A Carnival of Killing (7 page)

“I’ll be here in the hotel. Here’s my card with my cell phone number. I always have it turned on.”

I took the card and thanked him. He said if we had no further questions he would leave us in private to get dressed. We both shook his hand and bade him farewell.

“Does he think we’re embarrassed to strip to our skivvies in front of him?” Al asked after Carlson left.

“Maybe he thinks we need to be alone to compare notes and prepare for our evening schedule.”

“That was total bullshit,” said Al.

“My thoughts exactly,” I said.

Our evening began with Martha and me dining with the Jeffrey family at their Midway area abode. Dinner followed by conversation or games or a DVD movie was becoming a Friday routine, but on this night Al and I were going to Klondike Kate’s. We invited the women to join us in this adventure, but they chose playing games with the children, Kristin and Kevin, over frolicking with us at Klondike Kate’s. Under the circumstances, I thought it was a damn smart choice—the one I’d have made if I’d had the option.

Whatever. We dutifully kissed Carol and Martha goodbye and went off to pretend to have fun, me with a tiny tape recorder in my shirt pocket and Al with his smallest digital camera in his.

Whooping it Up

The booming voice of the newly-anointed Klondike Kate, Angela Rinaldi, was calling upon the crowd to observe a moment of silence for Lee-Ann Nordquist when Al and I walked into the cabaret. The room fell quiet, and after an appropriate interval Angela broke the spell by observing that, as a faithful and fun-loving Kate, Lee-Ann would want the celebration to go on. Therefore, the bar was declared open and the ensemble that accompanied the singers was ordered to commence playing the “Beer Barrel Polka.”

Angela was joined immediately by the two Kates who had visited me that morning, Toni Erickson and Esperanza de LaTrille, and they began to sing with as little gusto as you’d expect from three women who’d just lost a good friend. But they were troupers, and after a couple of listless verses they began to loosen up, whereupon the atmosphere in the cabaret improved from funereal to banal.

We seated ourselves at a table, and when an angular, blue-eyed blonde who introduced herself as Britney appeared and said she would be our server, we ordered a tap beer for Al and a ginger ale for Mitch the recovering alcoholic. After Britney delivered the drinks, we sipped them slowly, listening to the music and wondering when the Vulcans were going to come storming in.

Our glasses were almost empty, and Britney was looking our way, hoping to be summoned for a refill, when Al said, “Our frost-bitten buddies must have a lot to talk about over in the Crowne Plaza.”

“Maybe Brownie called them downtown to ask some more questions,” I said.

“Oops! Speak of the devil, or in this case, devils,” Al said as the door swung open and eight scarlet-cloaked, black-booted men stomped in, waving their arms and shouting, “Hail, Vulcan!” They spread through the crowd like legs on a spider, repeating the salutation and applying a greasy V to the cheek of every woman they encountered. Nobody rejected the markings and some turned the other cheek for a duplicate decoration.

The energy level in the room soared, the trio of Kates onstage sang louder and lustier, and I was reminded of the Robert Service poem that began with, “A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.” The only thing missing was Dangerous Dan McGrew, and for all I knew one of the whooping Vulcans could be his evil equal.

“Well, the Fire King sure warmed things up,” Al said as Britney approached our table with an expectant smile.

“I’d like to put a little heat on him,” I said.

“Another round, gentlemen?” Britney asked.

“Why not?” Al replied. “We might as well join the party.”

“Nothing worse than a party pooper,” I said. “Bring me another one of those exotic ginger ales.”

Britney hustled away and Al slipped the palm-sized camera out of his pocket. “Might as well take a few shots of the festivities,” he said. “If nothing else, it’ll justify these beers on my expense account.” He moved away to a corner where he could get a better view of the crowd.

I was thinking about the Prince of Soot’s offer to talk with me and I looked around the room hoping to spot him. My search was unsuccessful because even in the dim light of Klondike Kate’s Cabaret the Vulcans were wearing their dark goggles, so they all looked alike. I remembered the Prince of Soot being shorter than I was, but the same could be said for four other members of the Krewe.

“Can you pick out the Prince of Soot?” I asked when Al returned.

