by Robin Caroll
She gently removed it from its careful packaging and set it on the settee table. It was heavy, probably real wood, but was only about six inches by six inches. Now she wondered if she should have called Beau before she opened the box. If there was something in there, she’d contaminated any evidence.
But…curiosity pushed her to open the smooth and shiny lid.
An upbeat ragtime tune filled the air as she looked at the empty interior, eloquently lined with black satin. She shut the lid, letting silence pervade her office again, and turned the music box over. No marking of creation or anything for that matter, just the metal key to wind up the music box.
She opened the lid again. The tune was jazzy, typical for old New Orleans, not the modern-day zydeco tunes. Addy preferred the old jazz, but had to admit, she didn’t recognize this particular tune. She grabbed her cell from her pocket and opened the music-identifying app. It came back with an old jazz tune.
That didn’t seem quite right. She accessed a different tune recognizing app and tried again. The result was a different performer of old jazz.
She went back to the first app and tried again. A third, different composition was the result.
Addy chuckled. Probably too old for identification, as some of the true jazz tunes were, so the apps just pulled something close.
She shut the lid. It still didn’t answer who it was from. Who would send her such an odd—yet kind of nice—gift?
It was probably from Dimitri. He liked to send her gifts, and this was quite a display. She should thank him for it. She needed to ask about the art show tomorrow anyway. For Tracey.
Yet she didn’t want it to be from him. Well, she did, because that would mean she was right and there was no reason to be alarmed. But she didn’t, because he’d been acting strangely lately, which was understandable, considering everything.
More importantly, she’d started feeling differently toward him recently. Like the butterflies in her stomach whenever he was near her weren’t active anymore. She still found him handsome and kind and wonderful, but…it was as if any romantic feelings she’d felt for him had gone away. Vanished. When she thought of what made her heart beat faster, all she could think about was Beau.
She sucked in air and put her hand over her mouth. Had she really just thought that? Did this mean what she suspected it did?
Addy let out a slow breath. She needed to talk to Dimitri. As hard as this would be, honesty won with her every time.
Even if it meant hurting people she cared about. And maybe, just maybe, hurting herself as well.
1936
Will rose from the altar. Why was God continuing to be so silent to his prayers? He needed guidance and needed it now.
One of his followers had told him last that that the building they’d been squatting in for the last month or so had been sold and the new owners would be taking possession of the place by the end of the week. Will had to act fast.
Winter had befallen New Orleans and the wind cut through them all. Will needed to find a new place for Cretum Deus, which now had almost eighty believing males. About twenty women had been accepted by Will to care for these men’s needs.
All of the followers would look to Will for provision of shelter. If he didn’t provide…well, he had to find a way.
“Will, I need to ask your permission for something.” James stood in the doorway of their makeshift altar room.
He turned and moved to his chair. “What is it?” He couldn’t take another problem at the moment.
“It’s about the young woman I told you about last month, Etta. She’s a widow and had been a friend of one of the girls who came to live with us not too long ago.”
A woman. With all the complicated decisions he had to make, James comes to him with an issue about a woman. He sighed. “What about her, James?”
“Well, you see, I think I’ve fallen in love with her and want to marry her.”
What? Will narrowed his eyes as he stared at his friend. “We don’t marry in Cretum Deus. You know that.”
“I know, but I love her.”
“Love? What do you know of love, James?” This was absurd.
“I love God.”
“That’s a holy love. A reverent love. They don’t compare.” What was this nonsense?
“I love you. I love George.”
Such a wimp. “We are like your brothers, James. We grew up together, and we’re bonded by our belief in God and following Him through Cretum Deus. We are true believers, so of course we love one another.”
“I want to marry her, Will.”
For the first time—no, the only time—James was going to have to stand his ground. Over a woman?
James must have recognized the simmering fury rising in Will, for he began to prattle on. “She’s a widow, Will, and she has a big house. If I marry her, I’ll have ownership of the house, and of course, I’d make sure to sign that over to you for Cretum Deus. We could live there. It’s huge, at least a dozen bedrooms. We could have a permanent home, Will. Just think about that. And if I marry her, we’d have children. These children would be raised in Cretum Deus’ ways. True believers. A legacy to ensure our ways would go on through the generations. To make sure there were always true followers of God to do His will. His works.”
Will held up his hands to silence James’ ramblings. While the thought of marriage was beneath him, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was God’s answer to his prayers for shelter for the group. Dare he turn his back on such an opportunity if it was the method of God’s provisions?
He closed his eyes and kneeled. God didn’t respond, but Will kept his prone position as he considered the notion. The home was a definite plus. If she was a wealthy widow, then he, through James, would control all her assets, which would mean they could branch out further.
Children. He’d allowed the men to have relations with the women brought into the group. They had desires and if certain needs were met, the members were much more malleable to do Will’s bidding. But the women were under strict instructions to ensure no children would result from those relations. If they were to allow such, the women would be gotten rid of. Will had made sure they all knew this before they were accepted into the group’s folds, not into the group itself. Women weren’t worthy of that.
