Artist (15 page)

The room was ten by ten, with dirty, undecorated
walls, a tiny bathroom attached. A rumpled bed pushed against the back wall, a grey wooden table with a brass lamp alongside the bed. Condoms packages littered the top. Sasha sat on the bed, motioning him over with a finger. ‘You come on over here. First though, I need the money.”

He laid a twenty on the table. She smiled, reached for him. Watt punched her in the face, the blow rocking her back across the bed. She hit her head on the wall, rolled over. He straddled her, grabbed the neck of her flimsy shirt, ripped it off, leaving shreds on her arms. Flipping her over, Sasha moaned, opened her eyes. His fingers found the center of the pink fabric between her breasts, pulled. It came apart under his hands
. Wads of white paper fell out.

“Oh, shit,” Watt said, looking down. The husky voice and now, in the light of the bedside table, he could see the shadow on the chin, the Adam’s apple, a few chest hairs. Joey Claire, runaway from Loose Creek, Missouri, fifteen miles southeast of Jefferson City, was picking himself
up. A foot lashed out, catching Watt solidly in the stomach. Air rushed out of his lungs and he doubled over, grabbing as he went. Fighting for breath, he butted Claire in the face as the boy struggled to rise. Watt fought with his hands, clawed at the boys face, digging his nails into the right eye, felt blood under his fingers. Claire screamed and tried to pull away, kicking, scratching. Another blow caught Watt in the ribs. They rolled onto the floor, Claire on top. He was screaming now. Watt’s fingers found purchase on the boy’s throat, reducing the screams to a strangled gurgling sound. He managed to get the boy off, rolling back toward the bed. The brass lamp shook, tumbled off the table. Watt, still holding the boy’s throat with his left hand, found the lamp with his right, raised it and brought the base crashing down. He made full contact with Claire’s forehead, the bulb exploded. In the dark, Watt hit him again. And then again.

“You’ve got a good one here,” Case said when Dupond and Cassie walked into the room, the fishing trip put off for the moment. Dupond caught a call from a Homicide detective right before leaving for the airport. Rather than
head straight out, he picked Cassie up, parking in a no parking zone. Her luggage was still in the back of his car. “You wanted physical evidence, you’ve got it. There’s a buttload of skin under his nails. He scratched the hell out of somebody.”

“He?” said Cassie. The b
ody was face down, torn pieces of a shirt still on the arms.

“Yes,” Case said. “He. Unless anatomy has changed since I graduated medical school. There’s a definite set of testicles under those shorts, which you can see for yourself if you bend down and
look in the right place. He has them tied back with a string. The girl next door, and she’s a real girl from what I can tell, says he’s been here about three months. He worked the streets under the name of Sasha. She’s been talking to Morel.”

While Case was talking, Dupond bent over the body. There were deep scratches on the fa
ce, and bruising around the left eye. Dried blood crusted the face and the floor below it. The top of the head caved in, distinctive curved dents across the forehead. A brass lamp lay half under the bed, smashed pieces of a wooden table around it.

Case caught Dupond’s eye. “Yes, I’d say so. There’s blood on the base so right now I’d say he got his head beaten in with his own lamp.”

“No sign of strangulation? Why did you have Morel call me in?

“Look under the window.”

Cassie turned. There was a window immediately adjacent to the door. Filmy curtains hung crookedly from a series of thumb tacks. Down near the floor, just above the peeling trim, were three letters. CLV.

“Holy shit,” Cassie said. 

“Yep,” Case said. “That’s what I said. Anyway, it looks like it happened sometime before midnight last night. There was a pretty good fight but nobody heard it, or at least nobody we’ve found. Morel has people out knocking on doors and they’ll hang around till the bars open.” He rubbed his eyes. “My guess is your boy is banged up. He’ll have scratches for sure, maybe a few bruises. We can pull a blood type from the tissue under the victim’s fingernails, so if you get a suspect that’s something we can use to eliminate him or keep him in the running.”

“Can we get a print from the writing?” Dupond asked

Case shook his head. “I don’t think so. It looks like he used a scrap of shirt to do it. You can see it in the corner over there.”

