Unhinged (14 page)

“We don't know if it's Gene,” Agent Wayne repeated. “We're just looking for him right now. We don't need any rumors started, okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes had opened wider, revealing a bright green I only thought you could get with colored contacts. She sat silent.

“Tell us about how you met at The Castle,” I continued. Her expression showed that I wasn't her favorite person at the moment. “Was Gene with anyone?”

“No, he was by himself. That fact alone should have warned me to stay away. But I was curious why he was in a meat market club. I went there with my friends for the dancing, so I never expected to pick anyone up. I think Gene noticed me looking at him as he walked around ‘cause he stopped by me after my friends went on the dance floor.”

“Was he wearing anything that made him stick out?” I asked.

“Basic black. A chain was hanging from his belt into his pocket. He had eyeliner on, pierced ear, lip, and tongue. His hair made him look like the Heat Miser from that Christmas show.”

“Did your friends meet him?”

“No. They saw him but left me alone while he was with me. I caught them looking over at me and shaking their heads, but I didn't care. I wanted someone different to talk to. I think I was in a transitional phase where I didn't want the perfect guy off the assembly line.”

“How long did you hang out?”

“The music at that place was always too loud to have a decent conversation, so we took a walk outside and talked. Gene told me he was supposed to meet a girl there, but she didn't show up. He was like a lost puppy. He said he was leaving but wanted my number.”

“Do you remember what day that was? What time he called you? Cell phone or home phone? And can we have that number?” There was a definite chance we could track down Gene's previous residence.

“Oh, God.” Sarah paused. “It was my cell phone years ago. I would never give out my home number to someone I didn't know. It was the summer I got my job with the airline. It was June or July five years back. I believe he called me late in the evening. His call shouldn't be that difficult to track down. I never talked much on the damn thing. It was just for emergencies. I wouldn't doubt it if his number is the only one on whatever day he called.”

“Can you write it down for us?” I asked.

“Of course.” Her dainty red-tipped fingers worked with the pen on my flimsy notepad.

“Thanks.” I handed her my card. I was now focusing on her eyes and beginning to wonder if I was ready for marriage. “If you think of anything else, call me immediately.”

We left her house and stood in a triangle near the car. I waited for someone to mention how hot she was.

Agent Wayne wiped the back of his neck. “My Lord, if I were twenty years younger.”

“Don't say a word.” Ron pointed at me. “You're about to be engaged. You gotta watch your eyes and your mouth from now on.”

“At least my mouth,” I retorted. After absorbing Sarah's sexuality, I suddenly wanted to get back to Jennifer and jump her bones.

“Well, we can't check out Tiritilli's in Chalmette. It's been wiped out,” Lacey said.

Tiritilli's Pizza was a chain like Pizza Hut. At the end of each commercial, an Italian with a hard-core accent said, “You won't fo'get about it.” Why Spider would choose the one in Chalmette baffled me. Maybe that particular pizza joint was the scene of some major embarrassment or bad date, and he wanted to right the wrong, like when you return to your high school reunion with a Victoria's Secret model.

“And The Castle was closed down,” I said. “I'm not sure if it reopened as another bar.”

“Okay, speaking of pizza, let's go get some, then call it a night. I'm hungry.” Wayne added, “We'll talk about our plan there.”

We drove out to Tiritilli's in Metairie in relative silence, each of us most likely going over Sarah's interview in our heads. I knew I was. After thirty minutes, we pulled up, and I was ready to suggest we grab a deep dish.

Ron led the way inside the casual dining room. It was simple and comfortable with a homey decor. A line of video games and poker machines teased us with flashing lights and sounds as we looked around for employees. No one was on the floor, and the register was unmanned. There were only two occupied tables. Ron and Wayne sat down at a table on the elevated level, while I waited to order at the counter.

A few seconds passed before a man from the kitchen came to the register. “Where y'at?”

Where y'at is basically a greeting asking how you are, not where you are. This told me he was a Yat, which is usually a person from Chalmette having another variation of the New Orleans accent all its own. “I'm good,” I responded, and just to be sure, I asked, “say, you from Chalmette?”

“Born and raised.”

“You aren't the previous operator of the Tiritilli's in Chalmette, are you?”

“No. Dat man died. Poor guy suffocated in the heat in his attic.”

“Oh. That's a shame.” I gave him our order, took my receipt, and returned to the table. “The Tiritilli's owner in Chalmette is dead. The guy up there knew him.”

“Another dead end,” Lacey said.

“So, where do we go from here?” I asked, getting the conversation rolling.

Agent Wayne took off his tie and folded it neatly into his shirt pocket. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and took a drink of water. The day was officially over for him.

Ron scooted himself as close to the table as his belly would allow. He arranged his small plate and utensils in front of him.

I waited through the silence while he fidgeted.

Wayne was the first to speak. “Plan to inform your captain of our situation first thing in the morning. After we eat, we should all go home and get a good night's rest. There's really nothing else to go on now, and it's getting late.”

Wayne and I stared at Ron, waiting for his opinion, which never came. We sat uncomfortably for a moment until the waiter came to the table with our Cokes. When the boy left, we were silent again. I felt like a child whose parents weren't arguing simply because I was in the room with them. Some children withdrew, while others tried to make peace. I would choose the latter if I needed to.

Ron eventually cut the tension. “So, Agent Wayne, what's your story?”

“What do you mean? I'm an agent with the bureau. My specialty is criminal profiling.”

“How'd you get into it?” I asked.

“I graduated from the academy in the late sixties when it was more like a boot camp. More abusive and hard-nosed. Now it's different. The academy's matured to teach specialties, real field training. I was assigned to a squad in Washington D.C., which was mainly involved in terrorist activity, a few kidnappings, and eventually I was transferred into serial killings.

