An Evil Shadow - A Val Bosanquet Mystery

  The girl’s head turned towards him, but in the gloom it was impossible for him to see her eyes. What light there was in the yard came from a three-quarters moon, but little of it penetrated the leaf canopy. He levered himself up onto a higher branch pulled out his shield, and shone the flashlights beam on it.

  She didn’t react.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Val reassured her. “I’m going to climb up beside you and bring you down. You’ll be safe soon.”

  As slowly as he could, Val reached across with his left hand and grasped the branch she was on. He didn’t want to risk startling her with any sudden movement.

  As it turned out, it was the girl who made the sudden movement. The flashlight’s beam accidentally caught her face and for a split second her eyes, like those of a cat, reflected back the light. She produced a camping axe from somewhere and swung it at Val’s left hand. He pulled away, but not quickly enough. The head of the axe buried itself into the branch, removing his middle finger at the first joint.

  He dropped through the tree like a lead weight, landing on the small of his back across top of the oil drum, crushing it as though it was a milk carton. For a brief instant before passing out, he caught sight of the bloody stump and knew that he now had another reason never to forget the Duval investigation.

  New Orleans General detained Val for two days. The surgeon tried his best, but was unable to reattach his finger. He patched him up and made lewd comments over what the loss would mean to him.

  Marie Duval was being held under protective custody in a secure room at the same hospital. Immediately after Val’s fall, Sergeant Williams radioed for the paramedics and the fire department. A fire fighter, using a ladder to climb the tree, had succeeded in bringing Duval down after a brief but fierce struggle. The girl had embedded the axe that deeply in the branch that she had been unable to pull it free. It didn’t stop her sinking her teeth into the fire fighter’s shoulder and she would have drawn blood if the man hadn’t been wearing his thick bunking jacket.

  She had yet to say a single word about her mother’s killing, or anything else for that matter. She was unharmed, but had lost the power of speech. The doctors who examined her couldn’t find any physiological explanation for her muteness and had called in a child psychologist.

  Forensic tests had been carried out on the bloodstains found on the axe. The lab identified two types. They were a match for Valerie Duval and Val.

  The chromed-steel axe, still coated with the light film of oil the manufacturer had applied prior to distribution, was a near perfect surface from which to lift fingerprints. The only prints found were Marie Duval’s. A child’s white cotton dress and scarf had been found hanging in the tree. Both heavily spattered with the mother’s blood.

  Val was hearing all this from Captain Paul Larson, a great bear of a man with a ruddy face, sleepy eyes, and a mop of wiry, gray hair. Contrary to the somnambulistic state his eyes would have you believe him constantly in, he was by far the most intuitive police officer Val had worked with. He was slouched comfortably in an armchair next to Val’s hospital bed, drinking from a paper cup the Chivas Regal that he had brought for him. Angie had insisted on remaining at his bedside since his injury, but half an hour earlier the nurses had finally persuaded her to return home to catch up some sleep. She had gone reluctantly, promising to be back in a few hours with some fresh clothes for him. The shirt and trousers he had been wearing the night he had been brought in were torn and bloodied.

  “Between the doctors, Child Protection and the psychologist, we can’t get anywhere near the girl,” Larson explained. “They’ve circled the wagons around her and have retained a specialist lawyer from the children’s court to ensure she receives the kid-glove treatment from us. Though if she has genuinely lost the ability to speak, it’s debatable what benefit will come from interviewing her.”

  Val grunted unsympathetically. “We know she can hear. Can she read and write?”

  Larson poured himself another shot of Chivas. “The kid took an axe to her mother and has maimed a detective. She’s hardly in any rush to put it on paper.”

  “Has she been placed under arrest?”

  “Not yet. She’s not going anyplace and I thought you should be the one to do it.”

  Val brooded over it for a few moments and realized that he had no strong feelings either way. Duval was a killer and it was his job to uncover enough evidence for the DA’s office to successfully prosecute her. The fact that she was a child didn’t really come into it. “Why not?”

  “You’re positive you’re fit enough? I could assign another detective. All the evidence points to her having acted on her own, but with the media attention the killing has attracted, I want to make sure that nothing is overlooked.”

  Val held up his left hand with the heavily bandaged stump. “I may be incapable of saluting the press in a fit and proper manner but I can still do my job. As soon as Angie returns with my clothes, I start back to work.”

  Larson grinned and looked at Val’s injured hand. “If it helps improve your keyboard skills, maybe some good will come of it.”

  Less than four hours later Val walked into the city morgue in search of the assistant medical examiner. He found him in the autopsy suite, halfway through a post-mortem on a Jane Doe floater. He was whistling Old Man River.

  Val told him that he wanted a word, but that it could wait until he was finished. He knew it wouldn’t be long.

  Before witnessing his first post-mortem, Val’s impression of an autopsy had been gleaned from television shows like Quincy. He had imagined that the autopsy suite would be similar to an operating theatre, spotlessly clean, equipped with lots of delicate, shiny surgical instruments laid out in rows. It came as quite a shock to discover that the majority of a medical examiner’s tools appeared more fitted to pruning pecan trees than to fine surgical procedures. That discovery and the rapidity of a typical post-mortem were the indelible recollections he had of that first procedure — not the offensive stenches or the gore that had been retained by the majority of his fellow probationers.

