by A. C. Mason
“Thank you. How are you doing?”
Judging from the frown on his face, her husband didn’t think it was so nice. “I’m doing fine.” She fluffed her red hair with her hand. “Would you like some coffee, Sheriff? I just made a fresh pot.”
Danny thought her overly bright hair color must be out of a bottle. Thank God Rachel didn’t color hers. “No thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve already had one too many cups down at the station.”
“Are you sure?” She tilted her head to one side. “I just made some cookies. They’re still warm.”
“Cookies are always tempting, but I’d better not have any.” He smiled and patted his belly. “Gotta watch my weight.”
Carl frowned at his wife. “Dear, the sheriff and I have some business to talk about.”
She arched a brow. “I’ll just go back to the kitchen and leave you gentlemen to your business.” She turned and started to leave the room.
“Nora, did you go to the parades this weekend?” Danny asked.
“Goodness no,” she said, moving her hand to her chest. “Thank heavens I didn’t. I would not have wanted to see those dead bodies.”
“I don’t blame you.”
After she left the room, Hymel sat in an overstuffed armchair across from Danny. “I really can’t give you much information about either one of those murders. I wasn’t anywhere around when they were discovered.”
“But you stood in the crowd watching the coroner do his job and you didn’t look unhappy about Teddy Berthelot’s death.”
“I admit I’m not sad to see him gone, but I had nothing to do with his death, or David’s.”
Danny narrowed his gaze onto Hymel’s face. “If I recall correctly, you were once quoted as saying you’d love to see both victims dead.”
Hymel’s face paled. He lifted his hand in a defensive manner. “I may have said something like that in the heat of the moment. Those two men have continuously derailed my campaigns for public office in this parish.”
“Can you verify your whereabouts during either of those parades?”
“Any of the people here in town I spoke to at various times could vouch for me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you accusing me of murder, Sheriff?”
“No, I’m simply covering all the bases.” He didn’t believe Hymel actually killed either of the victims but he could have paid someone to do the job—someone like Gibb Romaine. “Do you know the Romaines?”
Hymel gave him a surprised look. “Of course I know them. I own the land their house sits on.”
Danny’s turn to be surprised. But he didn’t let Hymel know.
“They own the house, but I have complete ownership of the land and the mineral rights.”
“So the Romaines are not likely to do anything to make you mad.”
Hymel lips curved in an icy sneer. “Damn right.”
Meaning they would do anything he asked them to do so he wouldn’t kick them off the land. Danny wondered how such an odd arrangement came to be. “You wouldn’t happen to know who owns the property east of the Romaines’ house, would you?”
He thought a moment. “If I’m not mistaken, the Berthelot family owns that piece. It fronts on the Allemand?”
Danny stood. “Thanks for the information, Carl. You have a good day.”
Hymel rose and escorted him to the front door. Danny felt the man’s angry gaze follow him down the sidewalk to his car. A sign of guilt? Or simply the indignation of an innocent man being accused of a crime?
On the way back to the office, Danny decided he should check the property records at City Hall to see if Berthelot did own the land where he and Jim spotted the poorly built camp, and also Carl Hymel’s ownership of the land on which the Romaines’ house stood. The likelihood of a connection between Hymel and Gibb Romaine seemed a lot stronger.
~ * ~
Jim’s cell phone rang as he left the squad room. He checked the caller ID to see Susan’s number on the display. “Hey, there. How did the visit with the psychic go?”
“Great,” she said. “I’ve got information to pass along to you.”
“About the tarot card?”
“And the other two items also.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re almost back home. In fact, we just crossed over the parish line.”
“Why don’t I meet you at the house in about…” he checked his watch. “…about forty-five minutes. You can tell me all about it.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “I’ll see you shortly.”
Jim entered his office and sat at the desk. He really wanted to head back to the house immediately, but he expected Danny back any time now. He needed to hear what, if anything had come of Danny’s meeting with Carl Hymel.
As if on cue, the sheriff appeared in the doorway. “Hey, you got a minute?”
“Sure, I’ve been waiting to hear what happened with your meeting.” Jim rose and came around the desk.
“Carl couldn’t give me any kind of alibi as to his whereabouts during either parade. After speaking to him, I figured he most likely didn’t kill either of our victims.”
“But he could’ve hired someone to do the job.”
“Exactly,” Danny said. “And after you told the task force about Marty Scardina’s statement saying he saw another masker arguing with Berthelot, I started thinking Gibb Romaine is looking better and better as a suspect.”
A feeling of optimism began to build in Jim. “The description Scardina gave sure sounded like Romaine. What else did you get out of Hymel?”
“He told me he owns the land the Romaines’ house sits on.”
“Whoa! An even bigger connection there.”
“Carl said he thinks the piece of property where you and I spotted the camp is owned by the Berthelots. I’m headed to the Clerk’s Office to take a look at property records. I figured I’d search for any land owned by David Edwards while I’m there. Care to join me?” He started for the door.
