The Immorality Clause (5 page)

It was an interesting theory. There wasn’t much to link the murders, and the appearance of a biblical verse about prostitution was a new wrinkle which could make last night’s murder a completely separate event.
If
the cases were related, it would seem like the killer had an obsessive-compulsive disorder. By staggering them on different days of the week, they were trying to hide an accidental discovery. If I hadn’t placed the folders side-by-side on my desk, it’s likely that I wouldn’t have noticed it.

“If we’re correct… That means we only have a week until the next murder,” I said haltingly. I thought about the severity of the deaths, puzzling it out as we talked. “They’re getting worse; more violent.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “I don’t know if a stabbing death is worse than a beating death, but that’s debatable. Either way, you’d better go talk to the chief.”

I closed the case files and piled them up. “Yeah, you’re right,” I replied, picking up the folders and heading for the door. The chief was already breathing down my neck to figure these cases out before the FBI got involved. Now that there was a high probability that they were linked, the man would be insufferable.

FOUR: SATURDAY

My Jeep changed lanes to the exit off Chef Menteur Highway, the local name for US Route 90. After my discussion with the chief, I was running about ten minutes late for my interview with Miss Himura. I hated being late; it was unprofessional.

Chief Brubaker was both impressed and skeptical of my discoveries. The idea that we were dealing with a potential serial killer who’d committed four murders in four weeks was a serious problem. If the murders were related, they varied more widely than I’d ever heard of a killer doing, including the addition of a religious message on the latest murder. I’d need to dig deeper to find the killer’s true signature. Poisoning, blunt force trauma, stabbing and now disembowelment; none of them were even close to the same method.

I needed to go see the department’s psychologist to see if she could help me determine some link between the cases besides the obvious fact that the sex clubs in Easytown were being targeted. The problem was that she worked in the NOPD headquarters downtown, so it would have to wait until tomorrow.

As the Jeep cruised toward the apartment building where Paxton Himura lived, I dialed Jasmin Jones’ office phone number. I’d called her often enough over the years as I went in and out of the department’s anger management classes that I didn’t have to search for the number. I figured it was best to set up an appointment with her instead of just showing up at her office with a bunch of gruesome photographs.

The phone rang seven times and then a machine picked up. I was in the middle of leaving her a message when I realized that today was Saturday. She wouldn’t be in the office until Monday morning. I tapped a few keys on the dashboard monitor to bring up the department’s phone number list. I searched until I found her and then called her emergency line.

She answered on the third ring. “This is Dr. Jones.”

“Hi, Dr. Jones. Zach Forrest from the Easytown Precinct. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Detective. Yourself?”

“Good, thanks. Hey, sorry to bother you—” A blood-curdling scream reverberated across my car’s interior.

“Casey, I’m on the phone with work,” the doctor admonished. “I’m sorry—birthday party for a six year old.”

“I understand.” No, I didn’t. The only person I knew who had children that I interacted with was Amir. His kids were fine, but I couldn’t stand any of the other ones I’d met. Loud, needy, dirty; they were like homeless beggars calling after a pedestrian. No, thank you.

“I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” I continued. “I need to ask you a favor.”

She laughed and I heard kids yelling in the background. “You need a referral to talk to a psychiatrist?”

“What? No,” I replied quickly. “Do you think you could look at a few case files for me and tell me if I’m way off base for an initial linkage between four murders, all seemingly unrelated except they happened in the robotic sex clubs in Easytown.”

“Excuse me a moment, Detective,” she said. I heard her place a hand over the phone’s microphone and she told someone to hold off on lighting the candles.

The Jeep parked in front of the Regal Apartments and I eyed the sky dubiously. At least I came over here on a Saturday afternoon when a lot of the residents were gone, so there was parking close to the entrance.

“Alright, I’m back,” Dr. Jones said. Her voice echoed like she’d gone into a small room. “You said there have been four murders in an Easytown sex club?”

