The Axeman's Jazz

back into the records and found there’d been some similar cases in 1911, but I guess they didn’t catch on. These did.”
    “Citizen panic attack?”
    “More or less, but the weird thing was, most of the victims seemed to be Italian grocers. They never caught the guy—the murders stopped about eighteen months after they started. But later the widow of one of the victims killed somebody who might have been him—somebody who’d been blackmailing Italians, went to jail in 1911, got paroled in 1918.”
    “So how about the letter—was anyone killed on party night?”
    “No.” Joe sighed. “But some composer did write a piece about the whole deal—like it says in the new letter. And a good time was had by all, of course. A real good time. Langdon, you ever been to a hurricane party?”
    “Sure. Hasn’t everyone?”
    “You, Cappello?”
    She shrugged. “Of course.”
    “You two see what I’m getting at? This is the kind of town where people think it’s a real good idea to blow it all out just because a storm’s on the way. Can you imagine what next Tuesday’s gonna be like?”
    “Murder.”
    “Yeah. Unless we get him by then.”
    “How about our letter?”
    He shrugged, knowing what she meant but obviously wanting to hedge his answer. “I hate to say it, but I guess it’s got to be him. Nobody else knows about the scarlet A’s. A little piece about Linda Lee ran in the paper, but nobody knows about Tom Mabus. He had to have mailed it day before yesterday, before Tom’s body was even discovered.”
    Skip’s scalp prickled. “This guy’s really crazy.”
    But unexpectedly, Joe grinned. “I like the spaceman angle. Do me a favor, okay? Put out a bulletin on a little blue guy.”
    She wasn’t in the mood. The reality of the situation was still sinking in—she hadn’t yet had time to assimilate it and wall off a piece of herself. “What are we really going to do?”
    “Well, Skip, I think I might have to give you some help.” She noticed he’d dropped “Langdon” and gone back to his normal form of address. Curious, she thought. As she got more stressed out, he was getting more relaxed.
    I guess that’s what good lieutenants do—take the pressure off the generals.
    “The national media are going to be all over this thing, you realize that? Like stink on—”
    “Shrimp,” said Cappello quickly.
    “Maggots on garbage,” Joe said. “And I gotta tell you something else—I’m worried about this asshole. We got a major-league problem on our hands and I got a feeling it’s going to get worse before it gets better. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m assigning a five-person team to this deal— not counting the consultant.”
    “Who’s the consultant?”
    “Later,” he said. “Ten-thirty in the conference room.”
    As she was leaving, he said, “Oh, Langdon, one more thing. Can you work with Frank O’Rourke?”
    “No problem.” She heard the chill in her own voice.
    She was third in the conference room. O’Rourke was there already—handsome, nasty Frank O’Rourke, who delighted, it seemed, in sabotaging Skip. He was a veteran Homicide detective and a natural for the Axeman team—much more so than Skip.
    Jim Hodges sat with him—a solid guy who might have regretted giving his case away. But that probably wasn’t why Joe had picked him. He was a hard worker and a team player—everybody liked to work with him.
    The others filed in in a minute—Cappello and Sergeant Adam Abasolo, apparently detailed to Homicide for the biggie. He was known as a whiz, soon to take the lieutenant’s test and certain to be promoted to head of his division, which was sex crimes. Abasolo—tall, slender, and wiry, with dark hair and blue eyes—looked a little like a thug and a little like a movie star. He was single and known to fancy the ladies—thin blond ones, usually from good families.
    Joe arrived looking pale and harried. Briefly, he outlined the case, describing the two murders and the letter. “As you know,” he said, “we’ve never had a case like this in New Orleans.”
    “Yes we have,” said Cappello. “The original Axeman.”
    “What, you don’t think it’s the same guy?” asked Hodges. “Funny-looking little dude with great big Bambi eyes?”
    O’Rourke said, “That’s Abasolo. He’s supposed to be on our side.”
    Joe wasn’t in the mood for banter. He spoke as if no one else had. “I’ve brought in some outside help on this—a consultant working