by Cynthia Lott
“Was it Carpenter, Roy? Tell me it wasn’t Carpenter. Tell me that this was an accidental death…that she died of a heart attack or a suicide or anything.” I looked at the white sheet, where Sartain’s curly red hair emerged over the white pillow.
“I’m assuming it’s Carpenter.” Roy sighed. “He left us the feathers. Two of them, both sticking out of her mouth.”
“I see. She could be the third one…the third bird scratched out in the illustration. If this is the case, then you were right, but we were wrong about our theory of him zoning in on talented youth. Let’s see if she has any connection to David or Claire.”
“If you want me to interview her sister I can. You can go home if you like and I’ll call you later.”
“Not necessary, Roy. I can handle it.” I walked away and entered the bedroom opposite Connie’s. I stood in the doorway for a moment, collecting my bearings. Connie had been murdered shortly after David Savoy. If this was Carpenter, he wasn’t letting the grass grow under his feet. If she were his third victim that meant Carpenter sat in the corner at Fleur de Lee’s, calmly watching me drink my White Russian knowing all the while that he had already killed Connie Sartain.
Are you disappointed that it took me this long to find her?
I entered the guest bedroom and walked around, looking at piles of different sized teddy bears in one corner along with a small collection of Oriental dolls. Near the window, on top of a round nightstand, sat several music boxes. I refrained from opening any of them lest I hear some sad melody that would drape the shocking scene in an ambience of melodrama.
Where had she obtained all of this stuff?
The room had a twin-sized bed that was also covered with books, newspapers, drawings, and piles of folded clothes and scarves. A dozen portfolios lay strewn across the top of her dresser and hanging on the beige walls were some of her paintings, mostly of geometric designs and molecules of DNA repeated over and over on a canvas.
I opened one of the portfolio binders and pulled out some of Connie’s sketches: there were waterfronts, boats in a harbor, details of leaves and insects, the large head of a cricket staring at me. I placed them back into their black binder and moved on to the next one. This one held sketches of people and animals, a man standing next to a wall, a young girl nude reclining on a sofa, three cats on a windowsill and one that made me place my hand over my mouth, stifling a scream. I took the sketch out of the binder and sat on a small edge of the bed.
I held the sketch up to my face to view it better. It was the exact one Carpenter had left at the bar for me on the napkin. Five little birds in a tree, although Connie’s version displayed all of them whole, none were scratched out. Even though it was an original with her signature, it looked like an exact replica of the napkin creation: the feathers on each bird drawn with precision, each leaf on the tree in the exact place, the branches extending out in the same location, each little bird’s facial expression the same. It was as if Carpenter copied every detail to perfection. I placed the sketch in an evidence folder.
As I turned around to leave the room, the black portfolio that held the drawing, fell on the floor, spilling out the rest of Connie’s smaller sketches. I didn’t want to leave them scattered on the floor even though the messiness of the room would have forgiven it. As I bent down to sort them all back into the folder, my hand stopped on one in particular.
There on the floor in front of me was a sketch of Thomas Carpenter in his bird mask, similar to the one Karen had drawn, but this one showed Carpenter with a slight smile, almost a smirk. I knelt on the floor before sliding myself down into a sitting position, focusing on the picture in front of me.
Did she draw him before he murdered her?
As I looked at the drawn mask with its jewels and small beak, I heard Roy enter the room. Plouche’s voice echoed from Connie’s bedroom.
“Criminy. Take the feathers from her mouth so I can bag her up. She’s been waiting for y’all for a few weeks. You got some boogieman on your hands or something? Man, oh man, this is like a goddamn horror film. That’s what this is.”
“Brenda, Plouche is here to take the body to the lab. We can go now…are you okay?” He knelt down next to me on the floor.
“Yeah, I can hear his obnoxious big mouth. Does he honestly need to be so loud? Wish he could just slip and fall on one of her sewing needles out in the hallway and be done with it. If he starts whistling again, so help me. And, no, I’m not okay…not really.” I handed him the sketch along with the evidence folder.
Roy paused for a moment as he took the drawings from my hand.
“Fucking psycho. Did he have her draw his portrait before he killed her?”
“Look at his face. He was smiling at her. He also duplicated her bird drawing perfectly onto that napkin. Look at it. So he entices her to draw him and then copies her work?”
He opened the folder to reveal the illustration of the five birds in the tree. “What’s this?” He sifted through more sketches.
Underneath the other ones that had spilled from the binder were a collection of pencil drawings…these were of a dancer or someone in the midst of performing dance movements, his arms outstretched, one knee up against his chest. Another was of three movements in one where Connie attempted to capture the dancer’s arm moving in a circle, his body changing from a standing position to one kneeling on the floor. His head was nearly touching his knees, all in a seamless motion.
“Are you seeing this, Brenda?”
“Oh, my God. Are these of Carpenter dancing for her?”
And they were – blurry sketches drawn of him in various moves. She captured him in abstract pencil drawings with his white ruffled shirt, black pants and black vest in detail and consideration.
