The Insanity Plea (3 page)

(Twenty-nine
years earlier)

Dan was offered a scholarship to The
University of Texas in Austin, but not to play football. While the Division I
coaches admired his quarterbacking in high school, they concluded that he was
too small and thus prone to injury to play at their level. He had the opportunity
to play at smaller schools and turned them down. With an I.Q. of 150, what
people called a photographic mind and a score of over 1400 on the SAT, he was
offered, and took, a full academic scholarship. Seven years later he graduated
number one in his UT law school class after editing the law review his senior
year. Dan’s mother, stepfather and kid brother, now fifteen, sat front row,
center. The world was at his doorstep.

With offers from every major law firm
in the state and a number from New York and Chicago, he took the one from
Houston’s biggest firm, Freeman and Caldwell. The job came with assurances that
he would join their litigation section and be tied to a second chair in the
courtroom for no more than three years.
 
After
graduation he took the July bar and postponed his employment so he could marry
Mary Lee, that high school cheerleader who had been his only girlfriend since
junior high.

While it was not a wedding of
royalty, it came damn close. This was the quarterback on Galveston’s last state
championship team and the head cheerleader tying the knot. The church
overflowed. The elite of Galveston’s society joined with Dan’s championship
teammates. There were seven bridesmaids and seven groomsmen. The one on the far
end was Wayne, age fifteen and just proud to be a part of his brother’s life.

After the reception, the newlyweds
were driven to the Tremont Hotel on the Strand in a white carriage pulled by a
magnificent Andalusian gelding.

As they drove away, Dan looked back
into the crowd and whispered to Mary Lee, “There are three men out there with
gadgets in their ears. I could hear them talking about me.”

After eight victims, Parke realized
that he could not continue to target young female joggers exclusively. Even if
he traveled the country as he did on a frequent basis, in the age of modern
communication, someone, somewhere in law enforcement would eventually seize on
the pattern. If he was going to reach fifty, he wanted to delay that revelation
as long as possible. He decided that he had to diversify his mix of victims,
still focusing on young, beautiful specimens, only not all joggers. That led
him to New Orleans, a city that overflowed with tales of vampires, zombies,
ghosts and voodoo. The internet was filled with walking tours of the French
Quarter and guides that told those stories. It would be amusing to add to one
of those legends.

After arriving on a ten-thirty flight
on a Saturday morning, he checked into his hotel near the Quarter and ordered
room service. While eating lunch and watching the barge traffic on the
Mississippi River, his mind wandered back to the beginning of his quest.

It was an upstart forensic
psychiatrist from the East Coast that triggered it. Parke had made a slight
mistake in his testimony during a criminal trial in Seattle. The New York
psychiatrist was testifying for the defense and seized on his mistake, blowing
it all out of proportion, but it worked. He lost a case for the first time in
thirteen years. Only, that wasn’t the worst of it. The other psychiatrist then
published a journal article about the case and became in demand on the lecture
circuit throughout the country, speaking about
his
subject, the criminal mind. Parke was livid. He was the one
who for at least twenty years had been recognized as the foremost authority on
the criminal mind, particularly where serial killers were involved. He even
worked with the FBI and other law enforcement agencies to profile such killers,
not the guy from New York. Then there was his fifty year study of serial
killers and their motivations. He had spent years in research and was nearly
ready to publish it as the definitive treatise. Now his nemesis was making
claims that his techniques and analysis were antiquated and would not stand the
scrutiny of time. That treatise was intended to be his contribution to aid
other scientists in unraveling the inner workings of serial killers. He was
pissed.

He was still called on to lecture and
testify; only now he felt his legacy slipping. After being overlooked for
several important speaking engagements, he considered multiple options and
finally decided that he would not let his work and reputation be tarnished. He
would do something that had never been attempted. It would be his own study,
engaging in random serial killings. He pictured himself as a scientist doing
random clinical trials. He knew that he would not be the first scientist to use
human guinea pigs, not by a long shot. The United States government had been
experimenting and killing its citizens for at least two hundred years, all in
the name of the greater good. He had read about the Tuskegee syphilis trial on
four hundred poor black men and the Pennsylvania trials in the fifties and
sixties when mentally disabled women were inflicted with hepatitis. Even Jonas
Salk, who eventually discovered the cure for polio, had infected patients in
mental institutions with an influenza virus.