Jim looked at his watch. “Susan called a short time ago. She and Rachel were almost back home. I told her I’d meet her at the house so she can tell me what she learned from the psychic.”
Danny grinned. “It ought to be interesting.”
“I’m not going to say I believe in this psychic business, but that particular woman has worked with police all over the country. Those departments had nothing but good things to say about her.”
“I’m not opposed to using a psychic who’s been recommended by other police agencies. Maybe if we see these becoming cold cases, we should think about contacting her.”
“That’s a thought. I’ll see what light, if any, this visit can shine on the cases.”
“I’ll get the story from Rachel when I get home this evening.”
“Good, we’ll talk later.”
Jim walked with Danny down the hall and left him at the Clerk of Court Office. All the way to his car, he kept thinking about Susan getting more involved in the case. He couldn’t handle another ordeal like the other one. A good thing about both these cases—Susan didn’t have as personal a connection as before. Thank God she wasn’t related to Teddy Berthelot or David Edwards.
Twelve
From across the breakfast bar I watched Jim’s face, trying to gauge his reaction to all the information Taylor Evans the psychic gave me and Rachel about the tarot cards.
He pursed his lips as if considering my commentary. “Her reading sounds logical. I’ll discuss everything with Danny and we’ll probably make a report to the task force. The idea the cards might be original artwork of the killer is really interesting.
“I hate to down this woman,” he continued, “…but she didn’t actually reveal anything earth-shaking.”
“You’re correct in that respect,” I said. “However, she couldn’t delve deeper into the actual crimes because no personal items from the victims were available to her.” I hesitated a moment. Could the theory I’d envisioned be amenable to him? Or would he think my idea was
unrealistic? “There’s a possibility I’d like to mention.”
“What is it?” he asked, wrinkling his brow.
I hesitated again. “Promise me you won’t dismiss my idea without giving it some thought.”
“All I can promise is that I’ll hear you out. Now let’s have it.”
“The ten of swords was in both gris-gris bags, right?”
“Right.”
“Then in the bag attached to the weapon that killed Teddy Berthelot, the killer also placed the two of swords.” I studied him intently. My hopes rose. “And the second bag had the three of swords.”
“Your point?”
“What if there was another murder before Teddy Berthelot’s with the same method of operation…”
He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the countertop. “The first bag contained the Ace of Swords?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“You could have something there.” He grimaced. “I’d hate to think about a previous murder. When we first started investigating this as two homicides, I and all the others figured Berthelot’s murder was the killer’s first.”
Here’s my chance to get into a detective’s reasoning. “Why is that?”
“He smartened up the second time and committed the crime in a less public fashion.”
“I see what you mean. Teddy Berthelot managed to get away for a few minutes. The killer didn’t have time to make certain his victim was dead. If Teddy had lived, he could have identified his killer.” I walked closer to the breakfast bar. “There still seems to be something missing. Seems to me he knew about an earlier murder or else he would have placed the Ace of Swords in the gris-gris bag found on Teddy Berthelot.”
“Good point, but what about the ten of swords?” A startled expression crossed his face. “If there was an earlier murder, I hope to God there won’t be seven more bodies.”
My heart thumped hard. I hadn’t considered the number ten. “If there are, I will take the twins and go into seclusion for the rest of our lives.”
“Yeah, and I will be right behind you three.”
The last time I heard such a serious tone in Jim’s voice was when he worked homicide for NOPD.
~ * ~
All the way back to the office, Jim couldn’t get Susan’s idea out of his mind. There very well could have been an earlier murder, but hopefully the killer’s tarot card hints didn’t mean his kill list held ten victims’ names. The psychic indicated the meaning of the card shouldn’t be taken literally, although there was always the chance the killer meant the message that way.
He decided to send a blanket inquiry to other law enforcement agencies around South Louisiana. NOPD would be at the top of the list. The New Orleans Police Department or any of the surrounding parishes could have a cold case with an evidence file sitting on a shelf somewhere gathering dust.
A few minutes after he arrived in the office, his cell phone rang. When he checked the digital display he smiled and answered the call.
“Hey, Phil. You retired yet?” Phil Berthelot was a homicide detective and former co-worker of his at NOPD.
“No, but I’m sure thinking about it.”
“So what’s going on?”
Phil chuckled. “First of all, I’m not related to your first victim. He was from the wealthy branch of the Berthelot family. I’m from the wrong side of the track.”
Jim laughed. “Well, he did have a little bit of money. So I guess there’s no chance you’re listed in Teddy’s will.”
“Not the slightest. I heard you also had a second victim in the parish. Same MO.”
“Yeah, it’s been hell. Up until this past Saturday there had hardly been any crime around here. Then wham bam, we have two murders.”
“The reason I called is to tell you about a similar case we had here in New Orleans.”
Jim perked up. Susan’s theory could be right on the nose. “Funny thing. I was about to call and inquire about any cold cases with the same MO.”
“That’s the thing,” Phil said. “This one’s old, but not cold.”
“How’s that?”
“A murder very similar to your two happened back in nineteen eighty-nine.”
