The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

“Atonement? What in the world could Sarah need to atone for? She loved everybody. She was a saint,” I said.

  “I don’t know, child. She just used to say it.”

  I walked outside and sat at a picnic table. There was a power in the trees. They seemed to rejuvenate me, sharing their abiding energy. The leaves had all fallen to the ground, and I watched as the squirrels darted about looking for their winter stash of nuts and pinecones. Winters were always so cold in Indiana. Not here in Louisiana. Sure you got an occasional cold blast but then, poof, it was gone and a day like this, cool not cold, sunny and fresh, replaced it. Birds chirped and butterflies floated by, little splashes of color. It was as if the universe was telling me, life goes on. Still, I didn’t know if I could go on. Parents dead, Sarah dead, and my family’s farm on the chopping block. I was too small to fight this big world. But Sarah would want me to soldier on but. That’s what Sarah would want but where could I find the strength?

  My phone rang. It was Detective Baker.

  “Alexandra, this is Captain Baker from Major Crimes. Can you talk?

  “Hello, Captain Baker. Yes, I can talk,”

  “Look, I need you to come to the station when it’s convenient,” he said.

  “What do you need from me, Detective?”

  “I need to ask you more questions about Mark Stevens,” he

  answered. “Will that be a problem?”

  “Hell, no, if it helps put that bastard in the electric chair, I’ll go anywhere you want me to go. Can it wait till tomorrow?” I asked, tempted to chew him out for letting Mark go, but it wasn’t his fault. It was the judge’s.

  “Sure can. Let’s say tomorrow at 10:00 AM,” he said.

  I sat in silence for a moment and thought. I’d walk through the hottest regions of hell carrying a bowl full of molten lava if it meant nailing that bastard. Sarah would have done that for me. But what more could he ask me? Whatever it was, I was one hundred percent in.

  I spent the rest of the day playing with the kids, keeping my mind occupied. The children were full of hope and joy. They saw every day as a day to play, to pick up a doll or to throw a ball, just to see how far it went. They saw only possibilities. They didn’t worry about their future, they saw today and only today. In their world, playing was fun and the future would be what it would be. They lived in the moment, every moment, their moment, now. I remembered living like that. I remembered the world of possibilities before I discovered the world of limitations. I wondered: Why I should accept limitations? Why did I see less than was there for me? No answer sprang to mind because there was no good answer. Maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be limiting my future. I saw why Sarah loved this place so much. Hope lived here. Hope grew here.

  The next day I pulled up to the police station wondering what the hell Baker wanted with me. They had Mark in jail. Maybe he just wanted to tie my story down for the trial. It really didn’t matter to me because I wanted to be a part of putting Mark Stevens in jail for the rest of his life. The weather had turned New Orleans’ wintry, with a wet chill in the air. Clouds painted battleship gray filled the sky, threatening in vain to wash the city clean.

  “I’m here to see Detective Demetre Baker,” I told the desk officer.

  “And you would be?”

  “Al...”

  Before I could get my name out Detective Baker appeared. He had an all-business look on his face. He must have been watching for me. His eyes were glued to mine. I felt the force of that stare.

  He shot a look to the front desk officer and said, “I’ve got this.” He shook my hand and escorted me to an interview room; the same room that Sarah and I were in when we first met him.

  “Tell me about your relationship with Sarah Richard. I need details about how long you’ve known her and how close you two were.”

  I was a little stunned by his distance and official manner. Was I a suspect? Interrogation room, background questions — what the fuck was going on here?

  “We’ve been close friends for the past three years,” I answered.

  “What can you tell me about her relationship with Mark Stevens?” he asked.

  “They were once married and she divorced him because he mentally, verbally, and physically abused her. Sarah was a private person and didn’t involve many people in her life. She only told me about Mark abusing her shortly before Mark’s attack on us. She probably wouldn’t have told me at all if I weren’t staying with her at the time.”

