Mostly Murder

by Linda Ladd

  Claire sat there and remembered her own dead child and what had happened to him and left the comforting to Black. Her own pain overtook her quickly, thinking about her darling Zach, with his blond curls and huge blue eyes and happy laugh. She tried to push it back behind the thick wall she’d constructed to keep herself sane. But this time she couldn’t quite pull it off. Zach had only been two years old when he died in her arms. She shut her eyes and forcibly willed the image out of her head. Oh, God, she still missed him so much. She missed him every time she saw a toddler in a grocery store or heard a lullaby or saw a Pampers commercial or smelled Johnson’s Baby Powder. She would never get over it, never. She clasped her hands tightly together and tried desperately to force down the terrible grief overwhelming her.

  Black said, “He’s a monster, Jack. Rest assured, they’ll get him. Sooner or later, they will get him.”

  “I should’ve believed Jenny when she came to me. I should’ve checked outside because he was out there, in our yard, just waiting for us to go to bed.”

  “Nobody could’ve known your sisters were in danger, not in their own home, in their own beds, on Christmas Eve. Your parents didn’t know, either. Nobody knew. Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. Jack, listen to me—it’s not your fault.”

  Holliday did not respond, but it was easy to see that he was struggling with guilt and remorse, much as Gabe was. All their lives, they’d been affected by the murders in their families, senseless murders committed by the same savage killer. Decent people always blamed themselves. Claire had blamed herself for a lot of things, too, for many years until Black had come along and helped her work through some of it. But not all of it, not all of it.

  Claire hesitated. She took a deep and bracing breath. It was going to take Jack months to come to terms with this horrible crime, maybe even years. She knew that full well. Right now, she needed to tell him what he wanted to hear. The more he heard it, the better off he would be. “Black’s right, Jack. We’re very close to him now. He’s gonna pay for destroying your family. Hear me, Jack? He’s not getting away with it, not anymore. We will get him. He won’t ever do this to another little kid.”

  “I’m going to kill that fuckin’ bastard. I want him dead. That’s all I want. I want him dead. I want to do it myself and make him suffer the way they suffered.”

  “Yeah, we all do,” Black answered in his quiet shrink mode. “But you’re not going after him. Claire is on this case, and she’ll find him. Just give her time, and she will find him.”

  “That’s right, Jack. It’s pretty clear now that this is the same guy who killed Madonna and Wendy, and we’re getting close to him. I can feel it. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Jack’s jaw was clenched tight, his fists were clenched tight, his entire body was clenched tight. Helplessly, they stood by and watched him endeavor to pull himself together and rein in his thirst for vengeance. It took him a while. Both of them stayed with him, but Claire sat there and thought about the beautiful house around them. How it must have looked before, when it had been abandoned and the sadistic killer had kept children in the cellar and brought them upstairs to torment them, maybe in this very room. She could almost see their frightened faces and hear their terrified screams.

  She wondered how many times it had happened throughout all the years gone by. How many little ones had cowered in that root cellar below their feet and heard the monster moving around upstairs and preparing his terrible games? Had he found another lair when Jack’s grandfather had bought this house for his wife? Where was he taking his victims now? Was another child out there somewhere right now, screaming for help in some other dank cellar?

  “I’m going to take them back to Colorado. I want them buried beside our parents.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Black said. “I’ll go with you, if you want. We can take the Lear so you can have complete privacy.”

  More silence ensued, while Jack stared off into space. After a few minutes, he spoke again, and more calmly. “I couldn’t remember exactly where this was, but I finally found it. Maybe it will help you, Claire.”

  Claire realized that he was talking about the book lying in front of him. It was an oversized volume, bound in expensive Moroccan leather, a rich maroon trimmed in gold. A filigree clasp held the pages together. There was no title or author’s name.

  “What is it?”

  “My grandmother commissioned a history of this house when she bought it and began the renovations. Somebody owned this place when he kept them here. If this was where he came to commit his atrocities, somebody connected with this house has got to know something, remember something about him.”

