later, in a crisp white blouse and slate-blue skirt, carrying her suit jacket, she arrived at work, lewd and lonesome thoughts forgotten.
She was puzzling about the case, looking forward to talking it over with Cappello and Joe, getting some ideas—she was out of her own.
But her stomach lurched as she arrived on the third floor. The halls were full of reporters and television cameras—why, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good. She pushed through, into Homicide. Cappello was in Joe’s office.
“Langdon! In here!” Joe sounded furious.
“What is it? Did somebody leak the scarlet A’s?”
“Worse. I swear to God it’s worse.”
With a pair of tweezers, he handed Skip a letter, typed on plain white paper. “Look at this.”
It said:
Dear Broadcaster:
You probably remember me. The first time, I wrote to the print media, but there was no television then. I also used an axe. That, of course, would be messy in this day and age and I have two perfectly good hands to strangle with. So forget the axe, but I’m still who I am. My signature is awritten in blood. I kill whom I need to kill, both women and men.
As I mentioned before, they never caught me and they never will. I am not a human being, but an extraterrestrial. (Or perhaps that is the best way you can understand it.) I am what you Orleanians used to call the Axeman—make no mistake, I’m back.
It’s me.
I’m baaaaaack.
Hi, Mom.
Honeee, I’m hooome.
I have killed twice this time, in the Quarter and near Gentilly. Ask the police. I left my signature.
Maybe you know my song. It has two names: “The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz” is my preference, but it’s also called “Don’t Scare Me, Papa.” I am no one’s papa! I am the Axeman! I am the walrus! (Just kidding.)
Here’s the deal: It’s the same as before. Jazz is the lifeblood of this great city of ours—it was then and it is now. It’s the only constant, the only universal. My spaceship lands Tuesday, and I’ll be out for blood. (Did you know we extraterrestrials are vampires?) But I have an endless supply of infinite mercy and I will show it to anyone in whose home a jazz band is playing between the hours of 7 P.M. and daylight. Take heed—you will be spared!
But no matter if you aren’t, my infinite mercy extends to my victims. I am quick and I am painless. Ask Linda Lee and Tom.
THE AXEMAN
Skip said, “I don’t believe what I just read.”
“Believe it, Langdon. Every station in town got one.”
“How modern.” She caught her breath. “Could I ask a question?”
“What’s it all about? No problem, ask away. Everybody else in town has. Do you have any idea how many bozos were here when I got to work, waving that damn thing? Fortunately, we were able to have a constructive exchange of information, because some of them were on to the original.”
“Original what, Lieutenant? You’ve lost me.”
“Read this and blow your mind.”
The document he handed her was a photocopy of a page in a book. The relevant part, a letter, had been highlighted:
Hell, March 13, 1919
Editor of the Times-Picayune New Orleans, La.
Esteemed Mortal:
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me, but his Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try
She was puzzling about the case, looking forward to talking it over with Cappello and Joe, getting some ideas—she was out of her own.
But her stomach lurched as she arrived on the third floor. The halls were full of reporters and television cameras—why, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good. She pushed through, into Homicide. Cappello was in Joe’s office.
“Langdon! In here!” Joe sounded furious.
“What is it? Did somebody leak the scarlet A’s?”
“Worse. I swear to God it’s worse.”
With a pair of tweezers, he handed Skip a letter, typed on plain white paper. “Look at this.”
It said:
Dear Broadcaster:
You probably remember me. The first time, I wrote to the print media, but there was no television then. I also used an axe. That, of course, would be messy in this day and age and I have two perfectly good hands to strangle with. So forget the axe, but I’m still who I am. My signature is awritten in blood. I kill whom I need to kill, both women and men.
As I mentioned before, they never caught me and they never will. I am not a human being, but an extraterrestrial. (Or perhaps that is the best way you can understand it.) I am what you Orleanians used to call the Axeman—make no mistake, I’m back.
It’s me.
I’m baaaaaack.
Hi, Mom.
Honeee, I’m hooome.
I have killed twice this time, in the Quarter and near Gentilly. Ask the police. I left my signature.
Maybe you know my song. It has two names: “The Mysterious Axeman’s Jazz” is my preference, but it’s also called “Don’t Scare Me, Papa.” I am no one’s papa! I am the Axeman! I am the walrus! (Just kidding.)
Here’s the deal: It’s the same as before. Jazz is the lifeblood of this great city of ours—it was then and it is now. It’s the only constant, the only universal. My spaceship lands Tuesday, and I’ll be out for blood. (Did you know we extraterrestrials are vampires?) But I have an endless supply of infinite mercy and I will show it to anyone in whose home a jazz band is playing between the hours of 7 P.M. and daylight. Take heed—you will be spared!
But no matter if you aren’t, my infinite mercy extends to my victims. I am quick and I am painless. Ask Linda Lee and Tom.
THE AXEMAN
Skip said, “I don’t believe what I just read.”
“Believe it, Langdon. Every station in town got one.”
“How modern.” She caught her breath. “Could I ask a question?”
“What’s it all about? No problem, ask away. Everybody else in town has. Do you have any idea how many bozos were here when I got to work, waving that damn thing? Fortunately, we were able to have a constructive exchange of information, because some of them were on to the original.”
“Original what, Lieutenant? You’ve lost me.”
“Read this and blow your mind.”
The document he handed her was a photocopy of a page in a book. The relevant part, a letter, had been highlighted:
Hell, March 13, 1919
Editor of the Times-Picayune New Orleans, La.
Esteemed Mortal:
They have never caught me and they never will. They have never seen me, for I am invisible, even as the ether that surrounds your earth. I am not a human being, but a spirit and a fell demon from the hottest hell. I am what you Orleanians and your foolish police call the Axeman.
When I see fit, I shall come again and claim other victims. I alone know whom they shall be. I shall leave no clue except my bloody axe, besmeared with the blood and brains of he whom I have sent below to keep me company.
If you wish you may tell the police to be careful not to rile me. Of course, I am a reasonable spirit. I take no offense at the way they have conducted their investigations in the past. In fact, they have been so utterly stupid as to amuse not only me, but his Satanic Majesty, Francis Josef, etc. But tell them to beware. Let them not try
Similar Books
