by Cynthia Lott
For some reason and with no good explanation, David switched gears: his body relaxed, his mind let go of any trace of worry. Everything that Carpenter explained made perfect sense to him and as implausible as Carpenter’s ploy might have been, he, nonetheless, invited him into the studio. As Carpenter took off his black jacket to hang on the coat rack, David stood back and watched him, curiously furtively. From under his white ruffled shirt, David could tell that his body was fit and muscular…a beautiful man with high cheekbones and dark eyes.
My kind of guy.
He wished Paula had told him how handsome these interviewers were. He could completely see working for someone like this – young, classy, elegant. As Carpenter stood there in his presence, David felt a light form of intoxication take over as if he had drunk a large glass of wine.
Man, I hope I’m not coming down with something.
David put his hand to his head, expecting to feel the heat from a fever but all he felt was his smooth skin, normal temperature.
“The rehearsal room is in here…” He smiled and gestured for Carpenter to follow him into the adjoining room. David rubbed his hand through his hair, wondering if Carpenter was a dancer himself with the way he glided towards the piano.
“This is a beautiful piano. I’ve only recently learned how to play, but it’s become my favorite musical instrument. It’s important to see how well you do with impromptu dance numbers…to test your creativity and improvisational skills. We like to see how you can create your own choreography. If I play a piece, will you dance for me?”
“Sure. I think you’ll find I’m pretty inventive. I’ve been lucky enough to choreograph some of my own pieces here. Paula has given me a lot of freedom, but I’m sure she told you that already.” He stretched his arms and legs but the tension in his body had oddly evaporated.
“Yes, she has. If you’re as creative as she says, then you shouldn’t have any problems.” He played with a seamless ease, Beethoven’s Sonata for Violin and Piano No. 5.
David walked behind Carpenter and stood there, watched his fingers move across the keys, the darkness of his hair, and the clean whiteness of his neck. David longed to kiss him on his beautiful skin.
“I would rather listen to you play. You’re good,” David whispered in his ear.
Carpenter stopped playing and lowering his hands from the keys said, “This isn’t about me, David. This is about you. But let’s make it about both of us. It would please me if I could see how your body moves to the music. Or how each muscle bends and twists with the rhythm. Do you understand what I mean?”
Of course he did. He understood Carpenter perfectly and was happy to play along. It would prove to be a far more exciting audition.
David took off each piece of clothing and placed them one by one on the piano. Always comfortable with nudity, he had no hesitation in displaying his body, especially if it promised an exciting rendezvous. Carpenter stepped away from the piano and moved towards him, pulling out two red ribbons, one from each pant pocket.
David participated in these types of games before with other dancers, so to inform him that he was a willing participant, he placed his finger on Carpenter’s lips, feeling the softness of the skin. Carpenter took David’s hand away from his mouth and wrapped one of the ribbons around it, guiding him to the barre. Tying the other end of the ribbon to the wood, Carpenter smiled at him as he stretched out his open palms, waiting for David’s other hand, which slid under the ribbon. David had been practicing since noon, hours of dancing that resulted in a strong sexual frustration.
What was wrong with a little game?
“So now what?” David looked into Carpenter’s dark brown eyes and at the feathers surrounding them, the scent from his mask wrapping them both in a seductive aroma.
“Why don’t you kneel down and we’ll discuss what happens next.” He rubbed his hand through David’s hair.
He knelt down and waited for Carpenter to undress. He closed his eyes and felt a gentle caress on his face. Upon opening his eyes again, he observed Carpenter leaving the room and returning a moment later with his black briefcase under his arm. Carpenter placed it on top of the piano and, popping open the top, caressed something that lay on the inside. It was at this moment that David felt uneasy as if the intoxication was wearing off. He pulled on the ribbons but they were securely tied around his wrists. Sweat formed along his brows as he watched Carpenter walk towards him, something hidden behind his back.
