Never Tell

by Selena Montgomery

  For a moment, Erin thought of failing both students, but to accuse them of cheating would cause a scandal. The most popular girl at the university and her quarterback boyfriend? With a psychopath sending Erin notes, she didn’t dare—a happy coincidence of fate for Harmony and Reggie.

  “Ms. Abbott?”

  Erin turned in the narrow seat. Standing at the end of the chairs, a woman no taller than Erin beckoned. Sunkissed olive skin stretched taut across a broad face, capped by tight gray curls. Muscle packed tightly across the small frame, layered by a bit of cushioning. Erin set the papers on the table, rose, and extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Erin Abbott.”

  “Detective Sylvie Iberville.” The detective waited patiently while Erin collected her things. “Come this way, please.” They entered the squad room through the metal doors.

  Beyond the reception area, silence erupted into fits of sound. Cubicles and desks crowded a dingy floor that may have once been a cheery yellow. The detained waited in cages or sat chained to aluminum chairs bolted to the floors. Cries and screams drowned the clattering of typewriters and computers. Here the expected smell of day-old coffee wrestled with the disarming aroma of the unkempt, the busy, the overwhelmed. Rapt, Erin’s eyes widened in curiosity and apprehension. She caught the eye of a drunk, who proceeded to launch himself at her feet, declaring his love. Erin jumped and bumped into Sylvie.

  “Your first time in a police station?” Sylvie asked kindly, easily bypassing the drunk.

  Erin nodded sheepishly. “I’ve seen them on television, but the real thing is—”

  “Real,” the detective finished. “’Cause we’re in the middle of the French Quarter, life is never dull. It’s a twenty-four-hour party, and all the parents are away on vacation.”

  “I teach college students. I can only imagine.”

  Together, the pair walked to the end of the squad room and turned down a longer corridor. The hallway muffled the sounds of the police station, but the din hummed in the background. Sylvie escorted her into a cramped office, where file cabinets dueled with the desk for space. Papers leaned drunkenly on every horizontal surface.

  “Sorry about the mess,” the detective said as they maneuvered inside. She motioned Erin to a spindle-backed chair that wobbled as she sat. Sylvie swiveled her hips around to the opposite side with a minimum of effort after years of practice. “As you can see, I’m not much for the whole cleanliness-and-godliness idea. I figure He’ll take me as I am.”

  Erin smiled reassuringly. “No apology necessary. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

  “But you were expecting an audience with the captain.”

  Clutching the bag close, Erin shrugged. If Captain Sanchez was unavailable, she’d take what she could get. “I’d rather not do this more than once.”

  The detective leaned back in the office chair, one hand drumming lightly on the arm. “Captain Sanchez got called into a meeting. It will be a few hours before he’s back. I can take down your statement, and he’ll follow up.” No need to explain that Sanchez had pushed this one down to her in retaliation for a crack she’d made at staff yesterday about the ugly toupee covering his formerly shiny bald head. The man had no sense of humor. “So, what do you have for us that’s so important?”

  Erin hesitated for an instant, then reached into her satchel and pulled out the album she’d compiled. Setting it on the desk, she marshaled her thoughts. “I’m a psychology professor at Burkeen University,” she began. “I teach undergraduates, primarily, but my doctorate is in criminal psychology.”

  Used to the babbling of the nervous, Sylvie pasted on a patient look and examined her visitor. She wasn’t a native, that was for sure. Her crisp tones said money and breeding. Sylvie would bet the Northeast or maybe California. The young woman had the bone structure of the well-heeled, haughty and perfect. A gold strand with a solitaire gleamed at her throat, and actual diamonds winked in her ears.

  The suit she wore cost more than Sylvie made in a month. And she’d bet the blouse beneath it was silk. Same with her hair. As a woman, Sylvie understood the vibrant sheen and healthy strands, but with hair like that, a nice cut to shape her face wouldn’t have hurt.

  The cop in Sylvie listened to her, and she wondered what put the anxiety in Dr. Abbott’s cool voice. The woman obviously came from money, but she had brought trouble with her. “What brings you to the Eighth District on your lunch hour?” Sylvie asked quietly.