  Claire thought about it a moment. “Yes, and I think Old Nat knows more than we think. I want to question him. He took care of this place for years, as far back as when Gabe’s parents were young. Rene showed me a picture of them sitting out on the front steps, a bunch of kids when they were in high school. He said Old Nat was the one who let them hang around out here.”

  “The old man’s been with my grandmother forever. That’s all I know about him. He keeps to himself.”

  “Does he have a family?”

  “I don’t know. It never mattered to me who took care of this place. He was just here, grandmother’s old caretaker. Eccentric, but harmless. At least, I thought he was.”

  “Is he from around here?”

  “I don’t know where he’s from. Cajun, I guess. Do you really think he could’ve brought other victims out here?”

  “He’s had opportunity and he’s been around for years. He could even be the killer. Or more likely, he could know who the killer is.”

  Black picked up the book and started turning the pages. “It says here that the foundation was laid in the mid-1780s. A Frenchman named Louis Bernard, who was a wealthy sugar planter, built this house for his new bride.” He thumbed farther into the book. “Looks like it survived hurricanes and fires, and was used by Union troops during the Civil War. Okay, here we go. It says it fell into disrepair in the early 1940s, was boarded up and abandoned and then fell into ruin.”

  Claire moved closer and looked over his shoulder. Jack just sat and watched them. “Okay, this looks a lot like the picture at Rene’s house. It shows the front gallery and the steps. This must be how it looked when your grandfather bought the place.”

  “Who did he buy it from?” Claire asked Jack quickly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, somebody felt secure here, comfortable enough to lock up people in the cellar without any fear of getting caught.”

  “Here we go,” Black said, “It says here that Jack’s grandfather bought the property from a French family who moved down to Haiti. Says they just abandoned the house and immigrated to the islands.”

  Black looked down at Jack for a moment. Claire thought Jack looked way too shaky to stick around for this kind of discussion.

  Apparently, Black did, too. “Okay, Jack, you need to go upstairs and lie down. Gabe’s up there. I can give you something to help you rest. Let us handle this for now. When you’re ready, we’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  “No way.”

  Claire frowned, but then she said, “I think everything points to Old Nat. He’s been around for decades, and it sounds like he might’ve been squatting out here until your grandmother hired him on. And he overreacted way too much to my coming up to the house that first night. What was he afraid of? Do you think he’s capable of murder, Jack?”

  “I don’t know him, like I said. He’s always been out here, taking care of things. Just like Yannick’s been doing over on St. Charles Avenue. He does his job, then he goes home, I guess. I don’t keep up with either one of them.”

  “Where does he live?” Black asked.

  “Back behind the property. Down close to the swamp. It’s out in the other direction from the cemetery.”

  Claire said, “I’m going to go down there and talk to him. You two stay here.”<
br />
  “Yeah, right,” said Black.

  Claire didn’t mind Black having her back. He was up to it and fully capable. And always armed, too, at least since he’d met her, which was always a plus. She trusted him implicitly. But Jack. Jack was teetering on the verge of completely falling apart. And he’d already vowed to kill the murderer.

  “You’re way too emotional, Jack. Back off. Leave it to the police.”

  He shook his head.

  Claire tried again. “I think this guy is still killing, Jack. I think he’s trying to manipulate us, right now. I don’t know for sure it’s Navarro, but I think it could be. Whoever he is, he also killed Madonna and Wendy, probably because they got a glimpse of him or heard his voice a long time ago. Like I said before, I need to interview Navarro, and I want to interview Yannick, too. There’s something off with both of those guys.”

  They watched Jack walk to the back window and stare out over the heated swimming pool and winter garden. He spoke with his back to them. “Why now? Why would he start killing his surviving victims now?”

  “It’s like you said. He found out you hired Booker, and the two of you were getting too close to finding him. You talked to Madonna about this, right? Maybe he was afraid she remembered something that incriminated him. He had to feel threatened if he knew you had found her.”

