by Julie Smith
“I’m sorry. Won’t you sit down?” She introduced her husband. “Can I get you anything?”
Skip shook her head, sitting on the edge of the beige velour sofa. She had told Edna only that her father had been murdered, and now she gave the details.
Darryl’s face turned dark. “What kind of animal would do a thing like that? Tom Mabus never hurt one soul in his entire life, never did a thing except go to work and come home.”
“I wonder if it could have been someone he knew.”
Darryl said, “He didn’t know anybody.”
“Did he belong to any social clubs, or maybe a church? A bowling league? Anything?”
Edna shook her head. “We tried and tried to get him interested in something. He’s been a loner ever since Mama died ten years ago. Seemed like he never got over it. Never cleaned the house, always kept the shades down, even in the daytime….”
“That house never would have got cleaned at all if Edna didn’t do it for him every now and then.”
“We asked him to live with us, but he wouldn’t. He lost weight and looked sadder and sadder, I swear, as the years went by. I guess he was one of those people who aren’t happy unless they have someone to take care of.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, Mama was a handful.”
Darryl snorted. “Alcoholic.”
Edna nodded. “Yes, she was. He had to work real hard, raising me, taking care of the house, doing everything Mama was supposed to be doing. And then when I was gone, seemed like she got even worse. But after she died, he never had no interest in anything—not even much in me, to tell you the truth. I guess he really loved her.”
“Don’t see how anyone could.”
“Darryl!”
“I’m sorry, Sugarplum. But you know how she was.”
“Are you his only child?”
Edna nodded.
“Do you have children?”
Darryl withdrew, stony. Edna said, “Our daughter’s autistic. She doesn’t live with us.”
”I’m sorry. I asked because your father had a teddy bear.”
“A teddy bear?” Darryl sounded furious. Edna was silent.
“A teddy bear was found near the body, as if he’d been holding it when he was attacked. I’m wondering—do you know of any children he was close to?”
“No, I don’t. He was always so sad about Rochelle.”
“Your daughter?”
Edna nodded. “I wanted him to go into therapy.”
“Sheeit!” said Darryl.
Edna cast him a furious look. “He was miserable, Darryl. You never saw an unhappier man.” “Should have gone to church.”
Edna looked at Skip beseechingly. “He wouldn’t even do that. Wouldn’t do a thing to help himself.”
“Did he ever mention a Linda Lee Strickland?” Edna and Darryl simply stared.
SIX
THE MORNING DAWNED hot as the night before, and Skip awoke in clammy sheets. After Edna’s meat freezer of a home, she had slept with only the breeze from the ceiling fan, naked and lonely. She hit the snooze alarm and lay in bed awhile, thinking of Steve and missing him, enjoying one of the principal pleasures of the long-distance romance.
Thirty minutes later, in a crisp white blouse and slate-blue skirt, carrying her suit jacket, she arrived at work, lewd and lonesome thoughts forgotten.
She was puzzling about the case, looking forward to talking it over with Cappello and Joe, getting some ideas—she was out of her own.
But her stomach lurched as she arrived on the third floor. The halls were full of reporters and television cameras—why, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good. She pushed through, into Homicide. Cappello was in Joe’s office.
“Langdon! In here!” Joe sounded furious.
“What is it? Did somebody leak the scarlet A’s?”
“Worse. I swear to God it’s worse.”
With a pair of tweezers, he handed Skip a letter, typed on plain white paper. “Look at this.”
It said:
Dear Broadcaster:
You probably remember me. The first time, I wrote to the print media, but there was no television then. I also used an axe. That, of course, would be messy in this day and age and I have two perfectly good hands to strangle with. So forget the axe, but I’m still who I am. My signature is awritten in blood. I kill whom I need to kill, both women and men.
As I mentioned before, they never caught me and they never will. I am not a human being, but an extraterrestrial. (Or perhaps that is the best way you can understand it.) I am what you Orleanians used to call the Axeman—make no mistake, I’m back.
It’s me.
I’m baaaaaack.
Hi, Mom.
Honeee, I’m hooome.
I have killed twice this time, in the Quarter and near Gentilly. Ask the police. I left my signature.
Maybe you know my song. It has two names: “The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz” is my preference, but it’s also called “Don’t Scare Me, Papa.” I am no one’s papa! I am the Axeman! I am the walrus! (Just kidding.)