Goddamn, these ribbons. Why did he tie them so fucking tight?
“I knew someone who liked to play games years ago. He looked a lot like you, David.” Carpenter caressed his face.
David writhed within the ribbons and then relaxed, his arms hanging from the barre.
I want you to touch me. I need to be here all night with you. Show me something, anything.
“How you do look so much like him,” Carpenter said and touched David’s chin with the tip of his finger.
“Like who?”
A flash of silver metal rushed across David’s vision. A scalpel cut quickly, deeply along his throat. Blood flowed from his body in strong spurts. Maniacal. Frenzied. David’s eyes widened, his blood painting the floor in a carpet of red. He lurched his body forward, struggling to release himself from the barre, the ribbons cutting into his wrists. Breathing came in heavy, burdened gasps.
Carpenter knelt down and looked at him, watched the last breaths make their way from David’s mouth, the gasping, the useless attempt at holding on to life. David’s body slumped forward while Carpenter’s eyes followed its descent. Before David lost complete focus, he looked once more into Carpenter’s dark eyes and realized one last thing: they were darker than any eyes should be.
* * *
Chapter Seven
A week after David’s murder, I walked to my favorite club in the French Quarter, Fleur de Lee’s. It was amid a busy street, teeming with people celebrating the beginning of their weekend. Doubloons and beads still littered the streets, leftover from the Mardi Gras revelry, and I was left with the same questions:
How did Carpenter leave not only one but several people in a state of intoxication that caused them to lower their guards? What had he used or what about him garnered a sense of instant trust?
Everyone bustled around me. I smelled the concoction of sweat, booze, and perfume emanating from their bodies, knowing that the details of their lives had absolutely nothing to do with me. I passed older couples going out for dinner, groups of teenagers and young adults loudly talking about events of the day, past the people in their twenties on a date, and the man who always stood on the corner, selling roses along with backgammon sets. And at that moment, I felt incredibly lonely and in a trance similar to Carpenter’s victims. As I reached the building, the pulsating sound of “Love to Love You Baby” seeped through the door, putting the club into a dimly lit seductive ambiance of its own.
Upon entering, I saw various couples dancing closely on the floor while others sat on top of one another in corners of the room, snuggling and talking in low voices, sharing their intimate moments in the semi-private space. The party had been going on for some time, and I felt instantly like a voyeur – an invisible observer of New Orleans nightlife choreographed to Summer’s orgasmic crooning.
Tiny stars projected onto the purple velvet ceiling, some in the shape of constellations that swirled around to the rhythms of the song, encircling a large silver disco ball. I sat at the leather-padded bar and ordered a White Russian, hoping it would obliterate from my mind Karen’s eloquent drawing of Carpenter’s mask, his dark eyes piercing through the paper.
“Hey, Brenda. How’s it going on the streets? That stuff has been all over the place.” The bartender, Marcus, placed down a napkin in front of me. A tall Caribbean man, he was handsome with long dreadlocks flowing from the top of his head and ending below his shoulders.
“It’s not on the streets actually. It’s in music rooms and dance studios apparently.” I looked arou
nd at all of the people off in their own world. Enjoying their Friday night, they sat unaware that there was a Thomas Carpenter roaming around the city, perhaps observing their vulnerabilities, their unique talents. I wasn’t in the mood to discuss the two cases with Marcus, and it wouldn’t be professional to do so anyway. I just wanted my cocktail and to allow the music to relax at least a small part of my body.
In one corner of the bar, three women in their late twenties laughed and shared a story, one wiping her eyes from a tearful giggle, another covering her mouth in a stifled laugh. Part of me wanted to be sitting with them, laughing about photos of someone’s life, sharing on an inside joke, admiring the other’s fashionable earrings. Months had passed since I had seen either of my closest female friends, one in New York, and the other in Atlanta. 1977 had seen me more isolated than usual, something I had hoped to change in 1978. I stared out at the middle of the bar as a group of men relived the Dallas Cowboys’ January Super Bowl win over the Denver Broncos, a game I remembered well as most of the men at my station placed heated bets. One of the men at the table raised both of his arms in the air, reenacting his exclamation of victory. They all laughed as a few of them threw peanuts at one another.
