The Charlie Parker Collection 1

by John Connolly

  chile

  The voice was old and dark as the ebony keys on an ancient piano singing out from a distant room.

  wake up, chile, his world is unravelling

  And then my last breath sounded in my ears and all was stillness and quiet.

  I woke to the sound of a tapping on my door. Outside, daylight had passed its height and was ebbing towards evening. When I opened the door, Touissant stood before me. Behind him, I could see Rachel waiting. ‘It’s time to go,’ he said.

  ‘I thought the New Orleans cops were taking care of that.’

  ‘I volunteered,’ he replied. He followed me into the room as I threw my shaving gear loosely into my suit carrier, folded it over and attached the clasps. It was London Fog, a present from Susan.

  Touissant nodded to the NOPD patrolman.

  ‘You sure this is okay?’ said the cop. He looked distracted and uncertain.

  ‘Look, New Orleans cops got better things to be doing than babysitting,’ replied Touissant. ‘I’ll get these people to their plane, you go out and catch some bad guys, okay?’

  We drove in silence to Moisant Field. I sat in the passenger seat, Rachel sat in the back. I waited for Touissant to take the turn to the airport but he continued straight on 10.

  ‘You missed your turn,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Touissant. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  When things start to unravel, they unravel fast. We got lucky that day. Everybody gets lucky some time.

  On a junction of the Upper Grand River, south-east of 10 on the road to Lafayette, a dredging operation to remove silt and junk from the bottom of the river got some of its machinery caught up on a batch of discarded barbed wiring that was rusting away on the riverbed. They eventually freed it and tried to haul it up, but there were other things caught in the wire as well: an old iron bedstead; a set of slave irons, more than a century and a half old; and, holding the wire to the bottom, an oil drum marked with a fleur-de-lys.

  It was almost a joke to the dredging crew as they worked to free the drum. The report of the discovery of a girl’s body in a fleur-de-lys drum had been all over the news bulletins and it had taken up ninety lines below the fold on the Times-Picayune on the day of its discovery.

  Maybe the crew joshed each other morbidly as they worked the barrel out of the water in order to get at the wire. Perhaps they went a little quieter, barring the odd nervous laugh, as one of them worked at the lid. The drum had rusted in places and the lid had not been welded shut. When it came off, dirty water, dead fish and weeds flowed out.

  The legs of the girl, partially decayed but surrounded by a strange, waxy membrane, emerged from the open lid as well, although her body remained jammed, half in, half out of the drum. The river life had fed on her but when one man shone his flashlight to the end of the drum he could see the tattered remains of skin at the forehead and her teeth seemed to be smiling at him in the darkness.

  Only two cars were at the scene when we arrived. The body had been out of the water for less than three hours. Two uniformed cops stood by with the dredging crew. Around the body stood three men in plain clothes, one of them wearing a slightly more expensive suit than the rest, his silver hair cut short and neat. I recognised him from the aftermath of Morphy’s death: Sheriff James Dupree of St Martin Parish, Touissant’s superior.

  Dupree motioned us forward as we stepped from the car. Rachel hung back slightly but still moved towards the body in the drum. It was the quietest crime scene at which I had ever been present. Even when the ME appeared later, it remained restrained.

  Dupree pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his hands, making sure that he didn’t touch their exterior with his exposed fingers. His nails were very short and very clean, I noticed, although not manicured.

  ‘You want to take a closer look?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve pretty much seen all I want to see.’

  There was a rotten, pungent odour coming from the mud and silt dredged up by the crew, stronger even than the smell from the girl’s body. Birds hovered over the detritus, trying to target dead or dying fish. One of the crew lodged his cigarette in his mouth, bent to pick up a stone and hurled it at a huge grey rat that scuttled in the dirt. The stone hit the mud with a wet, thudding sound like a piece of meat dropped on a butcher’s slab. The rat scurried away. Around it, other grey objects burst into activity. The whole area was alive with rodents, disturbed from their nests by the actions of the dredging crew. They bumped and snapped at each other, their tails leaving snaking lines in the mud. The rest of the crew now joined in, casting stones in a skimming motion close to the ground. Most of them had better aim than their friend.

