A Ghoulishly Grim Halloween

2

Killer watched, trying to hide his glee.

There was something about the new arrivals at the scene that especially drew his attention.

They weren’t just local police, and he knew that by their manner, not just by the fact that they weren’t wearing any kind of uniform.

He was tall and dark, a figure who looked like he knew where he was going and did so with confidence.

The fellow looked to be at least partially Native American.

She was blond, and while not nearly his height, tall enough for a woman, but it wasn’t her height that was impressive, it was the way she moved.

They’d brought down some of the big guns! Killer thought with glee.

Well, like the others, they could chase their tails.

He smiled. It was going to be fun!

*

Jackson studied the tree while standing with Dante, Angela, and Dr. Barry Payne.

“I haven’t gotten up there yet; there was no worry that a doctor should rush up in case a victim was still alive,” Payne said flatly.

Like many of the medical examiners he’d met during his law enforcement, Jackson had found that Payne had a dry sense of humor, something that probably kept him sane. He’d already told them that he’d known he was going to be a medical examiner from the time he’d started medical school. After all, what living patient was going to be happy about seeing a doctor named Payne?

“But you do believe that the body parts are all there?” Jackson asked him.

Payne nodded. “The head is highest. You can see it there. The torso is stretched out on that third heavy branch up. Arms and legs distributed around the torso. Feet are bare, but to the best of my knowledge, no one saw shoes and socks lying around anywhere near. My question is how the fellow got all those parts up there without being seen.”

“We’re in a residential area and even in New Orleans, this kind of street can be quiet by night. In fact, I’m willing to bet that whoever did this watched the area for several nights,” Jackson said.

“But if he climbed up the tree, how did he carry all the parts?” Payne asked.

“One by one, probably,” Angela told him. “We’re going to go house by house with questions for the neighbors, but I believe that our killer thought he could get away with saying that he was just with the city decorating committee if he’d been noted by anyone. But two or three in the morning?”

“We’re not even that far off Canal!” Payne said. “And . . .” He paused, wincing, “we can get pretty carried away here at Halloween. But we get to tell our children that it’s all fake, that it’s not real, that it’s just scary fun. Then . . .”

“Well, we’ll let the forensic team get started now,” Jackson told the man, looking at Dante. “And, I hope, you can get right on it—”

“You bet!” Payne said. “And, yes, obviously, I’ll get with you the second I know anything.”

“His last meal might be important, so thank you,” Angela told the man. “Also, if there are any drugs in his system, anything at all. I sincerely doubt you’ll find any usable prints, but just an identity will be extremely helpful, too. And, of course, it will be good to know if you believe the person who did this has any medical knowledge or if it’s an awkward chop job.”

“Of course!” Payne told her.

“Thanks, Doc,” Dante told him. “A go all way round,” he told Payne, nodding to him and to the head of the forensic team who was just waiting for his work.

Jackson and Angela ducked back under the crime-scene tape, nodding to the forensic team as well.

Jackson shook his head, looking at Dante. “This is going to need everything that we can get; I know we’re trying to avoid a panic—especially since it’s Halloween season, tourists galore, and the natives going all out. But we need you to put out request for help, citywide, looking for anyone who might have seen anyone unusual on the street.”

“You got it,” Dante told them.

He headed for his car.

“You have a particular side of the street you want to try?” Jackson asked Angela.

“I’ll go across, I guess?” she suggested.

“And I’ll take this block,” he agreed, shaking his head. “You know, Dr. Payne did have something. I mean, we aren’t that far from Canal. And while we’re not in the Quarter or down on Frenchman Street or Magazine, this city . . . well, at this time of the year, it goes twenty-four hours a day. Someone must have seen something.”

“And that could be anyone out there with a car,” Angela said. “But we’ll start with the neighbors.”

Jackson watched his wife, his partner in all things in life, as she walked across the street. He had long ago accepted the fact that she was an amazing agent, analytical, resolute, careful, well-trained in self-defense, a crack shot—and a step above him when it came to all things that had to do with the internet, the dark web, hackers, et al.

But this . . .

Body parts in a tree for the Halloween season.