Here’s the deal: It’s the same as before. Jazz is the lifeblood of this great city of ours—it was then and it is now. It’s the only constant, the only universal. My spaceship lands Tuesday, and I’ll be out for blood. (Did you know we extraterrestrials are vampires?) But I have an endless supply of infinite mercy and I will show it to anyone in whose home a jazz band is playing between the hours of 7 P.M. and daylight. Take heed—you will be spared!
But no matter if you aren’t, my infinite mercy extends to my victims. I am quick and I am painless. Ask Linda Lee and Tom.
THE AXEMAN
Skip said, “I don’t believe what I just read.”
“Believe it, Langdon. Every station in town got one.”
“How modern.” She caught her breath. “Could I ask a question?”
“What’s it all about? No problem, ask away. Everybody else in town has. Do you have any idea how many bozos were here when I got to work, waving that damn thing? Fortunately, we were able to have a constructive exchange of information, because some of them were on to the original.”
“Original what, Lieutenant? You’ve lost me.”
“Read this and blow your mind.”
The document he handed her was a photocopy of a page in a book. The relevant part, a letter, had been highlighted:
Hell, March 13, 1919
Editor of the Times-Picayune New Orleans, La.
Esteemed Mortal:
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the 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 amuse not only 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, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little p
roposition 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 those 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 as it is about time that 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 in either fact or realm of fancy.
THE AXEMAN
* * *
“This is ringing a bell.” Skip put her hand to her head and thought. “Eugenie Viguerie’s sixth-grade history project.”
“That’s got to be right. I don’t think I heard about it till eighth grade, but you went to a better school than I did.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” she said as she understood what the first letter was all about.
“So, Langdon.” Joe looked weary. “You wouldn’t remember any details, would you?”
“He was a serial killer. I never put that together before. A serial killer before there were any.”
“Either that or the bogeyman. Look, somebody at one of the stations already researched it and I promised him a press conference if he clued me in.” He looked sheepish. “I have to do one anyway—look at that pack of wolves out there. Here are the relevant facts. In 1918 somebody started breaking into people’s houses and axing them—some lived, some died, but nobody could identify him. The cops looked back into the records and found there’d been some similar cases in 1911, but I guess they didn’t catch on. These did.”
“Citizen panic attack?”
“More or less, but the weird thing was, most of the victims seemed to be Italian grocers. They never caught the guy—the murders stopped about eighteen months after they started. But later the widow of one of the victims killed somebody who might have been him—somebody who’d been blackmailing Italians, went to jail in 1911, got paroled in 1918.”
“So how about the letter—was anyone killed on party night?”
“No.” Joe sighed. “But some composer did write a piece about the whole deal—like it says in the new letter. And a good time was had by all, of course. A real good time. Langdon, you ever been to a hurricane party?”
“Sure. Hasn’t everyone?”
“You, Cappello?”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
“You two see what I’m getting at? This is the kind of town where people think it’s a real good idea to blow it all out just because a storm’s on the way. Can you imagine what next Tuesday’s gonna be like?”
“Murder.”
“Yeah. Unless we get him by then.”
“How about our letter?”
He shrugged, knowing what she meant but obviously wanting to hedge his answer. “I hate to say it, but I guess it’s got to be him. Nobody else knows about the scarlet A’s. A little piece about Linda Lee ran in the paper, but nobody knows about Tom Mabus. He had to have mailed it day before yesterday, before Tom’s body was even discovered.”
Skip’s scalp prickled. “This guy’s really crazy.”
But unexpectedly, Joe grinned. “I like the spaceman angle. Do me a favor, okay? Put out a bulletin on a little blue guy.”
She wasn’t in the mood. The reality of the situation was still sinking in—she hadn’t yet had time to assimilate it and wall off a piece of herself. “What are we really going to do?”
“Well, Skip, I think I might have to give you some help.” She noticed he’d dropped “Langdon” and gone back to his normal form of address. Curious, she thought. As she got more stressed out, he was getting more relaxed.
I guess that’s what good lieutenants do—take the pressure off the generals.
“The national media are going to be all over this thing, you realize that? Like stink on—”
“Shrimp,” said Cappello quickly.
“Maggots on garbage,” Joe said. “And I gotta tell you something else—I’m worried about this asshole. We got a major-league problem on our hands and I got a feeling it’s going to get worse before it gets better. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m assigning a five-person team to this deal— not counting the consultant.”
“Who’s the consultant?”
“Later,” he said. “Ten-thirty in the conference room.”
As she was leaving, he said, “Oh, Langdon, one more thing. Can you work with Frank O’Rourke?”
“No problem.” She heard the chill in her own voice.
