We left her house and stood in a triangle near the car. I waited for someone to mention how hot she was.
Agent Wayne wiped the back of his neck. “My Lord, if I were twenty years younger.”
“Don’t say a word.” Ron pointed at me. “You’re about to be engaged. You gotta watch your eyes and your mouth from now on.”
“At least my mouth,” I retorted. After absorbing Sarah’s sexuality, I suddenly wanted to get back to Jennifer and jump her bones.
“Well, we can’t check out Tiritilli’s in Chalmette. It’s been wiped out,” Lacey said.
Tiritilli’s Pizza was a chain like Pizza Hut. At the end of each commercial, an Italian with a hard-core accent said, “You won’t fo’get about it.” Why Spider would choose the one in Chalmette baffled me. Maybe that particular pizza joint was the scene of some major embarrassment or bad date, and he wanted to right the wrong, like when you return to your high school reunion with a Victoria’s Secret model.
“And The Castle was closed down,” I said. “I’m not sure if it reopened as another bar.”
“Okay, speaking of pizza, let’s go get some, then call it a night. I’m hungry.” Wayne added, “We’ll talk about our plan there.”
We drove out to Tiritilli’s in Metairie in relative silence, each of us most likely going over Sarah’s interview in our heads. I knew I was. After thirty minutes, we pulled up, and I was ready to suggest we grab a deep dish.
Ron led the way inside the casual dining room. It was simple and comfortable with a homey decor. A line of video games and poker machines teased us with flashing lights and sounds as we looked around for employees. No one was on the floor, and the register was unmanned. There were only two occupied tables. Ron and Wayne sat down at a table on the elevated level, while I waited to order at the counter.
A few seconds passed before a man from the kitchen came to the register. “Where y’at?”
Where y’at is basically a greeting asking how you are, not where you are. This told me he was a Yat, which is usually a person from Chalmette having another variation of the New Orleans accent all its own. “I’m good,” I responded, and just to be sure, I asked, “say, you from Chalmette?”
“Born and raised.”
“You aren’t the previous operator of the Tiritilli’s in Chalmette, are you?”
“No. Dat man died. Poor guy suffocated in the heat in his attic.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.” I gave him our order, took my receipt, and returned to the table. “The Tiritilli’s owner in Chalmette is dead. The guy up there knew him.”
“Another dead end,” Lacey said.
“So, where do we go from here?” I asked, getting the conversation rolling.
Agent Wayne took off his tie and folded it neatly into his shirt pocket. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and took a drink of water. The day was officially over for him.
Ron scooted himself as close to the table as his belly would allow. He arranged his small plate and utensils in front of him.
I waited through the silence while he fidgeted.
Wayne was the first to speak. “Plan to inform your captain of our situation first thing in the morning. After we eat, we should all go home and get a good night’s rest. There’s really nothing else to go on now, and it’s getting late.”
Wayne and I stared at Ron, waiting for his opinion, which never came. We sat uncomfortably for a moment until the waiter came to the table with our Cokes. When the boy left, we were silent again. I felt like a child whose parents weren’t arguing simply because I was in the room with them. Some children withdrew, while others tried to make peace. I would choose the latter if I needed to.
“What do you mean? I’m an agent with the bureau. My specialty is criminal profiling.”
“How’d you get into it?” I asked.
“I graduated from the academy in the late sixties when it was more like a boot camp. More abusive and hard-nosed. Now it’s different. The academy’s matured to teach specialties, real field training. I was assigned to a squad in Washington D.C., which was mainly involved in terrorist activity, a few kidnappings, and eventually I was transferred into serial killings.
“Then I heard about profiling, and I was highly skeptical. Most old-timers and law enforcement agencies called it voodoo and psychic mumbo jumbo, and I also thought it was ridiculous to think you could peg your suspect by how he or she killed. One day I signed up to take a class with John Douglas, the FBI’s top profiler. I learned so much from that man. Now, as you know, profiling is a major tool in helping capture killers.”
