Frozen

by Jay Bonansinga

  Of course, no one answered, despite the fact that eleven out of the twenty-four rooms were listed as occupied on the blood-spackled register in the Regal’s office. Eventually one of the detectives took a peek through a curtained window and saw blood. Doors were broken down and met by coughs and flinches of surprise. More calls were made. Grim instructions went out over the lines, voices constricted with stress. In addition to the crime lab in Olympia, local FBI field offices in both Seattle and Portland were alerted.

  By eight-thirty that morning, in the veils of mist billowing in from the Pacific coast, the Regal Motel teemed with somber activity. A kaleidoscope of cruiser lights and emergency flares streaked the sheets of rain with bloody watercolors, attracting onlookers like flames beckoning a swarm of moths. Hikers, duck hunters, third-shift workers on their way home, and mechanics from a nearby body shop—they all huddled in grim fascination under a blanket of umbrellas on the edge of the police cordons. Some of them sat on makeshift chairs, ice chests, and crates. Others chatted nervously.

  They all wanted to glimpse a little carnage, maybe get a fleeting look at the victims being extracted from the motel under bloody sheets. But for the next hour and a half, only technicians passed in and out of the rooms: stoic morgue attendants dressed in white haz-mat suits, sullen-faced detectives carrying clipboards. Whispers of the unseen abominations passed through the crowd, but nobody outside the cordons really knew what was going on in there. Nobody except the tall, hunched, middle-aged figure standing behind the group of mechanics.

  This unidentified man, his long, gaunt face shrouded by the hood of a stolen parka, stood in the rain as though getting soaked to the bone didn’t bother him in the least. Nobody paid much attention to him as he lurked there, his head craning to see over the tops of umbrellas.

  He had the patience of a sphinx as he watched and waited, paying very close attention to every new investigator who arrived at the scene.

  13

  Rogue

  NEW ORLEANS (AP)—“Old Sparky,” as the inmates on Angola’s death row refer to the electric chair, was fired up one last time Sunday for the execution of a man who at one time held Louisiana and east Texas in a grip of terror. Convicted mass murderer John George Haig, known to local old-timers as “Dracula,” had no last words as he was led down the narrow cement corridor at 11:45 a.m. yesterday to the “processing room.”

  Haig was read the last rites and strapped into the chair at 11:55. As the second hand on the big regulator clock reached straight-up twelve o’-clock, ten thousand volts passed through Haig’s body—thus bringing to a close two epochal examples of Louisiana’s living history. The first being the use of the electric chair in state executions—recently made obsolete by a constitutional amendment that goes into affect at the end of next month. The second example being Haig himself.

  THE MAKING OF A KILLER

  Born in Oxford, Mississippi, in 1935, the son of a Pentecostal preacher, Haig grew up in a world of Old Testament fire and brimstone. Records indicate that Haig got as far as the third grade, then ran away from home and spent the next ten years of his life drifting from town to town, begging and panhandling. Chances are Haig was mildly retarded, although he was never diagnosed as such.

  Psychologists tell us that the seeds of homicidal behavior are planted early. And in the case of John George Haig, all signs indicate that the boy was on the road to murderous behavior at a young age. Friends and relatives told tales of animal torture, petty crime, and arson. But the first documented, public display of Haig’s strange and violent behavior occurred in 1965 at a traveling museum exhibit popular throughout the South.

  Known as the Inman Brothers Emporium of Scientific Oddities, the show had been playing to huge crowds across the bayou area that summer. The main attraction was an actual mummified human believed to be a mound dweller over 2,000 years old—on loan from Tulane University, which had unearthed the find in a bog at Poverty Point the year before.

  Eyewitnesses reported seeing Haig acting “in a peculiar manner” around the display case that housed the mummy. Seconds later, Haig had broken the glass with his bare hands and was trying to abscond with the artifact. Security men interceded and saved the mummy. The 29-year-old Haig was arrested and thrown in jail for three months.