“What the hell? The movements are similar to those last pictures taken of David Savoy in the rehearsal room. Besides all of the ballet pictures of him, there were those two, do you remember?” Roy compared Connie’s sketches to one another.
“Yes, these are exactly like the pictures at the dance studio of David’s last performance with the DeFrancis Academy.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Roy stood up and placed the sketches into another large folder that he unfolded from his pocket.
“Yes. He’s mimicking the talents of his victims.”
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Walking towards the interview room, I stopped at the doorway and observed Roberta through the glass as she sat at the metal table. Long reddish-blonde hair flowed down her back. When I opened the door, she turned around quickly, her bloodshot eyes following me across the room. In her hand she held a white handkerchief, half of it already wet from her tears. She was around forty-five, although she could have been older with deep wrinkles already settling under her eyes. She wore a button-down orange blouse and dark flared slacks, with brown leather platform shoes and a little silver cross around her neck.
How close had she been to Connie? What sort of bond did they share?
“Hi, Ms. Cheniviere. I want to say I’m truly sorry. Your sister was an amazing artist. She had a great following and I know she will be missed.”
Roberta looked at me for a moment before speaking as if she had been waiting for these rote comments, her hand fingering the cross around her neck.
I know that look. She blames me for this. There’s no one else to blame and it’s me.
“She was and yes, she will be. What the hell is going on here, Detective? Who was with Connie when she died?”
“We know who the suspect is. He’s committed two previous murders and we’re assuming he is the person who killed Connie. His name is Thomas Carpenter. You might have heard of him? He murdered both Claire Watkins and David Savoy. He’s been…elusive. He hasn’t left us much evidence to go on. Tell me, Ms. Cheniviere….”
“Please call me Roberta. So you think this man was with my sister the night of her murder?”
“We don’t know for sure but we suspect he was
, yes. He seems to have appeared out of nowhere, and he’s potentially not from around here. We’re doing all we can to try to find out who he is, and we’re working with each victim’s family to gather as much detail as we can. Roberta, did your sister know either of the two victims? Might she have come across them at some point?”
“I have never heard her mention either of their names. She was shocked by that girl, Claire’s, death. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I hadn’t spoken to her since the boy was murdered, but I can’t imagine she knew either of them. My sister was extremely introverted. She was an excellent artist, but had few friends. I can’t see a situation where she would have come across them. How would my sister fit into this?” She leaned forward, on the verge of tears again, her eyebrows furrowed.
“If this is Carpenter’s work, we don’t think these are random murders. He has an agenda. He specifically targets artists and that is our only connection so far. As introverted as your sister was, would she have let someone like Carpenter into her home?”
“No, not unless she knew him.”
“If you don’t me asking, Roberta, how old was your sister?”
“She would have been fifty-one this August.”
I could not tell if Roberta was actually older or younger than fifty-one. I had never seen Connie alive although I was certain that the next morning I would see Connie’s face splattered all over the newspaper’s pages.
“I know this isn’t pleasant for you, but may I show you a sketch she drew?”
“Of course. If it can help in any way.”
I pulled the evidence folder from my briefcase that held Connie’s two sketches of Carpenter.
“Have you ever seen this person before? This is Thomas Carpenter. Your sister drew him before she died. She trusted him enough to sketch his movements while he danced. He also posed for her as you can see.”
Roberta looked at the sketches, a few tears rolling down her face. “My God. Poor Connie. He let her draw him. Why? And why was he wearing one of her masks?”
“Her masks? No. This is his mask. He’s worn it since we’ve come across him. This is the mask he wore when he killed Claire Watkins and possibly when he murdered David Savoy. What do you mean, your sister’s mask?”
“Connie has four of these types of masks. All of them are similar to this one, actually almost identical. They were our grandfather’s – part of his collection. When he died years ago, he gave them to my father to pass on to Connie. Even as a child, she had a great appreciation for costumes and art. She kept them wrapped in tissue paper in one of her closets, in a large hat box as I recall.”
“Where did your grandfather get them from? Can you tell me something about him?”
“His name was Marcel. He told my father that the masks were from Italy somewhere. He never went into it. My grandfather was a quiet man and old when he passed away. My father said that my grandfather had these masks in his possession since the late 1800s. They’re handmade – very rare. Our family isn’t from Italy. We’re from France originally, so I’m not sure when he obtained them. We’ve been in New Orleans since the late 1800s. Since 1875, I think. I only know because I dabbled in genealogy a few years back. It’s time consuming, so I couldn’t keep it up. My great-grandparents immigrated when my grandfather was a teenager. I do know that much. I don’t understand why these masks match.”
“Neither do I. Detective Agnew and I will revisit your sister’s home and look for the masks. Do you know where they might be? I would like to have them here in custody. They could be helpful in trying to find Carpenter.”
“Of course. I don’t have any idea where they might be – in a closet somewhere. Connie’s house is going to take a while to clean up. Most of it will be thrown out and some donated. I plan on keeping all of her artwork. I knew she was a collector, but I hadn’t been in her house much…at least not past the living room. She often met me in the front of her house, or she would come to mine. Like I said, she didn’t leave her house much except for gallery openings and a few social functions, or we would meet for dinner here and there.” Roberta paused for a moment before continuing.