However, James did have a point, surprisingly. He did need to think about the future of the group. He had been assured by God that he would lead the Cretum Deus for many decades, but he did need to think about what would happen after that. He was only eighteen, but a man had to plan. He had to raise sons, and rear them correctly. And they had to be legitimate children. True children of Cretum Deus.
Will opened his eyes and stood. He motioned for James to come to him.
“Did God answer you?” James almost whispered.
Will nodded. “You have permission to marry this Etta that you love.”
James’ smile lit up his whole face.
“But with a condition.”
The smile froze on James’ face. “What’s that?”
“You may not consummate your marriage until Etta bears me, as leader of Cretum Deus, a son.”
15
— Beau
“We have another murder. One Jacob Roman found dead this morning by his wife. Want to guess what the murder weapon was?”
Beau sighed and shook his head. “An axe?”
Marcel nodded. “Gibbons and Witz got the case.” He tossed the report across the desks. It landed on the space between them. “This is starting to get all too familiar.”
Beau flipped through the pages of the report. “Someone is going through a whole lot of trouble to lead us in the direction of the Axeman with the use of those axes.”
“Yeah, and it’s frustrating that the axes are the victims’, so we can’t even trace someone who bought so many.” Marcel grabbed his water bottle and twisted off the cap. He gulped down half of it.
Beau tossed the report back to his partner. Nothing outstanding had been n
oted. No prints, no forensic evidence determined yet, no eyewitness accounts…nothing that could lead any of the three teams of detectives to a suspect. There was nothing to go on, and it was beyond frustrating. “Why do all these people have axes? I mean, I have a house, and I don’t have an axe.”
Marcel tilted his water bottle towards his partner. “And how does the killer know they have axes?”
“That’s a good question.” Beau thought about what Addy had mentioned about Vincent’s theory. “Let me look at something.” He opened his web browser and ran a search for victims of the Axeman. As he read, he found himself nodding. Addy’s dad might have hit on something. “Listen to this, the original victims of the Axeman were, in order of attack, Joseph and Catherine Maggio, Louis Besumer and Harriet Lowe, Anna Schneider, Joseph Romano, Charles and Rosie and Mary Cortimiglia—Mary was only two years old, by the way—Steve Boca, Sarah Laumann, and the last victim, Mike Pepitone.”
“He killed a two-year-old child?”
Beau nodded as he opened his notebook. “Now here are the names of the people who’ve been attacked with an axe over the last week: Joey and Theresa Maggio, Lance Bassemier, Amelia Schneider, and now Jacob Roman.” He glanced over the desk to Marcel. “Sound familiar?”
Marcel nodded. “That’s slick, man.”
“I can’t take credit. Vincent Fountaine figured out the connection.” Oh, boy, he’d love that he’d been right.
“Maggio and Maggio. Besumer and Bassemier. Schneider and Schneider. Romano and Roman.” Marcel leaned back in his chair. “Are you saying the next victims will be a family involving a child with a name similar in some way to Cortimiglia?”
“Maybe. Probably.” He stared at the list again. “Why isn’t there one for Harriet Lowe?”
“What?”
Beau tapped his pen against his notebook. “There’s a match, similar last name and matching gender, in order, for four of the five original Axeman attacks with the ones from the past week. Yet, there isn’t one for Harriet Lowe. Why not?”
“I don’t know, but we should probably figure out who she was.” Marcel sat up and tapped on his keyboard.
Beau ran a search on her—too many results. He amended his search to Harriet Lowe Axeman New Orleans. He bypassed the find-a-grave pages because they probably didn’t have much useful information. He clicked on one page and read the details of her attack aloud:
“On June 27, 1918, Louis Besumer and Harriet Lowe were attacked while sleeping in the home owned by Besumer, located on corner of Dorgenois and Laharpe Streets. Mr. Besumer was hit in the head with an axe, which resulted in a skull fracture, while Ms. Lowe was hit just above her left ear. A Mr. Zanca, driver of a bakery wagon who was coming to make his daily routine delivery, knocked on the home’s door. Mr. Besumer opened the door for Zanca, who quickly summoned help from police and paramedics even though Mr. Besumer didn’t want them because they would find out about his mistress. Mr. Besumer recovered but Harriet Lowe died at the hospital after surgery to repair her face. Ms. Lowe had given statements that were not accounted for because of her delusional state following the attack.”
Marcel jumped in. “I can’t even find a date of birth for her. Her death is recorded on August 5, 1918 at Charity Hospital.”
“Very odd.” He smiled across the desks at his partner. “Maybe our records department can get some more details. If you emailed the request to a certain lady friend of yours, we might actually get a rush response.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” But Marcel’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Okay, it’s sent.”
Beau kept checking the other pages. “The reports of what happened to her are pretty much all the same on all the sites. It’s kind of sad.”