  Erin took a deep breath. “I received a note. And five obituaries.” She rummaged in her case and handed the envelope to the detective. She’d cut off the first line, the one that called her Analise.

  Shifting forward to take it, Sylvie pinned Erin with a stern look. “You think these deaths were homicides?”

  “Perhaps. I mean, yes. I did all the research I could, and they seem to fit a pattern.”

  Sylvie riffled through the columns and read the note. Running her thumb along the top edge of the note, she murmured, “Five murders?”

  “Those are the ones he sent me. D or possibly E and F are missing, but,” Erin blurted out, “I think you may have a serial killer operating here in New Orleans.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sylvie leaned forward. Why did she always get the crazy ones? “You want to run that past me again?”

  Easily reading the detective’s expression, Erin resisted the urge to bolt. What she had seen in the obituaries was an idea so preposterous, she hardly believed it herself. Mouth thinned, she opened the pages of the album. “I’m not insane, Detective. Someone wanted me to see something in these obituaries, and I think I do. I see a killer who wants an audience. He picked me.”

  “Why you?” Sylvie lifted the album. “Out of the thousands of people in the city, why’d he come to you?”

  “Because he knew I’d see the pattern.” Because Erin had seen darker passions, had come close to evil before. An evil that may have found her. Her stomach tightened, fear churning like acid. “Will you listen?”

  In silence, Sylvie considered the question. A fifteen-year veteran on the force, she knew what crazy looked like. The good professor seemed pretty sane but full of secrets. Dr. Abbott was also terrified. Watching the tug-of-war in her eyes, Sylvie grudgingly admired the sheer force of will that kept the girl in her seat.

  Sylvie decided to play along. Her next break wasn’t for nearly an hour, and Dr. Abbott’s story could pass the time. Dropping the album atop a stack of papers on her desk, Sylvie tapped a magenta-tipped nail on the plastic cover. “What am I looking at?”

  Erin took a deep breath, opened the album, and launched into her explanation. “After I got the note and the obits, I researched each victim’s death. This chart here.” Erin pointed to a table that listed each victim’s name, occupation, and date of death, and the murder weapon. Beside each column, she’d added a letter of the alphabet.

  “A. Julian Harris was a city planner who died outside his office. The police found a plastic cord that had been used to strangle him. B. Burleigh Singleton was beaten to death with an object the police officer on-scene identified as a cricket bat. But he couldn’t be sure, since he’d never played the game.”

  Surprised by the detail, Sylvie arched a brow. “You got all this from the paper?”

  “I found most of the information online. There’s a Web site about homicides in New Orleans.”

  “Damned Internet,” muttered Sylvie. “That’s where all the psychos get their tips these days.” Shaking her head, she said, “Go on.”

  Erin pointed to the next item. “Here. The police reported that Phoebe Bailey was found strangled near the Newbern Menagerie. She was a dancer in the Quarter. The assailant used equipment from the horse’s stall to kill her. That’s C.” As Erin flipped the page, the words seemed to tumble out. She circled the next entry with a shaky finger. “Police found the body of Juan Johnson, docent for the Heritage Museum, stabbed in the parking lot near the museum. According to the Web site, a chisel was used to kill him.
I think he’s D or E, but I can’t be sure. Last week, the victim was Maggie Fordham. She’d been strangled with a coil of wire, left at the scene. G.”

  Sylvie heard the break in her voice. “You knew her?”

  “We were neighbors. She was kind to me.”

  Interesting, Sylvie thought, that the young woman sounded surprised by another person’s kindness. She’d file that little tidbit away for now. First, she needed to understand the story she was hearing. “Tie it together for me,” Sylvie instructed. “You’ve given me dates and weapons and names. I don’t see the connections.”

  Erin returned to the chart. “See these occupations?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They’re not exactly accurate. For example, although the police report stated that Mr. Harris was a city planner, according to his obituary he was trained as an architect.”

  “Who was strangled.”

  “No, not strangled. Asphyxiated.”

  “So?”

  “The murderer tied a cord around his neck and asphyxiated him. Architect. Asphyxiation.”

