by John Moore
“If rage was a part of the killer’s M. O., It could be him. I saw the rage in his eyes the night he attacked Sarah and me,” I said.
“True, he could have killed Sarah and he could also be the serial killer. He doesn’t have foolproof alibis for any of the other killings, which isn’t that surprising since they all took place late at night and he lives alone. Our crime beat reporters have worked their sources inside the task force and are convinced Mark is the killer. They are running a front-page article in tomorrow’s paper with headlines naming him The Quarter Killer,” Jess said. “My gut tells me something different. I have nothing to do with the article. I am keeping miles away from it. They are following the paper’s “If it bleeds it leads policy.” I think they are getting way ahead of the facts. Mark may very well be the killer, but they haven’t tied up all of the loose ends yet. I don’t think the task force is going to consider any other suspects at this time either. They are buckling under public pressure to make an arrest. Now they intend to make it stick.”
“Why don’t you want me coming to your office to talk about the investigation of ACC?”
“Alexandra, ACC is a rich and powerful company. Bart Rogan makes his own rules and is a very dangerous man. I suspect he has moles in our editorial department. If he gets wind that you are after him or ACC, he will try to stop you. There is nothing he won’t do. Watch your back at all times,” she said.
“Fuck him! My parents are dead. Sarah is dead. I have nothing else to lose,” I yelled.
“I know you are angry but be smart with how you investigate ACC. That’s all I’m asking. The less they know the better. Once you start walking through their back yard, you will hear from them. Keep your wits about you.” Jess hesitated for a minute, and smiled slyly. “ But, I must admit, I do like your spunk, girl!”
Jess left me sitting at the table contemplating my strategy. It was finally dawning on me that I had entered the big leagues and I’d better choose my moves carefully. I first needed to go through the box she brought, even though I’d developed a phobia of cardboard boxes lately. After I revealed whatever secrets were in the box, I’d have to find Sarah’s mysterious, missing file.
I was exhausted after digging through the documents in the box and searching the endless corners of the web. I texted Tom, “Hey, what’s up for tonight?”
He texted me back like lightning. “You and me, what about pizza?”
“That would be amazing,” I replied.
“I’ll pick up a pizza and a bottle of wine and be there at 6:00,” he texted.
It was comforting to have Tom in my life. He made me feel safe and secure and like I had a future beyond battling dangerous people. I wanted him to stay with me tonight.
Tomorrow, I was going to Mark Stevens’ bail hearing.
Chapter Sixteen:
Bail or No Bail
Morning light eased into my bed and found me pretzeled around Tom and I didn’t want to get out of bed. I wanted the Keurig to bring coffee to me. Maybe we will all have coffee robots in a few years, as ubiquitous as cell phones. Nice fantasy. I struggled my way to the kitchen and retrieved a cup of dark roast for each of us.
“Good morning,” Tom said, his hands rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What time is Mark Steven’s bail hearing today?”
“Scheduled for 9:00 AM,” I said.
Tom looked at me with love written all over his face, “I wish I could go with you. I know how hard it’s going to be for you. I would if I didn’t have to work. My crew and I are collecting crab specimens from the marshlands this morning. But I can come over tonight if you would like.”
“I’ll be fine today. And you had better get your ass back here. I’ve got some specimen collecting of my own to do tonight,” I said with that naughty look in my eye that I was starting to perfect.
Tom gave me a sexy goodbye kiss before leaving, his lips soft and moist, then I dressed for my day. I put on a dark business suit and proudly snapped my shiny new press badge to my blazer. I was now a journalist, no longer an amateur but a pro. A small bubble of pride circulated through my body. I arrived at the courtroom early, flashed my shiny new press credentials, and got a front row seat. A man sat next to me and struck up a conversation. His daughter was the second victim of the Quarter Killer.
“I am in stage four of colon cancer,” he said. “The doctors don’t give me more than six months to live. I want to see the son of a bitch who killed my little girl with my own two eyes before I die.”
