Seated with her are other well-dressed young people. Her place at the table faces away from the stage. Her chair is turned so she can see the awards presentations. Her back is to a young man, and she is partially facing another young woman. Were the man her date, the killer reasons, she would not have turned her back to him.
He has seen enough. Taking advantage of a round of applause for something the awards presenter said, the killer slinks from the ballroom and takes the elevator down to the lobby. He finds an overstuffed chair with a view of the elevators and sits down to wait.
The lights in the den went out at 11:00 PM. Murphy reached into the passenger seat and wrapped his hand around a flathead screwdriver. It had a wide handle and a long, thick shank. Perfect for prying.
In case Marcy Edwards was a bedtime reader, Murphy decided to give her an hour to fall asleep.
While he waited, he closed his eyes and conjured up an image of the killer. He could see the man only in silhouette, with a featureless face obscured by shadow.
Murphy pictured himself dissolving into darkness, then seeping into the killer’s head like a dark mist, through the man’s ears, nose, eyes, and mouth. Once he was inside the killer, he envisioned the dark shadow of himself inflating like a black balloon. He pictured his own head inside the killer’s skull, looking out through the killer’s eyes, seeing what he saw, feeling what he felt, thinking what he thought.
Lee Strasberg’s acting technique, dubbed the Method, taught actors to analyze the feelings and motivations of their characters and to draw upon their own emotions and experiences to help them portray those characters with psychological and emotional authenticity. Al Pacino, James Dean, Robert De Niro, Dustin Hoffman, Meryl Streep, Paul Newman-all had been students of Strasberg. Using Strasberg’s method, the actor becomes the character.
Tonight, Murphy would become the Lamb of God.
He thought about his mother. All his life, but particularly since his father died, she had sought to control him. She was an overbearing, petty, insulting, selfish woman. She was the opposite of what Murphy thought a good mother should be.
Where would he be, he wondered, if she hadn’t forced him to quit Notre Dame? A lawyer? No, he hated lawyers. A doctor? Probably not. Anal probes and festering sores didn’t appeal to him. An architect or an engineer, perhaps. He excelled at math and was fascinated by puzzles and problem solving. One thing was certain, had he stayed at Notre Dame he would not have ended up a detective with the New Orleans Police Department.
And as for his sister, had Murphy been able to finish school, maybe his mother would not compare him so unfavorably to her.
Your sister is such a good mother. She dotes on that boy of hers. He takes up all of her time. That’s why she doesn’t come home very often. He’s got special needs, you know. He’s autistic.
I know that, Mother. You tell me that every time I see you. His name is Michael, by the way. And that’s not why Theresa doesn’t come home. She doesn’t come home because of you!
Murphy’s father had dropped dead of a heart attack while pouring himself a bowl of Cheerios. Growing up, Murphy and Theresa had often joked that it was their mother’s nagging that killed their father. Now, it didn’t seem like such a joke.
I hate my mother.
The banquet has run late. The young woman does not step off the elevator until eleven ten. She is with her table companions, the young woman and a young man. They cross the lobby to the revolving front door. As they disappear between the spinning panes of glass, the killer rushes after them.
Outside on the street, he spots them walking toward the river. The other two are holding hands. The three of them turn right at the next block, but by the time the killer rounds the corner they’re gone. He jogs toward the parking garage on the right. At the entrance, he peeks around the corner. He sees them. They are strolling up the ramp, chatting. The killer’s car is parked at a meter several blocks away. He doesn’t need to follow her. He knows where she is going.
As the three young people disappear around a turn in the ramp, the killer walks away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday, August 5, 12:15 AM
Murphy steps out of his car. The night is hot and still and very quiet. There is not a breath of breeze. He takes one last drag on his cigarette and drops it into the pile at his feet.
The house he has been watching sits midway down the block on the left. The street is empty. Murphy crosses to the opposite sidewalk and walks toward the house, the screwdriver gripped in his right hand, the shank concealed behind his wrist. He passes a row of crepe myrtles and inhales the scent of summer.
Despite its celebrated reputation for architectural diversity, New Orleans has less than a dozen common residential designs. Among the most frequently seen are Creole cottages, townhouses, single and double shotguns, camelbacks, bungalows, raised villas, double galleries, and the new Katrina cottages. Murphy has conducted interviews, executed warrants, or stood over dead bodies in every type of house in the city.
Marcy Edwards’s house is a bungalow, set on piers three feet off the ground. It has a wide porch with the front door on the right and a picture window on the left. The shallow-pitched roof slopes front and back and has side gables. A fake dormer centered above the porch gives the illusion of a second story. A one-car driveway runs along the right side of the house. Her Toyota Camry is parked there.
Murphy knows that at the back of the house, next to the driveway, there will be a door that opens into the kitchen.
At Carol Sue Spencer’s house there was no sign of forced entry. At Sandra Jackson’s house, the killer jimmied open the door with a screwdriver. He murdered Carol Spencer and her children in their home, and he snatched Sandra Jackson from hers. No one saw him.
How did he do it?
The killer is not a ghost. He is a man. If Murphy can get in and out of Marcy Edwards’s house without being seen, he will be one step closer to getting inside the killer’s head, one step closer to understanding him, one step closer to catching him.
The back door has a screen. Murphy pulls a pair of latex gloves from inside his suit coat and slips them on. He takes a deep breath.
I am the killer. I am the Lamb of God.
The screen door is latched with a hook. Murphy pulls the door away from the frame as far as he can and tries to squeeze the tip of the screwdriver through the gap, but it won’t fit. The shank is too thick.
So much for being a phantom killer. I can’t even get past a screen door.
Then he remembers his knife. Like nearly every cop he knows, Murphy carries a lock-blade folding knife clipped to his right front pants pocket. He clamps the screwdriver between his teeth and reaches for the knife. He snaps open the blade and slips it between the screen door and the jamb. The thin blade fits easily. With a flick of his wrist, he pops the hook loose from its eyebolt holder.
Murphy closes his knife and stuffs it into his pocket. He holds the screen open with his knee and leans closer to the wooden door. He wedges the end of the screwdriver between the edge of the door and the strike plate and works the handle back and forth until he forces the tip deep enough to catch the latch. Then he pries the latch back toward the knob and gives the door a nudge. It swings open.
Murphy takes another deep breath and steps into the house.
A black four-door Nissan pulls to the curb in front of the young woman’s apartment building on Saint Charles Avenue. A moment later, she steps out of the back passenger-side door. She turns to say good night to her friends.