  Claire did not want to wait. They were so close now, she knew it. “Think about it, Jack. Madonna dies, murdered and dumped down there where I recently started working, her tat identifying her as his victim. Then he goes after Wendy, two victims who got away. Then Gabe. All victims of his. Maybe he thought they’d find a way to ID him. He’s clever. He’s gotten by with one murder after the other for years. And he’s still close by. He has to be to know all this stuff.”

  Jack turned around and faced her. “Old Nat’s probably down at his house, right now. I’ll get it out of him. Just give me five minutes alone with him.”

  “Yeah, and don’t you think it’s a little strange that he hasn’t come up here to see what’s going on? With all these police cars and this kind of commotion happening inside the grounds? He’s the caretaker, your security man, for God’s sake. He certainly jumped me and held me at gunpoint when I came out uninvited. So where is he?”

  That did it. “I’m going with you. No, don’t try to stop me, Nick. Nat works for me. He’ll cooperate if I’m the one asking the questions. I can’t sit here and do nothing. I cannot do it, damn it.”

  They didn’t argue this time. Everything he had said was true.

  Jack was chomping at the bit now, something akin to bloodlust in his eyes. “Let’s go. I want this guy.”

  Claire put a halt to that quickly enough. “Zee’s got to come along, and you’ve got to stand back and let us do our job. You don’t have law enforcement credentials, either one of you. Stand back and let us handle it, or stay here. I mean it, both of you.”

  They both nodded agreement, albeit reluctantly. Then they left the house, returned to the crime scene, and picked up Zee. Claire also filled in Sheriff Friedewald, who had just arrived on scene. She told him where they were going, and why, and then asked if he wanted to come along. He okayed bringing Navarro in for questioning, but he elected to stay with Nancy, Ron, and the forensic team as they continued their recovery efforts. Jack stood waiting, with tight lips and tensed muscles, and stared down at the little bones on the evidence paper. Claire looked away from the torn and filthy Rudolph nightgowns, unable to bring herself to think about what might have ultimately happened to Jenny and Jill.

  “Okay, Jack, lead the way. Where’s he live?”

  Jack took off toward the back of the house again, in a big hurry this time, and the rest of them tried to keep up. His strides were long and rushed as he headed past the pool and down through the formal garden behind the house. A bricked pathway meandered to the edge of the woods, and a dirt path brought them back down into the swampland.

  “How far is it?” she asked.

  “Not far. He’s got a shotgun house down here.”

  Zee said, “What’s goin’ on, Claire? Who’s this Navarro guy?”

  She told him the basics and why they wanted to interview him, and Zee frowned but didn’t comment further. When they finally reached the house, it was still fairly early in the morning, and there was plenty of ground fog hugging the path and obscuring their feet. They stopped on a little rise that led up to Old Nat’s house. Zee and Claire pulled their weapons, held them down alongside their legs, ready. Just to be on the safe side.

  Black pulled out his own nine-millimeter semiautomatic from the waistband at the small of his back and shoved a clip home with the palm of his hand like somebody who knew how to handle deadly weapons. And he did. She could attest to it.

  “Better put that down, Black. You have a license to carry in Louisiana, I take it?”

  “You bet I do, and I’m not putting anything down.”

  “Hey, no vigilante stuff is going to go down. You understand that, Black? This isn’t the O.K. Corral. Same for you, Jack.”

  Both men stopped. Both men looked annoyed. They’d worked as a team, all right. Claire took a few minutes and listened and watched for movement around the house. It was a shotgun shanty, which she knew was a structure where the rooms were built in a straight line from front to back, so christened because if you fired a shotgun through the front door, the bullet would exit through the back door. Old Nat Navarro’s home looked to have three rooms, four at the most, and it was built up about four feet off the ground on stilts. It was old and weathered gray with a rusted corrugated gray tin roof.

  Claire turned back to Jack. “If he feels threatened, will he fire on us?”

  “I don’t think he’s here. His truck’s gone.”

