Medusa (5 page)

“Yeah, I guess those poor bastards in First Response jobs had their hands pretty full. Can’t envy law enforcement down there,” Tiller said, his tone lapsing into something a bit more thoughtful.
 

I could tell he was putting himself in the Louisiana cop’s shoes mentally, for perhaps the first time. I hoped that maybe that earned me some good Karma, if nothing else, for having planted the germ of understanding in his mind. Tiller was sharp, very sharp, but sometimes he played the role of the curmudgeon to his own detriment.
 

“There’s nothing more telling than a first-hand assessment,” I said, in gentle agreement. Tiller was thoughtfully quiet for a while after that.

Chapter 5

It’s a long drive down to New Orleans. You take I-59 down through Tuscaloosa, past the University of Alabama, where Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant led that college team to unparalleled glory from the 1960s through the 1980s. That old highway hooks through Meridian, and takes a gentle left and heads down toward the sea.
 

Then, there is a long drive ever southward, until 59 dead-ends into Highway 10, and then, my friend, you are in front of New Orleans, and you know this without a doubt, because the highway is now nothing but a great long bridge, running ever southward across a vast bayou, and the sun has burst free from the green canopy and is smiling down upon you, and the gulls are wheeling in the salty air that fills your lungs and takes a couple of years off you, and maybe, if you are in the right place metaphysically, makes your troubles seem lighter.
 

I observed all these wonders as Tiller and I sped along over the Pontchartrain Bridge. A hurricane had come and gone—Katrina. The entire world knew her name, and the damage that she had wrought, and the way the government had either bungled helping the people of that great city, or had simply turned a blind eye to their suffering. But the water had gone down, and New Orleans still remained.
 

“Maybe you made me see the light a little about what these guys have been through down here,” Tiller said in a grudging tone, rubbing his chin. “But that doesn’t alter the fact we need some cooperation if we are going to find Fain. Remember how much trouble we had locating him out west, in a sparsely populated area? And he didn’t even know we were looking for him. You can bet if he’s here, he’s gone to great lengths not to be found again.”
 

“He’s here. I have no doubt of it.”
 

Tiller merely grunted in response as I pulled the car into a visitor’s spot in the parking lot of the New Orleans Police Headquarters. Tiller looked up at the building’s marble facade, with its strange mystical symbol, and upside-down crescent moon with a star suspended under it. I am pretty sure he was reminded uneasily of magicians, fortune-tellers, and other, as he called them, weirdos. He was, no doubt, also thinking of his conversation with Officer Dupree on the telephone.
 

“It’s not you that I’m worried about,” was all that he said.

* * *

We signed in at the front desk, which looked pretty much like very front desk in every police station that I had ever seen. A bored rookie behind a bulletproof glass gazed down at us from an elevated floor on his side of the partition, and told us to sign in. He slid a clipboard to us through a slot in his impregnable cage. We took turns signing our names on a pad on the clipboard with a weathered pen that was tethered to it by a length of blue yarn and clear Scotch tape.
 

“Is Officer Dupree in?” Tiller asked impishly, rolling his eyes toward me.
 

“Tiller,” I chided.
 

“Officer Dupree’s off today,” the rookie informed him, and gave us both a blank questioning look.
 

We told him why we were there, and he told us to have a seat while he went scurrying off to talk to Detective Bishop. After about ten minutes, he came back, and nodded at us through the glass.
 

“Go through that door, gentleman. Detective Bishop’s office is the second door on the left.”
 

We got up and walked to the door he indicated. The rookie hit a button that we couldn’t see. A buzzer went off, and the all-metal door opened with a heavy clunk as the bolt released. We walked down the hall. Bishop was standing in the open doorway of his office, a cell phone to his ear. He raised his eyebrows and nodded at us in a sort of exaggerated gesture of recognition, and waved us in.
 

Bishop was a slender black man in his early fifties. He looked fit and moved with the ease of a much younger man. He gave the impression of being very active, and very much at ease with himself. Only his head of short, snowy hair betrayed his age. He had eyes like every detective the world over, hard but inquisitive, probing and intelligent. He looked somewhat like a shorter version of actor Morgan Freeman.
 

“So you’re Detective Tiller?” He addressed Tiller, ignoring me for the moment. He grunted something unintelligible to whomever he was talking to on his phone, snapped the cell phone closed, and put it away with a casual flourish.
 

“I am. Detective Sergeant Amos Tiller, Birmingham Police. I work homicide.”
 

Bishop and Tiller shook hands. Bishop looked at me, finally. “This is your partner, then?”
 

“This is Roland Longville, Detective Bishop. He’s a private investigator who worked with me on the other case, the one I sent you the copy of the file about.”
 

Bishop arched an eyebrow, clucked with his tongue, and moved around behind his desk.
 

“Yes. The two gentlemen from Birmingham have arrived at last. All right, Detective Tiller. I won’t beat around the bush. Regarding your former case out in Arizona, I brushed up on it. But to tell you the truth, once I got started reading the file you sent, it jogged my memory. It all came back to me because of the handling it got from our friends in the news media. I recall rather vividly seeing something about it on the nightly news, right after it happened. It was all pretty spectacular, too, I might add.”
 

He sat down and opened a folder on his desk, and looked up at Tiller. “Have a seat, you two.” Tiller and I obediently took seats in two office chairs and pulled them closer to the desk.
 

