A Killer Like Me (33 page)

Because of the telltale “LOG” signature, someone might suspect that Marcy Edwards’s killer may have had inside information from the investigation. Maybe the killer was a cop.

New Orleans had a history of killers with badges. Antoinette Frank, Len Davis, Weldon Williams—all convicted of murder. Two of them handed death sentences. So how much of a stretch would it be to imagine the department ordering every cop who had worked the Wingate crime scene to provide a DNA sample? Just like in Jennings.

The killer, no matter how many times he was convicted and how many death sentences he got, would sit on death row at Angola through more than a decade of appeals, all the while holding on to a secret that could land Murphy in prison.

But what if he were killed instead of caught? Shot down like John Dillinger as the police closed in to arrest him. Then there would be no trial, thus no pressure to tie up every loose end, to dot every
i
and cross every
t
. As part of its standard operating procedure, the police department would issue a final report on the investigation and stamp it “closed.”

The Homicide Division, specifically, the task force, and even more specifically, Murphy himself, would be in charge of writing that final report. The Edwards murder could be added to the other serial-killer crimes as little more than a footnote.

I have to kill him.

But how? Dillinger at least had the decency to run when Melvin Purvis and his team of G-men tried to arrest him outside the Biograph Theater in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, back in the days when it was accepted practice to shoot fleeing felons in the back. Now, that was out of bounds. By today’s rules, Purvis would have ended up in prison, and Dillinger’s family would have gotten rich from a lawsuit against the government.

Serial killers don’t go down in a blaze of gunfire.

Bank robbers do. Matix and Platt killed two FBI agents and wounded five more in Miami in 1986 before being shot down. In North Hollywood, Phillips and Matasareanu shot ten cops and wounded seven civilians in 1997 before going down for the count.

Religious fanatics do. Jim Jones and his cult followers murdered a U.S. congressman and three reporters in Guyana in 1978 before Jones and nine hundred of his disciples killed themselves by drinking cyanide-laced Kool-Aid. In Waco, David Koresh, a Jesus wannabe, and his band of freaks killed four ATF agents and wounded a dozen more during a two-and-a-half-hour shootout in 1993 before burning themselves to death.

But not serial killers. Serial killers are cowards. When they get cornered, they don’t fight like lions. They lie down like lambs.

The idiot who called himself the Lamb of God would likely lie down the same way. And right now, Murphy’s two junior detectives, Calumet and Dagalotto, the two least likely to succeed, were probably closing in on him.

Somehow Murphy had to slow them down. He had to find the serial killer first and kill him. Maybe the storm would help.

Twenty hours ago, Murphy had been sitting on his sofa with a pistol in his mouth trying to work up the nerve to kill himself. Now, he was standing in his kitchen plotting to kill someone else.

He glanced down at the killer’s letter again and focused on the last line.

You are a killer like me.

Monday, August 6, 5:30
AM

When Murphy pulled into the back parking lot of the police academy, Gaudet’s Caprice was already there. Gaudet stepped out of his car wearing his tactical uniform: dark blue utility pants and a matching blue T-shirt with
POLICE
in bright yellow letters stenciled on the back and the star and crescent NOPD badge on the left breast.

Murphy slipped his car into an open spot next to his partner and pressed the button to roll down his passenger window. Halfway down, the window jammed.

Gaudet stooped to talk through the open half. “What are you doing here so early?”

Murphy shut off the ignition. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” Murphy said, although he was sure he and his partner hadn’t spent the night worrying about the same thing.

“Which car do you want to work out of?” Gaudet asked.

“It’s got to be yours. My AC is shot.”

Gaudet nodded and stood up.

Murphy climbed out of his car. He was dressed in khaki pants, a button-down shirt with an open collar, and a sport coat. His storm gear, including his tactical uniform, was in a bag in the trunk. Donovan had said Homicide was going to be doing detective work, and Murphy wanted to look at least somewhat like a detective, not a SWAT ninja.

“I’ve got to see a friend of mine,” Gaudet said. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes.”

Murphy walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He grabbed the strap handles of his tactical bag and pulled it out. “Let me throw my gear in your car.”

