The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  Hershel snickered. “I told you that place was a shit hole.”

  Across the street a man wandered out of the alley, came to the sidewalk, and dropped his pants. Porter couldn’t help but watch as the man urinated while whistling a tune he didn’t recognize, then zipped up and walked back into the alley, a hand over his mouth as he yawned. In the dank shadows of the alley, Porter saw at least three other people shuffling around, another lying on a rumpled sleeping bag. A large cardboard box was propped up against the side of the dumpster. One of the shadows ducked inside.

  “He ain’t from around here,” Hershel said.

  “No?”

  “People of New Orleans may not be rich, but we respect the city, even the dirty parts. This here is a magical place.” He nodded back toward the alley. “People like that ain’t Louisiana bred. He’s probably a tourist passing through, got stuck along the way maybe. The city will get ’em out, run ’em right on out. Ain’t no place for that here.”

  “You told me this was a bad part of town, that I shouldn’t be here.”

  Hershel waved his hand. “Ain’t the part of town that’s bad. Would you shoot your dog ’cause he has some fleas? This part of the dog happens to have more fleas than most, that’s all.”

  A black BMW with dark tinted windows pulled up beside them and parked. “That’s a lawyer car, if ever I seen one,” Hershel said.

  Porter watched the driver’s side door open. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair and sunglasses far too large for her face stepped out, glanced around the block, and closed the door, starting for the office.

  Porter leaned into the front seat. “What do I owe you?”

  Hershel glanced at the mirror. “$16.75.”

  He handed him a twenty and waved off the change.

  “You want I should wait for you?”

  Porter watched as the woman unlocked the front door of the law office and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. He handed the driver another ten. “Wait five minutes, if I’m not back out by then, go ahead and take off. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Hershel took the money and dropped the bill into his shirt pocket. “This woman of yours must be something special to go through all this trouble. Most men move on rather than deal with the likes of this. I hope she realizes she’s got something good in you, remembers that when she gets out.”

  Porter stepped from the taxi and gave the roof a tap before turning and heading up the steps to the office.

  An alarm chimed as he opened the door and made his way inside. The air conditioning hit him like a wave. He hadn’t realized how hot and humid it was outside, even at this early hour.

  “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right out,” a female voice called from the back. “I just got in and was about to boil a pot for tea. I’m useless without caffeine.”

  The office wasn’t very large, only about ten feet wide and maybe fourteen feet deep. Although an attempt had been made to convert the space, Porter still got the impression he was standing in the parlor of an old home more than a law office. The ceilings were high and edged with crown molding, the center finished with an intricate pattern of tin inlays. Wainscoting covered the walls. There was a fireplace beside a large leaded window to his right, with a small couch and two chairs placed in front. The wall on his left was lined with built-in bookcases and texts that looked as old as the house. At the back of the room stood an antique wood desk with two more chairs, all three covered with stacks of books and papers. Behind, a doorway led into a bright hallway. In his mind’s eye, he pictured this place as it once was: a sitting room here in the front, with the kitchen and a less formal family room toward the back. He could hear shouts of children calling from one end of the house to the other, haunted voices long lost.

  “Feel free to clear off one of the chairs at my desk. Just put that stuff on the floor,” she called out from the back room. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors today.”

  There was a second floor. He could tell from the outside.

  He wondered if the additional space had been converted into an apartment at some point, and he wondered if Sarah Werner lived here. Like the façade of the former house turned office, this place seemed out of touch with the vagrants outside, a sanctuary from the dark cloud hanging over this part of the city, a place caught up in time and out of sync with the happenings beyond the thick doors and plaster walls.

  Porter crossed the room to the desk, lifted the stack of paperwork from a chair, placed the documents on top of the pile on the other chair, and took a seat.

  Several framed degrees hung from the wall beside the desk. Ms. Werner had earned her undergraduate at Penn State and her law degree from the University of Pennsylvania Law School in Philly in 1998. Porter hadn’t gone to college. He joined the force shortly after high school. He considered obtaining a criminal justice degree, but after he’d spoken to several police officers, it quickly became apparent that such a degree would do nothing but saddle him with debt. If he wished to advance beyond the role of detective the force might require additional college credits, but he had no desire for that, never had. Those working above him carried a load of stress on their backs and spent their days behind a desk worrying about budgets and staffing. His mind required the challenges reaped by working in the field.

  “I am so sorry I kept you waiting.”

  Porter turned to find a woman standing in the hallway behind the desk, a cup of steaming tea in each hand.

  “I brought one for you,” she said. “Figured it would be rude not to, and I prefer not to drink alone.” There was a sparkle in her brown eyes, a hint of mischief when she said this. “Oh, but I forgot to ask if you need milk or sugar?”

  Porter reached for the cup. “This is perfect, thank you.”

  She had a bit of an accent, carefully trained away and refined, but still present. Didn’t sound local, not Cajun.