He wouldn’t be human if he wasn’t worried. Then again, he knew that she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t worry about him in return.

He headed down to the first house next to Jack Dupree’s property, grimacing slightly to himself. There were a few things they had learned through the years.

Dead was dead. The body was a shell. The human soul was very real and once a person was dead, it didn’t matter much what was done with the body, something cast off the soul, the essence of a man or a woman, as one might cast off a coat.

He knocked at the first door and waited. A little boy answered the door, and Jackson asked him if his mom or dad was home.

The kid’s mom came to the door. She was anxious to talk to him; anxious to know why cops had been on the street all day, just what had gone on. He assured her the best that he could.

Down the block. He spoke with one college-aged young man who told him that he had just gotten home—he was usually in his dorm. He always spent Thursday evening having dinner with his parents, but they weren’t home from work yet.

The next door was opened by a man of about twenty-five who frowned with confusion and demanded to know what was going on. “I’m Greg Eaton. I’m with the city,” the fellow told him.

“Honey?” someone called from the back of the house.

“My wife,” Greg explained quickly.

“Maybe she saw something,” Jackson said.

Greg Eaton shook his head. “She just got here and she’s with the kids—”

“I’d like to speak with her, too, please.”

The woman, looking as worried as Greg, came to the door when Greg called out to her. Jackson thought he heard a child sniffling. Well, he wouldn’t keep the kid’s mom too long.

“Cassie, he’s here about all that commotion on the street. Someone was murdered!” he said, looking at Jackson.

“Oh, no! The kids . . . we need to lock up, get the alarm on—can you get a cop or someone to watch over the street—”

“Cassie, the street is full of cops. It will stay that way, right?” Greg asked Jackson.

Jackson nodded. “They will be out there awhile. But, neither of you saw or head anything unusual—”

“A red pickup truck. Bright red. I’d never seen it before and now it’s been cruising the neighborhood a few nights,” Cassie said, nodding as if all made sense then.

“License plate? Anything about it?” Jackson asked.

“I’m so sorry, no. Just a pickup truck. Red. A cab for two people and a bed in back—nothing in it. Not that . . . not that I saw when I saw it.”

“All right, thank you. Thank you very much.”

“We’re looking for anyone who might have seen—” Jackson began.

“That many cops! It was a murder, and here—right here? We need to know everything! We need to know if we should worry—”

“Keep things locked up and pay attention to what you’re doing,” Jackson told him.

“Okay, okay. And I’m sorry as hell, but I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t even see the pickup truck and Cassie, you didn’t mention it to me,” Greg Eaton told him.

“I didn’t think anything of it—until now!” Cassie said.

Jackson thanked them.

He went on to speak with Amy Anthony, a stay-at-home mom, terrified and telling him that she was going to head to her sister’s house in the Florida panhandle.

He met Brian Felton, fortyish, a fellow who had just retired from the military and assured Jackson that he was armed and ready if anyone threatened him, his family, or anyone else in the neighborhood.

In the last house on the block, he met with Chad Mortenson, an elderly gentleman, who assured him that he knew how to keep himself safe as well. He’d also been military—way back during the Vietnamese War.

Besides Cassie’s telling him about the red pickup, none of them had seen anything else that had been the least suspicious.

But someone, somewhere in the city, had to have seen something! Dante, he knew, was sending out a call for help from anyone who had seen anything unusual on the streets at night.

He called Dante and told him to get an APB out on red pickup trucks.

And still . . . asking about the unusual might not be that helpful.

The city was in full Halloween mode.

Almost anything could be unusual.

He started to head across the street to meet up with Angela. His phone rang and he saw that it was Dante Harrison and he frowned; he had just spoken with the man moments earlier.

“There’s another one, Jackson,” Dante said. “We’ve got another body—”

“In pieces?” Jackson asked quickly.

“Not this one, but it’s made up to look like a zombie decoration—and the body decomp just adds to the look; only the smell alerted an observer,” Dante told him. “I’m down by the river—take Esplanade down and follow the cop cars.”

“We’re on our way,” Jackson promised, beckoning to Angela who was standing on the sidewalk, finishing a discussion with an elderly woman.

She saw him; saw his face and nodded.

She knew him well.