You Fit the Pattern

by Jane Haseldine

  Julia had known Washington since her first day on the job at the paper. Both were new to their positions at the time. Washington had just started as a new detective, having worked her way up from patrol, and Julia was new to her cop beat, having returned to her home state of Michigan after her first newspaper position in New Orleans. Julia had also frequently run into Washington socially, since her youngest son had played Little League with Logan.

  “Sorry, Chief. Not trying to cause a problem. I’m going to leave, but can I ask you something, just to make sure I’ve got it right?”

  “You’ve got one question,” Washington said as she kept moving. “Make it fast.”

  “If I write that Heather Burns is the second victim found in an abandoned church wearing the same blue dress and wig as April Young, would I be correct?” Julia asked, basing her assumption on what she had just overheard.

  “I’m not going to ask how you know all that, especially the victim’s name and how the crime scenes are duplicates,” Washington said, and gave Navarro and Russell a knowing glare.

  “I don’t want to get the story wrong.”

  “All right. Your facts are correct. We’re going to release a statement this afternoon that will include the same information. If you want to break it before we issue the release, I’m okay with it. But I will ask that you not release the name of the victim until we contact her next of kin.”

  “Of course. You have my word. Can I attribute everything to you?”

  “No. I don’t feel like dealing with a ration of grief from the rest of the media for letting you get this first. Just say it came from a high-ranking source in the department and leave it at that,” Washington said. “No names.”

  “Sorry, Chief. I was just kicking her out,” Esposito said. “The media are scum.”

  “Not all of them. Gooden is okay. But you need to get out of here, Julia. If you want to call Navarro or me later for more details or to confirm anything, that’s fine. I’ve got work to do.”

  Washington turned her back to Julia and proceeded to the front of the church and the victim.

  Corporal Smith rose from his bent position in front of the altar to give his boss a better view, and, in turn, offered Julia her first chance to see a complete picture of Heather Burns in her death pose.

  Julia knew she had to make it quick. She moved closer and noticed Heather’s eyes were wide open and her throat was sliced clean across. Julia then focused in on a hand-drawn picture resting on Heather’s stomach. In the center of the paper was a large symbol that struck a familiar chord, an intricate red-and-turquoise heart with a vertical line cutting through the center, creating two mirror halves.

  In the four corners of the paper, the killer had also drawn a single circle flanked by two crescents that were flipped in opposite directions, like reverse bookends.

  “That damn picture again,” Washington said.

  “The killer left something in her hand this time, too,” Navarro said to his boss. “You got any more thoughts on the picture?”

  “It’s a heart, so maybe a lover who left him, and he’s dressing the victims up to look like the woman who broke his heart,” Washington said.

  “Beth, I think I’ve seen that picture before,” Julia called out to the chief.

  Washington turned around and shook her head. “You’re still here. You’ve got twenty seconds to tell me what you think this thing is before Esposito walks you out.”

  “I’m not sure about the four symbols in the corners of the picture, but I’ve seen the one in the center before. The heart. I know a cop who could probably confirm it.”

  The deep crease in Washington’s forehead eased a bit and she gave Julia her full attention.

  “Who’s the cop?” Washington asked.

  “Douglas Prejean. He’s a sergeant from New Orleans. He was a source when I worked at the paper there before I came back to Detroit. Can I take a picture and send it to him?”

  “Not a chance. What do you think the symbol means?” Washington asked.

  “Prejean is the expert. But I saw something like this on a story I worked with Prejean at the Times-Picayune. If that’s what I think it is, the heart, it’s an occult symbol, possibly tied to voodoo.”

  “Okay, Julia. Call your source. But outside. You need to get out of here. Navarro, follow her and let me know if I need to talk to Sergeant Prejean any further.”

  Julia obeyed orders this time and followed Navarro out to the crumbling front steps of the church, where she began to search for Prejean’s number on her phone.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Gooden?” Navarro asked. “You can’t just waltz into a crime scene like that.”

  “You gave me the address,” Julia said. “What did you think I was going to do?”

