Artist (10 page)

“The people at the University are going to shit when we show up with this idea.”

Reed didn’t like the idea at all.

“Are you fucking nuts?” he asked Dupond. “You want me to go to the University of New Orleans, tell them we think there’s a serial killer stalking the place, and ask them to let us set up an armed presence to interrogate their students? I can hear the word Nazi already.”

“It’s not going to be like that. We aren’t going to be interrogating anyone. It will be all volunteer
s. If someone wants to talk to us, we’ll be there. We won’t be chasing anyone down or stopping anyone. We put up a few flyers around campus and let them come to us if they have anything.”

“And what happens when the papers get hold of it? And the TV people? It’s like we’re announcing to the world that we have a serial killer around. People will panic.”

“We do have a serial killer around,” Cassie said.

Reed pointed his finger at her. “I agreed to let Dupond here train you. I didn’t agree to the Feds coming in and destroying the image of the city and this department and creating a panic.”

“What’s going to happen if he kills another girl and it looks like we’re not doing anything?” Dupond shot back. “At least this way we’re showing that we’re out there working this thing.”

“I don’t have a problem with giving you some manpower to canvas the area,” Reed said. He got up and went to the window, looked down on the street. Turning back, he said
, “I do have a problem with the whole University setup. It looks like we’re labeling it a Death Zone or something. The administration of that place does have some influence over the City Council. They’re not going to like it.”

“They don’t have to like it,” Dupond said. “None of us like it. It’s what we’ve got. It’s what we can do.”

Cassie and Dupond left with a compromise. They would get six uniforms to work the area, beginning with the neighborhoods directly around campus and working out from there. The television people were to run a public service spot asking anyone with information to call in. Flyers would be printed and put up around the campus.

“I’ll call the Dean but don’t expect much out of it. If he says no then I’m not going to argue. And he’s going to say no, I guarantee it.”

Dupond didn’t like fancy restaurants but he looked completely at home in Commanders Palace, Cassie thought. He had surprised her after their visit with Reed, insisting she go home and put on “something nice, something really nice” for dinner. He turned up at her door two hours later in a tailored Brook’s Brothers suit. She opened the door, laughed at his expression.

Cassie was wearing a sheer emerald green dress, cut low in front and cut even lower in the back. With her heels on, she was still four inches shorter than Dupond. The dress hugged her waist, showing off her figure. A pair of matching earrings set off the dress perfectly. A necklace, a long gold chain with a tiny diamond set against another ring of small emeralds dangled from her neck, accenting her chest.

“Too much?” she asked, worried she had overdressed.

“God, no,” Dupond said. “It’s…damn. You’re…I don’t know. Beautiful.”

With that part over, Cassie put on a shawl to cover her shoulders. On the ride to the restaurant, Dupond stealing glances the whole way, they avoided talk about the case. Dupond told her about his father’s business, his disappointment and finally acceptance that his youngest son wouldn’t be joining him in servicing the oil companies.

“He had a hard time with it at first,” Dupond said. “But I just didn’t want to do it. Besides, my younger brother took to it like a fish to water. We both got stock in the company and he’ll end up with most of it. Which is fine, he deserves it. He’s built it up a lot the last few years.”

“So,” Cassie said, “You’re telling me you’re rich?”

“Well, not filthy rich. But…I don’t know. It’s embarrassing to talk about money you haven’t earned
, you know? I don’t spend a lot, either. My problem is I like to work too much. What about you?”

“I’ve got a few bucks. I’m like you. The last few years I haven’t had any time to spend money. I’ve been too busy. I get a good salary, and some money from my parents when they died.”

“Look at us, “ Dupond said. “We both have money and we spend our time running around chasing maniacs. In my case, I’ve spent most of my time arresting idiots and losers. It seems like we should both be doing something else.”

Dinner was at a table for two, well away from other diners. Mid-week was slow and there weren’t many other people in the place. Dupond ordered champagne. Cassie ordered Gumbo, Dupond
, Turtle Soup and they swapped bowls, each sampling the other. Dinner was white shrimp with grits for Cassie. Dupond went with the veal. By the time they finished off the bread pudding for desert, Cassie decided it was one of the most enjoyable meals she’d ever had.

“As much as I like home cooking and family restaurants, I’ve got to say this was fantastic,” she told Dupond. “You’ve got to let me take you out sometime. Or cook for you. I’m a pretty good cook, you know. Nothing fancy but my mother taught me a few things.”

“That’s a deal. But I like taking you out. I like to watch you eat. And, it’s been good for me, too. I…”

“What?” Cassie asked.

“Nothing,” Dupond said.

The rest came much easier than Cassie believed it would, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Cassie led him to her door and into her apartment. She threw off the shawl, turned into him, stepping close, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I have a question to ask,” she said, looking up into his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“What would you like for breakfast?” Cassie said.

The phone. The goddamn phone. Dupond heard it ringing in his sleep, tried to ignore it, finally gave up and blindly reached for the bedside table. Nothing was there. The ringing kept on. He reached again. Still nothing. Finally, he managed to open his eyes. Cassie was sleeping next to him and the night rushed back into his memory. She had stolen all the covers, wrapping herself head to toe. Dupond had the trailing edges of a flowered sheet covering his legs. The phone rang again.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her in the back. “Your phone’s ringing.” It blared again and Dupond nudged her a little harder. “Cassie.”

“Goddamn,” Cassie said. She felt around on the bedside table on her side of the bed, picked up the receiver. “Hello?” There was enough light coming through the window that she could see it was early morning, very early morning.

“Cassie?” It was Adan.

