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It’s not like I’ve got a police database to match a mug shot for this stuff.
The call disconnects.
Gathering my things, I give the walls one more glance. Then get out of there. When I step outside, the bright Louisiana sun is blinding after being inside the charred shell of the building. It’s impossible to resist gulping in large breaths of air as I pull the mask from my face, desperately trying to cleanse my clogged lungs.
Even before the fire, this neighborhood felt like a graveyard. The emptiness loud and massive for as far as the eye can see. It wasn’t just the structures dotting the streets that still had DB spray painted on them, an identification used after the hurricane to indicate there was a dead body inside. It’s the buildings themselves, abandoned and left to rot. Something sinister hangs in the air, I felt it as soon as I pulled in. Like an invisible poisonous fog in a concrete wasteland, once you enter, you’re never seen again.
Perfect location for a sacrifice.
There’s a uniformed policeman patrolling the street to keep out any nosy civilians, and protect the crime scene, at least until the investigation is over. That in itself is, I’m sure, a losing battle. You’ve got two kinds of people when it comes to this sort of stuff: those who love the thrill of the supernatural, and those who just like to cause trouble. The streets of the Ninth Ward have both. The other two locations were a mess by the time I arrived. When I took a step inside each of them, I immediately left. Everything that was pertinent to what I needed was either covered in graffiti or human excrements. At least I made it to this one before it was destroyed.
The uniform peers over his shoulder at me when he hears me approach. “All done in there, Detective?”
“Yes, thanks for standing guard. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I appreciated the company. Being out here all day is not at the top ten of my list of favorite things to do.”
“I get it.” I did, who the hell wants to spend all day in this hellhole? “I grew up not too far from here.”
“Yeah?” He pushes from the car and opens my car door for me, maybe relieved to have a living person to talk to for a while rather than whatever evil shit hangs in the air here.
I smile, because despite everything, having a normal conversation is a welcome distraction. “Yep, up in Filmore.”
“You don’t live there anymore?”
I slide into the driver’s seat. “No, I’m in Memphis. They called me in for the cases.”
He gets that look, the one that says, Oh, you’re one of them. “You must be good at what you do.”
I grab the door handle, ready to slam it in his face, normal conversation successfully terminated. “I guess the department thinks so. Thanks again, and enjoy your day,” asshole.
I close the door and leave the cop to finish out his shift by himself in the Ninth Ward. Have fun.
As I drive to the precinct, annoyance makes my foot a little heavy on the accelerator. It’s not that I’m not a people person, I’m just not one of those kinds of people who can keep her mouth shut if I don’t like something. Or someone. Which can lead to very lonely days.
Being back in New Orleans is a bittersweet experience. I love my city. It’s the preconceived notions of who and what I am that I hate. I’d love to discuss the cases with someone, without being judged.
Ignatius Beauchamp might be just the person. Hattie likes him, so how bad can he be?
