The Axeman's Jazz

McClellan existed, but her dad was a former mayor running for the legislature. Good family, churchgoers, no police record; lived with an aunt in New Orleans. Skip checked one more thing—a map. She wanted to see if Hattiesburg was just down the road from Indianola, where Linda Lee had grown up. It wasn’t.
    Di was another matter. None of the hypnotists in the book had ever heard of her and neither had the National Guild of Hypnotists, the American Association of Professional Hypnotherapists, or the National Society of Clinical Hypnotherapists. She was licensed neither by the State Board of Certified Social Work Examiners nor by the State Board of Examiners of Psychologists. None of which meant she wasn’t a hypnotherapist, but if she was, Skip had the feeling she was the sort who just decided she was and hung out a shingle.
    She reported to Joe and Cappello, “They’re all screwballs—three of them out front and two who’re too good to be true.”
    Joe said, “They sound pretty ordinary to me.”
    “Yeah. Ordinary screwballs. At least they’re all who they say they are, except for Di. The voodoo people don’t know her and neither do the headshrinkers.”
    “You better try to concentrate on her awhile.”
    “Okay.” She felt a light sweat break out on her forehead: I think I’ll just ask her mom about her. Or maybe her ex-husband.” On days like this she was glad she didn’t have a partner; it wouldn’t suit her freewheeling style. But some things had to be run by her superiors. “By the way, tonight I have a little pretend date with Alex.”
    “You what?” The look on Joe’s face said his own dog had bitten him.
    Cappello calmed him. “It’s okay. She’s already been out with Abe. To what avail I’m not sure, but I’ll try anything at this point.”
    “Abe doesn’t have a criminal record. Alex hit a guy once.”
    “He doesn’t quite check out either. Claims he lives Uptown and he doesn’t. But not to worry—I can handle him. And Abasolo’s backing me up.”
    Joe sighed. “Be sure you take a radio with you.”
    When they were done, she drank coffee, killing time. And at ten o’clock she took off for Rob Gerard’s studio, not caring if she made him mad. Just feeling desperate.
    She had a bad feeling the Axeman had been out of commission too long for comfort. The first murders had been close together. Another was due.
    * * *
    An ankle was tied to something—a rope, maybe, a wisp of fog, perhaps—that anchored the body to Earth. It floated aubergine and red in a dark mass that could have been space, or possibly the sea. The mass roiled and twisted, alive with tumult and agony, Skip thought, but that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t alive, it wasn’t even real.
    She was oddly unnerved by the huge painting—Rob’s, surely—leaning against a brick wall. It made her throat close slightly, and not in a good way. She felt a little bit afraid, though there was no one else in the courtyard except a man so wispy she could have broken him in two. He was clearly unarmed, indeed almost undressed, wearing only a pair of faded shorts. His skin glistened, probably from a recent application of sunscreen. He was very white to be out in August with no shirt or hat. His hair glinted copper, neon in the morning sun. He sat on the ground, his back to Skip, either staring at the painting or meditating.
    “Excuse me….”
    When he turned around, she saw that his eyes were light blue and his face, unlike his body, was biscuit-brown. His lashes and brows were bleached white. He reminded her of a leprechaun, so small was he, and so crafty-looking.
    “Whoooo are yooooou?” He drew out each syllable, in a parody, she thought, of some Lewis Carroll character, some grotesque from Alice in Wonderland. He stood, feet apart, solid. He was a good six inches shorter than she was but he had presence.
    “I’m Margaret Langdon,” said Skip. “I work at DePaul.” The local mental hospital.
    “How very convenient. It’s time for my medication.” He held out his hand.
    “You’re not kidding. That is, if you painted that.” She nodded at the painting, knowing she was taking a big chance. If she insulted him, she was lost; if he took up the challenge, she’d established a weird rapport.
    He didn’t bat an eye. “I’m a very sick man. You have to help me.” He didn’t remove the open hand.
    “Drop by,” said Skip. “Feeding time’s at three.”
    He was bored with the joke and was looking at her