Unhinged (2 page)

She shook her head and wrapped her arms across her chest, covering two points that were distracting the uniformed cops.

Lacey's lack of focus on Marla was starting to bug me. “What's going on over there?” I asked him, trying to zoom in on what he was seeing.

Marla also turned to look.

“See that window?” he whispered as we moved away from Marla, pointing to the duplex catty-corner to June's apartment. It looked like her place, only it had a better paint job. “Look at the curtains. They're white, slightly open, with crimson marks in the middle, as if someone had opened them with red paint on their hands—or blood.”

“And that window gives a perfect view of June's front door,” I added, catching on to Ron's line of thinking.

“Stay here,” Ron told Marla, and we ran across the street.

The window was high. Ron walked up to it but was inches shy of being able to look inside. I was a little taller, but I didn't have a good view, either. He tapped me on the shoulder, cupping his hands for me to step up. Although he was much older, I was about forty pounds lighter. He raised me over the windowsill, holding me steady so I could peer into the room. The deep red stains on the curtains looked like the shapes of fingers, and even though the curtains were only open about five inches, it was enough for me to get a good view. I scanned the area but didn't see anything until I zeroed in on a partial view of the kitchen.

I dropped back onto the sidewalk. “There's someone laid out on the floor.”

We rushed to the front entrance and kicked in the door. A putrid smell invaded my nostrils, and I fought against throwing up again. Out of the corner of my eye, I observed two cops from June's place running in our direction. Ron and I both called out, identifying ourselves as cops, and checked the other rooms. The only occupant was the body I'd seen in the kitchen.

I didn't know if I could take viewing another mutilated corpse, but I held my breath and summoned the courage.

The corpse was male, with the facial features burned beyond recognition. Lying next to the body was an empty bottle of some kind of alcohol. The pale carcass lay naked in a huge pool of dark blood. Upon first inspection, the only other wound was between the legs.

“Jesus Christ,” Ron murmured. “Some bastard kills this poor guy, then looks out that window, waits for the stripper to come home, and goes over and kills and mutilates her, too.”

“Don't serial killers usually confine their victims to a single category? I mean, is this guy gay or straight? Did he rape both of them?”

“A bisexual serial killer? Why the fuck not?” He wiped his forehead as he looked around. “We won't know for sure until forensics gets done. Let's take a gander before we canvass the area and question the neighbors.”

I felt lost as I scanned the room. “Look, it seems they were having a nightcap. There's a glass with green liquor and a beer. You think we'll be lucky enough to get the killer's prints?”

Ron bent down over the glass of green liquid. “This smells like absinthe.” He pulled latex gloves from his pocket and put them on, then picked up the empty bottle. “Yeah, Absinthe Original. He probably burned this guy's head with it.” He put it down and began looking under the couch and end tables.

“I didn't know that stuff was flammable.” I still wasn't moving.

He stopped to stare at me, and when he spoke, I heard a tinge of anger in his voice. “Why don't you go call this in to Greenwood? Let him know what's going on. Catch your breath, then come back and search the bedroom.”

I appreciated an excuse to momentarily escape. I felt like a complete rookie, but I knew I could redeem myself once I pulled my shit together. I had to prove that my promotion to detective didn't come because of lack of manpower after the hurricane left us decimated. I had to prove I'd earned this.

T
he Eighth District station was on the corner of Royal and Conti behind a black wrought iron fence that sported an array of mopeds. There were two entry doors. The Conti single door was for us cops, and the Royal Street double door entrance was for civilians. The first floor had a large reception desk for taking complaints, and a couple of secure offices at the back. There were no holding cells. If you were arrested, you went to Orleans Parish Prison.

I fell into the wobbly chair at my desk and stared at the crime scene pics on my computer. It was easier to examine June in a two-dimensional medium, where the shock value was minimal. I didn't experience the sudden urge to throw up, although the memory was still fresh.

June had been a spunky little girl, her eyes bright with life. I remembered that her straight, brown hair fell to the small of her back. She had been as strong as any boy her age, too. When we played football, she had never been the last one picked. That said a lot for a girl's toughness in a neighborhood of boys.

June had lived a few houses away, and we were always back and forth. She regularly came to dinner and even kept me company on several family vacations. Our parents must have thought we would surely marry.

Our first kiss had been fantastic. It happened at dusk. We sat in the drainage ditch in front of my house and talked about two Marvel comics superheroes, Daredevil and Elektra, who were in love. At our feet, I had built a fire in the bucket I used to catch crawfish. We sat as close as we could.

The sky was darkening. That certain kind of energy had circulated in the air, like just before a hurricane. I brought up the part of the comic book where they kissed and told her I wanted to try it. June smiled and said she wanted to try it, too.

My nervousness over that kiss still gave me goose bumps. I had leaned toward her, as if she were the center of all gravity, and our lips touched. The rest of my body froze solid, but my lips were definitely moving. We progressed from a peck to French kissing all within a few seconds. It was one of those golden memory moments that could always make me smile.

Until now.

My stomach rumbled while I waited for Ron to get back with lunch. New Orleans and I were the perfect match; I was always hungry, and the city still had the best food anywhere.

The fingerprints lifted from both murder scenes, along with the collected evidence, were sent to SCID to be analyzed by Dr. John (all jokes relating to the singer had long been used up). He was good at expediting important results, which was helpful because there was a lot to do. He would run a series of tests on the usual: hair follicles, strands of fabric, blood, skin tissue under the fingernails, and semen. I wanted to solve this case in a hurry, so I could personally deliver the news to June's parents that her killer was behind bars.

