by Owen Mullen
I followed him with my eyes as he left. He wanted this mess cleared up as much as I did – given what he’d told me – maybe more. The next eight hours were lost to me. I didn’t toss or turn or dream. Who knows how long I would’ve slept, if my phone hadn’t wakened me. It was Cal. He sounded better.
‘Raymond Clark. Twenty-seven. Partner of Ryan Hill. Both been with the NOPD for two years. Unexceptional people who aren’t going far.’
‘Hard to believe these two possess the entrepreneurial talent to take this on by themselves, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, I do think.’
‘Wednesday, just as we agreed. The only people who know are me and you. No leaks. No opportunity for these goons to head for the hills. Call me if anything changes.’
‘We’ve got them, Delaney. Absolutely.’ He was back to his confident best. It was good to hear. ‘A week from Sunday, we’ll be sitting in the Dome watching the Saints whip the 49ers and these punks’ll be behind bars.’
The call to Stella wasn’t easy to make, but there was no other choice. Until Julian Boutte had been recaptured, the less I had to do with her the better. I could guess what her reaction would be when I broke it to her, and I wasn’t wrong.
‘Listen, Stel. I’m snowed under. This pageant thing is picking up speed.’
Her response was guarded. ‘You’re saying what, exactly?’
I hesitated. ‘Think I’m gonna need a couple of weeks’ space to get out in front of it.’
Silence.
‘You mean time away from me?’
‘No. I mean time to deal with what I’m into.’
Stella was nobody’s fool.
‘Take as long as you like, Delaney. And when you’re ready, maybe you’ll tell me what the hell is going on?’
15
The child stood apart from the crowd, clutching her meaningless inkjet certificate in both hands. Her mother talked nonsense to the other moms, in a circle, comparing stories that flattered them and defamed their husbands.
Andrea Hassel was bored. The competition was still going on, people coming and going, hurrying their kids along. It didn’t concern her anymore today; her section had already performed and been judged. The girl wanted three things; her mommy’s attention, the bathroom, and to go home.
She tugged the hem of her mother’s jacket, trying to get her to detach from the conversation and attend to her. ‘Mommy.’ Her voice was a thin whine. Though she was only five-years-old, Andrea had long identified it as the sound that got results. She was too young to understand chatting with the other moms was part of the fun for her mother.
Like all children, she was the centre of the world.
But her mommy was busy right now impressing two women she’d met at the pageants. They boasted to each other about costs and sacrifices and the difficulties brought by loving their children as much as they did, agreeing the benefits to Justin or Tammy or Samantha far outweighed any considerations of self. It was for the children, wasn’t it? All for them.
‘Well, well,’ the stranger said. ‘Aren’t you the pretty one?’
Andrea’s tiny face looked into the smile, her hands balled in small fists rubbing at her eyes, a preamble to tears that hadn’t arrived yet but were on their way.
‘I heard you sing. You were very good. Is this your certificate? Let me see.’
The child handed over the paper.
‘My, my, look at this. “This is to certify that Andrea Hassel won first prize in the three-to-five-year-old section of the Modern Miss Johns Creek Pageant.”’
The paper was rolled and handed back. Andrea accepted both it and the stranger. Less than a yard away, she could hear the mommies talk. That’s what it sounded like; talk, talk, talking and no listening.
‘I want to go to the bathroom.’
Christ, did these kids ever say anything else?
Fool. Don’t be a fool.
She’s nice though.
Unwise! Unsafe! Unnecessary!
Fuck off! I know what I’m doing. Besides, she’s perfect. Look at the light in those eyes. Don’t you want to be there when it goes out? I know I do.
Agreed. And the mother’s wrapped up in herself. Perfect.
‘Do you, honey? Well we can fix that, can’t we? Let’s see now. I think the restroom is through here.’
The Watcher couldn’t help admire the skill, the balls. The risks were running higher and higher, it was true.
But the rush. Wow!
