Frankenstein Special Edition: Prodigal Son and City of Night. Dean Koontz
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gangbanger dared to turn his back on her and hobble away fast, dodging cars.
Feeling better about the morning, Carson got behind the wheel of the unmarked sedan, pulled her door shut, and drove off to pick up her partner, Michael Maddison.
They had been facing a day of routine investigation, but the phone call changed all that. A dead woman had been found in the City Park lagoon, and by the look of the body, she hadn’t accidentally drowned while taking a moonlight swim.
WITHOUT USING HER SIREN and portable flasher, Carson made good time on Veterans Boulevard, through a kaleidoscope of strip malls, lube shops, car dealerships, bank branches, and fast-food franchises.
Farther along, subdivisions of tract homes alternated with corridors of apartment buildings and condos. Here Michael Maddison, thirty and still single, had found a bland apartment that could have been in any city in America.
Bland didn’t bother him. Working to the jazz beat and the hoodoo hum of New Orleans, especially as a homicide dick, he claimed that he ended every day in local-color overload. The ordinary apartment was his anchor in reality.
Dressed for work in a Hawaiian shirt, tan sports jacket that covered his shoulder holster, and jeans, Michael had been waiting for her to drive up. He looked wry and easy, but like certain deceptive cocktails, he had a kick.
Carrying a white paper bag in one hand, holding an unbitten doughnut in his mouth with the delicacy of a retriever returning to a hunter with a duck, Michael got into the passenger’s seat and pulled the door shut.
Carson said, “What’s that growth on your lip?”
Taking the doughnut from between his teeth, intact and barely marked, he said, “Maple-glazed buttermilk.”
“Gimme.”
Michael offered her the white bag. “One regular glazed, two chocolate. Take your pick.”
Ignoring the bag, snatching the doughnut from his hand, Carson said, “I’m crazy for maple.”
Tearing off a huge bite, chewing vigorously, she swung the car away from the curb and rocketed into the street.
“I’m crazy for maple, too,” Michael said with a sigh.
The yearning in his voice told Carson that he longed not only for the maple-glazed doughnut. For more reasons than merely the maintenance of a professional relationship, she pretended not to notice. “You’ll enjoy the regular glazed.”
As Carson took Veterans Avenue out of Jefferson Parish into Orleans Parish, intending to catch Pontchartrain Boulevard to Harrison and then head to City Park, Michael rummaged in the doughnut bag, making it clear that he was selecting one of the other treats only from cruel necessity.
As she knew he would, he settled on chocolate—not the glazed that she had imperiously recommended—took a bite, and scrunched the top of the paper bag closed.
Glancing up as Carson cruised through a yellow light an instant before it changed to red, he said, “Ease off the gas and help save the planet. In my church, we start every workday with an hour of sugar and meditation.”
“I don’t belong to the Church of Fat-Assed Detectives. Besides, just got a call—they found number six this morning.”
“Six?” Around another bite of chocolate doughnut, he said, “How do they know it’s the same perp?”
“More surgery—like the others.”
“Liver? Kidney? Feet?”
“She must’ve had nice hands. They found her in the City Park lagoon, her hands cut off.”
PEOPLE CAME TO THE fifteen-hundred-acre City Park to feed the ducks or to relax under the spreading live oaks draped with gray-green curtains of Spanish moss. They enjoyed the well-manicured botanical gardens, the Art Deco fountains and sculptures. Children loved the fairy-tale theme park and the famous wooden flying horses on the antique merry-go-round.
Now spectators gathered to watch a homicide investigation in progress at the lagoon.
As always, Carson was creeped out by these morbidly curious onlookers. They included grandmothers and teenagers, businessmen in suits and grizzled winos sucking cheap blends out of bagged bottles, but she got a Night of the Living Dead vibe from every one of them.
Centuries-old oaks loomed over a pool of green water fringed with weeds. Paved paths wound along the edge of the lagoon, connected by gracefully arched stone bridges.
Some rubberneckers had climbed the trees to get a better view past the police tape.
“Doesn’t look like the same crowd you see at the opera,” Michael said as he and Carson shouldered through the gawkers on the sidewalk and the jogging path. “Or at monster-truck rallies, for that matter.”
In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this area had been a popular place for hot-blooded Creoles to engage in duels. They met after sunset, by moonlight, and clashed with thin swords until blood was drawn.
These days, the park remained open at night, but the combatants were not equally armed and matched, as in the old days. Predators stalked prey and felt confident of escaping punishment in this age when civilization seemed to be unraveling.
Now uniformed cops held back the ghouls, any one of whom might have been the killer returned to revel in the aftermath of murder. Behind them, yellow crime-scene tape had been strung like Mardi Gras streamers from oak tree to oak tree, blocking off a section of the running path beside the lagoon.
Michael and Carson were known to many of the attending officers and CSI techs: liked by some, envied by others, loathed by a few.
She had been the youngest ever to make detective, Michael the second youngest. You paid a price for taking a fast track.
You paid a price for your style, too, if it wasn’t traditional. And with some of the cynical marking-time-till-pension types, you paid a price if you worked as if you believed that the job was important and that justice mattered.
Just past the yellow tape, Carson stopped and surveyed the scene.
A female corpse floated facedown in the scummy water. Her blond hair fanned out like a nimbus, radiant where tree-filtered Louisiana sunlight dappled it.
Because the sleeves of her dress trapped air, the dead woman’s arms floated in full sight, too. They ended in stumps.
“New Orleans,” Michael said, quoting a current tourist bureau come-on, “the romance of the bayou.”
Waiting for instruction, the CSI techs had not yet entered the scene. They had followed Carson and stood now just the other side of the marked perimeter.
As the investigating detectives, Carson and Michael had to formulate a systematic plan: determine the proper geometry of the search, the subjects and angles of photographs, possible sources of clues…
In this matter, Michael usually deferred to Carson because she had an intuition that, just to annoy her, he called witchy vision.
To the nearest uniform on the crime line, Carson said, “Who was the responding officer?”
“Ned Lohman.”
“Where is he?”
“Over there behind those trees.”
“Why the hell’s he tramping the scene?”. she demanded.
As if in answer, Lohman appeared from behind the oaks with two homicide detectives,