by Leo King
She appreciated his attempt at humor, sophomoric as it may be. Even though he often played around too much, his jovial attitude kept things from getting too grim. “Thanks, Scott. I’ll be in my office if another crisis arises.”
With a laugh, he spun around in his chair. “I’ll try hard not to burn down the precinct, boss!” Propping up his feet, he returned to his work.
Reclining in her office, she just rubbed her face for a few minutes, smoothing out the stress lines that had been gathering all day. I’m going to turn myself forty before this week is over.
Finally, she turned her attention to her desk. There was Hannah Davis’s file, along with a note from Aucoin that read, “Dix, you need to read this as soon as possible. Big stuff.”
She blinked. That note was how he used to write back when they were partners. He also hadn’t called her “Dix” in just as long. Opening the file, she started reading through it. There were several pages of new information.
“No relatives or close friends were anywhere near the family on the night of the murders.” She started nibbling on her thumb. “So they had to have been committed by a stranger. But why didn’t the victims fight back? It’s like they knew their killer.”
Turning to the next page, she read what Aucoin had discovered. “Oh, my God. Hannah’s grandmother, Jada, committed suicide in front of her. She had been suffering from cancer, and the family couldn’t pay for treatment. So Jada overdosed while the poor girl was visiting one afternoon. After that, Hannah was never the same. She blamed her parents for killing her grandmother. She even told a school counselor that she was having homicidal thoughts. But no one reported it. They thought she was just throwing a fit.”
Dixie frowned. It was a problem with a lot of inner-city children: rarely did people take their cries for help seriously.
“But still, a ten-year-old girl having murderous thoughts? Any counselor worth her salt would have reported that.”
Suddenly, an awful, ugly idea came to mind. She slowly lowered her thumb.
“Murderous thoughts? No way. It can’t be.”
Closing her eyes, she reimagined the crime scene. Every victim had been attacked with cuts meant to bring them down. Only the brother and father, who had been lying down, didn’t have such injuries. “So why would the killer topple the victims to cut their throats?”
She opened her eyes. “What if the killer was short, like a child!”
Rushing out of her office, nearly tripping due to the lack of balance, she slammed her hand down on Rivette’s desk. He had given up on the reports and was doodling pictures of his figurines. With a surprised yelp, he fell back. “What the hell, Dixie? Ya messed up my Green Ranger!”
She snatched his notebook. “You can draw later, Scott. Let’s get in your car and go. I think I know where we’ll find Hannah.”
It was raining again when Dixie and Rivette arrived at the cemetery off Desire Street. The cool, misty precipitation sprinkled down on them as they looked around, flashlights out. The black iron gate was open, and the bulbs of the street lights were broken. The cemetery was in complete darkness.
Oh, this is creepy. She motioned for him to follow. Back-to-back, they slipped inside. As they crept through the rows of graves, she whispered, “It’s possible that Hannah is dead from exposure or even suicide. But just in case, be ready.”
He whispered back. “Be ready for what? A ten-year-old girl? Her kidnapper? You’re giving me very little to go on, Dixie.”
“Sorry.” She struggled to keep her footing, her balance problem compounded by her shaking hand. “All I’ve got is a hunch. You’ll have to trust me.”
“OK. Well, please don’t take out your gun when your hand is shaking like that. I don’t want to get shot in the ass.”
She said nothing. Firing a gun one-handed was difficult at the best of times.
Once they were deep inside, she shone her light around, searching for the family graves. Just as she turned to Rivette for help, a white flash caught her eye. It was coming from a small orb flittering toward a mausoleum.
What the heck was that white thing?
It flew right inside. The name “Davis” was on the brass nameplate.
Then she heard a soft voice hanging across the rainy nighttime air.
“Cause nothin’ lasts forever…”
“Shit, Dixie, did you hear that?” Rivette sucked in his breath.
Anxiety jolted through her. “Yes. Hush. Listen!”
