Part 12 (2/2)
He set the report down, and dragged his fingers through his hair. Jane Doe, decapitated, destroyed. A pimp out on Bourbon Street. Decapitated, not mutilated. Did the killer only mutilate women? Was it even the same killer, or did they have a pair of maniacs with similar method roaming the streets. It wouldn't be the first time unrelated murders had occurred with fearfully close timing in New Orleans.
He looked over at the computer screen on his desk, then pushed the exit b.u.t.ton with an aggravated sigh.
It wasn't that he couldn't find similar homicides across the country. The problem was that he could find far too many. The microchip had done amazing things. He'd described their recent murders for the computer, and it had seemed that the information returned to him scrolled endlessly.
He'd pushed the wrong keys, he told himself morosely. Crimes, solved and unsolved, from more than a century past had appeared. Jack the Ripper appeared on the screen, along with the New Orleans Axeman, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Theodore Bundy. He needed to try again, entering-for the time being- only the past few years' worth of unsolved crimes. ”Voodoo, hoodoo,” Jack said, arriving by the side of his desk and plopping down a stack of books.
Sean looked up at him.
”Read the morning papers?”
Sean shrugged. ”Under the circ.u.mstances, I think the press has been kind. Did I tell you that you had to come in here today?”
Jack grinned. ”I knew you'd be in.”
”Ah. Well, you're a good kid, Jack.”
”I've been trying a few angles. Doing a lot of reading. What do you think of voodoo?”
Sean leaned back, arching a brow. ”What do I think of voodoo? Let me see ... okay, back a few centuries ago, slave traders dragged men out of Africa. Those guys brought pieces of an old religion with them here. For instance, a snake is important in many of the voodoo rites; it is referred to as the great Zombi. Their 'voodoo' was something they could use against their masters. Then Marie Laveau came along and made voodoo into big business.
She worked as a hairdresser and used the gossip she heard to make the populace believe she knew the deep, dark secrets and desires of her clients, and had the power to 'see.'
Today, voodoo is still a major source of income for many shop folk in the Quarter.”
”All right, all right. Scoff, but I've been reading.”
Sean arched a brow, grinning as he waited. He wasn't scoffing at the concept. Voodoo was like any other cult or magic. Sometimes, those with homicidal tendencies were influenced by the practices. And gris-gris, voodoo magic, could work off the power of the mind, just like any other so called ”magic.”
”The Marquis de Vaudreuil made a ruling, back in 17-something, that any slave master who allowed his slaves to congregate would be fined heavily. Slaves caught congregating could be whipped, branded with a fleur-de-lis, or even put to death.”
”Ouch,” Sean said, and shuddered.
”So even back then, folks were d.a.m.ned afraid of what voodoo could do. After 1803, when the Americans took hold of New Orleans, things changed. Lots of West Indian slaves had been brought here-and naturally, we Americans were more enlightened. Slaves began to congregrate, and practice voodoo. Okay, so to some, it was an innocent form of religion.”
”Umm,” Sean agreed. ”Lots of dancing, drinking of tafia- stuff nice and strong in alcoholic content. Enough people together in a frenzy and an energy is created- psychologists have studied the results of group energy among voodoos-and ye olde Shakers, too-who, incidentally, were never accused of much black magic. You can get a similar level of excitement in a good Baptist tent meeting.”
”Right. But there are doc.u.mented cases where voodoos practiced a lot of different sacrifices.”
”Drinking the blood of a kid-or a black cat. Black cats can give a good voodoo some serious power,” Sean said.
Jack cast him a serious frown in return. Sean shrugged. ”Go on, prove your point here.”
”Sean, in 1881, a pair of voodoos were arrested when they tied their son across a fire and beat him to death with a stick. In 1863, half a human torso was found in the home of a woman suspected to be a priestess.”
”Anybody can do anything in the name of religion. Look at the tortures of the Inquisition.”
”This is New Orleans, today-” Jack protested.
”And Jack, I'm d.a.m.ned proud of you. You've done some good reading, and since we don't know what will turn up in this investigation, anything you've learned may prove to be important. Now, what have you learned about Jack the Ripper?”
”He was never caught, and there are a million theories as to his ident.i.ty. Some Ripperologists are convinced that he might have been attached to the British Royals, and others believe he was a menial Polish worker-known as Leather Ap.r.o.n. Some believe he was Montagu Druit, and some believe that the Maybrick diary is true. Had the police only had today's scientific knowledge, some of the truth might easily have been proven-either to exonerate or condemn those suspected and arrested. Some say the police wanted a cover-up-especially if the murders involved the Royals in any way. However, had they had modern technology and used it, dozens of speculative books might not have been written, and the Ripper Tour in London might not be nearly so popular.”
”Helpful, very helpful,” Sean said.
Jack shrugged. ”There are books on Jack the Ripper in that pile as well.”
Sean leaned back. ”You don't seem to think we have a copycat killer.”
Jack shrugged. ”Jane Doe-ripped to shreds. Like the Ripper's last victim, not his first.
I think our killer was playing. He had plenty of time with his victim, knew about Jack the Ripper's crimes, and meant to send us scurrying for books and coming up with profiles and deeply pondering the issue. Then again, this killer likes attention. We're a big, busy, multi-ethnic city. To get attention, a murderer has to go for sensationalism. This guy doesn't want a few lines in the press and a three-minute spot on the local news. He's going for the spotlight.”
Sean was silent.
”Well, what do you think?”
Sean grinned. ”I think you're going to make a d.a.m.n good homicide detective.”
”As soon as I quit getting sick over the corpses,” Jack said.
Sean shook his head, studying the forensic reports once again. ”You've got to have heart and soul for the job, kid. Trust me. Guys like Pierre give us a h.e.l.l of a lot to work with, but half the battle still comes down to gut instinct. Like your last comment on the killer. He wants his crimes known. He wants to puzzle us. Play games. Keep us unnerved- which we are. We have no idea how, where, when, or who he'll strike next. G.o.d knows, so far we've been lucky. Not too many of the details on our Jane Doe are known, and people still see a pimp and a prost.i.tute.”
”Well ... I hate to say it, but ...”
”But what?”
”I mean, I really hate to say it because ...”
”Because what?” Sean demanded, exasperated.
”I happen to think she's the most exciting creature I've ever happened upon, but ...”
”Could we be referring to Maggie Montgomery?”
”Well, frankly, we've got nothing. Not a d.a.m.ned thing from the cemetery-poor Jane Doe slashed to bits-and nothing that even resembles a lead. The girl died without scratching a microscopic piece of flesh from her killer. Then we've got our pimp. Dead in his Armani suit. And nothing-except a trail of minute blood drops leading directly to Miss Montgomery's building.”
”And stopping at the door.”
”But going to the door.”
Sean nodded slowly, watching Jack. ”Tell me, in your study of the voodoos, did you come across a cult that siphoned human blood from corpses?”
<script>