16
The Monday meeting was becoming something to dread. As soon as I arrived, I knew I’d be hearing more bad news. At the previous one, we’d gone through the lists of competitors and their families, workmen, catering people, etc, and listened to who was where and when; who employed extra help to assist the young performers. It produced zip and was depressing as hell. If anything, it magnified the size of the problem facing the agencies. I understood why the FBI had included us. Even with the locals involved in every state, it needed a miracle.
All the usual suspects were there. I got myself set up with coffee, took a seat at the back and switched off my cell. Further down, Fitzpatrick and Delaup had their heads together. Everybody looked tired and serious.
Agent McLaren opened it up. ‘Good morning. Most of you have probably already seen the news on TV.’
I hadn’t. It was only six-thirty a.m. Yesterday, the television had stayed off.
McLaren brought me up to speed. ‘On Saturday, he hit again. Johns Creek, Georgia, this time, making it seven attacks in total. There is no centre to this thing, and to be honest, it’s a much bigger playing field than we can cope with.’
He cleared his throat.
‘Andrea Hassel was lifted from under her mother’s nose. Her body was found in an unused room – strangled, same as the others.’
Beside him, Agent Rutherford looked beat. He kept his head down. The murders were taking their toll on him.
‘It’s difficult to find anything new to say. Fortunately for me, that’s Charlie Diskins’ job – Charlie?’
Diskins gave McLaren the briefest of nods and addressed the group. ‘Seven attacks. Seven dead children. Is there anything positive to take from the latest atrocity? Well, as a matter of fact, there is.’
I was glad to hear it, because from where I was, we stood every chance of coming a very poor second to this fruit. He’d got to call all the shots. Unless he made a mistake, how were we ever going to catch him?
‘The attacks themselves are happening closer together. After Lucy Gilmour, who we now believe was the first one, five months passed before the Dulles kid was killed. Four until Billy Cunningham. The interval between the killings was measured in months.’
He let everybody catch up. We knew where he was going. ‘Pamela White was three months ago, Timmy Donald seven weeks, Mimi Valasquez a couple of weeks, and now Andrea Hassel: two days. Whatever crazy urges make him do this are racing away. Based on the time progression, we can expect more deaths, and soon.’
I felt sick listening to the roll call of murdered children and the dismal prognosis.
‘The latest attack on Saturday was particularly audacious. Bold beyond belief. Agent Rutherford interviewed the mother.’
Diskins signalled for Rutherford to tell it his way.
‘The mother says the child was standing beside her in a room full of people. One moment she was there, the next … and nobody saw or heard anything.’
Rutherford was low on energy. He left it there.
‘That’s where we can take a little heart.’ Diskins was back in the driving-seat. ‘Sometimes, you hear serials want to get caught. I’ve never been sold on that idea. With this one, a child is abducted from her mother’s side and killed, and nobody notices. Here’s what it tells me; our perp has – not a wish to be stopped – but an enormous ego. A super-ego. He thrives on the danger. Loves it. He’ll make a mistake. No ifs or buts, he’ll go too far, trust me on that. Questions?’
I hated to pour cold water on our efforts, but it had to
be said. ‘Surely if this guy keeps moving states, we’re wasting our time? Shouldn’t the neighbouring states to Georgia be on alert?’
‘Good point. Already done. But he might double back and catch us with our pants down.’
Everyone desperately wanted to believe Charlie Diskins; it was all there was. The next hour was spent with updated reports on the results of all the cross-checking that was going on. The same work was being done by teams in the other states. I hoped somebody, somewhere, would make a connection, spot something everyone else had missed. What had been discovered took no time to tell.
The meeting broke up. I overheard two detectives talking, and my ears picked up.
‘Of course, they’ll investigate, but …’ a neat, late twenties brunette was saying to her colleague, busy repacking his briefcase. He didn’t commit himself.
I interrupted. ‘Excuse me. What did you just say?’
