Face Behind the Mask

by Leo King

  As she drove off and began circling the block, she added, “You owe me. I was going to grill you the moment you left the alleyway, but when I saw you getting mobbed, my conscience, or whatever, got the best of me.”

  Aucoin regarded the woman, wondering who she thought she was to act so familiar. “And you are?”

  “Caroline Saucier, Editor-in-Chief of the Times-Picayune,” she announced.

  His brow furrowed. The last thing he wanted was to talk to someone from the newspaper. That was Harry or Bradley’s job. “I think you better let me out, Miss Saucier.”

  She turned the corner, heading toward a traffic light. “You wanted a ride around the block, right?”

  “Yeah, well, now I want to walk. And I’ve asked you to let me out.”

  As they approached the traffic light, which was red, Caroline slowed down to a stop.

  He tried to open the door, but it was locked, and this model of Cadillac could only be unlocked by the driver. “Miss Saucier, if you don’t let me out, I’m going to arrest you for unlawful detainment.”

  Flipping the door switch again, she leaned back and gazed at him, amused. “Detective, you’re about to enter the game, like it or not. Pick your side wisely. Here, take this.” She flicked a business card at him. “Contact me when you have a few free hours. I’d like to chat.”

  For the first time, he noticed an ornate golden pin on her suit’s lapel. It bore the crest of a red cross and a golden crown. He took the card and pocketed it, figuring he might need to follow up on her at some point. “Right, I think maybe I’ll just forget I ever spoke to you. Have a good day, Miss Saucier.” He got out of the car. As soon as the traffic light turned green, it sped off.

  “Fucking weird-ass chick.”

  Shaking his head, he turned around and promptly froze. He was facing the storefront opposite the alley where the girl had died. Right in front of him was a sign that read “Big Carl’s Comics.”

  “What the hell? Didn’t I write that someone would get killed outside a comic book shop?”

  On the phone, Dixie asked, “So, Ouellette has you working on the Stabber case for now?”

  Aucoin held his phone to his ear while flipping through the television’s channels. Nearby, steam billowed up from a half-eaten Hungry Man dinner. “Yep, Dix, that’s right.”

  She sounded pleased. “Well, I don’t want to annoy you, but you sound more alive than you have in a while. Maybe all you needed was a case to work on.”

  He wolfed down a forkful of mashed potatoes that had mixed in with the corn. He didn’t want to admit it, but she was absolutely correct. He hadn’t felt this good in months.

  “It is what it is, Dix. So how are you doing? The baby’s coming soon, right?”

  “Yes. Dr. Cambre is still saying April 7th, but it could be any day now.”

  Shoveling down a few more bites of dinner, he asked, “You have a name picked out yet?”

  “Hmm. Well, we think it’s going to be a girl, and if it is, we’re going with Felicia. If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Felix.”

  Aucoin chortled and then guzzled down a glass of water. “Sounds good. You call me when you’re going into labor. If I can, I’ll join you.”

  She chuckled, too. It was the first time in a while that they had conversed so casually. “All right, Kyle. All right. Now, concerning what we were talking about earlier?”

  He stood up, taking the empty dinner tray to the kitchen and tossing it out. “It was just eerie. Miss Saucier was acting like she knew something. And when I talked to the commander about her, he said that he’d take care of it.”

  “This is the first time in a while I’ve heard Caroline’s name come up. I know she’s one of the wealthiest women in southern Louisiana. And I recall Sam mentioning that she couldn’t stand her.”

  Hearing Sam’s name made his gut tighten. He had never gotten a chance to apologize to her—or, rather, to give her a chance to spit his apology back in his face. “Right, well, Sam couldn’t stand a lot of people, me included. I’m just curious as to why this Saucier woman is singling me out.”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. That pin on her lapel, I think that’s the Knight Priory.”

  “Knight Priory? I thought they were destroyed.”

  “Yeah… Long story. They’re just not who they used to be, that’s all.”

  “Right. And the commander’s comment about him ‘taking care of it’?”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know for sure, Kyle. I trust him, and I know he hates the Knight Priory, but I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. It’s almost like it’s… personal.”

  Aucoin closed his eyes. Ouellette’s most recent comments confused him, too. More and more, it seemed like he was living several lives at once.

  Finally, he said, “I have a feeling you shouldn’t go poking around in his business, Dix.”

  “You, too. Just keep your eyes open and your ass covered.”

  He opened his eyes. “Will do. You take care.”

  “You, too, Kyle—oh, one more thing. Can you talk to Scott tomorrow?”

  “Really?” He hardly ever spoke to Rivette unless it was to berate him. “And why am I doing this, Dix?”

  “Yeah, listen. He’s been really angry about the budget cuts, the lack of manpower, and how all that’s been translating into the increase in violent crime. You know him, he’s a pacifist who’d never hurt anyone. He barely made it onto the force because he’s so kind-hearted. So can you please just sit and talk with him for a bit, just so he can blow off steam?”

  Aucoin grunted, preferring not to act as counselor to the younger detective when he was messed up himself. But it was for Dixie, so…

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, thank you! Kyle, I really appreciate this. I mean it!” She sounded ecstatic.

