* * * *
Wednesday, 2 November 1887
On All Saint's Day, Catholics celebrated the saints, known and unknown, according to Pope Urban IV, who formalized the commemoration in the thirteenth century. In New Orleans, people flocked to the aboveground cemeteries, the little cities of the dead, to clean and decorate the family tombs with garlands and bouquets as they visited the deceased.
On the day after, All Soul's Day, Catholics filled the churches to pray for the souls of the departed who had not atoned for past transgressions before passing to the afterlife. Those souls were debarred from the beatific vision and lingered in purgatory as they were slowly cleansed until pristine enough to ascend into heaven. The faithful on Earth could help them by prayers and charitable deeds, and especially by the sacrifice of Mass, which was what drew Dugas's aunt, along with most of the women of the Faubourg Marigny, to Annunciation Church early Wednesday morning.
Dugas was drawn to another ritual—the postmortem exam of Crimson Kate. Lieutenant Gray was already at the morgue and stepped forward when the coroner began his examination of the cadaver. Four newspapermen were in the room, clustered in a far corner, each with a notepad in hand. Dugas, who had two cups of coffee and chicory that morning, felt the coffee churning in his belly as he fought through the acidic odor of chemicals and the stench of rancid blood and fetid human flesh.
Dr. LeMonnier, Orleans Parish coroner, a tall, thin man with thick glasses, black hair parted down the center, and a goatee, spoke to his assistant, a goulish-looking bald man with skin as pale as the body of Kate lying on the autopsy table. As the doctor took scalpel to the body, Dugas pressed back against the wall. He had never seen a human dissected before, but Lieutenant Gray seemed undisturbed by the process, hovering at the coroner's shoulder.
Dugas looked at Kate's face, white and flaccid in death, eyes partially opened. He'd heard that in death a face could be masked in a grimace or a frozen scream, but doubted that now. The dead were incapable of any emotion, any expression. They found eleven stab wounds on Kate's body, three fatal, punctures of the lung, heart, and the large blood vessels leading from the heart. It sickened Dugas to see this pretty woman, an object of so many men's longing and daydreams, as he'd dreamed of Marie, so cruelly extinguished and now so callously eviscerated.
"You're to come with me tomorrow morning,” Gray explained as he led Dugas out of the morgue. “She's to be laid out at her mansion first and the funeral at three o'clock."
"Do I stand guard over the coffin?"
"No. I want you and me bulls to mingle in the crowd. Find out whatever you can about this Troisville and his relationship with Kate. I feel it was tumultuous and we canno’ let a slick defense lawyer twist the story around sos Kate's the aggressor."
Dugas knew what that meant. Louisiana law, based on the Code Napoleon, clearly stated the aggressor cannot claim self-defense. If Troisville could claim Kate attacked him with her knife, he might get off. If, however, Troisville was the aggressor, as Dugas was certain, and there was a pattern to his aggression, the police needed to know that.
"Fancy Laval says they argued often, even fought,” he told Gray as they returned to the Central Police Station on a streetcar. Gray put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Exactly. Wear your uniform tomorrow. You're not a bull yet, but you're thinking like one."
That evening, over a thick bowl of shrimp bisque, Dugas's aunt scolded him for not going to Mass. “You should be ashamed of yourself for not praying for your mama and papa."
He went to church as six o'clock mass ended and sat in the hot, stuffy church, the strong scent of incense pervading the atmosphere. He said ten “Our Fathers” and lost count of the “Hail Marys,” but had trouble not seeing Kate's disemboweled body when he closed his eyes.
That night he tried falling asleep with a vision of Marie, but instead his mind floated between two dreams. The first was of a girl named Minonette who used to live down Mandeville Street. Bright green eyes and light brown hair, Minonette was but a teen, a few years older than Dugas. He'd been smitten with her, it had hurt to watch her and not touch her hand or run his fingers through her long hair or kiss her. Then she moved away.
The second dream was of a storm raging in dark waters, of a ship tossed on the high waves, of masts snapping and sails flailing, of people screaming as the ship lurched and was capsized by a tremendous wave that drew the ship and its terrified passengers, including Dugas's parents, into the murky depths of the Gulf of Mexico.