‘We’re talking about last night. I was telling Dale what I’d heard on the ‘vine. Bound to be an investigation with a thing like that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Around ten o’clock, there was a raid on a house near Canal. Drug bust, I think.’
‘And?’
‘Two of our guys went down. That’s all I know.’
My mind had already moved on, directing my hands to retrieve the cell from whatever pocket I’d hidden it in.
‘Fuck,’ I said, irritated with myself.
I found it and switched it on. The usual palaver of entering pin numbers and welcome messages frustrated me. Finally, I had service. I’d missed a call. No message. It could be a call from anybody about anything except some sixth sense said it wasn’t.
I pressed caller ID and Cal’s number showed; he’d tried to reach me at nine minutes past seven. Of course, he couldn’t because I was in the meeting. I pressed redial on my way out and headed down the back stairs. From experience, I knew no one used them.
He answered at once. ‘Delaney. Tried to get you earlier.’ He sounded agitated.
‘Had my phone off. What gives?’
‘You’ve heard about last night? The bust?’
‘Only just heard.’
‘Two officers down.’
‘How bad?’
‘Both dead?’
I could guess the rest. ‘Who were they?’
The line went quiet.
‘Hill and Clark. Convenient, or what?’
‘I’ll call you later, Cal,’ was all I could get out. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The thugs who’d terrorised a community were gone. After I talked to Cal, I’d tell Cilla Bartholomew. She could give the others the good news. For me, there were still too many unanswered questions: who was behind it? How high up did it go?
Now, we’d never know.
It was a result, of sorts. But in the words of Cal Moreland, “Convenient, or what?”
I spent the rest of the morning working on the Harry Love case I’d neglected. Not a good idea. I needed the work. Johnnie G Miller turned out to be a witness whose testimony might well put Harry’s client away. Harry expected me to uncover something to discredit Miller in court. Unfortunately, there was nothing. Johnnie G turned out to be a stand-up guy. Harry wasn’t going to be pleased.
The dog deserved a change of scene, and my work ethic was shot. Though it was only eleven o’clock in the morning, we headed for the Chartres House Cafe and got a table out on the patio. Chartres was dog-friendly and no wonder; Lowell drank beer twice the price of his usual tipple as if money grew on trees. To keep him company, I had a couple as well. Later, I had two calls to make: one to Cal Moreland, the other to give Harry Love the bad news about the witness.
The day was a bust.
When we’d had our beers, we walked around, taking in the sights and smells of old New Orleans: the French Quarter which, as it turns out, is arguably Spanish, sparkled in the sun after a downpour lasting less than a minute. I felt like a tourist watching the people on Jackson Square. The attraction of the Big Easy wasn’t hard to understand.
I was ducking out of Monday and didn’t care. I was only on the periphery of the serial killer investigation. The deaths of the dirty cops had brought some kind of result, but it was too early to tell exactly what. So why was I having such a shit time?
Since Danny had given me the news about Julian Boutte, I’d been on edge, looking over my shoulder and double-checking the street outside from whichever window I was closest to. And the old water-and-well thing was true: I really missed Stella. When this was over, if I wanted her in my life, something would have to change.
Then again, how could it? I wasn’t a cop anymore – hadn’t been for seven years – yet people I loved were still in danger. The past, it seemed, was determined to hold on to me.
Seven Years Earlier
On a balmy evening, I was driving back from a stake-out at the end of a long, hot and fruitless day when a phone call changed my life. Minutes earlier, I’d dropped Danny Fitzpatrick at his place and watched him walk up his drive. He was tired and so was I. Fitz waved over his shoulder without looking back, and I pulled away, happy to be going home.
On Lake Pontchartrain, two pairs of frigate birds flew together, low above the water, with an orange sun dissolving in the distance behind them. After twelve hours in a stifling car, I was running on empty, thinking about a shower and sleep. Or maybe just sleep. I reached across to the passenger seat and opened my cell.
Julian Boutte laughing evil down the line snapped me awake.
