"Why now?" I asked.
Dr. Delachaise looked at me. "Do you mean, as opposed to last week or last month, or next week or next month?"
I nodded.
The doctor shook his head, then turned back to the corpse and pulled the last organ-a kidney by the look of it-from the woman's hollowed-out torso. He shook off some blood and then dropped the dark hunk of meat into a steel pan already overflowing with blood and tissue. "Why is a legal question, not a scientific one. My only concern is to report the cause, manner, and time of her death."
"Don't feed me bullshit and call it boudin, Doctor. You probably know more about these people than their families did."
He smiled as he wiped his bloody hands on the apron hanging from his neck. Behind the doctor's thick glasses, his watery blue eyes appeared twice their normal size. "In my private practice, I have treated plenty of working girls for syphilis. It's not a pleasant way to die."
I nodded at the corpse. "She had syphilis?"
"Early stages," he said, fishing a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in the front of his blood-smeared butcher's apron. He stuck the butt in his mouth. "Got a light?"
I pulled a box of matches from my pocket and struck one. Delachaise leaned toward the flame and lit his cigarette.
"Want one?" he asked.
I thought about saying no, then decided the smoke would help kill the stench of death that permeated the room. I nodded and Delachaise produced another cigarette, which I lit off the same match.
Pulling the smoke into my one semi-good lung triggered a painful coughing fit that doubled me over. I spit the cigarette onto the floor and braced my hands against my knees to keep from falling down. My lung felt like it was trying to climb up through my throat.
When the coughing subsided, I picked the cigarette off the floor and straightened up. "I guess it's true what I've heard, smoking really is bad for you." My voice sounded like a wet rasp.
The doctor waved his cigarette in the air, leaving a deformed ring of smoke around his head like a misshapen halo. "Nonsense. Tobacco is completely organic, like fruits and vegetables. Anything that comes out of the earth is good for you."
I inhaled a small puff of smoke. This time my lung stayed down in my chest.
"As much as I enjoy your company, Detective, did I understand you to say that your visit today is not purely one of self-edification?"
"What?"
"You came to see me about Mr. Pepitone. Correct?" The doctor nodded at a table two down from where he stood, on which lay the naked body of Michael Pepitone.
The combination of smoke and formaldehyde was making me light headed. I nodded in response to the doctor's question. "I can't go back until I have the autopsy report."
The doctor smiled. "Tell me, why does Captain Campo doubt the obvious? The man was struck in the head several times with an ax, the blade of which cracked the cranial vault and thus spilled out a portion of his brains. Even a dullard like your good captain should be able deduce the cause of death."
I shrugged. "I only know that he was adamant about me not coming back to Central Station until I have that report in my hands."
Dr. Delachaise glanced at a clock mounted above the door. It was five minutes past noon. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to wait a while, my friend, because I have only just begun the preliminary work on the postmortem of the man killed prior to Mr. Pepitone ..." The doctor scratched his head with a blood-crusted fingernail. "A Mr. Salvatore Marcello, I believe his name was." Delachaise smiled and spread his hands dramatically. "We have a policy here of first come, first served."
I pointed to the woman on the table. "You're doing two at once?"
"No, not really. I sent my assistant to get lunch. I've already finished a couple of procedures this morning, and I'm starved." He glanced again at the clock. "I expect him back any minute. There is a cafeteria upstairs. You can join us for lunch if you want."
My eyes shifted to the mutilated corpse beside me. "I'll pass."
The doctor laid a hand on the dead woman's head. "It's so rare for me to get such a youthful patient whose body has not been damaged through some violent means or disease," he said as he absentmindedly stroked her. "With this one, because of her mostly peaceful exsanguination, I get to examine relatively healthy organs and a non-corroded brain. If all you see is tissue ravaged by trauma or disease, you start to lose perspective on what normal tissue looks like. That loss of perspective can cause you to miss something."
