ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Chapter 23
BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP

Betty muttered a prayer in Cajun French just as her mother had taught her. Backwater voodoo was Betty’s religion; Dahomeyan slaves’ ancestral spirit guides and the rituals of Roman Catholicism created an odd mix of charms and rosary beads. As if in answer to her plea, a police cruiser passed by. This was comforting.

I don’t see any reason to put up with more nonsense around here—people throwing evil eyes and all that. Her keys jingled as she struggled to open the front door.

The click of the lock eased her nerves. She hesitated in the doorway. The lobby was backlit, and the palms appeared to sway even though there was no breeze.

She heard someone cough, but that was her imagination running wild, so she dismissed the thought after crossing herself. She was halfway down the hall when she thought she heard the click of the door, but that was probably her mind playing tricks.

She tossed a bit of salt over her shoulder just in case. She always kept a pocket full of salt, ready if trouble was near.

Ten minutes later, she pulled her mop and pail down the hallway. The noise of her utility cart echoed off the walls. She still had a moderate case of the heebie-jeebies.

I’ll just clear the bad vibes away. That’s all it is.

The comfort of being a hoodoo, aside from the fact it depended on no man’s whim, was that she could practice it while doing the laundry or cooking a roast. It’s a woman’s religion.

Betty sprinkled holy water on the floor and stuck the empty vial in her pocket. It turned the task of cleaning up after the rich and famous into a sacred act.

Then she noticed the shiny red bauble in the corner and picked it up.

“What have we here? This is quality stuff. I’m not going to give it up,” she said brightly, her voice bouncing off the marble walls. “It’s a real pretty trifle.” And she pocketed the ruby ring.

Betty dropped her mop into the sudsy water as she marched through the door labeled Tropicana-PRIVATE and Authorized Personnel Only. The ring of keys jingled on her wrist. She realized the door wasn’t locked, which was strange because it had always been before.

Just another mistake. What do you expect from a group of white folks? What’s been happening here?

She turned on the light. A cup of coffee had spilled near the computer and was still dripping onto the keyboard. The monitors were blurry and humming; they hadn’t been turned off either.

“Don’t pay me enough to clean these weird letter boards and deal with all this crap; doors left unlocked and fancy rings just lying around…”

She spoke to the security camera as if it could solve these problems.

Then she noticed the inner door was slightly open. Icy sweat broke out on her forehead, and the chitlings she had for dinner found their way into her mouth.

“Spirits and hobgoblins,” she chastised, trying to shake off the feeling that some zombie was hiding behind the door. “I’m fixing to give these folks a piece of my mind—can’t just clean up their privileged mess.”

She pushed the door all the way open. Betty’s scream came out as a croak. Then, it rose to a pitch so high only the dogs in the alley could hear it. She fled down the hall, knocking her wash bucket into the wall and sending a flood of suds across the marble. No matter, it would slow the haunts.

She sloshed and skidded to a stop at the receptionist’s desk. Betty pressed all the fancy phone buttons until she heard the dial tone.

“O,” she told herself, “O is for Operator.”

“It’s a killing. There’s blood. Help!” Betty stammered.

The robotic voice showed no emotion.

“Let me connect you to 911. Have a great day.”

Betty looked down the dark hallway. No zombies were visible, but sometimes they just appeared as if they were smoke. The living dead. She was about to run out the door when she heard another voice.

“Arlington Dispatch.”

“I was mopping up, awfully bloody, falling off the table—blood like a lake. Toes. They got toes all over the floor.”

“Calm down, Lady. Just hold on. We’ll be right there. Isle of Paradise, right?”

She moaned. Taking that as agreement, the dispatcher spat out the call.

“Code 3, we have a 10-54 at the Isle of Paradise Spa.”

“Bravo 412, I’m on West Division.”

“Thanks, O’Donnell.”

“Zulu 210, Bridges. I’m on Ives. I’ll take it.”