“Yeah, yeah, Adan. What’s up? What time is it?”

“It’s a little after six. Any idea where Dupond is? There was a tone in his voice.

Cassie hesitated, wondering what Adan would think, decided she didn’t care. “Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on.” She handed the phone over. “It’s Adan.”

Ten minutes later they were out the door, heading down Hayne Boulevard with the lights flashing on top Dupond’s car.

“Goddamn, Goddamn, Goddamn,” Dupond said. “I knew it. I knew it. I should have done something sooner. I spent the whole week not doing shit, thinking instead of acting. Goddamn it.”

“There was nothing we could have done,” Cassie shot back, “Other than what we did. It’s not your fault. Adan and I were both there, too. Let’s just hope we get something from the scene.”

Cassie had seen carnage before. She had created carnage in her own way, seen men die, dealt out death herself. Nothing like this though. This was death brought down to an intimate level. It was so personal, so striking, she fought herself to even look at it. She and Dupond were standing on the backside of Pontchartrain Beach, the amusement park across the street from the university. The park ran a few hundred yards along the lakeshore. Rides lined both sides of the main fairway. On the western end, the rides and booths gave way to allow access to the beach itself behind the park.

It was an area set aside for families to picnic, eat lunch, take a break from riding the rides. A gazebo centered the area to provide shade and tables. On the center table was the dismembered corpse of a young girl. Her head, sawed off at the neck, looked out over the lake, the blonde hair just long enough to reach the table. The hair was combed, perfectly arranged. A barrette held the bangs off the forehead.

“Christ,” Dupond said. “Look at the body. Look how it’s arranged.”

The killer had taken his time, sawing each limb neatly off at the top joint. The right arm, broken neatly in two places, formed a perfect “C”. The torso was next to it. The left arm, palm curled upward, was lined neatly at the bottom of the torso, completing the “L”. Finally, both of the legs, sheared off at the hips, were touching foot to foot, the thighs splayed at the top. The “V” of CLV.

Watt bought every newspaper he could get his hands on for the next two days, morning and evening editions. The reporters covered themselves in it, reporting every fact they knew and many they only speculated on. Experts were interviewed, their opinions published for public consumption. The evening news ran an endless parade of shots of the closed down amusement park while breathless female reporters with perfect hair recited scripted renditions of the murder. Somewhere along the line, an enterprising reporter dug back over the last few weeks, tied Chaisson and Kelt and Maro into the whole picture.

Reed was frantic, fending off question after question from the press in harried conferences. Gun sales skyrocketed. Self-defense instructors reported a huge upsurge in women wanting to sign up for classes. Uniformed units spent most of their nights on prowler reports. The Governor pledged his support, sending emergency money for a task force. Reed took the money and for the first time in his career wasn’t happy about it.

“Give me something. Anything. They’re tearing me apart out there,” he said. They were in the office, Dupond, and Adan, and Cassie, listening to him plead. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

The last victim turned out to be sixteen, the daughter of a shipping executive. Amanda Clay was last seen by her friends doing underage drinking at a bar on Clematis Avenue. She started with beer. Her boyfriend started pushing shots of Jack Daniels on her. When she got sick and wanted to leave, he had refused. The boy went through a bad night of grilling by detectives, though his friends said he had spent the night with them.

Watt saw it all. Reveled in it. He threw caution to the wind and saved every article. They would never catch him. Why deny himself? He had everything he needed. The Clay girl had been exquisite. She barely woke up when he took her into his boath
ouse, raped and strangled her, the perfect submissive sacrifice for his altar. The work with the hacksaw was tedious though, taking him until well after midnight to complete. By the time he finished, the boards on the dock were soaked. Minnows gathered underneath, drawn by the blood dripping from above and the small bits of flesh falling through the cracks.

Placing her on the picnic table, arranging the limbs and torso just so, Watt saw himself as an artist in terror and flesh, weaving a tapestry of blood and panic. He felt sorry for himself. Great artists were recognized. He was doomed to toil in anonymity. He almost wept with self-pity. He drove away satisfied with his night’s work, waiting for the acclaim of the critics, needing it. He got it in spades, the artist whose work nobody really understood but couldn’t tear their eyes away from.

The University caved, providing a room in the Student Center and another in the History Building for Dupond’s men, he now had a dozen, to set up shop. The decision wasn’t popular. Dupond and Cassie met with the Dean and the heads of the departments on a Tuesday night
.  Most of the students were either at home, or cowering in dormitories. The only students walking around campus were male.

The Dean, a heavyset man named Burke, with bushy eyebrows and the baldest head Cassie had ever seen, welcomed them into the room. Seven men and three women seated around a table watched them with apprehension.

“I’ll begin, I suppose,” said Burke. “Gentlemen, and ladies, this is Detective Dupond and Agent Reynold. They are heading up the investigation into the murders. We’ve all read the news so we won’t cover them. Needless to say, Detective, we’d like to help but we all feel the need to protect the reputation of the University. Can you tell us your plans?”

Dupond spoke first. “First of all, the Department would like to thank you for your cooperation. What we have is a series of murders in the area. All have been either killed and left in the University area or dumped close by.”

A woman spoke up. “Do you think it’s a student?”

“Detective, this is Rebecca Showalter,” Burke said. “She’s the head of our Geology Department.”

“We simply don’t know,” Dupond said. “But the fact is that we have one student as a victim, and other campus worker as a victim, both of them worked or attended class in the same building. Another victim was found just across the street in Pontchartrain Beach. Another turned up less than a mile from here and the final victim was last seen less than five miles away. We’re concentrating our efforts in the area where the killer is operating.”