I stared at the doctor's bloody fingers as they combed through the woman's blond hair. There was something disturbing about the intimacy of the gesture. I had seen a lot of death, but it was not something I had ever gotten comfortable with or even wanted to get comfortable with. Being unsettled by death was normal. Growing so accustomed to it that you ran your fingers through a dead woman's hair was somewhere I never wanted to be.
I looked around the room, at Michael Pepitone's body and the several other bodies lying on the tables, then at the closed door that I knew led to the storage room where yet more bodies waited, packed in ice, for dissection. You had to be at least a little crazy to work in a place like this.
"Drink?" Dr. Delachaise asked, pointing to a shelf above the examination table, on which sat a half-empty bottle of George Dickel and several glass beakers.
I nodded. Cigarettes hadn't killed the smell. Maybe whiskey would.
"Big one or a little one?"
"I'm working," I said.
He pulled down the bottle and poured two fingers of whiskey into a six-inch beaker and handed it to me. Then he poured at least four fingers into a second beaker. He nodded at his own drink. "It's going to be a long day."
We sipped our whiskey in silence for a moment.
Then the door opened and the doctor's assistant walked in. He was a small man of about thirty years, with a pinched face behind a tiny pair of eyeglasses that looked like they might fit a child. "I've put your lunch on your desk, Doctor. I'm going to eat mine upstairs with ..." He glanced at me, "With nurse Bennett."
Dr. Delachaise smiled. "Very well, Norman. Have a nice lunch." The doctor watched Norman walk out. When the door closed, he turned to me. "He has some interest in a young nurse on the tuberculosis ward. I don't think it's reciprocated, but he keeps trying."
"Good for him," I said.
"I tell you what I'll do, my friend," the doctor said. "I'll finish with Mr. Marcello before lunch. Then we'll order something for you from the cafeteria. After we've eaten, I'll start on your Mr. Pepitone. How does that sound?"
"Great," I said, not at all relishing the idea of stuffing down lunch between human dissections.
CHAPTER 22
DETECTIVE SLAIN BY NEGRO BANDIT
Theodore Obitz Is Shot Through The Heart.
-The Daily Picayune
MAY 24, 1918
11:00 P.M.
At first, Emile Denoux thought the muffled pops he heard were from a backfiring motorcar. There were three of them in quick succession, a few seconds of silence, then three more pops, one almost on top of the other. It was only after Emile heard men shouting that he recognized the sounds for what they were. Gunshots.
He had been hanging around the Maggios' neighborhood for nearly two hours, hoping that the regular reports of Axman sightings on the nights immediately following the attacks were accurate and not just the fanciful product of frightened imaginations.
The idea of the killer returning to the scene of his latest attack wasn't as farfetched as it might at first seem, Emile thought. If a neighbor had seen anything that he or she was considering telling the police, a glimpse of the killer still lurking nearby would likely dissuade even the hardiest witness from stepping forward.
For the past hour, Emile had been sitting on the darkened porch of a house on the corner of Magnolia and Robert streets, one block from the Maggios' home and business. The street was deserted and a thin mist hung over it. Emile had a cigarette wedged between his lips and had been having trouble striking a match
in the damp air. He had finally gotten the match to light and was about to touch the guttering flame to the end of his cigarette when he heard the first three pops. They had startled him, but only because the street had been so quiet. Sure that the sounds were nothing but backfires, he lit his cigarette.
He heard the second string of pops. More backfiring? he wondered. If so the motorcar's owner should have someone who knew about such things check the engine. Then Emile heard angry shouts, and he knew that the popping noises he had heard were not those of a backfiring motorcar but the reports of a gun. And they had come from the direction of Valence Street, a block past the Maggio place.
Emile leapt from the porch and ran toward the sound of the gunfire, the cigarette dropping from his mouth. A moment later he rounded the corner at Valence Street and saw two men in dark suits chasing a third man. The third man was tall and wore a long coat and a wide-brimmed hat.