“So, it goes far beyond a murderer just being a nutcase?” Ron asked. I couldn’t tell if he was truly interested or just trying to trip Wayne up.
“Well, there are two types of murderers. Organized and disorganized. In murders of passion or lust, the organized killer is intelligent and plans out his attacks, even though he’s psychopathic. They bring along the tools they need to do the deed and are methodical in the way they carry out their plan to kill or rape. Disorganized killers are, of course, the opposite. They attack on a whim, leaving a mess and a trail of evidence. They’re usually poor, loners, unemployed, and not too bright. Mostly they’re young and not too experienced. They tend to panic.
“There are combinations of the two types. Sometimes the killer will start off a bit disorganized but learns how to do it better and develops his MO into a pattern. Or the killer could be getting older and more careless, losing the attention to detail that he once had. I think Gene Lotz falls into the mixed category. He’s young and still developing, but he’s intelligent and is honing his skills.”
“How does raping his victims fall into this?” I found the subject fascinating, and Wayne seemed to enjoy talking about it like a professor to his class.
“I learned under an agent named Roy Hazelwood that rapists are divided into six categories. This was developed from four classifications of rapists—two power-seeking types and two angry types. We know that it’s rare for a rape to occur merely for sexual pleasure. It has to do with power or hatred.”
“We understand the different reasons why men rape women,” Ron said. “Tell us where Gene Lotz fits into this.”
“I think Lotz falls into two categories of rapist. There’s what we call the anger-retaliatory type. This person is out for revenge. Gene Lotz is seeking revenge against you, Deck. The fantasy Gene creates is that the victim needs to be punished. And then there’s the anger-excitation type. This person is basically a sadist. Gene needs to get off on the pain of the victim. The more torture for his prey, the more pleasure.”
“Have you ever come across anything like this before?” I asked.
“Not exactly like this. There are some rapes and murders that don’t fit neatly into a category, but it’s pretty accurate, with few exceptions.”
I had forgotten about the pizza, but when the waiter brought it, we all tore into it in silence. Agent Wayne impressed me enough to seriously consider becoming a Fed like when I had fantasized about it in the academy.
At 8:30 p.m., we called Greenwood on our way to the station. Ron told him our intentions of going home after he dropped Wayne and me off at our cars, but Greenwood told us to come upstairs for a special meeting.
We arrived at the Eighth with our curiosity piqued. The fact that our desk captain was still on duty at this hour was a sign of the Four Horsemen.
We entered Greenwood’s office to find there was a mystery man waiting for us. He was midforties, perfectly groomed, and standing in front of the low couch as if he refused to sit on it. He kept eye contact with Agent Wayne after his quick inspection of Ron and me. His light brown hair was thinning, and his shifty eyes were almost hidden by his bushy eyebrows.
“I’m Deputy Director Clancy Dorrick,” he said as he shook Ron’s hand, then mine. He turned to Agent Wayne and shook his hand with a slight smile. “First of all, let me
say that I commend you, the whole force here in New Orleans, for your bravery and commitment to this city during that horrible time.”
“Thank you,” Greenwood said.
Dorrick nodded at Ron and me. “I’ve been trying to stay up to date with the goings-on in this particular case. Captain Greenwood tells me you may be close.”
“Sit down, Detectives,” Greenwood said. I hated that we were getting comfortable. It meant at least another half hour going over our case with a new party.
I sat on a metal chair, still hung up on Dorrick’s title. Deputy Director. That was just one man down from the top gun in the bureau, not including National Security Director.
Greenwood cleared his throat and motioned for Ron to sit also. I imagined he was shitting bricks right about now.
Clancy Dorrick merely sat on the edge of Greenwood’s desk. I loved it.
“We have a strong suspect,” Ron answered. He made a face as if he had been trying to solve a calculus problem on the chalkboard for hours. We were all a bit perplexed by Dorrick’s presence. Suddenly, Agent Wayne was the little fish.