While waiting for Ron, I realized what I had told him about June being the first murder victim I'd known personally wasn't exactly true. Hers was the first case I was investigating. A long time ago there had been someone else in my life whose presumed death was still a mystery. Paulina Wilder.

I hated to remember Paulina. I always had to stop and refocus, banishing her image from my mind like an addict trying not to think of drugs. But our last moments together were like a mystery with the last page missing.

I was thankful when Ron came whistling into the office with our food. He tossed a shrimp po'boy to me and had an oyster po'boy for himself. I furiously attacked my sandwich before Ron even sat down.

“Hungry?” He crossed to his desk and carefully spread out his po'boy wrapper. He sported a sly smile.

“I threw up back at June's place,” I said between mouthfuls, still keeping eye contact to show Ron I wasn't embarrassed.

“No shit,” he said, putting the loose oysters back on his sandwich. “Just don't tell no one else, especially Captain Greenwood. I told everyone at the crime scene you were already feeling queasy today. Bad breakfast or something.”

“I know they know. I found a barf bag taped to my locker and fake vomit in my drawer.” I threw it at him.

He chuckled. “That's cops for ya. Don't worry. They do that ‘cause they like you. What were you thinking about when I came in? You looked like you were somewhere else.”

“Another girl I used to know. She was murdered, too.”
I think.

Ron took a huge bite of his po'boy but tried to enunciate anyway. “I heard something about that when you were assigned here.” He managed to get the words out without food flying with them. “What happened?”

I cleared my throat and took a drink of my Barq's. It had been a while since I had talked about Paulina, and I wanted to choose my words carefully. “Paulina Wilder is . . . was my girlfriend's sister. Jennifer's sister.”

Ron looked up. “This girl presumed murdered was Jennifer's sister? Younger?”

I nodded. “She was sixteen when we met. I was seventeen. One night we were attacked outside the Dixie-Mart where we both worked. I was knocked unconscious, and when I came to, she had vanished. We never found her.”

“The cops cleared you obviously.”

“I was always under suspicion, but they had nothing to go on. Everyone at the Dixie-Mart that night was cleared. We always hoped that one day she'd be found alive, but when days turned into weeks, we lost hope.”

And there was the guilt. That was one of the reasons I didn't like talking about Paulina. It always sounded like I was a slime who moved on to Jennifer after her sister died.

“That's tough. Is it how you met Jennifer?”

“I met her the day after Paulina disappeared when I went over to speak with her parents. Paulina and I had been on only two dates. It wasn't until two years later, six years ago, when I ran into Jennifer at the University of New Orleans that we started dating.”

“Do you two talk about Paulina much?”

“Jennifer doesn't like talking about her. I'm glad, too. On some levels, I still blame myself for her disappearance and probable death, even though no one ever told me it was my fault. Her parents, though, are a different story. I can see it in their eyes.”

Ron chewed and talked, speaking in a surprisingly meaningful tone. “You can't blame yourself for something that's out of your control. If you second-guess everything you do in life, then it's just going to pass you by, and you're left old and full of regrets.”

“Yeah.” I was ready to shovel dirt on that unearthed memory. My gaze darted around my desk, looking for any mess my po'boy might have made.

Ron changed the subject. “We're going to have to catch this guy before he does it again. The press will be all over this story, and it will lead to lots of pressure to solve it pronto. And the last thing this city needs is another excuse for people not to move back, not to mention keeping tourists away. This case can grow to be big. Mark my words.”

I kept chewing, putting Paulina out of my head entirely. I understood what he was getting at. Was I up for it? Could I handle the pressure? Was I going to upchuck when or if I saw the next victim?

I gulped my root beer, then answered Ron's unasked question. “I'll be fine. The shock's worn off. I know what I'm into now.”

Ron chewed hard and fast. “Good. Let's get a strategy going. Now the second victim, Ryan Gant the homo, his apartment was clean as a whistle.”

“Meaning the gay man invited his attacker in.”

“Right. They were drinking together.”

“Oh, I looked up Absinthe Original online. You can buy it from any liquor store or website. It's a popular brand. We'll never track down the buyer or seller.”

“Yeah, but we don't even know who was drinking it yet. There was no sign of a struggle, leading me to believe that butt sex, if there was any, was consensual, unlike June, who had rope burns on her wrists and ankles, not to mention the duct tape we found on her couch. Her friend Marla said she didn't go in for the rough stuff, so until we talk to her old lovers, we should assume she was forced—
if
they had intercourse. After we talk to the pathologist, we should see Will and let him go over everything we got.”

“A psychological profile?” I asked.

“Will can at least give us a clue as to what this guy was thinking. A neighbor said Ryan Gant went out to Breaux's on Bourbon Friday night, and no one remembers him coming home. We'll go to the bar later to see if anyone saw our dead queer leaving with a stranger. If his neighbor's right about his popularity, a homo like Gant might've attracted attention when he left.”

“That homo thing isn't too PC.” I laughed.

“I know your generation is more liberal and more accepting of this shit, but I come from a different time. I'll tolerate ‘em, but that's it. I'll never punish ‘em for being fruits, but my opinions are my own, and I'll speak my mind when they're not within earshot. It's all I can do. You're not gay, are ya?”

I put my hands up in front of me. “You got me. Don't tell Jennifer. But you
would
be enough to turn me back to women.” I was surprised to see him laugh. This was promising. We were finally getting along. “So, going back to June. Maybe someone at Jo-Jo's Cabaret saw something?”