Dugas woke with a start. It took a long time getting back to sleep.
* * * *
Thursday, 3 November 1887
Dugas wore his newest uniform, neatly pressed by his aunt, the light blue shirt crisp and starched, the pants with a sharp crease. He'd gotten up early to spit-shine his shoes, and he avoided dirtying them on the way to Crimson Kate's mansion. The crowd outside was even bigger than the day of the murder. Dugas had to push his way through, almost losing his bowler twice before arriving at the steps where Concannon stood with three other coppers, keeping the crowd away from the door, including a pushy host of newspapermen at the front.
"Well, laddie, the lieutenant said to send you in."
"Inside?"
Lieutenant Gray was just inside the doorway with two of his bulls. He nodded to Dugas and spoke in a low voice. “Kate's will indicated only essential police. Quite specific about her funeral, in the event of her demise. Only women can view her body. We have to stay back here out of the way."
The parlor was filled with about forty women. Dugas spotted the open coffin against the far wall, but couldn't see inside.
"Why no men?” Dugas asked. “Seems odd."
One of the bulls snarled, “Laddie, we're standing with forty sporting women in the fanciest brothel in town and you're talkin’ odd?"
Gray shook his head. “Isn't odd at all, when you think of it. She didn't want any man remembering her like this.” The door opened behind Dugas and two reporters eased in. Gray held up his hand and told them, “This is as far as you go."
"We can't see the body up close?"
"No. And you got five minutes."
The newspapermen began writing furious notes as Gray ex-plained to his men, “Kate said newsmen could come in, two at a time. And like us, they must remain in the foyer."
The strong smell of cut flowers, especially roses, filled Dugas's nostrils. Overpowering, combining with the scents of strong perfumes, they almost made Dugas's eyes water as he gazed into the parlor. The looking glasses were all covered with white silk, not linen, as was the custom. The room was filled with flowers in huge bouquets.
"The will,” Gray continued softly. “This house and property are valued at ninety thousand dollars. Left to Crimson Kate's sister, Clara Kilcooley.” Gray nodded to a tall blond woman dressed in all black. Dugas recognized her as the six-foot woman who'd come out of the mansion shouting, “Murder!"
"Kate's maiden name was Katherine Kilcooley,” said Gray. “Married a man named Jones for a short while. She's as Irish as they come. We come.” This brought a huff from one of the bulls. Gray ignored him. “All in all, Crimson Kate was worth well over three hundred thousand in properties, owning two more houses along Basin, nearly fifty thousand dollars in jewelry, and a hundred thousand dollars in cash in nearly every bank in town."
"Ill-gotten gains,” said one of the bulls with a sardonic smile.
"The wealth of pleasure,” Gray went on with a smirk, “or is it the pleasure of wealth?"
Dugas barely recognized Marie Adams as she moved from the gathering of women straight for him. She looked angelic in a white satin dress, hair pinned up on each side with pearl barrettes, delicate white baby's breath decorating her dark hair, those large blue eyes staring at Dugas as she approached. A hint of rouge adorned her cheeks, just a hint, a light brushing of red lipstick on those full lips, Marie looked older and yet still young and so damn pretty. Dugas felt his heart stammering as he realized why she wore white.
For a long,
breathless moment, he knew he would never walk in the park with this girl, never hold hands at a soda fountain, never sip root beer floats or vanilla phosphates. Never run his hands along the side of her pretty face, or kiss her, or feel her silky hair in bed next to him. The crowd at the cemetery would see her dressed like this, the men who came to gawk at the burial of so famous a madam. Marie Adams was to be offered to the highest bidder. The acid in Dugas's stomach churned as Marie stepped up and smiled at him.
"Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked.
He shook his head and stared into her eyes, into the blue orbs that shined back at him. He tried to smile but it wouldn't come. Her eyes were telling him something, but his heart's stammering blotted it out.
A piano started up. Beethovan's Moonlight Sonata softly echoing off the thick draperies and the voices died away. Several of the women turned and Dugas saw Fancy Laval at the piano. Dressed in all black, his head bent down, Fancy tickled the ivories to perfection.
