Fallen (18 page)

Maybe because it was her mother who had driven her life, not him. It was her mother who had raised her, her mother who hugged her and yelled at her, who had vacillated between effusive affection and stone-cold remoteness. Her mother had influenced her psyche on every level, and now she was left alone to deal with the mess of her life.

It made her angry. At her mother. At the world.

Sara walked faster, dodging sidewalk holes and avoiding further doormen and one aggressive bartender already hocking shots in plastic tubes in the open doorway. She needed to let it go. Let it all go. Start over right here, right now. Yet it was so damn hard to start over when she physically felt the past following her. It was there in the Anne Donovan case, it was there in the e-mail she’d gotten suggesting her guilt, it was there in the book Gabriel was writing, it was in the disturbing sensation that even as she walked someone was watching her, following her.

For a minute, she panicked, forgetting which cross street she wanted to turn down, and certain she’d gone too far, but then she saw the sign for Dumaine and realized that was the street Gabriel’s apartment was on. Glancing behind her as she turned onto Dumaine, she scanned the street for a clear indication of someone following her, but she only saw several women together in a cluster wearing summer business skirts, and a man hosing the street down.

God, she was totally paranoid. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling, and she walked faster and faster until she got to Gabriel’s gate, which was open. Then she jogged down the enclosure and up the stairs to his apartment, looking forward to seeing him, hearing his reassurances. There was a note on the door.

Sara ripped it off the door and turned the knob. He’d left the door open. And the gate. Plus a note indicating to anyone who happened by that he wasn’t home and everything was unlocked. He was afraid of nothing, and she was paranoid enough for the both of them, and one extra person besides. Sara went in and locked the door behind her, heart pounding from her aggressive walking.

Then she pulled out her cell phone in case she needed to call 911, and walked through his apartment, checking to make sure she was actually alone with the door locked behind her. She went through every room, even throwing open his bedroom closet and peeking behind the shower curtain. She ended in his office, and collapsed on the sofa, feeling on the verge of tears.

She fought them, hating to cry, knowing it meant she wasn’t better, despising that she was not totally and completely in control. Popping back up to distract herself, she went over to study the spoons that hung on the wall by Gabriel’s computer. She thought they were vintage, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t even sure if they were technically spoons since they had holes in them, and oblong ends, more like a pie server than a spoon.

Agitated and restless, Sara knew she should just go back to the file folder of research documents she had with her. She hadn’t brought her laptop, and she didn’t feel comfortable using Gabriel’s computer without asking him first, but she could write out longhand all the questions she had. She wanted to find out more about John Thiroux—where he had come from and where he had gone after his acquittal. Newspaper articles at the time hadn’t seemed to delve into his past at all. Everything she had read concentrated on his artistic endeavors and his drug problem. No one mentioned his family, his education, where his wealth had originated from, and how he might have strayed down the path of alcohol and opium.

But instead of working, she found herself looking at the various objects lying around his desk. Never a nosy person, she wasn’t sure why she was standing there filled with rabid curiosity, eyes roving over an old loving cup used as a pen holder. The abandoned water bottle turned on its side, crushed, and stuck with paper clips that had been twisted open and straightened out to reveal their ends. Stacks of books with criminology titles. Gabriel was messy, but not dirty. There was no dust, no food wrappers, no indiscriminant sticky spots.

A file folder was open next to the computer, and it was impossible not to see the copy of the sketch sitting on top. It was a woman in profile, sitting on the edge of a bed. She thought it was Anne Donovan, but it was hard to tell from the side. But it was signed in the corner JT. Sara stood there staring at the sketch, telling herself not to do it, but she couldn’t stop herself. Sliding the first copy over, she revealed a second one behind it. This was Anne on her stomach on the bed, nude, head lying on her arms, looking more sleepy than sexual. Like she’d woken to discover her lover had been sketching her for quite some time.

It was an intimate image, and Sara felt a profound sense of sadness for Anne, for the life she had led, and the brutal, untimely end to her existence.