He pulled a photo of his daughter from his inner coat pocket and handed it to me. She had long, straight auburn hair that cascaded over her shoulders to just below her mid back. She bore a striking resemblance to a younger, softer version of him.
“You should write about her and the other victims,” he said. “Not about this animal. He should be sent to hell and be forgotten.”
“Oh, I’m sorry; I’m not on this story. One of my friends was murdered by the bastard too,” I said.
“Well, if any of your colleagues want to know more about my Mary, give me a call,” he said as he handed me his business card. The card had the words “Gary Bennett, Owner and President, Crescent Marine” along with all of his contact information.
I took his card and pocketed it. “I’ll pass this along to the reporters working on the Quarter Killer story at the Times.”
As the 9:00 hour drew nearer, the courtroom filled to standing room only. The bailiff made everyone rise as the judge took the bench.
“I see we have a full courtroom today. Most of you are here, I presume, for the Stevens’ bail hearing. We will be taking that matter up first to clear the room for our normal business. Please bring the defendant in,” the judge ordered.
All eyes were fixed on the side door as it slowly opened and Mark Stevens, clad in Orleans Parish Prison orange, walked into the courtroom. His hands were cuffed. A gleaming, steel, solidly linked chain connected his left foot to his right. A distinguished man with close-cropped hair, wearing a tailored suit, approached the microphone placed directly in front of the judge. A rather large and intimidating sheriff’s deputy escorted Mark to meet him. Mark looked at me momentarily, noting my presence, and then glanced away. He took a few more labored, shuffling steps, his eyes shifting to the rear of the courtroom. He ceased his unnatural gait and was temporarily frozen in place. A commanding nudge from the deputy put him back on track toward the microphone.
“Good morning, Your Honor. For the record, I am Jack Amato, attorney for Mr. Stevens, bar roll no. 540923,” he said. “Address 318 St. Charles Street, New Orleans, LA. I would like to enroll as counsel of record for Mr. Stevens.”
“Very well, Mr. Amato, would you like be heard before I consider Mr. Stevens bail?” the judge inquired.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Proceed, Counselor.”
“Your Honor, Mr. Stevens has been a member of this community all of his life. He owns a home here. All of his personal connections are here in the city. He is not a flight risk, and we would request that bail be set at no more than $200,000 which should be sufficient to guarantee his presence at all court proceedings. Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Amato said.
The prosecutor rose to address the court, and the judge waved, indicating for her to sit down.
“Bail denied. Mr. Stevens is remanded to the Parish Prison pending further proceedings,” the judge ordered.
“Your Honor, may I have a few minutes to speak to my client?” Mr. Amato asked.
“Take the defendant to the conference room adjacent to my chambers and allow Mr. Amato time to speak to him,” the judge said.
Once again Mark cast his eyes to me and then to the rear of the courtroom. Deputy Goliath escorted him out of the courtroom, followed by Mr. Amato. I made my way to the door, not sure the complete meaning of what I had just witnessed.
A voice behind me said, “Did you get an
y above-the-fold-worthy news in there, Ms. Lee?”
I turned and saw the face of the speaker. It took a few seconds but I recognized the face of Bart Rogan.
“No, not really,” I replied. I quickened my pace to get the hell out of there. What was he doing here? Oh, shit! He knew my name. Why did he know my name? My face flushed, and my mouth dried. I weaved through the hallway crowd and ducked into the stairwell. I climbed to the 10th floor and took a seat in the building coffee shop. My breathing was quickened by the stairs and the horrific thought of Bart Rogan knowing my name. What was I going to do if he came up here?
I was sitting with a cup of coffee at a two-top table against the wall, contemplating the day’s events, when a man approached and asked, “May I sit with you? I have something for you.”
I looked up at the face and extended right hand of Jack Amato, Mark Stevens’ lawyer. He had a kind and smooth way about him that put people at ease. I’m sure that skill served him well in his profession, particularly with juries. I did not feel the instant state of panic I felt when I gazed into the lifeless, dead pool eyes of Bart Rogan.
