The fire door has a vertical metal handle on the right side. The killer gives it a tug. It’s locked. Only the crash bar on the other side will open it. He threads the steel cable through the handle, then loops it around the landing’s metal rail. He pushes the ends of the cable together and hears the shackle snap into place inside the lock. He spins the combination wheels, then tries to yank the two ends apart. They are locked into place.
The landing rail has a vertical support bar a foot from the wall. The cable can slide along the rail from the wall to that support, but no farther. With the cable locked, the fire door can’t open more than a foot. People trying to get out will have to squeeze through the door one at a time, and then only a few skinny ones will make it.
The killer digs a black Sharpie from his bag. Using his left hand, his nonwriting hand, he draws three block letters on the outside of the metal door- LOG.
He descends the stairs, crawls down the ladder, then drops into the alley. He strolls down Chartres Street, then rounds the corner onto Iberville. Standing in front of the steel door at the foot of the stairs that lead to the Red Door Lounge, the killer waits until there is a long gap in foot traffic on the sidewalk. Then he pulls open the heavy door and slips inside.
As he bolts up the stairs, he again reaches into the messenger bag hanging at his side. In the bag are three plastic quart-sized bottles of lighter fluid. He pulls out one bottle and pops open the plastic lid.
At the top of the stairs, he moves fast, squirting the amber liquid on the outside of the red door, on the wall, and on the landing. The thick petroleum smell of the lighter fluid fills the narrow space.
He drops the empty plastic bottle and reaches for another.
The killer backs down the stairway, squeezing the contents of the second bottle in an S pattern on the wooden steps and both walls. The brick wall to his right won’t ignite, but the burning liquid will radiate additional heat. He coats the wooden second-floor landing and door.
At the bottom of the stairs, he empties the third bottle, making sure to soak the wood and plaster inner wall, the concrete floor, and the inside of the metal door. Like the brick firewall, neither the concrete landing nor the steel door will burn, but the blazing fluid will create a temporary firestorm, stopping anyone from going in or out. He drops the last bottle on the floor, turns around, and pushes open the steel door just enough to squeeze out.
A quick glance up and down the street.
He reaches into his bag for the igniter he prepared, the plans for which he found on the Internet. A simple but clever device with a built-in delay mechanism, made from a Zippo lighter, a plastic sandwich bag, and a wad of tissues soaked in lighter fluid. Then the killer remembers Paul, the chicken hawk upstairs, and his Red Door matchbook. How perfect, the killer thinks, to use this den of iniquity’s own advertising to destroy it.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black matchbook with Paul’s cell phone number scribbled inside. He pulls one match from the book and strikes it. The match head pops and flares. He holds the matchbook over the flame until the cardboard cover catches fire. Paul’s name and phone number disappear in the fire.
The killer pulls the steel door open a crack and tosses the matchbook inside. Then he shoves the door closed and walks away.
Thirty seconds later, the killer can already hear the start of the commotion echoed in the surprised, uncertain voices of passersby. He strolls a block up Iberville to Royal Street and turns left. Just around the corner, he stops and peeks back the way he has come. No one has followed him. No one is staring or pointing in his direction. No one has noticed him.
Down the street, some Good Samaritan has pulled open the steel door. Flames leap from the doorway and attack the wall above it. The Samaritan who pulled open the door is on the ground, writhing in pain. A small crowd has gathered. Several in the crowd point to the third-floor windows of the Red Door Lounge.
The killer watches.
Minutes pass and the third floor becomes a raging inferno. A fire truck bellows its approach, but for many of the sodomites it is already too late. Some who have caught fire try to escape the conflagration by crashing through the windows. Their flaming bodies arch through the air like Roman candles.
Others try to claw and squeeze their way through the narrow windows, but the fire is too hot for such a slow method of escape. The killer hears the screams from one man who, half-hanging over a windowsill, bursts into flames. He flails for several seconds then collapses and appears to melt into the brickwork. A second man tries to climb over the first, but he too catches fire.
To the killer, the burning building is a fantastic sight. As he watches, his crotch stiffens uncomfortably against his jeans.
A police car screeches to a halt on Iberville Street, on the other side of the fire. The cops begin to cordon off the block even before the first fire engine runs out a hose. Then a policeman appears, seemingly from nowhere, across Iberville, less than half a block away. He is looking straight at the killer, but only half of the killer’s face is visible around the corner of the building. The policeman walks toward him.
The killer whirls toward Canal Street. He takes a running step and slams into a Lucky Dog cart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Friday, August 3, 6:10 AM
The stench pouring down from the open doorway was horrendous. Beyond anything Sean Murphy had experienced in his thirteen years on the job. Worse than a floater in the river with his guts burst open. Worse than the stink of Zack Bowen’s French Quarter apartment when Murphy and Gaudet kicked open the door and found the chopped-up, cooked remains of his girlfriend on the stove and in the oven.
“I don’t know if I can take this one, brother,” Gaudet said, his voice muffled through a handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. As usual, Gaudet wore an eight-hundred-dollar suit and a hand-painted silk tie.
Murphy spoke through his own handkerchief. “I thought you were a homicide man.”
The two of them stood on Iberville Street at the bottom of the burned-out stairwell that led up to the Red Door Lounge. The fire had destroyed the stairs, leaving only small pieces of charred wood bolted to the walls.
To the east, the sun was just rising across the river, but already more than a hundred people had gathered outside the crime-scene tape to stare at the destruction. In the street, TV reporters were doing their first stand-up broadcasts for the morning news shows.
Gaudet let out a long breath and nodded at Murphy. “Lead the way, hero.”
Murphy turned away from the soot-blackened door and walked toward a fire-department ladder truck parked next to the curb. The hose jockeys had knocked a five-foot-by-three-foot hole in the brick wall on the third floor and run the truck’s extension ladder up to it. Other than the metal fire escape bolted to the back wall, it was the only way up.
A fireman helped the two detectives climb onto the back of the truck and guided them to the ladder. Murphy tied his handkerchief around his face and led the way up. The jagged hole looked like the open maw of some great beast as Murphy stepped off the ladder into the darkness.
The smell swallowed him.
Dozens of bodies were piled near the windows, where they had cooked until they exploded. Small chunks of flesh were stuck to the walls, and a sticky goo of melted human fat coated parts of the floor. Murphy doubled over and threw up. Gaudet spun around and grabbed the edge of the wall. He leaned out and heaved his breakfast at the sidewalk twenty feet below.
When Murphy finished retching and straightened up, what he faced was a scene straight from Dante’s Inferno, the flaming tombs of the sixth circle of hell. The lounge was burned black from one end to the other. Many spots were still smoldering. Several ceiling beams had collapsed. The furniture was incinerated. Near the fire exit and the main door, burned and bloated bodies lay in heaps.