“Are you kidding?” Al replied. “I can’t tell Soot from Ashes anymore than you can tell your ash from a hole in the ground.”

Britney was setting the drinks on the table, and she gave him a look that would have shriveled a grape into a raisin before she walked away.

“Soot is older than the rest of them, but with those damn goggles on they all look like Satan,” I said.

“The devil, you say.”

“Yes, and I also say that this is turning into one hell of a job.”

“Well, it’s about to take a turn either up or down,” Al said, looking past me. “One of our jolly Satans is headed this way.”

I turned to see one of the shorter Krewe members weaving through the crowd in our direction. He grabbed an empty chair from another table, slid it into place beside me and sat down. “Hail, Vulcan,” I said.

“Very good,” said the man in red. “In case you don’t recognize me, I’m the Prince of Soot. If you remember, I spoke to you this afternoon.”

“I do remember,” I said. “In fact, I’ve been trying to pick you out of the crowd.”

“That’s the wonderful thing about these costumes,” he said. “You can pull off all kinds of crap and nobody knows which one of us to blame.”

I wanted to ask if “all kinds of crap” included murder, but I knew that question would bring the conversation to an abrupt halt. Instead, I said, “What do you want to talk about?”

“The same thing you were trying to talk about all during the ride,” Soot said. “I want to warn you not to jump to any conclusions about who did what in O’Halloran’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look around the room for a minute.”

I looked. Then I looked back at the Prince of Soot. “Okay, what am I supposed to be seeing?”

“How many red suits do you see?” he asked.

“There should be seven, including yours, plus Vulcanus Rex in a black one.”

“I didn’t ask how many there should be. I asked how many do you see?”

I looked again. To my amazement, I saw more than seven. “There’s a dozen. What’s going on?”

“Former Vulcans,” the Prince of Soot said. “We get to keep our costumes at the end of the carnival. Sometimes some of the old Krewe members put theirs on and join the fun.”

“So, what you’re saying is that all the Vulcans seen in O’Halloran’s last Wednesday night might not have been members of the current Krewe?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“That broadens the list of suspects seen at O’Halloran’s to … how many?”

The prince shrugged. “More than you can count on your fingers and toes.”

“And you’re sure whoever was hanging around with Lee-Ann Wednesday night wasn’t a member of your Krewe?”

“I didn’t say that.” He rose and saluted me. “Have a good evening, Prince of the Printed Media.” With that, he walked away to join Vulcanus Rex, the only one I could positively identify because of his black running suit.

Al, who had been circulating and quietly taking photos while Soot and I talked, returned to the table. “What did old Sootie have to say?”

I told him.

“Oh, shit,” Al said.

“My thoughts exactly.”

We finished our drinks and were about to ask Britney for our check when another Vulcan emerged from the mob and plopped himself down in the chair vacated by the Prince of Soot. “Hi,” he said. “Recognize me?” The voice sounded familiar but I’m not good at reconstructing faces around mouths and noses, which were all that showed between the man’s goggles and greasepaint beard.

“Sorry,” I said. “Can I have three guesses?”

“Are you sure we’ve met?” asked Al.

The masked man’s mouth formed a smile and the teeth gave him away. “My first guess is Ted Carlson,” I said.

“Very good, Mitch,” Carlson said. “You could be a detective. Are you boys having fun?”

“We
men
are having a blast,” Al said. “The crowd in here is pretty lively considering recent events.”

“The show must go on,” Carlson said. “Anything more I can do for you boys?”

My immediate response was to say he could kiss my boyish ass, but I restrained myself, knowing I might have to ask this condescending little prick a question or two in the morning while I was writing my story. “Nothing for now,” I said.

“I must confess that I’m surprised to see you boys here,” Carlson said. “I thought you’d be working on your story and printing your photos tonight.”

“I’ve got plenty of time to write in the morning,” I said.

“And we don’t print photos anymore,” Al said. “You’ve maybe heard of digital photography?”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “Silly me.”

“I must confess that I’m surprised to see you in a Vulcan costume,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be,” Carlson said. “I was a member of the Krewe three years ago. I still love to put on the suit when there’s a party.”

