The Axman of New Orleans

by Chuck Hustmyre

  "I learned a lot more than I really cared to about Monfre," Emile said as he plucked another article from his stack. "This is from 1890. Monfre was eleven. The police picked him up for killing neighborhood cats. They found half a dozen cats buried in the courtyard behind his house. Because he was so young, no charges were ever filed."

  He held up another article. "Two years later, when Monfre was thirteen, a neighbor's ten-year-old daughter disappeared. The day the girl went missing, a furniture maker saw her and a boy walking down the street. The furniture maker's description of the boy matched Monfre exactly. Later, when detectives brought Monfre to the furniture maker to identify, the man said he couldn't be sure Monfre was the same boy he had seen with the girl. Monfre's father accompanied his son and the detectives to the furniture shop."

  "His father was Camorra," I said.

  Emile finished his cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground. Then he crushed it under his foot. "When Dominick O'Malley destroyed my father's newspaper, he killed my father as surely as if he had stabbed a dagger through his heart."

  "Dominick O'Malley is up to his neck in the Axman murders," I said. "And we're going to get him."

  Emile stared up at the stars. "What do you need me to do?"

  "More research," I said. "Every article you can find about O'Malley and Matranga."

  "Articles aren't evidence."

  "But affidavits are," I said. "From Tobias Conrad, from Mrs. Pepitone, and from you and me."

  "Affidavits attesting to what?"

  "Conrad can swear that Thompson and Campo tried to frame Louis Besozzi. Mrs. Pepitone can identify Joseph Monfre as the man who murdered her husband. I can say that the Pepitone murder is identical in every key aspect to the other Axman attacks and that all the evidence indicates they were committed by the same man. You can swear that you saw Monfre beating mourners at the Maggio funeral and again later that night when he shot Teddy Obitz and tried to shoot you."

  "Dantonio will deny it was Monfre who killed Obitz."

  "I'm not going to charge him with killing Obitz," I said. "I'm going to charge him with attempting to kill you."

  "How are you going to convince Mrs. Pepitone to testify against another Sicilian?"

  "Matranga wants her grocery store. Her husband defied him, and now she's defying him. He won't quit until he gets it, even if that means killing her and her children. She's a smart woman, and I'm going to explain to her that the best way to protect her children is to put Monfre in prison."

  "Even if she testifies against Monfre, that won't prove he committed any of the other Axman murders."

  "We only need him to hang once," I said.

  Emile nodded.

  I flipped my notebook to a fresh page and started jotting down the things we needed, making a checklist of evidence. "We have to build this case from the ground up, but we have to do it quickly. I don't think I have much time left at the Police Department."

  Emile looked down at my notes. "I could put in a good word for you with my editor. You might make a passable reporter."

  I gave him a sidelong glance. "And be a muckraker like you?"

  He laughed. "I said passable. I didn't say as good as me."

  "I'll keep that in mind. But what I would really like is a camera and a flash."

  "You want to be a photographer?" Emile sounded disappointed.

  "I need to get back inside that warehouse," I said. "When I take this case to the attorney general, I need to show him proof of what the conspiracy is all about."

  "And I suppose you want me to go with you."

  "I don't know how to work a camera."

  "Didn't the guards at that warehouse shoot at you?"

  "Just a couple times," I said, "but they didn't hit me."

  "That certainly makes me feel better."

  I slapped him on the shoulder. "At least we're not tilting at windmills anymore."

  He smiled. "Before we set off on our crusade, I could use a drink. And I'm going to telephone Colette and ask how long she thinks she will be mad at me."

  "And maybe apologize to her."

  Emile stood. "Join me for a drink?"

  I shook my head. "I'm going home. I want to finish reading through the files. Then I'm going to outline our plan of attack."

  Slinging his messenger bag on his shoulder, Emile said, "Spoken like a true soldier."

  I went back to writing notes.

