by Layton Green
Grey’s first shot spider-webbed the windshield; he was trying to blind the driver. Grey’s next two shots went into the hood, with no effect. Both assailants fired back, the passenger leaning out the window and the driver taking potshots with his free hand.
Grey was forced to take cover behind the Suzuki. As he feared, the pickup truck screeched to a stop beside the black sedan. The passenger door flung open, blocking Grey’s view.
They were going for Viktor.
Grey swore and laid down return fire. The driver was still firing wildly with his free hand out the window, unwilling to expose himself, so Grey took a risk. He climbed onto the roof of the Suzuki, high enough to see the other assailant trying to smash the rear window of the black sedan with the butt of his gun.
Grey ran onto the hood of the Suzuki, firing as he went. He didn’t have much of an angle, but his shot clipped the man going for Viktor on his non-shooting arm, spinning him around. The sirens drew closer. The driver of the pickup fired two more shots. Grey felt them whizz by his head. He dove off the Suzuki as the man he had shot lurched back into the pickup. The passenger door slammed shut and the truck reversed down the street, tires screeching like a sports car.
Crouched in a squat with his gun at the ready, adrenaline shuddering through him, Grey waited until blue lights lit up the street before he risked opening the rear door of the sedan.
Pale but composed, Professor Radek emerged from the car. After giving Grey a nod of thanks, he smoothed the front of his suit, straightened his tie, and calmly watched the approach of the emergency vehicles.
Detective Sergeant Boudreaux brought a cup of coffee for Grey, a bottle of water for Viktor, and then sat across the metal table from them. The three men were ensconced in a conference room at the Mid-City police station.
“We got the first guy you shot,” the detective said to Grey. “He’ll live.”
“I know. I just clipped him.”
Sergeant Boudreaux sipped his coffee, his penetrating blue eyes fixed on Grey. “The driver’s another story. He’s critical. Collapsed trachea.”
Grey returned the stare. He loathed violence, the magnetic pull of it tugging at his hands and feet, the sickly sweet rewards of the dopamine still flushing through his system.
But he had done what he had to, given the situation. The guilt was an old familiar face. The price of freedom, the warrior’s cross to bear.
Looking in the detective’s eyes, Grey knew that he understood.
And now the detective knew that Grey did.
“Any idea who they are?” Grey asked.
“We know exactly who they are.” Sergeant Boudreaux slid two manila folders across the table. “Jesse Billoneau and Gustave Castor. Part of Scarecrow Redbone’s gang.”
As Grey eyed the rap sheets, the detective opened a third folder and revealed the mugshot of someone Grey had seen before: the tall, stick-like man with the greasy hair who had tried to lift Grey’s wallet at Snake and Jake’s. Melungeon “Scarecrow” Redbone.
Scarecrow’s sizeable record included armed robbery, statutory rape, a slew of drug charges, and a murder rap that had landed him in Angola for life until the conviction was overturned after a key witness recanted.
Grey leaned back, folding his arms. “We’ve had a run-in.”
“That right?”
Grey relayed the brief encounter.
“He was casing you,” the detective said. “Why?”
Viktor was browsing Scarecrow’s file. “Obviously something to do with the Gichaud case.”
“What in the hell does Scarecrow Redbone have to do with that business?” The detective glanced accusingly at Grey and then Viktor. “If there’s anything I should know, you best tell me now.”
“I would say the same to you,” Viktor said. “Interpol encourages the free exchange of information.”
“This is South Louisiana. There’s nothing free down here except opinions and swamp water. And last I checked, that Interpol badge only gives you as much power as I say it does.”
Viktor’s thin-lipped smile spoke volumes.
Sergeant Boudreaux’s scowl eased. “Look, I don’t give a damn about the Gichaud kid, but Scarecrow’s another story. We’d love to put him where he belongs.”
“He looked more like a petty thief than a gang leader,” Grey said.