I shook his extended hand and said, “You may.”
Mr. Amato wasted no time. “Mark Stevens asked me to apologize to you for his actions at Sarah’s house. He knows he has a problem with his temper and will seek anger management therapy when he is released from jail. He asked me to give you this letter also. I have not read it, nor do I know its contents. I advised Mr. Stevens that writing you a letter was strictly against my advice and not in his best interest. He asked me to give it to you nonetheless. I would like to talk with you, at your convenience, of course, about all of the unfortunate events of the last few months. Here is my card. Please call and I will meet you at a place of your choosing including your lawyer’s office if you would feel more comfortable there. Thank you, Alexandra, and have a pleasant day.”
He handed me a folded yellow, legal-sized piece of paper taped on all sides so as to conceal its contents. Then he turned and left. I sat stunned for a few minutes deciding whether to read the letter at the table or take it with me and read it at home. I thought about that shark, Bart Rogan, swimming in the courthouse waters and decided to leave. I rode the elevator down to the first floor and trekked to my car. As I walked, my eyes darted side to side and I turned frequently to see if I was being followed. Several suspicious people caught my eye. I finally convinced myself that I was paranoid. After all, this is New Orleans; everyone looks suspicious. I headed straight home, watching my rear view mirrors to feed my paranoia.
I entered my condo and carefully latched all locks on the door. I felt like I was the lead character in a spy movie. Like Jason Bourne or someone like that. I sat at my conference table and opened Mark Stevens’ letter. It read:
“Alexandra, I don’t know you. But I do know that Sarah loved you with all of her heart. You were the daughter she never had. She was an excellent judge of character even though she allowed her love for me to cloud her instincts for a while. I saw you in the courtroom and decided to write this letter against my attorney’s advice.
“I DID NOT KILL SARAH!
“I know I am being set up. Someone is trying to frame me. I am not sure why but they are. I think it may have something to do with a secret Sarah and I shared for many years. While we were married, she was preparing a pollution story about ACC. She had discovered the whereabouts of a sunken ocean-going barge in the Gulf of Mexico that contained dioxin. In the early 2000’s, ACC had a contract with the U. S. Government to supply the herbicidal chemical to the DEA and the Colombian army to spray on coca fields as part of the war on drugs. ACC manufactured glyphosate in the U.S. and barged it to Colombia. The ocean-going tug boat pushing the giant barge broke down. Hurricane Iris moved toward the barge, eliminating the possibility of getting another large tug boat in place before the waters became too treacherous. ACC was only able to get a smaller tug to push the disabled tug to safety. The barge’s contents were dumped in the Gulf and the barge was intentionally scuttled by ACC to conceal the dumping. ACC’s fixer, Bart Rogan, threatened my career in the lobbying industry if I didn’t get the story shut down. I persuaded Sarah to kill the story to save my career – and our marriage. Ironically, it was the very thing that doomed our marriage. She was ashamed of what she had done and resented me for pressuring her to do it. Rogan contacted me recently and told me Sarah intended to revive the story. He threatened me again. My work is all I have. I lost my head and that’s why I went to her house and attacked her and pushed you around. I am sorry for what I did that day.
“I saw Bart Rogan in the courtroom today. Nothing good happens when he is involved. He is ACC’s go-to cleaner. I am scared to death of him. I can’t trust anybody. I have nowhere to turn. This is why I am begging for your help.
“Please keep investigating Sarah’s death. I repeat: I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH HER DEATH. I am not the Quarter Killer. I have never killed anyone, certainly not any of those poor women dumped in the French Quarter. Sarah may have been murdered by the Quarter Killer or maybe her death is connected to Bart Rogan or ACC. I don’t know. I do know, however, that it was not me. It may not look like it to you, but I loved her.