  After a moment, when Emile didn't say anything else, I glanced up and saw him staring down at his suitcase. He tapped it with his shoe. "Since I'll be staying with you for a few days, would you be so kind as to ..."

  "Not a chance," I said. "I'm not your bellboy."

  He hefted the suitcase by its handle. "I'll be at the Red Stag if you change your mind and decide to join me."

  "I'll leave the door unlocked," I said. "And don't wake me up when you come home. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

  Emile clicked his heels and gave me a sloppy salute.

  I returned the salute by raising two fingers to the brim of my hat.

  As he started walking away, I called out to him. "And don't bother George."

  Emile stopped and turned around. "And who, may I ask, is George?"

  "My dog."

  "I didn't know you had a dog," he said.

  "I didn't know you had a mistress."

  "Touché," he said. Then he turned around and resumed walking, whistling some tune I vaguely recognized as the French military anthem.

  I folded my notebook and shoved it in my pocket. The Axman files were waiting for me at home.

  CHAPTER 52

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1919

  2:00 A.M.

  Maria shakes me. "Wake up," she says. "You must get out of the house." When I turn my head, I see my wife beside me in our bed. She looks scared. "He's here," she says.

  Then I opened my eyes and she was gone.

  George stood in the doorway barking at me. Through my bedroom window I saw a brilliant flash, then heard a thunderous crack. The house shook. A storm raged outside. Then the window shattered and something flew into the room. Broken glass showered my bed and the thing that had come through the window landed on the floor with a thud. The heavy curtain flapped in the wind. I smelled burning gunpowder and heard a steady hiss. Sparks arced over the footboard and landed on my blanket.

  I sprang from the bed. The object lay on the floor sparking and sputtering, a foot long and several inches wide. It was a bomb. Three sticks of dynamite wrapped in twine with barely an inch of fuse left. George, my protective mutt, snapped at the sparks as they flew through the air.

  I scooped up the dynamite bomb and pitched it underhanded back through the shattered window. Then I pivoted toward the door, but my left leg folded under me and I fell, still close enough to the door, though, to grab George by the scruff of his neck and roll us both into the hallway just as the dynamite bomb exploded outside.

  I felt the blast but didn't hear it. The concussion knocked me across the hallway and drove my head into the far wall.

  Then everything went black.

  I must have only been out for a few seconds because when I opened my eyes bits of plaster from the ceiling were still raining down on me. George was licking my face. My head hurt. My eyes wouldn't focus. Pointing toward the front door, I pushed George away. "Go, boy, go," I said, smacking him on his haunch and sending him scurrying down the hall.

  Using the wall for support, I climbed to my feet. From the bedroom, I heard the crackle of fire and saw the reflection of flames dancing across the floor. I stumbled back to my room. Most of the outside wall was blown in. Wooden siding lay jumbled across the floor. My bed was on fire. The flames were spreading quickly.

  My pistol had been blown off the nightstand and lay on the floor. I lurched into the room and stepped over a chunk of fallen ceiling. When I bent down to reach for my Colt, my head started spinning and I fell to my knees. For an instant everything turned gray. I knew I was about to pass out. I took
as deep a breath as I could manage. The smoke burned my throat and for one terrible instant all I could think about was the German mustard gas. I was reliving it, the gas scalding my throat and setting my lungs on fire. I couldn't breath. I was dying. Then I was back in my house, in my burning room. My lung ached, but I knew it was from smoke, not gas. I grabbed my pistol.

  When I looked up, the flames had swept across my bed and ignited the wall. Thick smoke filled the room. I crawled to my feet and staggered into the hallway. Bracing myself against the wall, I shuffled toward the den.

  George stood at the front door barking. I tried to tuck my Colt into my waistband and realized I wasn't wearing pants, only a nightshirt that hung to my knees. Glancing back, I saw that the flames had burned through the wall of my bedroom and were climbing toward the ceiling. Smoke roiled down the hall and was filling the den. There was no going back, not even for a pair of pants.