Lt. Stacey Bridges arrived first on the scene. Betty Lamoreaux sat outside on the marble steps, wrapped in a white towel and curled into a ball. She held her dripping mop like a spear, ready to face the demons. The lieutenant approached carefully.

“I’m not going back in there!” she wailed. “You can arrest me right here and now, cause as God as my witness, I am surely not stepping back in there ever.”

Bridges, a seasoned officer, soothed the distraught woman and gently took the mop from her hands. Betty was trembling so badly that her glasses slipped down her nose. Another squad car arrived in the driveway.

“I said I had it,” Bridges shouted. Annoyingly, O’Donnell got out and walked over.

“What happened?”

“Shit, I don’t know. This lady is plenty shook up. It’s probably nothing. These folks are always jittery in an empty building at night.”

“There are toes all over the floor in there,” Betty shouted. “You’d best get in there, officer. They cut that lady up like a Thanksgiving turkey.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bridges soothed. “Don’t worry, lady. We’ll get the paramedics to check you out.” He barked at Patrolman O’Donnell, “Go on, call an ambulance, Dougan.”

Lt. Bridges entered the spa. The steamy evening outside was forgotten inside the marble hallways. Lamps above each doorway offered a brief break from the shadows.

In the central passage, a cleaning cart was left unattended. Further down, a bucket tipped over, spilling its contents onto the marble floor.

Bridges stepped around the clutter of cleaning tools and pushed through the bubbles. Inside the room, a blood-soaked towel covered the face of an otherwise naked woman. He did not linger at the bloody scene.

The night air was sweet as he stepped out of the building and joined the cleaning woman on the steps. She looked up at him for the first time. Seeing his calm face, she felt safer. Betty pushed her glasses up her nose; her hands trembled.

“Ma’am, can you tell me who that is in there?” Stacey asked slowly, as if she were mentally impaired rather than scared.

“No, sir, I sure can’t. I work at night, after they’re closed. I don’t know any of these rich folks.”

Two paramedics jumped out of a fire-rescue truck, and one put a blood pressure cuff on Betty’s arm.

Stacey reached out to the coroner’s office and the crime lab.

Fifteen minutes later, the light blue sports car from the medical examiner’s office screeched into the lot. Dr. Abraham Brundage, a sharply dressed man who considered himself like Henry Lee, a famous pathologist, was at his best in that moment.

Bridges guided him to the grim scene. The coroner put on latex gloves and protective booties before lifting the towel from the woman’s head.

Brundage immediately had a thought. This is my ticket to Hollywood.

“She looks familiar,” the doctor said, sticking his nose inches from the corpse and sniffing. “I think I’ve seen her on TV.”

“Really. She doesn’t ring a bell with me.” Lt. Bridges said as he walked around the table, careful not to step on any human debris. “Course, you can’t really tell without a nose, can you?”

“I suppose that does make a difference. From the looks of things,” he continued, “she’s been dead for some time. That’s funny; most of these aren’t mortal wounds.”

“Really?” Stacy said.

“Absolutely. These digits were removed with surgical precision. It’d hurt like a son of a bitch, but it wouldn’t have killed her. And those,” he poked at circular marks on the torso, “I’m certain these are from a cattle prod or something similar.”

“That’s astounding, Doc. It sounds like torture.” Stacy Bridges used a pencil and prodded the woman’s facial wounds.

“Don’t tamper with that wound, Bridges,” Dr. Brundage warned. “You should know better.”

“Must be some psycho,” Stacy said.

“No doubt, it’d have to be . . . because the victim remains coherent and conscious for a long, long time. Death comes at its own slow pace. It might take hours.”

“What about this?” Bridges noted. “Looks like they gagged her.”

“It looks to be a cleaning sponge. That could be the cause of death. See the vomit all around it? My guess is she puked and aspirated.”