“And we both know hearts can change…”
She strained to catch every syllable. It was coming from inside the Davis family mausoleum. Moving slowly so as not to slip on the wet stone and mud, they crept slowly toward it.
“And it’s hard to hold a candle…”
The sky briefly lit up with some cloud-to-cloud lightning. The gate inside the mausoleum was open, hanging on a single hinge.
“In the cold November rain…”
Leaning over to Rivette, she whispered, “Cover me, but stay back. OK?”
He grimaced, looking unsure. “OK, but at the first sign of trouble, you fall back. Ouellette would kill me if you got hurt.”
“We’ve been through this such a long long time…”
Nodding, she tucked the flashlight under her left arm. The nerves on her stump prickled painfully. Drawing out her pistol, she slid into the mausoleum. I can’t shoot, but hopefully I can intimidate.
The inside of the mausoleum, like most in New Orleans, was only big enough to hold a few adults. Even with the awkward position of the flashlight, it only took her a moment to find what she was searching for.
The name plate for “Jada Davis.” It was still fresh, barely weatherworn.
“Just tryin’ to kill the pain…”
Beneath it, huddled in the dark, was a ten-year-old girl wearing a white nightgown. Her dark skin was even darker with splotches of mud caked on it. She looked like she had been sleeping outside for at least a day or two.
Dixie cleared her throat. “Hannah? Hannah Davis?”
Hannah, who had been staring at the ground, stopped singing and looked up at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and her pupils were dilated. Her face, her hair, and her nightgown were covered in dark, dried blood.
In her hand, she held a chef’s knife also caked in dried blood.
Her face was expressionless. “Hello, lady. Why are you here? Me, I’m just trying to kill the pain.”
Chapter 8
Regarding Hannah Davis
Date: Thursday, October 29, 1992
Time: 11:00 a.m.
Location: New Orleans Police Precinct 8th District
The French Quarter
The rain was still coming down from the night before, a steady trickle that bounced rhythmically off the window of Dixie’s office. With her eyes closed, she could hear every drop as it fell upon the glass pane. It was sweet, ethereal music that helped calm her frazzled nerves. Dr. Klein’s analysis had come back, diagnosing her with an anxiety disorder. Her treatment would consist of one session a week and medication she couldn’t take until after giving birth. It wasn’t enough to go on to find out where Sam was.
But as she sat there, she wasn’t thinking about her issues or even about Sam. Hannah was the only thing on her mind. She had been taken into custody without incident and had immediately become docile and despondent. She wouldn’t even talk to her CPS social worker. Commitment was being discussed.
Someone cleared their throat, bringing her out of her thoughts. When she opened her eyes, Rivette was waving his hand in front of her face. He had a rather annoyed expression. “Nap time, Dixie?”
“Sorry, Scott. I did promise you a chance to air your grievances. What else is on your mind?”
He shifted back in his seat. “Mostly, it’s just how we’re terribly understaffed. I mean, you got Landry and me working all of Bergeron’s and LeBlanc’s old cases from before the new Ripper shit. Half the time, Landry goes off to do his own thing—I have no idea what the fat bastard is up
to. Then you got Aucoin, and I’m sorry his life has fallen to hell, but he’s not pulling his own weight at all. Breaux and Gravois are just as overworked. You’re pregnant and will likely be put on maternity leave soon. And there are what, four other detectives in homicide left? Everyone has double and triple caseloads. Our territory is the freaking French Quarter. How can we stop all the bad guys, Dixie, if we just don’t have the manpower?”
She frowned. As much as it pained her to admit it, everything he was saying was true.
Leaning forward, she rested her elbow on her desk. “Scott, you bring up valid points. I’ll talk to Ouellette about getting some detectives from the other precincts to help out. Just please remember, it wasn’t just this division that Blind Moses nearly wiped out. We lost most of the eighth precinct. That included our entire SWAT team. Remember them? Arsenault’s Arsenal, the biggest, baddest group of cops in the city?”