“Not quite. We’ve had four murders in four
different
clubs over the last four weeks.”

“I’m not a criminal psychologist, Zachary. My role is to discuss problems with police officers, not their cases.”

“I know this is outside your lane, Doc, but the mayor wants to keep the investigation out of the fed’s hands. If it turns out that they’re linked and we have a serial killer on the loose in New Orleans, the FBI will be all over the department.”

There was silence on the line for a few seconds and then she relented, “I can look at the files to see if I can give you a few pointers, but it would only be my opinion.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and then explained my burgeoning theory about why I thought that the cases may be related and went over the generic details of the murders.

“Hmm…” the doctor muttered. “The murder-suicide is a stretch, but it
does
fit the timeline, and I agree with you that they seem to be getting progressively more violent. Stabbing is less protracted than beating someone to death and I believe it could be considered not as violent on a scale of this sort. Switching up an M.O. is not unheard of with serial killers. The method a killer uses may change, but the underlying reason of why they’re doing it doesn’t.”

“Yeah, so that’s what I need help with. So far, the location and the timing of the murders are the only consistent elements. I’m not even sure that they’re related, but the evidence points toward that possibility.”

The muffled sounds of the natives getting restless in the background reminded me that she had somewhere to be. “Hey, sorry. I’ll let you get back to the birthday party,” I said. “I just needed a second set of eyes on this before the feds get wind of it.”

“Send the files to my house. I’ll look through them tonight and tomorrow. We’ll talk Monday morning.”

“Will do. Thank you, Doc.”

“No problem. Bye, Zachary.” She hung up before I could reply.

I wasn’t happy about the morning meeting since I typically worked nights, but I was off on Sunday, so maybe I’d be able to rest a little. I tapped a few more keys on the dash and Andi’s voice came through the radio. “Good afternoon, boss. My satellite interface says you’re in Venetian Isles. Did the navigation system malfunction in the Jeep again?”

I grimaced. The last time
that
happened, I’d ended up north of Slidell before Andi could override the car’s computer.

“No,” she stated immediately in response to her question. “Diagnostics show the vehicle is working correctly.”

“I’m meeting with a witness down here.”

“That’s acceptable. I was worried for you.” Andi made statements like that sometimes and I often wondered if her AI was developing faster than I thought possible. Computers could emulate human emotions, but they didn’t truly experience them.

“Can you have N.O.S.T. pick up a package I’m going to place in the external cargo deck?”

“Contents of the package and delivery location?” she asked.

“Police files and Dr. Jasmine Jones residence.”

There was a slight pause before Andi returned. “New Orleans Secure Transfer has been notified. They’ll pick up the package while you’re interviewing the witness. There’s a courier three blocks away on another call, he’s been rerouted to your location.”

I picked up the bundle of files from the perpetually empty passenger seat and wrapped a big rubber band around them. The courier was close; it didn’t make any sense to take the time to prepare the external cargo system. “I’ll meet them in person since they’re nearby. Can you change the method of pick up?”

“Done.”

“Thanks, Andi. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

“You’re welcome. Be safe.”

She clicked off and I saw the flashing orange lights of the N.O.S.T. truck speeding toward me through the windshield. These bots were fast.

The truck pulled up beside my door and extended a canopy over the Jeep to keep the rain from damaging the paperwork. I hit the automatic window button.

“Good afternoon, Detective Forrest. I am from New Orleans Secure Transfer to pick up a package for transport to Dr. Jasmine Jones, 8332 North Broad Street, New Orleans, Louisiana 70119.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” I replied. I didn’t know where the doctor lived; Andi had set up the delivery location. “Hey, do you have a large letter-sized envelope?”

“Yes, sir,” the robot answered and produced a plain manila envelope.

I took a moment to slide all of the files together inside the package and secure the flap. “Here you go,” I said, holding the package out the window into the funnel of dry air created by the canopy.