But at the same time, going on pure instinct, Sara felt as though the man who had drawn that picture had respected the woman before him. There was a tenderness to what he had captured. The artist didn’t seem interested in her nudity for titillation, but as a display of her total beauty, her curves and soft feminine form.

There were three more sketches in the pile. The first showed Anne at her dressing table fussing with a pot of powder. Another was of Anne smiling, an intense devotion to the artist on her face, revealing, in Sara’s opinion, that she had loved John Thiroux. Or at least desired him, admired him, been grateful to him. There was intensity in her eyes, not disgust or boredom or tolerance. The third sketch was one of her neck, curls tumbling over her shoulders, the graceful lines of her muscles and bones delineated. A pearl necklace was resting above her décolleté, and her fingers played with the beads. Her face wasn’t visible, but she had slender fingers and neatly manicured nails.

The final two sketches had Sara pulling back in shock. “Jesus.” Both were copies like the others, the first a rendering of the crime scene. It was appalling, brutal. Sara’s stomach roiled at the image of a woman, on her back in bed, her face and upper body mutilated, the bedsheets darkened to depict pools of blood, the stain descending to the floor and collecting in a puddle. It was only a pencil sketch, with lines blurring and details of the wounds hard to decipher, yet it conjured up memories of her mother’s death, of the crime scene photos they had briefly showed in court, and the utter violation of what had been done to her.

The final sketch was a close-up of Anne’s arm, graceful and delicate in the moonlight, her fingers dangling over the side of the bed. It was a Xerox copy, but there were dark streaks across the paper, slashing through Anne’s wrist, and smattering across the right-hand side of the sketch. When Sara saw the faint outline of a fingerprint, she realized that the dark spots made from the copier were originally blood, Anne’s blood, and that whoever had picked up the drawing before the blood had dried had embedded a fingerprint in it.

John Thiroux maybe. One of the police. Or another, unknown killer. That fingerprint belonged to someone who had been there, seen the body soon after Anne’s death. Sara dropped it back onto the desk, tossing the sketch on top of the other one of the crime scene, not really wanting to see either anymore. Though the second she dropped them, she found herself picking them both right back up. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to search for answers. She had to know who had killed Anne Donovan.

And who had killed Anne’s daughter.

And Sara’s mother and grandmother.

From the Court Records of
the Willful Murder Trial of Anne Donovan,
State of Louisiana vs. Jonathon Thiroux
Statement of one Marguerite Charles,
January 7, 1850

PROSECUTOR: Before me, James R. Jackson, prosecutor for the Parish of Orleans, sits Marguerite Charles, who is acquainted with the defendant, Jonathon Thiroux, and has been duly sworn and charged to answer all the questions the court presents before her in this case. Mrs. Charles, how long have you known the defendant?

CHARLES: For one year.

PROSECUTOR: In what capacity did your relationship originate?

CHARLES: We met at a ball through mutual friends. I believe it was at the Huntsworths’ house, but I cannot remember for certain. Anyway, in the course of polite conversation, it was made known to me that Mr. Thiroux is an artist. I expressed interest in his art, and we fostered a social relationship.

PROSECUTOR: Did you see one another outside of large social gatherings?

CHARLES: Yes. I began to model for Mr. Thiroux for his sketches. He sketches in pencil, then paints in oils.

PROSECUTOR: Were you alone with him during these artistic sessions? Where did they occur?

CHARLES: Yes, we were alone. They were in his studio on Royal Street, where he currently resides.

PROSECUTOR: Did you pose in costumes, or gowns?

CHARLES: Sometimes in costumes or gowns. Other times they were natural poses.

PROSECUTOR: On those “other times,” are you implying, forgive me if I am making an incorrect assumption, but are you saying that by natural poses you mean you disrobed during these drawing sessions?

CHARLES: Yes. John did at least three nudes of me. He was interested in capturing the physical form of a more voluptuous woman and I was flattered to do so.

PROSECUTOR: Indeed. Why did you stop posing in this illustrious manner for Mr. Thiroux?

