Unhinged (29 page)

Greta opened her bloodshot eyes and glanced around the room. With the previous tale seemingly forgotten, she pointed at my cup. “How's your coffee? I have vanilla pudding.” She let a weird moan escape, like a dog that couldn't quite get comfortable.

“No thanks,” I mumbled, dumbfounded. This went beyond anything I ever imagined. And if there was more, I didn't want to hear it. I rubbed my eyes as Mrs. Lotz wiped away her tears with her handkerchief.

“There was the pornography,” she began again, seeming to remember it offhandedly. “Bruce used to make Gene watch pornography. I don't know how often, but one day I came home and caught them watching it. Gene had his pants down. Bruce said he was trying to see if Gene would get a hard-on watching lesbians have sex. I knew better than to question him. You wouldn't believe the makeup I used to have to put on to hide my bruises. Gene could see through it, though. I imagine everyone could. I know you think I'm a monster, but if I went to the police back then, nothing would've happened. I feared for my life. I almost got desperate enough to call the senator, but . . .”

“Senator? The Louisiana senator?”

“Oh. Did I say that?”

“Why would you call the Louisiana senator about this? Wait a minute. President Robert Vorhees was the senator at that time. Did you know Vorhees?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I say some of the craziest things when I'm on my medication,” she backtracked as she tried to get herself up but merely fell back into the couch. “Pardon me, but I don't feel good. I'm very dizzy as a matter of fact. I've told you everything that I told the FBI. If you would please let yourself out, I'm feeling a little weak.”

“Tell me about the senator. Did you know him? Are you related to him somehow? I'll take some more coffee, maybe some pudding?”

“Please leave.” Mrs. Lotz stretched out on a couple of throw pillows and closed her eyes. “Haven't I shamed myself enough? Haven't I been punished enough?”

“I have more questions. Please.”

She opened her eyes. “Do you want me to go tell the press that you're here? That wouldn't look too good, knowing that you've been kicked off this case.” Her eyes closed again.

I rose, not knowing whether to call her bluff and keep her awake so that I could push the issue or just do more investigating. Her deep breaths and rapid eye movement told me I should leave and maybe come back to fight another day.

T
he Same Day Surgery Unit on the second floor at Children's Hospital had been quiet all day. A well-read copy of
People
magazine was lying in front of Jennifer on the break table, but she hadn't turned the page for several minutes.

She gazed straight ahead, fighting back tears and ignoring a Coke and a half-eaten sandwich to her left. She was lost in a daydream about her wedding and what it would be like with Paulina as her maid of honor. Jennifer had informed all the nurses in her unit that she didn't want to talk about the discovery of her sister's body, as the front-page news swept through the hospital like an airborne virus.

The emotions were like finally ripping a Band-Aid off a cut. Jennifer was able to cry with her parents, and there was going to be closure. Just one more newspaper article about capturing the killer for her father to put in his scrapbook, and he could finally put an end to his torment.

She feared watching television because every newscast was showing the Dixie-Mart where Paulina was found. Reporters were acting like ants that had just had their pile stepped on. It was only a matter of time before the press arrived at Children's Hospital and began scaling the walls.

Two other nurses, Donna and Angela, came in and said hi, but Jennifer barely acknowledged them with a wave. The women faced each other on the other side of the break table, and Donna started telling Angela about her wedding plans.

Jennifer desperately tried not to listen or stare, but every now and then she glanced at Donna's 1.2 carat engagement ring and then looked at hers. She didn't mind the size, yet she did. She wondered if she would've gotten a bigger rock if she had accused Decland of cheating, like she had wanted. The guilt was in his eyes, but she chose not to confront him on the issue, a choice that was eating away at her.

It had been nice to talk about wedding plans with Donna, although lately it had become more of a competition. Jennifer and Decland hadn't even set a date, much less booked a band, a caterer, or a reception hall. She hoped he was ready for marriage but wished that this Sarah Simpson business had never happened. She tried to rationalize that if Deck could forgive her for an indiscretion that couldn't be proved, then so could she.

Jennifer closed the magazine and got up to throw her trash away. She didn't want to listen to any more wedding talk. Besides, she had promised to visit a seven-year-old girl recovering in room 205.

“I'll see y'all later.” Jennifer rounded the table to leave.

Donna and Angela nodded, then looked at each other.

The unit's main hallway had shiny white and beige tiles that reflected Jennifer's warped image. She looked forward to talking to the little blonde girl who loved to laugh at her own jokes, but a page came over the unit intercom. “Jennifer, you have a call on 101.”

She took a detour to the nurses' station, dodging a couple of chairs, and picked up the phone. “Hello?” Jennifer glanced at Vicki, who stood near her and pretended to write in a chart.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Wilder? This is John Mayock. I'm a medic with EMS. Your father's been in an accident, and he wanted me to call you.”

“What? Is he all right?”

“He's fine, but his car is totaled and he's refusing medical help. He wants you to pick him up at the corner of West Esplanade and Power.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“He's busy getting his cuts bandaged by my partner. I think he's okay, but he says you're a nurse. Maybe you can change his mind.”

“I'll be right there.” Jennifer hung up and began to bite one of her nails, something she hadn't done in at least nine years. She remained frozen in thought.

