by Ed Kovacs
We had already introduced ourselves as we walked up the staircase, and Townsend began talking before we could ask a question.
“I met Robert, Professor Drake, five years ago when I was twenty-five and came to Tulane to get my Ph.D. I became one of his graduate assistants and fell in love with him. He’s been a mentor, close friend, financial backer, confidant, and lover ever since. But not a husband. We both like our independence too much for that,” she said, smiling. “So we’re nonexclusive, sexually.”
Honey and I both looked on stoically, but she took out her pocket spiral notebook even though she knew my pocket video camera and voice recorder were committing everything to digitized memory.
“I picked him up this morning around eight,” Townsend continued. “We were going to spend several hours in City Park gathering herbs and other items we use in our magical practice. Certain grasses and flowers, bark, things like that. Well, I got a call from my Webmaster that the business site had crashed, so I dropped Robert off at the park and then came back here to work on my computer. I picked him up at the park around noon or so, drove him back to the West Bank, and that’s when we both saw that something was very wrong at his house.”
“Are you aware of what happened?” I asked. Honey and I had already agreed that I would take the lead in the interrogation.
“I saw it on the news, yes.”
“You haven’t spoken to Mr. Drake?”
“He called me from the police station after his lawyer arrived.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“That Roscindo and Felix were found dead in his home and he feared that the police thought he killed them.”
“What else?” I asked quickly.
“I don’t think I’m required to give you that kind of private information. But I’ll tell you that you’re wasting your time if it’s a murderer you’re looking for. Roscindo and Felix were brujos who experimented with all kinds of plant medicines, psychotropic drugs, and sexual stimulants, both natural and synthetic.”
“You’ve witnessed that?” asked Honey.
Townsend hesitated for a moment. “They told me so. Many Latin American healers and shamans use drugs during the course of their work. That’s nothing new.”
“And you got to know them how?”
“There’s been an ongoing study group at Robert’s house since before I knew him. Meditation and other spiritual work. Sending healing energy to sick people. I got to know them a bit chatting during the breaks.”
“So you don’t know them well?” I said.
“Not really.”
“You never saw them outside of Drake’s classes?”
She paused for a moment. “That’s correct.”
“So you didn’t know them well, but they told you they used Viagra?”
“I didn’t say the word ‘Viagra,’ but, yes, we would talk about our mutual spiritual work, our techniques, tricks of the trade. If you’ve been to their home, then you will find all of their tools and medicines.”
“How would you know that? You said you’ve never seen them outside of Drake’s house.”
“It’s logical to assume…”
“Miss Townsend, we’re not asking you to assume anything. So please don’t. Please just give us facts as you understand them.”
Townsend visibly flushed but said nothing.
“So you saw Felix Sanchez and Roscindo Ruiz this morning when you went to pick up Drake?”
She answered but with a decidedly less friendly edge to her voice. “Their truck was there, but I didn’t see them, no.”
“You said Drake was your financial backer.”
“He loaned me seed money to help get the shop off the ground.”
“Do you know if he owed Sanchez or Ruiz any money?”
“I don’t.”
“Are you or Drake voodoo practitioners?”
“Not exactly. The gris-gris I sell downstairs is only part of the equation. The other part is the nonphysical part, the invocations one has to say to call upon the magical properties of voodoo. I’ve used voodoo but I don’t consider it my religion because that’s too limiting. Robert and I are fusionists, interdisciplinary sorcerers, if you will. We use many techniques and modalities from many different belief structures and cultural systems. It’s all about the manipulation of energy, and there are many ways to achieve that.”
“So could someone have killed Sanchez and Ruiz with voodoo or black magic or one of these ‘techniques’ you mentioned?”
“Theoretically, it’s possible, if you believe what’s in the literature.”
“But not to your firsthand knowledge?” asked Honey.
“That would be some very dark work. It doesn’t interest me.”
“Know anyone who’s talked about doing that kind of work, someone who knew our victims?” I asked.
She hesitated, thinking. “Hans Vermack. He owns the Voodoo Cave on Saint Peter. But I’m not saying he had anything to do with … what happened today.”
Hans Vermack was on the short list of students Drake had given us. “So both you and Hans own voodoo shops?”
“There are a half dozen in the French Quarter alone. It’s a good business.”
“Tell us about the stone altar in the middle of the temple chamber,” I said.
“That would seem odd to you, wouldn’t it?”
“The grooves and floor drain suggest…”
“Something sinister?” She laughed heartily, tilting her head back, revealing a soft, lily white neck. “We sometimes do ceremonies of a Hindu nature. We’ll pour honey, milk, flower essence, scented oils, and so on over a large, smooth stone representing a lingam.”
“Lingam?”
“A phallus. The stone altar has a concave area where the stone sits, and it represents the yoni—the female. We used to make quite a mess, so Robert had the grooves etched in and the drain installed. Easy cleanup.”
Honey was nodding like she wanted to believe it. I wasn’t so sure.
“That sounds harmless,” I said, “but what do you know about decapitated human heads? You or the professor wouldn’t buy those, now, would you? To fill a special order perhaps? Or to use in some ceremony?”
