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Authors: Julie Smith
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to discover what I am, for it were better that they were never born than to incur the wrath of the Axeman. I don’t think there is any need of such a warning, for I feel sure the police will always dodge me, as they have in the past. They are wise and know how to keep away from all harm.
Undoubtedly you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:
I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain, and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.
Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed in either fact or realm of fancy.
THE AXEMAN
* * *
“This is ringing a bell.” Skip put her hand to her head and thought. “Eugenie Viguerie’s sixth-grade history project.”
“That’s got to be right. I don’t think I heard about it till eighth grade, but you went to a better school than I did.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” she said as she understood what the first letter was all about.
“So, Langdon.” Joe looked weary. “You wouldn’t remember any details, would you?”
“He was a serial killer. I never put that together before. A serial killer before there were any.”
“Either that or the bogeyman. Look, somebody at one of the stations already researched it and I promised him a press conference if he clued me in.” He looked sheepish. “I have to do one anyway—look at that pack of wolves out there. Here are the relevant facts. In 1918 somebody started breaking into people’s houses and axing them—some lived, some died, but nobody could identify him. The cops looked back into the records and found there’d been some similar cases in 1911, but I guess they didn’t catch on. These did.”
“Citizen panic attack?”
“More or less, but the weird thing was, most of the victims seemed to be Italian grocers. They never caught the guy—the murders stopped about eighteen months after they started. But later the widow of one of the victims killed somebody who might have been him—somebody who’d been blackmailing Italians, went to jail in 1911, got paroled in 1918.”
“So how about the letter—was anyone killed on party night?”
“No.” Joe sighed. “But some composer did write a piece about the whole deal—like it says in the new letter. And a good time was had by all, of course. A real good time. Langdon, you ever been to a hurricane party?”
“Sure. Hasn’t everyone?”
“You, Cappello?”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
“You two see what I’m getting at? This is the kind of town where people think it’s a real good idea to blow it all out just because a storm’s on the way. Can you imagine what next Tuesday’s gonna be like?”
“Murder.”
“Yeah. Unless we get him by then.”
“How about our letter?”
He shrugged, knowing what she meant but obviously wanting to hedge his answer. “I hate to say it, but I guess it’s got to be him. Nobody else knows about the scarlet A’s. A little piece about Linda Lee ran in the paper, but nobody knows about Tom Mabus. He had to have mailed it day before yesterday, before Tom’s body was even
Undoubtedly you Orleanians think of me as a most horrible murderer, which I am, but I could be much worse if I wanted to. If I wished, I could pay a visit to your city every night. At will I could slay thousands of your best citizens, for I am in close relationship with the Angel of Death.
Now, to be exact, at 12:15 (earthly time) on next Tuesday night, I am going to pass over New Orleans. In my infinite mercy, I am going to make a little proposition to you people. Here it is:
I am very fond of jazz music, and I swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing at the time I have just mentioned. If everyone has a jazz band going, well, then, so much the better for you people. One thing is certain, and that is that some of those people who do not jazz it on Tuesday night (if there be any) will get the axe.
Well, as I am cold and crave the warmth of my native Tartarus, and as it is about time that I leave your earthly home, I will cease my discourse. Hoping that thou wilt publish this, that it may go well with thee, I have been, am and will be the worst spirit that ever existed in either fact or realm of fancy.
THE AXEMAN
* * *
“This is ringing a bell.” Skip put her hand to her head and thought. “Eugenie Viguerie’s sixth-grade history project.”
“That’s got to be right. I don’t think I heard about it till eighth grade, but you went to a better school than I did.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” she said as she understood what the first letter was all about.
“So, Langdon.” Joe looked weary. “You wouldn’t remember any details, would you?”
“He was a serial killer. I never put that together before. A serial killer before there were any.”
“Either that or the bogeyman. Look, somebody at one of the stations already researched it and I promised him a press conference if he clued me in.” He looked sheepish. “I have to do one anyway—look at that pack of wolves out there. Here are the relevant facts. In 1918 somebody started breaking into people’s houses and axing them—some lived, some died, but nobody could identify him. The cops looked back into the records and found there’d been some similar cases in 1911, but I guess they didn’t catch on. These did.”
“Citizen panic attack?”
“More or less, but the weird thing was, most of the victims seemed to be Italian grocers. They never caught the guy—the murders stopped about eighteen months after they started. But later the widow of one of the victims killed somebody who might have been him—somebody who’d been blackmailing Italians, went to jail in 1911, got paroled in 1918.”
“So how about the letter—was anyone killed on party night?”
“No.” Joe sighed. “But some composer did write a piece about the whole deal—like it says in the new letter. And a good time was had by all, of course. A real good time. Langdon, you ever been to a hurricane party?”
“Sure. Hasn’t everyone?”
“You, Cappello?”
She shrugged. “Of course.”
“You two see what I’m getting at? This is the kind of town where people think it’s a real good idea to blow it all out just because a storm’s on the way. Can you imagine what next Tuesday’s gonna be like?”
“Murder.”
“Yeah. Unless we get him by then.”
“How about our letter?”
He shrugged, knowing what she meant but obviously wanting to hedge his answer. “I hate to say it, but I guess it’s got to be him. Nobody else knows about the scarlet A’s. A little piece about Linda Lee ran in the paper, but nobody knows about Tom Mabus. He had to have mailed it day before yesterday, before Tom’s body was even
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