  “How’s the hand, Detective Bosanquet?” the ME asked, when he finished and was peeling off his surgical gloves.

  “Throbbing.”

  “You were lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”

  Val nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. It was part of cop folklore that a newly married officer would react differently to a threatening situation than a single officer, especially if a child was involved. He didn’t believe he would have handled the tree incident any differently if it had happened three weeks earlier. “I guess so, if losing a finger can be described as lucky.”

  “I didn’t mean in that way. Valerie Duval tested negative for HIV. The incidence of AIDS amongst Haitians has reached epidemic proportions, exacerbated by the island’s extreme poverty and almost zero health education. Traces of the victim’s blood on the axe could easily have transferred to your wound.”

  Val said nothing, but suddenly the throbbing did not feel so bad.

  “You want the report on the Duval post?” the ME asked.

  “Yeah, and I’d better take another look at the body. I’m still the primary investigating officer.”

  The ME brought him through to the mortuary storage facility, located the relevant drawer and slid it out on its rollers. He took hold of the zip and pulled it open along the body bag’s full length. Val helped him ease back the plastic so he could better examine Valerie Duval’s body.

  The flesh of her face had been rinsed and loosely reassembled, the eyeball inserted back in its socket. It would have been a gaunt face even before the attack; now it was concave, the cartilage and bone structure of her nasal septum having been destroyed. Val allowed his eyes to descend slowly along her body, following the mid-line of broad sutures that ran from her neck to her pubic mound. She was severely undernourished; her pelvic bones seemed to be trying to burst through her skin.

  “Take a look at her hands and arms,”
the ME said, extracting her right arm from the bag and rotating it. “No defense wounds. No cuts or lesions, no bruises or scratches.”

  “She wasn’t expecting the attack?”

  “That would be the obvious inference, though how exactly can you take someone by surprise when you’re holding an axe?”

  Not difficult, Val thought, if the attacker was the victim’s nine-year-old daughter.

  “What about the angle of the blows? Can you tell me anything about the height of the assailant?”

  The ME tucked the arm back inside the body bag. “Unfortunately not. The victim was five foot two inches tall and was struck three times from above with considerable downward force. A tall killer would have no need to raise his or her arm above shoulder height, while a short person could have inflicted the same type of injury by swinging the axe in an arc above their head. Any one of the three blows would have been sufficient to cause death.”

  “Can you speculate as to the first blow?”

  The ME shook his head. “That’s all it would be I’m afraid — speculation — and I’m not prepared to do that.”

  Val questioned him for another quarter of an hour, but nothing of any significance came from it. He returned to his car and drove to the Irish Channel. The camping axe used in the killing had been brand new and how many camping and hardware stores could there be in that part of the city?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Val spent the rest of that day and the morning of the next questioning the owners and employees of stores within a ten-block radius of the Duval building. With the river to the south, it meant he had a semi-circular section of the city to cover. He worked east to west and eventually struck lucky with a camping and bait shop on Annunciation Street.

  “I was meaning to phone in about it,” the manager explained. “But you know how it is. The store gets busy and you put it to the back of your mind. By the time business quietens down, it’s slipped your memory.”

  “What exactly are you talking about? What slipped your memory?” Val asked patiently.

  “The camping axe. I read about the Creole woman’s murder in the Times-Picayune and I said to Joe — that’s Joe Walsh, he works for me part-time, helps out at the weekends. Weekends is our busiest time, especially coming into---”

  “What was it you said to Joe?”

  “I told him there was a good chance that the axe was one of ours. I have a rack of them over here.”

  The manager came out from behind his counter and crossed the well-stocked floor to a display of camping equipment. He lifted an axe and handed it to Val. Val didn’t fish and hadn’t been on a camping trip since he was twelve years old, but the paraphernalia to be found in stores like this had always held a fascination. He hefted the chrome axe in his hand to gauge its weight, rubbing his thumb along the rubber grip.

  “Is that anything like what you’re searching for?” the manager asked.

  It was a twin of the one that Marie Duval had used to sever his finger, though Val wasn’t about to confirm that just yet.

  “What makes you think it was one of yours?”

  The manager grinned. “A young coffee-skinned kid hoisted it from right under our noses. She walked in bold as brass, lifted it and walked straight out. I shouted for her to stop. She didn’t, and the store was full of people so I couldn’t chase after her. They do that — wait ‘til the place is busy before they do their thieving.”

  “Did you get a good look at her?”

  “Sure did. She must have been around nine or ten; had the face of an angel. A real cute kid.”

  “Do you think you would recognize her again if you saw her?”

  “Don’t know ‘bout that. Don’t know as though I would need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The manager rolled his eyes. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I have it on a security tape and was intending to phone the station. Come through to the back and I’ll show you.”

  The office was a mess. Catalogs, fishing magazines and invoices were piled high on his desk. Cardboard boxes with lengths of fishing rods protruding from them like porcupine quills covered the floor. The manager lifted off a game-fishing reel from a seat and told Val to sit down while he sorted through the tapes.

