Fallen (6 page)

October 8, 1849—“We’re just trying to get along,” maintains Sally Jackson, a resident at the House of Rest, where a fellow bawd was murdered two nights past. “A girl needs a way to survive, and it ain’t safe anymore. It just ain’t right.” While no one appears to question the right of lewd women to hock their wares without enticing death, not everyone agrees that allowing such rowdy residences to exist legally is in the best interest of a city grown notorious for crime. Despite disgruntled area residents, official sources seem disinclined to take any action, and the police more often than not make no attempt whatsoever to seek out culprits in violent crimes. “One less to contend with,” seems to be their philosophy when the life of an unfortunate is snuffed out prematurely.

Yet even the police cannot disregard such a bloody and gruesome case as the death of Anne Donovan, slashed in a frenzy so brutal even her own mother would not recognize her in death. “I heard her yell out,” Molly Faye claims, from her position that night in the room next door. “But I didn’t think nothing of it. Figured it was business.”

Like the other girls in residence, Molly is afraid that the killer, still loose, may be wandering in and out of the house unimpeded, and in an effort to have their voices heard, the ladies of 25 Dauphine Street charged en masse into the second district police headquarters and demanded a more thorough investigation. It remains to be seen what the official response to such tactics will be.

Chapter Three

Disturbed by the tenor of the articles, Sara stopped reading for a minute and concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. She felt a panic attack creeping up on her, the kind that before would have had her reaching for the Vicodin. But she couldn’t do that, wouldn’t. She had to learn how to handle emotion on her own, without chemical intervention.

She sucked in another deep pull of air. She hadn’t expected to feel the clawing scratch of anxiety from flipping through these papers, but there was something about the casual disregard of everyone in the articles for Anne Donovan, the woman. She almost seemed an afterthought, a happy means to air their grievances, concerns, but not worth noting beyond the gruesome, sensationalist aspects of her death. They seemed to take delight in mentioning how she’d been mutilated, but no one bothered to say where she came from, how she had found herself in the position of prostitute, or if she had left behind a grieving family.

It was so much like the media coverage of her own mother’s murder that the parallels scared Sara. That had been difficult for her to learn to deal with, to let go of the hatred, disgust, annoyance, when the newspaper turned her mother’s case into an opportunity to blast the prosecutor. It had never been about her mother. It was about the flaws in the police department, the stubborn prosecutor, and his determination to push through a weak case against Rafe. Everyone had their damn agenda, and no one cared that she had lost her mother.

But it bothered her that all of that baggage could resurface so easily, that she couldn’t maintain distance. God, she just wanted everything to be over and done, gone. She wanted to be normal again.

“You okay?”

Sara sat up straight, mortified. Gabriel was looking at her, but she appreciated that instead of pity or horror on his face, he just looked mildly curious.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She was. She would be okay. If she just willed it enough, it would happen. It would. Because she understood something about herself. Even in the worst, horrific moments, she could still reach out and find hope. It would be better eventually. She just had to fight to get there, to not lose it along the way.

And there was something about Gabriel St. John looking at her, his dark brown eyes assuring her that he had secrets too, that he had suffered, that had her opening her mouth and saying, “There aren’t just physical parallels between this case and my mother’s murder, there are also media similarities. I guess I wasn’t expecting that—it startled me.”

Immediately she regretted speaking. Now would come the questions, the pity, the curiosity, the suspicion of her motives in working on this book with him. Talking about her mother’s death always left her feeling vulnerable, exposed, and she didn’t want that with Gabriel. She didn’t want him thinking she was crazy.

“What kind of similarities?”

The question was so matter-of-fact, Sara realized immediately that Gabriel was different. Of course he was going to be different. He wrote true crime books. In every conversation they’d had about her mother there was no shock, no flush of pity, none of the stumbling to say something comforting that she usually got from people. He was tactful, but very matter-of-fact. That made her feel an odd sense of relief. He was used to dealing with the details of violent crimes and wouldn’t pester her with uncomfortable questions. Nor had it stopped him from asking her to participate in his research, so he must not question her motives, or mental stability.

“Well, I’m not sure what I expected from nineteenth-century journalists, but just like today, every journalist seems to have an angle, a point to get across. Whether it’s the lack of police attention to crimes in impoverished areas in Anne Donovan’s case, or the accusation that the prosecutor was going for the big fish to win PR points in my mother’s case, it’s not about the victim. Which it should be.”

Gabriel had one arm over the back of his standard black office chair, and he tilted his head slightly to study her. “And it is, to the people the victim mattered to. But a crime, a murder, punches a hole in the illusion that society is functioning as it should. It’s a time when people look around, question what’s wrong in their world, and make both accusations and suggestions for corrections. So that victim indirectly matters to everyone who touches the case in any way, who lives in the neighborhood, or reads the newspaper. They have an impact in death, and maybe in a larger way to more people than they actually had in life.”

Sara stared at him, wondering why she’d never thought of it in quite that way. Noticing that her heart rate had settled down to normal, anxiety abated, she was trying to shuffle her thoughts into order and formulate a response when he suddenly stood up.

“Walk with me.” He headed toward the door, his strides purposeful.

“Walk with you? Where?” Yet she found herself rising off the couch, setting the packet of papers down on the cushion, following him.

