“All right, all right. Scoff, but I’ve been reading.”
Sean arched a brow, grinning as he waited. He wasn’t scoffing at the concept. Voodoo was like any other cult or magic. Sometimes, those with homicidal tendencies were influenced by the practices. And gris-gris, voodoo magic, could work off the power of the mind, just like any other so called “magic.”
“The Marquis de Vaudreuil made a ruling, back in 17-something, that any slave master who allowed his slaves to congregate would be fined heavily. Slaves caught congregating could be whipped, branded with a fleur-de-lis, or even put to death.”
“Ouch,” Sean said, and shuddered.
“So even back then, folks were damned afraid of what voodoo could do. After 1803, when the Americans took hold of New Orleans, things changed. Lots of West Indian slaves had been brought here—and naturally, we Americans were more enlightened. Slaves began to congregrate, and practice voodoo. Okay, so to some, it was an innocent form of religion.”
“Umm,” Sean agreed. “Lots of dancing, drinking of tafia— stuff nice and strong in alcoholic content.
Enough people together in a frenzy and an energy is created—psychologists have studied the results of group energy among voodoos—and ye olde Shakers, too-who, incidentally, were never accused of much black magic. You can get a similar level of excitement in a good Baptist tent meeting.”
“Right. But there are documented cases where voodoos practiced a lot of different sacrifices.”
“Drinking the blood of a kid—or a black cat. Black cats can give a good voodoo some serious power,” Sean said.
Jack cast him a serious frown in return. Sean shrugged. “Go on, prove your point here.”
“Sean, in 1881, a pair of voodoos were arrested when they tied their son across a fire and beat him to death with a stick. In 1863, half a human torso was found in the home of a woman suspected to be a priestess.”
“Anybody can do anything in the name of religion. Look at the tortures of the Inquisition.”
“This is New Orleans, today—” Jack protested.
“And Jack, I’m damned proud of you. You’ve done some good reading, and since we don’t know what will turn up in this investigation, anything you’ve learned may prove to be important. Now, what have you learned about Jack the Ripper?”
“He was never caught, and there are a million theories as to his identity. Some Ripperologists are convinced that he might have been attached to the British Royals, and others believe he was a menial Polish worker—known as Leather Apron. Some believe he was Montagu Druit, and some believe that the Maybrick diary is true. Had the police only had today’s scientific knowledge, some of the truth might easily have been proven—either to exonerate or condemn those suspected and arrested. Some say the police wanted a cover-up—especially if the murders involved the Royals in any way. However, had they had modern technology and used it, dozens of speculative books might not have been written, and the Ripper Tour in London might not be nearly so popular.”
“Helpful, very helpful,” Sean said.
Jack shrugged. “There are books on Jack the Ripper in that pile as well.” Sean leaned back. “You don’t seem to think we have a copycat killer.” Jack shrugged. “Jane Doe—ripped to shreds. Like the Ripper’s last victim, not his first. I think our killer was playing. He had plenty of time with his victim, knew about Jack the Ripper’s crimes, and meant to send us scurrying for books and coming up with profiles and deeply pondering the issue. Then again, this killer likes attention. We’re a big, busy, multi-ethnic city. To get attention, a murderer has to go for sensationalism. This guy doesn’t want a few lines in the press and a three-minute spot on the local news.
He’s going for the spotlight.”
Sean was silent.
“Well, what do you think?”
Sean grinned. “I think you’re going to make a damn good homicide detective.”
“As soon as I quit getting sick over the corpses,” Jack said.
Sean shook his head, studying the forensic reports once again. “You’ve got to have heart and soul for the job, kid. Trust me. Guys like Pierre give us a hell of a lot to work with, but half the battle still comes down to gut instinct. Like your last comment on the killer. He wants his crimes known. He wants to puzzle us. Play games. Keep us unnerved—which we are. We have no idea how, where, when, or who he’ll strike next. God knows, so far we’ve been lucky. Not too many of the details on our Jane Doe are known, and people still see a pimp and a prostitute.”
“Well ... I hate to say it, but ...”
“But what?”
“I mean, I really hate to say it because ...”
“Because what?” Sean demanded, exasperated.
“I happen to think she’s the most exciting creature I’ve ever happened upon, but ...”
“Could we be referring to Maggie Montgomery?”
