by Rita Herron
Dammit, he’d never deserved the hero status they’d given him. And he didn’t want it now. All he wanted was to do his job.
He heard Debra Schmale’s mother’s sobs as he entered the station. Saw his lieutenant tackling the impossible. Promising her parents that everything would be all right when they all knew it wouldn’t. Uncomfortable with emotional outbursts, Carson gave him a helpless look as if he needed saving. Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath, joined them and offered his condolences.
Mrs. Schmale dabbed a tissue under her red-rimmed swollen eyes. “My Debra was a good girl. She wasn’t like those hookers that got killed.”
“She barely even dated,” the father said. “I don’t understand how this could happen.”
“Why would he kill her?” Mrs. Schmale cried. “Why? She didn’t dance at those strip bars like those other girls.”
“And she didn’t have sex with strangers,” Mr. Schmale argued. “There’s some kind of horrible mistake.”
“Had your daughter been acting odd lately?” Jean-Paul asked. “Maybe hanging out with some new friends?”
Mrs. Schmale frowned. “She refused to go with us to church on Sunday. Came out dressed in a short skirt. Said she was twenty and would do what she wanted.”
The girl’s father bowed his head into his hands. “I was mad. I told her not to come back.” He choked on the words. “But I didn’t mean it….”
Jean-Paul chewed the inside of his cheek. Poor guy. He understood the guilt. “She didn’t mention a name?”
They both shook their heads, looking bewildered.
Carson cleared his throat. “I’ll take a look at the house. Maybe there’s something in her room that might tell us more.”
“Does your daughter have a computer?” Jean-Paul asked.
Mr. Schmale nodded.
“We’d like to look at that, too,” Carson said. “Maybe her e-mail will tell us who she’s been seeing.”
The couple agreed, still protesting that they wouldn’t find anything incriminating against their daughter in the files. But often enough parents didn’t know what there kids were into. Then again, what if they were right? What if the killer’s MO had changed?
It happened. A slight variation just to up the game. A different kind of victim—not just hookers now, but any girl who dressed a certain way. Something to throw off the cops.
Sweat beaded on his lip. Any MO change would make it harder for them to catch this guy. And if word spread that the swamp devil was targeting all young girls, not just prostitutes, panic on the streets would rise.
Phelps headed to the coffee machine, while Jean-Paul and Carson ducked into a side office. “Did you find out anything about the fire?” Jean-Paul asked.
Carson shrugged, noncommittal. “A bystander saw two women hanging around who looked suspicious. One of them sounds like Ginger Holliday’s mother.”
Jean-Paul arched a brow. “But why attack the magazine?”
“Maybe they saw the story on Miss Berger and the fact that the killer contacted her.”
Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. “And Cortain’s rantings against the magazine haven’t helped. He’s encouraging violence by stirring up emotions.”
Carson made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Probably. His sermons tend to create a rise in people instead of calming them down.”
Exactly what Cortain wanted. More publicity for himself. And he was practically glorifying the swamp devil. And Britta was caught in the middle.
“Did our UNSUB send the Berger woman a photo of Debra Schmale?” Carson asked.
Jean-Paul shook his head. “Not so far. If he heard about the fire, he might not. But I’m going to take one by and show her. See if she recognizes the girl.”
“I’ll check out the house,” Carson said. “And the computer.”
“Let’s put a team on the street, too,” Jean-Paul said. “If Debra wasn’t a hooker or dancer, maybe someone in the Quarter saw her.”
* * *
SHADOWS DARKENED the corners of the bayou where monsters lay in waiting. Britta’s nightmares launched her back in time.
She struggled to make herself small as she scooted deeper into the corner of the tiny cabin. After running miles through the brush and mud, terrified of the gators and snakes, she’d stumbled upon the shanty in the dark and had crawled inside, hoping to seek shelter until morning. Once dawn broke and sunlight shone through the massive trees, she would find her way out. From there, she didn’t know where she’d go.