In another corner, a handsome man in his late thirties caressed the face of his date, a woman with a short “mushroom” style haircut, as Juliet liked to call it. “I hate that hairstyle. It always looks like a nuclear bomb exploded on their heads,” she would say.
The woman licked the salt from the side of her margarita, sliding her hand through her partner’s shoulder length dark hair. The extended “Love to Love You Baby” version played, which would maintain their moods for a while. I turned back to the bar and sipped my cocktail, tasting the crisp coffee liquor as it hit the top of my mouth.
“Detective Shapira, what are you doing here all alone?” someone whispered into my ear. Startled at first, I knew in a matter of seconds that it was Roy. I had heard his whisper many times before like when we made love (“Do you like that?”) or when he whispered a thought to me out of the earshot of others during a crime scene investigation (“Jesus, this place is a disaster. If I am ever murdered, I hope my surroundings are cleaner than this. This is terrible.”).
His voice was soft and gentle, his unmistakable cologne, Monsieur Musk by Houbigant, soothing – a green musk with a subtle distinct scent of tobacco. I opened my eyes and turned around to see him as he pulled up a padded stool.
“Hey, Roy. I’m surprised to see you here. You’re not one to frequent disco clubs. Isn’t your style more jazz bars, dimly lit lounges, and blues joints? What brings you out here?”
“Oh, I don’t know…figured you might be here, wanted to see you. Wanted to see where Brenda Shapira spends her Friday nights. What are you drinking? White Russian? Nice. I’ll have the same.” He motioned over to Marcus and looked around at the growing number of dancers on the floor.
“I thought you knew where I spent my Friday nights. If I’m not with you, I’m usually here. Well, sometimes. You look handsome by the way…always stylish. You’re persistently a classier dresser than me.” I looked him up and down in his all black attire.
“Thank you, Ms. Shapira. I don’t know about all of that but perhaps it’s only because it comes in handy when helping you choose your own ensemble. It’s my excuse to drag you into high-end clothing stores – like the one two months ago.” He winked at me.
At the posh but relatively empty boutique, we had sex in the dressing room while the sales lady argued with an irritable patron over a stained silk blouse. The customer’s voice was so heated that the sales clerk never heard our heavy breathing, subtle sounds of sex and an orgasm so intense that Roy had to place his hand over my mouth to muffle the noise.
“Wow. Some of the people here look so young, huh? Maybe this is why I don’t go to places like this. It’s bad for my ego. Jazz clubs are different. I’m usually one of the youngest people there. You know you still haven’t come to some of my favorite clubs, Brenda, but yet, here I am.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about your ego. Besides, I’ve been meaning to come to one of your places. You know me. Once I’m home, it’s hard to pull me out again. It’s not for lack of interest.”
“I know. There’s always another time. What do you think?” Roy glanced at me sideways. “Since I’m here on this rare occasion, do you want to dance with me?” He twisted a strand of my hair around his finger.
“Not right now. Maybe after another drink. I’m not in the mood yet…I think I need to be a little more intoxicated before I join all of them.” I nodded towards the dance floor.
“You okay? I know you, Brenda Shapira. Your mind is never off work. Not that I can blame you. I’ve been thinking about it, too. He has both of us, doesn’t he? Let me ask you something.” He sipped his White Russian on the rocks.
“Sure…ask me anything. My mind has been nothing but Carpenter lately.”
“Why three green feathers this time on David? There were four with Claire. Now three. I’ve been thinking about this, and I have a theory you’re not going to like. Do you want to hear it?”
“By all means. Pass it by me.”
