Artist (8 page)

Cassie caught it first. “It’s the school, it’s the university. That’s the connection.” They were sitting in the office after the visit from Schumaker’s. They’d just gotten word that the last victim had been identified. Gloria Maro, a 21-year old janitorial worker at the University of New Orleans. Her mother missed her when she didn’t come home from her night job at the school, and called the police.

“Look, look. We’ve got one victim, the first we know of, actually attended the school. The second didn’t have any connection directly but look.” She went over to the wall where a map of the city was pinned up. It had been there for years, the edges brown and curled. “The apartment isn’t far from the school. It’s ten minutes in bad traffic. The last victim worked there.”

“How does Kelt tie in though?” Dupond asked. “He wouldn’t have picked her up there. We don’t have anything that connects her to the school.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cassie said. “He’s staying close to home, where he feels comfortable, where he feels in control. Or where it’s just easier because he’s in the area or he knows the area.”

“A student?” Dupond asked.

“Maybe. Maybe he just lives around there. Or works there. But something ties him to the area right around the University. All the victims are in a small area.”

“You could be right,” Dupond said. “But I don’t know how much that helps us.” He thought for a minute. “Let’s do this. Let’s get the complete class schedule for Jill Chaisson. Get the complete work schedule for the Maro girl. We want to know where they were on campus. See if we can tie them into the same place at any time. Do the same thing with Kelt. Maybe she did some work around the area and the guy saw her and just picked her up. We get all three of their schedules together and see if anything matches. First thing tomorrow
, I’ll have Adan start pulling it all together. We’ll go over it and see if anything sticks out. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Cassie said. “Now I think I’ll head out. It’s getting late. See you in the morning.”

She gathered her things and started for the door.

“Wait,” Dupond said.

Cassie stopped.

Dupond started again. “You know, I’m supposed to be training you. This isn’t going the way it’s supposed to. You’ve…uh…you’ve been a big help on this.”

“Does that bother you?” Cassie asked.

“No, no,” Dupond said. “It’s just that I’m not used to dating really intelligent women.”

“Oh,” Cassie said. “Are we dating?”

“Well, we are if you’re free tomorrow night. After work, maybe we can go get something to eat. Something decent I mean. I know a couple of good places.”

Cassie looked down at her shoes. Crunch time. She could say no and continue mourning Ronnie or say yes and maybe be able to move on. She wasn’t expecting this, didn’t think it was possible. She found herself attracted to this man though, and that was another thing she hadn’t expected. Just maybe. She stepped back in the door.

“Listen. I think I’d like to try. But you have to know what you’re getting into. I’ve got a lot of baggage. I’ve got a sharp tongue, too. I’m not all curly hair and perfume. Can you deal with that?”

Dupond said “Do you like oysters?”

“Love ‘em,” Cassie said. She went out the door. Dupond got up and watched her walk away down the hall. 

The sailboat cut across the water, tacking into the wind. There was just enough chop to make it interesting, not enough to make it uncomfortable. Viktor Watt had his hand on the till, guiding the craft out into Lake Ponchartrain. He’d taken the day off, called in sick. He wanted to reward himself for a job well done and at the same time, think about his next move.

Watching every day was a habit. The hunter studied his prey even when he wasn’t hungry. Gloria Maro, laid out for the world to see, announced his presence. He knew it also increased the pressure on the police as the public demanded action. The newspaper articles, the sound bites on television, flared the first day, receded on the second, vanished on the third. It would take another victim to reach the first page and that was where he wanted to be.

He would need time. Time with the victim. Time to prepare. The risk increased with every minute he spent with any one girl. Quick was best but so much less satisfying. Today, with the sun on his face and the boat slicing through the water, he would have time to think. And plan.
God
, he thought,
is in the details.

“Here’s what we have.” Adan
laid a chart out on the table. He, along with Cassie and Dupond, were in the interrogation room, the only place with a table big enough to spread everything out. They spent the morning going over schedules, contacts, anything they had. Coffee cups piled out of the wastebasket in the corner. To Cassie, the room smelled like sweat and lies.

“Chaisson was an Art student but there’s a lot more to it than just drawing or painting. To get a degree, and to really appreciate the artists that have gone before, you have to study the surrounding era, what’s going on at the time. I spent some time this morning talking to an Art professor out at the University. Her name is Beth Spell, she runs the Department. Here’s the schedule for Chaisson.” He pointed to the chart.

“Okay. Chaisson spends three mornings a week in the studio. Apparently, she divided her time between oil painting and sculpture, but leaned toward the painting. I saw some of the things she did. They’re pretty good. I thought they were good but Spell said she still needed work. Anyway, the Art Studio is in this building here.” He pulled out a rough sketch of the campus.

“This semester, and last semester, she spent boning up on history, tying together the political and social history of the late 1800’s, which is what she was interested in, to the artists of that time period. We interviewed one of her friends, or you did,” he pointed to Dupond, “and she told you that Chaisson was focused on Renoir, a French impressionist. That ties in with these two classes, European history and more importantly, French History which she took in the History building here.” He pointed it out on paper. It was across campus from the Art building. A short walk across a grassy open spot marked on the sketch.

“Now, here’s Gloria Maro. She worked at night. Cleaned house and slept during the day according to her mother. Work started at 6pm. Chaisson’s last class was at 3pm so there’s not much chance of them crossing paths unless one stayed late or the other went in early. But,” he turned to the sketch again, “Maro cleaned in the History building before moving right next door and working in the Math building here. He says each employee worked the same building every night. It makes it easier to keep track of for him and the girls learn all the spots they have to get into.”