  REIGN OF TERROR

  Upon his release, Haig seemed to vanish into the backwoods. Over the next ten years, most official records lost track of the man, but criminologists have pieced together a time line that paints a picture of spiraling madness and violence. Unsolved murders started piling up in the parishes, baffling investigators.

  Random victims were found posed in odd postures, their necks ripped open as though by a wild animal. Traces of human saliva were found in some of the wounds. As well as teeth marks. Rumors started circulating that the killer was some sort of cannibal or vampire—drinking the blood of his victims.

  When Haig was finally captured in 1975—from fingerprints found in a gas station bathroom—the number of unsolved murders attributable to Haig had risen to 34. Over the next 18 months Haig was interviewed extensively by a number of experts. The results paint a portrait of a deranged, bloodthirsty lunatic with inscrutable motives.

  FINAL JUSTICE

  During his trial, Haig revealed much about his twisted psychology, not to mention his modus operandi as a killer. He believed that he was gifted with supernatural powers bestowed upon him at birth by God. He also believed that his true calling was revealed to him on April 13, 1965—the day that he first laid eyes on those mummified remains at the Inman Brothers show.

  Over the course of many interviews Haig revealed to psychologists that the “voice of God” had come out of the mummy and commanded him to “perform cleansing rituals until the enemy is found.”

  “The sacrificial lambs never suffered,” he told one interviewer. “They died quickly and painlessly.”

  The drinking of the blood, which Haig had done on several occasions, was ceremonial, according to the murderer. “So I can live forever.”

  On Sunday, much to the gratitude of those who remember the horrors perpetrated on Louisiana by this sick individual, this last wish was dashed with a single jolt of electricity.

  Professor de Lourde nodded at the screen of his laptop after the others had gotten a chance to skim the newspaper article. “I must confess,” he said gravely, “until now, the connection was lost on me.”

  De Lourde sat on a velveteen and brass chair that was pulled up to a telephone terminal outside the hotel’s mezzanine restrooms, his Mac Powerbook connected to the wall jack. The terminal was nestled in a little alcove at the end of a bank of pay phones, and doubled as an Internet hookup—an exorbitant fee charged for each minute of activity. Muzak droned softly, and the faint scent of pipe tobacco flavored the air. Thankfully, it was still early enough in the morning to ensure relative privacy in this little cubby area.

  “The enemy . . .” Grove murmured, standing directly behind de Lourde, peering down at the Tulane University home page that displayed the archival strip of news print down the center of the screen. “What’s that about?”

  The others had gathered behind Grove, gazing over his shoulder at the Web site. Zorn stood on one flank, looking skeptical and restless as always, and Maura County stood on the other, chewing her lip nervously, looking as though she might be sorry she had started all this. Father Carrigan was perched on a chair beside Grove, fingering his cane and looking askance at the twenty-first-century technology that he didn’t seem to fully comprehend. The other professors stood behind Maura, each of their faces thoughtful and pensive. Dr. Armatraj looked especially engaged by the whole turn of events.

  Moses de Lourde gave a shrug, his gaze still fixed on the Haig execution article. “Before yesterday I would have assured you it was nothing but the ravings of an unhinged mind . . . but now, after conferring with all my colleagues and speaking with the good father here, I’m not so sure.”

  “I’m not so sure of anything anymore,”
Grove muttered, trying to ignore the cold finger on his spine.

  De Lourde glanced over his shoulder at Grove. “There’s more.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The southerner licked his lips judiciously. “The mummy that the article speaks of—the cave dweller?—this was the reason I came here. I was part of the team that originally discovered it.”

  This got everybody’s attention, and Grove nodded at de Lourde. “Go on.”

  “Well . . . as I told some of the folks last night, I was only thirty-two at the time . . . 1964, I believe it was. I was working on my doctorate in anthropology at Tulane, when I learned about this dig out at the Poverty Point site. Heard they had recovered a mummy from the bog. As Professor Endecott will tell you, human remains that end up in a bog will stay as well preserved as that of any medium, including ice. Am I right, Professor?”