As he pondered his decision, he
concluded he was not mad. In fact, he was very analytical. The clinical study
had been carefully planned. He must sacrifice a number of subjects for the
advancement of science and mankind. For a statistically valid sample, he
concluded that fifty would be sufficient. After each one, he would record the
event in detail, how he chose the subject and, more importantly, his feelings
and emotions after dispatching the victim.

He was confident that he would not be
caught. He had studied them all. A few made mistakes. He learned from those
mistakes. Then there were others, like Dennis Rader, who called himself BTK
(bind, torture, kill). He had performed his rituals for sixteen years in his
own home town of Wichita and never came close to getting caught. He would have
died peacefully in his own bed, but he was drawn to the notoriety like a moth
to a flame. His communications with the police years later finally led to his
capture. If he and the Green River Killer and all of the others could avoid
capture, he would have no problem. After all, he had a genius I.Q. and knew
more about the criminal mind than anyone in the world. Once he completed the
series, he would write the final definitive scientific paper on serial killers.
He knew it would have to be locked up until after his death, but at least his
legacy would be there for others to study for the next two hundred years or
more.
 

After finishing lunch, he fished in
his briefcase for one of two ghost and cemetery tour tickets he had purchased
on the internet, retrieving the one for the two o’clock departure. This one was
intended to be a scouting trip to prepare for the main event on the nighttime
tour. He changed into shorts and a T-shirt with
City of New Orleans
emblazoned on the front. A Saints cap and sun
glasses completed his transformation into just another tourist.

He met the tour in front of a coffee
shop on Jackson Square. By the time he arrived, a dozen or so people were
milling around, tickets in hand. Most could have been on one of those Walmart shoppers’
websites. Parke elected to stand on the edge of the group, not really wanting
to be engaged in conversation. Within a matter of minutes a vivacious, young
brunette, probably a part-time college student, stepped from the coffee shop. She
introduced herself as Jennifer. The killer sized her up and concluded that she
was certainly suitable for number nine. “Let me start by taking your tickets
and getting your names.” When she reached him, he smiled, handed her his ticket
and said, “Paul.”

“Okay, give me a minute to drop these
tickets off with the cashier and we’ll be on our way.”

When Jennifer returned, she explained
briefly where they would be walking and invited questions. Jennifer turned out
to be a New Orleans history book. And Parke was correct. She was a history
major at Tulane. While this was a tour about ghosts, hauntings and such, she
seemed to know something about every old building they passed. She stopped in
front of a three story mansion. “If you see a little girl jumping from that
balcony, don’t worry. She lived there over a hundred years ago and leaped from
it to escape from the family that beat her every day. There have been so many
reports of her jumping that the police don’t even investigate any more.”

Several of the tourists pointed their
cell phones at the balcony and snapped pictures. Jennifer motioned the group to
follow.

“Here on Royal is the home of the
Octoroon Mistress. You probably won’t see her in the daytime. She’s usually
seen on the roof, completely naked. Legend has it that she was found in the
dead of winter, frozen on that roof. Nobody knows why.”

They arrived at the edge of a
cemetery on Rampart across from Our Lady Of
Guadalupe
church. “This is the
St. Louis Cemetery, the oldest in New Orleans, begun in 1789. Now, before we
enter the cemetery, my boss requires me to take a head count. When we get to the
other side, I’ll do it again,” she said with just a hint of mystery in her
voice. “Voodoo Queen LeVeaux is buried here. People have been known to enter
this cemetery and never come out.” Jennifer smiled. “Not to worry. That’s only
at night, not in the middle of the afternoon.”

Still she did a head count. A plan
began to form in Parke’s mind. He approached Jennifer. “This is really very
interesting. I’m impressed that you know so much about your city and how you
make the dead come alive, so to speak. You do many of these tours?”

Jennifer appreciated the compliment
and hoped it would turn into a generous tip. “Yes, sir. I’m a full time student
during the week. I do as many of these as I can on weekends. This is my second
today and I’ll be doing the eight o’clock one tonight. It’s really pretty
spooky after dark. If you’re interested in the paranormal I definitely
recommend it.”