  He surprised Val by finding the correct one on his first attempt. He inserted it into the player and switched on. The viewing screen was mounted against the wall above a filing chest. He wound the tape on until he found the relevant section.

  It was just as he had described. The store was busy as Marie Duval came in and headed straight over to the camping axes. She lifted one and made no attempt to conceal it as she hurried out the door. The faces of several customers turned towards the door, presumably in reaction to the manager’s shouted command for her to come back. Val had to take his word on that because the tape had no audio track.

  The quality of the black and white picture was excellent. There was no doubt that the young thief had indeed been Marie Duval.

  “Is the date on the tape correct?”

  “Yeah, I always set it myself.”

  Marie Duval had stolen the axe three days before the murder. Val scribbled the shop manager a receipt for the tape and drove to homicide headquarters. After Lieutenant Larson had watched the tape a couple of times, he gave him authorization to prepare an arrest warrant for Marie Duval. Murder one.

  Dave Wells was the lawyer the Child Protection department had called in to act on Duval’s behalf. He was a lightly built man in his early thirties and came across as a well-intentioned and responsible member of his profession. Behind the lenses of wire-framed glasses, his eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor. He would have great need of both in his chosen career, since much of his work involved arguing child custody cases. Cases where there were few winners. Val had caught up with him outside Duval’s room at the General and, taking him to one side, had explained what he was there to do.

  “I’ve been expecting it,” Wells said, his voice full of regret.

  “Has she spoken yet?”

  “Not a word. She communicates with a pencil and a pad. Her spelling and grammar are below average for a nine-year-old, though her mind seems quick enough.”

  “Have you questioned her?”

  “Not about her mother’s death specifically. I have explained to her that I am here to represent her. She is happy for me to do so. I want to be there when you Miranda her.”

  “I have no problem with that. What does the psychologist have to say?”

  “Nothing much so far. She’s diagnosed temporary muteness brought on by the incident — classic post-traumatic stress syndrome. There’s been no bed-wetting, rage or breathing problems. Speech could return in a day, a month, a year. Being grilled by you is not going to help.”

  “It can’t be put off any longer,” Val said, walking over to the door and reaching for the handle.

  Duval was dressed in a hospital robe and was curled up in an armchair watching an episode of The Simpsons. She hadn’t heard the door opening or the footsteps as they entered the room.

  Wells cleared his throat. “Marie.”

  The kid turned to face them. Her eyes flicked from the lawyer to Val, then widened in alarm. She opened her mouth and screamed.

  Captain Larson had one credo in life: a smart cop never takes anything for granted. Val knew it, the other homicide detectives knew it, and even the civilian clerks would have known it. The very moment you think you have an investigation down pat, it will turn around and bite you in the ass. This time it was Dave Wells doing the biting.

  Duval’s piercing reaction to Val’s appearance at the hospital the afternoon before had set in motion a train of events. He was unceremoniously bundled out of her room by a couple of interns, who then sent for the pediatric resident. Val had hung around for an hour watching a series of white-coated specialists come and go, hoping that one of them would eventually permit him access to Duval. Wells was having none of it. Now knowing the seriousness of t
he charge, and with his client having regained her voice, he insisted on being given reasonable time to consult with her. Duval needed to be treated with understanding and consideration, Wells argued, if a further bout of speech loss was to be prevented, and he had a squad of doctors ready to back him.

  Duval must have talked all night.

  Captain Larson had called Val into his office early the following morning to break the news. He didn’t try to sugarcoat it.

  “Wells has broached a deal with the DA’s office. His client will plead no contest to a charge of voluntary manslaughter if we drop the charge of assault against you.”

  Val stared at him bug-eyed, not believing what he was hearing. Duval was prepared to admit the unlawful killing of her mother, but that it had not been murder. She would end up serving a year, maybe two, in a juvenile detention center. The assault charge on a police officer would have carried a minimum four years.

  “That’s ridiculous. The DA’s office will never buy it.”

  “I have a feeling they will. They’re not convinced that a grand jury would indict the child on a murder charge — not once they listen to the story Wells has come up with.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Larson pushed back in his chair. “According to a statement that the girl dictated, her mother had been initiating her as a manbo. She was confined without food for nine days and instructed in the rituals that a voodoo priestess uses to call upon the spirits. Voodoo initiation is seen as a rebirth. The neophyte dies — metaphorically — to be reborn as a permanent host for the lwa spirits. Duval’s hand was to be immersed into boiling water during the concluding ceremony. It’s known as a boule-zen. Apparently, the more severe the ordeal, the stronger the bond between the lwa and its host. The greater the manbo’s asson, or power.”

  Val had heard enough. “This is bullshit. Duval wasn’t confined. We have a security tape of her stealing the axe three days before the killing.”

  Larson shrugged. He was sympathetic, but saw the PD’s job as the apprehension of the law-breakers. What happened to them after that was on somebody else’s conscience. “We have no way of knowing how strict the confinement was supposed to be.”