“Carpenter is letting us know how many victims he’s going to kill. That’s what I think. There are five victims. That’s what we’re looking at here. He left four feathers to let us know Claire was his first one. One down, four to go. David received three…two down, three to go. Carpenter is methodical. He’s placing them there for a reason. Don’t you find it rather odd that Claire was cut into five pieces? That wasn’t random. Are you following me here?” Roy absently glanced around before looking back at me.
“Yeah. So now we wait around for three more victims?”
“I have no idea. This guy is a mystery. No fingerprints on a goddamn thing…no blood of his own anywhere, a face that nobody sees, an obsession with two artistic kids, and this damn mystical aura that puts everyone into some sort of stupefaction. The guy managed to make a whole household of people at Claire’s home feel at ease while he was clearly a stranger among them.”
“Yeah, they allowed him to move from room to room with the familiarity of a friend. I wonder if Lamont had gone into the rehearsal room and met Carpenter in person, would he have fallen under the same spell, unable to protect David? He might have even welcomed Carpenter into the dance studio, feeling an instant ease with him, too.”
“I mean, we dragged in all five of those other Tom, Thomas, and Tommy Carpenters with prior records. According to Carmen and Karen, none of the men matched Carpenter’s profile: ‘Too fat.’ ‘Too short.’ ‘Too ugly.’”
“Is there anything that pieces these two together…David and Claire?” I took a long sip of my drink. My goal that night was to become intoxicated.
“Not that I can tell. Their families had never met and according to everyone else’s knowledge, they never encountered one another. McGuire and I checked with classmates, teachers, places of interest where Claire and David hung out, but none of the links crossed paths. Needless to say, David’s mother isn’t having an easy time with this.” He placed his hand on my right knee.
I pictured David’s mother placing his ballet shoes in some top dresser drawer like mine, holding them close to her chest, playing over in her mind every performance she had ever seen since he was a child. He was going to be pirouetting forever in her mind, gliding gracefully across the stage for the remainder of her life, spiraling her into one emotion after another.
“Let’s All Chant” started playing in the background. The giggling group of women jumped up with excitement and made their way to the dance floor with their drinks, leaving their photos and conversation behind. The group of guys discussing football ceased their talking and watched the women provocatively gyrate to the music. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, and I detested the fact that I knew Carpenter was bound to have three more victims lined up, waiting to be murdered.
“I think that this Carpenter is invested in some
sort of symbolism, and five is a pretty symbolic number. Five books of Moses, The Law of Fives by Discordianism, the number of points in a pentagram. And, traditionally, it’s the number of unpredictable action…numerology. Leftover from my brief throwback hippie days.” Roy laughed, knowing that I could never imagine him as a hippie, even if it had been short lived while he dated a woman who ran an organic food cooperative, years before I met him.
“What does he have against a virginal sweet pianist and a young dancer? He doesn’t seem to know them, and he’s not showing the signs of a typical killer. He never steals anything. He doesn’t rape them.”
“Maybe he gave David the impression he was a dancer himself. He pretends to have a talent in common with his victim. Claiming to be a pianist with an interest in David’s performance would have been an easy way to have David dance for him – do a few ballet moves as Carpenter admires him over the piano.” Roy tapped his finger on the side of his glass.
“He seduces with the promise of a fun game, convinces David to undress, ties him to the barre…”
“Stands in front of him and…”
“We know the rest. He definitely has a way with seduction, with getting into their comfort zones. He goes in, does his thing and leaves without a trace except for the feathers. If we go with your theory, he’s not just wearing this mask to hide his face. Quite often, the continual wearing of a mask represents a masque of events. It’s symbolic of a string of occurrences, which also convinces me that he has more damage to do before he’s done.” I eased all the way back in my stool.
“And that’s the problem. It looks like Carpenter chose these two victims for their youth and talent. Is that what we look for? Do we keep our eyes on all of the young talent in New Orleans and maybe even surrounding areas?” He sighed and leaned against the stool back.