  “That’s quite a leap, Doctor.” This time, Detective Iberville rolled her eyes in disbelief. “You can’t mean to tell me this supposedly brilliant serial killer is that obvious? A is for apple? Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” Erin confirmed coolly. “The first one isn’t terribly elaborate, I’ll grant you, but it was enough to throw your investigators off. Look at this one,” she instructed, jabbing at the details on the next page. “Mr. Singleton was a loan officer. A banker.”

  Not bothering to contain it, the detective snorted her amusement. “Who was beaten?” The full-blown laugh rippled through her. Wait until she told the squad. “Stretching a bit there, aren’t we, Doctor? You’ve been in the classroom too long.”

  Eyes narrowed and hardened, Erin bit out, “Mr. Singleton was not beaten. The more accurate description for the act was bludgeoned.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Different difference. The weapon the police officer misidentified as a cricket bat was a short stick filled with lead at one end.”

  “So?”

  Using the tone she generally reserved for obnoxious students, Erin explained brusquely, “A bludgeon is a short stick that usually has one thick or loaded end and is used as a weapon. I believe that would be the connection.”

  “Enough of this,” Sylvie snapped. “I’m sorry your classes are boring you, but I don’t have time for conspiracy theories or whatever this is.”

  The derision stung, but Erin held her temper in check. Detective Iberville had every reason to doubt her tale. Erin barely believed it herself. Still, one word kept her in her chair, kept her voice steady as her stomach trembled. Analise.

  She tried a different tack. “For the sake of argument, at least consider this: according to what I found, officers discovered the murder weapon at each crime scene.”

  “Your point?”

  “Criminals usually hide the evidence.”

  Sylvie tried not to roll her eyes. “If you’re really a psychologist, shouldn’t you of all people know that criminals are mostly stupid, Dr. Abbott?” Her tone left the legitimacy of the title “Doctor” hanging in the abruptly tense air.

  Grinding her teeth, Erin explained, “This killer did two things. One, he killed each victim near his or her workplace. Two, he left the most obvious clue at the crime scene.” Again Erin pointed to the album. “Whoever sent me the note knew that all I’d be able to find would be vital statistics and the method of murder.”

  Speaking over her, Sylvie wagged her finger. “Given the number of murders that happen in New Orleans each year, the absence of a criminal mastermind isn’t a lot to go on.”

  Erin slapped the book closed. “This isn’t the absence of a criminal mastermind! It’s the work of a man who wants admiration and a chase. Admiration because he committed five murders right under your nose. Actually, if I’m right, there have been seven victims.”

  “Seven murders without anyone but you catching on?”

  “I didn’t. Not until he showed me. He wants us to see what he can do when we’re not looking. Seven murders with no obvious connection. Which doesn’t matter as much because it’s seven out of twenty-six.”

  “Why not tell you about all seven?”

  “It’s all about the chase. He’s ready to play, and he wants to play now. So he offers me enough for a quick analysis, but I have to figure the two others out for myself.” Anticipating the next question, Erin asked it first. “Why did he pick me?”

  “Got it in one.”

  Erin did not stumble over her lie, though her throat threatened to close over the words. “I’m a criminal psychologist. He must know this. Moreover, I specialize in serial killers.”

  “Do you think he’s one of your students?”

  No, she thought. I think he’s the man I killed two years ago. “Perhaps.”

  Sylvie wasn’t convinced, but before she decided, she planned to do a little private investigation of her own. “Where are you from, Dr. Abbott?”

  “I teach at Burkeen University.”

  “I didn’t ask where you taught. I asked where you’re from.” Sylvie dug under a pile of folders for a pen and held it poised over a page covered with scrawl. “When did you move to New Orleans? Who gave you your degree?”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  Pursing her lips, Sylvie said, “I think you believe it.”

  “But you’re not going to help.”

  “We’re tight on resources, Dr. Abbott. These are real murders, and their families deserve justice. I’m not going to go haring off on a wild-goose chase to look for a phantom serial killer.” Sylvie patted Erin’s arm sympathetically. “A madman killed your friend Maggie. It’s natural to want revenge. And in your line of work, I can understand why you’d see conspiracies in every corner.”