“Don’t let him fool you. First of all, anyone who comes out of Angola intact is either a psychopath or a bitch. And Scarecrow’s no one’s bitch. He’s a big-time player. Runs plenty of drugs, but mainly he controls the gypsy trade. Fortune tellers, scam artists, carnies, basically every piece of white trash in South Louisiana with a drop of colored blood.”
“Colored?” Grey echoed. “Can you be a bit more specific?” And less racist?
The detective smirked. “Good luck with that. New Orleans has more terms for race than most cities have street names. Hell, Scarecrow calls his lieutenants his octaroons. You know a redbone’s a special kind of Creole down here, right? It wasn’t just blacks on the plantations. Spanish gypsies, Scottish and Irish gypsies, whadya call them, travelers? Half of Europe shipped their undesirables down here. Anyway, the slaves all intermarried and,” he swept a hand across the rap sheets, “here we are.”
Grey stared at him coldly. “Imagine that.”
The detective continued, unmoved by the sarcasm. “The fact that Scarecrow checked you out himself should tell you something. He rarely leaves that rat-infested shithole of an apartment complex.”
“So what are we missing? What’s the connection?”
Sergeant Boudreaux tapped his pen. “Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight, and give me the rundown on your activities since you arrived. Then I’ll decide if we’re on a two-way street.”
Grey glanced at Viktor. The professor tipped his head. Grey filled the detective in on what they knew, including a detailed briefing on the gunfight. He left out the exact nature of their assignment, saying only they had been hired to look into Sebastian Gichaud’s case.
When he was satisfied, Sergeant Boudreaux set down his pen, finished his coffee, and toyed with the cup. “Scarecrow and John Samuelson had something in common,” he said finally. “Before she was murdered, the former D.A. was on a warpath to clean up the transients and tourist-scammers in town.”
“Which Scarecrow didn’t take too well,” Grey said.
“He hated the ground she walked on. And ever since her death, we’ve had a steady uptick in gypsy crime.”
Grey had a sudden thought. “Who owns the Charnel House?”
The detective looked him in the eye, then leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on Scarecrow’s rap sheet.
Grey’s face tightened. “I guess we might have something in common, too.”
The detective’s shrewd eyes seemed to solder the air between them. “I guess we might.”
Trying to come down from the night’s insanity, Grey cracked a beer and stared out the window of Viktor’s third-floor suite, down at the brooding oaks and spiked iron fences and silent, lamp-lit streets. Even from inside, Grey could feel the mysterious aura that infused New Orleans at night. Even when no one was around, even through the veil of stagnant air. A presence, an awareness, as if something or someone had been there for centuries and was always watching.
Grey berated himself with a chuckle. He was not a superstitious man. “You think Genevieve tipped Scarecrow off?”
“I think it more likely that one of Mr. Redbone’s acquaintances lifted our driver’s business card from my wallet on our visit to Snake and Jake’s. I stored the number on my phone and just noticed it missing.”
Grey swore softly. “So his play on me was a distraction.”
Viktor nodded from his perch on a plush leather sofa by the fireplace. He was holding a cup of water. On the low table in front of him was a slotted spoon, a stack of sugar cubes on a plate, an empty rocks glass, and a dusty bottle of absinthe.
“I can’t guarantee your safety if we stay,” Grey said.
“I have faith in you.”
Viktor poured a modicum of absinthe into the tumbler. After that, he took a sugar cube and set it on the slotted spoon, then set the spoon atop the rocks glass.
“I appreciate that,” Grey said, taking a seat in a high-backed antique chair that reminded him of a mummy. He leaned forward. “But that’s not why you’re staying, is it?”
Viktor slowly poured water over the sugar cube, watching as the absinthe transformed into a cloudy substance that released a pleasant herbal aroma.
Grey knew Viktor was obsessed with death in his own way. Was that not what drove a man to ponder the eternal, search out the mysteries of the beyond?
“The interest in our involvement tells us there is something to find,” Viktor replied. “Our client hired us to do a job, and we have an obligation to see it through.”
