"Gooooood evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for tuning in to our nightly broadcasting show here at Star Radio: NEW ORLEANS' MOST VICIOUS CRIMES! Tonight, we have an exceptional guest: Terry Goodman. Terry, how are you doing?" "Quite well, Alastor, thank you." "If you don't know him already, Terry here is a forensic specialist. For those not too keen on learning long and complicated words, that just means he knows how to cut people up… professionally!" "Well, you make it sound like I'm a surgeon. Or a murderer.
They are already dead when I cut into them, Alastor." "Ha ha! How this man cracks me up. Now, Terry, tonight we are talking about the case that's been all over the newspapers - surely you folks at home know what I'm talking about. For those of you who'd like to hear it first-hand from yours truly, a grisly murder took place just at the corner of Royal Street and Ninth.
The victim was found with his throat slit from ear to ear - I guess he didn't forget to wear his smile! "Tell us more details about the body, would you, Terry? And keep it simple for all those kids at home that I know are tuning in without their parents knowing." "Well, the body was found in a strange condition: Henry Morgenthau, that is, the victim, was found glued to a bench and not exactly entirely clothed, if you know what I mean. That means he would start peeling off his skin every time he tried to move—gruesome stuff.
He was found with multiple incisions on his body premortem, which means he was being slowly bled to death." "Wowza! Does that mean he had a slow death?" "Not at all - well, not exactly. According to the autopsy reports, he slowly bled out for two or three hours and then had his throat cut." "But you are omitting the worst part, aren't you, Terry?" "Oh, yes. He was found without arms or legs." "Now, did that happen before or after he died?" "The lack of blood flow indicates that the removal of his limbs occurred post-mortem." "There you have it, then!
A maniac that hacks off his victims' body parts after they have died! What do you reckon he does with them? Keeps them as a souvenir, makes them into furniture? EATS THEM? HA HA! Come now, Terry. You can't see him, but he's turned pale just by the mention of eating afoot!" "You certainly explored all the possibilities of what he could've done.
I have no imagination for these kinds of things." "Say, now, have you found any similarities in the killing style with any of the other murders that have been happening periodically around his lovely city?" "Well, I haven't examined all the bodies this has happened to, though I have been following these cases with some interest. However, neither the tools nor the killers' modus operandi aligns very well. We could assume it was several different killers and not just one." "How interesting!
You know, there is a common factor between this victim and two others that have died in the past six months." "How do you mean?" "Oh, nothing medical, Terry - if you can't see the similarities well, how could I? But it was reported that, after researching a bit on our deceased Henry Morgenthau, he had several cases of - and, ladies, cover your ears if you are too delicate for this - assault and rape.
Three different women had accused him! You might recall, Terry, that Gianno Vertucci and Augustus Clearance both had charges for being predators against women." "Hm, I guess I never thought of that. Your memory sure is good, Alastor." "Ha ha! Well, it is my job.
So, what do you think? Is there some vigilante going around killing rapists? Is he ridding this city of the scum of the earth?" "Come, now, Alastor, you can't think that someone capable of killing people so gruesomely could do it out of… goodness." "Well, that's not for me to say or know, but for the detectives to find out, and the folks back home to speculate on…" The recording room hung heavy with the smoke of many cigarettes being lit and smoked at once.
Around the central table where Alastor and Terry were speaking, microphones almost touching their lips, people milled about silently, puffing out of their cigarettes, masking slight coughs, and setting various ancient (at least, ancient to what Alastor remembered) devices up to make sure everything ran smoothly. The recording room was mainly decorated with a violet plush that, when Alastor first saw it, had quite delighted him.
It was lavish for what it was and always had busy energy around it. Even in the early morning, when most people were asleep, you could find teams of people setting up or putting equipment down since their radio was so popular it never stopped for even a second.
It was one of the first to have a constantly-running show or music. Behind a thin, glass wall that the recording room couldn't listen in on, the producers laughed and shook their heads at Alastor's wild, nearly crude jokes.
That guy knew how to toe the line, they said to one another. Still, at the end of the day, it was his vivacity and the borderline insanity of his jokes that kept the listener hooked and engaged, their morbid side winning over as they wondered precisely what that wild Alastor Cormier would have to say about a murder that admitted no lightness.
Alastor understood how to make it work without being distasteful. Kind of. But mostly, people didn't mind the things he said because while it satisfied a macabre curiosity, they were never left with the sensation of hopelessness and fear that one had after listening to a particularly gruesome story. Alastor gave them the window to say, 'how terrible - what's for dinner, honey?'. It was efficient and soothed everyone's minds, even if they weren't in for the jokes and the ghoulishness and just wanted to inform themselves about what was happening.