“Thank you, Detective Forrest,” it said, handing me a small receipt. “Estimated time of delivery to the residence of Dr. Jasmine Jones, 8332 North Broad Street, New Orleans, Louisiana 70119 is…nineteen minutes in current traffic. You will receive a confirmation message when it is delivered.”

“Okay, thanks,” I said, rapidly rolling up my window as the canopy retracted and the N.O.S.T. truck sped off toward the Tremé District.

I opened my door to get out and the phone rang. I slammed it shut against the rain. “Forrest.”

“Hey, Detective. It’s Drake.”

I glanced at the car’s display. He was calling me from his office line. “Little late in the day for you—or are you working early?”

“Both. The review of the robot’s memory bank at the Diva came back clean.”

“Explain ‘clean’ for me,” I said.

“There wasn’t anything in the bot’s video feed that’s of much use to us. After Wolfe finished fucking the thing, it went to take a shower. There’s some interesting behind the scenes, first-person point of view video of other naked women showering—until you remember that they’re all goddamned sex bots.”

Drake was firmly in the anti-robot camp and wasn’t afraid to let anyone know about it. It was a growing movement as people rebelled against the increasing number of robots in our society. Some pointed to popular fiction which said the bots would rise up to be our overlords one day. It was a bunch of garbage if you asked me, let them do the menial jobs like cleaning the sewers and scraping barnacles off the seawall.

“I’m sure the video of Chuck was riveting as well,” I chuckled.

“Yeah, no,” he replied. “I also reviewed the hallway footage.”

“And?”

“Nothing. There are people who walk by the room with sex bots heading for their room, but nobody goes in or out of Wolfe’s room until the robot leaves to get cleaned up.”

“Shit,” I muttered. There still weren’t any leads besides my crazy OCD killer idea.

“I’m having the tech guys analyze all the video properties to see if anything was deleted or spliced together, but that’ll take a few days.”

“Okay, thanks for the heads’ up. Can you send that over to my place? I’ll watch it when I’m done with this interview.”

“When are you gonna get any rest, sir?”

“Tomorrow’s my night off, so I’ll catch up then,” I replied.

“You’re not a spring chicken anymore… Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sergeant Drake. I’ll get some rest after I meet with the widow. Just don’t call me for another investigation tonight and I’ll be fine.”

“No promises,” he stated.

“Okay, I’m running late for a meeting with Miss Himura. I’ve got to go.”

“Sure thing, sir. Talk to you later.”

He disconnected the phone and I stared blankly out at the rain for a moment. I sighed and opened the door.

The Regal Apartments lived up to their name. When I walked in, a doorman took my hat and coat, offering to dry the fabric while I was upstairs speaking with the building’s resident. I didn’t know what they used to accomplish that task, but I hoped that whatever they did would get out the dried patch of white shawarma sauce from lunch. A dried stain like that near my crotch would evoke the thought that I’d sampled what The Digital Diva offered its clients instead of a simple sandwich accident.

The Regal Apartment’s lobby was more reminiscent of a Victorian Era hotel than the usual type of apartment building that I was used to. High-backed chairs and couches, dimpled with tacks, sat around wooden tables arranged for social gatherings. Faux fireplaces burned at various points around the room and most of the pictures on the walls had oversized gilt frames.

Classy joint
, I thought as I walked across the marble floor to the elevators. Another employee stood by the elevator and pushed the up button. I could have pushed the button myself. I wondered how much this place cost per month—and where did the manager of a sex club in Easytown get that kind of money?

Inside the elevator, another employee pushed the button for the twenty-second floor. I rode in silence with him as classical music played softly over the speakers; some number that sounded vaguely familiar, but I honestly had no clue what it was. My elevator companion announced our arrival and I bid him a good afternoon when I stepped out onto the empty twenty-second floor.
Who’s going to push the button for me to go back down when I’m done talking to the witness?
I wondered sarcastically.