  “Wait outside and ask Washington and me questions when we were done with our initial investigation. You know the rules.”

  “I do, and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I followed them. But you know I won’t burn you or Washington. I promise,” Julia answered.

  LaBeau surfaced from his patrol car that was parked on the curb and looked between Julia and Navarro.

  “Everything okay here, Ray? I see you’ve got reporters creeping around. Julia must’ve snuck in the back door while I was checking the front.”

  “Do me a favor and keep an eye on the back of the building. I think that’s the main entrance for drug dealers and kids skipping school looking for a hangout.”

  “You got it,” LaBeau answered.

  Julia waited until the patrol officer was gone to apologize.

  “Hey, sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you look bad with Washington.”

  “I know you weren’t, but you push it to the limit sometimes, Gooden. Tell me more about the Louisiana cop.”

  “His name is Doug Prejean. He’s been with the NOLA PD for at least twenty years and he’s good. Prejean’s worked all over the city, Algiers, the French Quarter, and I think he’s stationed in Treme these days. He’s investigated occult cases in the past, so he should be able to help.”

  “You keep in touch with this guy?”

  “I saw Prejean a few months ago. He’s got Michigan connections. His wife is originally from Ann Arbor. He met her when she was in school at Tulane. They inherited her mom and dad’s house when her parents died. They were here this summer, and Prejean and I met up for lunch to catch up.”

  “Make the call and put it on speaker.”

  Julia scrolled through her contacts until she tapped on Prejean’s number. On the third ring, Prejean answered, his voice heavy with equal parts Cajun and Deep Southern Bayou drawl.

  “Hey, Julia. This is a nice surprise. What’s going on?” Prejean asked, his voice sounding like thick, sticky molasses falling from a spoon. “Everything okay with your boys? It was real nice to see you in August when me and Claudette were out your way.”

  “Hey, Prejean. We’re all fine. I’m actually calling on business. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but I’ve got you on speaker with a Detroit police detective, Ray Navarro. He’s a great cop and a close friend of mine.”

  “How you doing, Sergeant?” Navarro asked. “We’ve got a case we’re working that Julia seems to think you might be able to help us with. We’ve got two victims, both females. The women were both runners. We think the killer snatched them up while they were jogging and took them into separate abandoned churches in the city. The guy dressed them up the same in a blue dress and black wig.”

  “I appreciate Julia’s endorsement, but I don’t see how I can add anything to what you-all are probably doing already,” Prejean said. “But if you want my cheap two cents, it sounds like you’ve got a serial killer on your hands. The guy is likely organized. A planner. I’m betting he scouted out the victims ahead of time, knew the routes they ran and when they’d be there. Once the guy chooses his next victim, he could’ve picked them up by playing some kind of game, a ploy to gain their sympathy, and then he takes them to another location to commit
the murder.”

  “Thanks, but we’ve already established that. Julia wanted to ask you about a picture the killer drew and left on his victims,” Navarro said. “We think he killed the women and then placed the picture on both the victims’ stomachs.”

  “Okay, Julia. What you got, girl?” Prejean asked.

  “I think what the killer drew is some kind of occult symbol. When you were working that case in the French Quarter, the killer who was murdering tourists, you showed me some of the pictures he had in his apartment. The picture the killer left behind at the crime scenes, it reminded me of those.”

  “Right, the Papa Legba killer, at least that’s who he thought he was. The guy would get high out of his mind on crack and then he believed he was the guardian of the crossroads. He’d pull drunk tourists from the gutters of Bourbon Street so he could try and connect them to the other world right before he killed them with a hammer. Stand-up guy. Tell me about your picture, Julia.”

  “It looks hand-drawn, very neat, and structured. In the center is a picture of a heart with an intricate design. Granted, I wasn’t up close.”

  “Can you fill in the blanks, Detective?” Prejean asked.

  “Sure. The pictures left behind with both victims were the same. There’s a line drawn down the middle of the heart, and an identical pattern of lines on either side. There’s a set of two crosses and asterisks inside the heart, and then more on the top and bottom.”