  “I’m not some grief-stricken nut, Detective.” She shoved the album forward, angry that her hand shook slightly. From terror. If the police didn’t help her, didn’t believe her, she was on her own. Desperate now, she insisted, “Someone sent me these obituaries. Someone wrote me this note. I’m not making this up.”

  In polite dismissal, Sylvie pushed back from the desk and stood. “Dr. Abbott, your own theory doesn’t work.” Opening the album, she pointed to the page labeled “C.” “Flaw in your theory, Professor: Phoebe Bailey was a dancer killed with a surcingle. I’ve known her for twenty years, and I used to work at a stable. Dancer starts with d and surcingle starts with s. Nice try, though.”

  Erin went still, paralyzed by defeat. The police weren’t going to help her. Even if she tried to go around Detective Iberville, she’d probably face the same pitying looks of doubt. Once again, her survival rested in her own hands. Hadn’t she learned by now that she couldn’t count on others to save her?

  Stiffly she collected her things and walked to the door. “It’s your prerogative to doubt me, Detective Iberville. I didn’t expect you to believe my theory, but I had to try.” Opening the door, Erin halted in the doorway. “However, with all due respect, Ms. Bailey’s obituary says that she was a dancer from Jamaica, where the native dance is calypso. Calypso begins with a c. And while you’re correct, she was killed with a surcingle, you’re wrong about the spelling. Surcingle is a word that comes from the Middle French cengle and the Latin cingere, which means ‘to gird,’ and both of those words are spelled with a c. When the word was Americanized, we adopted an alternate spelling with an s. But even the American dictionaries recognize the original spelling: C-i-r-c-i-n-g-l-e.”

  Head down, Erin rushed from the office and stumbled against someone blocking her way out of the station. A smothered oath sailed over her head as her foot connected with a shin. Then icy cola spilled down the front of her shirt and dripped from the tweed jacket.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified. She looked up to repeat her apology. “You!”

  Gabriel wrestled with a smile. Luscious brown eyes shot venom a
t him while his soda soaked into her skin. “Hello, Alice.”

  The combination of fury and embarrassment on Erin’s face amused him. And intrigued him, almost more than the conversation he’d overheard.

  He started to offer her his handkerchief, then he thought better of the idea. Fishing into his jacket, he pulled out the square of linen every Southern gentleman of a certain age carried. Instead of handing it to her, as a gentleman would, he personally dabbed the linen against damp silk, his knuckles brushing skin.

  Erin stiffened at his touch. After the second accidental grazing of the swell of cleavage, she rudely snatched at the handkerchief. “I can dry myself, thank you.”

  “Of course.” He released the cloth. With his other hand, he crumpled his empty cup and set it on the shabby black cabinets that stood sentinel outside Sylvie’s door.

  He hadn’t expected to find his klutzy professor or the answer to his prayers in the station’s hallways. But he never turned down gifts from the fates, especially when they came so neatly and enticingly packaged. Propping his elbow on the cabinet and tucking his notepad behind a stack of files, he drawled, “What’s a nice girl like you doing at a police station in the middle of the day?”

  “Research for a class,” Erin lied automatically. The last thing she wanted at this moment was another conversation with Gabriel. She was sopping wet with cola and embarrassed, and her skin still tingled where his knuckles had caressed.

  It was all her fault, she conceded, an accident caused by her tendency to keep her head down. She wanted to slink away, but she owed him an apology.

  Gabriel spoke first. “Perhaps you should consider wearing warning bells or a turn signal.”

  Irritation stopped her apology. She grumbled, “Maybe you could stay out of my way.”

  Gabriel raised a single sable brow. “As it’s you who keep plowing into me, I don’t think I’m really the problem here. However, since you seem so distressed, I’ll forgive your lack of manners and take the blame.”

  “Generous of you.” Erin could feel cold Coke seeping into her skin, and behind her, she heard Detective Iberville shuffling around. The thought of another one of her pitying looks, particularly at her sodden appearance, spurred Erin into a more sincere apology. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Moss. I will launder your handkerchief and return it to you.” She sidled to the right of him, eager to escape. “And I swear I will do my best to stay out of your way from now on.”