“Then I heard about profiling, and I was highly skeptical. Most old-timers and law enforcement agencies called it voodoo and psychic mumbo jumbo, and I also thought it was ridiculous to think you could peg your suspect by how he or she killed. One day I signed up to take a class with John Douglas, the FBI's top profiler. I learned so much from that man. Now, as you know, profiling is a major tool in helping capture killers.”

“So, it goes far beyond a murderer just being a nutcase?” Ron asked. I couldn't tell if he was truly interested or just trying to trip Wayne up.

“Well, there are two types of murderers. Organized and disorganized. In murders of passion or lust, the organized killer is intelligent and plans out his attacks, even though he's psychopathic. They bring along the tools they need to do the deed and are methodical in the way they carry out their plan to kill or rape. Disorganized killers are, of course, the opposite. They attack on a whim, leaving a mess and a trail of evidence. They're usually poor, loners, unemployed, and not too bright. Mostly they're young and not too experienced. They tend to panic.

“There are combinations of the two types. Sometimes the killer will start off a bit disorganized but learns how to do it better and develops his MO into a pattern. Or the killer could be getting older and more careless, losing the attention to detail that he once had. I think Gene Lotz falls into the mixed category. He's young and still developing, but he's intelligent and is honing his skills.”

“How does raping his victims fall into this?” I found the subject fascinating, and Wayne seemed to enjoy talking about it like a professor to his class.

“I learned under an agent named Roy Hazelwood that rapists are divided into six categories. This was developed from four classifications of rapists—two power-seeking types and two angry types. We know that it's rare for a rape to occur merely for sexual pleasure. It has to do with power or hatred.”

“We understand the different reasons why men rape women,” Ron said. “Tell us where Gene Lotz fits into this.”

“I think Lotz falls into two categories of rapist. There's what we call the anger-retaliatory type. This person is out for revenge. Gene Lotz is seeking revenge against you, Deck. The fantasy Gene creates is that the victim needs to be punished. And then there's the anger-excitation type. This person is basically a sadist. Gene needs to get off on the pain of the victim. The more torture for his prey, the more pleasure.”

“Have you ever come across anything like this before?” I asked.

“Not exactly like this. There are some rapes and murders that don't fit neatly into a category, but it's pretty accurate, with few exceptions.”

I had forgotten about the pizza, but when the waiter brought it, we all tore into it in silence. Agent Wayne impressed me enough to seriously consider becoming a Fed like when I had fantasized about it in the academy.

A
t 8:30 p.m., we called Greenwood on our way to the station. Ron told him our intentions of going home after he dropped Wayne and me off at our cars, but Greenwood told us to come upstairs for a special meeting.

We arrived at the Eighth with our curiosity piqued. The fact that our desk captain was still on duty at this hour was a sign of the Four Horsemen.

We entered Greenwood's office to find there was a mystery man waiting for us. He was midforties, perfectly groomed, and standing in front of the low couch as if he refused to sit on it. He kept eye contact with Agent Wayne after his quick inspection of Ron and me. His light brown hair was thinning, and his shifty eyes were almost hidden by his bushy eyebrows.

“I'm Deputy Director Clancy Dorrick,” he said as he shook Ron's hand, then mine. He turned to Agent Wayne and shook his hand with a slight smile. “First of all, let me say that I commend you, the whole force here in New Orleans, for your bravery and commitment to this city during that horrible time.”

“Thank you,” Greenwood said.

Dorrick nodded at Ron and me. “I've been trying to stay up to date with the goings-on in this particular case. Captain Greenwood tells me you may be close.”

“Sit down, Detectives,” Greenwood said. I hated that we were getting comfortable. It meant at least another half hour going over our case with a new party.

I sat on a metal chair, still hung up on Dorrick's title.
Deputy Director.
That was just one man down from the top gun in the bureau, not including National Security Director.

Greenwood cleared his throat and motioned for Ron to sit also. I imagined he was shitting bricks right about now.

Clancy Dorrick merely sat on the edge of Greenwood's desk. I loved it.

“We have a strong suspect,” Ron answered. He made a face as if he had been trying to solve a calculus problem on the chalkboard for hours. We were all a bit perplexed by Dorrick's presence. Suddenly, Agent Wayne was the little fish.

Dorrick's eyebrows crunched in the middle when he continued. “Well, as I was saying to your captain, I'm making this visit as a special favor to President Vorhees. As you know, the president was Louisiana's senator before being elected, and news of these double homicides eventually got to the White House. The last thing he wants is bad publicity for the city when you're trying to get people to come back. He asked me to keep tabs on the investigation, but I figured I'd come down and personally help out for a while. It never hurts to get your hands dirty.”

Ron spoke up. “If word gets out that the president is inquiring about this case, we might end up with a catastrophe. Shit, imagine if the press announces it and the killer goes ballistic and tries to burn down the whole city.”

“Lacey,” Greenwood said, “I think the deputy director knows how to handle it. Do you know who you're talking to? I'm getting sick and tired of your problems with authority.”

“This is not the time to discuss office politics,” Ron said sharply. His eyes never left Dorrick's.

Dorrick held up one hand. “Detective Lacey is correct, Captain. Don't discuss personal matters in the company of outsiders. Please wait until Agent Wayne and I are gone. Now, we're aware of the potential sensationalism this may cause. That's why no one knows about my involvement here. President Vorhees is looking into real estate here. He has official inquiries, and they will be released by the press secretary. As you know, he resided in the uptown area. He's looking to buy retirement property, and I'm merely here to secure things for his arrival. What better vote of confidence than the president himself retiring here?