Dorrick’s eyebrows crunched in the middle when he continued. “Well, as I was saying to your captain, I’m making this visit as a special favor to President Vorhees. As you know, the president was Louisiana’s senator before being elected, and news of these double homicides eventually got to the White House. The last thing he wants is bad publicity for the city when you’re trying to get people to come back. He asked me to keep tabs on the investigation, but I figured I’d come down and personally help out for a while. It never hurts to get your hands dirty.”
Ron spoke up. “If word gets out that the president is inquiring about this case, we might end up with a catastrophe. Shit, imagine if the press announces it and the killer goes ballistic and tries to burn down the whole city.”
“Lacey,” Greenwood said, “I think the deputy director knows how to handle it. Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m getting sick and tired of your problems with authority.”
“This is not the time to discuss office politics,” Ron said sharply. His eyes never left Dorrick’s.
Dorrick held up one hand. “Detective Lacey is correct, Captain. Don’t discuss personal matters in the company of outsiders. Please wait until Agent Wayne and I are gone. Now, we’re aware of the potential sensationalism this may cause. That’s why no one knows about my involvement here. President Vorhees is looking into real estate here. He has official inquiries, and they will be released by the press secretary. As you know, he resided in the uptown area. He’s looking to buy retirement property, and I’m merely here to secure things for his arrival. What better vote of confidence than the president himself retiring here?
“The press secretary will take care of everything. Only Agent Wayne, yourselves, and a few select agents know the real reason I’m here. We’re not going to hamper your investigation. We’re offering our services, our help, and our support. You can say that the FBI is at your disposal. I hear Agent Wayne has helped to build a good profile of our killer.”
Our killer, there it was again. It sounded like ownership rights. This was huge, a powder keg waiting to be lit. I was certain this guy could convince Greenwood to excuse me from the case because of my inexperience or my personal involvement. And I still wasn’t sure if Ron was ready to defend me if that time came. If Agent Wayne could influence the case, then Dorrick could absolutely run it.
Dorrick looked at Ron and me when he spoke. “I suppose there wasn’t any luck in apprehending the suspect, Gene Lotz?”
“Do you see him?” Ron asked.
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Director.” Wayne jumped in as the referee. “We interviewed his mother and followed two leads that came from the meeting, but they were dead ends.”
“Is there anything else we can do tonight?” Dorrick asked.
Ron butted in again. “You could give The Fugitive speech. You know, search every outhouse, bathhouse, doghouse, smokehouse . . .”
Dorrick frowned, and it looked like Greenwood was about to bleed from his eyeballs. I thought he was going to say something harsh, but he kept his lips sealed, lest he be deemed a lunatic in Dorrick’s eyes.
“We’ve exhausted ourselves tonight, sir,” Wayne said, coming to Ron’s rescue. I didn’t know about Ron and Greenwood, but I felt as if we were waiting for the deputy director to dismiss us or at least punch Ron. “We were thinking of going home to get a good night’s sleep and start fresh.”
“Sounds good,” Dorrick said. “Agent Wayne and I will meet everyone here at 6 a.m., and we can go over what we know and maybe get an idea of where Lotz could be. I understand you know the killer? And he’s killing women you know?” he asked me with strained compassion.
“I used to work with him,” I said. “It seems like he’s fixated on me.”
“That should prove to be invaluable. Detective Dupree, go home tonight and think about every aspect of the times you and Gene Lotz spent together. It’s the details that matter. I want to hear all about it tomorrow.” Dorrick waited a brief moment and then offered a single nod. It seemed to be an effort for him to be chummy.
“Okay, let’s get some rest,” Greenwood said as I watched his nose turn brown. He was probably thinking about how far this was going to advance his career or how he could keep Ron from destroying it. “You need anything at any time, Mr. Deputy Director, just let me know. I’ll get Detectives Lacey and Dupree right on it.”