Her face froze, but her eyes darted from myself to Honey and back as she seemed to gauge a response. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Kate Townsend had just lied, I felt sure of it. “I’m talking about human heads brought into the country from Mexico.”
She said nothing.
“Would you mind if we took a look around your place?” I asked.
“I’d have to insist on a search warrant, first. You’re on a fishing expedition. No, a witch hunt. People of my belief have suffered and been discriminated against and have been tortured and killed for centuries by those looking for scapegoats. So no, I won’t play that game.”
“That’s fine, but Robert Drake suggested that Sanchez and Ruiz summoned a demon that they lost control of. That the demon killed them. Does that sound sinister to you?”
“I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Kate Townsend stood up, as if dismissing us.
“Sit down, Miss Townsend, or we’ll finish this conversation downtown in a dreary room next to your boyfriend,” I said.
Honey looked at me and then looked over to Townsend, who sat back down. “Is there someone who can confirm that you were here in your apartment this morning?” asked Honey.
Kate pretended to think for a second. “Yes, Sheri was here. She saw me several times this morning. Sheri Myers. She has a room here and works for me downstairs.”
“So Sheri is…”
“I provide rooms for battered women. Free of charge. I help get them off the street, give them a job if I can. Get them away from drugs, the strip clubs. Sheri shares a bedroom with another girl and pays me a modest room-and-board fee out of her earnings.”
“Really? How do you find these girls?” I asked.
“They find me. It’s on the street,
what I do. And I don’t take any money from the government for it.”
“Bringing strangers, transients into your home like that can be dangerous.”
She gave me a look like she wasn’t worried about it. “I can handle them.”
“We’ll talk to Sheri on the way out,” said Honey, who looked like she was ready to go.
“If it should turn out that the two men were murdered, Miss Townsend, then how would you explain it?” I asked.
“I couldn’t say. I liked them. I don’t know anyone who didn’t.”
Honey’s cell rang and she checked the caller ID. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She stood up, crossed the room, turned her back, and spoke softly into her cell.
“You know, for such a fearless man, you’re terribly afraid,” Townsend said to me softly so Honey couldn’t hear.
“Is that right?”
“You don’t believe in witchcraft or sorcery, do you?”
“A lot of people don’t.”
“Because they’ve never experienced it.”
“I used to believe in the tooth fairy, until I lost all my baby teeth.”
“You’re being flip to hide your fear. I can see into your psyche, detective. I see that you’re afraid of your own true power. Of your sexuality. Of the spirit world and what it has to offer you. At the root of all that is a fear of losing control. Surrendering to the unknown is not something you will countenance.”
I felt defensive, but I couldn’t disagree that I liked to be in control of most situations; seems like a good way to stay alive in my kind of work.
“I see your spirit guide standing behind you. Some kind of Taoist magician. You have very strong protection you can call upon, but you could be doing so much more. The spirits are waiting to work with you.”
“I prefer dealing with the living, Miss Townsend. But I’ll take what you said under advisement.”
“You prefer the living? Is that why you’re a homicide detective, dealing with the dead on a daily basis?”
For once, I didn’t know what to say.
“I can also see people’s sex lives.”
“In my case, there’s not much to see.”
“You’re repressing yourself. You’re carrying a torch for someone. It’s unrequited lust. For your partner, isn’t it? I can see that this is not healthy for you. She’ll never be yours.”
“Sorry, but you couldn’t be more wrong.”
Honey rescued me by turning back to Townsend and saying, “Thanks for your time, Miss Townsend.”
We made our way downstairs. Sheri Myers, one of the Crafty Voodoo clerks, backed up Townsend’s assertion that she was home for most of the morning. Myers would have every reason to provide a phony cover story to the lady that rescued her from the streets.
Honey and I walked outside and waited for passing traffic to clear on Chartres, then crossed toward her police unit. A frozen blast of air caused me to hunch my shoulders in protest.
“That was the chief who called my cell. Did you get anything out of Townsend while I was on the horn?”
“Nothing you wouldn’t laugh at. She told me…”
My peripheral vision picked up a blur as I heard the throaty rumble of a growl. I pivoted to my left, standing in the middle of Chartres Street, and looked straight into the eyes of a huge German Shepherd that had just taken a running leap toward me, its front paws extended, ivory-colored claws knifing toward me, saliva dripping from discolored fangs, demonic eyes fixated with conquest.
I heard Honey call my name in the second it took me to compute what was happening. Time slowed to a crawl. The flying mongrel was now feet from me, barreling for my chest with a blow that would surely knock me down.
I turned to face it at a 45-degree angle. Was that instinct or training? No time to run, no time to pull a weapon, no time to get Honey out of harm’s way—I did the only thing I could think of. Except I didn’t think of it, I just did it.
I raised my hands and grabbed both of the huge paws rocketing toward me. The enraged canine’s momentum carried its frothing mouth to inches from my neck, when I snapped the legs with all my might, jerking the shepherd to my left, away from Honey. The snap of bones breaking split the silence that had descended on me. Saliva sprayed onto my body but not into my face as I threw the dog down onto the street with brute force.