  “Do you know of anyone who had a problem with Sarah other than Mark?” he asked.

  “No. Everybody loved Sarah. I don’t understand, Detective. You have the no-good bastard who killed her in custody. Why these questions?”

  “Routine, ma’am, just routine,” he answered.

  Bullshit, I thought, there’s nothing routine about any of this. Calm yourself, Alexandra. He may have his reasons. “Calming myself” sounded a great deal easier than it turned out to be. I forced myself to answer all of Baker’s questions, even the ones inquiring as to my whereabouts on the night of Sarah’s murder. My patience was wearing thin and I felt the need to hit someone or something.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to do one more thing for me,” he said with a much more empathetic tone in his voice. He hesitated, looked me over and said, “I need you to identify the body.”

  My stomach fell, almost bursting through the chair seat and striking the floor. Much as it did when a roller coaster shot straight down at unsafe speeds. My head spun and nausea replaced the sinking feeling in my stomach.

  “Sarah’s body?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this but there isn’t anyone else at this time. You seem to be her closest friend,” he said. “Please follow me.”

  He escorted me to a back elevator. We took a short ride to the coroner’s office floor. I couldn’t shake the feeling of fear that I would faint before we even arrived. I managed to find the strength to follow the coroner into the cold storage room where the bodies were kept. We entered the room and Detective Baker peered through a safety glass window. The antiseptic smell piercing my nostrils. There on a gurney, covered with a white sheet, was a motionless body. The coroner approached the body and slowly, as if not to disturb a sleeping person, peeled back the sheet, exposing a pale face. Even in death she was beautiful. I gazed at her. My mind flashed back to all of the times we shared. She looked so peaceful. I wanted to wake her up and make her look at me. I wanted her to calm me with that wonderful voice she had. Baker snapped me back to the present.

  “Is that Sarah Richard?” he asked.

  Through tear-filled eyes I looked at my friend. There was no mistaking that wonderful face.

  I turned to Detective Baker and said, “Yes, this is Sarah.”

  Yes, I thought, this was Sarah. She won’t be there when I call her anymore. Sarah was gone but I was here. This time, there was a difference in my thoughts about being alone. I felt strong. I was a little scared but I realized that I could handle more tragedy and trouble than I had ever given myself credit for.

  I looked at Detective Baker and said, “What’s next?”

  “Come with me,” he said.

  We rode the elevator back to his floor. This time he didn’t take me to the interrogation room. He brought me to his office. It looked much like you would expect a male law enforcement officer’s space to look. He had diplomas, awards, sports photos framed on his walls and clippings from some of the more high-profile cases he’d been involved in proudly displayed. I sat directly across the desk from him and looked him in the eye, waiting for what came next.

  “Alexandra, Jess Johnson is a close friend of mine,” he said. “Jess tells me you are a very capable young lady. She tells me you have a good head on your shoulders and can be trusted. I am going to do something that is never done in police work. Something I have never done in my 30 yea
rs on the force. Can I trust you, Alexandra?”

  Holy shit, what now? Detective Demetre Baker was a solemn man with sagging, kind eyes bracketed by lines that betrayed sleepless nights and the human horror he’d seen on the job. Not a man who took anything lightly. If he wanted to do something outside the police manual, he must have a good reason.

  “Yes, Detective, you can trust me.” These words came from deep inside me. Indeed, he could trust me. This wasn’t going to be some schoolyard pinky ring promise. This was a real life-and-death pledge.

