A quick glance up and down the street.
He reaches into his bag for the igniter he prepared, the plans for which he found on the Internet. A simple but clever device with a built-in delay mechanism, made from a Zippo lighter, a plastic sandwich bag, and a wad of tissues soaked in lighter fluid. Then the killer remembers Paul, the chicken hawk upstairs, and his Red Door matchbook. How perfect, the killer thinks, to use this den of iniquity’s own advertising to destroy it.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black matchbook with Paul’s cell phone number scribbled inside. He pulls one match from the book and strikes it. The match head pops and flares. He holds the matchbook over the flame until the cardboard cover catches fire. Paul’s name and phone number disappear in the fire.
The killer pulls the steel door open a crack and tosses the matchbook inside. Then he shoves the door closed and walks away.
Thirty seconds later, the killer can already hear the start of the commotion echoed in the surprised, uncertain voices of passersby. He strolls a block up Iberville to Royal Street and turns left. Just around the corner, he stops and peeks back the way he has come. No one has followed him. No one is staring or pointing in his direction. No one has noticed him.
Down the street, some Good Samaritan has pulled open the steel door. Flames leap from the doorway and attack the wall above it. The Samaritan who pulled open the door is on the ground, writhing in pain. A small crowd has gathered. Several in the crowd point to the third-floor windows of the Red Door Lounge.
The killer watches.
Minutes pass and the third floor becomes a raging inferno. A fire truck bellows its approach, but for many of the sodomites it is already too late. Some who have caught fire try to escape the conflagration by crashing through the windows. Their flaming bodies arch through the air like Roman candles.
Others try to claw and squeeze their way through the narrow windows, but the fire is too hot for such a slow method of escape. The killer hears the screams from one man who, half-hanging over a windowsill, bursts into flames. He flails for several seconds then collapses and appears to melt into the brickwork. A second man tries to climb over the first, but he too catches fire.
To the killer, the burning building is a fantastic sight. As he watches, his crotch stiffens uncomfortably against his jeans.
A police car screeches to a halt on Iberville Street, on the other side of the fire. The cops begin to cordon off the block even before the first fire engine runs out a hose. Then a policeman appears, seemingly from nowhere, across Iberville, less than half a block away. He is looking straight at the killer, but only half of the killer’s face is visible around the corner of the building. The policeman walks toward him.
The killer whirls toward Canal Street. He takes a running step and slams into a Lucky Dog cart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Friday, August 3, 6:10 AM
The stench pouring down from the open doorway was horrendous. Beyond anything Sean Murphy had experienced in his thirteen years on the job. Worse than a floater in the river with his guts burst open. Worse than the stink of Zack Bowen’s French Quarter apartment when Murphy and Gaudet kicked open the door and found the chopped-up, cooked remains of his girlfriend on the stove and in the oven.
“I don’t know if I can take this one, brother,” Gaudet said, his voice muffled through a handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. As usual, Gaudet wore an eight-hundred-dollar suit and a hand-painted silk tie.
Murphy spoke through his own handkerchief. “I thought you were a homicide man.”
The two of them stood on Iberville Street at the bottom of the burned-out stairwell that led up to the Red Door Lounge. The fire had destroyed the stairs, leaving only small pieces of charred wood bolted to the walls.
To the east, the sun was just rising across the river, but already more than a hundred people had gathered outside the crime-scene tape to stare at the destruction. In the street, TV reporters were doing their first stand-up broadcasts for the morning news shows.
Gaudet let out a long breath and nodded at Murphy. “Lead the way, hero.”
Murphy turned away from the soot-blackened door and walked toward a fire-department ladder truck parked next to the curb. The hose jockeys had knocked a five-foot-by-three-foot hole in the brick wall on the third floor and run the truck’s extension ladder up to it. Other than the metal fire escape bolted to the back wall, it was the only way up.
A fireman helped the two detectives climb onto the back of the truck and guided them to the ladder. Murphy tied his handkerchief around his face and led the way up. The jagged hole looked like the open maw of some great beast as Murphy stepped off the ladder into the darkness.
The smell swallowed him.
Dozens of bodies were piled near the windows, where they had cooked until they exploded. Small chunks of flesh were stuck to the walls, and a sticky goo of melted human fat coated parts of the floor. Murphy doubled over and threw up. Gaudet spun around and grabbed the edge of the wall. He leaned out and heaved his breakfast at the sidewalk twenty feet below.
When Murphy finished retching and straightened up, what he faced was a scene straight from Dante’s Inferno, the flaming tombs of the sixth circle of hell. The lounge was burned black from one end to the other. Many spots were still smoldering. Several ceiling beams had collapsed. The furniture was incinerated. Near the fire exit and the main door, burned and bloated bodies lay in heaps.
The two homicide cops stared at the carnage.
“How many do you figure?” Gaudet said, his voice strained almost to hoarseness.
Murphy shook his head. “Forty at least, maybe fifty. This is going to be worse than the Upstairs Lounge fire.”
From the corner of his eye, Murphy saw his partner make the sign of the cross. “Lord, have mercy,” Gaudet said.
It had taken the fire department two hours to put out the fire and another couple of hours to douse all the hot spots and flare-ups. Other than a brief penetration by a couple of firemen lugging a hose, no one had been inside the remains of the Red Door Lounge until Murphy and Gaudet stepped into it.
“How the fuck are we going to process this scene?” Gaudet asked.
“Hell if I know.”
The bar was a crime scene. Murphy was sure of that. He had smelled kerosene, or something similar, in the stairwell, which, judging by the amount of damage, was where the fire had been started. He had also seen the chained fire-escape door.
That made it murder.
But even that didn’t make it Murphy and Gaudet’s case. They were on special assignment chasing a serial killer. What made it their case was a curious cop with a flashlight, who had climbed up the fire escape. Half an hour later, talking to the first homicide detective on the scene, the cop mentioned he had seen the word log scrawled on the outside of the fire escape door. When the detective told Captain Donovan, the homicide commander knew right away the word wasn’t log, as in a fallen tree trunk, but LOG, as in Lamb of God.
The captain called Murphy.
From the hole in the outer wall, Murphy crept forward, flashlight in hand, testing each footfall before putting his full weight on it.
Gaudet moved beside him. “What do you think about this floor?”
“Some of it burned through,” Murphy said.
“You think it’ll hold us?”
“I don’t know.”
The initial crime-scene survey took more than an hour. Murphy counted sixty-eight bodies, more than twice the number killed in the 1973 Upstairs Lounge fire, which until now had been the deadliest fire in New Orleans and one of the worst mass murders in U.S. history.
After the survey, Murphy and Gaudet climbed down and let the coroner’s investigator and the lab geeks go up. The two detectives then walked around to the back of the bar and climbed the fire escape. On the third-floor
