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Authors: Chuck Hustmyre
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What makes Murphy’s allegations so unusual is that no one else within the police department will confirm the existence of a suspected serial killer.
Police Chief Ralph Warren emphatically denied there is a serial killer operating in New Orleans. After being read Murphy’s list of suspected serial murders, the chief said, “Those cases are not connected. Those women were killed by different perpetrators.”
Asked if he knew anything about an active serial killer in the city, Mayor Ray Guidry said . . .
Murphy’s phone rang again. It was Gaudet. This time he answered.
“Don’t hang up!” Gaudet said.
“I’m here,” Murphy said.
“You said she wasn’t going to put your name in the story.”
“She promised.”
“And you believed her?”
“I had no reason not to,” Murphy said.
“Hell hath no fury . . .”
“You’re crazy if you think that’s what this is about.”
“You’re crazy if you don’t think that’s what this is about. This is payback for you screwing around on her.”
Murphy sagged against the cushions and let the newspaper fall to the floor. “What am I going to do?”
“Welcome to the Seventh District night watch.”
“I think it’s going to be worse than that,” Murphy said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “I can’t believe she did this to me.”
“I imagine that’s what she said when she found out you stuck your dick inside her best friend.”
A beep sounded in Murphy’s ear. He pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. The word
Restricted
flashed at him. The call was from a police-department number.
“That’s them,” he told Gaudet. “I have to go.”
“Good luck, brother.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem,” Gaudet said.
Murphy looked at the phone’s display screen again, at the word
Restricted
flashing across it. Another beep sounded in the earpiece. He took a deep breath and pushed the green send button, then pressed the phone to his ear. “Murphy,” he said.
“Get your ass into the office right now,” Captain Donovan said. “And I mean right now. Don’t stop for anything. The assistant chief is on his way.”
Murphy didn’t answer.
“Did you hear me, Murphy?”
“I’m on the way.”
“And Murphy . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring all your gear in.”
“What gear?”
“Everything you’ve been issued out of the Homicide Division—vest, radio, evidence kit, any files you have at home, case notes, everything. You won’t be needing them anymore.”
Murphy closed the phone. There was nothing else to say.
Homicide was the best job in the police department for a detective who liked to work. “We speak for the dead” is how one old murder cop had put it to Murphy on his first day in the unit.
After Murphy’s firing and subsequent reinstatement, it had taken him a year to finagle a transfer back to Homicide. He was pretty sure PIB wasn’t going to be satisfied with a disciplinary transfer. They would try to take his badge again. This time the cheese eaters wouldn’t make any mistakes that the Police Civil Service Board could use to overturn their decision.
This time his termination would be permanent.
C HAPTER T EN
Saturday, July 28, 7:30 AM
The killer grins as he stares at the morning newspaper lying on the breakfast table in his kitchen. He has read the front-page article three times. He can’t stop grinning. Someone has finally discovered him.
It is unfortunate that his discoverer is nothing more than a plain detective, some unimaginative flatfoot who, given enough pieces, finally put together the puzzle.
But in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
It took the flatfoot long enough. Eight bodies, according to the paper. They got that wrong. They missed the first two. Partially, though, he has to blame himself for that. It was, after all, his fault the local constabulary failed to put those two together with the others. He overestimated their intelligence, or perhaps he
What makes Murphy’s allegations so unusual is that no one else within the police department will confirm the existence of a suspected serial killer.
Police Chief Ralph Warren emphatically denied there is a serial killer operating in New Orleans. After being read Murphy’s list of suspected serial murders, the chief said, “Those cases are not connected. Those women were killed by different perpetrators.”
Asked if he knew anything about an active serial killer in the city, Mayor Ray Guidry said . . .
Murphy’s phone rang again. It was Gaudet. This time he answered.
“Don’t hang up!” Gaudet said.
“I’m here,” Murphy said.
“You said she wasn’t going to put your name in the story.”
“She promised.”
“And you believed her?”
“I had no reason not to,” Murphy said.
“Hell hath no fury . . .”
“You’re crazy if you think that’s what this is about.”
“You’re crazy if you don’t think that’s what this is about. This is payback for you screwing around on her.”
Murphy sagged against the cushions and let the newspaper fall to the floor. “What am I going to do?”
“Welcome to the Seventh District night watch.”
“I think it’s going to be worse than that,” Murphy said. He rubbed a hand across his face. “I can’t believe she did this to me.”
“I imagine that’s what she said when she found out you stuck your dick inside her best friend.”
A beep sounded in Murphy’s ear. He pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. The word
Restricted
flashed at him. The call was from a police-department number.
“That’s them,” he told Gaudet. “I have to go.”
“Good luck, brother.
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
“No problem,” Gaudet said.
Murphy looked at the phone’s display screen again, at the word
Restricted
flashing across it. Another beep sounded in the earpiece. He took a deep breath and pushed the green send button, then pressed the phone to his ear. “Murphy,” he said.
“Get your ass into the office right now,” Captain Donovan said. “And I mean right now. Don’t stop for anything. The assistant chief is on his way.”
Murphy didn’t answer.
“Did you hear me, Murphy?”
“I’m on the way.”
“And Murphy . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring all your gear in.”
“What gear?”
“Everything you’ve been issued out of the Homicide Division—vest, radio, evidence kit, any files you have at home, case notes, everything. You won’t be needing them anymore.”
Murphy closed the phone. There was nothing else to say.
Homicide was the best job in the police department for a detective who liked to work. “We speak for the dead” is how one old murder cop had put it to Murphy on his first day in the unit.
After Murphy’s firing and subsequent reinstatement, it had taken him a year to finagle a transfer back to Homicide. He was pretty sure PIB wasn’t going to be satisfied with a disciplinary transfer. They would try to take his badge again. This time the cheese eaters wouldn’t make any mistakes that the Police Civil Service Board could use to overturn their decision.
This time his termination would be permanent.
C HAPTER T EN
Saturday, July 28, 7:30 AM
The killer grins as he stares at the morning newspaper lying on the breakfast table in his kitchen. He has read the front-page article three times. He can’t stop grinning. Someone has finally discovered him.
It is unfortunate that his discoverer is nothing more than a plain detective, some unimaginative flatfoot who, given enough pieces, finally put together the puzzle.
But in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
It took the flatfoot long enough. Eight bodies, according to the paper. They got that wrong. They missed the first two. Partially, though, he has to blame himself for that. It was, after all, his fault the local constabulary failed to put those two together with the others. He overestimated their intelligence, or perhaps he
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