  Rubbing his face, he said, “Well, I’m going to get going. I need to do some catch-up and read through these old case files for the Stabber.”

  “All right. Keep in touch. And Kyle?”

  “Yeah?”

  She giggled the same way she did when they were partners. “Good to have you back.”

  “Heh, OK, you. Good to be back.” He hung up the phone and then turned off the television. “Time to go to work.”

  It took Aucoin several hours to sort through all the information on the Fat City Stabber. While he had hoped Bradley would tell him about the case throughout the day, all he had done was give an overview during breakfast.

  “Well, at least I have all night to work on this.”

  He had been expecting to work late into the evening at the department with Bradley. Around five in the afternoon, however, Bradley had gotten a page on his beeper from home. His daughter had been caught pinching a beer. Aucoin had told Bradley they’d meet up again in the morning, having been in similar situations with Cheryl before.

  So, sitting on his couch with notes spread out on the coffee table, he leaned back and went over what he felt were the most important facts.

  Each victim was between fifteen and eighteen years old, female, and Caucasian. Each one was what would be considered a delinquent—indulging in vices such as alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity. Each girl was killed between eleven at night and four in the morning, and each murder took place within the confines of Fat City.

  He opened the folder containing pictures of the victims. As soon as he saw their faces, his hands started shaking. “Good God. These girls all look like my baby.”

  Spilling the photos onto the floor, he hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Then he started rummaging through the cabinet of medication he kept near the sink. A moment later, he took out an anxiety pill prescribed in case of a panic attack.

  As he held it, an image flashed in his head—Cheryl’s eviscerated body lying on the coroner’s table, her face stuck in a cry of anguish. Most of her teeth were gone, having been pulled or chiseled out, and the side of her eyes had crusts where her tears had dried. Her hands, her cute
little hands that used to grab for him when she was a child, were ground into the same type of pulp one uses for hamburger.

  Aucoin slid down to the floor, his knees buckling for the second time today. Grabbing the sides of his head, he screamed. He had been fighting back those memories for weeks, and with one look at the Stabber’s victims, they came rushing to the surface. Now they wouldn’t leave.

  He popped the pill and gulped it down with a glass of water before heading back to his comfy chair. He needed his notebook, and he needed his pen. He needed to get the dark thoughts out before they drove him mad.

  With a heavy plop, he sat down, threw open his notebook, and started writing.

  Marilyn was not a good girl, and that’s why the killer chose her, because all bad girls have bad things happen to them. Her dad, Jim, just wanted her to go to school and find a good husband, but she didn’t listen. Marilyn never listened. She dressed like a whore and flirted with every older guy who’d pay her attention.

  So it was no surprise when the guy she picked up behind the sports bar turned out to be the killer. She thought it was someone she could trust, but he had evil plans for her. Raping her was enjoyable, but stabbing her was even more fun. When he finished, he stuffed her dead body into the dumpster behind the bar so she could lay with the rest of the garbage.

  Aucoin squeezed the silver pen as he dotted the last period. He was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. A sudden chill and a tingling down his spine brought him back to his senses. He started to close the notebook but then stopped. A bitter taste in his mouth and a feeling in his gut told him to open it back up. Putting down the pen, he read what he’d just written instead of pushing it out of his mind like he usually did.

  What he saw appalled him. “Damn, that is sick. God help me if anyone ever reads this. I’d be locked away for life.”

  He put down the notebook and got up. “I need a drink. I deserve a drink.” He was halfway to the kitchen when a white flash caught his eye. He quickly turned, ready to defend himself. All he saw was a small, white orb floating over the notebook. It quickly vanished into mist.

  What the hell? Wait, Dixie mentioned seeing something like that during the Hannah case!

  Heading back to the notebook, he scanned the entry from the night before, frowning as he read over the details. They were similar to the case from this morning. Then he flipped back and read another previous story and then another. An uneasy feeling descended over him.

  The details of all three of those stories were similar to victims of the Fat City Stabber.

  Flipping back further, he read through each story from the past couple of months—seven total. They were all about teenage girls being brutally stabbed to death. He didn’t even remember writing some of them, although they were clearly in his handwriting.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Now sweating, he returned to the case notes and read over each murder, comparing it to the entries in his notebook. Not only were they remarkably similar, down to details such as locations and certain items like cigarettes or condoms, but each murder occurred within a few nights of his writing down the story.

  Both the notebook and the case file fell to the floor. He tried to make sense of it but found that he could not. If he hadn’t already encountered something like this during the new Bourbon Street Ripper case, he’d think he was being paranoid.

  But this wasn’t the first time.

  “This is exactly what happened with Sam and her stories!”

  Chapter 18

  Lunch at Morning Call

  Date: Thursday, March 22, 1993

  Time: 10:00 a.m.

  Location: Corner of Division and 18th Street

  Fat City, Metairie

  Aucoin watched with a grim expression as two men from the coroner’s office zipped up a body bag. Another victim of the Fat City Stabber had turned up, and somehow, the circumstances were just like what he had written the previous night. The victim was about seventeen years old, was skimpily dressed, and had a reputation for promiscuity. Her body, which showed signs of sexual assault, had been found in a dumpster behind a seedy local bar.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” Bradley stood with his arms folded. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

  With a shake of his head, Aucoin turned away. “Too many times. Whoever this person is, they’re escalating their violence.”

