Greg Herren - Murder in the Rue Ursulines

“Two murders in New Orleans can already be chalked up to Chanse MacLeod. Is it really that much of a stretch to think he might have something to do with Glynis Parrish’s murder? Not according to the NOPD! The NOPD refused to answer questions about the investigation, or why they weren’t taking MacLeod, a two-time killer, seriously as a suspect. All we know is once a killer, always a killer-unless you live in New Orleans and have friends at the cop shop.”

I set my coffee cup back down on the desk… Deep breaths, I told myself. It’s just a gossip Web site, and no one could possibly take it seriously. It’s not like it’s a reputable news agency. And it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse. So ignore it, forget about it. There’s nothing you can do about it, anyway. I stared at the picture of Paul, and started to get angry all over again.

There was absolutely no need to drag Paul into this. I hoped Fee and the rest of his family didn’t see this garbage.

At the bottom of the article was a place to post comments. My jaw dropped. There were over 36,000 comments already.

I clicked on the link to the comments page.

The first post started, That faggot got what he deserved-whoever beat him up shouldn’t have stopped there, they should have killed him for the lies he’s spreading about Freddy Bliss…

No need to read this crap, I thought, switching over to my e-mail in-box.

It was full again. I started marking the messages as spam and getting rid of them. The header lines included such charming statements as Fucking faggot; Leave Frillian alone you fag; Someone should kill your gay ass; and so forth.

I shook my head. Would it have killed me to say, “No comment”?

I got up from the desk and walked over to my front window, pulling the curtains aside. There were news vans out front, and a crowd milling about on the sidewalk. I walked back to my desk and sat down, reading the original article again. This time I remained calm. Now that the initial shock was over, all I felt was a dull spreading rage-and that wasn’t a good thing. I needed to remain calm, let it roll off me, and stay focused. Sure, everything in the article was true-but it was the way it was written that made me sound like some kind of crazed monster. Undoubtedly, the reporter was also getting some payback for my not returning his or her calls.

I heard Jillian saying, “They’ll print anything, with no regard for whether it’s true or not…or they’ll take what’s true and make it sound as awful as they can.”

“So this is what it’s like to be a celebrity,” I said out loud, finishing my coffee. “I think it sucks. ”

No sense getting angry about it. I just hated the feeling of powerlessness. These people could write just about anything they wanted to, make any kind of innuendo, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

But it did make me wonder where they got their information from.

The only people who could benefit from my being discredited were Freddy and Jillian.

And why discredit me- unless Freddy had killed Glynis?

I was becoming more and more convinced. They certainly weren’t acting like Freddy was innocent.

I scrolled down to the bottom of the page. I forced myself to read the comments. They were horrible; people sitting behind the anonymity of their computer screens passing judgments…

“Chance McCloud-why didn’t you mention that he’s a faggot pervert? He’s killed before, how do the police know that he didn’t kill Glynis? He lives outside God’s law, so the commandment against killing means nothing to him. He and all the other perverts in New Orleans should be rounded up and killed, it’s what God commands…he and others like him are an abomination in the eyes of the Lord. Why else did God send the hurricane to destroy the modern Sodom? These are indeed sorry times for this country when perverts like that can subvert God’s law and get away with it.”

I wanted to put my fist through the computer screen. Fury filled my brain, and I clicked on the respond button on the page. Then I thought better of it and closed the window. Don’t get angry, just shrug it off. There’s nothing you can do about it. And anything you could say would just inflame them more. Don’t give them any attention; that’s what they want. Just ignore them and don’t descend to their level.

In the five minutes since I’d emptied my in-box, it had filled up again. Most of the messages were interview requests, but the subject line of one was abusive: You Should Burn in Hell. . The return address was a series of number and letters that made no sense;

Against my better judgment I opened it, and read:

You fucking faggot,

You can get away with your perversions in a disgusting city like New Orleans, but in the rest of the country we all live by God’s law, and you are an abomination in His eyes. You obviously have some kind of agenda, some reason to try to destroy Freddy and Jillian, but it’s not too late to recant not only your lies, or to make yourself right in the eyes of the Lord. You like taking it up the butt? Well, when you finish outraging good Christians, we have something to shove up your butt-a shotgun ready to blow you to Kingdom Come, and then when you face your maker, we’ll see how defiant you are in your sin. You are an abomination, who has turned his back on the Lord. His judgment will way heavy on your soul. We’ll be praying for you.

My hands shaking with anger, I forwarded it to Jephtha, asking him to trace the sender for me. I then saved it, moving on to continue emptying out my in-box. Sadly, that wasn’t the only one of its type, and after reading for the fifth time how I was damned to eternal hell, I stopped.

I got another cup of coffee and sat down on the couch for a moment. I was breathing fine, and my heart rate seemed normal, which was great. I took a couple of cleansing breaths, and sighed. I called Paige, and she answered screaming. “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY THAT ON CAMERA FOR YOU BIG IDIOT!”

“Good morning to you too, did you sleep well?” I replied. “And yes, I’m fine, just a bit on the sore side.”

“I’m counting to ten, give me a second.”

“Okay, granted, it wasn’t the smartest thing to do.” I said. I could hear her counting. “But damn it, I couldn’t just let it go. And I was hoping to stir up Frillian.”

“Nine, ten.” She blew out a long breath. “Good idea. If they sent someone to beat you up-which by the way we don’t know for a fact-you’re right. By all means, antagonize them some more. I could wring your neck.”

“Jephtha’s tracing some information for me from Freddy’s college days.” I said. With Paige, I’ve learned that it’s sometimes best to ignore her and change the subject. “I’m going to stop by his place after I meet with Brett, the trainer, and see what he’s found.”

“Oh, and Shirley Harris is in rehab, by the way,” Paige replied with a sad laugh. “It was on the news last night. Frillian hired a private plane and sent her to one of those celebrity places like Betty Ford-near Palm Springs. No one’s going to be able to get anything out of her now. If you ask me, they sure are acting like they’re guilty. We can write Shirley off as a source now.” She sighed. “I’m having lunch with Venus later. I’m going to tell her about my interview with Shirley. Maybe she can get to Shirley, but who knows? I wish I’d been able to get the name of her private eye out of her.”

“If her private eye was able to dig it up, we should be able to,” I said confidently.

“What I don’t understand,” Paige said slowly, “is why it hasn’t come up before. Someone out there has to know-and has to know it’s worth a lot of money to either Freddy or the tabloids.”