But she would not go back to the cult.
Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. She brushed them away, battling back the sobs that wracked her. She was all alone now. She had no one to help her. No one to protect her.
Her mother’s face flashed into her mind. What was she doing? Were the cult members blaming her for Britta’s escape? Would they hurt her?
She should go back but terror seized her.
No, her mother had to be all right. She had done what they’d said. It was Britta who’d defied them. In fact, her mother was probably drugged again. Furious with Britta for running away.
And for killing their leader.
If they found her, what would they do? Lynch her from a tree? Send her to prison?
The hiss of a snake broke the silence, its warning stirring other night sounds outside. The gators. The birds. Maybe bats that survived in the woodlands.
The whisper of someone’s breath floated over her. Footsteps sounded. Then a man’s hand clamped downover her mouth. She bit into flesh. Tasted sweat and dirt. Nausea clawed at her stomach.
She kicked and screamed but he shoved something over her face. He was going to smother her.
She shoved her feet at him and tried to buck upward, but he was too heavy.
She couldn’t breathe…she was choking.
Outside, another sound rose above the forest. Not an animal. Voices.
Human voices. The rattle of machinery.
She jerked her eyes open, but darkness filled the room. The stench was acidic. The pressure on her throat so strong and forceful that she couldn’t breathe.
The nightmare was real. Except she wasn’t in the bayou but in a hospital bed. And someone was trying to gag her. One of the doctors. He was dressed in surgical scrubs and mask.
She tried to pry the pair of steel hands from her mouth, but his grip tightened and he raised a hypodermic.
Desperate and weak, she kicked at him and reached out for something to protect herself, something to use as a weapon. The sheets, bedding…the metal tray…. She fumbled but grabbed the edge and slammed it into his side. He loosened his grip for a fraction of a second and dropped the needle.
She rolled off the bed. “Help!” Her voice was so hoarse from the smoke inhalation, the sound died in the air.
He lurched toward her and she fumbled again and knocked the chair. It skidded into the wall and slammed against the night table. A metal pan rattled.
Outside, footsteps sounded.
The shadow hesitated, then must have realized someone was coming because he growled, grabbed the hypodermic from the floor, and ran through the door.
She crawled sideways, gasping for air, her head spinning.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL’S CELL PHONE rang. This time, the hospital. His heart thumped wildly. “Detective Dubois.”
“Detective, this is Dr. Samson at New Orleans General. I’m calling about the woman you brought in last night—”
“What’s wrong? Is she all right?”
“Yes, but we had an incident a few minutes ago.”
His jaw tightened. “What kind of an incident?”
“Miss Berger claims that someone attacked her.”
Jean-Paul cursed, then rushed toward the door. Dammit, he’d thought she was safe there.
He never should have left her alone.
Vowing not to do so again, he jumped in his car. Time passed in slow motion, but when Jean-Paul looked at the clock as he entered the hospital, he saw that it had
only taken him ten minutes to reach Britta. His pulse raced as he rushed into her room.
She looked pale and shaken and so damn beautiful his heart clenched. She’d almost died twice tonight. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms.
“Jean-Paul?”
“What happened?”
The doctor glanced up over bifocals. “She’s going to be all right.”
“Someone tried to gag me,” Britta said.
Jean-Paul barely smothered an obscenity. “I want to look at your security cameras.”
The doctor nodded. Jean-Paul ordered a local who’d responded to the call from the security office to stand by Britta’s door. Seconds later, he viewed the tapes. Nothing too suspicious at first. Then a person in a green surgical suit had quietly slipped off the elevator onto the third floor. He kept his head down, avoiding the camera and a cap and surgical mask hid his face.
Jean-Paul continued to search through the tapes, watching as the figure ran from the room a few minutes later. Again, he maintained a low profile, kept his head low, avoided the cameras. He’d merged into the elevator with a group of doctors as if he belonged. When the doors opened on the main floor, the man slid out unnoticed, still wearing the surgical garb.
