“I can’t. But better information comes from other sources. We have eyewitness accounts as told to journalists. We have the court records of the coroner’s report. And the testimony of the accused murderer.” He turned fully in his chair, his black t-shirt pulling taut across his chest. “Remember what I said… its scene setting. Re-creating the months, the weeks, the day leading up to the murder. Then piecing together what happened afterward. Most crimes don’t have a murderer standing over the victim with the smoking gun saying, ‘Well, sir, I had to do it. Nellie drove me to it.’”
Sara raised her eyebrow in disbelief, suddenly wanting to laugh. Gabriel had put on a strange fake accent, like a Southern cowboy, and it was so totally unexpected it struck her as funny. “But how do you know who is telling the truth and who wasn’t?”
“You search for consistencies. And likewise, inconsistencies.” He shrugged. “It’s common sense. Logic. Read the rest of the folder and then tell me what you think.”
So ultimately science had to work with human deduction and reasoning. It was interesting. He was interesting.
Sara watched him turn back to his computer, his hair sliding forward. She wanted to touch his hair, to stroke it and see if it felt as smooth as it looked. Which must be the result of fatigue because she didn’t normally have any desire to touch a man’s head. But tired and edgy, she was strangely aware of her own body, of the tactile feel of her bare legs on the soft velvet couch, of the brush of the folder over her wrist, and for the first time in a year she wanted to feel a human touch. But Gabriel didn’t invite casual arm contact, let alone letting her fingers cascade through his soft hair. He had a barrier around him, a stance that said he walked the world alone, and at the moment, he had his back fully turned to her. He was tapping a silver spoon on the desk as he read his screen. It was a rhythmic tapping, a harmony that repeated over and over. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it, but it was definitely a song.
* * *
MURDERED!
October 7, 1849- Even in a city where a murder a week takes place in our less illustrious districts, the STABBING DEATH of Anne Donovan has captured the attention of the public due to the severity of the crime, and the lack of an immediate arrest. While it is no secret that a vast number of city officials frequent houses of ill repute, does their status alone preclude them from punishment? It would seem so, given the extraordinary circumstances explained below by Madame Conti, owner of the house where the crime took place, and first WITNESS on the scene.
Anne Donovan had been in the employ of Madame Conti for approximately one year prior to her death and was described by her employer as “kind, gentle, a redhead, who never gave me a day’s trouble, which can’t be said for a lot of these girls.” Most have been hardened by the age of Miss Donovan, handy with a knife, and inclined to steal from the clients, but by all accounts these rough qualities did not apply to the victim. Madame Conti explained that she had let the victim’s current amour, John Thiroux, into Donovan’s room at eight pm, and retired to her private salon to write letters to acquaintances. She heard nothing out of the ordinary until 2 am, when Mr. Thiroux sought her out. There was blood on his hands, in his hair, and on his right leg. According to Madame Conti, he said simply, “Anne’s dead.”
The sight that greeted the stout miss upon repairing to the girl’s room was a scene from a nightmare. “I’ve seen a lot in my life- I’ve seen murdered people before- but this was unlike anything I’ve ever laid eyes on. It was unbelievable. Blood everywhere.” What she saw was Anne Donovan, lying supine on her narrow bed, dressed in a simple chemise, her face and upper body mutilated by stab wounds. A knife rested in her left hand, and blood covered the bed, the floor below, the wall behind her head, and filled the room with a sickly sweet smell.
What did Madame think of Mr. Thiroux? “I never thought of him as a violent sort at all, but he was there, wasn’t he? I figured he must have done it.” When asked if she was afraid to be alone with him at that time, she replied, “Not at all. He had returned to his chair and was starting in on a brand new bottle, eyes closed. I lit his pipe for him and figured I’d have a good two hours before he so much as stirred.”
Yet when police arrived, they made no attempt to arrest Mr. Thiroux, whom most of our readership will recognize as a wealthy artist, who has contributed greatly to the improvement of the arts in our city. It is also widely recognized that Mr. Thiroux does not pass a day without descending into drink or opium.
* * *
MURDER OF LOCAL BAWD
HAS FELLOW STRUMPETS IN ARMS
October 8, 1849 - “We’re just trying to get along,” maintains Sally Jackson, a resident at the House Of Rest, where a fellow bawd was murdered two nights past. “A girl needs a way to survive, and it ain’t safe anymore. It just ain’t right.”
While no one appears to question the right of lewd women to hock their wares without enticing death, not everyone agrees that allowing such rowdy residences to exist legally is in the best interest of a city grown notorious for crime. Despite disgruntled area residents, official sources seem disinclined to take any action, and the police more often than not make no attempt whatsoever to seek out culprits in violent crimes. “One less to contend with,” seems to be their philosophy when the life of an unfortunate is snuffed out prematurely.
Yet even the police cannot disregard such a bloody and gruesome case as the death of Anne Donovan, slashed in a frenzy so brutal even her own mother would not recognize her in death. “I heard her yell out,” Molly Faye claims, from her position that night in the room next door. “But I didn’t think nothing of it. Figured it was business.”