“Well, yeah, anybody getting conked on the head with an axe and dying is sad, Beau.”
He rolled his eyes at his partner. “No, that she was attacked at her lover’s house, who didn’t even want to call an ambulance or the police because he didn’t want everyone to know he was cheating on his wife. And then to survive the attack but die later from the surgery to fix the damage the Axeman did? That’s sad.”
“Yeah, it is sad. I wonder if she was married. Nothing in the report stated it.”
Beau leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. “I’ve got a gut feeling that it’s important that a replicate of her attack was omitted.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I just have that feeling.” He dropped his arms and sat up. “Addy finally asked the question of if it was possible her dad was hit with an axe before his house was set on fire.”
Marcel crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That it’s possible, but with the fire destroying physical evidence, we can’t assume either way.”
“I think it was. I think that was the copycat’s first attack.”
“Why?” Beau knew they’d already discussed this before, but it never hurt to walk through the case again. Maybe they’d missed something.
“The only thing that sets Vincent Fountaine out from anybody else is that he’s a famous writer and he was at the hotel the day the news of the skeleton was reported.”
Beau nodded. “Vincent said he had research on the Axeman at his house. The next day, he’s attacked and his house is burned down.”
“His head wound could have easily been made by an axe. His description matches what the guys were wearing who threw blood at Addy.”
Marcel straightened in his seat. “You know, I’ve been thinking about that. Who do you know who wears black hooded robes and masks?”
“Uh, kids during Halloween.”
Marcel chuckled. “Yeah, but it’s not October.”
“Okay, where are you going?”
“Cults.”
Beau rolled his eyes again. “Most of the cults here don’t wear masks. Fangs to pretend they’re vampires, yes, but masks? Usually not.”
“Some do though, right?” Marcel typed on his keyboard. “You said the masks looked like a pig and a sheep?”
“Yeah. Creepy.” But it wasn’t the actual masks that were creepy. It was more the feeling just the figures filled Beau with. An ominous, dark feeling that sank in the pit of his stomach. That was the only way he could describe it, even though he knew it didn’t make a lot of sense.
“Well, it seems the pig and the sheep are prominent figures in some religious cults.” Marcel scrolled down a webpage and read aloud. “Celtic lore views pigs as symbols of abundance. Many Native American tribes associated the pig as a symbolic link to abundance, fertility and agriculture. Even in early Christianity, pigs were often symbols of wealth.”
“Yet they hid behind a mask?”
“Now, the sheep is traditionally a symbol of sacrifice, and also of purity and innocence. In early Christian groups, and still in many cults today, sheep are symbols of renewal, victory of life over death, and innocence. Even in the Bible, sheep are considered the perfect victim which should be sacrificed to God.”
Beau ran a finger along his upper lip. “That’s true. Abraham was told to sacrifice his only son, but God provided a sheep to sacrifice instead.”
“Let me check something.” He typed, then clicked. “Okay, in our database, there are several cults here in the greater New Orleans area that use an animal as a symbol.” He looked up. “There are only three that use either the pig or sheep versus the other twenty-something who have bats and rats or goats or whatever as symbols.”
Beau shook his head. “Why does everybody think that New Orleans is filled with vampires? I get that we have a strong history of witchlore and voodoo and hoodoo, but when did we become the vamp capital?”
“Too many movies and television series set here that depict the fanged ones.”
“And all romanticized to stir up the young people.” Beau shook his head. Every year, the death rate rose of people who were killed by crazy teens and young adults who thought they were in some cool
vampire family. It was a sad reflection on the city that Beau loved so much.
“But, I’m not seeing any connection between these three religious cults to the Axeman or Harriet Lowe, or even the Darkwater Inn.” Marcel leaned back in his chair. “Every time we think we might have a new direction to go, we get shut down.”
“Captain isn’t going to be happy that he has three sets of detectives working on cases that are connected, and we can’t get one decent lead.”
Marcel pointed at Beau. “You’re the senior detective out of all six of us.”
“Gee, thanks for that.” He moved to his browser and typed in “Axeman New Orleans” and searched. “Okay, maybe we need to know more about the original Axeman so we can figure out why someone’s copycatting his attacks.” He accessed the old database of the New Orleans newspaper. “Maybe the reporters then were just as determined as Allison Williams and had some stories about the serial killer.”
“Just got an email back on Harriet Lowe. Her date of birth was September 10, 1889. She was born to a single woman who was recorded as being a widow. Initial review is that she was an only child.”
Beau glanced at his partner. “That’s it?”
“My girl is doing more digging, but she wanted us to at least have that.” Marcel said.
“To let you know she was giving you preferential treatment, huh?”
Marcel just grinned.
Beau shook his head and went back to his newspaper archives. “Hey, the Axeman actually wrote a letter to the New Orleans paper.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it was published in the paper on March 13, 1919. Check it out.”
Marcel got up to look at the screen.
Hell, March 13, 1919
Esteemed Mortals of New Orleans:
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.