“Sarah told me she stashed the evidence against ACC in a safe place that neither I nor any of ACC’s thugs could find. Please, Alexandra, find her evidence. It may reveal Sarah’s real killer and clear me.
Mark Stevens”
Mark must be desperate to be reaching out to me. But still, there might be something to what he was saying. If he didn’t kill Sarah, who did? Was it the Quarter Killer? What about Sarah’s secret evidence? And what the hell was that Rogan bastard doing at the bail hearing? Worse yet, how did he know my name? Did he read my press credentials? This was getting spooky, I thought. I reread Mark’s letter and it dawned on me. A place where no man would ever find it. She hid it at the shelter. Mark knew nothing about Sarah’s work there, nor did anyone else except me. She must have hidden the evidence at the shelter. I could go there tomorrow to search for Sarah’s file myself.
“Rap, Rap, Rap!” The sound of knocking at my door. I almost jumped out of my skin. I edged the curtain back on a window that afforded me a view of the front door and saw Zach knocking.
I unlocked the door and let him in. “Where have you been?” I asked. “You quit your job and I haven’t heard a word from you.”
He looked at me sheepishly and got down on his knees on my floor and said, “Please forgive me. I know leaving without telling you wasn’t cool, but I met a rich guy from Silicon Valley, California, at Cafe Du Monde and we hooked up. His name is Jason, and he is so hot and so rich. I complained to him that Mardi Gras was boring to me since I had seen it so many times, so he took me to Rio for Carnival. Oh My God, we had a great time. When I got home I heard about Sarah and knew how close you said you two were so I rushed over to see if you were OK.”
“Yes, I’m sad but fine,” I said. “So much has happened since I last saw you.”
I filled Zach in on my new working arrangement as well as my budding love affair. He wanted to know all of the details of my love affair, of course. I told him how wonderful Tom made me feel and a few of the dirty details. He reciprocated with stories of his amazing new lover. I didn’t tell him anything about ACC, or Tom’s secret life, or the letter I’d gotten from Mark Stevens. I wasn’t sure about his disappearing act yet. He sure showed back up as abruptly as he had left. Was I paranoid? Was I going to be suspicious of everyone from now on? Maybe so, but I didn’t know whom to trust. So, for right now I was going to keep most of this new world I was entering to myself. Zach stayed for a couple of hours. Strange, I thought; he didn’t ask me anything about Mark Stevens or the Quarter Killer. Maybe he was too excited about his new boyfriend? Or, maybe something far worse was at play.
My phone rang. Jess Johnson popped up on my caller ID, so I answered and she said, “Mark Stevens has been killed.”
Chapter Seventeen:
Search for the Truth
“Killed? How could he be killed? He’s in jail,” I said. I thought maybe he tried to escape, and Deputy Goliath crushed his skull.
“He was being transported from the courthouse to the Parish Prison and someone shot him while the deputies were walking down the back steps of the courthouse. The courthouse buzz is that he was shot by one of the family members of the victims of the Quarter Killer,” she said.
“Holy shit, Jess, I sat next to a man in court whose daughter was one of the Quarter Killer’s victims. I wonder if he shot Mark.”
“Whoever did it is in police custody. They nabbed him before he took one step,” she said.
“Jess, there are some developments I need to talk to you about. Can you meet me somewhere?” I wanted to tell her on the phone but her earlier warning rang in my ears.
“I can, Alex. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks by your condo. Does 30 minutes work for you?”
“Yes,” I said and headed out of the door. The Starbucks was within walking distance, but I decided to take my car. I wanted to drive in circles to see if I was being followed. I took a circuitous route to Starbucks, doubling back every few blocks, my head swiveling at every turn. No cars followed me. Whew, I thought, I hope I eventually get accustomed to living like this. I felt like a deer must feel during hunting season. I arrived at the Starbucks to find Jess already seated, sipping a cup of green tea. I purchased a tall coffee. The air was thick and the smells of car exhaust, chemical plants, and sewer gas filled my nostrils.