Gaudet stared into Murphy’s trunk. “Are you gay?”

“What?”

“Man, only gay men keep their shit this neat.”

Inside Murphy’s trunk, everything was stored in four plastic crates. The crates themselves were lined up from side to side with military precision. The one thing that seemed out of place was a paper bag wedged over the right wheel well. The taped, chopped-down butt of a sawed-off shotgun stuck out from the top of the bag.

“Is that the gun we took off that little meth freak on Octavia Street?” Gaudet said.

Murphy nodded.

“Why didn’t you put it into evidence?”

“When I got transferred to CE&P,” Murphy said, “Donovan took my car away and I forgot about it.”

“It’s too late now. You may as well chuck it in the lake, since we didn’t charge him.”

“Just open your trunk and let me put my gear in,” Murphy said.

Gaudet leaned into his own car to press the trunk release. “Did you bring any food?”

“I didn’t have any.”

“No snacks at all?”

Murphy shook his head as he stepped toward Gaudet’s trunk. “Nothing.”

“Me either.” Gaudet walked to the back of his car. “What are we gonna eat?”

“I guess if the storm hits, we’ll have to scavenge,” Murphy said. “Just like last time.”

“Oh, it’s going to hit,” Gaudet said. He raised the trunk lid. The hinges didn’t have enough spring left in them to lift it on their own. “Did you watch the weather this morning? It looks like Katrina all over again. On my way back, I’ll stop and pick up some emergency-rations-type shit—chips, peanuts, Vienna sausages.”

“Want me to ride with you?”

Gaudet shook his head. “I’m running by my little honey’s house. Gonna make sure she’s okay for the storm.”

“That should take you what, two minutes?”

“Fuck you,” Gaudet said. “I’m good for at least three.”

“Why didn’t you stop and take care of that on the way here?”

“Her old man is in the National Guard. She said he was leaving this morning about five, five-thirty. I wanted to make sure he was gone.”

“You’re a sack of shit, you know that?” Murphy said. “I hope he fucked her this morning and left wet spots all over the bed.”

The inside of Gaudet’s trunk was a black hole. Everything that had ever gone into it was still there. There wasn’t room for anything else. Murphy grabbed the handle of his partner’s battered leather briefcase and lifted it out of the way.

“Not that!” Gaudet said as he lunged at Murphy.

Surprised, Murphy turned toward him. The big detective’s bear-sized paw missed the handle and smacked the top of the briefcase, knocking it out of Murphy’s hand. As it fell, the briefcase turned over and landed on one of its top corners. The latch on that end popped open and some of the contents spilled out onto the black asphalt parking lot.

For a moment, all Murphy could do was stare.

The killer hears the newspaper hit his driveway at 5:35. He steps outside to pick it up. The wind is howling through the electric wires overhead. The storm is getting closer. Today’s newspaper will likely be the last one for a while.

On his way home last night, just before midnight, he heard on the radio that the storm was a category five, with sustained winds of 170 miles per hour. The outer bands are expected to hit New Orleans by this afternoon, the storm itself by late evening. Catherine has sneaked up on the city. The carefully conceived phased evacuation—nearly two years in the planning—has been abandoned. The mayor has sounded a general retreat. It is every man for himself.

After a last look at the black sky, the killer walks back inside and unfolds the newspaper. Not surprisingly, the top story is the approaching storm. The headline reads,
MAYOR SHOUTS “ABANDON SHIP!”

According to the article, Mayor Ray Guidry called a hasty press conference last night to announce what everyone already knew, that Hurricane Catherine was going to crush New Orleans. He also said he was “stepping up” the evacuation timetable, meaning everyone should leave now.

During the press conference, the mayor, already well-known for his verbal flights of fancy, had actually used the words
abandon ship
, as if he were Captain Edward Smith on the bridge of the
Titanic
. He also refused to answer any questions regarding his still-missing daughter. “I can only handle one crisis at a time,” he told a reporter.