The dog’s screaming howl felt like it was ripping into my soul. I stepped back in semishock. The animal shrieked as it tried but failed to stand, to attack me, to somehow get to me in spite of having two broken front legs. The whole surreal moment struck me as inexplicably bizarre. Why was this crazed animal intent on attacking me? How did I even react in time? I’ve never had any training to defend against something like this.
A gunshot blasted next to me, and the animal went silent. Screams from some bystanders on the sidewalks. Honey had put one round from her duty weapon into the dog’s heart, killing it.
She quickly holstered her gun. I saw tears running down her cheeks as she steeled herself, then said, “It was the humane thing to do. And the safe thing. There are kids on the street here.”
I looked over to Crafty Voodoo Shop and then to the windows above, where I had seen the haunting figure of the pale, black-haired beauty. Kate Townsend stood in the same spot now, and when our eyes met, she pulled the curtains closed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took a couple of hours before we were clear of the animal shooting on Chartres Street. Honey had discharged her weapon in the line of duty, necessitating all kinds of reports and paperwork to be filed, not to mention the response of various agencies and mucky mucks in the NOPD. The dead dog was carted away to be checked for rabies. No one seemed to care that it hurt Honey like hell to kill an animal.
We stood at her unit, ready to drive off after having called Mackie and Kruger to confirm that both Professor Drake and Gina Sanchez had given their statements and left Broad Street headquarters. Curiously, Gina Sanchez had refused to voluntarily be printed or have her DNA swabbed, so Mackie had retrieved her Coke can and chewing gum for those purposes.
When Mackie took her to ID the corpses, she had made positive identifications and confirmed what Drake had told us: When Felix had left the house this morning, there had been no white streak of hair on his head. Honey had just relayed that info to the coroner, but the doc had no explanation for it.
Lastly, Drake and Kate Townsend were both put under twenty-four-hour surveillance, at my suggestion and Honey’s request, by undercover members of NOPD’s Intelligence Division.
I checked my TechnoMarine chronograph; it was now too late in the evening to call on any other names on Drake’s list, and the dog shooting had made an already long day seem like an eternity.
“I could use a stiff drink,” I said.
Honey nodded. “Remember all the dogs that got shot after the Storm? Their frigging owners had left them. They evacuated their own asses before the Storm hit, but left their animals to fend for themselves.”
I remembered only too well. Some irresponsible owners had abandoned domesticated animals. Hundreds, if not thousands of them. A lot of those pets drowned. And many animals who had survived the floodwaters ended up dying from conditions such as heartworms because they drank bad water. In the post-Storm rescue, Honey and I had encountered dozens and dozens of hungry, sick, disoriented pets, many in shock.
“I remember when packs of dogs approached National Guard units, the ‘weekend warriors’ shot them,” said Honey.
“The soldiers were afraid, just like the dogs. And some of the dogs attacked them. It was a lose-lose situation for all of us.” Honey had been a uniformed patrol officer then, and we had worked closely together in those horrible days after the Storm. We kept a fifty-pound bag of dry dog food in the trunk of her squad car. It felt so much better to feed the animals than to shoot them.
“What do you make of that dog coming out of nowhere like that?” I asked her. “I mean, right here in the middle of the Quarter. I don’t remember
hearing about anything like this ever happening.”
Honey said nothing, keeping her thoughts to herself.
“And it happened right here in front of the voodoo shop, as soon as we walked out. Did you happen to see Kate Townsend standing in the window watching, after you fired?”
“She heard the shot and looked out her window. And the fact is, there are rabid dogs in New Orleans. Okay? Easy explanations.” She opened her car door. “Let’s go get that drink.”
No doubt Honey was right. But as I got in the car, I doubted there would be any easy explanations in solving this case.
* * *
Honey and I sat at my rented, permanently reserved table in the rear corner of Pravda on Decatur Street. I ran my sideline private-investigation business from here and had a locked Russian antique cabinet containing some office equipment and supplies right next to us. I liked the arrangement. The quirky, Russian-themed French Quarter bar was well known for its selection of vodka and absinthe, but considering the weather and other events, tonight felt like a single-malt-scotch kind of night. Three fingers of fifteen-year-old Dalwhinnie for both of us should help take the edge off.
I slipped the thick stack of Fournier’s old case files from the manila envelope as Honey sat quietly.
“You did exactly the right thing. Thank you,” I said, anticipating that she was second-guessing her actions. “That dog was about to rip me apart even with two broken legs. Animal Control would have put it down if you hadn’t. Period.”
She nodded. I wanted to get her reengaged on the case. I was all too familiar with how one can be consumed by guilt after killing a sentient being.
Tony Fournier’s files on Drake were neatly organized and thorough. I sat looking at fifteen individual file folders—one for each year Fournier had been tracking Drake.
“He’s got the skinny on Drake broken down chronologically, going back fifteen years.” I slid a few of the folders to Honey. After a moment, she seemed to snap out of the funk that had hit her and started to plow through the files.