The coroner’s attention drifted from the victim to the cop. “You should have been a medical examiner, like me. This is the worst crime scene I’ve ever seen.”

“It is upsetting,” Bridges replied. “I’m sure I’ll have nightmares.”

Brundage doubted that. Bridges was a very composed customer.

“This particular item,” the doctor said, pointing to the sponge, “it had to just be at hand. Not the kind of thing one would carry with to do this kind of butchery.”

“Doesn’t look like a first-time offender to me,” Stacey revealed nothing, not even a twitch.

“You’re right, she was tortured,” Brundage said. “A blind man could see that much. We won’t know for sure what was fatal, blood loss or asphyxia, until we do the autopsy.”

Dougan O’Donnell peered into the room and recoiled. His face went white, then took on a greenish hue.

“Crap. Back up Dougan,” Brundage said. “Don’t heave on my corpse.”

“Everything under control?” O’Donnell forced the words out through clenched teeth. His stomach threatened to launch a recently eaten French cruller into the middle of the room.

A familiar clatter warned them that the crime lab team was arriving with their scientific gadgets and photographic gear. After their initial shock at the gruesome sight, they began their coordinated effort to preserve the scene. This included taking the pencil from Lt. Bridges, who was annoyed about having to hand it over.

Brundage pushed past Bridges and headed back to his car. For some reason, he felt uneasy around the lieutenant. He made a call to Gregory Farley, Arlington’s Chief of Police, from inside his sports car.

“Hello, Greg?” The Chief’s dislike for wake-up calls was legendary. “Say, you better get down to the Isle of Paradise Spa. A dead woman is keeping the massage table cool in the First Lady’s private salon.”

“Shit in a basket,” the Chief rumbled. “Abe, I got a heads-up from the Secret Service four hours ago. Victoria Blake seems to have wandered off.”

“It’s not the First Lady,” the doctor was firm.

“How confident are you?”

“About as sure as one can be when the corpse doesn’t have much face left,” Abe stated. “Coloring’s all wrong. It isn’t Victoria Blake.”

“You say she’s got no face?” The police chief was wide awake now.

“Well, no nose to be specific. She’s been picked over by some sadistic lunatic. The boys are doing their thing, and then she’s off to the cooler.”

“Crap,” Chief Farley coughed, a deep, wet cough that jeopardized his future. “Double crap.” That was about all he could say. But, he was awake now.

Brundage said, “I’ll get my report on your desk by morning.”

Farley barked, “You’ll get it on my desk yesterday.”

Dr. Brundage heard the click and, out of habit, added, “Later, Greg.” He then started his sports car quickly.

“This would make a great book,” Abe said aloud, toying with the idea. “Just like one of those by Patricia Cornwallis, no Caldwell. Hell, whatever her name is.”

He had finished writing the first chapter in his head before he reached the corner of Ives and Stewart, so absorbed in the process that he nearly hit a bag lady coming out of the alley next to the spa.

In the parking lot, the activities of the night carried on.

“I’d like to go home.” Betty’s voice was barely audible.

“O’Donnell, take this lady home,” Bridges told the beat cop. “Look at it as your lucky day, lady. You’ve got door-to-door service.”

Both gave him a funny look. He didn’t notice.

“Let me help you to Dougan’s cruiser. He’ll take good care of you.” Lt. Bridges escorted the cleaning woman to the waiting patrol car.

As she got in, the ring slipped from her pocket and rolled across the pavement.

“Oops, you dropped something.” He picked up the ring, looked at it, and stared at Betty Lamoreaux for what felt like an eternity.

“Is this yours?”

“Yup. It’s a gift for my husband, Homer. It’s his birthday next week,” Betty said. She left out the part about finding it on the floor of the spa, right outside the murdered lady’s room.

“It’s a mighty fine gift,” Stacey smiled. Betty thought the snake wrapped around the tree in the Garden of Eden might have smiled just like that. “You’d better keep it safe, Mrs. Lamoreaux. Where did you say you lived?”