  From behind Maura, Edith Endecott nodded her assent. “A lucky break for us archaeologists, I might add.”

  “Absolutely correct. Anyhow . . . there was much discussion at that time of the era in which this alleged victim of ritual sacrifice lived. It was theorized by most anthropologists that the mound dwellers believed they were being punished by their gods.”

  Grove looked at the southerner. “Punished?”

  De Lourde nodded. “Again, it’s all speculation, but the world was changing around the first century. Especially in the Middle East. Prophecies were coming true. Christ was crucified, the Roman Empire was beginning its decline. Even in North America, cultures were clashing. The mound dwellers believed that a demonic force was starting to kill them off. Who knows? Maybe it was simply nature at work, an animal, a plague. But it could have been human.”

  Grove thought about it for a moment. “An early serial killer, you’re saying.”

  A shrug from the southerner. “A stealth attack from an adversarial culture . . . who knows?”

  “The cycle is what it is!”

  All heads turned toward the elderly priest, whose rusty voice burbled like a broken pipe organ. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he went on, his shredded breathing coming in fits and starts. “The wickedness following each discovery paralleling the evil and misery present eons earlier when the mummy lived and died. Do you see? This is the endless cycle, repeating down through the centuries.”

  “It would appear there’s something to this theory,” de Lourde allowed. “If you look at the empirical, even the circumstantial, you’d have to admit there’s a pattern.”

  Zorn finally spoke up: “Excuse me, but that is just grade-A horseshit.”

  “Terry,” Grove warned.

  “All due respect, Father,” Zorn said, glancing at the trembling priest. “But I’ve been zippin’ my lip through most of this dog and pony show. I think I got the right to put my two cents in.” Zorn looked at de Lourde. “You’re talking about one example, okay. One so-called cycle. I mean, let’s get real here, people. This ain’t even circumstantial evidence. We got a copycat out there. There’s no voodoo in it. There’s no—”

  “Agent Zorn, if I might say a word,” interrupted a soft, accented voice from across the corridor. Professor Armatraj stepped forward, nervously fiddling a handkerchief in his delicate brown hands.

  Grove gave the dapper Indian a nod. “Go ahead, Professor.”

  “The female remains that we recovered from the Italian Alps in 1987 certainly match the pathology,” he began, addressing Zorn, mostly. “The fatal wound in the neck, the artificial posture. The mummy was carbon-dated back to two hundred BC, also a time of much upheaval, as my colleagues will certainly attest.”

  De Lourde glanced up at the Indian. “You’re talking about Locusta?”

  “Exactly.”

  Zorn let out a weary sigh. “I’ll bite. Who the hell is Locusta?”

  Armatraj looked at him and said, “She may very well be history’s first serial killer.”

  “She was a creator of poisons,” de Lourde added, “although I understand she used other methods as well. Strangulations, stabbings. Today we’d call her a contract killer—a hit woman for the empire, if you will. Legend has it she kept a stable of slaves on whom she tested her potions and tortures.”

  Armatraj nodded. “She also ran a school for ‘poisoners. ’ It was thought that she and her students collectively killed over ten thousand people. The Roman emperor Claudius was probably her most famous victim.”

  The priest spoke up again, that soft warning wheeze making the hair stand up on Grove’s neck: “Locusta the Sentinel was a historical figure whom the Vatican believes was under the influence of demons, a person possessed by an unclean spirit. This is documented fact.”

  Zorn was shaking his head. “I don’t understand. You’re saying these remains were her?”

  Armatraj raised his slender brown hand. “A victim of hers, was the unofficial consensus among my team, and I believe they were correct. Especially now. Now that we have a deeper context.”

  There was a pause, and Grove said, “Was there something at the other end of the cycle?”

  Armatraj took a deliberate breath. “In 1988, less than a year after we recovered the Icewoman from the Alps, there was a scandalous case in Italy. An infamous gangster . . . he suddenly became . . . I suppose we would say the man went rogue. Started killing people for the sport of it.”