Like the other girls in residence, Molly is afraid that the killer, still loose, may be wandering in and out of the house unimpeded, and in an effort to have their voices heard, the ladies of 25 Dauphine Street charged en masse into the second district police headquarters and demanded a more thorough investigation. It remains to be seen what the official response to such tactics will be.
* * *
October 9, 1849
To The Editor:
I believe I speak on behalf of the vast majority of residents in what was formerly respectable neighborhoods when I say I have concerns over the direction vice is spreading. At one time contained to the docks and the immediate vicinity of Girod Street, now there is hardly an area in the city that isn’t affected by the rapid and licentious growth of entertainment establishments. On my block alone, there is at least half a dozen homes (that once housed upstanding families) that are now given over to dens of inequity, with laughter and music pouring out at all hours of night, men in and out, and outbursts of all nature occurring on the street. Now there has been this murder at number twenty-five, only blocks from where decent hardworking citizens live. Already several neighbors have sold homes at a loss to escape the scourge creeping in our direction, and I have no doubt that by week’s end another two or three will make the decision to sell their houses for less than they paid, simply to leave the rapidly declining area.
If left unchecked, the entire city will have the blight of drinking and promiscuity on every street, and there will be nowhere remaining for respectable citizens to live.
Signed,
Suffering Property Holder
Chapter Three
Disturbed by the tenor of the articles, Sara stopped reading for a minute, and concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. She felt a panic attack creeping up on her, the kind that before would have had her reaching for the Vicodin. But she couldn’t do that, wouldn’t. She had to learn how to handle emotion on her own, without chemical intervention.
She sucked in another deep pull of air. She hadn’t expected to feel the clawing scratch of anxiety from flipping through these papers, but there was something about the casual disregard of everyone in the articles for Anne Donovan, the woman. She almost seemed an afterthought, a happy means to air their grievances, concerns, but not worth noting behind the gruesome, sensationalist aspects of he
r death. They seemed to take delight in mentioning how she’d been mutilated, but no one bothered to say where she came from, how she had found herself in the position of prostitute, or if she had left behind a grieving family.
It was so much like the media coverage of her own mother’s murder that the parallels scared Sara. That had been difficult for her to learn to deal with, to let go of the hatred, disgust, annoyance, when the newspaper turned her mother’s case into an opportunity to blast the prosecutor. It had never been about her mother. It was about the flaws in the police department, the stubborn prosecutor, and his determination to push through a weak case against Rafe. Everyone had their damn agenda, and no one cared that she had lost her mother.
But it bothered her that all of that baggage could resurface so easily, that she couldn’t maintain distance. God, she just wanted everything to be over and done, gone. She wanted to be normal again.
“You okay?”
Sara sat up straight, mortified. Gabriel was looking at her, but she appreciated that instead of pity or horror on his face, he just looked mildly curious.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” She was. She would be okay. If she just willed it enough, it would happen. It would. Because she understood something about herself. Even in the worst, horrific moments, she could still reach out and find hope. It would be better eventually, she just had to fight to get there, to not lose it along the way.
And there was something about Gabriel St. John looking at her, his dark brown eyes assuring her that he had secrets too, that he had suffered, that had her opening her mouth and saying, “There aren’t just physical parallels between this case and my mother’s murder, there are also media similarities. I guess I wasn’t expecting that- it startled me.”
Immediately she regretted speaking. Now would come the questions, the pity, the curiosity, the suspicion of her motives in working on this book with him. Talking about her mother’s death always left her feeling vulnerable, exposed, and she didn’t want that with Gabriel. She didn’t want him thinking she was crazy.
“What kind of similarities?”
The question was so matter of fact, Sara realized immediately that Gabriel was different. Of course he was going to be different. He wrote true crime books. In every conversation they’d had about her mother there was no shock, no flush of pity, no stumbling to say something comforting that she usually got from people. He was tactful, but very matter of fact. That made her feel an odd sense of relief. He was used to dealing with the details of violent crimes and wouldn’t pester her with uncomfortable questions. Nor had it stopped him from asking her to participate in his research, so he must not question her motives, or mental stability.
“Well, I’m not sure what I expected from nineteenth century journalists, but just like today, every journalist seems to have an angle, a point to get across. Whether it’s the lack of police attention to crimes in impoverished areas in Anne Donovan’s case, or the accusation that the prosecutor was going for the big fish to win PR points in my mother’s case, it’s not about the victim. Which it should be.”
Gabriel had one arm over the back of his standard black office chair, and he tilted his head slightly to study her. “And it is, to the people the victim mattered to. But a crime, a murder, punches a hole in the illusion that society is functioning as it should. It’s a time when people look around, question what’s wrong in their world, and make both accusations and suggestions for corrections. So that victim indirectly matters to everyone who touches the case in any way, who lives in the neighborhood, or reads the newspaper. They have an impact in death, and maybe in a larger way to more people than they actually had in life.”
