcooley Jones to death.” He pointed out the disparity in their sizes, Kate a thin woman of one hundred and ten pounds and Troisville, six feet, four inches tall and weighing two hundred eighty pounds. “He was more than twice her size.” Feeney pointed out the depth of the wounds in Kate's body, the huge bowie knife sunk to the hilt.
"Where is the self-defense in eleven stab wounds? If he slashed her once or twice, as he did Francois Laval, who stands five feet, two inches and weighs one hundred and thirty pounds, if he was able to escape Laval by slashing the man, why not with Kate? Why not? Because he murdered her with malice and unimaginable force.” Feeney moved to the prosecution's table and picked up Kate's chemise, held it up for the jury to see the rips and the blackish bloodstains.
"This was a frenzied attack. A most vicious murder!"
Gastinel chose to smokescreen the law, reading from the criminal code the definition of murder, justifiable homicide, excusable homicide, and self-defense. He laid out Troisville's life for them again and culminated with a simple statement, “If you truly believe Pierre Troisville killed Kate, then where was the malice, where was the premeditation? The district attorney keeps screaming murder when he should be begging you to find a lesser degree of homicide, while I simply ask what would you do in Troisville's place? This is a case of self-defense, not just for a man's life, but for the life, the sacred soul of our city, lest we all are pulled into the pit of sin that is Basin Street."
Feeney had the last word with the jury, as custom, but his re-hashing of the prosecution's case lacked fire. Dugas sought out Marie again in the hall after the jury was sent to deliberate, but the women rushed off for lunch. Gray led the coppers to a nearby tavern They'd just finished eating when a bailiff came in and announced the jury had returned.
The courtroom was crowded, walls lined with standing people. Dugas watched the jury file in, held his breath as the verdict was read. It took a full second to register and the crowd gasped in unison.
"Not guilty."
Troisville, who'd been standing, collapsed into his chair. The sound of rushing feet as the newsmen scrambled out of the room was soon drowned out by the sobbing of women. Gray put a hand on Dugas's shoulder as both men stood.
"Justice isn't just blind,” Gray said. “She's deaf, dumb, and downright insane sometimes.” He led the way out with his bulls. Dugas did not follow. He waited as the curious eased out, watching the women of Basin Street, finally spotting Marie standing next to Kate's sister. Marie turned his way as he crept up the aisle against the throng.
Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes shimmered at him.
A quick movement caught Dugas's attention as a figure lunged at Troisville, now coming down the aisle. Francois Laval sank a large kitchen knife into Troisville's heart before anyone could move. Troisville looked down at the knife, quivered, and fell flat on his back.
The crowd separated, but Laval did not move. Screams bounced off the hard walls. Dugas stepped quickly up the open aisle and took Laval's arm. It was only after he'd manacled Laval's hands behind the man's back did the piano player seem to notice Dugas.
Ashen-faced, Laval looked at Dugas for a long moment before he said, “I loved her more than my life."
* * * *
Tuesday, 31 January 1888
Although the hoopla surrounding the trial died down in the following week, business along Basin Street increased dramatically, as Basin became one of the first streets to get electric streetlights. The brothels glowed inside with radiant luster, echoing with vibrant music and raucous laughter from dusk to the gray dawn.
Dugas and his new partner, Lenny Lonegan, a burly man with a handlebar mustache and an Irish temper that solved many of the problems the duo encountered now on the evening watch, saw a dramatic increase of foot traffic along the street.
It wasn't long before rumors of apparitions echoed through the taverns as tales were told of gentlemen running from No. 40 Basin Street, most partially clothed, babbling about seeing Crimson Kate in her bloody white chemise. Some of the men were never the same, as the stories went.
Dugas thought of Marie often, wanting to pause at Kate's mansion and inquire of her, but that wasn't done on Basin Street. He hoped to see her out on the steps, but the fine ladies of No. 40 Basin Street rarely sat on the steps, as the ones at the end of Basin, showing their wares to attract customers. He thought of paying for an afternoon with Marie, taking her to dinner, strolling with her through the Quarter, but that would be more than three months’ salary.
Sometimes at night, he thought of Marie's eyes and the fine lines of her face. But slowly the image faded, replaced by dreams of Kate gliding across her bedroom floor in her bloody chemise, arms outstretched to him. He hoped her ghost was haunting her mansion, embedding icy fear in the hearts of the men who came for the pleasures of the flesh.
* * * *
Monday, 27 February 1888
Someone was out on the steps at one A.M. Dugas crossed Basin Street to No. 40 and saw it was Callie in her red tignon, her legs pulled up to her chest, her face buried in a kerchief as she cried. Lonegan huffed impatiently as Dugas went up to sit next to Callie.
"What is it?” he asked.
She looked at him, shook her head, and cried into the kerchief. He put his hand gently on her shoulder. “Callie. It's Officer Dugas. What's the matter?"
The door opened and Dugas looked up to see Dr. Veasey step out with his bag. The doctor adjusted his derby as Dugas stood and asked, “What is it
, doctor?"
Veasey seemed to notice Dugas for the first time. He took in a deep breath and said, “The word will get out soon enough. We must quarantine this place."
"Why?"
Veasey leaned closer and said, “Influenza."
* * * *
Monday, 5 March 1888
They buried Marie Adams and two other girls from No. 40 Basin Street on Lundi Gras, the day before Mardi Gras. Jacques Dugas, in a new black suit, stood behind the mourners, up on the steps of a nearby sepulchre as the coffins were slid into the oven tombs next to Crimson Kate's.
It was a bright, crisp morning with billowy clouds in the brilliant blue sky whose color wasn't half as pretty as Marie's eyes. Black birds squawking in the background. Dugas imagined they protested the death of such beauty. He'd kept himself in check through the funeral, even while alone the previous evening after he'd learned of her death. But standing in the bright sunlight, he felt a tear roll down his face, felt his heart beating louder and louder.
It wasn't the short life of Marie Adams that drew the tears. It was for what might have been.
Copyright (c) 2008 O'Neil De Noux
* * * *
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Fiction: SUICIDE BLONDE by Brian Thornton
Eddie opened his front door in response to my knock. “Murph!” he exclaimed. “Thank God!"
I took off my hat as I pushed past him and looked around the one-bedroom that my boss rented in Eddie's name. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I caught the overly sweet “day after” scent a guy gives off when he's processing alcohol out of his system. Living in Vegas, it's a smell you get used to pretty fast.
Eddie's home bore any number of the hallmarks of bachelorhood: Piles of laundry flung carelessly about, dirty dishes everywhere except in the sink. The view and the smell combined to leave a distinct impression of the place, and of the man who lived there. My client.
AHMM, November 2008 Page 13