  Grove took a deep breath. “Let me guess: the method of these killings was—”

  “An ice pick to the neck, the back of the neck,” Armatraj said, his dark eyes shining. “And he fooled with the bodies afterward, too, posing them. At the time, like Dr. de Lourde, I saw no connection.”

  Grove was starting to say something else when he noticed a heavyset man in a topcoat and English cap, carrying a sample case, approaching one of the pay phones at the far end of the corridor, maybe twenty feet away. Close enough to overhear this conversation. The fat man dialed a number and started talking. Other businessmen and various early risers were circulating around the mezzanine level beyond the bank of telephones. They were making Grove uneasy.

  “Professor de Lourde, I’m going to need you to go ahead and unplug the computer,” Grove instructed in a low voice, then gestured toward the far reaches of the vestibule, beyond the phones, beyond the restroom doors, where they could speak in private. “This way, everybody . . . please, just for a second, if you could please come this way.”

  He led the group over to the far end of the corridor, a deserted area where two upholstered “smoking chairs” flanked a small glass table, and the subdued yellow light from Victorian brass wall sconces shone down on the rich accoutrements with tasteful elegance. The group huddled around Grove, who all at once felt a little bit like the reluctant intelligence officer herding his operatives behind enemy lines where everything took on sinister dimensions—the muffled thrum of Muzak, the low lighting, the perfumed sterility of the Hotel Nikko’s mezzanine. Grove’s head swam with the silent revelations, his gut tight with icy dread. “Dr. Endecott,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper, gesturing at the blue-haired woman, “you’ve been fairly quiet through all this.”

  She sighed. “The truth is, I’m not aware of any rash of killings following our discovery at Flodden Bog—although the remains did bear the same patterns we’ve been discussing.”

  Another pause, another exchange of glances. Grove asked her if it was possible she missed something.

  “I don’t believe so,” she replied after a brief moment’s thought. “I’m sure there was crime, there’s always crime, but nothing that would match the signature you’ve described.” She smiled then, a strange, crooked sort of smile. “There were people at Oxford who put forth some interesting theories, I will admit that, about the Flodden remains.”

  Grove looked at her. “Such as . . . ?”

  The woman shook her head as though dismissing it. “One of my colleagues, a gentleman named Hartrey, was convinced the mummy had been a victim of the Sawney Beane family.”

  Zorn aske
d who the hell Sawney Beane was.

  “Gotta brush up on your serial killer lore, Terry,” Grove said, not taking his eyes off the Scottish woman. “The Sawney Beanes were cannibals. They terrorized Scotland back in, what, the 1700s?”

  “Earlier actually,” Professor Endecott said. “Fifteenth century, it was. According to legend, not a brigade could cross the coastal moors without losing at least one of their number to this vicious family of savages. The father was the instigator, moving his family into a cave by the seaside and feeding off travelers. They drank the blood of their victims, and fed the flesh to their children.”

  “Jesus,” Maura uttered.

  “By the time of their arrests, they had something like fifteen children, maybe thirty or more grandkids. I understand they all were taken to Edinboro and executed, every last man, woman, and child.” The older woman shrugged, looking at the priest. “I don’t know if it qualifies as part of any cycle, Father, but it surely has—”

  The sound of Terry Zorn’s cell phone interrupted the woman with a shrill cheeping sound. “Sorry ’bout that, Professor,” he said, digging the phone from the inner pocket of his sport coat. He looked at the caller ID window, then shot a glance at Grove and said, “It’s Quantico Dispatch.”

  Grove watched as Zorn turned and walked away, answering the phone in a low, confidential voice.

  “I have a question for the group,” Maura was saying as Grove turned back to the professors. “I know we’ve already beaten this dead horse, but I still haven’t gotten a handle on who these people were.”

  Professor Endecott asked her what people she was talking about.

  “The mummies, the victims. I mean, basically we’ve established there’s a pattern there—with the victimology, as Ulysses has been calling it.”