The Unforgiven, Page 3

  Katie, too, pulled out her phone and checked her news app. There weren’t a lot of details available yet, but the early reports were grisly and grim.

  “It could be,” Katie whispered. She looked at Lorna. “My parents were...hacked to pieces. And six years later in Orlando, an old couple and their niece were killed. And now, here. In Orlando, they wanted to convict George just because he was living there. He was my dad’s best friend. His wife was murdered. His best friends were murdered. He barely survived.”

  Lorna, still distraught, was just staring at her.

  “I loved my parents. Naturally, I was crushed by what happened. But I’m all right now. I was a lucky kid. I had Jeremy and then you and other great friends. I will be following this like a bloodhound, but I’m not going to take this personally. No matter how similar it seems.”

  “Katie, I just don’t want this to upset you,” Lorna told her. “You’ve got a reputation for being not only the most knowledgeable driver out here, but the most beautiful, too.” Her friend smiled. “You’re smart and savvy and busy with growing your business... You can’t let this get in your way.”

  “Lorna, thank you. I’m not going to fall into a terrible depression or need any more therapy,” Katie said. “I’ve had enough therapy for a lifetime. Jeremy insisted. You learn to live with something like this. You cling to the good memories. You manage to be rational. But you don’t forget. I’m going to the police station. I’m going to tell them what happened before, what I saw. Maybe I can help.” She forced a smile and hugged her friend quickly. “I love you, too. You’re the best friend anyone could have. I love what I do. I love the mules and the dogs at the stables. I even love our crotchety old boss. But there is no way I can keep myself from finding out everything I can about what happened.”

  Lorna sighed. “The cops are all at the crime scene,” she said. “Katie, no one is going to talk to you right now.”

  “Yes, but we’re not busy this week. Mardi Gras is over, and we don’t have a festival for a few weeks. The city is quiet. I’m taking Sarah and this carriage back, and when I can find out a bit more, I’m going to get myself to the right police station and talk to someone,” Katie said.

  “Katie, maybe you should take out more tourists today. It’ll keep your mind off what is going on—”

  “Seriously?”

  Lorna sighed. “Okay. I’m sure Matt and I can keep business moving along. But I wish you’d wait. I wish you’d let me go with you. I mean, tomorrow we could plan—”

  “Thank you for covering whatever,” Katie said. She headed back to her carriage. “You get a break today, Sarah,” she announced to the mule, crawling up to the driver’s seat. “We’re heading home.”

  Sarah must have understood. Her ears pricked up, and she clopped along at a decent pace as Katie led her around the square and through the French Quarter, headed for the Trudeau stables across Rampart Street and deep into Treme.

  Easy enough. Katie had purchased her own little home, a small house built around 1890, right next to the large property where Monty Trudeau lived and kept his stables. She loved it: no commute to work.

  And while her cousin Jeremy Delaney had often suggested she could do more with her education and abilities, Katie thrived in her job.

  Once upon a time, she’d thought she’d grow up to be a dive master, leading folks to historic shipwrecks, showing them the incredible beauty and wonder of the reefs.

  That had changed. She had discovered she could throw her passion into the city of New Orleans, unique, beautiful and filled with more riches than anyone could ever truly embrace. She’d made a new life.

  But there was something that had always nagged at her.

  The killer or killers.

  They had never been caught.

  And she knew she would be haunted by that fact until the day she died.

  Unless somehow, somewhere, whoever had committed such a heinous act—taking such wonderful people from the earth far too early—was finally brought to justice.

  * * *

  The scene had been far too familiar.

  Three dead, heads bashed in, limbs torn asunder.

  Blood everywhere, splashed on the walls and even the ceilings of the little Victorian house.

  Their home help, a young woman named Elle Détente, had been killed in the kitchen, and every cabinet and appliance bore spots of her blood. The medical examiner estimated she’d received at least ten blows from an axe.

  The elderly woman, Lettie Rodenberry, had been caught in her bedroom on the second floor—killed last, as Dr. Vincent currently believed. Her right leg and head had been almost severed. Two weapons had been used, it appeared.

  A knife and an axe.

  The elderly husband, Randolph Rodenberry, had been caught in the parlor.

  “Shades of Lizzie Borden,” Ryder had said grimly as they surveyed the man who had apparently fallen asleep on the couch there.

  Dan could just imagine the man, sweetly sleeping, and then opening his eyes to see a vicious killer standing over him.

  He’d been struck at least twelve times, hit again and again after death.

  Dan had said quietly to Ryder, “Wow. Looks personal. Crime of passion. What stranger kills with this kind of fury?”

  “Yeah, it feels personal,” Ryder said lowly.

  “And yet the same as the last two—six years ago and twelve years ago. The woman...her throat is slit almost ear to ear. This killer used a knife and an axe. And while it bears serious investigation, how could someone be so passionate about such diverse groups of people? This...this is extreme.”

  “The couple have a son, but he’s deployed to the Middle East.”

  “Either of them known for... I don’t know...pissing off the neighbors? Cheating, stealing, complaining about others?”