Bishop looked us over dourly for a few seconds before continuing. He was a man who clearly thought about what he was about to say before he uttered a word, a cop, but one who had more than a little bit of politician in him, too. He’d probably make commissioner, one day.
 

“First of all, Detective Tiller, let me just say that I apologize for not answering your message, but things around here are rather hectic. They have been for a while, I’m afraid. We are still trying to put parts of this city back under the rule of law. Hurricane Katrina is very much still with us, and will be for years to come. I did finally manage to wade through enough work, though, to get to your request. Let me assure you that I do take it with the utmost seriousness.”
 

He nodded toward a picture that lay atop the stack of information in the folder that he had opened. “Let’s begin with your suspect in this case . . . Samson Manley Fain. From his folder, he’s a dirt bird of the first order. Likes to have his way with little girls, and then likes to kill them. Damn near killed the both of you, I read here. I also devoted some attention to the details of his capture. Your fight with this Fain all but destroyed a town out there in Arizona. That’s pretty strong stuff. And then the bastard got away?”
 

I frowned and Tiller nodded.
 

“Fain was hospitalized, and escaped from police custody while still under medical care. Yeah, in short, he got away. The Arizona police went by the book, but they underestimated Samson Fain. He’s a sick evil bastard, sure, but he’s very smart, and he’s studied things like magic and sleight of hand his entire life. As it turns out, he’s a bit of an escape artist, too.”
 

I suppressed the urge to speak. I wanted to make Bishop understand what kind of monster Fain was, but of course he already knew the details of the case; he indicated as much himself. If he had been familiar with the case, it followed that he had known who Tiller and I were all along. Certainly he was aware of our identities, and I was willing to bet he had known before he had read the file. Bishop was probably just seeing if we were going to level with him voluntarily, and then deal with us accordingly.
 

Bishop stood and went to the window. “Like I said, we’re still trying to put things back together here in New Orleans, gentlemen. When Hurricane Katrina struck, it was like a nuclear war had started, and we were at ground zero. The levies broke, and over half of our city was under water. Hurricane Rita followed, mere days later, and made some very bad conditions even worse. Utilities were out, emergency agencies were overwhelmed, and the rest of the country seemed distant, very distant indeed. Help was a long time coming. Looting, rape, murder, and every other kind of crime, were rampant.”
 

Bishop shrugged and shook his head, a little like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. Or perhaps he was just remembering things he’d rather not think about.
 

“People starved and thirsted to death, gentlemen, right here in the streets where college kids and young couples from all over this country come to drink and party during Spring Break. A lot of violent prisoners escaped, and many of them are still unaccounted for, to this day. The waters receded, but after the water went down, we found we had even other problems.”
 

Bishop waved his hands toward the city that lay beyond his window as if he were a wizard casting a spell.
 

“Hospitals were so badly damaged that some were unable to resume functioning. The problems of ages past reasserted themselves. Cholera. E Coli in the water supply due to the sewers overflowing. And then the economic impact. Big businesses relocating to other cities. Whole areas of the city empty because people moved away. The resurgence of gang warfare. And so many other consequences it makes me tired to go into them, to even think about them.”
 

He turned to us once again and put up his hands, palm outward, like a man calling for quiet in an unruly auditorium. “I read that file you sent me, Detective Tiller. I read it very carefully. I agree that the crimes taking place now in New Orleans and the surrounding area bear a certain resemblance to the crimes that Samson Fain committed.”
 

Bishop’s expression remained impassive, but with his next words, his tone shifted noticeably.
 

“But gentlemen, there are many monsters loose in this great land of ours. It’s been estimated by the FBI that the United States has more serial killers on the loose than all of the other nations of the world combined. Suffice to say that I am not altogether convinced that our monster and your monster are one and the same, although I remain open to any further evidence that you might uncover.”
 

Ladies and gentlemen, my closing arguments, I thought to myself.
 

Bishop stepped around the desk, and it was evident that he was coming to a conclusion. “While I appreciate you two informing me that you are conducting an investigation in Greater New Orleans, I regret that at this time, I can’t extend much to you in the way of help. As I’ve told you, we are quite simply overwhelmed. I do offer our unqualified cooperation in your investigation, given your investigation here actually bears any fruit. In return for that cooperation, I trust you will keep this department up to date on your movements and so forth.”
 

Tiller stood and the two men shook hands.
 

“Good luck, Detective Tiller. And you too, Mr. Longville.”
 

And with that, Bishop gave us both a cursory nod. We were, quite clearly, dismissed.

Chapter 6

The New Orleans that most people think of doesn’t really exist. People come to that ancient city and behave, if that is a proper word, like there are no rules, no laws, and no morals that bind them. They do this because they are in some place where, presumably, no one knows them, and words and pictures of their exploits will never reach back home, where they live their comparatively boring lives.
 

Some of the more affluent tourists lament the passage of a grander time; some jeweled Southern city of genteel decadence, one that has passed into history with the advent of the commercial age. So there exists in the public mind two New Orleans, one a storied city of the archest and most subtle Southern charm; and the other a dissipate cesspool, populated by girls gone wild clad only in multicolored plastic beads, filled with every prurient interest that the human glands can devise.
 

Both cities are unreal, hyper-real, surreal, have never been real. They are, in fact, both creations of generations of advertisers’ fevered dreams. People who come seeking either New Orleans will be disappointed. New Orleans, the real New Orleans, is much more complicated and varied than that. She is and has always been a multi-lingual, multi-cultural, uniquely American city. She has her strengths and flaws, and they are, like her every other aspect, unique.