He even delved into more profound matters for the more attentive listener - like his little commentary about vigilante justice. Whoever was listening, something about Alastor would probably keep them hooked, and he hit the spot every time.
The only thing was that no one could remember how he came to be their top host or how he had gotten to be so excellent and well-respected so fast. He had been there for quite a few years now, and still, even his superiors were a bit hazy and vague when asked when and how Alastor had been recruited.
No matter, though. Nothing matters when a person is as enticing and well-mannered as he is. Alastor and Terry spoke a bit more, Alastor cracking a few jokes and helping Terry along with his dialogue as was needed, his perfect casualness still never losing its pristine professional character.
Once they had hashed out every last detail of the murder to the best of their ability for the bloodthirsty people and the paranoid mums that needed a scary story for their daughters, they spoke a bit of nonsense to pad the time. Then they introduced a new song by Ted Lewis. Once their mics were off and they were free to roam about, Alastor was encouraged by their team and congratulated for his great show, as per usual.
It was like the man didn't have bad days, was never grouchy, and was never off his game. Of course, his radio persona was far more exaggerated than what he acted with his coworkers, but he was doubtlessly charming and beloved by all he worked with.
If there was one thing the people around him could put their finger on that had to do with something being off about Alastor, it was how distant he seemed in reality. You could have a conversation with him for quite a long time with the intent to learn more about his life and what he did on his day-to-day, and somehow, without ever making it obvious, you'd still never truly find out anything about the man.
No one knew where he lived, whether he had any family or a girl to return home to after work, or if he even had friends he casually met up with. Despite his distance, however, he was a great person to talk to, and everyone knew he had many ever-growing acquaintances. If there were a lavish party, Alastor would be there, holding a martini glass with precisely three olives, laughing and cracking jokes together with a large group of people. Nobody noticed that he never actually drank the alcohol in his hand.
As Alastor stood from his chair and stretched out his long, gangly limbs, Tom, who managed sound production, came up and patted him on the back. Big mistake. He immediately caught how Alastor moved away, surprised by the sudden touch. It was a rule in the studio that went unsaid: Alastor did not like to be touched. "Hey, sorry about that," Tom huffed, realizing how Alastor brushed off the spot where he had been patted. "No matter, dear Tom! I was just shocked, is all," he said with a cunning smile.
Tom instantly smiled back. There was something almost hypnotizing about Alastor. He had always thought. He had a craving, much like other people, to be his friend or even a drinking buddy. Though the hope was futile, Alastor was so inviting that nobody that wanted to get closer to him gave up hope. "Say, are you going to Mr. Brady's party tonight?" Tom asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.
That was another thing about Alastor: one never had to worry whether they had overstepped and asked him about an event he had not been invited to - Alastor was always invited everywhere ahead of time and seemed to know about everything. "Of course! Will you be there?" "Sure thing, sure thing.
The boss invited me there himself," and now Tom lowered his voice and leaned forward towards Alastor as if sharing a secret, "I don't think he knows how much I fancy that young daughter of his." "Ha ha! You're a bold one, eh? Maybe he did realize and would like you as a son-in-law, so he invited you." "A man can only pray," Tom sighed, taking another drag and looking up dreamily as if dreaming of Mr. Brady's daughter. Mr. Brady was one of the big fish in charge of the radio.
He was a tall, stately man, and he had moved to New Orleans fairly recently from New York to replace a previous owner that had just retired, one of the founders of Star Radio back in the 00s. In fact, Alastor had been drawn to the radio because it had been one of those that he had heard over at Carmelita's as a young lad.
A lifetime ago, of course. The party that Mr. Brady was hosting that night was supposed to be his family's introduction to society (it seemed that even in the 1930s, everyone still held to the practices of Jane Austen novels). There was a buzz around the radio station as they all wondered who would be invited to the party, which would likely have plenty of big names. Alastor, naturally, had been one of the first to be asked, having made Mr. Brady crack up in the first conversation that they had had.
As a star presenter, it was only expected that he would be among the first invited to the party. And he wouldn't have missed it for all the world. It was already around ten in the evening that Friday night, and since the music guys had taken charge of the radio together with a minor host who would speak smoothly with every musical transition to explain the artists, the station was thinning out as most of the higherups were leaving to go to Mr. Brady's party.
