"He was never captured. Is that correct?"
"Yes. Do you ... do you think it's the same man?"
The thought seemed to alarm Miss Tilly. Miles said, "I have no idea. But it's a very real possibility, isn't it? Maybe our killer isn't working for Matranga after all."
He set his glass on the end table next to him and stood up.
"Very well," he said. "I'm still not sure what I can do to help you, Miss Tilly, but I'll look into the matter."
The madam stood as well, quickly, with her hands clasped in front of her ample bosom. "I thank you so much, Mr. Miles. I am desperate. I couldn't bear to see any of the other girls being harmed."
"In the meantime," Miles said. "I'd suggest you get your girl Celissa to a doctor."
"What? Whatever for?"
"I'm quite certain she's suffering from a venereal disease. Good night."
He left before Miss Tilly could say anything further.
-Five-
On Thursday morning, Miles took a walk to the 8th District police station on Royal Street and asked the desk sergeant who was in charge of the prostitute homicides in Storyville.
The sergeant eyed him with open hostility. "Watch your tone with me, boyo. I won't have a colored man being haughty with me, I don't care how well-heeled he is."
Miles, whose tone had been conversational, cocked his head and let a cold smile play across his face. He said, "Then you're in the wrong city ... boyo."
The sergeant jumped to his feet, knocking over his desk blotter as he came around the desk with fists clenched. Miles shifted his stance very slightly, ready to meet the attack. He hadn't planned on brawling with any police officers this morning, but if there was one thing sixty-plus years as a black man had taught him, it was that the need to defend oneself was ever present.
But this time there was no need. A strong voice boomed across the lobby, "Carlyle! Put a lid on it, sergeant!"
The sergeant halted, and a middle-aged man in an immaculate uniform stepped out of the shift captain's office.
"Don't you know who this is?" the captain said, stepping forward. "You're talking to Gideon Miles."
"I don't know no Gideon Miles," the sergeant said.
"Mr. Miles is a former United States Marshal, a twice-decorated war hero, and one of New Orleans most prominent citizens."
The sergeant's face turned purple with anger. "I don't care if he's Warren G. Harding. I won't have—"
"And he's quite capable of beating you to a fine pulp, sergeant. And I would feel obligated to let him. Keep. A. Civil. Tongue."
Miles smiled at the sergeant. After a moment, the copper lost his bluster and, grumbling, sat back down.
The captain turned to Miles. "How can I help you, sir?"
* * *
There was no single detective assigned to the case, much to Miles's annoyance. The police were taking great pains to keep the murders out of the spotlight, lest a connection was drawn to the old Axeman murders and another citywide panic followed.
But the captain allowed him to look through the files they had and didn't even ask why. Minor celebrity had its perks.
There wasn't much. Three dead prostitutes, all of them found in the brothels they worked in, murdered with an axe. At one scene, the murder weapon was found in a nearby alley. In another—the last, young Eva-Lynn—two witnesses had seen a big, muscular man in a wool coat leaving the scene by a window. They didn't get a good look at his face.
Sketches of all three victims had been made. Miles sorted through them. All were young and pretty, and appeared to be Creole. There was a startling sameness about their faces, a sameness that Miles recognized.
The police had zero leads, and Miles hadn't fared much better.
But he left the station with the beginnings of an idea about the killer. Just a vague one, but it was a start.
* * *
He hired a cab and got off at Lee Circle. It was another humid late spring in New Orleans, and the landscaping around the Circle bloomed with fragrant lilacs and roses. Miles's starched shirt under his coat stuck to his back.
He took a moment to gaze up at the colossal monument to General Robert E. Lee, perched atop a slender Doric column, almost sixty feet high. But to Miles, whose parents had known the bondage of slavery, and had himself been born in chains, Robert E. Lee offered no inspiration.
He turned away from it and made his way to the library on St. Charles Avenue.
* * *
The librarian left him in the research room with stacks of the Times-Picayune from 1918 and 1919, and he spent the next three hours there.
From April to August of '18, rarely did a week go by in the paper without some mention of the horrible Axeman of New Orleans. The mysterious killer struck with alarming frequency in that time, starting with an Italian grocer and his wife. Their throats were sliced open with a straight razor—the woman's so severely that her head was barely attached to her neck when they found her—and their heads bashed in with an axe. No robbery. No motive. No clues.
A little over a month later, another grocer—this one German—was attacked along with his mistress in the living quarters behind his shop. The attacker used the grocer's own hatchet to bludgeon the victims, but this time the victims survived. Their testimony was confused and contradictory, and while leading to several arrests, proved ultimately useless in finding the real attacker.
Another assault on a woman in early August had proved unsuccessful for the Axeman. But just a few days after that, he struck again.