Damn. He hoped he’d discarded it in the hospital so they could find it and look for forensics. No such luck.
He took a copy of the tapes so Damon could have the FBI’s forensics team analyze it. Maybe if they enlarged the photo and zoomed in on the face, they’d find something.
He’d get his team on it. He had to get back to Britta.
She was in danger and he didn’t trust anyone else to protect her but himself.
* * *
BRITTA WANTED TO GO home. But where was home?
Her apartment was in shambles. Her belongings probably had smoke damage. And there was really nothing personal there to save.
Except for the photo of her mother. Even if the rest of the album was empty, that one picture was the only connection she had. Was it safe and intact?
Jean-Paul strode in, looking haggard. She saw the guilt, the self-recriminations on his face. He didn’t deserve to blame himself for what happened to her.
“We reviewed the tapes,” he said quietly. “There was a man in surgical scrubs. I saw him come in, then leave your room. But we couldn’t get a look at his face. I’m sending the tapes to the feds for them to review.”
Britta nodded. “It happened so fast. I wish I could identify him.”
Jean-Paul clenched his jaw, then closed the distance between them. “The girl we found earlier, Debra Schmale.” He removed a picture from his jacket and thrust it toward her. “Do you recognize her?”
Britta’s fingers trembled as she studied the picture. “Oh my God, Jean-Paul. She’s just a kid.”
“Twenty,” Jean-Paul said. “Her mother swears she wasn’t a hooker. She just ran away on Sunday.”
Britta narrowed her eyes at him. “So she’s not the swamp devil’s usual target?”
“No.”
She studied the picture again. “You know, I think I saw this girl. In the market, just the other day.”
“What was she doing?”
Britta tried to sort through the haze of scattered memories. “Looking at the art. At the dolls one of the street guys sells.”
“Voodoo dolls?”
“No, porcelain ones.” Britta thought back. “A guy named Teddy sells them.”
“Like the ones in that drawer you have?”
Britta twisted her fingers together. “Yes.”
“My niece has some like that.”
“I know, I saw Catherine and Chrissy buy one the other day.”
Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath. “I have to talk to this guy.”
A cold chill engulfed Britta. “You think Teddy might be the swamp devil?”
“You don’t?”
“He seems really harmless,” Britta said. “He’s shy. And he stutters. He certainly doesn’t talk to women or seem violent.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. Do you know his last name?”
“No. He doesn’t have a business card or a Web site, either.”
Odd. Jean-Paul knotted his hands in frustration. “Then I’ll have to wait until morning to find him.”
“I’ll go with you and show you where he sets up his stand.”
“No, you have to rest. I’m standing a guard outside your door. And I’ll pick you up when the doctor releases you.”
Britta fidgeted with the sheets. “You try to protect everyone, Jean-Paul.”
He ran a hand down his neck, his voice gruff when he spoke. “I’ve already failed miserably. He almost got you.” His voice cracked. “Twice.”
“I’m still alive,” she said softly. “I told you I could take care of myself.”
He shifted awkwardly, started to reach for her hand, then seemed to withdraw and backed away. “I’ll be back later.”
She nodded and he left, leaving her alone. He’d said he’d pick her up when the doctor released her, but where would he take her? She wanted to go home with him.
But what would Jean-Paul want?
* * *
One day before Mardi Gras
* * *
JEAN-PAUL HIT THE STREETS at daybreak. The newspapers and TV had splattered news of the fourth victim all over the place. His name was virtually mud along with the killer’s.
He staked out the street, waiting on Teddy to set up his booth. Time crawled by. Hours passed but the guy didn’t show. Meanwhile, Jean-Paul questioned dozens of artists and locals. They remembered the dolls, although no one knew Teddy’s name, where he lived or anything else about him. He was quiet. Shy. Nondescript. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Not exactly the profile of a serial killer.