  Sarah Werner smiled, handed him the cup, and gracefully lowered herself into the chair at the desk, cradling her own cup at her lips with both hands. She wore a dark gray skirt suit with black stockings over finely tuned legs, something Porter guiltily noticed before they disappeared under the desk. He glanced back at the degrees on the wall, did the math. If she’d gone straightaway into college, that would make her around forty-five, about a decade younger than him. He would have never guessed. If he ran into her on the street, he would have assumed mid-thirties at the most. Aside from the tiniest of lines at the corners of her eyes, her skin was flawless. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders in gentle waves. He could smell the faint scent of lilacs.

  “I suppose I should ask who you are,” she said, smiling.

  Porter pulled himself back into the moment. “I’m sorry, it’s been a crazy few days.” He handed her one of his cards. “I’m Detective Sam Porter with Chicago Metro.”

  She studied the card for a moment, then set it on the corner of her desk. “The Four Monkey Killer?”

  “You know the case?”

  She set his card atop a pile near her phone. “I’m a criminal defense attorney, Detective. I’d be the first to admit, my fascination with the criminal mind may border on obsessive. I follow all the high-profile cases as closely as I can. How can I help you? Do you think he’s found his way to New Orleans?”

  Porter took a drink of his tea, then set the cup down on the desk. “What I am about to show you needs to remain between us. You can’t discuss it with anyone, you understand? We haven’t gone public with this and can’t risk this information getting out yet.”

  “Of course.”

  Porter reached into his jacket pocket and took out the photograph, set it on the desk, and turned it around so she could get a better look.

  Sarah’s eyes remained fixed on his for a moment, then she looked down at the image. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Your client, yes. I believe so.”

  “But what does she have to do with the Four Monkey Killer?”

  Porter turned the photograph o
ver and showed her the note written on the back.

  “I think I found her. B,” Sarah read aloud. She frowned and looked back at him. “I don’t follow. Found who?”

  “That is Anson Bishop’s handwriting. He believes your client is his mother.”

  Her expression remained neutral. “And what do you think?”

  Porter shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. At this point I’m just following a lead. What can you tell me about her?”

  Sarah slid the photograph back to him and pulled a manila file from the stack of papers at her right. She opened the folder, revealing a photograph of a mug shot clipped to the left side and a handful of documents bound on the right.

  “Jane Doe number 2138. Aside from that designation and her list of charges, I know nothing about her. I’ve met with her twice, and she hasn’t said a word.”

  “Not even to you?”

  “Not even to me.”

  “The warden’s office told me she specifically requested you. Her only words were your name.”

  It was Sarah’s turn to shrug. “And I don’t have the slightest idea why. I don’t know where she even got my name. I advertise quite a bit locally, so most likely she saw one of my cards or flyers. Maybe she heard I take on pro bono work. Maybe she picked me at random from the phone book, who knows. The first time I met with her, I explained that she could speak to me freely. Nothing between us would be passed on or shared. I gave her the full attorney-client privilege speech. We sat there for thirty minutes, and she only stared at me.” She took another sip of her tea, then went on. “The second time I went down there, I reviewed her charges, explained how serious they were. She still said nothing. She signed my legal representation paperwork, though, so I know she comprehends what I tell her. I know she can read, she just refuses to speak.”

  “Has she been to court yet?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “What a shit show that was. Judge Kobrick has seen just about everything around here, and he’s not one for playing games. He threatened to enter a guilty plea when she wouldn’t speak at the arraignment. I convinced him to give me a two-week stay. We’re set to reappear on February nineteenth, which gives me less than a week to sort this out. I’m heading down there today, and if she won’t talk to me, I may have to call in a psych consult.”

  “I can get her to talk.”

  Sarah finished her tea and turned the cup slowly between soft, manicured fingers. “Then what? Charge her with something in Chicago? I’m not sure that’s in my client’s best interest.”

  “I’m after her son, not her.”

  “What makes you think she knows where to find him? Even if she does, why would she tell you? I’m only aware of one instinct stronger than self-preservation,” Sarah said. “That’s a mother’s instinct to protect her young.”

  “I can get her to talk. I can help you.” Porter leaned into the desk. “Please, let me see her.”

  She smiled, closed the folder, and finally nodded. “All right.”

  45

  Larissa

  Day 3 • 10:06 a.m.

  Larissa found herself staring across the room at the painter’s tarp in front of the freezer, at the bulk underneath it. He had said “the last one,” the instructor. Larissa knew he was talking about another girl. He had done this before. He was too prepared, too systematic about it all for this to be the first time.

  She’d clutched the shard of glass in her palm a little too tightly and had already cut herself twice. Nothing serious, but enough to draw blood. She wiped her palm on her jeans and held her hand there until the pressure sealed the wound and the bleeding stopped. Then she gripped the shard again, willing herself not to squeeze. With each passing second, though, her grip tightened, her fingers tightened, they pressed against the razor edge of the glass until she again felt the warmth of blood. This time she didn’t attempt to stem the flow. Instead, she focused her mind on the pain. The pain awakened her senses, made her alert, helped her concentrate on her surroundings.

  She checked every inch of the cage.