An elderly Italian living with his two nieces was hacked with an axe as he lay in bed, the commotion drawing the attention of his nieces who ran to his aid. Both girls claimed to have seen the attacker leaving through the window, and described him as a dark, heavy man in a black coat and a slouch hat. The uncle died two days later from massive brain trauma.
The police had no solid leads, and the public howled for justice. The last murder set off a wave of hysteria in New Orleans with reported sightings of the Axeman flooding police headquarters and the entire populace gripped with a sort of frantic paranoia. A retired police detective speculated that the murderer could be the same man responsible for a string of similar murders in 1911, but no evidence of that theory ever presented itself.
As panic over the murders reached a fever pitch, the Axeman seemingly vanished.
Miles scanned the newspapers, looking for references to the killer, but as 1918 wore on, there were no new attacks, and gradually the Axeman dropped out of the headlines until March of 1919. Another Italian grocer, Charles Cortimiglia, along with his wife and two-year-old daughter, suffered a brutal attack in their beds. Cortimiglia and his wife survived, but the child was not so lucky.
The mother had been sleeping with the child in her arms when the attack came. The girl was killed instantly by an axe blow to the back of her neck. The mother suffered multiple skull fractures.
Cortimiglia himself was found in a pool of blood. A back panel on the door had been chiseled out. A bloody axe still rested on the back porch. Nothing was stolen.
Upon her recovery, Mrs. Cortimiglia accused their neighbors of the attack, despite her husband's protests. The neighbors, an elderly father and his hefty son, were arrested and tried, and the son was sentenced to death. Almost a year would go by before Mrs. Cortimiglia would retract her accusation, and the father and son set free.
And then came the letter, the infamous letter, sent to the newspapers on March 13.
It read, in part:
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 demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman ...
... 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 tho
usands 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 proposition 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 you people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe ...
... I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed either in fact or realm of fancy. The Axeman
That night, it seemed not a single home or dance hall in New Orleans was quiet. Jazz music played from every doorway, every window, and night clubs were filled to capacity.
There were no murders that night.
A popular new tune swept the city shortly after. It was called "The Mysterious Axman's Jazz; or, Don't Scare Me Papa."
Two more attacks after that left both victims alive, but unable to offer investigators any useful information.
The final attack came on the night of October 27. The Axeman's last known victim was a man named Pepitone, head cleaved in by an axe, discovered by his wife, who was unable to tell police anything about the killer even though she saw him fleeing through an open window.
Miles placed the last newspaper on the towering stack of paper and leaned back in his chair. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed wearily.
Italian grocers. How odd that so many of the victims fit that description. But not all of them. Just enough to seem unusual, without being of any use as a clue to the killer's motive.
But if the victim's ethnicity had anything to do with their murders, it made the idea of the Axeman working for Matranga and the Black Hand more feasible. After all, weren't their fellow Italians the Black Hand's primary victims?
But the victims now were prostitutes. None of them being of Italian lineage.
It struck him interesting, and disheartening, that the papers now weren't reporting on the series of axe murders in Storyville. Three dead whores and no one cared.
Miles leafed through the papers again until he found the one dated March 13, 1919. He turned to the supposed Axeman's letter, read it again.
He tossed the newspaper on the floor, unmindful of it tearing, and stood up.
If this was indeed the same killer, whether he worked for the Black Hand or not, his days were numbered. The worst spirit that ever existed?
Well, Miles thought. We'll just have to see about that.
-Six-
Sal Ventucci was stocking the canned vegetables when the little bell over the door clanged and the three heavies came in. Matranga's boys. Again.
The one called Antonio had a black eye and a bandage on his jaw, and Sal wondered what sort of hard case could've done that to the big bastardo.
He stood up straight and wiped his trembling hands on his apron; happened every time these gangsters visited, he couldn't help it. He hated this display of fear, but his nerves betrayed him every time.
He thought of his guest, the strange young man staying in the stockroom in back, and, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, the thought of Matranga's thugs meeting him filled Sal with dread.
"Sal," Antonio said, stepping into the store like he owned it. "We thought we'd just stop by."
It was late morning and there were no customers. Sal Ventucci and the thugs had the place to themselves. One of the goons, a mustachioed slick Sal knew as Petey, locked the door and pulled down the blind.
"Looks like you're closed," he said, in a tiny childish voice, at odds with his hulking frame.
Antonio smiled. A lower tooth was missing since the last time Sal had seen him. "We've come by, Sal, because Mr. Matranga himself is kinda shy."
"Shy? What ... what do you mean?"
"Just what I say. The boss is shy. He don't like to cause a fracas, you know."
"Fracas?"
"He tries to avoid direct conflict and all. So when it looks like there could be a fracas, a little confrontation, well ... he sends me and Petey and Fredrico in his stead."
The three of them started crowding in on Sal, so that the shop owner found himself forced back against the shelves. They boxed him in so close he could smell the aftershave and vague body odor from the thugs.
"See," Antonio said. "The three of us? We ain't shy."
