Erica Spindler - Last Known Victim

A moment later, he rolled right past her without glancing her way. Stacy gave him a safe lead, then followed.

By the tennis gear, she assumed he would head to the New Orleans Country Club, where he was a member. Instead, he headed downtown and into the French Quarter.

Yvette was waiting on the corner of North Peters and Conti Street. Gabrielle drew to the curb and she hopped in.

So much for tennis at the club.

She was dressed in a simple print blouse and a pair of trousers. Sling-back pumps. A totally different girl from the one on the stage the night before.

Practicing to be a Realtor?

Now that was kinky.

The French Quarter was a crisscross of narrow, one-way streets. Stacy followed Gabrielle as best she could, at times forced to anticipate his next move. She managed to keep them in sight until he turned onto Rampart and a delivery truck cut her off, then stopped, blocking the narrow street.

By the time she made it onto South Rampart, Gabrielle and Yvette were long gone. She drove around the area for twenty minutes, in the hopes of spotting the Boxster, then gave up.

If they had been heading for a rendezvous, why had she been dressed so conservatively? Because it turned him on? Hardly, the guy was a strip club regular. Clearly he liked to play on the wild side.

She glanced at her watch. After four already. She had enough time to do drive-bys of a few of Gabrielle’s listings and still meet Spencer at Shannon’s by five. Tonight she would try to get some information out of Yvette.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

4:15 p.m.

Patti sat at the IBIS console while the device compared the striations on the bullet found in Sammy’s body to the one they had test-fired into the box of gel.

They matched beautifully, leaving no doubt both bullets had been fired from the same weapon.

She gazed at the computer-enhanced images. She had him. At long last. Her husband’s murderer. Most probably the Handyman killer as well.

Her feelings swung between elation and doubt. The elation she understood, but not the doubt. Ben Franklin did not seem a terribly menacing villain. More a low-level hood and all-around loser.

Which meant exactly nothing. Real life wasn’t like Hollywood, where the bad guys screamed the part. The most vicious killer she’d ever busted had had the appearance and demeanor of a choirboy.

She sat back. She felt he had been telling the truth about his reason for contacting Anna. Sharing that had been too uncomfortable to have been a lie.

If he was Sammy’s killer, if he had buried him and the woman there in City Park, would he have admitted being anywhere near there? Sure, he could simply be an extremely stupid thug. A lot of them were.

But she didn’t want to spend time or energy on the wrong guy. She didn’t want to celebrate prematurely.

She wanted him. Sammy’s killer.

And she wouldn’t rest until she was certain she had him.

“Good news?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Spencer and smiled grimly. “We may have him. Take a look.”

He crossed and peered at the IBIS-enhanced images. A moment later, he straightened. “It’s a good match.”

“Yes.”

“But you want more.”

It wasn’t a question; she answered, anyway. “What if Franklin did find the gun? The real killer buried the bodies, then disposed of the weapon.”

“And got the hell out of town before Katrina struck.”

“Yes.”

“So, we find a connection between Franklin and the woman, and we’ve got him nailed. This might help.” He handed her a legal-size manila envelope. “The analysis of the City Park Jane Doe. Elizabeth Walker dropped it off.”

Excited, Patti opened the envelope and slid the report out. Female. Caucasoid. Approximately twenty to twenty-five years old. Sixty-four inches tall. Hadn’t given birth. An unusual number of broken bones. All old breaks. Probably the victim of childhood abuse. Badly overcrowded teeth.

“She could have been strangled,” Patti said. “Says here the hyoid bone was broken.”

“Elizabeth mentioned that. Problem is, as young as the victim was, she can’t say for certain.”

Patti nodded. The hyoid bone was a horseshoe-shaped bone at the base of the skull that anchored the tongue in place. It started out in three pieces, not fully fusing until around age thirty-five.

Patti read on, through information she already knew from the crime scene, stopping when she found what she was seeking.

This victim belonged to the Handyman. The bones, the dismemberment point, fit perfectly.

It was official then-this young woman had been one of the Handyman’s victims. Since Sammy’s badge had been found in the grave with her, it could be assumed he had been one, too.

Spencer smiled. “You got to the good part.”

She met his eyes. “This is our lucky day.”

“Elizabeth suggested we send the skull over to Mackenzie at the FACES lab. It’s in good shape, she thinks we could get a decent likeness.”

Alison Mackenzie was a forensic sculptor with Louisiana State University’s Forensic Anthropology and Computer Enhancement Services lab. Using standard data about tissue depths for a person’s age, sex and race, along with the victim’s skull, she re-created the dead’s image in life. It was truly amazing how accurate some facial reconstructions turned out to be.

Of course, every Jane Doe didn’t get such treatment. Forensic sculptors didn’t grow on trees-and they didn’t come cheap, either.

But this case was special. Not only were they dealing with a serial killer, but a cop killer as well.

“Next step, Captain?”

“We identify this victim. Then we link her to Franklin. Run a missing-persons search for anyone who fits this Jane Doe’s description.”

He arched his eyebrows. “A missing-persons search? From around the time of Katrina?”

It sounded like a sick joke. Eighty percent of the city had either evacuated or gone missing. At one point after the storm, the official “missing” toll had been over eleven thousand.

There were still people who couldn’t be accounted for.

“Get the skull over to Mackenzie. Tell her it’s a priority.”

“You going to clear that with the brass?”

“This comes under ISD’s jurisdiction and I’m ISD, Detective.”

He didn’t respond and she went on. “Fill Detective Sciame in. Tell him his weekend is ending early.”

“And Franklin?”

“For now, we hold Mr. Franklin on unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon and possession of stolen goods.”

Saturday, April 21, 2007

6:15 p.m.

The duplex occupied an overgrown lot on the deathly quiet Mid-city street. The double row of multifamily residences stood vacant, boarded over, FEMA’s bright orange X a shot of startling color on each entryway-like door decorations from hell.

Before Katrina the rentals had housed low income families, hard-partying singles and those preferring to keep a low profile.

And one of those had been someone special. With special secrets. Secrets housed inside those walls.

My pretties. Mine. Gone now. Being kept by strangers. It’s almost more than I can bear.

Yours to lose. Your fault. You left them behind.

Here! In our safe house. Stored as best as-

In a freezer? A monster storm on the way? You never even checked on them.

How could I? No one expected what happened. After the storm, the city was impassable, all routes in closed. Later, it wasn’t safe. I could have been found out.

If you had cared enough, you would have found a way. Stop whining and start a new collection.