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Two
14 Days Until Mardi Gras
Ienter the building and pretend I’m not almost choking to death. I’m not sure which is worse, the mask I have to wear, or the oppressive air, wet and stagnant with the lingering smell of fire and thick with soggy ash. I try not to disturb anything as I walk through. This is a crime scene, and everything is evidence, even the slushy charcoal mud on the floor. Even though we had to wait until we were given clearance by the fire department that the premises was safe to enter, everything has already been tagged, photographed, taken in, and a crime sketch has been recorded. The only things left in the building are outlines on the floor, and ghosts. And those fucking markings on the walls.
That’s why I’m here. Alone.
God, I hate it.
The sergeant had no problem calling me into his office and asking me specifically to make a thorough analysis of what was on the walls and give him a full report. “We need to look at every angle. You’re the most qualified for that evidence, Dominique. However you want to do it is your call, but I need it done yesterday.”
That conversation had taken place as soon as I first walked into the precinct. The one day I had between now and then was spent combing through the previous crimes’ evidence and beginning the arduous task of making sense of the messages left in the symbols.
I feel like the weird new kid at school all over again.
I don’t know the other detectives in New Orleans, or any of the officers, which is why I decided to do this part of the investigation by myself. Granted, New Orleans may have been built on cotton and rice plantations, but it was the magic that put it on the map. That doesn’t mean regular people want to have anything to do with you if it’s in your blood. It’s like you’ve got herpes, no one wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole, or someone else’s dick. You’re a freak.
Everything has been thoroughly examined, inside and outside. That’s not what I’m focusing on, only things that somehow appear to be affiliated with the occult. Sometimes the most mundane or everyday item can be used in a spell. You just need to know what to look for.
For instance, how was the victim positioned? Which direction was she facing? How does the facility tie-in to the crime?
That one’s tricky.
Whoever is doing this has thought out every single piece of the crime, everything is relevant.
This victim, the third, was brought to a known betting and numbers racketeering location. Her eyes were gouged out. How the crime and facility are related makes no sense. But it does, somehow, we just have to figure it out.
The first murder had an obvious link with its location. A hysterectomy in an OBGYN clinic. The police thought the victim was most likely a hooker and some sicko with mommy issues did it. The second crime blew that theory right out of the water. This one completely destroys it.
The only things I imagine they have completely in common is the thick smell of the lingering smoke, still so heavy it clogs your lungs and beats down on you. And death, intense and palpable.
As I stare at the walls and read through the message in big black letters and symbols, I toy with the protective stones in my pants pockets - black tourmaline and amethyst. In this shit storm, I’m not taking anything for granted.
This isn’t going to be easy. Interpreting symbols is as complex as trying to translate ancient texts. The meanings change from one category to the next, much like texts change from one time span to another. Just because it might appear in a voodoo book doesn’t mean it’s voodoo magic. It could be hoodoo, or part of a satanic ritual, or some kind of warped religious cleansing bullshit. It’s my job to make sense of the symbols. A job I really don’t want anything to do with. For God’s sake, I got out of this place as fast as I could.
Pull up your big girl panties, Dominique, you’ve got a job to do.
I take a deep a breath and remove the digital camera from my purse. I don’t want any of this shit in my personal stuff. It’s bad enough I have to be here in person, I’m not taking anything back with me.
I stand back and look at the information again from different angles, then I start snapping pictures. I force myself to remain focused and detached, ignoring the constant hum in my veins and the thoughts flashing through my mind of the poor woman who was murdered in this room. I don’t let myself replay the crime frame by frame, or scream by scream, or every single agony she endured as the flames consumed her body and melted her alive. That was after they ripped her eyeballs out.
I force myself to picture the firefighters coming in here and putting out the fire. I try to feel their strength and their determination, I imagine them fighting against the flames and winning.
Because we have to win. We have to stop this monster before he – assuming it is a he - hurts anyone else. The murderer is human, and he can be caught. We will catch him. We all have to believe that.
I think of Ignatius Beauchamp, the big, tough fireman and what must have been going through his mind when he walked in here. I sensed he was kind, all kinds of bad in all the right ways, but he has a good heart. And a very familiar name. I couldn’t help wondering if I knew him. It wasn’t a coincidence; nothing is a coincidence. Only strategically placed events at very specific moments of time.
As I snap the last picture, I let out a heavy breath, relieved I can leave this crypt. When I stuff the camera back inside my bag, my ringing cell phone scares the life out of me.
“Detective Chavelle.” I force my tone to remain level, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Detective, have you made any sense out of the bullshit on the walls?” the sergeant snaps at me.
I’m grateful he can’t see me cringe. “Sir, it’s going to take a little time, there’s a lot of information to go through.”
I hear a loud thump over the phone line. It must be his fist making contact with the desk. The man’s going to have a coronary with these cases. “We don’t have time, goddammit! I want something on my desk by tomorrow morning, and it better not be another dead girl!” I can imagine the veins bulging out of his forehead.
I roll my eyes. “Understood, Sergeant.”
