Last Known Victim (8 page)

Saturday, April 21, 2007
4:15 p.m.

P
atti sat at the IBIS console while the device compared the striations on the bullet found in Sammy's body to the one they had test-fired into the box of gel.

They matched beautifully, leaving no doubt both bullets had been fired from the same weapon.

She gazed at the computer-enhanced images. She had him. At long last. Her husband's murderer. Most probably the Handyman killer as well.

Her feelings swung between elation and doubt. The elation she understood, but not the doubt. Ben Franklin did not seem a terribly menacing villain. More a low-level hood and all-around loser.

Which meant exactly nothing. Real life wasn't like Hollywood, where the bad guys screamed the part. The most vicious killer she'd ever busted had had the appearance and demeanor of a choirboy.

She sat back. She felt he had been telling the truth about his reason for contacting Anna. Sharing that had been too uncomfortable to have been a lie.

If he was Sammy's killer, if he had buried him and the woman there in City Park, would he have admitted being anywhere near there? Sure, he could simply be an extremely stupid thug. A lot of them were.

But she didn't want to spend time or energy on the wrong guy. She didn't want to celebrate prematurely.

She wanted
him.
Sammy's killer.

And she wouldn't rest until she was certain she had him.

“Good news?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Spencer and smiled grimly. “We may have him. Take a look.”

He crossed and peered at the IBIS-enhanced images. A moment later, he straightened. “It's a good match.”

“Yes.”

“But you want more.”

It wasn't a question; she answered, anyway. “What if Franklin did find the gun? The real killer buried the bodies, then disposed of the weapon.”

“And got the hell out of town before Katrina struck.”

“Yes.”

“So, we find a connection between Franklin and the woman, and we've got him nailed. This might help.” He handed her a legal-size manila envelope. “The analysis of the City Park Jane Doe. Elizabeth Walker dropped it off.”

Excited, Patti opened the envelope and slid the report out.
Female. Caucasoid. Approximately twenty to twenty-five years old. Sixty-four inches tall. Hadn't given birth. An unusual number of broken bones. All old breaks. Probably the victim of childhood abuse. Badly overcrowded teeth.

“She could have been strangled,” Patti said. “Says here the hyoid bone was broken.”

“Elizabeth mentioned that. Problem is, as young as the victim was, she can't say for certain.”

Patti nodded. The hyoid bone was a horseshoe-shaped bone at the base of the skull that anchored the tongue in place. It started out in three pieces, not fully fusing until around age thirty-five.

Patti read on, through information she already knew from the crime scene, stopping when she found what she was seeking.

This victim belonged to the Handyman. The bones, the dismemberment point, fit perfectly.

It was official then—this young woman had been one of the Handyman's victims. Since Sammy's badge had been found in the grave with her, it could be assumed he had been one, too.

Spencer smiled. “You got to the good part.”

She met his eyes. “This is our lucky day.”

“Elizabeth suggested we send the skull over to Mackenzie at the FACES lab. It's in good shape, she thinks we could get a decent likeness.”

Alison Mackenzie was a forensic sculptor with Louisiana State University's Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services lab. Using standard data about tissue depths for a person's age, sex and race, along with the victim's skull, she recreated the dead's image in life. It was truly amazing how accurate some facial reconstructions turned out to be.

Of course, every Jane Doe didn't get such treatment. Forensic sculptors didn't grow on trees—and they didn't come cheap, either.

But this case was special. Not only were they dealing with a serial killer, but a cop killer as well.

“Next step, Captain?”

“We identify this victim. Then we link her to Franklin. Run a missing-persons search for anyone who fits this Jane Doe's description.”

He arched his eyebrows. “A missing-persons search? From around the time of Katrina?”

It sounded like a sick joke. Eighty percent of the city had either evacuated or gone missing. At one point after the storm, the official “missing” toll had been over eleven thousand.

There were still people who couldn't be accounted for.

“Get the skull over to Mackenzie. Tell her it's a priority.”

“You going to clear that with the brass?”

“This comes under ISD's jurisdiction and I'm ISD, Detective.”

He didn't respond and she went on. “Fill Detective Sciame in. Tell him his weekend is ending early.”

“And Franklin?”

“For now, we hold Mr. Franklin on unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon and possession of stolen goods.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007
6:15 p.m.

T
he duplex occupied an overgrown lot on the deathly quiet Mid-city street. The double row of multifamily residences stood vacant, boarded over, FEMA's bright orange X a shot of startling color on each entryway—like door decorations from hell.