  George pawed the door, fear raising the hackles along his back. I jerked open the door and stumbled onto the porch just as a long bolt of lightning ripped through the black sky. The peal of thunder that followed rattled my eardrums, but I barely heard it. My ears were still ringing from the explosion, and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. A wave of nausea swept over me and nearly knocked me down. I grabbed onto a post to keep from falling down and waited for the feeling to pass. Then I kept moving.

  I saw the man who lived across the street standing on his porch. He shouted something at me, but I couldn't hear him. George pranced at my side, jumping back and forth, spinning in circles, and barking. I sat down in the middle of the street and laid my pistol beside me. My head was pounding. My ribs hurt.

  The rain was pouring down.

  More of my neighbors were piling out of their houses, watching helplessly as the flames consumed my home. The home I had shared with Maria. The home where our son had died. Houses in the French Quarter stood practically on top of one another, and a fire at one could spread quickly to the entire block. I hoped someone had called the Fire Department.

  Looking down Dauphine Street through the rain, I saw Emile two blocks away. I pushed myself to my feet and laughed at the sight of my friend blundering toward me in his wet suit and hat, arms wrapped around his suitcase, messenger bag bouncing on his hip. Maybe Colette would take us both in.

  Emile shouted something, but I couldn't hear the words through the ringing in my ears.

  "What?" I shouted back.

  A warning flitted at the back of my brain. Someone had blown up my house. He could still be here, watching me. Then I realized I was missing something. I glanced at my hands. They were empty. Where was my pistol? Another wave of nausea swept over me. I looked down. Everything was spinning. My Colt circled past me, lying on the brick pavement where I had set it.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I opened them again the world had mercifully stopped turning. Emile stood less than a block away, hands on his hips and suitcase at his feet as he took a moment to catch his breath. With only one lung I could probably still outrun Emile. Apparently, there was no French word for exercise.

  Emile stared at my burning house, and I could see anguish written across his face. He turned back to me and said something, but I couldn't catch the words. I took a step toward him. Then a shadow moved behind him, on the sidewalk just over his left shoulder. A man appeared out of the darkness. He wore a long coat and a dark hat and cradled a shotgun in his arms. I pointed and shouted. Emile said something and cupped his hand behind his ear.

  Then everything froze. Everything except the man with the shotgun. He jammed the butt against his shoulder and aimed the short twin barrels at Emile's back. I saw the muzzle flash.

  "No!" I screamed. Then I felt the boom roll across me.

  The blast hit Emile high in the back and slammed him facedown onto the street. He didn't cry out and he didn't move. I had seen hundreds of men go down just like that, and not one of them ever got up.

  My Colt was behind me. I dropped into a crouch and spun around. I grabbed it, felt the checkered wood press into my palm, stood up and turned back around. The man in the dark hat was forty away, shotgun pressed into his shoulder. The eyes under the brim of his slouch hat stared into mine. I dove to my right and snapped off a quick shot from the hip just as the muzzle of the shotgun exploded. Pellets from the blast tore the air above my head like incoming artillery shells. One of them ripped across my scalp.

  I hit the brick pavement hard. The blow knocked the wind out of me and pinned my right arm beneath me. By the time I righted myself and brought my pistol up, the man with the shotgun was gone. He had disappeared back into the darkness.

  I crawled to my feet and hobbled toward Emile. The top of my head burned. I reached up to touch it. When I pulled my hand away my fingers were smeared with blood.

  Kneeling beside Emile, I laid my pistol down and rolled my friend over. I pulled him to me and slid my knee under him to prop him up. His eyes were open. I heard air rattling through his punctured lungs as he tried to breathe. Seconds later, a bloody froth burst from his lips.

  "Emile, can you hear me?"

  The only thing that moved were his eyes.

  Hot tears mixed with the cold rain running down my face.

  "Just lie still," I said. "You're going to be all right."

