NINE

In a thick binder, a number of reports arrived at the farmhouse the following afternoon. Émile took care of the horses then sat down with a whiskey at hand to study the documents. He had reshoed a horse earlier that day and being bent over awkwardly out in the chill of the barn cost him. At such times, when the back started to protest, he knew what to do. Remain neither prone nor seated for too long, stop the pain with medication before it gained the advantage, and redouble his exercise regimen. So he performed his program then settled in for his reading in a good mood. The ache felt shoeing the horse proved beneficial, for bent over and grunting Sandra entered the barn and something snapped between them. They were both instantly reminded of the first time they set eyes on one another, when she was the one slumped over a horse’s shoe, scraping it clean of muck.

The memory refreshed them both.

Mathers had finally sent over FBI reports on the southern murders. Émile read them, ensconced on his sofa with his feet up at times, or seated on a exercise ball, or standing, and periodically he switched the three positions to keep his back supple. Each time he changed positions he poured another splash into his glass. After showering, Sandra joined him, and, given her new status as a confidante on the case, she perused the reports as well.

By the time they were both finished, Cinq-Mars was gently bouncing on his ball, while she curled up against the plush cushions.

“So,” she invited him, “what does this tell you? What are you learning?”

He would rather take more time to process what he read, but this was a new regime and his marriage, apparently, remained at stake.

“What’s curious,” he speculated, “and I have to think about this a little more, is that the murders are less violent than they appear.”

“Murder’s not violent? Since when? These murders are violent, Émile.”

The correction was warranted.

“Yes, but … each murder is meant to appear to be the result of a rampage. As if by design. But the victims died early—well, relatively early, as these things go—during the event. On the surface, we see some sick aspects. Before the woman is killed, for instance, she probably finds out that her husband is dead. Most likely, she watched him die. That’s traumatic. Gruesome, I suppose. It’s cruel. Hard on the psyche. All the more so knowing that she’s likely to be next.”

“But you don’t consider it gruesome yourself?” Sandra spoke quietly. “I mean, you only suppose that it’s gruesome?” She had asked to be included in the investigation, but was no longer certain that she wanted to be. “You’re not that jaded, Émile. Surely not. Or should I be asking, how jaded are you?”

He tried to explain. “In every case, the cops on the scene believed the murders were gruesome. Odds are, some, if not all, of them were jaded cops. Such as the guys in New Orleans. Louisiana is the least safe state in the union.”

“What’s the safest? My New Hampshire, I bet.”

“Sorry. Maine beats you out again.”

“We always lose out to Maine. I hate that.”

“You have better horses.”

“True. Good. Otherwise, I’d have to move to Maine.”

That was probably a slip, and Émile was careful not to slide off his gym ball as he stretched for his Highland Park. He let the comment go, as any reply might lead to trouble. He didn’t want to think that she was considering moving.

“The point is,” he analysed, “the first cops on the scene always considered the murders particularly violent, but the facts of the case don’t really bear that out. Violence is a relative term when it comes to murder. What I’m feeling is, they were meant to look pretty bad. But in truth they weren’t, not really.”

“Okay. Maybe I’m following you. The gruesome aspects were for effect?”

“Yes. Because there was never a rampage. Only the hint of a rampage. The murders were actually methodical and precise. Calculated, actually. Professional, in other words. At least … maybe. It’s only a theory.”

“Go on,” she encouraged him. She knew that her husband was good at this sort of thing, yet she rarely had an opportunity to see him in action. “What’s the theory?”

“First off, the victims seem to have died early in the rampage. So they were spared any prolonged physical and psychological agony. That suggests to me that the killer wasn’t necessarily in it for his jollies. Rather, he had a job to do, but he wanted to make it look otherwise. Sick aspects show up, as I said, but the scenes were not prolonged, which is odd if the killer was driven by a desire for violent or warped sex, for example. Each victim loses his or her ring finger, and the rings on it, but in Alabama the medical examiner declared positively that the fingers were removed postmortem. So the victims didn’t suffer that torture when they were alive. In Louisiana, the ME suggested that that might have been the case, but she seemed to lack confidence in her findings. I think she was just incompetent. In Connecticut, the ME raised the matter as a likely possibility. Here, for our murders, the coroner neglected to even ask the question. Most people have assumed the man’s finger was snipped off when he was alive, but that’s not necessarily true. And the killer might not have known the woman wasn’t dead yet.”

“Émile.”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t say snipped.”

He pondered why she was strung out on the word, and concluded that it suggested that the act was somehow more gruesome.

“It just sounds so banal when, really, it’s horrible,” she explained.

“I won’t say snipped,” he conceded. “Digging further,” he went on, “theft as a common link is also odd. None of the victims were rich or likely to be carrying large amounts of cash, and the killer clearly left each house traveling light. Why rob these people? To risk a murder charge to steal trinkets is out of whack. It could happen once, maybe the thief expected more, but multiple times? As well, are the women of a certain type? No. Are the men? No. So why were the victims handpicked to be victims when nothing links them? Nothing fits a predetermined pattern or criteria for a calculating, methodical killer. The only real similarity, and it’s intriguing, is that the murders followed in the wake of natural disasters, although in our case, it was only a big storm.”

With that puzzle afloat in the air awhile, Émile chose to reload his Scotch.

He remained standing when he returned.

“And how did anyone link these crimes together?” he asked. “The ring finger removal? That’s a clue, for sure. But so easily missed given how these crimes are spread out across the continent. What was it that turned the FBI’s crank on this?”

“Ask them.”

“They’re not talking. That’s the other intriguing factor. The missing link, as it were. The FBI doesn’t want me to know what they know. They want me to investigate in the dark. As if there’s a way that that can ever work.”

“But I know you, Émile. You never trust policemen. Except maybe Bill.”

“Bill’s naïve. Always will be.”

“See what I mean?”

He smiled, and balanced on his exercise ball again.

“Sandra, here’s the thing. If I’m to do this job properly, because I’ve got nothing to shake a stick at locally, I need to visit at least a few of the crime scenes in the United States and interview the local authorities there.”

He sipped. Sandra nodded.

“Where, exactly?”

“First stop, New Orleans. Then I’ll nip off to Alabama.”

“Nip,” she repeated. Sandra sighed. “If you have to go,” she determined, “then you have to go. You’re just interviewing people, right? Nothing dangerous.”

“I’m not aware of any danger. So, do you think you can get your usual guy to look after the horses?”

She shrugged. “I can manage on my own.”

“You’re not taking my meaning.”

She looked up at him. Saw a twinkle in his eyes.

“It’s New Orleans, Sandra. You’re on the case, right? So come with me.”

She did a tiny double-take and saw that he was serious. “Oh, yes, I can get my usual guy. If not, I’ll get some other guy. Émile! Isn’t Mardi Gras coming up?”

“I believe so.”

“Holy shit! New Orleans!”

She forgot for a moment that her husband was a religious man, that some swear words were more offensive to him than others, such as holy annexed to shit. She wanted to apologize, but their eyes locked then, for more than a few seconds, and both new what the other was thinking. This was a chance, of sorts. To rediscover themselves. Or to fall apart. This was more than just a simple holiday. And certainly, not a simple investigation. They had a lot more riding on this case than the identity of a killer.