When Dugas looked back, Marie was gone.
Later, after the coffin was nailed shut, six pallbearers, all black men, including Fancy, slid the casket of Kate Kilcooley Jones into a black carriage and lined up behind the carriage to follow it over to and up Canal Street, passing the fine homes all the way to the cemetery. No priest would bless the coffin, but a Lutheran minister did and walked behind the pallbearers, just in front of Lieutenant Gray, his bulls, Dugas, Concannon, and the other coppers.
Only the bold came out on their porches to watch the procession, men mostly. Many likely clients of Basin Street. Dugas watched window curtains move as some peeked out at the passing procession in its three mile trek up Canal. Dugas looked over his shoulder and saw the crowd growing. Kids skipping along the banquettes beside the crowd. People waved from the streetcars passing on the neutral ground in the center of the widest main street in America.
By the time they turned up Metairie Road for the cemetery, Dugas saw that the procession ran a good six to eight blocks. Incredible. A host of carriages had pulled in behind the walkers, each carriage decorated with flowers.
Gray eased over to Dugas and said, “Only in New Orleans."
How many times had Dugas heard that expression?
Gray positioned them well at Metairie Cemetery, near a stone sepulchre with steps where they could see over the gathering at the simple cement crypt where Crimson Kate was to be buried. The pallbearers drew the casket from the hearse and carried it to the crypt, slowly sliding it inside before stepping away to allow the multitude to pass before the tomb was sealed. The minister's voice was too low for Dugas to hear, but the crying from the women nearest the tomb echoed off the crypts.
The sun was hot on Dugas's head and he looked up at the bright sky, billowy clouds overhead. When he looked back down, Marie Adams was facing him at the rear of the gathered women. Her eyes blurred with tears, she smiled at him, lower lip quivering, then turned back to her sisters.
Gray edged closer, bumping against Dugas as he said, “Pretty lass.” He let out a sigh. “Too bad, however."
Dugas nodded, looked away and spotted a young pickpocket using a razor to neatly slice the coat pocket of a heavyset dandy at the rear of the crowd and lift a wallet. Moving their way, the brazen pickpocket, who stood about five-five, weighed maybe a hundred pounds, pretended he didn't see the coppers. Dugas could have easily stepped out and tripped him. But seeing the heavyset dandy twirling the edge of his mustache as he leered at the women, Dugas did nothing. The pickpocket slipped into the crowd and disappeared.
As the service ended and the people began to leave, Gray led the coppers into the crowd to talk with the women about the stormy relationship of Crimson Kate and the man who'd killed her. Dugas found the woman with the red tignon right away and discovered she was called Callie.
Oh, yes, they fought often. Sometimes blows were exchanged. Who started the fights? Both. Did Troisville beat up Crimson Kate? Yes and she beat him up too, but his punches were stronger. On two occasions Kate needed medical attention. Dr. Veasey again. Callie was nervous and in a hurry to join Clara, Kate's sister, and the others before they returned to Basin Street.
Dugas went to advise Lieutenant Gray what he'd learned when he spotted Marie talking with a portly man. As he drew near he realized it was the man the pickpocket had clipped.
"Of course, darling,” the man was saying as Dugas eased up behind him, “but you have the most marvelous eyes, Caribbean blue, like the waters along the Florida Straits."
Marie blushed and tried backing away but the man grabbed her wrist and said, “Don't be so reticent to converse, my little flower."
Dugas stepped around him and said, “Miss Adams, I would like to have a word with you."
The man dropped Marie's hand and stepped back, a smile on his face, although the look in his eyes belied his anger.
"I am conversing with the young lady,” he said.
"Not anymore.” Dugas stared down into the man's beady eyes.
"I'll have you know I'm—” The man caught himself.
"Sir?"
"I—I—” the man flustered and tugged at his tailored jacket.
"What you are, sir, is a man with a missing pocket.” Dugas pointed to the man's coat pocket.
"My God. I've been burgled!"
"You mean robbed.” Dugas raised his notepad. “I'll be happy to file a report for you. I'll need your name and address."
The man, steaming now, glared around at the thinning crowd and snarled, “No. Nothing in writing.” He stormed off.