Cassie looked over the bathroom. A dingy shower stall, a cracked basin, and a stained toilet. There was a sliver of soap stuck in the corner of the basin. A ragged hotel towel lay on the floor. There was no blood anywhere in the bathroom. She moved back out, found Dupond on his hands and knees, shining a flashlight under the bed.

“Got a camera?” he asked Case. The ME nodded, went to his bag. Dupond took a half dozen shots, with a without a flash, put the camera down. He used a pencil to pull a crumpled bill out from underneath the bed. Case bagged it. Lying flat on his belly, Dupond slid a wallet out next. He left it on the floor, flipping it open with the pencil.

A clear plastic compartment held a Missouri driver’s license, a sullen looking boy with long blonde hair staring out. Dupond retrieved the camera and took another picture.

“Joseph Claire. Nineteen years old if this is him,” Dupond said. He checked the picture again, looked at the body. Even with the bruising the likeness was good. “And I’d say it is”

Case handed him a pair of gloves and Dupond held the wallet open by the edges. A movie stub, a folded up piece of paper that turned out to be a handwritten note, the letters faded, illegible, and underneath what looked like a phone number. Tucked away in a crease was a photograph, taken in black and white, and cut out of a sheet with pinking shears.  Joey Claire and a girl, grinning into the camera. The girl was holding a stuffed giraffe, Claire clutching a handful of popcorn.

Case held open a plastic bag and Dupond dropped the wallet and picture inside.

“He should have stayed in Missouri,” Case said.

Watt got out of the shower still shaking from the fight. He checked himself in the mirror. There were long scratches down his upper arms where the boy,
Oh God, it was a man, a boy
, had dug in with his fingernails. His right arm ached. He could feel the soreness settling in. He checked himself for blood, found none. His clothes he bundled up into a plastic bag, double wrapped it in another.
The car
, he thought, found a flashlight and spent twenty minutes inspecting the upholstery and the carpet, found nothing. He wiped it down anyway, using household cleaner and an old rag. The rag went into the bundle with his clothes, and the bundle went into the water underneath his dock. The tide was moving out and he watched as the bundle floated off, getting heavier and finally sinking away.

Back inside, he poured an inch of Bourbon into a glass, downed it, po
ured another before settling onto his couch. The lake was dark through the window, a single light, probably a trawler, moving across the water in the distance.
Think
. He would have to wear long sleeves to cover the scratches on his arms. That was acceptable. He could get away with that. A sudden fright gripped him and he went back into the bathroom, inspecting his face in the mirror, looking for bruises or marks, found none, and shaved his face smooth. The routine action soothed him, along with the Bourbon.

The idea that he was
taken in by a boy unnerved him. How had he not seen that? Would it have changed anything? The fight shocked him and in a strange way, excited him. He was skating on thin ice with this one, one blow away from capture. If he hadn’t grabbed the lamp, if it hadn’t been there, or if someone had been in the courtyard or on the street outside, what would have happened? The control he craved, the domination was absent in this one and it left him feeling grateful for escape but unfulfilled.
A boy
. Thinking about it, he found himself becoming aroused. What would that have been like? To have a boy at his fingertips? He lay in bed, half erect, thinking of the possibilities before slipping away into sleep.

“I don’t think it changes anything,” Adan argued, pacing around the office. “We’ve still got the same basic set of circumstances. In fact, we’re homing in on his areas. Look at this.” He pulled a sheaf of papers off his desk.

“I just got this from the credit card company. It’s a listing of all the purchases Cindy Kelt made in the last month. See this? Port of Call. She ate there a few days before we found her. So now, we know he’s comfortable around the University area and around the French Quarter. He picked her up at Port of Call, or met her there and set up a date. Then, he went back last night and met Claire.”

“He’s been dumping the bodies, or arranging them, all around the Lakefront. Why would he leave Claire in the Quarter?”

