Alternate to Chapter 51
Roy Dobransky
“What are you telling me?”
The voice on the other end of the phone is a whisper. Like this someone wants to tell me something, but really doesn’t want anyone else to overhear it.
“I know about all the missing people in the French Quarter,” the voice whispers.
It’s a male voice – I know that for sure. The voice has got a lot of mileage on it, and every mile was traveled on bad roads. He’s picked up the gravel from those roads in his voice. Other than that, I can’t tell age or accent or anything else about the person behind the voice.
“Hey, Pal. I’m at least going to need your name.”
Silence for a moment. Then the whisper continues.
“No. If you want my help, you don’t get any names. I just want it to stop.”
Crackpots don’t give names. They like to be anonymous in their idiocy. It’s what cowards do, but you never know when one of these jackasses is going to have some information that you can actually use.
“Fine. Tell me what you know.”
“This guy – I know him. He’s killed people in the Quarter. He told me about it. I’ve seen the news. I know it’s real. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Just stop him.”
“You got any evidence of this other than him telling you about it?”
Evidence is mighty important in situations like this. Without it, it’s just a voice on the phone and you’re chasing ghosts. Without it, there are no search warrants. If you try to get a search warrant from a judge with just a phone call, you’re going to leave his chambers with his shoe in your ass.
“I got a name,” the whisper replies.
“Look, Pal. A name is nothing. Any guy who is pissed off at somebody he found screwing his wife has a name. I need something else, especially since you won’t tell me who you are.”
“Tash can.”
“Trash can. What are you talking about?” I ask in a way that makes my irritation obvious.
“There’s a bloody shirt and jeans in his trash can. It’s got the blood from when he gutted her all over it.”
I stop making notes on my notepad. My mind races. Evidence from a trash can is admissible. No right to privacy. No search warrant. Public domain.
“You’re shitting me.”
“You need to get there today, because the garbage pick-up is around 4 p.m.”
He’s local and knows the garbage truck schedule. Wait, back up. Did he say ‘gutted her’?
“Did you tell me this blood is from him gutting someone?”
“Yeah, the woman you found under the docks on Monday.”
That was the case from Monday morning. The news had only released the fact that we found a body. Nobody but NOPD knew that she was eviscerated. This asshole suddenly has my full attention.
“What’s the address?” I ask, writing furiously.
“1412 Louisa Street.”
I jot it down.
“And the name of the guy you say is killing people?”
Silence.
“Hey. You still there? What’s the name?”
“Zachary Moore. He’s a bartender at Freddy’s Night Light.”
I immediately recognize the name. Zachary Moore’s the twitchy bartender I’ve been questioning. Lots of pieces to put together, but something about that guy yanks my crank. I write down the name and circled it.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, knowing full well that this might not be any help at all. “Anything else?”
“Yeah.” the voice replies. “The smile from the gator is from his last tasty tomater.”