  The metal frame was bolted into the concrete, and there wasn’t enough room at the top to climb over and slip past, no more than two inches. The padlocks on the door were both heavy-duty, with MASTER stamped across the front. They were round, designed to prevent the use of bolt cutters, not that she had any bolt cutters. If she had a pin or a paper clip, she could try to pick them, but she had neither of those.

  Her cell phone was gone. No doubt he took the iPhone and smashed it. Even she knew the police could track her down from the signal.

  A loud scream came from upstairs.

  A man’s scream.

  Larissa almost dropped the shard of glass, now slick in her hand.

  The instructor sounded like he was in great pain.

  The cries lasted for about a minute and died away, going from a shriek to muffled sobs, then nothing at all.

  Was somebody here to rescue her?

  Had somebody hurt him?

  Larissa closed her eyes, tried to focus her mind on listening, to hear what was happening upstairs.

  The house dropped into silence again, nothing but the ticking of the heater and the occasional pop of the structure settling.

  “Help me! I’m down here!”

  Her voice sounded small and weak against the newfound wall of silence.

  She heard the handle of the door at the top of the stairs. First it rattled, then the door opened, squeaking as someone pulled it wide.

  Light from above reached down the steps, bright fingers extending to the bottom of the stairs before the basement shadows pushed them back.

  Larissa gripped the shard of glass, felt blood trickle down the side of her hand and drip to the ground at her feet.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  She tensed.

  When she saw the instructor, when he came around the corner and his gray eyes found her, she willed herself not to look away. She glared at him, her jaw tight. With her fingers, she drew the shard of glass farther up against her palm, concealing it. She pressed her hand against her jeans so he wouldn’t see the blood. She’d get him the moment he opened the door. She’d launch herself at him and dig the glass deep into his neck and twist it just to be sure.

  He carried something in his hands. When he drew nearer, she realized he held a neatly folded pile of clothing. He set it on the ground near the door.

  “I have a daughter your age. These are her clothes.”

  Larissa looked down at the pile. Black leggings, socks, underwear, and a red sweater. The sweater looked old, worn, the color faded.

  “Do you like them?”

  She said nothing.

  “You will put them on when we are done.”

  “You have a daughter?”

  The instructor’s face was blank. “I’ll tell her that you like them. She’ll be happy to hear that.”

  “Where is she? Does she know I’m here?” Larissa took a step back. “Help! Your father’s fucking crazy! Help me!”

  He lowered his gaze to where the glass of milk had been. “She doesn’t come down here. She doesn’t like the basement.”

  From the corner of her eye, Larissa saw the painter’s tarp. She turned away. She couldn’t look. She needed to stay strong.

  He stared at the place the milk had been, and then he spotted the puddle of milk toward the back of her cage, partially mopped up with the quilt. “About half the girls break the glass and try to hurt me. The other half do not. He told me you’d be a fighter. A fighter is good. That strength is good.”

  The instructor touched the pile of clothes with his shoe. “You will put these on when we’re done. You’ll be pretty then. You’ll feel pretty. This is her favorite sweater. There’s a pony on the front, see?”

  He unfolded the sweater, held it up.

  “When we’re done with what?” The question came out before Larissa realized she’d spoken, and she wished she could take the words back. She didn’t want to know the answer.

/>   The instructor continued to hold up the sweater, her words lost on him. He looked at the pony on the front, smiled, then carefully folded the garment and placed it atop the pile. “You need to remove your clothes.”

  Larissa shook her head slowly, her grip tightening on the shard. She backed deeper into the cage. “No. No way.”

  The man’s mouth was open just a little, as if he were breathing through it rather than his nose. His tongue slipped out, licked at his cracked lips, and disappeared back inside. He produced a stun gun from his back pocket, held the little black device up, then pressed the trigger. Lightning jumped between the two poles. “You will set down the piece of glass in your hand, you will put it on the concrete, then you will undress so we can get started. Then you will see. Once you see, everything will be okay.”

  Larissa almost slipped on what was left of the milk. The cut in her palm deepened as she tightened her grip. Blood dripped to the floor.

  The instructor’s eyes widened. “Do not hurt yourself! Drop the glass!” He pulled a set of keys from his pockets and fumbled with the locks.

  Larissa held the shard of glass against her own neck, pressed into her flesh. “Stop, or I’ll cut myself. I’ll slice my own throat. So help me God, I’ll do it.” She tried to sound calm, collected, she tried to sound as if she were in charge, but instead the instructions came out at a high pitch, choked by waiting tears.

  She backed deeper into the cage, slipped on the quilt, and fell against the back wall. Her free hand tried to steady her but instead landed on the remains of the glass, tiny shards cutting her palm in a dozen places.

  The instructor had the first lock off and was working on the second one.

  Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t get enough air. Her eyes locked on this man, this monster, as the second lock opened. He wiggled it from the door and tossed it aside, stepping into the cage, coming toward her. He stepped on her arm, the one with the shard of glass, pinning her to the concrete while simultaneously lunging with the stun gun.