It didn’t take long to get to the Watson house, since there was very little traffic on the way. Even Bourbon had wound down to just a few people closing up or heading out. A couple of lone establishments still had customers nursing drinks, their doors open, their lights on.
When they arrived, Quinn leaped out of the car and hurried up to the front door, where he quickly slipped paper booties over his shoes. Larue was standing just inside, staring around the living room.
Quinn remembered having coffee in this room, which had been spick-and-span at the time.
Now it was as if someone in an absolute rage had torn through on an adrenaline binge. The comfortable couch had been ripped to shreds. Pictures had been torn from the walls, furniture thrown and broken.
Larue looked at Quinn. “It gets worse.”
“How the hell can it be worse?”
A crime scene unit was already on the job. As Larue headed across the living room, Grace Leon, hands gloved, walked in from the back of the house, where the bedrooms were.
“Good to see you, Quinn. I think this guy wears gloves, but we’re trying for a print or a hair or something—anything.” She paused, looking at the two of them. “Good thing what this guy did, he didn’t do to a person.”
“I can’t wait to see the rest,” Quinn said drily.
Larue led him to the first room on the right. Lights were ablaze in there now, so it was easy to see the damage that had been done.
Pillows had been ripped to ribbons, the bed itself stabbed and ripped repeatedly.
There was a hole in one wall. The television had been thrown from the dresser. Clothing had been pulled from the closet and ripped into unidentifiable shreds.
“This is Woodrow and Amy’s room,” Quinn said.
“We’re assuming there were pictures of the kids on the dresser. The frames are shattered, and the pictures are destroyed. Come on into the next room, which was Arnie’s, when he was home,” Larue said.
The next bedroom. Not only were the bed and the pillows slashed, the walls pummeled, and what looked like every piece of clothing in the closet and the dresser ripped and torn and trampled, there was something on the bed.
Raggedly torn pieces of paper. The shreds of a photograph.
Grace Leon stepped up behind Quinn.
“I think I know what it is,” she said. “As soon as the photographer finishes, I’ll show you.”
Quinn went through the rest of the house with Larue, who showed him that the intruder had gained access by breaking in through the back door.
“Could this have been done by just one person? In only twenty minutes?” Quinn wondered aloud.
“He might have been in here longer,” Larue said. “He probably left the lights off. My guess is he was expecting the Watsons to be home. When they weren’t—and he didn’t find what he was looking for—he just went nuts on the place then left through the back, same way he came in.”
“Woodrow Watson had his shotgun with him wherever he went in the house. Who knows, maybe we made a mistake. Maybe Watson would have caught him tonight,” Quinn said.
Larue shook his head. “This guy definitely carries a very sharp knife, and we know he’s got a gun, too. And Watson had to sleep sometime.”
Quinn shook his head. “On the plus side, I don’t think there’s anything paranormal about this. He knows the city, he’s obsessed, but he’s human. And oddly enough, there’s a hopeful sign in all this—though I doubt the Watsons will think so.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s starting to lose it. This destruction is maniacal. At first he was crafty—the way he killed Arnie. He nearly got away with it. Then he held up those musicians, but he didn’t kill them. Even when he started torturing people and murdering them when they didn’t give him what he wanted, he was rational. They would have died even if he’d found what he was looking for, because he didn’t intend to leave any witnesses, but there was nothing wanton in the way he searched their places. Or Jenny and Brad’s. But now he’s losing it, and the more he loses it, the more likely he is to make a mistake, and then we’ll have him.”
“Well, we don’t have him yet,” Larue said. “And we can’t watch every musician in the city. Seriously, do you know how many there are?”
“I think we need to start watching La Porte Rouge more closely.”
“Danni has been playing there every night. I’m sure if she’d seen anything suspicious, she would have said something.”
Quinn nodded. “Still, it’s the last place Arnie played.” He looked at his watch. He couldn’t believe how much time had passed. “I have to get to the airport.”
“You’re leaving town?” Larue asked. He didn’t sound disturbed, just surprised.
“Only for the day,” Quinn said. “Danni and I are going up to talk to a friend of Arnie’s from the service. She’s convinced this friend may know things Arnie didn’t divulge to his local friends or family.”
“Guess that means I get to talk to the Watsons about the destruction of their house. It’s a good thing they’re staying at your place.”