“Well, frankly, we’ve got nothing. Not a damned thing from the cemetery—poor Jane Doe slashed to bits—and nothing that even resembles a lead. The girl died without scratching a microscopic piece of flesh from her killer. Then we’ve got our pimp. Dead in his Armani suit. And nothing—except a trail of minute blood drops leading directly to Miss Montgomery’s building.”
“And stopping at the door.”
“But going to the door.”
Sean nodded slowly, watching Jack. “Tell me, in your study of the voodoos, did you come across a cult that siphoned human blood from corpses?”
“There are lots of stories of blood lust. Dracula, by Bram Stoker, written in the late eighteen hundreds, was based mainly upon the legends of Vlad Dracul, the Impaler. Naturally, there are more historical tales of incredible blood lust. Take the case of Elizabeth Bathory of Hungary, late fifteen hundreds into the early sixteen hundreds, who bathed in the blood of hundreds of young virgins, searching for eternal youth and life everlasting. We had the bizarre case here of the killers who tied their victims up and drank a little blood from them day after day— and were only caught when one hysterical young man escaped. There are more. In fact, the list is probably endless. Just because we now have created phrases and descriptions for serial and mass murderers, we can’t discount the historical cases of madmen and
-women who were vicious criminals before we came up with modern concepts of psychology. Then remember, we are in New Orleans. We have voodoo, magic, and we also have our share of vampire cultists here as well. Last Mardi Gras, I must have seen dozens of men—and women dressed in white flowing shirts with the dark capes—and fangs, of course.”
“Elizabeth Bathory, huh?” Sean said. “You have gone back in time, for sure!” Jack flushed. “Yeah, well, I was kind of a horror fanatic as a kid. I’ve got all kinds of books, tapes, and CDs on vampires, werewolves, ghosts, mummies, and the like.” Sean nodded gravely. “We may need them in this one. Tell me, where does Maggie fit in with your reading material?”
Jack grinned broadly. “Playboy—I wish.”
Sean grunted.
“I had a great time last night. In fact, I woke up feeling guilty. We’re investigating two horrible murders, and I’m having one hell of a time at a jazz club.”
Sean leaned back, studying Jack. “Kid, if you’re going to stay in homicide, you have to learn to live in spite of the murder victims. Pierre manages to have a life despite all that he deals with. We’re the only hope for justice for the victims. He can be their voice, and we can be their justice.”
“That’s good. A damned good thought. Not that I feel too bad for Anthony Beale—it seems that what he got might have been justice. But our little Jane Doe ...”
“You’ve got a good background for her?”
“Yeah. Poor kid, needed to do something to get ahead in the world. Maybe just to eat.”
“There’s a soft side to you, Jack. Take care.”
Jack nodded gravely, then grinned. “Yeah, and it seems there’s a soft, lascivious side to you as well.
You seeing Miss Montgomery again?”
Sean nodded, watching Jack. “I’m bringing her home to dinner tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, no kidding? Hey, can I come? It’s sure to be great conversation with your dad doing the grilling.”
“He’s not going to grill her; she’s not under arrest.”
“He’s going to grill her—he’s going to try to fix you up with a woman who’ll be more than a pit stop for you.”
“She is under suspicion, and no, you can’t come.”
“What if I were to bring her friend?”
“The little Creole?”
“Umm. Angie. Her name is Angie. Angie Taylor. She’s one of Maggie Montgomery’s best friends, has the keys to the place, and probably knows your woman better than anyone else.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s a fact.”
“And you know she’ll come?”
Jack grinned. “I do.” He folded his arms over his chest and gave Sean a superior, king-of-the-beasts grin. “When some of us meet a woman, we know what we’re doing.”
“You slept with her already?”
“No,” Jack admitted. “But I did pass out on her couch. Can I bring her to dinner?” Sean hesitated. It might make for an interesting evening. Maggie Montgomery was their only lead—however fragile that lead might be.
He didn’t want her to think they considered her a lead. If she was involved, it was without her knowledge. If her building was being used, surely it was without her knowledge or consent. And yet...
As much as he didn’t want her to be a lead, he had a strange feeling that somehow, she was involved.
No proof.
Gut instinct.
And it didn’t really matter. He had to get closer to her, one way or another. He had to know.
“Bring Angie. Seven-thirty. Dad’s going to barbecue out on the lawn. Make sure she isn’t a vegetarian.” It was noon when Gema Grayson called Maggie.