“Been to many parties this week?” Al asked.

“Actually, I dressed up for the Queen of Snows dance Wednesday night,” Carlson said. “Had a ball, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Again he flashed the perfect row of teeth.

“Did you go along with the crowd afterward?” I asked.

Carlson realized that the question was loaded. “If you mean the crowd that went to O’Halloran’s, the answer is no,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I decided it was time to pack it in, so I went home.”

“How late was it?” I asked.

“Late enough,” Carlson said, pushing back the chair and rising. “It’s been nice talking to you boys. If you have any questions in the morning, don’t hesitate to call. Have a good night.”

“You, too,” Al and I said in unison as he walked away.

“What an asshole,” Al said when Carlson was out of earshot. “Do you think he could be the extra Vulcan that one of your Kates saw in O’Halloran’s?”

“Anything is possible,” I said. “But I have no idea what his motive for killing Lee-Ann might be.”

“He could have picked her up at O’Halloran’s, took her somewhere and tried to screw her, and got rough when she wouldn’t put out.”

“That’s possible. But we won’t know whether she was sexually assaulted until we hear the ME’s report on Monday. Meanwhile, I’ll put him on my list of suspects.”

Britney was standing beside us. “Another round, gentlemen?”

“No thanks, just the check,” Al said.

“But thanks for calling us gentlemen,” I said. “Our last visitor thought we were underage.” I added an extra dollar to my share of the tip.

Autopsy-turvy

When I walked into the lobby of the
Daily Dispatch
building a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. on Monday, I heard loud male voices and saw a man waving a snub-nosed pistol in front of Harry, our security guard. The security desk was the first thing a visitor encountered when entering our building, and unless one wore an ID tag, one must be identified and tell Harry what department one wants to visit.

The man waving the pistol was shouting something about not giving a shit about the sign saying no firearms allowed in this building. “This gun is the whole purpose of my fucking visit,” he yelled.

My first thought was to go back outside and call 911, but I quickly recognized the gun waver from the rear, which was as wide as my grandmother’s antique wash tub. His name was Sean Fitzpatrick, and he was the head of an organization called the League of Effective Gun Owners, otherwise known as LEGO. I thought this acronym was extremely appropriate because the members of LEGO thought of their guns as playthings.

Fitzpatrick was in his middle fifties, with a gleaming bald head, a bulbous red nose and a belly that hung far over his belt as a result of absorbing countless kegs of beer. He was a frequent writer of letters to the editor opposing any and all gun laws, and an occasional indignant visitor to the newsroom when a story about gun control pissed him off. This was the first time I’d seen him carry a weapon into the building.

I hustled up alongside him. “Hey, Sean, what’s going on?” I said. “How come you’re giving Frank a hard time?”

“I’m trying to explain to this donkey that I’m here to talk about this gun,” Sean said. “I want to show it to the asshole who wrote that anti-gun editorial in Sunday’s paper and the other asshole that drew the stupid cartoon that went with it.”

“Frank’s just doing his job, Sean,” I said. “According to the law that you helped push through, we have a right to ban guns in this building.”

“But this is a fucking exception,” Fitzpatrick yelled. “I can’t explain what I want to explain if I don’t show those assholes the kind of gun I’m talking about.”

“Hey, Tex, cool down,” said another voice. It was Al, who had just come in the door. He always tried to ruffle Fitzpatrick’s feathers by calling him Tex or Gunslinger.

“Oh, great, now I’m triple-teamed by the leftwing, patriot-hating media,” Fitzpatrick said. “I might as well go home.”

“Oh, bullshit! What’s your problem?” Al asked.

“Your dumbass editorial writer wrote a piece attacking the concealed weapons bill and your equally dumbass cartoonist drew a picture of a woman pulling an AK-47 out from between her boobs,” Fitzpatrick said. “I want to show them the size of gun we’re really talking about in this bill.” He waved the pistol toward us and I saw it was only about five inches long.

“Is that a gun or a cigarette lighter?” I asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to get across to you dumbfucks in the media,” Fitzpatrick said. “People don’t conceal guns any bigger than this one. It’s a Derringer. A two-shot Cobra Derringer.”