“My opinion?” Adan asked, “He got more than he bargained for when he picked up Claire. He’s used to women. He gets on top of them quick, gets them subdued, then takes his time. Claire fought back hard, things got desperate. By the time he finished beating him with the lamp, he panicked and got out of there as fast as he could.”

“He stopped long enough to write on the wall,” Dupond said. “That doesn’t make sense if he was trying to get away.”

“Sure it does,” Cassie said.

“How’s that?” Dupond said.

“Because,” Cassie thought, “It isn’t just about the killings anymore, or the rapes. It’s about….” She struggled to express the thought. “It’s about leaving something behind to let everyone know it’s him. It’s about …..”, and suddenly the word came to her. Out of the blue, or something she picked up on the scene, something the killer left in the air? No, it was about her vision, the girl on the wall, displayed like art. “It’s about his art, his craft. He’s creating something here and he wants the credit. That’s the most important part.”

“That,” said Dupond, “is the scariest thing I’ve ever heard. How did you come up with that?”

Cassie was pacing now. This was right, she could feel it, couldn’t explain how she knew, it just felt right. “Look, he starts off with Chaisson. He leaves a signature, but almost invisible. You had to look hard to find it but it’s there. He moves on to Cindy Kelt, a little bolder move. Somehow, he gets her alone. He’s got more time so he feels free to express himself. He etches the letters in, taking his time. It’s his first hello, his first real announcement of his presence.”

“Then,” she said, “he’s feeling good. The police aren’t close. He’s getting away with it. He decides to elevate things, take it to the next level. He picks up Clay and now he’s in full bloom, now he’s working.
The first act is the murder, then, the dissection is the process of creation, the park is his studio. It’s a place where he can work undisturbed, where he can create his next great work, and then put it up for public display.”

“And Claire?” Adan asked.

“Didn’t go right,” Cassie said. “Who knows what he was planning? I can’t see him trying to move the body anywhere. The French Quarter is too busy for that. So, if he was planning to leave him there then maybe…..”

“What?” Dupond asked.

“Every single victim he’s taken has been left in a pretty small area. Within blocks really. If he was planning on leaving Claire in the Quarter, maybe he’s trying to change things up. Maybe he’s getting nervous, because we’re in his territory now. We’ve invaded his space and he’s trying to throw us off.”

“Which means he knows about the setup with the detectives on campus,” Adan said, snapping his fingers.

“Exactly,” Cassie said. “It hasn’t been in the papers, though. The students know, most of them anyway. That would mean he’s either a student or connected to a student. So, he found out, got nervous, decided to lead us away by placing the body in the Quarter, miles away from where the others were left. Does that sound plausible?”

“It’s plausible,” Dupond said, “It sounds like we’re on the right track with the campus thing. If you’re right.
”

“So how do we work that angle?” Adan asked. “We’re already out at the school and we’ve gotten nothing.”

“We keep pushing,” replied Dupond. “Keep the guys out there. Maybe we can ramp it up, get our people moving around on the campus, asking questions, handing out fliers. I’ll try and get more patrols in the area. Try and push him more.”

“We would be running the risk of making him expand his territory,” Cassie said. “He could just as easily move to a different part of the city. Or stop altogether if he’s smart.”

“I don’t think he’ll stop,” Dupond said. “I don’t think he can stop. If you’re right, he sees this as some kind of mission.”

The lake was dead flat and gray, a smooth sheet that extended into the darkness. Dupond and Cassie stopped to look it over before the boat left the dock. The last few days had been hectic. Reed gave in on the patrols, doubling the manpower in the university area and the French Quarter itself. Three teams spent their days handing out fliers to students, asking for help and any information they might have. There were no more murders. At least none that were known.

Finally, Cassie and Dupond called it quits, crossing Lake Ponchartrain to Dupond’s family camp on the north shore. The place was built on pilings, elevated above the water. Dupond hauled the groceries inside and Cassie spent an hour making dinner. When it was done they slept, Cassie fitfully, Dupond like a rock. The plan was to take advantage of a clear day, working the railroad trestles that crossed the lake parallel to the I-10 bridge. Trout ran thick in the spring but it was well past spring. It was more getaway time than anything.