Rooster’s face had turned serious, Patrese saw. No more showboating.
‘Even today in Africa,’ Rooster continued, ‘there are people who put on animal skins and think they possessed by whichever animal they wearing. Leopardmen, owlmen, pythonmen, serpentmen, elephantmen, crocodilemen, wolfmen, lionmen. You name it, they out there, and they do some bad shit. The darkest, nastiest side of voodoo. Here in the South, I believe there are folks like that too. They call themselves the Red Sect, Secte Rouge, and they’re a cult.
‘A human sacrifice cult.’
Natchez was antebellum mansions and tree-dappled streets. A nice place to live, Patrese thought. Perhaps not such a great place to die, but then again, nowhere was.
Police headquarters was a short hop across town from the Best Western. The local cops gave Patrese a room and brought him everything they had on Rooster’s murder. For obvious reasons – resources and expertise – smaller towns like Natchez tended to be a lot more co-operative with the Bureau than big city police departments did.
The crime-scene photos showed beyond doubt that it was the same killer. Leg, rattlesnake, ax, mirror; they were all there, just as they’d been with Cindy. He’d had the photos from Cindy’s scene e-mailed over and printed off, and there was no doubt. Same killer.
Witness reports weren’t as helpful, principally because there weren’t any. No one had seen or heard a thing. The door of Rooster’s hotel room hadn’t been forced, which suggested that Rooster had known the killer, or at the very least had felt sufficiently comfortable to open the door to him. Yes, the killer could have ambushed Rooster outside, at the spot where he’d been killed; but why would Rooster have been out there in the first place, at that time of night? Some sort of voodoo ritual? There wasn’t anything else to do round there, not on a small-town back street past midnight. There was a casino across the way from the hotel, but the route from one to the other didn’t go anywhere near the spot where Rooster’s body had been found.
The autopsy was being carried out. They’d e-mail it to Patrese the moment it was done, they said, if he wanted to go back to New Orleans. Did he want a few Natchez detectives on loan for a couple of days? If so, that could be arranged.
I bet it could, Patrese thought. A couple of days helping out with the investigation, a couple more partying their butts off in the Quarter. If I was a Natchez ’tec, I’d be halfway down the interstate already.
He rang Phelps and told him what he’d found; the body, the voodoo.
‘Heck, Franco,’ Phelps said. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘It’s our case now, for starters.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. I’m behind you all the way on this one.’
‘Then can you ask Thorndike to reinstate Selma?’
‘Why do you want to do that?’
‘Because she’s a good cop, a good detective, and Thorndike has it in for her.’
‘But Luther’s still a suspect, right?’
‘I haven’t talked to him today. If you mean, could he have got from New Orleans to Natchez last night after being released, and killed Rooster in the timeframe the cops here are working around, then yes, he could. He may have an alibi.’
‘Then shouldn’t we wait till we confirm that? Conflict of interest, her and him?’
‘There’s only a conflict of interest if she’s leading the investigation, and can sit on things or twist things to take the focus away from him.’
‘Or pin things on him that aren’t there.’
‘True. But she’s not leading the investigation any more. I am. If Luther’s involved, then she knows him well, she can be of help. If he’s not, no problem.’
‘Thorndike won’t like it.’
‘That seems a very good reason to do it.’
Phelps laughed. ‘How to win friends and influence people, huh?’
‘You got it. I’ll be back in a few hours.’
‘Gotcha. Good work, Franco.’
Patrese hung up. A young uniform poked his head round the door.
‘Agent Patrese, there’s someone in the lobby who wants to see you.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Says her name’s Marie Laveau.’
Plenty of people in his position, Patrese figured, would have refused to see Marie. It never occurred to him to do so. Whatever she wanted, whatever she had to offer, she’d come all the way from New Orleans for it. That alone meant something.
The riot of colors on Marie’s kaftan would have seared the retinas of a blind man, and she flashed teeth and eyes at Patrese as though he were the only man in the world.
‘Agent Patrese,’ she said, sitting down opposite him without being asked. ‘You know who I am, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘This is a terrible thing. Anything I can do to help, just say. I ain’t no fan of the Bureau, but I’m even less of a fan of people who kill my friends.’
‘News travels fast.’
‘Don’t insult me. I didn’t get where I am now by not having my finger on the pulse. News does travel. Faster than you’ll ever know.’
This at least was true. In Patrese’s experience police departments leaked like sieves; police chatter was picked up on scanners every second of the day. Someone like Marie probably knew what cops were doing before they did.
‘Anything I can do to help,’ she repeated.
Am I being played? How much should I tell her? Risk nothing, gain nothing.
He took the plunge. ‘We found a tape in Rooster’s room. Footage of you and him at a ceremony. And then him talking about a human sacrifice cult. The Secte Rouge.’
‘The Secte Rouge don’t exist.’
‘You sure?’
‘It’s a myth. Rooster was obsessed with it. Making a damn documentary about it. I told him not to waste his time.’
‘On the tape, you’re chanting something about a zombie.’
Marie laughed; a touch condescendingly, Patrese couldn’t help but feel. ‘Li grand zombi. It’s the name of the snake.’
Patrese again wondered whether to stick or twist; and again figured that the only way was forward.
‘Rooster was murdered in a way that appears … ritual. And he wasn’t the first. A young lady was killed two days before in just the same way. I’d like to show you some pictures of their bodies, and you tell me if you think … if you think that what the killer’s done to them is voodoo. Or even could be voodoo.’
Marie looked at him, unblinking. Exactly like a snake, in fact.
Patrese bit down on the temptation to fill the silence.
A beat, perhaps two; then she nodded, as if he’d passed some sort of test.
‘OK,’ she said.
Patrese handed over a thick brown envelope. ‘They’re pretty shocking.’
‘I’m a big girl, Agent Patrese. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.’
Maybe she had done. She didn’t flinch or wince as she went through the photos; not once. Examined them properly, too; didn’t flick through like many people did. Went all the way through them twice, in fact, before putting them back down on the table and looking at Patrese again.
‘You