  “Alexandra, I am on the serial killer task force. The Mayor, District attorney, and Justice Department formed an elite group to share information to track and capture the serial killer that the media is calling the Quarter Killer. We have been working together for the last two years trying to get ahead of the killings and bring this perp to justice. The pressure on us to catch this man has been unbearable. When you and Sarah were interviewed after Mark Stevens attacked you, Jess called me and told me that Sarah failed to mention that Mark called her his paper doll. You see, Jess knew something about the Quarter Killer that no one outside the task force knew. The Quarter Killer placed a wadded-up paper doll in the mouth of each of his victims. The paper dolls were illustrations cut from fashion magazines. Sarah’s body was found with a paper doll stuffed in her mouth. It could have been a coincidence, but the members of the task force thought it wasn’t. I was called immediately after her body was found and I put out an APB for Mr. Stevens. We pulled the tracking records from his ankle monitor and saw that he was in the French Quarter the night of Sarah’s murder. He disabled the monitor around 10:00 PM. We arrested him in a French Quarter bar at 4:00 AM. He was drunk, a clear violation of his probation. The task force concluded Mark Stevens must be the Quarter Killer. I think they were reacting to the pressure to get an arrest. I am not sure he is Sarah’s killer or the Quarter Killer.”

  “But that bastard stalked her and attacked her,” I protested.

  “Yes, he did. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not getting out of jail. He violated his probation by drinking and disabling the ankle monitor. He’ll do time for sure. I just don’t think he’s Sarah’s killer,” Baker said.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Mark Stevens is motivated by rage. He attacked you and Sarah with his bare hands. He didn’t bring any weapons, nor did he have any grand plan. Whoever killed Sarah abducted her and used a knife to murder her. Her killing was thought out and planned. And it was a little different than the other Quarter Killer murders. The paper doll stuffed in her mouth was from a newspaper, not a fashion magazine. The killer also cut her throat. The other victims’ throats were not cut. It is true that all the remaining stab wounds were identical to the Quarter killings. But Sarah’s stab wounds were inflicted post mortem. She died from the throat wound.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Detective?”

  His eyes locked on mine. The kindness was replaced with the glare of a cobra right before it strikes. He said, “Ms. Lee, there is more going on here than meets the eye. I believe Sarah Richard was murdered to shut her up. Call Jess Johnson as soon as you leave me. She is waiting for your call. She needs to see you now. You will understand after she talks to you.”

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Changing Jobs

  I walked toward the front door of the station feeling very different from when I entered. I caught my reflection in a glass case to my right. My shoulders were back. I was walking fully erect, not slumping or moping. I missed Sarah, but resolved to see her killer face justice; whoever it may be. I put my car in gear and phoned Jess.

  “Hello, Alexandra. I take it you’ve spoken to Demetre,” she said.

  “Yes. He told me to call you.”

  “I am at my office. Can you come see me now?” she asked.

  “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” I said. Whatever more this day had to offer, I was ready to face it. Seeing Sarah lying there helpless, devoid of life, made me wonder what good did it do to go along to get along? It dawned on me that living an authentic life, being the person you were born to be, gave life meaning. Zach was right: most people go through life like zombies, doing the same thing everyone else does. Getting their marching orders from television advertisements or Internet spam. The ad companies told me what I to wear, what to eat, and what to drink. Not me. Not anymore.

  Then I thought, Zach, what the hell happened to Zach? Where did he disappear to? He didn’t even say goodbye. One day he was lecturing me about the evils of processed food and the next he was gone. Then there was Tom. Where the hell was Tom? Had he abandoned me? Did he just get a piece of my ass and haul his ass? That was certainly not the vibe I got from him. What I felt for him was genuine and I thought the feeling were the same for him too.

  I parked and navigated the maze to Jess’ office. She’d given security the OK to let me in. We each got a cup of coffee from the newspaper’s kitchen and sat in her office looking at each other.

  “We have both lost someone dear to us. I am deeply hurt by her loss, as I know you are. But I’ll get right to the point. I don’t think that asshole ex-husband is her killer. He’s not smart and conniving enough to be the Quarter Killer either. Mark is a brute, capable of strangling someone to death in a fit of rage, but not of plotting murders over several years and evading police detection,” she said.

  “But who else would want to hurt Sarah?” I asked.