Boutte hadn’t crossed my mind much in the week since he’d thrown himself through the window in the shotgun. The hunt for him was still going on, and though the police had tossed the parish from top to bottom, they’d found nothing. No surprise. Algiers was home turf for Boutte; he had friends there who would hide him. An army could search for a couple of decades and still come up dry.
His voice was a rasp; teasing. ‘Guess where I’m at, Delaney.’
‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’
Julian sounded disappointed. ‘Oh, man. Humour me.’
He’d done his homework; he’d called my cell. In truth, I hadn’t expected him to come for me but I’d reckoned without his state of mind: Julian Boutte was insane. That madness would be his undoing. For the moment at least, he was king of the hill. Boutte breathed hard into the phone and I could imagine him grinning.
‘I’m not in the mood for games, Juli. More to do with my time. Thought you understood that.’
‘You’re a busy guy, I get it. Question is: how busy?’
‘Too busy to be fucking around with you.’
‘Yeah? Got something that’ll get your attention. Somebody here wants to talk to you.’
There was a scuffle. Boutte cursed. I heard the slap of skin on skin and a woman cry out. Putting the hurt on females was Boutte’s special talent – I’d seen it up close – and he was doing it again. Then, she spoke, her voice frantic with fear, and my heart jumped a beat.
‘Delaney! Delaney! Help me!’
It was Ellen.
Suddenly, I wasn’t tired anymore. Boutte came back on, giggling the way he had before he’d cut the woman tied to the chair. He whispered into the phone like we were a couple of buds, talking trash.
‘Done all right for yourself, gotta say. But if you want a last look, better hurry. Now, Detective, where am I at?’
And I knew.
‘If you touch her I’ll kill you.’
‘Yeah, but where am I?’
‘My place.’
‘Correct! Make it fast, or don’t bother coming.’
I punched Danny on speed dial and got no answer. All I could do was leave a message and hope he got it in time. ‘Fitz, it’s me. Boutte’s at Ellen’s. He’s got her. Need you to back me up.’
The next fifteen minutes were the longest of my life. Ellen Ames was my fiancée: she was twenty-eight, and in six weeks, we were getting married. It would’ve happened before – I’d asked her often enough – but what I did for
a living had held her back. She didn’t want to worry every time I walked out the door about whether she would see me again. I was prepared to give up being a cop. Thing was: I was good at it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
At the house, Boutte heard my steps on the porch and called to me. ‘Come on in, Detective. Fun’s about to be begin.’
I pulled my gun out of its holster, opened the door and stopped in my tracks. Julian Boutte stood in the middle of the room, grinning his crazy grin, slowly turning a knife in his hand; the same one he’d used to slit the black woman’s throat. Ellen was tied to a chair in front of him. Her head had been shaved, and her hair lay in clumps on the carpet. She was naked. Above the gag, there was terror in her eyes. I’d seen it before in the shotgun in Algiers.
Boutte was re-staging the scene for my benefit, except this time, he was expecting it to come out different. He held the blade against Ellen’s windpipe and caressed the pale skin; she shuddered. Cedric’s brother was relaxed enough to crack an old joke and enjoy it. ‘Déjà vu, all over again, right?’
He giggled.
I repeated the promise I’d made to him on the phone. ‘Touch her, and I’ll kill you.’
Juli wasn’t impressed. The giggle died, and the grin that went with it disappeared. ‘Yeah, you said.’
I edged into the space between us. Closer, though not close enough. He guessed what I was thinking and warned me off.
‘’Less you’re faster than last time, forget about it.’
‘This is between me and you. Nobody else is involved. Let her go, Juli.’
Dialogue from a B movie. All I had.
‘Wrong, Detective. My brother’s involved.’
‘I gave Cedric fair warning. The decision to move for his piece was his.’
Boutte didn’t see it that way. ‘Ced and me, we had business with that bitch. It was ours to take care of. You stuck your nose in when you should’ve kept it out.’
He waved the knife to include the three of us.
‘Whatever happens here is on you, Delaney.’