“I need to take pictures of the house where the murder took place for the book. Let’s go do that now while the building won’t be in a shadow.” Gabriel was pulling a camera out of an end table drawer by the front door to the apartment.

Sara thought he had intriguing and eclectic furnishings. Everything looked as if it had been accumulated over a long period of time, each piece random and slightly shabby, yet overall the room harmonized, exuded a warmth. It said to her that he cared about what he surrounded himself with, appreciated objects, but not too much. Nothing was perfect or overthought. It looked like he just did what pleased him.

It was a lesson she would like to learn.

He didn’t take a camera case with him, just wrapped the strap twice around his wrist and gripped the lens cap, which struck her as an accident waiting to happen. It looked like an expensive camera, and if he dropped it, she didn’t think the result would be positive, but he didn’t look at all concerned. Gabriel opened the door and gestured for her to walk through first.

She realized that after he followed her out he didn’t lock the door behind them. She counted to three as she walked down the stairs, told herself it didn’t matter, that he must have a button that he had pushed on the inside of the doorknob to lock it. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you lock your door?”

“No.”

She was looking forward and down at her feet, worried about the steps, taking the curve on the narrower than normal staircase with cautious movements, afraid she’d slip and break her neck. So she couldn’t see Gabriel’s expression, but he didn’t sound particularly worried about burglars, any more than he seemed concerned about his camera.

“It’s safer to lock your door.” Sara knew she sounded anal, and she was, knew she had a fear that was huge and growing irrational, but the police had told her there was no forced entry at her mother’s house. That the killer had either known her mom, or the doors hadn’t been locked. It seemed risky to leave a door unlocked for anyone to walk in. At any time.

“The courtyard gate locks.”

“Oh, okay, good.” Sara glanced back at him, and he just gave her a small, brief smile. It was hugely reassuring. She had expected he would either argue with her, or point out that she was paranoid. Suggest that she needed to let it go, get over it. She had heard all of those things, a hundred times over, from coworkers, friends, and neighbors who genuinely wanted what was best for her, but didn’t understand a damn thing.

That Gabriel just told her what she needed to hear and left it at that filled her with relief. He
was
different. And it was kind of nice.

“So what was life like for a prostitute in 1849?” she asked, as they went through the gate, the sun hitting her in the face and sending her digging through her purse for her sunglasses.

“It sucked.”

Something about the tone of his voice made her glance up. Was that meant to be a double entendre? It was hard to tell because he wasn’t even looking at her. He had his eyes down on his camera and he was prying the lens cap off. But there had been an edge of amusement, or an awareness of the horrific irony, maybe the need to lighten the subject matter . . . she wasn’t sure what exactly, because Gabriel was hard to interpret, but something told her he had just made a joke.

Which she liked.

He lifted his camera, shot a quick succession of photos from right to left, the last one of her. She wasn’t prepared for it, so she was sure she was staring dumbly at him in it. “No pictures of me, please.”

“But the light’s good,” he said, giving her another of those tiny smiles where the corner of his mouth lifted crookedly.

God, Sara really didn’t want to like him.

That would be just one more way for her to trip and fall.

But she was definitely in danger of becoming a bubble girl of her own making, afraid of everything, even her own proverbial shadow.

Coming to New Orleans was an emotional risk, and maybe it hadn’t been running away so much as stepping outside her comfort zone. Forcing herself to face the future without fear.

She was definitely still terrified, but suddenly reassured that this trip had been exactly what she needed to retake control of her life.

October 9, 1849—While the police commissioner may not be inclined to listen to the pleas of prostitutes, it would seem he is willing to bend when the collective voices of the VIGILANCE COMMITTEE cry for action. In a city besieged by crime, it is more common than not for a murder of a fallen woman to go unnoticed, but it is just that cavalier attitude that has finally sent certain citizens beyond the edge of their tolerance. Comprised of various wealthy and influential peoples, the Vigilance Committee was formed to bring attention to the spiraling immorality and violence of certain districts. The murder of young Anne Donovan, in its fury and grotesqueness, and the lack of arrest of the gentleman who should by all accounts be a primary suspect, is a sign of the pervasive corruption and complicity in our government.

Given the dependence of Mr. John Thiroux on the well-known hallucinogenic drink absinthe, as well as his excessive consumption of whiskey and frequent opium smoking, it is not a stretch to imagine he could have carried out such an act of violence. Despite who he is, and who he may or may not have contributed funds to, if a man commits a crime, he should be held accountable for it.

It would seem the police agree, or at least fear public reaction otherwise, as they have set out to investigate Miss Donovan’s murder, and by witness report are focusing their attentions on Mr. Thiroux.

The light
was
good. It hit the side of Sara’s face, reflected in her blond hair, and showed the healthy rich color of her arms and legs. Gabriel lifted his camera and took another picture of her, zooming in on her face, clicking multiple times as her eyes went wide and she made a sound of distress.

“Stop!” Her hand went up in front of his lens, actually bumping it with her fingers in her vehemence.

He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so he lowered the camera. But he wasn’t sorry he’d taken the shots. Sara was a study in contrasts, like the city around her. She was strong, but fragile, had endured tragedy, yet was still beautiful. Perhaps more so now that her eyes spoke of suffering and lessons learned. He had noticed that her hands moved restlessly, always pulling at something—her dress, her hair, her purse, like she was always pondering, worrying, watching.