  “Alexandra, there are forces at work here far more sinister than a jilted ex-lover or a crazed serial killer. I’m afraid Sarah’s past has caught up with her,” Jess said.

  “Sarah’s past? What the hell could she have done in her past that would make someone want to kill her?”

  Jess narrowed her eyes, sizing me up before speaking. “It’s not what she’d done, it’s what she knew.”

  “What she knew? What the hell does that mean? Riddles, why the riddles? What the hell is going on?”

  Jess overlooked my impertinent interruption and continued, “Years ago, when Sarah freelanced and sold stories to the Times, she discovered a company dumping toxic dioxin pesticide in the Gulf of Mexico or Caribbean off the coast of Colombia. Her source informed her that the waste came from a chemical plant in Plaquemines Parish. The toxic pesticide had been outlawed for use in most countries. She learned that the plant was a wholly owned affiliate of Armak Chemical Company. She was hot on their trail. But suddenly she backed off. She said that her source had confessed to her that he lied to get back at the company for treating him unfairly. I trusted her and chose to believe that she knew what she was doing. If she thought she didn’t have enough to go after ACC, then I had to let it go too.”

  “ACC,” I said. “That’s the company that poisoned my family’s farm.”

  “I know,” Jess agreed. “Shortly before her death, Sarah came to me and told me that those many years ago, she had lied to me. She confessed that Mark Stevens, her husband at the time, convinced her to drop her investigation. He said his career depended on it. That is when she left journalism and went to work for Jenkins’ public relations firm. She went on to tell me that as a part of the deal Dan Broussard agreed to bring his business to the Jenkins’ firm. The guilt of her deal with the devil had eaten at her all those years. But when she heard that ACC was involved in your mother’s death, she couldn’t face her guilt anymore. She told me she kept the old files and that a tape recording she made of the informant’s story is in a safe place. She was going to bring them to me. She was murdered before she could do that.”

  All I could think about was my mother’s words to me in the letter she left with her friends. “Remember, Alexandra, when you make a deal with the devil, the devil always collects.” Did someone associated with ACC kill Sarah? It wasn’t Mark or the serial killer? How could that be true?

  “What are we going to do about all of this?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “We? I wa
s hoping you would see things like that,” Jess said. “We, my sweet Alexandra, are going to bring these bastards to their knees. That’s what we are going to do.”

  “How?” I asked, wondering what we could do against such powerful forces.

  Jess got to the real point she was trying to make and snarled when she spoke. “I want you to work for me here at the Times.” I want you to do an investigative piece on Bart Rogan and ACC. I want to smoke those no good sons of bitches out. It’ll be dangerous for both of us, but we have Detective Baker on our side. He will work with us, unofficially of course, and watch our backs. It will be dangerous because Rogan will try to stop us and he’s deadly? I won’t think poorly of you if you decide not to join me.”

  My head was swimming with all of the events in the last few days. I didn’t know if I had the strength to do what she wanted. “I want their asses too, Jess,” I said. “I need to think about how we should go about it though. Can you give me some time?”

  “Like I told you before, you have a week. I’m going after these bastards with or without you.”

  “I want to help, just need a little time to think,” I took another look above her desk and read the scroll to myself: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. Edmund Burke. How true, I thought.

  I left Jess’ office knowing what I had to do. I was going after ACC. They killed my mother and maybe even Sarah. No way could I let them get away with any of it. But I needed to think through the whole thing before I made my move. What good would it do to strike out after them only to fail? I needed to think about my job. And how was I going to save my family’s farm? This was a colossal decision and I didn’t want to get it wrong.

  When I got home my phone rang. It was Tom.

  “Where are you?” I asked. “Didn’t you get my message? Why haven’t I heard from you until now?”

  “I was on a boat in the Gulf, no phone reception,” he said. “I just got your message. Oh my God, Sarah’s been killed? Are you OK? When our boat lands, I’ll come straight to your place. OK?”