The two men in suits were midway up the block, and the tall man was fifty or sixty feet ahead of them when he jerked to a stop, spun around, and fired a pistol at them. Emile knew the bullet had missed the two men because he heard it whiz past his ear, missing him, he guessed, by less than a foot.
Emile stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't want to get any closer to the man and present him with an easier target. The two men in suits had also stopped and were raising their own pistols when the tall man fired again. This time he didn't miss. Emile saw one of the suited men crumple to the brick pavement. The second pursuer fired an answering shot, but the tall man in the hat had already turned and resumed his flight. The second man hesitated for a few seconds, seemingly unsure whether to see to his companion or continue his pursuit. He chose the latter and ran after the man in the long coat, firing two more shots at his quarry while in full stride, but both shots appeared to have missed because the tall man kept running.
Emile approached the man lying in the street and stood over him. There was enough light from a gas streetlamp a few dozen feet away that he recognized the man. Detective Theodore Obitz lay on his back, his eyes open but seeing nothing. He had a hole in his chest and his white shirt was stained dark with blood.
Teddy Obitz was dead.
Emile looked up the street just in time to see the two men disappear between a couple of houses in the next block. Because the dead man was Theodore Obitz, Emile knew that the man chasing the killer was most likely Detective John Dantonio.
Emile ran after them. He heard more gunshots and saw flashes from the alley between the houses where the two men had disappeared. He was terrified as he sprinted up the street, but he refused to let his fear stop him. He had to find out what was going on. Instinctively, he knew Obitz's shooting was connected to the Axman.
When Emile reached the alley, he skidded to a halt and stared down the narrow passageway between the two houses. There, no more than thirty feet away, he saw the silhouette of the tall man in the hat standing over his pursuer, who had been knocked to the ground.
The tall man looked up, saw Emile, and pointed at him. There was a bright flash and an explosion, followed by the sound of a bullet whipping past Emile's head, and for an instant, the blast from the muzzle revealed a face, a face Emile recognized.
Just as the tall man fired again, Emile ducked behind the corner of the nearest house and scrambled onto the porch. He crouched in the shadows against the front wall of the house and heard the tall man speak to the man on the ground in Sicilian. Emile understood only one word. Morte. It meant death.
Then he heard footsteps in the alley. Coming closer.
Emile squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. He said a silent prayer asking God to forgive him for his minor indiscretions and romantic dalliances and to please take care of Colette. As he prayed, the footsteps walked right past him. Then they stopped on the sidewalk. Emile opened his eyes, hoping that somehow the man in the long coat and hat had not seen him. But the man stood just a few feet away, silhouetted by a streetlamp, the brim of his hat casting a shadow that consumed his features.
The man raised his right hand, the light from the lamp glinting off steel. He was aiming a huge revolver at Emile, and Emile knew that he was about to die. The man pulled the trigger ... and the hammer fell on a spent cartridge. The man lowered the revolver and raised his left index finger to his lips. "Silenzio," he said.
Then he turned and walked away.
An electric light came on inside the house. Then an outside light flooded the porch. Emile held his breath again, waiting for a shot from inside the house. Every Italian neighborhood was on edge because of the Axman murders. The front door flew open, and a man appeared behind the screen clutching a shotgun.
"Do you have a telephone?" Emile said, speaking so fast his words tripped over each other.
The man eyed him suspiciously but nodded. "Telefono? Si."
"Call the police," Emile pleaded. "Call Central Station. Two policemen have been shot." Emile pointed down the street to where Obitz lay dead.
The man snapped off a string of Sicilian to someone behind him. Then he turned away and banged the door shut. Emile heard the deadbolt slam into place.
"I'm not shot," said a pained voice from the alley.
Emile recognized it as Dantonio's. He crept to the edge of the porch and peeked around the corner. The detective was trying to sit up.
"Are you hurt?" Emile asked as he jumped from the porch and rushed to Dantonio's side.
The detective pressed a hand to his bleeding head and winced. "Of course I'm hurt, you fool. I wouldn't be on the ground if I wasn't hurt."