  Dupree lit a cigarette with a gold Ronson lighter. He smoked Gitanes, the only cop I had ever seen do so. The smoke was acrid and strong and the breeze blew it directly into my face. Dupree apologised and turned so that his body partially shielded me from the smoke. It was a peculiarly sensitive gesture and it made me wonder, once again, why I was not sitting at Moisant Field.

  ‘They tell me you tracked down that child-killer in New York, the Modine woman,’ said Dupree eventually. ‘After thirty years, that’s no mean feat.’

  ‘She made a mistake,’ I said. ‘In the end, they all do. It’s just a matter of being in the right place at the right time to take advantage of the situation.’

  He tilted his head slightly to one side, as if he didn’t entirely agree with what I had said but was prepared to give it a little thought in case he’d missed something. He took another long drag on his cigarette. It was an upmarket brand, but he smoked it the way I had seen longshoremen on the New York docks smoke, the butt held between the thumb and the first two fingers of the hand, the ember shielded by the palm. It was the sort of hold you learned as a kid, when smoking was still a furtive pleasure and being caught with a cigarette was enough to earn you a smack across the back of the head from your old man.

  ‘I guess we all get lucky sometimes,’ said Dupree. He looked at me closely. ‘I’m wondering if maybe we’ve got lucky here.’

  I waited for him to continue. There seemed to be something fortuitous in the discovery of the girl’s body, or perhaps I was still remembering a dream in which shapes came out of my bedroom wall and told me that a thread in the tapestry being woven by the Travelling Man had suddenly come loose.

  ‘When Morphy and his wife died, my first instinct was to take you outside and beat you to within an inch of your life,’ he said. ‘He was a good man, a good detective, despite everything. He was also my friend.

  ‘But he trusted you, and Touissant here seems to trust you too. He thinks maybe you provide a linking factor in all this. If that’s true, then putting you on a plane back to New York isn’t going to achieve anything. Your FBI friend Woolrich seemed to feel the same way, but there were louder voices than his shouting for you to be sent home.’

  He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘I reckon you’re like gum caught in someone’s hair,’ he continued. ‘The more they try to prise you out, the more you get stuck in, and maybe we can use that. I’m risking a storm of shit by keeping you here, but Morphy told me what you felt about this guy, how you believed he was observing us, manipulating us. You want to tell me what you make of this, or do you want to spend the night at Moisant sleeping on a chair?’

  I looked at the bare feet and exposed legs of the girl in the drum, the strange yellow accretion like a chrysalis, lying in a pool of filth and water on a rat-infested stretch of a river in western Louisiana. The ME and his men had arrived with a body bag and a stretcher. They positioned a length of plastic on the ground and carefully manoeuvred the drum on to it, one of them supporting the girl’s legs with a gloved hand. Then slowly, gently, the ME’s hands working inside the drum, they began to free her.

  ‘Everything we’ve done so far has been dogged and predicted by this man,’ I began. ‘The Aguillards learned something, and they died. Remarr saw something, and he was killed. Morphy tried to help me, a
nd now he’s dead as well. He’s closing off the options, forcing us to follow a pattern that he’s already set. Now someone’s been leaking details of the investigation to the press. Maybe that person has been leaking things to this man as well, possibly unintentionally, possibly not.’

  Dupree and Touissant exchanged a look. ‘We’d been considering that possibility as well,’ said Dupree. ‘There are too many damn people crawling over this for anything to stay quiet for long.’

  ‘On top of all that,’ I continued, ‘the feds are keeping something back. You think Woolrich has told you everything he knows?’

  Dupree almost laughed. ‘I know as much about this guy Byron as I know about the poet, and that’s sweet FA.’

  From inside the drum came a scraping sound, the sound of bone rubbing on metal. Gloved hands supported the girl’s naked, discoloured body as it was freed from the confines of the drum.