Jim frowned. “Man, that was a while ago. You said this isn’t a cold case?”
“A two-bit crook named Johnny Francino was convicted of the murder and sentenced to life at Angola. He’s still alive, as far as I know.”
“So the murders here must be copy cats.”
“Sounds like they might be,” Phil said. “You probably don’t know Mac Watts. He’s been retired since shortly after Francino’s conviction.”
“I’ve heard Watts’ name mentioned. Word was he solved more cases than any other detective in the department. ”
“I can attest to that. He was my partner for a few months when I first made detective. Anyway, he had been the lead on that case. The murder happened about six months before I came to Homicide. He talked to me about the murder on quite a few occasions.”
“Who was the victim?”
“His name was Malcolm Whitehall. Like your victims, he came from a wealthy family.”
“Whitehall? Wasn’t that the last name of the defense attorney who messed up a few of our cases?”
“Oh, hell,” Phil said. “How could I forget her? The kick-ass blond, as Dave Falcon described her.” He referred to another NOPD homicide detective who worked with them.
Jim laughed. “No kidding. How could you forget her? Didn’t Falcon date her a few times?”
“He tried to get a date with her. I don’t think he ever succeeded,” Phil said, barely controlling the laughter in his voice. Then he got serious again. “Back to business. The MO with the knife and the gris-gris bag matches with your two homicides.”
“Were there tarot cards in the bag?”
“There were two. As I recall, one was the Ace of Swords. I can’t remember what he said about the other card.”
“Did he say what else the killer put in the bag?”
“Some kind of gemstone and a drawing of a man with a sword. He kept a copy of the art work in his desk.”
Jim’s heartbeat sped up. “Man, that is unreal. Do you think Mac Watts would speak to me about his case?” He could only hope.
“You may not get anything from him,” Phil said. “From what I hear, he’s living in a nursing home. His son told me that sometimes he’s lucid and other times not.”
“That’s a damn shame. Did he have a stroke?”
“He had a few small ones at first. The last stroke was more severe. But you should try anyway. You never can tell.”
“You’re right. I’ll give him a try. It can’t hurt. What’s the name of the nursing home?”
Jim jotted down the name and address of the nursing home which was located in Jefferson Parish. “Would you consider meeting me there since you know the man?”
“Sure, I’d be glad to,” Phil agreed. “I can get a request cleared for you to get a copy of the file, too and hand it over to you tomorrow.”
“Good deal.”
After setting up the details, Jim ended the call and sat staring at the wall for a while. The thought of seeing the former detective in his present condition made him hesitant about the upcoming visit. But this could be a big break in the cases. While his hope of gaining insight from this earlier case remained high, a tint of pessimism colored his views. He figured he had maybe a twenty or thirty percent chance of catching the old fellow in one of his lucid moments.
Thirteen
February 19
I checked the thermometer located just outside the bedroom window. The temperature had reached 60 degrees and it was only nine a m. The weather had warmed up for a change. Warm for February, that is. Usually in South Louisiana this month is what the locals consider cold. No doubt someone from Minnesota would have a good laugh at what Louisianans think of as cold. So far only the first few days of the month brought temperatures in the low 30’s. Although Saturday had been on the chilly si
de, I felt comfortable wearing only a light jacket at the parade.
Since the kids were in school, I decided to take a stroll along the lakefront. Sometimes the wind blowing off the lake is chilly so I slipped a flannel shirt over my t-shirt and walked toward the door.
Someone knocked just as I reached for the door knob. Who can that be? Hopefully not someone selling something. I was in luck. My visitor turned out to be Rachel.
My neighbor seemed disappointed. “I guess you’re headed out. I should have called.”
“Don’t be silly. I thought I’d take a walk along the lake. Are you up for a stroll?”
“Sure, I could use the exercise and the company.” I detected a slightly melancholy tone in Rachel’s voice.
Could the psychic’s mention of the unpleasant time Rachel had in New Mexico be weighing on her? I wanted to ask but couldn’t figure out how to go about doing so without causing her pain.
The lovely weather had brought out more people than normal to the walkway along Cypress Lake just outside our subdivision. There were about fifteen people out rather than the usual three or four. Among the group, walkers and joggers alike made their way along the wide concrete lakefront walkway, taking advantage of the pleasant temperature.
“Looks like everyone in town had the same idea,” I said, glancing around.
“You have to get in your exercise before the temperature and the humidity are too much to bear,” Rachel said. She waved to a woman jogger. The woman smiled to acknowledge Rachel’s greeting as she continued her run. “Tammy Logan. Her husband is one of Danny’s deputies.”
“I’ve met the wives or girlfriends of the city officers, but there are a lot more personnel in the Sheriff’s Office. How do you keep track of all those names and faces?”
“Probably the result of my teaching career,” she said. “I used to memorize the names and faces of all my students.”
“That must have been a chore.”
She shrugged. “Not really.”
I gathered Rachel didn’t want to discuss her time as a teacher, so I let the subject go—a discussion for another day.