“Even if it puts your life in danger?”
Viktor took a drink of absinthe, cradling the glass like a lover’s cheek. “The police can’t do what we do.”
“Neither can you, if you’re dead.”
“You continue to surprise me, Grey. Is justice no longer your principal motivation?”
“I can separate my job from my ideology.”
“Can you?” Viktor said, with an amused twist of his lips. “I don’t recall that being one of your many talents.”
The professor had a point. Grey had been let go from the State Department as well as the Marines, both times for disobeying orders, both times because his personal ethics conflicted with those of his superior.
Government work probably wasn’t his best option.
“Fine,” Grey said. “But justice isn’t the only thing I care about.”
Viktor’s eyes whisked to meet Grey’s, and Grey caught a hint of surprised gratitude.
But there was something else Grey saw before Viktor returned to his absinthe. The core of the professor’s gaze burned into Grey, a look that said Viktor would stop at nothing, not even the threat of death, in pursuit of the hidden knowledge he craved.
It was a look Grey was getting used to.
– 12 –
“I understand you’re unwilling to provide testimony supporting Sebastian Gichaud’s incapacitated mental state,” Professor Radek said.
The behavioral psychiatrist, Dr. Malik Neese of the Wellspring Clinic, interlaced his spindly fingers on the desk. He had curly gray hair and empathetic blue eyes that were likely the perfect mirrors for the disturbed psyches to which he tended.
It was a kind face, Viktor thought.
An honest one.
“You assume he’s incapacitated,” Dr. Neese said.
“I think it’s clear he’s mentally unstable in some way.”
“Do you?”
Viktor drummed his fingers on the armrest of the couch. Even Clayton Gichaud had admitted that Dr. Neese had a top-notch reputation. Degrees from Princeton and John Hopkins, over twenty-five years in the field, experience evaluating an unusually broad spectrum of rare conditions and syndromes.
“You met with Sebastian after his incarceration?” Viktor asked. “In person?”
“I did.”
“It appears to me there are only two conclusions to be drawn,” Viktor said. “Either Sebastian is mentally unstable, or he is feigning.”
Dr. Neese showed his palms. “The medical term is malingering—fabricating or exaggerating a mental disorder for a particular motive. Such as avoiding lifelong incarceration or the death penalty.”
“Do you really consider this a case of an opportunistic insanity plea?” Viktor said.
“It is more a case of . . . let me speak in my terms, to help you understand.”
“I would appreciate that.”
Family photos crowded the desk, and a plaster mold of the human brain sat atop a bookshelf. In a corner of the room, two leather chairs faced each other beneath a window.
“After I met with Sebastian on numerous occasions—”
“Was he complicit?” Viktor interrupted. “With your presence?”
“You might have wondered why I’m talking to you at all about him. He agreed to see me, yes, but not as a patient.”
“Which rendered your discussion admissible at trial,” Viktor said. “I’m surprised you agreed.”
“Many people wouldn’t have,” Dr. Neese admitted. “Clayton Gichaud convinced me his son needed help.” There was an awkward pause, and Dr. Neese said, “Sebastian answered my questions, though he acted as if my presence . . . amused him.”
“He talked to you as if he were John Samuelson, you mean?”
“He remained in character the entire time.”
“You didn’t find that odd?”
“Very much so. The ongoing charade is an incredible feat. But you know what they say about desperate times.”
“I assume you asked questions that only John Samuelson could theoretically verify?” Viktor asked.
“Of course. The problem is, they met at the prison. Samuelson could have told him anything.”
“His entire life story in an hour? I suppose it would be difficult to prove otherwise at trial. Especially since Samuelson is dead.”
“Precisely.”
“What makes you so doubtful?” Viktor asked. “Did you find inconsistencies in the charade?”
Dr. Neese stared at Viktor for a moment, expressionless. “Coffee or tea? Water?”
“No thank you.”
Dr. Neese rose and returned with a cup of coffee. He set it down on a coaster that read Spill for Rorschach Blot. Viktor chuckled.