“Fine. You have my hotel information. Agent Wayne, please meet me at my hotel room in the next hour. I’d like to hear your assessment.” Dorrick made a round of shaking hands.
Dorrick’s handshake was powerful, like the title he carried. I knew he was a man who could make things happen. After all, he was a personal friend of the president. But his presence here was like Bill Gates personally checking my computer. It didn’t make sense.
The three of us followed the Feds out of Greenwood’s office to the vacated main room. I went to my desk with Ron as Greenwood tried to make brownie points by apologizing for my disgruntled partner. For a moment, I felt bad for Dorrick having to endure Greenwood invading his personal space with odd questions and compliments. But easily influenced people in high positions were probably a plus for Dorrick, making it effortless for him to maneuver around the system.
Greenwood and Dorrick walked downstairs together, both of them leaving for the night. Agent Wayne saw Ron and me sitting at my desk and joined us. Ron didn’t ignore him, and that told me some of the ice was melting between them. Maybe he saw that Wayne could help us control the head dog.
“You fellas not giving up?” Wayne grabbed a chair.
Ron rotated his head, stretching his neck. “We just need to wind down a bit, make a plan for tomorrow. No offense, but I’m going to have something to say if your boss thinks he’s just going to come into our station and take over this investigation.”
“Don’t worry about him. He hasn’t been in the field in years. Just let him say what he’s going to say. He’ll report back to the president that we’re doing everything we can. I’ve met him on several occasions. He’s a hard-ass, but as long as we’re doing the job, he’s not going to complain. I must say, I don’t know if anyone has ever talked to him like that. It was almost enjoyable. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Ron smirked.
“I really don’t think he’ll be here that long. He’s too busy,” Wayne said.
“I hope not.” Ron sighed. “Why would the president be interested in this case?”
Agent Wayne reflected for a moment. “It could be the PR thing for New Orleans like he says. Or if there’s a crime bill being introduced to Congress or something else going on that’s teetering on a fence right now, a case like this could have a major impact. He’s trying to get reelected, remember.”
Ron nodded, apparently too tired to speak.
I was still pumped and not ready to wind down. “Okay, if his mother isn’t hiding him, maybe there’s another f
riend. Or that grandmother of his. What if Greta Lotz is lying about her involvement?”
Wayne scanned his notes. “Gene Lotz’s grandmother lives on Gladiolus Street off Franklin Avenue. Eleanor Lotz.”
“That’s the first place we’ll hit tomorrow after meeting here. I’ll put a detail on the house tonight in case Gene happens to be there.” Ron yawned while shaking his head. “God, I’m getting old. Don’t you have to meet that guy at his hotel tonight?”
“Yeah, but I’m in no rush. You’re not old, either. You’re young at heart like I am.” Wayne smiled, meandering in the direction of the door. “The challenge of the job keeps us that way. Some days I can’t wait for my retirement in two years. Others, I can’t imagine it.”
Those solemn words were the last spoken as we left the station. Wayne had verbalized what Ron had been feeling for some time. I could tell in the way he looked at these rookies and the attitude he took toward the younger men who were his superiors.
As soon as I walked out of the station, I lost the wind in my sail and became aware of how tired I was. I couldn’t wait to climb into bed and feel Jennifer against my body.
Somehow, however, Sarah still hung in my thoughts.
Jennifer had been especially affectionate when we woke, driving all lingering thoughts of Sarah Simpson from my head, and I was one big grin until I pulled up to the Eighth. It was either going to be a great day or a miserable one. I hoped Ron would come to the station in a better mood than he was in the night before. He had to know to behave himself if Dorrick began spouting orders.
The office was just starting to buzz. I assumed everyone had already gone into Greenwood’s office and was waiting for me, but Ron was poised at his desk, obviously pissed that no one had showed. He looked at me, then down at some papers on his desk.
“Not here?” I asked.
“Greenwood’s in his office, but the Feds haven’t arrived. You know, this is top priority and all.” He drummed a pen on his desk and let it roll from his fingers on the final tap.