The Axeman's Jazz

lipstick.
    Skip looked around the room—ordinary furniture, on the cheap side; posters tacked to the walls and one old-fashioned landscape, maybe painted by a relative or bought at a garage sale. Nothing special here, but the room was neat and looked cared for. Not the room of a crazy artist, an out-of-it alcoholic, or an obviously disturbed person—not even the room of a free spirit. Not the room of a person who painted on her wall with lipstick.
    Why A? And why lipstick? To simulate blood? Was it intended to be a scarlet A with the same meaning as the original? Skip dismissed the idea as preposterous. She hadn’t been in Homicide long, but already she found it inconceivable that anyone would make a literary allusion in the midst of snuffing someone. Still, a jealous lover…
    It was a weird town and the Quarter was plain wacko.
    Technically, the victim had to be declared dead before any homicide investigation could start, and then the crime lab had to go over the place and photograph it. But Skip took a cursory look around the apartment. There was only a bedroom and kitchen, both neat, the bed made up, no dishes in the sink. Seemingly nothing out of place. Excellent. Maybe there’d be a calendar someplace with the names of recent dates, maybe letters from a rejected lover.
    Skip left the two district officers to wait for the crime lab and went up to see Curtis Ogletree. Green plush overstuffed chairs and sofa shared space with small tables stained a reddish color, possibly to simulate maple. One of the tables had a magazine rack built into it, and one side of the magazine rack was a fake wagon wheel, spokes and all. The furniture seemed nearly as old as he was, or half as old anyway, which would have made it about forty, but it was in perfect condition. Mr. Ogletree had put down a tan rug.
    It was a comfortable, masculine room, one in which Skip imagined Mr. Ogletree spent most of his time. “I’ve got coffee on,” he said.
    Coffee! It must be ninety-eight in the shade.
    “Great,” she said. “I’d love some.” She noticed his hands shook as he handed her a cup, and felt a sudden wave of sympathy.
    “I’m sorry you had to go through this.”
    He waved impatiently, shooing the sentiment, his frown growing deeper. “Please. It’s my job.”
    If he’s the murderer, no problem. The more he frowns, the more he’s lying.
    But she knew she was playing mind games with herself; he would probably lie only about how easy it was to do something hard—especially something for someone else, at great inconvenience to himself.
    He looked a wreck. His face was drawn, probably with the effort of concealing the loathing and horror he felt.
    Maybe it would help him to talk about it.
    “Most people don’t see dead bodies except lying in coffins in their Sunday clothes. I know it was a shock for me the first time—and it never really got any easier.”
    His frown was so fierce she wondered if he was going to hit her. His words and voice were gentle: “I guess it’s different for men.”
    She was making things worse.
    She took out her notebook, crossed her legs, leaned back, and pretended to give him an appraising look, ever-so-slightly suspicious. She made her voice crisp: “How did you happen to discover the body?”
    “A lady from her office came—Lucy McKinnon. I have her number; would you like it?”
    “Please.”
    He rummaged in a pocket and handed over the number. “She said Linda Lee hadn’t showed up for work Friday or today and didn’t answer her phone or her doorbell. Wanted to know if she’d moved out. I said no, but I’d let her know if I found out anything—that’s why she gave me the phone number.
    “Then I went down there and knocked on Linda Lee’s door myself. Now, I know I’m not s’posed to enter a tenant’s apartment without giving notice—I hope I’m not in trouble—”
    “Of course not.”
    “—but Miss Kitty was so pitiful. I could hear her meowin’ like she’d lost her best friend right at the door, like she knew I was there and she needed to talk to me.”
    “Linda Lee had a cat?”
    “Beautiful white longhair. I just couldn’t resist—’course, I did knock first, but that poor animal was just so pitiful. All I did was try the doorknob—didn’t even have to unlock it. And when it opened I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t noticed the odor—guess I had and just thought it was garbage. There she was, lying on the floor right in my line of vision. And Miss