Below the fold are the articles the killer is looking for, three stories about him. One headline reads,

SERIAL KILLER SENDS LETTER
Vows To “Keep” Mayor’s Daughter

The headline is not quite accurate. He didn’t “vow” anything, and the newspaper’s use of the word
keep
implies permanence, which is not what he meant. He said he would “keep her for a time.” Not forever. Soon she will be dead.

Under the slightly misleading headline is a brief introductory paragraph explaining that the printed letter is an exact copy of the one the newspaper received Sunday from the serial killer.

Below that rather weak introduction is his letter, condensed to fit the bottom of the page, but reprinted in its entirety, just as he demanded. Now, it is he who is in charge.

The accompanying article, written by Milton Stanford, whose byline identifies him as the newspaper’s managing editor, goes on to analyze the letter, with comments thrown in from a number of so-called experts. Most of the article is offensive, particularly the comments of a pointy-headed intellectual the paper managed to dredge up from Loyola University:

“The quasi-religious themes and references in this letter and on the video are nothing more than a theological hodgepodge, cherry-picked from the Old Testament and other religious texts,” said Stan Young, a professor of religious studies at Loyola University. “By themselves, and taken out of context the way they are, they mean nothing, and are probably some type of mask to cover up the killer’s own deep feelings of inadequacy, which are probably of a sexual nature.”

The second article, this one by Kirsten Sparks, someone whose work the killer admires, tells the story of the two sodomites he sacrificed in the French Quarter. In a remarkably short time—he delivered the letter to the newspaper less than twenty-four hours ago—the reporter was able to correctly identify both men.

The third front-page article about him, also by Kirsten Sparks, is a recap of the kidnapping of the mayor’s daughter and the police department’s inability to find her. The article also mentions the video.

The killer throws the newspaper onto his small desk and collapses into bed. The damn storm and his nagging mother are forcing him to move more quickly than he planned. He has to do something with the mayor’s daughter. She will not survive much longer in the box. He wanted her death to be dramatic, eclipsing that of Sandra Jackson. Now he does not have the time. A simple beheading will have to do. She is, after all, the mayor’s daughter. That fact alone will guarantee worldwide news coverage.

The killer raises his left hand and touches the gauze bandage on his cheek. Pills have dulled the pain somewhat, but the wound still hurts. So do the scratches. Had the little bitch been a half second faster, or he any slower, she would have scratched out his eyes. But God would not have let that happen.

I have much work yet to do.

After knocking out the trollop, he stuffed a rag in her mouth and taped it shut, half hoping she would suffocate. He retaped her wrists and bound her legs together from knees to ankles. Then he crammed her back inside the box.

Her body will never be found. For what she did to him, for what her father said about him, he will deny her family that closure. Perhaps he will bury her alive and videotape her internment. Put that on the Internet. No, a beheading will be much more shocking, with all the useless struggling and copious amounts of blood. More shocking and simpler.

Monday, August 6, 5:40
AM

“What the hell is that?” Murphy said as he stared down at his partner’s briefcase and the bundled stacks of cash that had spilled from it.

Gaudet dropped to one knee and began stuffing the money back into the busted case.

When Murphy stooped to pick up one of the bundles, Gaudet tried to knock his hand away, but he wasn’t quick enough. Murphy stood up holding an inch-thick stack of bills wrapped in a rubber band. “Where did you get this?”

Gaudet climbed to his feet. His thick arms clutched the briefcase to his chest. “It’s personal. Nothing to do with you or the job.”

“Bullshit,” Murphy said.

“I’m serious. I needed cash for an investment, so I sold some things.”

Murphy nodded toward the briefcase. “How much?”

Gaudet looked panicked, like a trapped rat. He hesitated.

“How much!” Murphy said.

“About eight . . . maybe ten thousand.”

“You don’t know? You’re walking around with a briefcase full of cash, and you don’t know how much is in it? Don’t try to play me.”

“I’m not playing you, but it’s like I said, it doesn’t have anything to do with you. It’s personal.”

It crossed Murphy’s mind that maybe he was misreading the situation. Maybe it was Gaudet’s money. Maybe he was being pressured into something. Maybe somebody kidnapped his wife. “Are you in trouble? Is Dannisha okay?”