“We have a way around that,” Doggs said. “Calumet’s dad owns a tire shop in Metairie, so we showed him the pictures. He said the print is from a Goodyear Aquatred Three, which isn’t that common in New Orleans. He called somebody at Goodyear and got us a list of local customers who bought that model tire.”
“On a Sunday?”
“We actually got the list Friday night. We’ve been working on it ever since.”
“Doing what?”
“Narrowing it down.”
“How many people are on it?” Murphy said.
“A hundred and fifty.”
“That’s a pretty big list.”
“There were more than that, but Mr. Calumet said the tread looked pretty new, so we asked the Goodyear guy to give us only sales that went back six months from the day the body was discovered.”
Regardless of whether he killed himself or not, Murphy wanted the serial killer arrested. His mind ran through the investigative angles. “Did you prioritize the list based on criminal-history checks and sex-offender-registry listings?” he asked.
“Yes,” Doggs said.
“What’d you come up with?”
“Forty-seven people. We started interviewing them last night.”
“Good work,” Murphy said. “You get anything?”
“Not yet. So far we’ve only found thirteen customers, but we got nine DNA swabs. We’re asking everybody we interview for one just in case we recover DNA from a victim.”
DNA. It conjured an image in Murphy’s mind of the crime-scene tech squatting in the street, picking up cigarette butts with a pair of tweezers.
Murphy ignored the image. “Pay careful attention to the ones who refuse,” he said, “and don’t discount women who bought tires, or men over, say, fifty. They could have husbands or adult sons living at home. Run the addresses in MOTION and check out any males under forty who’ve used those addresses in the past two years.”
“Thanks,” the young detective said. He sounded excited. “Look, I just got home, but I can come back in if you need me.”
“You know the mayor called for an evacuation?”
“Yeah, I heard it on the radio.”
“You and Calumet need to be here at six a.m. Donovan said we’re staying on the case, but bring your tactical gear, because we won’t be going home for a while.”
“Just like last time, huh?”
“I hope not,” Murphy said. Then he hung up.
He had been in two shootings in the weeks following Katrina. One he reported, one he didn’t.
Hearing the fire in the young cop’s belly made Murphy less inclined to shoot himself when he got home, at least for now.
Gaudet, who had been staring at Murphy while he was on the phone, said, “What up?”
Murphy gave him the short version.
“Got to hand it to those kids,” Gaudet said. “That’s not too shabby a piece of detective work.”
“No it’s not,” Murphy said, but he was still thinking about DNA.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sunday, August 5, 9:25 PM
The killer arrives at the house on Burgundy Street much later than he intended.
It’s Mother’s fault.
She is panicked about the approaching hurricane and tomorrow’s mandatory evacuation. She wants him to drive her to Baton Rouge, where she has booked a hotel room. But he is not evacuating. He needs to stay to finish his work. He told her that he has been designated as one of the city’s essential employees, excluded from storm furlough and exempt from the evacuation order.
“You, essential?” she scoffed. “You must be joking.”
“I’m responsible for maintaining vital records and the integrity of the court system.”
She barked out a short, phlegmatic laugh. “You’re a low-level clerk.”
He jiggled a set of keys in her face. “Essential enough to be entrusted with keys to the office.”
In reality, he is just a low-level courthouse clerk. So low that he does not have his own keys to the office. Several months ago, he simply lifted his boss’s keys and had them copied on his lunch hour. He does most of his “research” at night, when the office is empty.
“How am I supposed to get to Baton Rouge?” his mother whined.
“You have a car, Mother. Drive yourself.”
They argued back and forth for more than an hour, about the hurricane, about the evacuation, about what a failure he was as a son.
Finally, he stalked out of her “side” of the house.
“Where are you going?” she shouted at his back. “Don’t you walk out on me.”
He ignored her.
After leaving his mother, he went to the darkened courthouse and let himself into the office where he worked. The file he was looking for was missing from the storage racks. At the deserted main desk, he checked the police logbook. The file, the divorce record of Edwards vs. Edwards, had been checked out yesterday by Detective Sean Murphy. Last night, the former Mrs. Edwards had been murdered in her home. Coincidence?
I don’t think so.
From the courthouse, the killer had gone back to his apartment to type another letter. Then, as he had earlier that day, he hand-delivered it to its intended recipient.
On Burgundy Street, the killer unlocks the wrought-iron gate at the foot of the driveway. Above him the sky is black. He hears the wind whipping through the trees. The storm is coming. After pulling his Honda into the driveway and relocking the gate, he slips into the dark house. In his hand he carries a plastic shopping bag.
Standing in the foyer, beneath the second-story landing, he eases the door closed behind him. He holds his breath and listens for a moment. Other than the wind swirling through the attic rafters, the house is silent.
He climbs the stairs and pauses on the top landing. His little pet is quiet. That is how he thinks of her, as his prize, his little pet. He never had a pet. Mother wouldn’t allow them. Once, when he was twelve, he tried to bring home a stray cat. He was going to keep it hidden in a small shed in his backyard, feeding it from table scraps, but on the way home the frightened cat had scratched and bitten him. As he strangled the foul beast it had scratched him some more.
The killer creeps down the hallway to the first door on the right. He pushes it open. The room is just as he left it, wooden chair to his right, camera and tripod to his left. Lying on the floor between them, in the dead center of the room, is an antique flattop steamer trunk.
The heavy trunk is four feet long, nearly three feet wide, and stands two feet tall. The wooden-slat exterior is reinforced with iron bands. The lid is fastened with a brass latch and secured by a heavy combination padlock.
The mayor’s daughter is stuffed inside.
The killer flicks on the light switch. The twenty-five-watt bulb throws a dim glow across the room that barely reaches the corners. He walks to the trunk. Drilled into the lid are four airholes, each a quarter inch in diameter.
For a moment, he stands beside the trunk, looking at it, savoring the silence. Then he kneels down and sets the plastic bag on the floor. He dials the combination and opens the padlock. He sets the lock on the floor next to the plastic bag. Still, no sound comes from the trunk. Could she be dead? he wonders. Maybe the airholes weren’t big enough. His fingers fumble with the latch. Then he throws open the lid.
Kiesha Guidry lies on her back, blinking against the light. Compared to the total darkness she has been in for nearly eighteen hours, even the glimmer from the low-watt bulb must seem blindingly harsh. She is clad only in a white T-shirt and her black panties. Last night, after slicing off her evening dress and bra, the killer shoved his undershirt at her. Despite his titillating show for the camera, which had really been for her father, he finds her nakedness mildly disgusting.
Her long brown legs are folded under her. Five feet eight inches of height crammed into four feet of horizontal space. Her wrists are taped together and pressed against her chest.