Tom asked Alastor whether he wanted to go with him, but Alastor shook his head and told him he would make a quick stop at home before heading over there. Tom nodded with understanding. No questions asked, just how Alastor liked it. Tom was one of those people that irked him less than normal.
With his walking stick swinging in his hand, Alastor exited after uttering farewells and walked out into the bustling street. The streets were packed with well-dressed ladies in the arms of gentlemen, their kitten heels clacking against the stone walkways, cars honking and blaring out tunes, some of them playing from Star Radio. The streetlights gleamed goldenly, and the air was alive with heat and the general music from the excitement of a Friday night.
Alastor bounced around the streets on his way home, taking in the atmosphere and humming a little song to keep himself company. He smiled at the ladies in the street, nodded to the men that usually accompanied them, and arrived at his apartment ten minutes after leaving the station with an ever-present grin.
The apartment building was comfortable and clean but not too lavish, and though it had a doorman, that was about the extent of its luxury. As Alastor arrived, he greeted the doorman, a crooked, elderly black man with wispy tufts of white hair who always politely held the door open and was as kind as possible. Alastor probably liked him more than he did most of his coworkers. "Albert! How are you on this fine evening?" "Quite well, Mr. Cormier, no complaints. You already turning in?" "Oh, no, I'll be heading out in a tad." "Very well, sir," Albert said with a nod of his head, holding the door open.
At that same time, a man hustled out of the building, nearly bumping into Alastor in his rush. Alastor's eyebrows quirked up as the man huffed past them and shot Albert a dirty look. Both Albert and Alastor watched him as he left. "Hm. Seems to have forgotten his manners," Alastor commented, looking like he had just swallowed something exceedingly bitter. "Manners maketh man," Albert agreed pleasantly, looking undisturbed. "Quite right!" Alastor exclaimed, once again thinking of what a fine man Albert was and immediately gathering himself before stepping into the building, though he had been considerably irked by the stranger. His face wouldn't leave his mind.
Before he stepped further, he asked Albert whether he knew the man they had just come across. Albert replied that he was new to the building and had just moved in but hadn't gotten his name. Alastor nodded and kept a mental tab. Alastor's apartment was always neat and clean, and he went to great lengths to keep it that way. However, he had never hired any sort of help, as he liked to see to his things himself. Besides, there was no reason to risk having some poor woman discover something… unsavory.
Alastor turned on the lights and petted the cat, immediately going to the door to greet his owner. "There, there," Alastor said soothingly before heading over to his beautiful kitchen (the one place he had made sure was genuinely modern and lovely in his house) and getting out a tin of wet cat food. Honestly, the stuff smelled rank, but little Harry seemed to love it.
Alastor plunked the food down onto the cat's plate and side-stepped him so he wouldn't get any hairs on himself. He went to his freezer, a giant contraption that had been rather hard to get since it was usually just sold to butchers or massive restaurants, and pulled out a frozen bit of thigh. He seared the thing on each side after seasoning it meticulously and ate it with great relish. It wasn't as good as the fresh stuff, but it would have to do in a pinch.
He couldn't go to Mr. Brady's party in anything other than tip-top shape. After his meal together with the cat (which he, of course, wouldn't have without having first put on a record to fill in their comfortable silence), Alastor promptly went over to his room, smoothed out his pristine blue suit, running his hands over imperfections that were invisible to all but him.
Alastor's suit, of course, was one of his distinguishing characteristics, a particular little thing of his. Everywhere he went, he wore that blue suit, which, though dashing and beautiful, was rather antiquated in its cut. Still, its lively color served to modernize it, and it was undoubtedly an elegant fashion statement wherever he went.
When Alastor had first arrived in New Orleans after his shirt-lived visit to Adelaide's, hitching a ride there on the back of wagons and one or two cars, he had been wearing only the old Mr. Guills' clothes, the suit, and the rest of his belongings in a bag. The first thing he did when arriving in the city was to take the suit to a dry cleaner. They told him it was unsalvageable, that they couldn't possibly make that suit right again, and immediately questioned him on why he wouldn't just get a new suit as opposed to that crusty old thing that looked like it had been in a moldy basement for decades.
Which, to be fair, it kind of had. Alastor politely made his departure and tried for another cleaning service. And then another. And another. Until he finally found one, a very run-down place whose employees were all related, a kid in the back doing his homework. "You want to save this?" They questioned, taking the frozen suit between their fingers. "Yes," Alastor replied promptly. They eyed him strangely, as if he were insane, but asked no further questions, unlike all the others.