  Emile's left arm moved, his hand reaching for something. I didn't try to stop him. He stared at me as his fingers dug into his trouser pocket. When he pulled out his hand, he was squeezing the liberty head half-dollar between two fingers. He tried to speak, but with the rain and the ringing in my ears I couldn't understand him. I bent my ear to his lips.

  Just as a bolt of lightning split the sky, I felt Emile's breath on my cheek. Then I heard him say, "Don't do anything stupid."

  I raised my head and looked at him. He pushed the coin toward me. I wept as I took it from his hand.

  CHAPTER 53

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1919

  6:00 A.M.

  I watched the two coroner's men load Emile's body into their black carriage. The old mule hitched to the front of the carriage looked miserable standing in the cold rain. Several uniformed policemen huddled in their raincoats in the middle of the street. Like the mule, they, too, looked miserable. A couple of my fellow detectives were making a show of knocking on doors, but none of my neighbors were answering.

  I was sitting on the top step of the porch across the street from my house with Superintendent Frank Thompson standing over me. "I'm sorry about your friend," Thompson said. "We'll get the man did it."

  Thompson was a fine actor and probably could have earned a living on the stage. His voice carried just the right combination of sorrow and outrage. He had not even mentioned my suspension, the one Captain Campo had hit me with after I barged into the superintendent's office. For now, Thompson was all sympathy and condolences.

  But his words meant nothing to me. I had seen the man who shot Emile. I had looked right into his eyes, and I knew who he was. Just a few hours before, I had seen a photograph of him. He was Joseph Monfre, and he had just murdered my best friend.

  "Do you need a place to stay?" Thompson asked. He was staring at the smoldering ruins of my house.

  "No," I said.

  A couple of firemen poked at the blackened remains with long wooden staves with steel hooks affixed to them, probing for hotspots buried under the rubble. Another pair of firemen stood by with a hose in case of a flare up. The firemen had managed to salvage my wardrobe, the outside of which had only been slightly charred, although everything inside of it smelled like smoke, and I had changed out of my nightshirt and into some proper clothes.

  Thompson cleared his throat. "Where will you go?"

  The last thing I wanted was Thompson or anyone at the Police Department knowing where to find me. "I don't know yet."

  The superintendent stood there for a few minutes. Then he tugged down the brim of his homburg and snapped up the collar of his overcoat. He brushed past me as he walked
down the steps. On the sidewalk, standing under a steady rain, he turned back to face me. "We'll need to know where to reach you ... for the coroner's inquest."

  I didn't say anything. Didn't even nod. I just stared at him until he turned around and walked toward his waiting car. Seeing the superintendent coming, the driver climbed out and scooted around the front to crank the motor.

  "It was Joseph Monfre," I said, plenty loud enough for all the policemen and firemen to hear me.

  Thompson stopped and turned around. "I don't know who you're talking about."

  My mouth tasted like soot. I spit on the sidewalk. "We both know that's a lie."

  Behind the superintendent, his driver spun the crank handle until the Ford's motor sputtered to life.

  Thompson glanced at the car. When he looked back at me, he spoke in a low voice. "Detective Fitzgerald, you've been through a great deal this morning. I'm sorry for your loss. However, you have said some insubordinate, downright crazy things these last few days. I'm willing to overlook your recent actions and your wild flights of fancy, but you've got to drop this obsession of yours. Take as much time as you need, but get hold of yourself. Then when you come back, I'll find a place for you. Perhaps as a sergeant."

  I looked at the coroner's black carriage, at the two attendants waiting for permission to cart Emile's body away. I felt my face flush with hot rage. Emile had not died so that I could sew on sergeant stripes.

  I glared at Thompson. "I'm pretty sure I'm not ever going to make sergeant."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  "Because I'm going to wreck this conspiracy that you and O'Malley are part of."

  "What conspiracy is that, Detective?"

  "The one that will give Carlo Matranga control over all the booze in this town on January 17th."

  Thompson didn't say anything. But he looked around and saw that every policeman and fireman was staring at us.