The young woman was in her mid-twenties, small and slim with enormous brown eyes and a nervous manner. Angela reached a hand across the distance that separated their chairs in the conference room and set it gently on Debbie’s knee.
“Debbie, yes. Of course, we believe you. And we need your help.”
“Right. I saw the news. You found more than one body. You found three. I mean, it’s a cemetery, but—”
“Yes, and I’m afraid someone was murdered recently. Any help you might be able to give us—”
“I don’t know how I can help,” she interrupted.
“First, tell me what he looked like.”
“A monster.”
“Okay, so...”
“Maybe a demon. He was wearing a Halloween costume: like a black jumpsuit with a hood and a skeleton’s mask beneath it. I know the police believed it was a prank, but there was something about him. I knew... I guess, well, people decorate. And they do come in costume, but usually only on Halloween day or evening.”
“Okay, how tall do you think he was?”
Debbie shook her head. “Regular-guy size? I’m pretty sure it was a guy. I think maybe six feet and medium build?”
Angela nodded. “And where exactly did you see him? Was he headed for one of the exits?”
Debbie almost smiled. “Exits? You don’t need an exit for that place. The stone wall that surrounds it isn’t more than two feet high. But he seemed to be heading toward the... um, north side. Where the forest has kind of encroached on some of the stones. There’s a tree that’s half in the cemetery and half out. I think he ran past it and into the woods.”
Angela mentally drew a map of the cemetery in her mind. Since the Robertson family vault or mausoleum was in the center of the place, he might have quickly come from it while Debbie was kneeling at her father’s grave. And when she looked up, he could have easily been halfway out of the place.
“I just knew he’d killed someone. But then he was gone. And I—I didn’t see anyone who had been stabbed or was bloody or... anything. And I was terrified. So, I ran. I got into my car and drove around to the office. And that lady, that Ms. Valois? She was so nice. She called the police right away, and they walked through the cemetery. But the one officer just seemed entirely disgusted by how the relatives of those buried or interred there decorate for the holiday. Some people think it’s horrible and disrespectful. It really isn’t. It’s remembering those we love during the holidays. As if they are still with us.”
“It’s okay, Debbie. People remember their loved ones in different ways.”
“I’m not usually scared. Most horror movies are funny to me and I like haunted houses. But I was terrified last night. So scared that when an officer called to say he’d be watching over me, I almost didn’t dare believe him. I called the precinct first... and they said that I was being watched. I knew someone had found something. But even with a cop outside, I couldn’t sleep. I... I loved my dad so much, but I don’t think I can ever go back there again.”
Angela nodded and suggested softly, “Maybe not at Halloween. And until we find out what happened, there will be an officer or an agent looking out for you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. I—I called in sick today. I teach art at a local community college. I was so tired and scared. Then Special Agent Crow called me, but before the officer brought me here, I saw the news. I saw that three people were found in the cemetery, victims of a murderer. The blood on that knife was real.”
She let out a breath. “Honestly, I’m not a horrible coward. I live by myself now in my folks’ old home. My mom died when I was little. I don’t even remember her. I just lost my dad two years ago, and I’m an only child. I have an alarm, but it’s only on the front door. It isn’t attached to any of the windows. I mean, I’m not an idiot, they’re all shut and locked, but—”
“It’s all right.” Angela appreciated the fact that Debbie was scared and rambling. Her job was to calm her down and see if she could gather any useful information. “We know you’re frightened. But no one knows if he saw you. Though perhaps you’ll feel a little better if I tell you this. He knows you can’t identify him. He was wearing that mask. So, he has no reason to come after you.”
“What if he’s just insane? He has to be a little, right?”
“I like to believe that any human being who can hurt another in that way has to be a bit off,” Angela told her. “But we will protect you. An officer will be near at all times, I promise.”
Debbie still looked uneasy. “Could he—or she—just come in and watch television? Then I wouldn’t be so scared about the windows, especially those in back.”
“I think we can arrange that,” a masculine voice said.
Jackson had slipped into the conference room. He gave Debbie an encouraging smile. “And we’ll set up an assurance program. A way for you to talk to headquarters and know for sure that a patrolman or woman is who they say they are when the shifts change. You good with that?”
“I’m grateful for that,” Debbie said. “I’m so tired. I am just so, so tired.”
“Officer Whittaker can take you home. Shift will change before dark, and then you’ll be all set. It’s going to be okay, Debbie. If you hadn’t had the courage to report what you saw and insisted that it was real, we wouldn’t have known anything was wrong. We wouldn’t know about this killer. So, thank you. And please believe we’ll look after you. That’s a promise.”
“Thank you,” Debbie said again. Angela rose, and the young woman stood, too, looking from her to Jackson.
“It’s okay. Keep our numbers on speed dial and call for anything,” Angela told her.
Jackson escorted her out to the main reception area where Officer Owen Whittaker waited. He was a ten-year veteran with the force and someone his colleagues and the Krewe trusted implicitly. Angela remained in the conference room, anxious for Jackson to return.
He walked back in and frowned, likely at the look on her face.
“We have to go back,” she told him.
“Back?”
“To the cemetery. Jackson, I don’t know why, but... maybe we missed something. I know the forensic crews were there all night, and I know the medical examiners are still identifying the victims, but I just feel like we need to go back.”
“All right. But we have several people to interview—”
“And a roster of agents ready to work,” she reminded him.
“Okay. But there’s someone we need to see first. One more person.”
“Who?” she asked him.
He smiled grimly. “I’ll bring him in.”
Jackson left for a minute again and returned with a man who was speaking even as they entered the conference room.
“Horrible! Beyond horrible. What kind of a sick person would do something like that?”
Without an introduction, she knew it was Benjamin Robertson.
“Horrible. Horrible! The worst dishonor to the dead. Murder? In the tomb of a true American patriot no less. Unknown bodies left, families now feeling lost and full of fear and worry. Horrible!”