“She sometimes ventured out to create sketches and drawings but, in the past few years, her introversion had become more acute. Her therapist said that maybe it was due to her being born caesarean…that she didn’t have to struggle through the birth canal and because of that, she couldn’t cope with life…some bullshit like that. Like I told Detective Agnew earlier, she didn’t know any of her neighbors, so I’m not sure they would even notice someone visiting her. It’s a damn shame, too. Someone might have been able to help her.”
“Roberta, did you happen to receive a letter or a card from someone that you didn’t recognize sometime in the weeks preceding Connie’s death?” I looked at the shiny silver cross against Roberta’s wrinkled skin.
“No. I can’t say I did. I always check the mail, because I arrive home from work before my husband does. I don’t recall anything. Why? Should I have received something?”
“Carpenter has a pattern of leaving cards with family members of the deceased…cards that inform them of his plans. He’s done this twice now, and we were hoping he might have sent something to you before Connie’s murder.”
“I’m sorry. Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll look back through everything. Detective, something about this man must’ve made her feel like she could trust him.”
“I think something probably did. In fact I’m certain of it.” I had no intention of mentioning Carpenter’s talent of beguiling his victims.
As Roberta left, I visited Roy in his office. He was tidying his desk, shuffling through papers, placing some under his Jaguar paperweight.
“Hey, Brenda. Jake is interviewing some of the neighbors right now. They’re all still in shock. So far, nobody saw anything except one person, the teen boyfriend of a girl living diagonally across from Connie.”
“What did he see?”
“He claimed he parked his van in front of his girlfriend’s house a couple of weeks ago. He was in there making out with her. By the time she left his van to go inside, the kid said he climbed into the driver’s seat, and saw a man leaving Sartain’s house. That was around eleven p.m.”
“Did he say what he looked like?”
“He only saw the back of him. It was dark, because the street lamplights were out. Something the neighbors had been complaining about. What he found odd was that as he drove down the street in the direction this guy should have been walking, he was gone. He thought maybe this guy walked into someone’s backyard or around a corner. The kid said this man was the only person on the sidewalk that night and then nothing.”
“Then that would have possibly made her death…”
“Around the same as David and Claire’s…10:35.”
“If this is Carpenter, he has a way of slipping in and out of places, doesn’t he? Jesus. Maybe this kid was so high, he just thought he saw him disappear. I finished the interview with Roberta. Remember when Juliet checked Carpenter’s mask and how no costume stores sell that type of mask around here? Guess who has several of them in her closet identical to this one? Connie Sartain. From her grandfather who obtained them from Italy. We need to return to Connie’s house and retrieve those masks.”
Roy squinted at me.
“They’re from her grandfather? Maybe Carpenter is an antiques collector as well.”
“Roberta, said they were rare, handmade. So Carpenter brings them over from Italy too, or finds them in some rare antique store here? I don’t know. He seems too young to be an antiques collector and why here in New Orleans? Why does he bother coming here from Italy just to kill people in our city and scout antiques? There’s no record of him entering the country. Juliet checked with the passport office at Immigration, had them run his stats through a computer program for the last three years. Some match his description: eighteen to twenty-five, tall, dark hair, dark eyes, Italian – but they don’t live around here and none of them have a criminal r
ecord. We don’t have anything on this guy. And how long has he even been in this country? I can’t imagine he’s been in the city for very long.”
Roy looked out of the window at the heavy downpour of rain. “From her grandfather. The mask was from her grandfather. Yeah, let’s take a drive back out there. Bring your briefcase with some folders in case we find anything spectacular. Did Roberta receive one of the cards before Connie’s death?”
“She doesn’t think so. She’s going to look at all of her mail again, but she doesn’t recall anything standing out.”
“Let’s go see if we can find these masks.” Roy stood up from his desk and pulled his jacket off of a wood coat rack. We walked towards the parking lot and slipped into an unmarked car, returning once more to Connie’s unkempt home.
As we returned to Connie’s house, through the rainstorm that was consequently turning nastier with heavy thunder and streaks of lightning, the streets flooded with water. One road in particular was already impassable, and we were forced to take a detour through Connie’s neighborhood.
“Jesus, it looks like night time out here.” Roy pulled into Connie’s driveway.
The yellow tape was still around the house but all of the neighbors were gone, back into their homes away from Connie’s death and the thunderstorm.
“Did everyone leave already?” I put on my white gloves and watched the rain pour down in sheets onto the car’s windshield. “They’ll probably come back later. They’re taking a break, I
imagine. There’s a lot to dust. If this is Carpenter, we hope he made a mistake this time and left a fingerprint on something.”
“Roy, I doubt they’ll find any fingerprints. Carpenter is smarter than that.”
“Pessimism, Brenda. Please, give them a chance.” He opened the car door and we both walked to the front of Sartain’s home, shaking rain off of our jackets. As we returned to her dark living room, lightning glowed across the walls, illuminating her sketches and charcoal pieces. Roy turned on a side lamp and the hallway light, adding an air of comfort to the rather macabre space.