Emile knelt down and helped him sit up. "What happened?"
"I would think it was pretty obvious," Dantonio said. "He hit me on the head, probably with that huge damned revolver of his. I saw him duck into the alley and thought I had him, but when I got around the corner he was waiting for me and gave me a good clobber. How's Teddy?"
Emile hesitated, unsure what to say.
"I know he was shot," Dantonio said. "Is he alive?"
"I ... don't think so," Emile answered. "No, he's not. I'm sure of it."
"Damn," the detective said. A moment of silence passed. Then Dantonio added, "Teddy was a good man. And a good partner."
Emile cleared his throat. "I saw the man who shot him. The same one from the cemetery this afternoon, the big Italian."
Dantonio's face stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about. The man who shot Teddy and tried to bash my brains in was a Negro highwayman we've been chasing for weeks."
"But I saw him," Emile said. "He shot at me. I saw his face in the muzzle flash."
Dantonio tried to stand but couldn't. "Help me up," he said.
Emile attempted to pull the detective to his feet, but Dantonio's legs were too wobbly to support his weight so he sat back down. In the distance, Emile heard the warble of a siren attached to the wheel of one of the Police Department's new motorcars. "What's going on, John?"
A trickle of blood ran down Dantonio's cheek. When he spoke his voice was low and strained. "Stay out of it, Denoux. Or you'll get yourself killed."
"Stay out of what? Who was that man?"
Dantonio leaned forward and pulled his feet under him. He grabbed Emile's shoulders for support. Shakily, he lurched to his feet. Emile stood beside him and supported him.
"I told you," Dantonio said. "He was a Negro bandit who's been robbing people uptown."
"And you just happened to find him a block from the Maggios' house?"
"We got a tip," the detective said. "What were you doing here?"
"Same as you," Emile said. "Looking for the Axman. After every attack there have been rumors that he skulks around for a few nights. And that was him, wasn't it? That was the Axman."
"No," Dantonio said.
"The man I just saw standing over you was the same man I saw this afternoon at the Maggios' funeral. And that's exactly what I'm putting in the newspaper."
"You do, and they'll come after you?"
"Who will come af
ter me, John? The Matrangas? Is this one of their Black Hand schemes?"
Dantonio leaned against Emile to steady himself. "It's bigger than that."
"What does that mean?"
Using Emile for a crutch, Dantonio stumbled to the front of the house and sat down on the edge of the porch. Under the light, Emile saw a gash in the side of the detective's head and blood soaking his black hair.
"It's the same racket but on a much grander scale," Dantonio said, his voice distorted with pain as he leaned against the house. The growling siren was only a few blocks away. "All over the city," the detective mumbled. "I've never seen a Black Hand swindle this big or this organized."
"But old man Matranga is behind it?"
Dantonio shook his head. "Not just him."
"Who then?"
The detective's eyes drooped.
"Who else is behind it?" Emile shouted as he shook Dantonio's shoulder.
The detective's eyes opened. "What?"
"Who else is behind this new racket?"
Dantonio's eyelids fluttered. Emile was no medical expert but he remembered hearing somewhere that if a man suffered a severe blow to the head, you weren't supposed to let him fall asleep. He gave Dantonio's cheek a light slap. The detective's eyes popped open.
"John, don't fall asleep. A police car is on the way."
"My head hurts."
"I know it does, but help is on the way. While we're waiting, tell me about the extortion racket. If Carlo Matranga isn't behind it, then who is?"
Dantonio took a deep breath that seemed to revive him. "Matranga is part of it, but he's not alone. He couldn't do something this big without help."
Emile felt his frustration rising. He was so close he could taste it. He heard the police motorcar skid to a stop down the street, probably next to Detective Obitz's body. "Help from who, John? Who is helping Matranga?"
Dantonio shook his head to clear it. He had heard the motorcar too. He grabbed the corner of the house and pulled himself to his feet. "You saw the man driving the car."
The Axman of New Orleans Page 13