  “From everything we’ve gathered so far, they were model citizens, nice and kind to everyone, living on their pensions. They were both teachers. No known enemies. And their maid had been with them twenty years. Similarly well-liked in the area, beloved by her employers who depended on her.” Ryder paused and drew a deep breath. “The Axeman—the Axeman all those years ago—his murders and assaults were random. Just random.”

  To kill like this randomly... They were truly dealing with something terrifying.

  But they were way too early in the investigation to know anything, even to come up with any kind of a real theory.

  “Let’s hear the doc,” Ryder suggested. Dan observed Dr. Vincent’s initial examination and listened to what he had to say. He watched as the photographer worked diligently to take any picture they might need in the future. As the crime-scene investigators moved through the house, they were looking for anything, any clue.

  The killer had used a knife and an axe. Mrs. Rodenberry had nearly been decapitated, the slicing on her throat had been so powerful.

  “What was his mode of entry?” Dan asked.

  Despite being Dan’s own age, Ryder winced in a way that added years to his countenance.

  “He used a chisel to take out a panel on the back door, the kitchen side door. He left the panel and the chisel on the back steps,” one of the CSIs said. “And the axe.”

  “Just like the damned Axeman,” Ryder said. “That bastard always said he was a specter or a demon of some kind—a spirit, uncatchable and unkillable.”

  “Ryder, come on! Of course, anyone coming here to commit a murder or murders might have looked up stories about the past. What was known about the Axeman was well-documented. Except, if I remember right, there wasn’t that much known. The police were grabbing suspects without evidence, they were so desperate,” Dan noted. “They didn’t have the same tools available that we have today.”

  “True. So this twisted history buff could be from out of town or homegrown,” Ryder said. “Either way... Dan, is there anything differen
t here from...from what you saw in Florida?”

  “Just the mode of entry. In the Keys, no one ever knew how the killer or killers got on the boat unless, of course, they were already on the boat.”

  “Right. The one suspect claimed there had been a mysterious couple with them. Then again, if the boat was on the water, how would anyone get on or get away without another boat?”

  “Right. One couple disappeared. Supposedly. One man, George Calabria, showed up on a beach delirious, dehydrated, and a mess. His wife, Anita, was found dead, hacked up and stabbed, along with Louis and Virginia Delaney, the couple who owned the boat. Their daughter had been out diving. She was the one who reached the Coast Guard. She and George Calabria both claimed there was another couple who were on the boat and had simply disappeared—a Dr. Neil Browne and his girlfriend, Jennie someone—neither the kid nor George Calabria remembered her surname. He believed the other couple who had been on the boat had to be dead, floating in the ocean somewhere, food for the fish. I never believed his story. Neither did anyone else. The couple seemed to be nonexistent. Well, you know. I was just a rookie back then, on the periphery. But we all heard about it. Then it was my case, the similar murders that happened six years later. At that time, the killer or killers came in through a sliding glass door at the Orlando home.” He paused. “It wasn’t even jimmied. The family had forgotten to lock it. Or they had let the killer in.”

  “Let’s head to the station. One of our community outreach officers has been contacting the family. I have officers out canvasing the neighborhood, but this happened late last night, probably right before bedtime.”

  Dan nodded. The tinny smell of blood was almost overwhelming. He’d seen what he needed to see.

  Dr. Vincent was trying to instruct his assistants on how to move the bodies onto gurneys without the bodies falling apart or without leaving bits of them behind.

  Crime-scene investigators were still working. They would be doing so for hours.

  As Dan and Ryder left the house, reporters were moving in.

  “Detective Stapleton, Detective Stapleton!” a woman with a microphone shouted. “Is it the Axeman? Has the Axeman returned to New Orleans?”

  Ryder lifted a hand. “The man who committed heinous crimes in this city over a hundred years ago is certainly long dead. So no. He hasn’t returned to the city. Murders were committed. We are just beginning our investigation. I beg that you allow us to investigate and not create a sensationalist panic in the city. That’s all for now. You’ll have information when we have it, if it doesn’t hamper our work. Excuse me now, please.”

  Dan was proud of Ryder. That was well-handled.

  They made their way to his unmarked car.

  “You’re coming with me?” Ryder asked him.

  “Took a cab to get here. But I’ll hang outside the station for a few minutes. I have a few calls to make myself.”

  Ryder looked at him with a frown.

  “I just need to know where a few people might be at this moment,” Dan told him.

  “Just remember I’m still trying to make you something official,” Ryder said. “And remember we have a constitution and a bill of rights and—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I still want to know where a few people might be right now. And I have friends who know how to do things carefully and correctly,” Dan said.

  Ryder nodded.

  They were both quiet as they drove to the station. When they arrived, Dan lingered outside, pulling out his phone and started dialing.

  Corey Crest was one of the finest investigators Dan had ever met. He was still with the FDLE, and while he never went out in the field, he was probably one of the most useful men who had ever worked for any kind of law enforcement.

  He was a genius at finding people—and finding out about them.

  He had apparently seen the news already. And he had been expecting a call from Dan.