“So the bottom line,” Dupond said, “is that we can tie both Chaisson and Maro to the History building but not at the same time.”

“And Kelt?” Cassie asked.

“Kelt we’ve got zip. Nothing ties her to the school. Or
, nothing we know anyway. It’s possible she’s got some connection we haven’t heard about.”

Cassie looked across the table at Dupond. “Are we barking up the wrong tree here? Maybe I’m reading too much into the idea of the school being the focus.”

“How many students are in the History Department?” Dupond asked.

Adan checked his notes. “According to Kelt there are roughly 500 students taking History for one reason or another each semester. It’s a requirement for some and an easy elective for others so there are plenty of freshman. By the time you get down to History Majors you’re talking 200 or so.”

“It would take us ten years to look at 200 students,” Cassie said.

“Well, I think we could eliminate the women,” Adan replied. “The rapes eliminate them. That leaves us with the men. We’re looking at about 65 male students altogether. It would still take a while to get to all of them.”

“Put a list together anyway. If we come up with a name we can cross-check against it,” Dupond said. “And do this, too. Find out how many of them are foreign students, or foreign born.” He was thinking of Schumaker and her “To Let” information. “That should cut it way down. There can’t be more than a handful of exchange students.”

Dupond sat back, rubbing his eyes. They’d been going at it since early morning and it was now well late afternoon. “So, let’s put together everything we have.”

“Schumaker thinks the guy might be foreign,” said Cassie.

“The knots. He might be a sailor,” Adan tossed in.

“A History student,” said Dupond. “So all we have to do is find a foreign born history student who likes to sail and that’s our guy. But we’re still screwed because we don’t have any physical evidence to tie him to any of the murderers.”

“The shoes,” Adan said. “There’s still the shoes. I heard from the FBI and they can’t match the pattern on anything in thei
r files. Nothing common anyway. They’re still looking at it. It may be an off brand tread or some small manufacturer importing them.”

“It would help but it’s still not enough to convict him on anything,” said Dupond.

“Which brings us full circle back to the one thing we haven’t talked about today. And that’s the letters,” said Adan. “They’ve got to mean something. He’s telling us something with the letters.”

“Maybe.” Cassie said. “What if it isn’t a message to us at all? What if it’s just…like…I don’t know, something that only has significance for him?”

Dupond broke in. “It may not be a deliberate message to us but it means something. It tells us something about him. He takes the time to do it so it has to be important.”

“So what do we do now?” Cassie asked.

“Now,”Adan said, “We get a list together of foreign students and tomorrow we start knocking on doors.”

  Acme Oyster House
perched on Iberville, serving locals and tourists alike for almost a hundred years. The menu included most of the food that made New Orleans an attraction for visitors around the world, but the specialty was and always would be oysters. Dupond and Cassie found a table off in the back and sat down. The clatter and traffic of the French Quarter carried inside. It was a lively place. Tourists zeroed in on it and locals made it a point to get there often enough to make it a family tradition.

“So,” Dupond said when they got settled in. “Do we need a menu?”

“You might. I don’t. Here’s what I say. We start with oyster soup while we split an oyster po-boy. Then we go with a dozen grilled and finish with a dozen each raw. And cold beer.”

“Damn. I guess you do like oysters. I was a little worried. Some people don’t care for them but they’re one of my passions. In food, anyway.”

“In food? What are your other passions?” Cassie asked. The waiter arrived, took their order, and left before Dupond answered.

“Hmm. Well, I like my job. Nothing like catching bad guys. Every once in a while I like to go fishing. My family has a camp on the North Shore, right off Highway 11. I read a lot when I get a chance. I hate golf, though my Dad likes to play. Mostly I work and look for good places to eat. I found a lot of them when I was on patrol. You know, the sandwich shops and Mom and Pop deals with good cheap food. I’m not a fan of fancy restaurants.”

“Do you hunt? Most Louisiana boys like to hunt.”

Dupond shrugged. “I did when I was younger. It got to be kind of a pain in the ass really. Besides, I carry a gun all the time. And really, when you hunt people, shooti
ng a few ducks kind of loses its luster. Do you hunt?”

“No. I do like to fish though. I haven’t gone in a long time. I’ve been busy.” The beer arrived and they both took a sip.

“So what were you doing out West?” Dupond asked.

Cassie took a minute to respond. “I’m going to be honest here and tell you I was basically a wreck. After Ronnie died, he was my boyfriend, we’d been together all through High School, a friend of mine took me in. She worked for the Federal Government and they made me a kind of an offer because of some work I had done with them. I spent a lot of time recovering, then started training for this job.”

“What kind of work did you do for them?”

“Nothing I can talk about. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is. Don’t hold it against me.”

Dupond waved it off. “I’ll forgive you if you make me a promise.”

“And what’s that?” Cassie asked.

“You come out on the boat with me and show me your secret fishing spots. I’m always looking for a good fishing spot.”

Cassie laughed. “I don’t know. First I have to know you can be trusted.”

With that, the food began piling in. By the time the last raw oyster was polished off and the last of the beer drained, Cassie had had enough. She pushed away from the table. Dupond was still fighting to get down the last of his oysters.

“Oh, my God, for a big manly detective you sure eat slow,” Cassie said.

“This last one is going down. I can’t let you out eat me. It’s a matter of pride.” He forked down the last oyster. “I’d loosen my belt but that would be unseemly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a girl eat like that. Where do you put it?”

“I burn it all up. I’m high energy. Do you think we’re on the right track with this case?” She leaned in closer, watching his reaction. “Maybe we need to take a step back and look at everything again.”