He snorted. “Yeah, real badass. They got wiped out by a blind woman.”
“You weren’t there!” She slapped the surface of her desk, jumping up and leaning in his face. Her nostrils flared. “While you were cozying around Sam’s townhome, playing with her copier, I watched men—good men—die horribly. Don’t you ever poke fun at it again!”
Her outburst made him slide back. His eyes were wide as he held out his hands. “Sorry. I was out of line. It’s just… what happened there sounds impossible no matter how many times I hear about it.”
With a sigh, she sat down, hard. Her anger rapidly dissipated. “The entire thing was impossible. It’s been two months, and I still don’t know what to believe. Some people say it was a wonder drug, the tkeeus, which those two took. Others say it was voodoo. Honestly, Scott, not thinking about it is the only thing that lets me cope.”
Nodding, he scratched his scalp and then tossed his long hair to the side. “Dixie Olivier refusing to think through a problem? This is coming from the woman who beat Michael in chess, am I right?” He motioned toward her trophy.
In spite of herself, she blushed. “It was a good match. But now you’re comparing apples and oranges. Just because I’m good at games like chess doesn’t mean I can figure out crazy stuff like what happened at the wharf.”
“Well, I’m not one to patronize, but didn’t you once tell me that the simplest solution was often the most correct?”
That brought back a memory of one of her barbed lectures to him and Landry years ago. She chuckled. “Occam’s razor. You’re misquoting it. It actually states that the theory with the fewest number of assumptions should be selected. But you’re close enough.”
Rivette waved his hand. “However you want to word it. In the case of both the wharf and Hannah, you’ve probably already worked out an answer. But knowing you, it sounds ridiculous in your head. But if it’s got you assuming the least, then it’s probably correct. Ya know, that kind of thinking has gotten me through some of my toughest cases.”
“Really?”
He grinned. “I know I play all the time, I’ve accepted write-ups instead of cutting my hair, and I’m pretty damn annoying. But Ouellette keeps me around. Why?”
The question seemed rhetorical, but she answered anyway. “You work like a horse and, yes, despite being a man-child, your close rate on cases is as good as mine.”
“Exactly, and all because of ol’ Occam’s razor, which I apparently have been misquoting for over two years. Go me.” Getting up, he knocked good-naturedly on her desk. “But seriously, just go with whatever solution has the least assumptions. Because we all know about assumptions: they make an ass out of you and ’Mption,’ and he doesn’t appreciate it.”
She rolled her eyes at his humor as he left. Then she sank into thought. The fewest assumptions? That would require me to accept that crap like voodoo is real. I’m not ready for that.
“Hey, Dixie, got a moment?” It was Landry, standing at the doorway.
“Yes, Paul?”
“You know how you asked me to come get you when CPS was here and Miss Davis was ready to be interviewed?”
“She’s awake, she’s been Mirandized, and she’s with the CPS worker?”
“Yep. The commander wants to watch this one. Do you want Scott and me to sit in there with you? I mean, she is a murder suspect.”
Standing, she scooped up Hannah’s case file. “No. Just watch from the other side of the glass with Ouellette. She’s only a kid. We don’t want to intimidate her too much, or the interview might get tossed out of court.”
“All right. Will do.”
As he started to leave, she called out to him. “Oh, and Scott tells me you head off a lot without informing anyone. Is something going on? Anything you want to tell me?”
Looking back at her, Landry said, “Scott needs to mind his own business, or better yet needs to focus on his work instead of playing Game Boy at his desk. But since you asked, my mother hasn’t been doing great lately. We’re thinking of moving her to assisted living.” His eyes kept shifting away.
She bit her bottom lip. It was obvious that he was hiding something.
“I am very sorry, Paul. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to burden you while you have your baby to worry about. So don’t worry, I told Ouellette everything.”
Her head spun as heat rushed to her ears and blood rushed to her head. Did that fat prick just use my pregnancy as a handicap?