  ‘How long can we keep the details quiet?’ I asked Dupree.

  ‘Not long. The feds will have to be informed, the press will find out . . .’ He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘If you’re suggesting that I don’t tell the feds . . .’ But I could see in his face that he was already moving in that direction, that the reason why the ME was examining the body so soon after its discovery, the reason why there were so few police at the scene, was to keep the details limited to the minimum number of people.

  I decided to push him. ‘I’m suggesting you don’t tell anyone about this. If you do, the man who did this will be alerted and he’ll cut us off again. If you’re put in a position where you have to say something, then fudge it. Don’t mention the barrel, obscure the location, say you don’t believe the discovery is connected to any other investigation. Say nothing until the girl is identified.’

  ‘Assuming that we can identify her,’ said Touissant mournfully.

  ‘Hey, you want to rain someplace else?’ snapped Dupree.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Touissant.

  ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘We may not be able to identify her, That’s a chance we’ll have to take.’

  ‘Once we exhaust our own records, we’ll have to use the feds’,’ said Dupree.

  ‘We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it,’ I responded. ‘Can we do this?’

  Dupree shuffled his feet and finished his cigarette. He leaned through the open window of his car and put the butt into the ashtray.

  ‘Twenty-four hours max,’ he said. ‘After that, we’ll be accused of incompetence or deliberately impeding the progress of an investigation. I’m not even sure how far we’ll get in that time, although . . .’ He looked at Touissant, then back to me. ‘. . . it may not come to that.’

  ‘You want to tell me,’ I said, ‘or do I have to guess?’

  It was Touissant who answered.

  ‘The feds think they’ve found Byron. They’re going to move on him by morning.’

  ‘In which case, this is just a back-up,’ said Dupree. ‘The joker in our pack.’

  But I was no longer listening. They were moving on Byron, but I would not be there. If I tried to participate, then a sizeable portion of the Louisiana law-enforcement community would be used to put me on a plane to New York or to lock me in a cell.

  The crew were likely to be the weakest link. They were taken aside and given cups of coffee, then Dupree and I were as honest with them as we felt we could be. We told them that if they didn’t keep quiet about what they had seen for at least one day, then the man who had killed the girl would probably get away and that he would kill again. It was at least partly true; cut off from the hunt for Byron, we were continuing the investigation as best we could.

  The crew was made up of hard-working local men, most of them married with children of their own. They agreed to say nothing until we contacted them and told them that it was okay to do so. They meant what they said, but I knew that some of them would tell their wives and their girlfriends as soon as they got home and word of what had happened would spread from there. A man who says he tells his wife everything is either a liar or a fool, my first sergeant used to say. Unfortunately, he was divorced.

  Dupree had been in his office when the call came through and had picked pairs of deputies and detectives whom he trusted implicitly. With the addition of Touissant, Rachel and me, along with the ME’s team and the dredging crew, maybe twenty people knew of the discovery of the body. It was nineteen people too many to keep a secret for long, but that couldn’t be helped.

  After the initial examination and photography, it was decided to bring the body to a private clinic outside Lafayette, where the ME sometimes consulted, and he agreed to commence his work almost immediately. Dupree prepared a statement detailing the discovery of a woman of unspecified age, cause of death unknown, some five miles from the actual location of the discovery. He dated it, timed it, then left it under a sheaf of files on his desk.

  By the time we both arrived at the autopsy room, the remains had been X-rayed and measured. The gurney that had brought the body in had been pushed into a corner, away from the autopsy table on its cylindrical tank, which delivered water to the table and collected the fluids that drained through the holes on the table itself. A scale for the weighing of organs hung from a metal frame and, beside it, a small-parts dissection table on its own base stood ready for use.

  Only three people, apart from the ME and his assistant, attended the autopsy. Dupree and Touissant were two. I was the third. The smell was strong and only partly masked by the antiseptic. Dark hair hung from her skull and the skin that was left was shrunken and torn. The girl’s remains were almost completely covered by the yellow-white substance.

  It was Dupree who asked the question. ‘Doc, what is that stuff on the body?’