"Now ... now, listen," Sal said. "I told you. I told you boys before. I appreciate the offer, I really do. But I can't afford it, I tell you. I just don't have the money for it."
Antonio shook his head. "I think I know what the problem is here, Sal. It's a communication problem, plain and simple. See, when Mr. Matranga says 'offer,' he doesn't mean quite the same thing you and I might mean. You understand, Sal?"
"I can't give you money I don't have! For God's sake!"
"You ain't thinking it through, Sal." Antonio pushed right up against him, chest to chest. Sal's spine pressed hard against the shelves. The thug never stopped smiling. It was the smile of a simple man, and it filled Sal with terror. Brute violence was nothing to a man like that.
Someone, a potential customer, rattled the door, and Antonio put a stinking hand over Sal's face. The customer rapped on the glass. The thugs waited a long moment before the customer gave up and went away.
Antonio removed his hand and Sal breathed. He felt tears of frustration and shame rolling down his cheeks, and thought again of his guest in the stockroom, the boy his cousin had sent over to stay with him. What would happen if Antonio or Petey or Fredrico discovered him in the store? Would they beat him? Would they kill him?
Antonio said, "Where were we? Oh, yeah. I was saying, Sal, you ain't thinking it through."
A sharp, cold blade pressed into Sal's face, right below his left eye. Antonio grinned at him, so close their noses almost touched.
"There's always more money, even when you think there ain't. And you know, you can't put a price on your wellbeing. I mean, what if something ... bad happened to you? What if ..."
He pushed the blade harder against Sal's flesh.
"... someone came along ..."
The blade edged up Sal's face, toward his eye, and blood dribbled down his jaw and plopped on his apron.
"... and just gouged out your eyeball? Eh, Sal? Then where would you be?"
The one called Fredrico spoke for the first time, a throaty, sibilant voice that made Sal want to piss himself. "Do it," he said. "Slice out his eyeball. I wanna see it."
"Should I, Sal?" Antonio said, smiling.
"Please," Sal said.
"Do it," Petey said in his little boy voice.
Antonio shrugged. "Give the people what they want," he said, and started to push the blade into the soft spot under Sal's eye.
A loud clatter came from the stockroom in back, like a bunch of pots and pans had been knocked over. All three of Matranga's men jumped, and Antonio jerked the blade away from Sal's face.
"What the hell was that?"
"Nothing," Sal said. "It's nothing."
"Someone else here, Sal, you neglect to mention?"
"It's nothing, please!"
Antonio started to say something, when the relative silence of the store was shattered by the loud scratching of a needle on wax, and the cacophonous sound of a hot jazz record blasted their eardrums.
"What the hell!" Antonio said. "Who's here, Sal?"
"A guest, only a guest!"
"Petey, go get 'em. And turn that goddamn racket off before my goddamn skull explodes!"
Petey nodded and started off for the stockroom.
Antonio turned his attention back to Sal. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the caterwauling music. "You should'a told us you had a visitor, Sal. Is it a frail? Maybe we'll have a little party."
"It's just a young
man ... my cousin sent him over to stay for a few days, that's all!"
From the back, the needle scratched harshly on the record and the music came to a halt. Something thudded hard against a wall. The pots and pans clattered again, followed by another thud.
Then silence.
Antonio and Fredrico looked at each other.
Antonio called, "Petey?"
No answer.
"Petey, what's going on back there, you cafone?"
Still nothing. In a quieter voice, Antonio said, "Fredrico. You packing?"
Fredrico shook his head.
Antonio grimaced. He turned back to Sal. "You stay right where you are, Sal. You understand me? You move one inch and I'll gut you. Got it?"
Sal nodded, blood dripping from his face.
* * *
The two thugs headed for the back, Antonio leading. He held his knife in front of him, low, ready to use.
"Whoever's back there," he said. "Come out right now. If I have to come back there and get you, it won't be pretty."
There was no answer.
"You hear me, you bastardo? Come out now and I won't cut off your goddamn face!"
The silence from the storeroom was deafening. Matranga's men took another step toward it, and another.
Petey appeared in the doorway.
"Jesus Christ!" Antonio said.
Petey stumbled forward. Blood poured down his face from a gaping wound in his scalp. The bone of his skull gleamed in the dim electric light of the store. He staggered a step or two, looked at Antonio with dull eyes.
"Help ..."
A giant loomed in the doorway behind Petey, a giant with a wide, bland face and huge arms. He held an axe in both ham fists.
He hefted the axe high, and brought it down in Petey's back. It made a meaty chunk sound. Petey fell into Antonio, who stumbled backward, almost losing his footing.
The giant yanked the axe out of Petey and blood spattered. With a roar that shook the walls, he swung the axe like Babe Ruth swung a bat, and cleaved Fredrico's left arm off.
The Axeman of Storyville Page 3
