M Sellars: The End Of Desire

The older homicide detective to whom he had been speaking jotted a note then gave him a nod and asked, “Did the manager say who paid for the room?”

His words were structured with the generic speech pattern of any randomly selected Midwestern location, audibly setting him apart from the natives of the Crescent City.

“He said da’ podna paid for it, cash money.”

“Partner?” the detective asked. Just as his lack of accent set him apart, his question marked him as a very recent transplant. “Did you get a description?”

The uniformed cop raised an eyebrow and gave the detective a confused stare. After a brief pause he nodded toward the victim on the bed and repeated, “Da’ podna. Cap over dere paid for it.”

“Who?”

“Da’ victim,” a slightly younger detective interjected as he entered through the motel room door. Obviously he had heard at least some of the exchange. “Ya’ gotta excuse Country dere. He never learnt a secon’ language.”

The older man turned, peering over his glasses at the source of the new voice and said, “The victim?”

“Yeah, you rite,” the younger man replied with a nod.

The uniformed cop glanced over at him and grinned, “Hey, cap. How’s yamamma’n’dem?”

“Dey good,” he replied, giving the other man a slap on the shoulder. “Ya’ gonna be home later? I’ll pass by ya’ house.”

“Naw, I prahmis’ Jawn ah’d he’p out wit ‘is maw-maw house.”

“Yeah? It bad?”

The uniformed man gave his head a sad shake. “Ya’ you rite, it’s bad. She still waitin’ on da bastuhds ta’ bring da’ trailuh.”

“Gawd. Well you tell ‘em hey from me.”

“F’sure.”

A lull fell in the conversation, and the newly arrived detective turned his attention to the older man. “Well… Dere ya’ go.”

“Uh-hmmm…Okay,” the transplant muttered then glanced back to the patrolman. “Sorry about the miscommunication there.”

“So’kay, cap,” he replied.

“Okay, well thanks. I guess I’ll catch up with you if I need anything else.”

The cop simply nodded then turned and made his way out of the room, which was quickly becoming crowded, even though there were only two crime scene technicians, the victim, and the two detectives occupying the space.

The younger detective offered his hand and said, “Bailey. Joe Bailey.”

The older man took it and answered, “Tim Fairbanks. But, everybody just calls me Banks.”

“You got it, Banks,” the younger man replied. “Everybody jus’ calls me Joe. Where ya’ stay at?”

“I’ve got a hotel room over at…”

“No…I mean where da’ ya’ live? Where are ya’ from?”

“Oh. Kansas City. Homicide division. I had some vacation time coming and not much to do, so I volunteered through the FOP to come down here.”

“We can use da’ help. Glad ya’ here.”

“Thanks. Just got here a couple days ago. That’s kind of obvious, I guess.”

“F’true. Doin’ okay so far?”

“Pretty much. Although, there have been a few times when I thought I was going to need a translator,” Fairbanks sighed.

“Like jus’ now?” Bailey replied. His own voice had the clipped affectations of the region but was nowhere near as thick as the uniformed officer where his dialect was concerned. He grinned at Fairbanks then momentarily poured it on for effect. “Ya’ get used ta’ it. Ya’ jus’ stick ‘round awhile dere, cap, an’ ya’ learn how ta’ tawk rite like us.”

“Yeah,” Detective Fairbanks chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”

The two men shuffled around to get out of the way as a crime scene technician excused himself with a grunt and skirted past them. After a moment, Detective Bailey shook his head and let out a low whistle as he inspected the scene.

“Gawd. Ya’ evuh seen such a thing, cheef?”

The question hung waiting in the thick air. It almost seemed as if it was held aloft by the cloying odor of sweet watermelon, cigarette smoke, and burnt flesh that still permeated the motel room even though the door had been wide open for some time. While Bailey’s tone was more rhetorical than anything, the query still seemed to beg an answer.

Fairbanks grunted, “You mean this week, or ever?”

Detective Bailey chuckled.

“Actually, I was serious,” Fairbanks offered.

“F’true?”

“Yeah,” he continued with a nod. “I’ve seen something a lot like it. Of course, there wasn’t any blood and the guy wasn’t dead.”

“Ya’ lyin’?”

“No.” He gave his head a shake. “True story.”

Bailey whistled again. “Where ya’ see dat?”

“A few years back when I worked a vice detail, we raided a sex club. I hit my assigned door, and when I came through it, this hooker had a buck-naked john all trussed up to the bed. Pretty much just like this guy is.” He dipped his head toward the scene in front of them. “The pro was all dolled up like a Catholic schoolgirl, and she was beatin’ the hell out of him with a yardstick.”

“No way. F’true?”

“Yeah,” he nodded again. “Trust me, I’m pretty vanilla. I couldn’t even begin to make up something like that. I have to say, it appeared that they were havin’ a pretty good time of it too-before I interrupted them, of course. Especially him, from the looks of things, if you know what I mean.”

The younger cop shook his head slowly and grinned. “Gawd! Dressed like a Catlick schoolgirl, huh? Sick bastuhd liked dat did ‘e?” After a short pause he nodded toward the victim. “F’sure, I don’t think dis one here enjoyed it so much.”

Fairbanks bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with you.”

“Well,” Bailey began, “I sure don’t think we’re talkin’ about jus’ your av’rage hooker did dis though.”

“That was my thought too, what with the level of torture and all. Are you thinking maybe gang retribution or something on that order?”

“Naw, I doubt dat. Not da’ kinda gang you mean, anyway. Dere’s more goin’ on here than ya’ think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Lookit ‘is chest,” he offered, pointing.

Detective Fairbanks pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned in to look. After a moment of inspection, an intricate pattern became obvious even through the wide swath of dried blood and random burn marks covering the dead man’s skin. The longer he looked, the more it revealed itself, until it formed what appeared to be a crosshatched heart pierced by a long dagger or sword.

“So our killer is a bit of an artist, then?”

Bailey let out another of his trademark whistles. “Cheef, dat’s not jus’ art. Dat dere is a veve. Air-zoo-LEE Don-toe. Whoever done dis did more than jus’ kill dis guy. Dey put a gris-gris on ‘im.”

Fairbanks looked closer at the intricate incisions then leaned back and sighed. Shaking his head he muttered, “Yeah. Okay. I’m definitely gonna need a translator.”

Thursday, December 1

1:12 A.M.

Room 16

Airline Courts Motel

Metairie, Louisiana

The last time I had been to New Orleans I was with Felicity, and we had come here on vacation… Well, it was actually a working vacation on her part, as she had been hired by an architectural magazine to shoot pictures for an upcoming layout featuring several of the more artful buildings in the city. Still, there had been plenty of time for relaxation, which was more than I could say for my current visit.

Back then, we had stayed at a plush hotel in the French Quarter on someone else’s tab and spent our days doing what amounted to sightseeing, even though my wife had a camera to her eye most of the time. Of course, that wasn’t particularly unusual for her whether she was working or not. It was more or less a by-product of her reputation as one of the top freelance photographers in the country. But, in the end the only real difference between us and the other tourists snapping pictures was that Felicity knew what she was doing and was being well paid to do it.