  “What kind of truck?”

  “Old model Ford, probably ninety-five, rusted white with a green stripe.”

  “Okay, I’m going first. Get behind me.”

  The men got behind her, if reluctantly. They started up the rise. Bushes and undergrowth crowded their way, and the path forced them to walk single file. It didn’t look like snarky Old Nat had many visitors.

  They stopped again at the edge of the cleared front yard. Claire kept expecting some ferocious guard dog to attack, but all was quiet, peaceful even. They moved cautiously toward the front porch, climbed the rickety steps, and stared down at the big pool of blood on the stoop and the smears indicating something or somebody had been dragged into the house. They faded against the wall on both sides of the door, Black and Claire on the right, Jack and Zee on the left. All of them except for Jack had their weapons held in readiness.

  “Okay, we’ve got blood and drag marks and a possible victim inside. That should give us probable cause. Zee, you take the back and make sure nobody runs for it.”

  She waited while Zee made his way around the side of the shack.

  “Let me do the talking,” Claire said, keeping a watchful eye on Jack. He was definitely the loose cannon at the moment. “Black, you make sure Jack stays where he is. Hear that, Jack?”

  They both nodded. Claire rapped on the door. “Police! Open up!”

  Nothing but a blue jay screaming somewhere far away. No sign of life from inside. Nothing. Nada. Nobody home.

  Claire knocked again. “If he’s gone, we might ought to get a warrant, just to make sure.”

  “The hell with that,” Jack muttered, and before anybody could move, he stepped forward and gave the door a violent kick. But he ducked back, which gave Claire a clue that it wasn’t the first time he’d kicked down a door. Oh, yeah, he and Black had done this before, and together, and it probably hadn’t been at Tulane University. But there were no shotgun blasts from inside, no sounds of an old man jumping out of his bed and heading for the hills, either.

  “Stay out here,” Claire ordered Jack. “I mean it.”

  Claire went in, stood with weapon poised to fire, back to the wall beside the door. It was very shadowy inside, but she could see all the way
to the back door of the house. She hit the nearest light switch. Black joined her inside as Zee thrust open the back door and flipped on another light. He began to move through the back rooms, while they quickly searched the front of the house. When he yelled, “Clear,” she sheathed her weapon. So did Black. Jack walked inside without an engraved invitation.

  “We do have your permission to search this house, right, Jack?”

  “You bet. And I own it, every stinking board and nail.”

  “Don’t touch anything. Zee and I will do the search.”

  So, they put on gloves and protective gear and started looking around, all four of them. There was more blood on the floor, more evidence that somebody had been dragged inside. Who? Another victim that he kept captive? A child? There wasn’t much else in the way of evidence, at least not until they converged in the bedroom. It was stark and empty, the bed made tight enough to bounce a quarter off it. It looked almost like a monk’s cell. Claire hit pay dirt when she found the closet door locked with an old padlock.

  “There could be a body inside there. Do we have your permission to break that lock, Jack?”

  Before she could move, Jack had kicked the door open. No body, no blood, no Navarro, but there was a trunk on the floor, a military footlocker painted olive drab.

  Zee pulled out a pocketknife and jimmied the lock. It didn’t take him but a few seconds. When he jerked up the lid, they all stared down at the contents. Claire knelt down and found some old newspapers, mostly articles about missing children and unsolved murders, neatly clipped and encased in plastic. She sorted through them, and there were so many and from so many different cities that she felt her skin begin to crawl. “My God.”

  Jack picked up a fistful of trinkets, and Claire realized there were all kinds of jewelry, mainly children’s stuff, pink plastic with little kittens or puppies or Strawberry Shortcake. She picked up a handful of colorful beaded necklaces, the kind thrown from Mardi Gras floats. There were pictures of children, most photographed while they were lying unconscious on a bed, eyes shut, portraits in death, or maybe still alive, just before they woke and found themselves in hell. Others were close-ups of his signature voodoo tat on their wrists.