  “Sound familiar?” Julia asked.

  “Can someone send me a picture? I’m guessing the cops are smart up there in Detroit and won’t run the risk of letting a reporter snap a picture from a fresh crime scene.”

  “Something like that,” Julia answered.

  “Okay. I can picture what you described. Granted, I’d still have to see it, but going from what you’re saying, I’d say it’s a sketch of a veve.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Julia answered.

  “You’ve lost me,” Navarro answered.

  “A veve is a religious symbol used in voodoo. If it’s a heart, it’s got to be Erzulie,” Prejean said.

  “I’m still lost in the weeds here,” Navarro said.

  “Erzulie is a popular voodoo goddess. She’s well known in these parts. We got a voodoo store on Royal Street in the French Quarter named after her. If you believe in that type of thing, Erzulie represents love, sexuality, and passion. Her Catholic counterpart is the Virgin Mary. Were these two women you mentioned sexually assaulted?”

  “We don’t know about the second one yet, but the first victim wasn’t,” Navarro said. He grabbed his phone from his leather jacket and began to search the name Prejean had mentioned.

  “Then I’d say, and this is just a guess, he’s offering up these women as sacrifices. He’s dressing the women up to look like the woman he wants.”

  Navarro shot Julia a look and then went back to his phone.

  “Bingo,” Navarro said, and put the screen in front of Julia to see. On it was the same heart image the killer had drawn. “That’s it. I looked up Erzulie and veve and got a bunch of hits. The pictures I’m seeing match the ones the killer drew.”

  “You said the picture the killer drew had some other symbols?” Prejean asked.

  “Right. A circle with crescents on either side.”

  “That’s not voodoo. Seems more like a pagan type of thing. Maybe he plans his killings around the stages of the moon.”

  “I’m betting this guy doesn’t have plans to stop anytime soon. I’ve been a cop for fifteen years, and I’ve never seen anything like this,” Navarro said.

  “I’ve worked my fair share of occult cases. You need my expertise on this one, give me the word. I’ve got some time coming to me.”

  “Thanks for the offer. I don’t think we’d refuse the help. If you could hang on the line with Julia for a minute, I’m going to get my chief, Beth Washington. She’s going to want to talk to you,” Navarro said. “One more thing. You mentioned voodoo and the occult. Just so I’m straight here, what do you think this guy is into exactly?”

  “Sounds like your boy is freestyling in the art of black magic, mixing a little bit of this and that. One thing I can say for sure—whoever this person is, you-all got some big problems in the city of Detroit.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The man who killed April Young and Heather Burns looked at the sign his wife made for him that was hand-painted in red letters—MAN CAVE, NO GIRLS ALLOWED—that hung on his work shed door.

  What a joke.

  The wife finally gave him permission to purchase the shed after two years of him asking. It was set up in the backyard of their brick ranch home with the well-tended garden in front. And despite Wifey’s complaining about wasting their hard-earned money on something “so unnecessary,” once they bought it, she actually seemed to like him spending time in there so she could vacuum in peace or post updates on Facebook and Instagram.

  He figured his wife probably thought he busied himself in the shed doing woodwork projects or reading one of his books. He had crazy, fat stacks of books—mostly occult, true crime, and horror classics—that were so high, the wife threatened to donate them all to the library. Or burn them. So the shed was a good compromise as a place where he could stash his reads and take care of personal business.

  Once inside, he locked the door and wallowed in the darkness. He’d put the light on when it was time to do his work, but right now, he wanted the freedom to drop the mask he was forced to wear in the real world, one that he had carefully cultivated and edited through the years to fit into his current scene. Everyone felt comfortable around the persona he came up with after years of shaping and molding: a good-looking, easygoing man with a big, happy grin. Who wouldn’t love that guy?