Before Katrina the rentals had housed low income families, hard-partying singles and those preferring to keep a low profile.

And one of those had been someone special. With special secrets. Secrets housed inside those walls.

My pretties. Mine. Gone now. Being kept by strangers. It's almost more than I can bear.

Yours to lose. Your fault. You left them behind.

Here! In our safe house. Stored as best as—

In a freezer? A monster storm on the way? You never even checked on them.

How could I? No one expected what happened. After the storm, the city was impassable, all routes in closed. Later, it wasn't safe. I could have been found out.

If you had cared enough, you would have found a way. Stop whining and start a new collection.

It's not a collection! You know nothing of inspiration. Of beauty. From the hands and heart flow eternal truth and beauty.

And from both spew ugliness and betrayal.

Stop it. Please. I can't take your bullying anymore.

Make it right, then. Do what you need to do to make it right.

Sunday, April 22, 2007
1:15 a.m.

Y
vette worked to calm herself. She vibrated with anger. And with outrage.

Nobody gave her the run-around. Nobody stiffed her. Not even Marcus, the self-proclaimed owner of the universe.

She lit a cigarette and inhaled greedily, knowing the nicotine would calm her. She had played his blasted game, met his clients at the half dozen properties, let them in and waited for them to do their thing.

Whatever that was. Certainly not viewing commercial properties, though she didn't know squat about real estate.

But when it had come time to pay her, he had squeezed her ass and told her to be patient.

Bastard had promised her five hundred bucks. Just like the other times.

Then he came in tonight, with a group of his highfalutin cronies, and pretended she didn't exist.

Prick. He had sat back and laughed while one of the guys in his group tried to grab her tits. Big yuck.

Maybe what she needed was a little insurance policy. Before today, she had figured what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She had been a good girl, doing just as Marcus instructed, not particularly interested in the people she let into the properties or why they were there.

She'd wanted the money. That's what she had focused on.

No more. Next time she—

“Hey, Yvette.”

She jerked around. Brandi stood in the doorway “Got a special request. Table twelve.” She held it out. “He sent a note.”

Marcus. Time to send him a message.

“Tell him to go fuck himself.”

Brandi made a sound of surprise. “But—”

“You heard me.”

For a long moment, the other woman was silent. She still held out the note. “What if he complains to Tonya? She won't like this, Yvette.”

“Know what? She can go fu—” Yvette bit the words off and yanked the piece of paper from Brandi's hand. She fumbled around the cluttered vanity top for a pen and came up with a red lip liner instead.

Smiling to herself, she scrawled
Go Fuck Yourself!
in red across the note.

“Here—” she shoved it at Brandi “—there's my answer.”

“You're sure?” She nodded and the waitress backed toward the door. There she stopped. “Do you know him or something?”

“Or something.” Yvette took a deep drag on the smoke. “Give him that. Now.”

The waitress looked like she wanted to say more, to question her or argue, but simply left the dressing room.

Yvette waited for the fireworks to begin. Tonya ripping her a new one while she lectured about what was and wasn't acceptable. Marcus finding his way back here and slapping her around. Or another note delivered by Brandi, this one with a warning.

They didn't come. And when she went out for her last dance of the evening, she saw that Marcus had left.

Take that, chicken shit. Weasel.

The end of the night finally came and she clocked out. Tips had sucked, though she wasn't surprised. Most nights she enjoyed the game, was an active participant in it, but tonight she had simply been going through the motions.

And who was turned on by that?

She called “Good night” to her colleagues at the bar having a last drink, and let herself out the back door of the locked club.

Yvette walked home nearly every night, though she lived on the other side of the Quarter. She took the busiest route, often stopping at the Dungeon, a place open from midnight to 6:00 a.m. Sometimes one of the other girls accompanied her; once in a while she caught a lift home.

Truth was, living and working in the French Quarter eliminated the need for a car. Everything she needed was within walking distance.

She peeked out into the deserted alley. The door would automatically lock behind her, so before she shut it, she always checked the alley. With the exception of a few places, most notably Rampart Street near Armstrong Park, the Quarter was safe. At least for those who followed the basic rules of safety, like keeping to well-lit or busy streets.

This portion of the alley did not meet that criteria; however, twenty feet forward and a right turn did. The worst she'd encountered was the street person who occasionally made himself a home in a cardboard box near the Dumpster.