The person attending to him screamed in another language to some invisible woman in the back, and the woman in the back yelled back in the same unknown tongue. "Alright. You want it back to… what it was before whatever happened to it?" "Yes, that would be great." "You'll have to work with our seamstress. There are holes in this. Extra money." "Naturally. I thank you kindly." The woman humphed but said nothing. "We'll probably need… two weeks. Come back then.
I might need to dye it, too. It was blue, right? Or is it some form of fungus?" "No, it was blue." "Alright," the woman said, writing a ticket for him. Alastor smiled at her, and more than put her at ease, he unsettled the woman. He remembered how he had managed to pay for the suit eventually… Alastor shook his head to try to shake out the memories impeding his moving forward.
The suit looked just as it had the day that Mrs. Cormier had gifted it to him, always taking it back to that little dry-cleaners whenever he noticed the slightest difference. The only thing that he couldn't shake away was this sort of expectation that he got whenever he looked at himself while wearing it.
When will it be turning red? Alastor sprayed a bit of perfume on himself, turned out all the lights, and then headed back after petting Harry on the head, holding his invitation to the party in his hands. By the time he got to the Bradys' place, music was booming loudly from the windows, and there came from within the distinct sounds of crowds laughing, delicate glasses tinkling, and the clamor of lively talk.
It would be a fun evening, indeed. Alastor was welcomed warmly inside, and in a moment, he had a martini and a cigarette in his hand and had been incorporated into a large group of people, most of which he didn't know but became friends with almost immediately.
The night progressed much as these nights always did, but even Alastor, used to being invited to high-end parties, was impressed by the luxury present in the house. He had long since stopped using the Lundelvilles' home as a parameter to measure wealth, soon realizing that their money in a big city like New Orleans would've been a slight change. This place was almost a mansion, all cream and gold, but quite tastefully decorated, unlike many houses he had gone to, which simply threw together the most expensive adornments they could find and thought it looked good. The Brady family had gotten a fine band for their party, and Alastor excused himself from the group he was in to admire the music.
One of the best parts about coming to these parties was the music. When they wanted to show off (which was usually permanently), rich people spared no expense, and as a result, live bands were at most higher-end parties. Alastor stood looking at the band as if hypnotized as people danced around him.
A few ladies had been eyeing him expectantly as if waiting for him to ask them to dance, and indeed, he must've seemed like quite a catch: young, handsome, impeccably dressed, evidently with good connections if he was in a party like this. But he paid them no mind. He never did. He only allowed himself to be carried away by the music, a large smile on his face.
He almost jumped when someone came up beside him and spoke to him. "Say, do I know you from somewhere?" The voice asked. Alastor looked beside him, a little irritated, but once he had caught a glimpse of the man, the shock of white hair was enough to make him pause. "You do look familiar," Alastor said, trying not to let his startled state of mind show. Standing beside him was none other than Sal Montenegro. He had aged quite a bit, being a man in his late thirties when Alastor had met him, but it was doubtlessly him, down to the same enticing, snake-like smile.
He must've been around sixty years old, but he was well-preserved and aged like a wonder. And that vanilla-cream hair was rare enough to find. Looking into the man's peculiarly colored eyes, he had no space for doubt. "You know, I think I can place you, but… my memory must be going…." "Humour me - where have we met before?" Alastor asked, his smile widening as he twirled around the olives in his martini before crushing his untouched, lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "Well, I used to have an old acquaintance in a little town here in Louisiana…." "The Lundelvilles?" Alastor asked casually.
He had feared such a thing happening, meeting someone from his past life (the second past life, not the first, already nearly forgotten one), though he thought it would be almost impossible. Still, he knew he would find an angle to play at. He always did. The man's eyes widened at hearing a name he hadn't heard in decades. "Yes, the Lundelvilles!" "Terrible what happened to them, wouldn't you say?" Alastor asked with a very severe expression on his face, completely believable.
It was enjoyable for him to be pretending to such an extent and to have it come out so well. Terrible was certainly one word for what had happened to the Lundelvilles, but not one he would pick out if he were alone. "Yes, I did hear some crazy rumors…." "The rumors were mostly true, I believe." "Then, that truly is a pity, though you know… no, never mind." "Please, what were you going to say?" Alastor urged him, smiling once again. Catching the devilish gleam in Alastor's eyes, Sal leaned forward. "Those small-town folks… sometimes they can be beasts," he said with a light chuckle, and it was all Alastor could do not to roar out in laughter. He contained himself a bit, but still, his laughing resonated with Montenegro. "I couldn't agree more.
