5. Five #2
It was a sweet offer — she was so earnest it gave me a toothache sometimes. “Sure.” I flicked my eyes to Barry, who was growing agitated. “We need to focus on the Axeman.”
“Stop,” Barry complained. “It is not the Axeman.”
“And yet you reacted poorly when Freya mentioned the call and the demand for jazz,” Jack interjected. “It might not be the Axeman, but you’re clearly worried people will think so.”
There was that wisdom again. Jack really was good at reading people.
“It’s not the Axeman.” Barry was insistent. “There are some worrisome details about this case, however.” He focused on his computer screen.
“The dead couple are Nicholas and Charlotte Bishop. Their daughter, Jacqueline, told us that they received a call about bedtime last night — she said it was around ten o’clock because that’s when her parents usually went to bed.
Her parents told her about a weird call they’d just received.
It was a male voice telling them to play jazz. ”
My stomach constricted. I wasn’t glad these people were dead or anything — the exact opposite — but the Axeman details were difficult not to get excited about. The legend was an integral part of New Orleans history. I’d glommed onto the story as a kid for a reason.
“Jacqueline said her parents assumed it was a joke, a neighbor or friend messing with them,” Barry continued. “They’d been at a party a few weeks before where talk had turned to the Axeman. They were discussing legends that still made the city money or something.”
“They’re not wrong,” I said. “The tour guides use the Axeman story constantly to get the tourists wound up. Back when American Horror Story did that season about the witches, they included the Axeman, and his popularity boomed again for two years.”
“This is not the actual Axeman. It couldn’t be.” Barry was firm. “It’s impossible.”
It was only impossible if the Axeman had been human.
It had never occurred to me to wonder about potential paranormal roots, but now I wanted to kick myself.
There had always been mystery associated with how this killer had gotten into the houses and gotten away without anyone seeing or hearing him.
They were always chaotic scenes, but he was never caught. There had to be a reason for that.
“What about entry?” Jack asked, focusing on the law enforcement details that would likely fuel him.
“All of the doors were locked,” Barry replied. “The security system was operational. They always set it, and Jacqueline said it wasn’t just because of the call, which they really did write off as a joke.”
“Obviously, it wasn’t a joke,” I murmured.
“No.” Barry’s forehead creased as he leaned forward. “We can’t find a point of entry. That’s why I agreed to meet with you.” He said it to Jack, not me. “We can’t figure out how someone got into that house and did … that.” He gestured toward the crime scene photos, looking disgusted.
It was a lot of blood. Someone would have been coated in it when they left. “What about family?” I asked. “Have you ruled out the daughter as a suspect?”
“I doubt she would have had the strength to do what was done to her parents, but she’s alibied. She was with her husband and children last night.”
I opened my mouth to ask the obvious question, but Barry was already shaking his head.
“We talked to the neighbors. No cars left the driveway last night. The husband isn’t covering for her. The kids are too little to stay home alone.”
There were some parents who wouldn’t care about something like that, but I didn’t argue with Barry. He seemed set against it the possibility, and I had no reason to doubt him.
“No other family?” Jack asked.
“They have a son who lives in Boston,” Barry replied, checking his notes. “We’ll obviously make sure he was in Massachusetts, but Jacqueline called him right away. He’s getting on a plane in about an hour. We checked with the airline.”
“It would have been a tight turnaround for him to come down here, kill them, and get back home to act shocked,” Jack surmised.
“Is there enough of an inheritance for that to be worth doing?” I challenged. “Where did this happen? You didn’t give us the location.”
“Over on Spain Street, near Rampart.”
Charlie’s gaze moved to me. “Is that the French Quarter?”
I didn’t hold it against her. She was still learning the lay of the land. She and Jack stuck to the French Quarter for the most part, as far as I could tell. Once they were in their own home and could breathe again, they would branch out.
“Marigny,” I replied, frowning. “I was in Marigny last night.” I hadn’t meant to say the second part out loud, but it was too late to take it back.
“Where?” Barry asked, looking hopeful.
“The Spotted Cat. I was with some friends. They had a battle of the bands, and we spent all of our time mocking the bad bands.”
“Sounds about right.” Barry rubbed his chin. “Obviously, you didn’t see anything.”
“No. We were not in the same area.”
“Did you hear any whispers? I know The Spotted Cat can get rowdy.”
“Not really. It’s always pretty quiet.”
“Well, keep your ear to the ground. You run with the sort of crowd that might hear something sooner than law enforcement.”
It felt as if there was an insult in there, but I didn’t call him on it. What was the point? Instead, I nodded. “Sure.”
“We’ll start poking around,” Jack volunteered. “I don’t know how much help we’ll be, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Okay.” Barry’s shoulders dropped with a weariness that made him look even older. “I’m afraid this is going to be a bad one.”
He wasn’t the only one. I was right there with him. There was no way this was a one-time thing.