Marie had a mischievous gleam in her eyes when Dugas looked back at her. Those blue eyes were bright with excitement. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you were jealous,” she said.
Dugas said nothing, but gave her eyes a lingering look.
"You can't be jealous.” She patted his chest. “It isn't allowed in any establishment on Basin Street.” She pirouetted to leave and he had to call out to her to ask about Crimson Kate and Troisville.
Backing away, she added, “Later. Come speak with me later."
Dugas never got the chance. When he told Lieutenant Gray the information from Callie, Gray said he and his bulls would discreetly interview Marie Adams and the other girls of No. 40 Basin Street.
* * * *
Friday, 4 November 1887
Cold weather blew into New Orleans, where autumn rarely visited. The heat of summer would vanish in a day, replaced by a miserable wet cold, which caused Dugas and Concannon to don navy blue jackets as they walked their usual beat along Basin Street, from Canal all the way to Esplanade Avenue and back through the edge of the French Quarter, stopping for lunch at Thelma's Cafe on Rampart Street.
"This weather will cool things off on Basin Street,” said Concannon as they settled at a corner table with bowls of file gumbo.
Dugas removed his jacket in the warmth of the cafe, amid the strong scents of spicy gumbos and cooked cabbage, an odd mixture. Both smells had to compete with the beer served in generous amounts at the bar.
"I'm thinking about me retirement,” Concannon said. “Visiting the old country. See me uncles in Coleraine and Ballycastle, just across the Mull of Kintyre from Scotland."
Dugas nodded as he ate the rich gumbo.
Concannon laughed. “You are still thinkin’ about the bonnie lass? The one with the pretty blue eyes."
Dugas tried to stare his partner down but knew Concannon could see the truth in his eyes.
"A losing proposition,” said Concannon. “There's no such thing as an old whore on Basin Street."
"What do you mean by that?"
Concannon stopped his spoon midway to his mouth, obviously because of the sharpness of Dugas's voice.
"Tis’ a harsh life, lad. You know that. And don't be thinkin’ of savin’ them. I told you I tried that meself."
Dugas looked at the dark wall for a long moment, then went back to his gumbo. Concannon went on about his retirement and Dugas remembered the story Concannon told him on his
first day walking Basin Street. She was young, like Marie, with dark red hair and fiery green eyes, according to Concannon. He snatched her from a house near the end of the line, married her, and put her up in a place in the French Quarter, only she went back to Basin Street. For years, Concannon would see her, resting out on the front porch of bigger houses as she became better at her trade, then he saw her no more. Never asked about her. Never wanted to know.
On their way back along Basin Street, Dugas tried not to stare at Crimson Kate's, but he did glance. Concannon waited until they were past before chuckling, “You are acting like you're in an Irish ballad."
That drew a wan smile from Dugas who'd complained many times when Concannon took him into an Irish tavern where tenors would sing syrupy songs of lost love. How many times had Dugas told Concannon he would yank out his hair if he had to listen to the sad tale of the lass from Killarney, taken so young by the angels, or the even sadder tale of the sailor from Cork and his bonnie lass who was swept into the sea as she waited on the rocks of Donegal Bay for him to return to her?
* * * *
Thursday, 24 November 1887
The weather moderated the following week and by Thanks- giving there was no need for jackets.
The accused murderer captured the attention of the voracious press, who concentrated on the stormy relationship between Crimson Kate and Pierre Troisville. Investigating their pasts, the men of the Fourth Estate outdid one another as they slowly painted the madam as a monstrously vile villain who used young women to prey upon rich men, who were defenseless in warding off the charms of so many willing sirens.
Troisville was a pillar of society before his debasement. Son of a church deacon who died at Shiloh, Troisville's mother still lived in a small uptown cottage. Troisville attended Jesuit Boy's School before receiving a theology degree from St. Ignatius College in Chicago. He became a brother, Society of Jesus, teaching for five years before meeting Crimson Kate at a carnival ball. Smitten by the lovely madam, Troisville gave up everything for her. Only the French-language newspaper L'Abeille pointed out that Troisville's lucrative business ventures in real estate was funded primarily by his winnings at gambling and shylocking.
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