Then again, in other ways, he fit the profile exactly. He was a white male, early twenties. Stuttering was a sign of inferiority. Although Britta hadn’t mentioned him stuttering on the phone, perhaps the anonymity eased his nervousness, made him feel more in control. The fact that he was withdrawn, didn’t call attention to himself, that he lacked self-confidence and was a loner were indicators.
He blended into the crowd perfectly.
And any woman he approached would probably trust him because of his demeanor and the nature of his craft.
If only he had a last name. But Britta had been right. He hadn’t passed out business cards as most of the artists did. And Jean-Paul found no evidence of a Web site or that his work had been displayed in any of the local shops or museums. It was almost as if he existed only on the streets.
An ideal cover for a serial killer. He’d left no paper trail. No way to trace him.
Once again, the police were stalled for leads.
By late afternoon, Jean-Paul wanted to hit something. He’d had a police artist visit Britta and they were now passing around a sketch of this guy Teddy. He’d even called Mazie Burgess and asked her to run it. And he’d spent the rest of the day trying to track down all their suspects and account for them.
Adding more fuel to the flame of questions tormenting him, Antwaun phoned to say that the fingernail they’d found in Britta’s stairwell had belonged to their fourth victim, Debra Schmale. He hadn’t quite put the pieces of the puzzle together. Were Debra and this guy Teddy involved? Had she known about the murders and helped him or hidden his identity? But why would she attack Britta?
His gut still told him Cortain was involved somehow, maybe even Justice. But how?
Reverend Cortain had a horde of worshipers who would vouch for his whereabouts the night before. Randy Swain had been seen at a local bar, then he’d had his own private party with two fans he’d met over drinks. Justice had still been in jail, but they’d had to release him midmorning. Jean-Paul had stopped by the booth where Howard Keith’s “eyes” display had been, but Keith claimed to have an alibi, too. Jean-Paul had called in for a search warrant to the man’s place, although Keith had insisted that he had been painting the nigh
t before. He even had a live subject. One of his customers from the street had commissioned him to do a portrait of her eyes.
Sounded like the two of them belonged together.
Before heading to the hospital, he stopped by Britta’s apartment to pick up some clothes for her, but the entire contents of the place smelled like smoke. He didn’t have a clue as to what size she wore or how to buy her clothes, so he stopped at his parents’ restaurant and explained the situation. Stephanie and Catherine jumped into motion, running to shop for Britta.
His mother forced him to sit down and eat some gumbo. “You look exhausted, son. You need to rest.”
“I’ll rest when this guy is locked up, Maman.”
She patted his back as if he was a child. “You aren’t the world’s keeper, son. You do your best—that’s all anyone can do.”
“I let Lucinda down,” he said in a low voice.
Unshed tears glittered in his mother’s eyes. “She let you down, too, son. She admitted to me that she begged you to quit the force. I told her she was wrong to ask such a thing. You love a man for who he is. You do not try to change him.”
Jean-Paul sipped his tea with a frown. He had no idea his parents were aware of the problems in his marriage. “Maybe she was right. If I had quit, she’d still be alive.”
“You are a man of honor.” She shook her head. “And we are proud of you, Jean-Paul. Lucinda’s death was unfortunate, but you saved countless others. And you’ve punished yourself enough.” She refilled his tea. “Now, don’t let guilt keep you from finding happiness with another.”
His gaze swung to hers. “Maman—”
“Shh. Don’t argue with your mother. Eat up and remember what I said.”
His sisters rushed inside in a flurry of chatter.
“We put together an overnight bag with some clothes,” Stephanie said. “Britta’s about my size so I hope things fit.”
“We also stopped at the drug store and bought some toiletries,” Catherine said.
Jean-Paul hugged his sisters. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”
“Let us know if you need anything else, Jean-Paul,” Stephanie told him.
Catherine gave him a peck on the cheek. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Britta. I can’t imagine that dollmaker as the swamp devil. He’s too nice, too…nerdy.”