For a moment, she considered punching him right in the mouth. But even as she curled her fist, she stopped. He was normally the most mild-mannered and polite person in the division. He likely didn’t mean it that way. Taking a deep breath, she asked, “So Ouellette has approved your sudden absences?”
“He has. You can verify it if you want.”
“Oh, I will. Well, I hope it works out. If you need time off, just let me know.”
Again, he shrugged. “It’ll go right, or it won’t. Thanks all the same.”
She started to walk off, but then she stopped and stuck her finger in his face. “But let’s get one thing straight. I’m your boss. And neither the chain of command nor my pregnancy is a burden. Say anything misogynistic like that again, and I won’t suspend you, I’ll kick your damn ass.”
As she walked away, she heard him shuffle behind her and mumble apology after apology. Good for you, Dixie. Good for you.
Outside of the interview room, Dixie met with Ms. Liana LeBeouf, the CPS worker.
“I’ll be keeping a firm grip on the interview process, Lieutenant,” Ms. LeBeouf said. She was a pretty, mocha-skinned woman about Dixie’s age, wearing a copper-red weave. “I’ve heard of your aggressive style. Any of that and the interview will be over.”
Dixie wasn’t planning on it. Not with Hannah. “I understand. Just remember that Miss Davis is a murder suspect who has waived her right to counsel.”
“She’s a child,” Ms. LeBeouf replied. “She’ll be given one anyway after arraignment.”
Clicking her jaw, Dixie said, “If she is arraigned. She might just be committed after I talk to her.”
That seemed to settle things for Ms. LeBeouf. Both women entered the interview room while Ouellette, Rivette, and Landry watched through the one-way mirror.
What happened to those massive caseloads? Suddenly not too busy to watch me work, right? Men!
As soon as she entered the room, Dixie’s skin started crawling with goosebumps. The air was cooler, and it pricked at her skin. She couldn’t help but shudder.
Ms. LeBeouf shivered as well, briskly rubbing her arms as she ambled over toward Hannah. “Hannah? It’s me, Liana. This lady is Lieutenant Olivier. She wants to talk with you.”
Hannah was sitting in a strange pose, balanced on the top edge of the back of the chair with her legs straight out and her heels resting on the table. Her hands, which were cuffed, lay in her lap. Her straight, black hair, now cleaned of the blood and dirt, rested over her face like a curtain. Except for her shoulders, which barely rose and fell, she was
perfectly still.
The sight of her made Dixie’s skin crawl ever more. Creepy little girl, how are you not falling over?
She carefully laid the case file on the table and sat down on the other chair, opposite Hannah. She cleared her throat. When there was no reaction, she spoke.
“Hannah? Hannah, are you awake?”
There was no response. Ms. LeBeouf came back around to Dixie’s side. “Why is she doing this?”
Slowly, Dixie exhaled. “I’m not sure. Ever seen anything like this before?”
“No. Never.”
Giving the table the slightest nudge so as not to unbalance and knock the child over, Dixie repeated herself. “Hannah? Are you awake, Hannah?”
Hannah leaned her head back just enough for her bangs to part and reveal her face. Then she opened her eyes. They were bloodshot with dilated pupils. Silently, she regarded them both unblinkingly. Ms. LeBeouf gasped as Dixie felt her heart thump hard in her chest. The air got cooler, and the prickling sensations spread through her body.
Good Lord, what’s with this kid?
Dixie took a moment to calm herself down, breathing deeply and slowly. Miss LeBeouf paced between the table and a corner of the room. All the while, Hannah stared ahead with those bloodshot eyes, completely motionless. When Dixie felt her heart rate return to normal, she cleared her throat once more. “I want to talk to you about the night of Monday, October 26th. Is that all right with you?”
Hannah said nothing.
Dixie locked eyes with Ms. LeBeouf. “Please, Liana. I want to help her.”
“All right,” she said. “Hannah, hun. Please talk to us.”
Opening the case file, Dixie took out pictures of the victims. She then turned them around and slid them over to Hannah. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”