  They headed out of the alley. Bradley lit up a cigarette. “Well, you worked the Ripper case last summer. I remember that. Fucked-up bit of shit that was. Harry had us on watch the entire time. Crazy stuff.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Aucoin was starting to feel annoyed. He just wanted to clear his head and try to figure out why the murders were like his stories. There had to be a correlation between what had happened to Sam and what was happening to him.

  Bradley blew out a stream of smelly smoke. “I was hoping you’d have some insight into what was going on here, seeing as how you’ve already dealt with a serial killer.”

  As they reached their cars, Aucoin glowered. “You listen to me. There is nothing similar between this sicko and Dallas. This guy is a nutcase who is going to get caught because he’s getting careless. Dallas was methodical and carefully planned his killings months in advance. You want my insight? We stake out every corner of Fat City and watch every girl who fits the killer’s MO while she’s here. Sooner or later, the killer will screw up, and we’ll grab him.”

  With a final puff of his cigarette, Bradley tossed it to the side. “All right, let’s get back to the building and run the plan by Harry.”

  “Actually,” Aucoin said, holding out his hand to stop Bradley, “there are a few things I need to handle back in New Orleans first. I’ll come meet up with you afterwards.”

  After staring at him for a couple of seconds, Bradley said, “All right. But don’t be gone too long. It’ll take several hours to put together what you’re suggesting, assuming it’s approved.”

  After leaving Fat City, Aucoin headed back to his precinct. The door to Ouellette’s office was closed, voices coming from the other side. Rivette had his feet up on his desk and seemed annoyed with the world.

  Remembering his promise to Dixie, Aucoin sat across from him. “Hey, Scott. You look agitated.”

  “I’m annoyed as hell, Kyle,” Rivette replied, sliding over a photograph of an adorable child no more than two years old with dark skin and curly, black hair.

  “Cute kid, Scott. Is she yours?”

  Rivette snatched it back. “No, you ass. She’s the kid of a woman who was beaten to death by her boyfriend a few nights ago.”

  Aucoin frowned, not trying to hide his disgust. “Good old Nawlins. Murder capital of the South. So was the girl kidnapped?”

  “No, and thank God.”

  “Then why do you have her picture?”

  Raising his voice, Rivette said, “To remind me of what was left behind after her mother was killed. It’s getting worse out there, Kyle. We’re unable to keep up, and the bad guys know it. The murder rate has never been this high!”

  Shifting in his seat and glancing back at the photo, Aucoin asked, “So this is what’s been pissing you off these past months—that we can’t keep up with the rising crime rate?”

  “The rising violent crime rate,” Rivette clarified. “We’ve struggled ever since the massacre at the wharf. The peeps in charge keep saying we’ll get priority on the recruits coming out of the academy this summer, but you and I both know that it takes years to train competent detectives. So we won’t be up to snuff until at least 1995. And here, the commander is sending you off to go play in Metairie with Mister Harry Fucking Lee. How long do we have to endure this?”

  As he sat there, watching Rivette’s feet shake from an excess of nervous energy, Aucoin felt like he genuinely understood. It was what every good cop wanted, from rookie to veteran—to keep the good people safe and to stop the bad guys.

  “Ya know, Scott? I get it. And all I can say is to
trust in Dixie, trust in Ouellette, and trust that the top brass won’t leave us hanging.”

  Rivette sighed. “Trust, right. How much longer until someone takes matters into their own hands, I wonder?”

  That took Aucoin by surprise. “Not thinking of going rogue there, are you, buddy?”

  With a snort, Rivette said, “No. You know I hate violence. But I can dream, right? Anyway, Kyle, thanks for listening.”

  Getting up, Aucoin patted his foot and said, “You’re welcome, Scott,” before heading back to his desk. As he sat down, Landry came out of Ouellette’s office, looking hangdog.

  I wonder what’s up with him.

  Shrugging it off for the moment, Aucoin called Dixie. After a few rings, someone picked up.

  “Hello. How may I help you?” It was Gino.

  “Gino, hey. Is Dixie available?”

  “Ah, yes. She’s right here, Kyle.”

  A few moments later, Dixie said, “Hey, Kyle. What’s up?”

  “Hey. This is going to sound weird, but I need to talk to you about something important. Do you have a minute?”

  He heard her shifting in bed and caught her muttering, “I don’t need anything right now,” to Gino. Then she said, “I’ve got some time, Kyle. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Sam.”

  Immediately, her breath got shallow. “Yeah. So maybe we should meet up and have lunch somewhere.”

  That caught him off guard. “You sure you’re up for leaving the apartment?”

  “Kyle, I’m pregnant, not stricken with polio.”

  With a laugh, he said, “All right. Let me get out of here before Ouellette sees me. I’ll meet you at our usual place?”

  “Sounds good. Do you mind if Gino comes?”

  “Sure. I’d like to see the big guy. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”