CHARLES: Because during our final session, which was last June, he threatened me with a knife when I complained that I was stiff and required a break.

PROSECUTOR: Threatened you with a knife? Where did he get this knife from? Tell us exactly what happened during this shocking encounter.

CHARLES: I was sitting on the divan, not reclining, but sitting upright, front facing, legs crossed, palms pressed on the sofa.

PROSECUTOR: What were you wearing?

CHARLES: Nothing. And my shoulders were sore from the extensive session and I asked permission to take a turn about the room. But John said no without even looking at me. He was completely absorbed in his sketch. However, I was truly uncomfortable and feeling a jabbing headache beginning behind my eyes, so I requested for the second time some relief, explaining my discomfort. Before I was even aware what he was about, he was in front of me, a knife in his hand, which he waved wildly in my face. I don’t know where he got the knife from as I never saw him draw it. But he told me to shut up, to sit still, or he would stick me.

PROSECUTOR: Were those his exact words? “Sit still or I’ll stick you”?

CHARLES: Yes.

PROSECUTOR: Had Mr. Thiroux been drinking?

CHARLES: Yes. I saw him drink two full glasses of absinthe in the hour preceding the incident.

PROSECUTOR: No further questions. Thank you, Mrs. Charles.

January 8, 1850—Yesterday saw the further attempt by the prosecution to malign the character of defendant John Thiroux and show that he has a history of violence. For those in attendance at the courtroom, it was a scene setting worthy of the theater. The attractive and artistic defendant, the charming attorneys for both sides, the gruff judge, and the pretty and bountiful wife of two-time Congressman Pierre Charles were all present playing their respective parts.

The trial commenced again at ten a.m., and every eye turned when Mrs. Charles swept into the room in her modish gold paisley print silk day dress, raven curls spilling over her curvy shoulders. She took the stand with confidence and alacrity, speaking her oath in clear, melodic tones, hand delicately placed on the Bible.

Only the defense knew at that point why Mrs. Charles had been called to witness, though many, this reporter included, correctly concluded that Mrs. Charles and Mr. Thiroux were acquainted from residing in the same social circles. It should have been anticipated that a gentleman as charming and innocuous as the defendant would have no difficulty in securing women, even those gently bred, to serve as inspiration for his art. Such a revelation raised a murmur in the courtroom, but no more than was required to express the acknowledgment of the sense of Mrs. Charles’s statement. Bored ladies with absent husbands will accept compliments where they are received, and no greater flattery exists than the request to preserve a woman’s face and figure in oil.

I think it is safe to assume, however, given the collective gasp from those present, that nary a soul anticipated that Mrs. Charles would confess, without so much as a blink or a blush, that she had, in fact, posed for Mr. Thiroux’s artistic renderings as nature had presented her.

Even more stunning was the revelation that Mr. Thiroux lost his temper with the charming and vulnerable Mrs. Charles in such an offensive manner. It is not surprising to discover the defendant was enjoying an open bottle for this encounter, nor does it present him as in control, respectful of women, and thoroughly misunderstood as the defense would have you believe.

A great number of questions arise from this testimony, not the least of which is whether or not Congressman Charles was aware of his wife’s very liberal and forthcoming support of the arts.

Naples Daily News,
July 17, 2007—As testimony continues in the trial of Dr. Rafe Marino for the murder of his girlfriend, Jessie Michaels, the defense shifted tactics slightly yesterday in the courtroom. Up until this point, the defense has focused on the lack of evidence being presented, and insisted that what forensic trace evidence was present at the scene was the result of the victim having a relationship with the accused. But now the defense has taken a more aggressive stance, suggesting that a woman such as Jessie Michaels, a former stripper and drug user, and an alcoholic at the time of her death, led a double life. One in which she was the middle-class suburban girlfriend of the upstanding and charming young doctor, another in which she frequented strip clubs and mixed alcohol and recreational drugs. The defense suggested that such behavior could have brought her into contact with her murderer.