  The examiner’s name was Dr Emile Huckstetter, a tall, stocky man in his early fifties with a ruddy complexion. He ran a gloved finger over the substance before he responded.

  ‘It’s a condition called adipocere,’ he said. ‘It’s rare – I’ve seen maybe two or three cases at most, but the combination of silt and water in that canal seems to have resulted in its development here.’

  His eyes narrowed as he leaned towards the body. ‘Her body fats broke down in the water and they’ve hardened to create this substance, the adipocere. She’s been in the water for a while. This stuff takes at least six months to form on the trunk, less on the face. I’m taking a stab here, but I figure she’s been in the water for less than seven months, certainly no more than that.’

  Huckstetter detailed the examination into a small microphone attached to his green surgical scrubs. The girl was seventeen or eighteen, he said. She had not been tied or bound. There was evidence of a blade’s slash at her neck, indicating a deep cut across her carotid artery as the probable cause of death. There were marks on her skull where her face had been removed and similar marks in her eye sockets.

  As the examination drew to a close, Dupree was paged and, minutes later, he arrived back with Rachel. She had checked into a Lafayette motel, storing both her own baggage and mine, then returned. She recoiled initially at the sight of the body, then stood beside me and, without speaking, took my hand.

  When the ME was done, he removed his gloves and commenced scrubbing. Dupree took the X-rays from the case envelope and held them up to the light, each in turn. ‘What’s this?’ he said, after a time.

  Huckstetter took the X-ray from his hand and examined it himself. ‘Compound fracture, right tibia,’ he said, pointing with his finger. ‘Probably two years old. It’s in the report, or it will be as soon as I can compile it.’

  I felt a falling sensation and an ache spreading across my stomach. I reached out to steady myself and the scales jangled as I glanced against their frame. Then my hand was on the autopsy table and my fingers were touching the girl’s remains. I pulled my hand back quickly.

  ‘Parker?’ said Dupree. He reached out and gripped my arm to steady me. I could still feel the girl on my fingers.

  ‘My God,’
I said. ‘I think I know who she is.’

  In the early-morning light, near the northern tip of Bayou Courtableau, south of Krotz Springs and maybe twenty miles from Lafayette, a team of Federal agents, backed up by St Landry Parish sheriff’s deputies, closed in on a shotgun house, which stood with its back to the bayou, its front sheltered by overgrown bushes and trees. Some of the agents wore dark raingear with FBI in large yellow letters on the back, others helmets and body armour. They advanced slowly and quietly, their safeties off. When they spoke, they did so quickly and with the fewest possible words. Radio contact was kept to a minimum. They knew what they were doing. Around them, deputies armed with pistols and shotguns listened to the sound of their breathing and the pumping of their hearts as they prepared to move on the house of Edward Byron, the man they believed to be directly responsible for the deaths of their colleague, John Charles Morphy, his young wife and at least five other people.

  The house was run-down, the slates on the roof damaged and cracked in places, the roof beams already rotting. Two of the windows at the front of the house were broken and had been covered with cardboard held in place by duct tape. The wood on the gallery was warped and, in places, missing altogether. On a metal hook to the right of the house hung the carcass of a wild pig, newly skinned. Blood dripped from its snout and pooled on the ground below.

  On a signal from Woolrich, shortly after 6.00 a.m., agents in Kevlar body armour approached the house from the front and the rear. They checked the windows at either side of the front door and adjoining the rear entrance. Then, simultaneously, they hit the doors, moving into the central hallway with maximum noise, their flashlights burning through the darkness of the interior.

  The two teams had almost reached each other when a shotgun roared from the back of the house and blood erupted in the dim light. An agent named Thomas Seltz plunged forward as the shot ripped through the unprotected area of his armpit, the vulnerable point in upper-body armour, his finger tightening in a last reflex on the trigger of his machine pistol as he died. Bullets raked across the wall, ceiling and floor as he fell, sending dust and splinters through the air and injuring two agents, one in the leg and one in the mouth.