“I didn’t say,” she replied. Then his stare made her confess. “I live over on Brooks, 427 Brooks.”

“Nice neighborhood,” Stacey commented. “I used to walk that beat.”

“I don’t recollect your face,” she admitted. “Thanks for picking my ring up for me. I could have done it.”

As Bridges began to walk away, the radio blared with an all-points bulletin.

“Be on the lookout. Possible 207. Margreth Willson has been reported missing by Senator William Willson. She has silver-gray hair, is 5’10”, and weighs 135 pounds. FBI has been notified.”

Bridges bent into Dougan’s squad and grabbed the radio. Betty could smell his cologne. She thought the essence of Pine-Sol was a strange scent to be dousing all over.

“Zulu 210, we have your 207. he’s probably the 187 at the Isle of Paradise Spa on Ives.” He released the button and turned to Betty.

“You be careful going home, Betty.” Without another word, Bridges got out and sprinted across the parking lot, leaving Betty Lamoreaux alone in the dark, with zombies walking through the inky black night.

It was fifteen minutes later when Dougan O’Donnell returned to his cruiser. Betty was crying uncontrollably.

“You know, Betty. Guys like me see that kind of thing and we have nightmares for weeks,” Dougan said. “You don’t need to feel bad about being scared.”

“I don’t like that man. He’s got a wicked side he isn’t showing,” Betty replied. “I need a chicken.”

“Bridges? Nobody likes him. Not even his own mama,” Dougan laughed at his own joke. “I’m going to take you right to your front door, not to worry. You don’t need to think about having dinner after seeing that kind of thing. Have a nice bowl of oatmeal.”

“I am a hoodoo, Mr. O’Donnell. I need to do some charms to keep them zombies at bay,”

“A hoodoo? What in the world is that?”

“It’s a voodoo priestess. My mama taught me how to take care of things. I need a juju. You know, like you’d be wanting a rabbit’s foot,” Betty explained. “I need a chicken and a red brick.”

“Oh, I see. You know, there’s no such thing as Zombies, Betty. It’s a full moon tonight. Seems like all the nuts come out during a full moon.”

Betty twisted the ruby ring on her thumb. “I’m going to have to stop at the All-Nite grocery to get me a live chicken. Then I got to go by the church lot and find one of them red bricks,” she announced to the patrolman. “I need to make a sacrifice.”

“The grocery store doesn’t have live chickens. You’re going to be sacrificing a cut-up fryer.”

“Oh, yes indeed, they do. You got to ask them, though. They keep them in the back. Lot of folks around here practice voodoo.”

“Now, I’ve heard it all. Well, I don’t like the idea of chicken shit all over my patrol car.”

“I must do what I need to do. I must keep the haunts at bay.”

“I got orders, Ma’am, to get you home safe and sound. I can’t drive you all over town like a taxi when criminals are on the loose.”

“Please, I’m begging you, son. I need to do this, or I won’t have any of the Good Lord’s mercy working for me and Homer,” Betty cried pitifully. “Just take me to the grocery.”

Unable to endure the old woman’s panic, Officer O’Donnell drove to the 24-hour grocery store.

“I’ll stay as long as I can, Betty. If I get a call out, I’ll have to take it. I’ll come back for you. Just stay right here.”

“Okay. I’m going to make you a charm, too,” Betty was so thankful she wanted to kiss the man. But he was white, and she wouldn’t risk offending him. “You’re a good man, Mr. O’Donnell.”

Dougan pulled to the curb and watched the old woman trudge into the All-Nite grocery. Her snow-white curls reflected the light in the parking lot. The radio erupted again. Within minutes, he was on his way to Vandalia’s Pizzeria for a possible robbery in progress.

“Voodoo charms, eh?” Dougan said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I’ll have her make a spell that’ll send my ex-wife on a one-way trip to Mars.”

He turned on his siren.

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