Antisocial and focused on their own survival, most of the homeless kept to themselves. This one broke the mold. One night he had trailed her home, hissing at her and making lewd comments. Finally she had thrown an empty beer bottle at him and he had taken off.

That was the thing about the Quarter. There wasn't a kind of freak that wasn't represented: men who dressed as women, women who dressed as men, horny bums, Goths, vamps, retards and all manner of delusional schizoids, most of them harmless.

She stepped into the alley. The door snapped shut behind her, the light dying with it.

“Hello, Yvette. I was waiting for you.”

Marcus.
She stopped and turned, searching the darkness. He stepped out of the shadows near the alley opening, blocking her exit.

“Have a good night?”

She hid her fear and tilted up her chin. “What do you care?”

He crossed to her. She saw that his eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. He stroked her cheek. “Don't ever do that to me again. You won't like what happens.”

She knocked his hand away, furious. “Go back to your frigid country-club wife. Let her get you off!”

He leaned closer, voice low and deliberate. “Don't push me, Yvette. I own you.”

Fear warred with fury. And pride.
Nobody owned her. Her life, her terms.

She stiffened. “I want my money, Marcus. I want my five hundred bucks!”

He slid his left hand into her hair. The other went to her throat. “Is that what it's all about for you? The money?” He curled his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. “Is it, sweetheart?”

Her eyes watered. It felt as if he was going to tear her hair out by the roots. If she struggled, he would. She didn't doubt that for a second.

“You promised,” she whispered.

“You'll get it when I say. And until then, you'll do whatever I say. Got that?”

She said she did and he released her. She stumbled backward, hand going to her stinging scalp.

Bastard! She couldn't let him get away with it. She wouldn't.

“Maybe I should pay a little visit to the cops?” she shouted after him. “For that matter, your wife, too. I'm sure she'd be really interested in our little arrange—”

He was on her so quickly, she didn't have time to protect herself. The force of his body propelled her backward, against the damp brick wall. His hands went to her throat.

“Try it, bitch, and I'll cut out your heart.”

He deepened the pressure. Yvette brought her hands to his, struggling to breathe. Dots of light danced before her eyes. Panicked, she wondered if he was going to kill her.

The door to the club opened; light spilled into the darkness. “Yvette? Are you there?”

Brandi! Thank God!

Unable to call out, she struggled against Marcus's grip. He released her and stepped back. “See you later, sweetheart,” he said, then turned and walked away.

Yvette sank to her knees, sputtering and gasping for air.

A moment later Brandi was kneeling beside her, arm around her shoulders. “My God, are you okay?”

Yvette struggled to speak. She realized she was trembling. Her teeth began to chatter.

Brandi rubbed her back. “Was that the guy from tonight? The one you wouldn't dance for?”

Yvette nodded. “I thought he…was going…to kill me.”

“I'm calling the cops.”

Brandi started to stand; Yvette caught her arm, stopping her. “Don't,” she croaked. “It'll only make things…worse.”

“How can it be worse? He tried to kill you!”

“Just help me up. I'm okay.”

Brandi hesitated a moment, then did as she asked. Unsteady on her feet, she took a deep, calming breath, acknowledging she was happy to be alive.

She sent a small smile to Brandi. “Thanks. If you hadn't…”

She let the thought trail off. Brandi jumped in quickly. “How about I give you a ride home?”

“I don't live that far. I can—”

“Walk? Get real. What if that creep is waiting for you?”

She had a point. And the truth was, at this moment she felt neither steady nor brave.

She and Brandi walked to the lot where Brandi had parked her car, a battered SUV. They climbed in and Yvette sagged back against the seat, exhausted.

“Where to?”

She gave directions, then closed her eyes. What had she been thinking? Challenging Marcus that way? Threatening him with the cops? Threatening to go to his wife?

“Right turn?”

She cracked open her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Several directions later, Brandi pulled the vehicle to a stop. “Here we are,” she said.

Yvette grabbed the door handle, then hesitated, suddenly not wanting to be alone. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“Anytime. If you change your mind about the cops—”

“I won't.” Yvette opened the vehicle door, climbed halfway out, then glanced back. “I really appreciate…you know.”

“No problem.” Brandi smiled. “I'll watch to make sure you get in.”

Yvette hesitated again, thinking of her dark, empty apartment.

“You sure you're okay?”

She forced a breezy smile. “Yeah, I'm fine. See you around.”

She slipped out of the vehicle and darted for the door.