“Dr. Gray, this is Detective Riley from Crisis Squad.”

I looked at my alarm clock.

“It’s after two, Detective? Couldn’t you get someone on my staff?” I was irritated and I had a headache. I’d met Melody and Patty at Bourbon Pub Parade and we drank several Bloody Marys. On a weeknight, two is one too many for me, especially at Parade where they made them strong and tall.

“The Captain thought we’d better call you on this one.”

“I thought Crisis dealt with rapes and sexual abuse.”

“Yeah, that’s our beat. We got a situation down here and they didn’t know who to call, us or homicide, so we’re both here.”

“So, there’s a body? Are you saying you have a murder or a sex crime?”

“It’s both, Dr. Gray. I’ve been on the force eighteen years and I’ve never seen anything like it. I think you’d better come on down. It looks like a copycat – well sort of, a copycat in reverse. You ever hear of The Black Dahlia?”

Everybody had. It was considered one of the most gruesome crimes ever committed and it had never been solved. Books had been written about it, movies made and still no one had ever figured out definitively who killed twenty-two year old Elizabeth Short, and left her severed body beside a busy Hollywood intersection. Of course there was no shortage of theories. It had happened in 1947 and because her dissection indicated a surgeon’s precision, for a long time detectives thought they were looking for a doctor. But the case remained a mystery, and over time took on mythic proportions. It had all the elements. She was an aspiring actress. There was sexual intrigue, questions about her lifestyle. What was left of her body showed signs of vaginal torture and rape. Because she was a dark haired beauty who died before she’d had a chance to bloom, the press began referring to her as The Black Dahlia. That moniker was all it took for Elizabeth Short to enter the realm of legend – even if it was not the sort of celebrity for which she dreamed.

“Where are you Riley?”

“We’re in the French Quarter, in the alley behind Rawhide 2010.”

“The gay bar?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Is the lab there?”

“Yeah, and they’re gonna be here a while. It’s a mess.”

I wriggled into my jeans, went to the kitchen and drank a tall glass of water and downed a couple of Excedrin. Fuck, I looked like hell, just like someone who’d had one too many Bloody Marys. Where in the hell were my eye drops? I grabbed my kit and headed to the elevator. Even though it could be too loud, particularly during Mardi Gras, I loved the French Quarter, it had always been my favorite part of New Orleans. Rawhide was only a few blocks away. I unlocked the black Suburban and headed down St. Charles toward the gay district. There were a lot of people walking around. You’d never have known it was almost three in the morning. Ahead, I saw some barricades and flashing lights. There was a man with a pad standing by a van. His suit coat was open and I caught a glimpse of a revolver. He was staring at the SUV as it came to a halt.

“Dr. Gray?” he asked.

“Yep, are you Riley?”

“Yes Ma’am. I’ll get them to let you through, just pull up closer to the barricade, the victim’s around back. They’re expecting you.”

Except the police officials, the whole area had been blocked off. I parked and got out. I’d get my bag later. I walked toward the back entrance of Rawhide where the lab was obviously working gathering samples and taking photographs. I recognized Trudy Ruleigo. She was a detective in midtown at the 101st squad. I wondered what she was doing on this side of town. We had dated a few times before deciding we weren’t really each other’s type. She was way too feminine for me. I liked my lovers to be beautiful, but I also liked them to be dykes. Plus Trudy wore gold jewelry, which even though a small thing, had always been a turn off for me. Because New Orleans was so open, most of the gays and lesbians on the police force and in the medical examiner’s office were not in the closet. It was more difficult for the guys, more of a stigma. The opposite was true of lesbians. It was almost expected if you were a woman in a position of power, you were queer or bi.

“Hey Trudy,” I said.

“Hey Willa. They freaked on this one and got everyone down here but they just radioed me back in. Call me later or I’ll call you,” she said.

“Okay, maybe we can meet some time at Parade and catch up. Though it hasn’t been that long since I left there.”

She laughed uncomfortably. I thought for a moment she was jealous. Her gold hoops dangled as she walked away. I’m surprised she could wear them on the job. They looked kind of ridiculous beneath her cap.



I saw the body for the first time. He was lying on his stomach. His hands were bound with white duct tape. He had been severely beaten. It looked like someone had smudged charcoal all over his ass and back, but it wasn’t ember markings, it was bruises. I was glad to see Jonathan Loomis there. He was a good man, thorough and conscientious. He had a reputation for documenting the scene of a crime better than anyone in Louisiana. He’d worked in my office for five years. Not even a strand of hair or a pinprick escaped Jonathan’s expert eye.

“Hey Jonathan. You been here long?”

“Only about thirty minutes. It’s pretty grisly.”

“He looks very young,” I said.

“Well he couldn’t have been much past twenty.”

“What’s with the flower?”

Cupped in the victim’s bound hands was a beautiful white flower.”

“That’s a white dahlia,” said Jonathan. “His flesh was almost flayed. It looks like he was whipped first and then beaten with some kind of board. I found several embedded splinters.”

“Detective Riley said they think it’s a reverse copy cat of the Black Dahlia.”

“Well obviously, he’s not cut into, but he was tortured and brutalized and then there’s this similarity.”

He turned the body over and I was horrified to see that the mouth had been butchered, cut to the ear on either side. I felt sick.

“You alright Willa?”

“I’m just tired and I have a headache. Are you familiar with the Black Dahlia case?”

“Of course, but as far as I can tell, at least right now, the mouth and the torture are the only parallels.”

“And the flower.”

“Yeah, the flower.”