Ed Gorman: Voodoo Moon

The building was new and strictly functional. The bond issue had probably been passed but by a small enough margin to send a clear signal to the local law people: nothing fancy. For all the bull-market bravado of this decade, taxpayers are ruthlessly cheap. And most times with good reason. Courthouse, jail, police station in a gray, squarish, three-story concrete building with no style whatsoever. The taxpayers had no doubt been mollified. Presumably there was indoor plumbing.

Inside, a receptionist directed us to the left side of the building where, behind a glass wall, several people in khaki police uniforms worked at various tasks-typing on computers, talking to citizens, talking on the telephone, and using, with great dispatch, a communications computer board that linked them with the officers in the field. For such a small town, the way the officers conducted themselves-and used their equipment-was imposing. They probably did have indoor plumbing.

We walked through the door. I went over to an officer who had just hung up his phone. I said we'd like to see the chief. He asked what it was about. I told him we'd been shot at. He looked genuinely shocked. "What the hell is that all about?" he said. Then he went to see if the chief could see us.

Two, three minutes later, we walked into the chief's office. I could tell you about the neat and tidy desk; the various law enforcement plaques and awards on the wall; the photo cube bearing the image of a lovely, dark-haired teenage girl, the same girl in infancy, at the high school prom, and more recently hang gliding. But walking into the office of Susan T. Charles, the first thing you noticed was her.

And for two reasons.

One, female police chiefs weren't supposed to be so pretty. And two, women so pretty weren't supposed to have scars that stretched from their right temple all the way down to the edge of their full and sensual mouths. The contrast between her green-eyed, brunette loveliness and the ugly knife scar was stunning.

She watched us watch her. She was used to this. She didn't like it but she'd learned resignation long ago. She even managed a sweet, tolerant little smile for us as she shook our hands and let us unfasten our gaze from the half-moon scar.

The same uniformed cop who'd escorted us in now brought us coffee. He'd taken our order previously.

When he was going, Chief Charles said, "Close the door, would you, Mike?"

"Sure."

He closed the door.

She said, "Let's get right to it. Somebody shot at you this morning?" She sounded as startled as Mike had.

So I told her our story. And explained why Tandy and Laura were here.

Chief Charles smiled. " That's who you are. Several of my friends watch your show all the time. Love it."

Tandy returned the smile.

"And you would be who?" the chief said to me.

I told her my name and what I did.

"He's here to help us with the story," Laura said. "Give us a profile of the type of person likely to commit such a murder."

"You don't believe it was Rick?"

Laura shrugged. "Actually, we don't have an opinion. But it's an interesting story. Renard burning the asylum down. I'm told he even got several of the patients into voodoo."

"That's my understanding," the chief said. "In fact, there were certain voodoo symbols found on the grounds. He must've left them behind right before he escaped."

Tandy said, "We'd like to interview Rick Hennessy, if we could."

"'Interview' means what exactly?"

"Talk to him," Tandy said.

"Put him on videotape?"

"If we could."

The chief sighed. "I don't have to agree, you know." Her tone was as crisp as the white button-down shirt she wore beneath her blue blazer. She had a sporty flame-blue scarf tied around her neck. Very decorative. She was quite lovely.

"We know," Laura said. And smiled.

"What are your objections?" Tandy said.

"Well, we already have people from just about every major tabloid in the country camped out here, waiting for the trial to start next week. And they're all over the air and the newsstands talking about the 'Devil trial.' I grew up here. I know the pride this town has. We don't like to look like buffoons. Rick Hennessy killed his ex-girlfriend by strangling her. Then he took his knife and cut several voodoo symbols into her. But there was nothing 'supernatural' going on at all. She'd been unfaithful to him. He couldn't deal with it. He stalked her for several months. We arrested him twice. Then he started reading about Renard. I'm still not sure how that came about. But anyway, he became as obsessed with Renard as he was with his girlfriend, Sandy Caine. She was a straight-A student and a very nice kid. Pretty, too. Had everything going for her. Had already signed up for the U. of Iowa. Was going to major in history. Very serious kid. And a sweet one, too. Her mother was dead, and her dad will never recover. I wouldn't, anyway." She sighed. "Anyway, Rick-who isn't a bad kid, either, for that matter-managed to convince himself that Paul Renard demanded some kind of 'voodoo sacrifice,' as Rick put it. So he killed Sandy. I don't believe in pop psychology but it seems to me that this was an example of somebody who couldn't deal with the fact that he'd killed somebody he loved-so he blamed it on someone else. In this case, a man who is probably dead."

"Some people think he's living here right now."

She grinned. It was a kid-sister grin and it was fetching as all hell. "You sure you're not a tabloid reporter, Mr. Payne?"

"Not the last time I looked."

"That's the 'theory' they're pushing. That Renard didn't really die and has come back here. And that he killed Sandy, not Rick."

Then she looked at Tandy. "But I'll bet you're pushing the supernatural angle, aren't you?" There was an edge in her voice now. "And you'll take your camera along the street and interview people until you find a few idiots who believe in the supernatural theory, too. And there we'll be, on the tube, Brenner, Iowa-or 'Ioway,' as the hicks say-talking about spooks and demons and nasties."

"You've really got me wrong, Chief," Tandy said quietly. She sounded hurt. And looked hurt, too. "I'm not a fake. I'm a serious psychic investigator. You may not believe that, but anybody who has ever worked with me will tell you that. And I'm certainly not here to make fun of your town."

Apparently sensing Tandy's pain, Chief Susan Charles said, "I'm sorry. I went over the top a bit, I'm afraid."

"I'm not a cynical person, Chief. I'm really not."

The chief nodded. "All right. I accept that-if you'll accept the fact that I'm very protective of this town."

"That means we can't see him?" Laura said.

"That means you can't see him alone. I want my deputy Bob Fuller in there at all times."

"All right," Laura said.

"And I want to see the segment before it goes on the air."

"That we won't do," Laura said.

Susan Charles smiled again. "I didn't figure you would."

Laura laughed. "You're one hard lady to read."

At just this moment, my eyes happened to be concentrating on Susan Charles's facial scar. I was wondering how it had happened. And when.

She caught me. Our eyes met. She seemed to be as curious about me as I was about her.

"Are you going in with them, Mr. Payne?"

"I thought I would."

"I need to talk to one of you about the shooting this morning."

"Listen," Tandy said. "Why don't Laura and I go ahead and get set up and introduce ourselves to the Hennessy boy. You can come down after a while, Robert."

"Fine with me."

The chief touched a button on her intercom system. "Would you tell Bob Fuller to come to my office please, Am? Thank you."

Deputy Fuller was a burly, balding, fortyish man who might have passed himself off as just another small-town cop. But the eyes belied that. Sharp, steady, quick in appraisal, full of hard intelligence. He looked us over as the chief explained who we were and what we wanted. He seemed less than overwhelmed. "UFOs, huh?" he said, giving us a haiku version of his judgment. His khaki uniform had been dry-cleaned and faintly crinkled starchily when he moved. His black oxfords were so shiny you could use them for shaving mirrors.