  He ran his tongue across his front teeth as the memory of the runner from Mayberry State Park, Heather Burns, came to mind, and the shocked, whimpering sound she made when the blade of his knife made a clean slice across her neck, going down deep, deep, deeper, until it reached the bone. He briefly cupped his hand over the erection in his pants and pictured the woman in the long, dark wig and blue dress he had snared after weeks of meticulous planning. She had so easily acquiesced to his demands, just like the first woman had.

  His latest victim hadn’t turned him on. What he had done to her did.

  The man dropped his hand away from the throbbing in his pants. Time to get to work.

  He reached for his earbuds, plugged them into his phone so the wife wouldn’t hear if she was snooping around the yard, and hit play.

  A wave of nostalgia moved through him as the first haunted strains of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and then the jazz singer’s throaty bass began to play: “ ‘Hold me close and hold me fast . . . The magic spell you cast . . .’”

  A sentimental lump formed in his throat as “La Vie en Rose” continued, bringing him back to his childhood in Louisiana. He had grown up in Iberville Parish’s Plaquemine, the town tucked between the swamps of the Atchafalaya Basin and the highbrow state capital of Baton Rouge.

  His time in Plaquemine had been filled with zydeco and jazz music that his uncles always seemed to have playing in their cars or when he and his grandmother came over for a visit to one of their trailers. Grandma Leticia’s favorite had always been New Orleans’s own Louis Armstrong.

  The uncles, really his grandma Leticia’s brothers, took him hunting for squirrels, deer, and rabbits in the dense, sticky woods that were thick in his parish. He had even once shot an alligator in the tail before it slipped back into the bayou east of the Atchafalaya Basin Levee. And, of course, there was the food: rich, glorious, and drippingly succulent. He breathed in deeply. The smells of his grandma’s étouffées simmering on the front burner of their old two-story house behind the family’s Sunoco gas station felt as real and familiar as if she were working her magic on a portable burner right in front of him.

  It wasn’t a particularly idyllic childhood, though, if you looked at the big picture, like he often di
d. His mother had told him hundreds of times that he had ruined her life. That’s what she had said for most of his first six years, like she could be out partying and having the greatest time of her life if it weren’t for his sheer existence.

  But that never bothered him much.

  His mother got pregnant at fifteen, had him at sixteen, and was killed while she worked the register at the family Sunoco when she was twenty-two. He had been sitting on the dirt in front of their house, looking at the pictures in the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book his grandma had given him, when he heard two gunshots.

  Pop, pop!

  It was the third of July, so he figured his uncles were lighting off early fireworks, a couple of big rockets that would have gone off over the house. He had shielded a hand over his eyes to look for the explosion of colors in the sky, but then diverted his gaze to a black pickup truck tearing up the gravel on its hasty getaway dash from the Sunoco.

  His mother’s killer had left with a sum total of 148 dollars from the cash drawer and ten cartons of cigarettes.

  He was the one who had found his mother’s body before his grandma could get to him.

  No big deal.

  He had walked calmly to the Sunoco, crept behind the counter, and stood placidly, taking in his twenty-two-year-old mother who had been shot in the eye and torso. Her killer had popped off two slugs at close range with a shotgun, leaving half of his mother’s head blown clean away.

  Even at the age of six, he knew he should feel something. Anything. Sorrow, horror, disgust, relief that she was out of his life. But he just stood there, stock-still, with his hands at his sides, taking in the sight of his now-dead mother.

  He couldn’t feel a thing.

  At that moment, his emotion over the sight of the fresh kill that was his mother was pretty much how he would’ve felt if his grandmother put a plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes down in front of him at the dinner table.

  His grandmother held him tightly afterward, and for the first time, she let him wash the mud off the crawdads in her giant silver strainer in her sink later that night. She probably figured he was in shock because he seemed so excited to wash the dirt off the mudbugs, rinsing them over and over in the cool water and picking out the dead ones from the squirming batch. His grandma even let him drop the little crawdads into the pot of boiling water. His grandma started to fuss and then stopped herself when he insisted on dropping them in a small handful at a time. He couldn’t tell her, but he wanted to elongate the experience of watching something die at his own hand.