Sara stared at him, wondering why she’d never thought of it in quite that way. Noticing that her heart rate had settled down to normal, anxiety abated, she was trying to shuffle her thoughts into order and formulate a response when he suddenly stood up.
“Walk with me.” He headed towards the door, his strides purposeful.
“Walk with you? Where?” Yet she found herself rising off the couch, setting the packet of papers down on the cushion, following him.
“I need to take pictures of the house where the murder took place for the book. Let’s go do that now while the building won’t be in a shadow.” Gabriel was pulling a camera out of an end table drawer by the front door to the apartment.
Sara thought he had intriguing and eclectic furnishings. Everything looked accumulated over a long period of time, each piece random and slightly shabby, yet overall the room harmonized, exuded a warmth. It said to her that he cared about what he surrounded himself with, appreciated objects, but not too much. Nothing was perfect or over thought. It looked like he just did what pleased him.
It was a lesson she would like to learn.
He didn’t take a camera case with him, just wrapped the strap twice around his wrist and gripped the lens cap, which struck her as an accident waiting to happen. It looked like an expensive camera and if he dropped it, she didn’t think the result would be positive, but he didn’t look at all concerned. Gabriel opened the door and gestured for her to walk through first.
She realized that after he followed her out he didn’t lock the door behind them. She counted to three as she walked down the stairs, told herself it didn’t matter, that he must have a button that he had pushed on the inside of the doorknob to lock it. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you lock your door?”
“No.”
She was looking forward and down at her feet, worried about the steps, taking the curve on the narrower-than-normal staircase with cautious movements, afraid she’d slip and break her neck. So she couldn’t see Gabriel’s expression, but he didn’t sound particularly worried about burglars any more than he seemed concerned about his camera.
“It’s safer to lock your door.” Sara knew she sounded anal, and she was, knew she had a fear that was huge and growing irrational, but the police had told her there was no forced entry at her mother’s house. That the killer had either known her mom, or the doors hadn’t been locked. It seemed risky to leave a door unlocked for anyone to walk in. At any time.
“The courtyard gate locks.”
“Oh, okay, good.” Sara glanced back at him, and he just gave her a small, brief smile. It was hugely reassuring. She had expected he would either argue with her, or point out that she was paranoid. Suggest that she needed to let it go, get over it. She had heard all of those things, a hundred times over, from co-workers, friends, and neighbors who genuinely wanted what was best for her, but didn’t understand a damn thing.
That Gabriel just told her what she needed to hear and left it at that filled her with relief. He was different. And it was kind of nice.
“So what was life like for a prostitute in 1849?” she asked, as they went through the gate, the sun hitting her in the face and sending her digging through her purse for her sunglasses.
“It sucked.”
Something about the tone of his voice made her glance up. Was that meant to be a double entendre? It was hard to tell because he wasn’t even looking at her. He had his eyes down on his camera and he was prying the lens cap off. But there had been an edge of amusement, or an awareness of the horrific irony, maybe the need to lighten the subject matter… she wasn’t sure what exactly, because Gabriel was hard to interpret, but something told her he had just made a joke.
Which she liked.
He lifted his camera, shot a quick succession of photos from right to left, the last one of her. She wasn’t prepared for it, so she was sure she was staring dumbly at him in it. “No pictures of me, please.”
“But the light’s good,” he said, giving her another of those tiny smiles where the corner of his mouth lifted crookedly.
God, Sara really didn’t want to like him.
That would be just one more way for her to trip and fall.
But she was definitely in danger of becoming a bubble girl of her own making, afraid of everything, even her own proverbial sha
dow.
Coming to New Orleans was an emotional risk, and maybe it hadn’t been running away so much as stepping outside her comfort zone. Forcing herself to face the future without fear.
She was definitely still terrified, but suddenly reassured that this trip had been exactly what she needed to retake control of her life.
* * *
VIGILANCE COMMITTEE
PRESSURES POLICE TO TAKE ACTION
October 9, 1849- While the police commissioner may not be inclined to listen to the pleas of prostitutes, it would seem he is willing to bend when the collective voices of the VIGILANCE COMMITTEE cry for action. In a city besieged by crime, it is more common than not for a murder of a fallen woman to go unnoticed, but it is just that cavalier attitude that has finally sent certain citizens beyond the edge of their tolerance. Comprised of various wealthy and influential peoples, the Vigilance Committee was formed to bring attention to the spiraling immorality and violence of certain districts. The murder of young Anne Donovan, in its fury and grotesqueness, and the lack of arrest of the gentleman who should by all accounts be a primary suspect, is a sign of the pervasive corruption and complicity in our government.
Given the dependence of Mr. John Thiroux on the well-known hallucinogenic drink, absinthe, as well as his excessive consumption of whiskey and frequent opium smoking, it is not a stretch to imagine he could have carried out such an act of violence. Despite who he is, and who he may or may not have contributed funds to, if a man commits a crime, he should be held accountable for it.
It would seem the police agree, or at least fear public reaction otherwise, as they have set out to investigate Miss Donovan’s murder, and by witness report are focusing their attentions on Mr. Thiroux.
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 34
