Dancing with the Dead

9

Morrisy was to meet Waxman at a Cajun restaurant a block off Bourbon Street to talk before Waxman went off duty. Morrisy loved Cajun food, had loved it even before it became a fad. He was eating blackened redfish when Waxman slid into the seat opposite him in the booth.

Waxman was wearing a neat gray sportcoat, paisley tie, blue slacks. He looked fresh, not as if he’d been slogging around all day in the heat. “How can you get to sleep after eating that stuff so late at night?” he asked.

Morrisy finished chewing a bite of fish and swallowed, took a slug of Dixie beer. “Helps me doze off,” he said. “How’d you make out with Verlane today?”

“He gave me the same answers, wanted to know why I was asking the same questions. He’s getting plenty testy. Keeps trying to make a big deal of the fact his wife did ballroom dancing.”

“I used to dance myself,” Morrisy said. “Used to do the twist.”

“No shit? Hard to imagine.”

“Means nothing about nothing,” Morrisy said. “Just ’cause a witness said the victim was dancing at that lounge don’t mean any more’n me getting down and screwing up my knees when I was young and dumb. People dance, people play golf, tennis, then they go out and get themselves killed anyway and so what?”

“Think maybe hubby wants us to go off in some direction other’n him?” Waxman asked.

“What do you think?”

“My thought is he’s extremely tense. I told him lots of people besides his wife were dancing at the lounge that night, and they’re still alive. Thought he was gonna poke me. He’s that tightly wrapped.”

“Good. You want one of these peppers?”

“God, no.”

Morrisy smiled. He got to why he’d wanted to meet Waxman. “I talked with Schutz today.”

Waxman nodded. Schutz was a police psychiatrist. The young blond waitress who’d waited on Morrisy sashayed over and Wax-man ordered a cup of decaf.

“What he told me dovetailed with some of our conclusions,” Morrisy went on. “Autopsy report shows the perpetrator was skillful with the murder weapon, a very sharp knife, used in a way that suggests the perp knew exactly how much pressure to apply and at what angle. Way we reconstruct the crime, he almost certainly took precautions not to get any of the victim’s blood on him, as if he knew about arterial blood spurting. Schutz looked over the evidence and said the killer did the Verlane woman with a deliberateness that indicated detachment and planning. Work of a bona fide sociopath.”

“I coulda told you that,” Waxman said, sipping steaming black decaf.

“And our guy has a pathological hatred of women.”

“Coulda told you that, too.”

“But not using all that psychology jargon like Schutz,” Morrisy said. “Upshot of it is, Schutz sees psychological signs, we see physical signs, that the killer’s done his thing before. Us and Schutz together, we’re seldom wrong about something like that.”

“Computer check showed no similar killings in this or any other parish,” Waxman reminded him.

Morrisy relished the last bite of redfish. “Still, my feeling is our boy’s had practice. Experience. Another thing Schutz said: The killer himself might not know he’s committed the murders. He might be blanking out the experiences in his mind, his way of coping so he can live with his conscience. Schutz says that happens.”

“Happens a lot in court,” Waxman said, “when guilty parties are trying for insanity pleas and light sentences.”

“Hmph. Go ahead, try one of these banana peppers.”

He made it sound so much like an order that Waxman took a cautious bite from the tip of one of the tiny green peppers that had rested in hot sauce on Morrisy’s plate. Morrisy watched as Waxman scalded his tongue gulping coffee to squelch the greater fire.

“Jesus!” Waxman gasped. He was pale.

“Everybody’s agreed the guy’s killed before,” Morrisy said, “so naturally the next question is-”

“Will he do it again?” Waxman finished.

He waved the waitress over and breathlessly asked for some water. She smiled, apparently used to the request, and hurried away. Morrisy watched her, noticing she had a pretty good ass.

“Actually,” Morrisy said, “there’s not much doubt in my mind. He’ll do it again.”

“So we need to collar him before he does,” Waxman said, sort of wheezing. He was still having difficulty talking and breathing at the same time, and the waitress was nowhere in sight with the water.

Morrisy slid his half-full stein over to Waxman, said, “Wash down that pepper with some cold brew, why doncha?”

Waxman did. His breathing smoothed out, but his eyes were still watering.

Morrisy said, “Starting tomorrow, let’s find out every goddamn thing about the husband, and I mean all the way back to when the bastard was potty trained.” He stared hard at Waxman when he said this, making it plain it was something to bear down on, a career maker or breaker.

“Gotcha,” Waxman said.

The waitress arrived with a glass of water with ice in it. Waxman drank that, too.