  “I’m on it,” he assured him. “I’ll find George Calabria for you.”

  “Not just him, Corey, if you don’t mind. See if you can find out anything at all about the couple that was supposedly on the boat when the murders took place down in the Keys. Dr. Neil Browne and his girlfriend, Jennie. All we knew was they were friends of the Calabria couple from somewhere up north.” He hesitated. “Their bodies were never found, and no one could ever find out if Dr. Neil Browne was even real. We put out a search for them back then, but we didn’t have a last name for Jennie, and you’d be amazed at just how many men have the name Neil Browne.”

  “Right. I remember. Hey, half the guys who investigated back then think they might have been imaginary friends. There was no record of them anywhere.”

  “Browne was probably using an assumed name.”

  “And Calabria claimed that—whoever they were—they have to be remnants in the ocean by now. Bits of bone, if that. Sea creatures can do a number, along with storms, the passage of time...”

  “Corey,” Dan said.

  “I’m on it. I’m on it.” He was silent a minute. “And I’m glad you are, too. Dan, you’re too good, too smart, too valuable to be running around after skirt-chasers or the like.”

  “Yeah, well...”

  “Anyway, I’ll get you whatever I can.”

  “Thanks.”

  They ended the call, and Dan headed into the station, waving to the desk sergeant and then weaving his way toward Ryder’s office.

  He paused outside a general-interview room. Through the open door, Dan could see an officer, who he knew as Stanley, and a woman seated in the chair before his desk. The young woman was leaning toward the officer and speaking passionately.

  Dan didn’t know her personally, but he recognized her instantly.

  Because he had seen her before. Not here, not in New Orleans.

  Back in Orlando.

  She had been at the trial. She had been a witness in the case against George Calabria. For the defense.

  She had been young then, just twenty-one. But she had spoken with dignity, even though half of the time she spoke, tears had blurred her green eyes. She was tall, slim, and had hair so red it was like a fire. Not orangish-red, not auburn-red. Fire-red.

  She could never be missed or mistaken for anyone else.

  She was Kaitlin Delaney, daughter of the couple killed on the boat in the Keys twelve years ago.

  The fifteen-year-old who had risen from a dive to find her parents in a different sea—a sea of blood.

  And she was here. In New Orleans.

  He’d known that she’d moved, that an uncle or someone was raising her here and she had only returned to Florida for the trial. With everything else, he had forgotten that Katie Delaney lived here now.

  He inhaled deeply.

  Yes, of course she’d have heard about the murders. The media was broadcasting little else.

  So she was here. In New Orleans.

  Where some supposed Axeman was striking once again.

  And Dan had to wonder just what her involvement might be, and if she might be helpful—or if her defense of her parents’ old friend just might waylay justice once again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Katie thought she’d gotten good—very good—at appearing calm, confident and assured whenever she talked about the past.

  But the officer she wound up speaking with was nothing short of annoying. He was trying all her hard-earned patience.

  “Listen, miss, I’m very sorry about your story, but this is New Orleans. And you’re trying to tell me about something that happened twelve years ago over five hundred miles away.”

  “Not only twelve years ago,” Katie said. “Six years ago, too. The killers were never caught. My parents were killed on their boat out in the Gulf. Later, an elderly couple and their niece were killed in their apartment in Orlando. The murders were carried out with two weapons according to the medical
examiners. An axe or hatchet and a knife. The bodies weren’t completely dismembered, but they were torn apart, a limb here or there, cut so thoroughly as to be detached or almost off. The medical examiners did consult, they believe the murders were committed by the same killer or killers. You need to know this. You need to consult with law enforcement in Florida because this is quite possibly the same killer, and anything they can share might help you find them.”

  “Miss, again, I’m sorry,” the officer said. “We have important business to get through here. We just don’t have time for amateur hour, though if your story is true, again I’m sorry.”

  “Stanley, that’s enough!” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.

  Startled, Katie turned around. And she frowned, confused and oddly filled with a strange little sizzle of déjà vu and anger.

  She knew the man who had spoken. Well, she didn’t know him, but she’d seen him before.

  He’d been with the cops trying to prove George Calabria was a psychotic killer. Six years ago, when she’d gone down to George’s trial in Orlando, she had been an excellent character witness for him. She’d been infuriated the police had wanted to skewer the poor man just because he’d been living in Orlando.

  The man’s wife had been brutally butchered along with her parents; he’d had to be in a different place if he’d planned on starting over after all that happened.

  The officer who had been speaking with her—Stanley, apparently—looked up indignantly. “Hey, come on, Dan! You don’t work here. I’m not even sure what you’re doing here. You can’t just—”

  “Stanley, I’ll take over,” another man said as he stepped into the office. The way he seemed to own the space suggested to Katie this might be the detective she was waiting for. “Dan, what’s going on?”

  Dan spoke without taking his eyes off her. “Ryder, this is Katie Delaney. Her parents were killed twelve years ago in waters down by the Florida Keys. She has every right to be here. You’re going to want to listen to what she has to say.”