Vicki bit her bottom lip and grimaced, adding yet another hue of pink around her mouth. “Anything wrong?”

Jennifer jumped. “I gotta go.” She backed away from the counter. “I can't talk about it now. Y'all got things covered here, right? Tell Donna I'll call to explain later.”

Jennifer trotted down the main hallway to an adjoining corridor with a staircase leading to the parking lot. The rooms in this hallway were only used for outgoing patients and were usually empty. She reached for the door that led into the stairwell, realizing that she was completely alone. There was a chilly echo of metal hitting metal as the door closed behind her, and then she remembered Decland's warning.

She felt an intuitive panic as she took the stairs quickly, wondering for a moment if the call she had received about her dad was even real and thought to call his cell. Arriving at the bottom near the surgery doors, a man grabbed her arm from behind, forcing her shoulder up to her cheek. She gasped and felt a trickle of urine escape. There was a sharp pain at her elbow where her attacker was tightly squeezing.

“Keep on walking, or I'll kill you right here. This is a gun pointed at your back,” he said casually.

Jennifer forced herself to breathe and keep her wits about her, but the pinch on her elbow was making her fingers numb. She slowly turned her head to get a look at her abductor, the man the reporters were calling the Absinthe Killer.

He nodded. “Act natural, or Decland will never see you alive again. We're going to walk out these doors to your car. Try to tip anyone off, and you'll regret it.” His eyes were huge, and his face was blotchy. She figured that his adrenaline must be off the charts.

There was no one in the surgery rooms or corridor leading to the exit, as was the case on most days. There were no witnesses. And to make the whole abduction more extraordinary, it was half a block to her car in broad daylight, and not one person walking toward them recognized her. Her mouth began to move with every stranger who approached, but she feared a small entrance wound in her back and an amazingly large blast of an exit wound from her abdomen. She didn't want to put any other person at risk, either. She couldn't believe this was actually happening or that she was letting it.

G
reta Lotz's story had me sympathizing with the child Spider. The pure torture that kid went through was enough to send any adolescent to the insane asylum.

I didn't want to call Jennifer because the Feds probably had a tap on our phone. The only soul I could turn to was Ron Lacey. I had to take a chance that a pair of Fed binoculars weren't focused on his front door. But what were they going to do if I merely wanted to visit an old friend?

It was 10:15 a.m. as I made my way across Lake Pontchartrain on the Twin Span Bridge, which ran from New Orleans East toward Slidell where the first immediate exit was Eden Isles, a small, quiet community built around a canal. Heading into the neighborhood, I saw the fire department Ron had told me he wanted to join. It appeared clean, undisturbed, and not a spotted K-9 in sight.

River Lane was easy to find as all the side streets crossed over the main thoroughfare. I parked in the driveway next to Ron's newly bought, beat-up, red Ford pickup. The flatbed had fishing poles, crab traps, and a cooler on it and exuded a horrid smell of fish. The door was open, but the screen door was locked with one of those flimsy aluminum hooks. Inside, boxes were stacked at different heights along the far wall, forming a crude city skyline of sorts.

I rang the bell and saw Lacey jogging from the kitchen. He had on plaid shorts and a dirty police T-shirt, the uniform of a retiree.

“Hey, Decland.” He opened the door, putting his hand on my shoulder. It smelled as if he had been shucking oysters.

“You're looking good. Doing a lot of fishing, are ya?” I looked around the place, not daring to tell him that I liked his other house better. This dwelling had no sense of its owners. I imagined the boring pile of bricks rejecting Ron and his wife as a body would a transplanted organ.

“Yeah. Besides unpacking, fishing's about all I do nowadays. Kathy likes me out of the house anyway. She's got her own decorating ideas. When I'm here, she's usually out shopping for more shit as if we didn't have enough. You think I should take a hint and live in the garage?”

Ron appeared more relaxed than the last time I had seen him, as if the evil spirits of Greenwood and the Eighth District were exorcised. I took a seat on his couch as he went into the kitchen. I figured he was getting coffee, but he came back with two Bud Lights.

“Maybe the garage would be good if you had a gas mask. You must be going nuts trying to stay busy.”

“It's nice being retired, but I miss the action.” He leaned on the bar that divided the kitchen and the living room. “The guys, too. Every now and then, I get a call from one of ‘em, letting me know what's going on. As a matter of fact, Greenwood called me earlier today and told me you found Paulina's body in that freezer at the store. He wanted to know if I was helping you go behind the Feds' backs.”

“What'd you say?”

“Told him no. I'm retired. Leave me alone.” I smiled, knowing he was probably leaving out some Ronisms.

“I like that you're fuckin' with the Feds, but you're gonna wind up fuckin' yourself. You want my advice?” He pointed at me. I could tell he liked having someone need his advice.

“You miss the case, don't you?” I glared at him to get a good read. “I was wondering why you haven't tried to contact me.”

“No, I don't miss the case. It was hard at first, but I'm relieved they gave me early retirement.” Ron stood up and walked over to a boom box on top of a bookcase. He pushed Play, and Jimmy Buffett's “Margaritaville” started. “My retirement music. It's the life I live now.” He turned around, smiling, doing something similar to a cha-cha, but it looked more like a seizure.