“During my evaluation,” Dr. Neese said, “it became clear that only one type of disorder could conceivably encompass Sebastian’s behavior: dissociative identity disorder. DID. You probably know it as multiple personality disorder.”
“Not schizophrenia?”
“Schizophrenics experience a warped sense of reality—but they do not disassociate. Someone suffering from DID exhibits two or more distinct personalities. With correlative memory loss.”
Viktor pursed his lips. “I understand that many psychiatrists give no credence to the phenomenon of split personality. Where do you stand?”
“Firmly not in that camp. The disorder exists, though I believe true cases are extremely rare. Given your specialty, you’re probably aware that the phenomenon has cropped up throughout human history, under different names, in cultures across the globe.”
“There are Paleolithic cave paintings depicting shamans possessed by deities and assuming animal form.”
Dr. Neese nodded. “We now believe that shamanism, demonic possession, and the like were probably all cases of dissociative identity disorder that assumed the characteristics of the cultures in which they appeared.” A sad smile creased his face. “In our century, many alleged DID cases mimic the Hollywood version. And I’m afraid therein lies the problem with Sebastian.”
“I don’t quite follow.”
Dr. Neese again spread his hands. “Sebastian exhibits the popularized version of the disorder—the assumption of another alter, or personality. But over the course of five visits, that was all he exhibited. A single personality. I found no deviation. By all accounts, from his father and the prison officials, he has never reverted to his original personality. Dissociative disorders, by their very nature, require the presence of two or more distinct personality states. Nor does Sebastian exhibit typical symptoms, such as amnesia or comorbidity or distress regarding his condition. It’s as if Sebastian has feigned a case of DID that corresponds to what he thinks it is, but which deviates entirely from other known cases.”
“I see.”
“There is also no evidence of past trauma, by far thought to be the most prevalent cause of DID.”
“Is past trauma not often hidden?”
“The type of severe trauma necessary for dissociative disorder . . . there would have been signs. Violent behavior, especially in males. Previous mental problems. Broken families, aberrant behavior. By all accounts, Sebastian wa
s well adjusted.”
“Until his mother died,” Viktor said quietly. “Could that not suffice?”
“It’s possible, but without precedent, and not enough to persuade me to consider DID. A theory currently en vogue is that DID is caused by iatrogenesis—sorry, a situation where the therapist himself causes or heavily contributes to the disorder. But I was the first therapist to attempt to diagnose Sebastian, and he was already exhibiting.”
Viktor’s eyes flicked to the model of the human brain. “Did anyone else diagnose him?”
“Two others, at my request. With the same result.”
Viktor pursed his lips. “Can you not simply classify his current state as dissociative, without pigeonholing the diagnosis as multiple personality disorder?”
“I would be happy to tell the court what I just told you. That a case like this, where a new personality has by all appearances completely consumed the original, is unprecedented and contra to everything we know about DID. Moreover, you have the large—insurmountable, in my opinion—problem of the proximity in time between the murder and the manifestation of the new personality.”
Completely consumed the original, Viktor thought, as he absorbed what Dr. Neese was telling him. What a strange choice of words.
Dominic Grey warily approached the two-story apartment building that stretched like a maggot across the length of the narrow block. Broken and boarded-up windows, a rotting wood frame that looked diseased, garbage spilling out of cans, weeds and dead vines smothering a chain link fence that fronted the property.
The location surprised Grey. He wasn’t on the fringes of the French Quarter or in the hurricane-ravaged Ninth Ward. He was smack in the middle of genteel Uptown, close to the campus of Tulane, mere blocks from the streetcar.
Grey was sweating in jeans and a black T-shirt. It was at least eighty degrees, the air sticky and alive. A buckshot spray of clouds filled the sky.
He grimaced when he noticed a low-slung blue pickup parked down the street. A Ford Lightning, capable of the kind of acceleration Grey had witnessed the night he and Viktor were jumped.