She was third in the conference room. O’Rourke was there already—handsome, nasty Frank O’Rourke, who delighted, it seemed, in sabotaging Skip. He was a veteran Homicide detective and a natural for the Axeman team—much more so than Skip.
Jim Hodges sat with him—a solid guy who might have regretted giving his case away. But that probably wasn’t why Joe had picked him. He was a hard worker and a team player—everybody liked to work with him.
The others filed in in a minute—Cappello and Sergeant Adam Abasolo, apparently detailed to Homicide for the biggie. He was known as a whiz, soon to take the lieutenant’s test and certain to be promoted to head of his division, which was sex crimes. Abasolo—tall, slender, and wiry, with dark hair and blue eyes—looked a little like a thug and a little like a movie star. He was single and known to fancy the ladies—thin blond ones, usually from good families.
Joe arrived looking pale and harried. Briefly, he outlined the case, describing the two murders and the letter. “As you know,” he said, “we’ve never had a case like this in New Orleans.”
“Yes we have,” said Cappello. “The original Axeman.”
“What, you don’t think it’s the same guy?” asked Hodges. “Funny-looking little dude with great big Bambi eyes?”
O’Rourke said, “That’s Abasolo. He’s supposed to be on our side.”
Joe wasn’t in the mood for banter. He spoke as if no one else had. “I’ve brought in some outside help on this—a consultant working at Tulane right now. Someone we were very lucky to get—an expert in forensic psychology. In fact, a nationally known expert on serial killers.”
“You talkin’ a shrink, Joe?” asked Hodges.
Joe nodded, looking a little guilty, as if he’d betrayed the police code of ethics. “I think she’s going to be a tremendous help to us, and I want you all to listen carefully to what she has to say, and to utilize her services to the maximum.”
“Man, you must really be desperate.” By virtue of his age, Hodges could get away with remarks others couldn’t.
Nervously, Joe glanced at his watch. “She ought to be here now.” He left the room.
O’Rourke said, “This ought to be right up your alley, Langdon. Everybody Uptown goes to shrinks, don’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know, Frank; I don’t live Uptown.”
Joe returned with Dr. Cindy Lou Wootten, possibly the only non-blonde in the Western hemisphere who could make Abasolo’s eyes go dark with lust at a second’s viewing. Skip thought she’d never seen such a naked statement on a man’s face. In spite of herself, she found it sexy.
Dr. Wootten (“Call me Cindy Lou, I’m just a psychologist”) was easily the best-looking woman Skip had personally seen (not counting the likes of Meryl Streep and Kim Basinger), and Skip had gone to Ole Miss, where everyone looked like a Streep or a Basinger. Wootten was spectacular, and it wasn’t only her beauty—Skip was willing to bet she wasn’t “just” anything, despite her self-deprecation.
She was about five feet ten, thin, willowy, with straight Lauren Bacall hair, high cheekbones, and clothes that managed to be both crisp and fashionable; also to look like a million dollars. Her jewelry was tasteful and expensive; even in the heat, her makeup was perfection.
She was black.
“Anybody here thinking, ‘This broad’s no expert on crime, I know as much about crime as she does,’ has got another thing coming. I grew up in Detroit, ladies and gentlemen, I was an expert before I was two and a half; and you could say I had some hands-on expertise by the time I was fourteen.
“But just in case you think that’s all, I’ve got a few meaningless graduate degrees in psychology, I did my clinical internship in a federal prison, I’m well-published in the forensic end of the field, and I’ve consulted for the FBI. You wonder what I’m doing here, I got a grant; we academics’ll go anywhere for a free ride, or anyway, I used to think that before I experienced the Crescent City in August. Whoo-ee, never again. Now let’s talk about the Axeman.” She took a breath.
“This guy doesn’t look like a sex killer. He kills men, he kills women, he doesn’t care; and he leaves their clothes on. So right away we got a little problem. Most of what we know about serial killers comes from an FBI study of thirty-six convicted sexual murderers. Although they were all sexual killers, and we think our man isn’t—or our woman, if that’s the case—all we can do is use what we’ve got.
“Okay now. I don’t mind telling you up front, the FBI looks at things a little differently from the way a psychologist might. They’re not so much interested in why a person murders as how he does it. So the data we’ve got is descriptive. Only problem is, when I give you the lists of characteristics the study isolated, some of you are going to see yourselves in there. A lot of the responding murderers were daydreamers and compulsive masturbators as children, for instance. Anybody like that here?”