The group entered the cemetery with
Jennifer pausing to discuss various tombs and luminaries buried in them. They
stopped at a large one, maybe twelve feet tall, three or four feet wide and six
feet long. Jennifer stood on the second step and faced her group.

“This is the most famous tomb in the
cemetery. Voodoo Queen LeVeaux is buried here. She is said to walk among the
tombstones at night, wearing a red and white turban and muttering a Santeria
voodoo curse, often loud enough to be heard out on Rampart Street. What you see
on the steps and around the tomb are voodoo offerings.” Scattered there were
candles, wilted flowers, Mardi Gras beads, Gris Gris bags, voodoo dolls and an
assortment of chicken feet. “Some folks pray for a long life or a new job. Some
want to put a curse on an enemy or a former lover. Others seek a blessing from
the Queen. Does it work? Not for me to judge.” Jennifer started to step down
and stopped. “Oh, I almost forgot. Look up to the top. He’s not there now, but
the true believers say that a twelve foot black boa constrictor was buried with
Queen LeVeaux. His name is Zombi. He’s been seen, curled on top of the tomb. At
night he slithers among the graves, looking for something to eat.”

One of the Walmart shoppers turned to
her husband. “Can’t stand snakes. Let’s get out of here.”

As she lead the group toward the gate,
Parke contemplated what he had learned and a plan appeared like an apparition
before him. He wouldn’t need his knife.

Wayne lived in a three story condo
behind a locked gate in a complex midway between downtown and the Texas Medical
Center. Wayne’s neighbors were singles, young couples, and some older
empty-nesters who were tired of fighting Houston traffic and enjoyed the
proximity to downtown, now home to the Houston Astros, Rockets, fine dining and
excellent theater. They still had their cars, yet often the vehicles remained
in the garage as they walked two blocks to the transit stop for the five minute
train ride to a ball game or the theater.

“Shit!” Wayne sputtered as he
stumbled on the stairs leading from his garage to the kitchen. It had been
years since he had been this drunk. It had also been years since he had to deal
with a brother he had painfully left behind.

Wayne’s condo would never appear in
House Beautiful
. The first level was a
large living/dining/kitchen area. Wayne had furnished it with two barstools at
the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. He kept intending to
buy a dining room table but never seemed to find the time. Instead, there was a
card table with four chairs. On special occasions, he covered the card table
with a table cloth and lit a couple of candles. The living room had a couch,
two easy chairs, and a coffee table, all selected in a ten minute walk-through at
the old Sears store over on Main Street.

 
Then there was the entertainment center. He
went to Gallery Furniture, a store that had a complete section devoted to
designing such centers for Houston’s professional athletes and the ultra-rich. The
television was the biggest HDTV he could find; the sound from the speakers
filled the room and occasionally caused complaints from neighbors. His system
was capable of recording almost any sporting event in the world for instant
replay at his convenience.

The two upper floors contained three
bedrooms and three baths. One of the two on the second floor served as Wayne’s home
office, furnished with a desk, chair, computer and phone; the other remained
vacant. The master was on the third floor. French doors opened out to a balcony
large enough for a two person hot tub and a spectacular view of the downtown
skyscrapers. On a semi-regular basis, after a movie downstairs, he was
successful in luring his date of the evening to the third floor balcony to sip
wine and watch the lights of downtown, followed by the hot tub and, if he got
lucky, into his king size bed thereafter.

When Wayne entered the kitchen, he
saw the message light blinking on his phone.

“Hey, bro. Don’t forget we got game
at Fonde tonight at seven. If you’re sharp, I might even convince some of the brothers
to let you take a couple of shots. Ciao.”

It was Wayne’s best friend, Duke Romack,
a six foot, ten inch criminal defense lawyer. He played five years in the NBA,
the last three in Houston before he blew out a knee and went to law school. He
loved Houston and the Houston fans returned the favor. Even after being out of
the league for ten years, he rarely had to pick up the tab in a restaurant or
bar.

Wayne glanced at the clock in the
kitchen. Good, he thought, time for a nap before basketball. If I don’t have
too bad a headache, maybe I can score a few points.