The Lundelvilles had a… less than savory reputation in the town," Alastor said, relishing this opportunity to trample their name further, hoping he wouldn't let himself get too carried away. He never thought he would be able to ruin them again, but he found that the pleasure was still the same. "You don't say?" Montenegro considered this, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Well, if I remember correctly - and if you pay any mind to an old man's memory - that daughter of theirs sure was a number." "Now, that's a kind way to put it," Alastor replied, making Montenegro laugh. "Well, in any case, now I'm sure I met you at theirs. You must let me know who you are, Mr…?" "Cormier. Alastor Cormier," Alastor said, stretching his hand to Montenegro, who shook it. "It's a pleasure to re-meet you, Mr. Montenegro." Montenegro's eyes twinkled, evidently pleased. "I see you remember me." "You left quite an impression on my young mind, Mr. Montenegro.
You seemed like the only… big fish among them." Montenegro's eyes flashed with something like recognition at the 'big fish' comment. It was a wonder Alastor still remembered since, at this point, a lot of time had already passed for him.
But it had been even longer for Montenegro, and it was no wonder his memory was hazy. All the better - the younger he was in his memory, the less he would question. But really, who would ask what they could see with their own eyes? People were less likely to question logic than one would think. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Cormier," he said, taking another sip. "Please, call me Alastor." "You know, there's something else very familiar about you that I can't quite place…." "Is it my voice, maybe?" Alastor asked, and Montenegro cocked his head as if trying to figure something out.
"Welcome to Star Radio's nightly broadcasting show…." Alastor began in his radio voice, and immediately Montenegro almost jumped up. "That's right! Alastor Cormier, star host at Star Radio, I'm a big fan," he admitted, reshaking his hand. "You know, my kids-" but at that moment, someone put a hand on Montenegro's shoulder, and Mr. Bradley appeared behind him with a grin. "I see you've met our best radio host, Sal." "We're very old acquaintances, Mr. Bradley," Alastor said. "Is that right?" "You know, I get the impression that I always knew you had star potential, kid," Montenegro said, wagging a meaty finger at him. "Come, now, surely you don't want to take credit for him?" Bradley asked with a laugh, to which the other two joined. It wasn't even that funny, but this was the way of the very rich and fake. The three men chatted avidly for most of the evening, cracking up and speaking on various subjects.
If before Mr. Bradley had liked Alastor, now that they could interact in a non-work environment, he was positively charmed by him, as was Montenegro. But he could do it now if Alastor had managed to charm him once before he had even been fully developed. "I must say, Alastor," Mr. Montenegro said after a particularly loud bout of laughter, "it's a pity we didn't ever meet again before this party." "My feelings exactly, Mr. Montenegro," Alastor replied with a smile as Montenegro started waving his hand at him. "Sal, it's Sal. Say, I'm having a gathering… nothing big like what our good friend here pulled off tonight. More intimate, just a dinner party.
I'd like you to come." "It would be my pleasure, Sal." "Come now, Sal, you trynna steal Alastor away from me?" Mr. Brady said light-heartedly. "If I don't, someone else eventually will," Montenegro replied with a laugh. "Haven't seen this much potential in someone since I met you, Bradley." "You gonna recruit him?" "Recruit me? My, that sounds interesting," Alastor commented, eyeing the two men and remembering the impression he had gotten from Montenegro the first time he had met him, now reinforced by this evening.
His precise line of work was vaguely swept over. The only thing mentioned was his whiskey business, which he boasted of quite a bit and was likely the only thing he could openly boast about, the only thing that could be broadcasted. But Alastor wasn't afraid to meddle with influential people like this. It gave him some pleasure, and even while he was at Mr. Bradley's party, he was already looking forward to going to Montenegro's. He felt he would be proposing something to him, and he was excited to learn exactly what the nature of their relationship would become.
Eventually, the merry little group disbanded and went their separate ways, but not before Montenegro told Bradley that he would be inquiring after Alastor's details so he could send him the formal invitation to their gathering. After that, they went their ways, and not too much later, Alastor left the party.
It was well into the night, and though the music was still blaring from multiple buildings, the streets were mostly deserted save for a few groups of people that drunkenly stumbled about, presumably in search of some more fun. Walking alone at night was one of Alastor's great pleasures in life. He loved the feeling of the evening breeze on his face, the absence of people and eyes, and being able to be completely undisturbed by anything else.
He had taken quite a liking to roaming the streets at night and wandering about without much consideration about where he was. Naturally, this had gotten him into some of the shadier sides of the city, but he never minded - a few robbery attempts had been made. None ended too well on the muggers' part.
He was like a beacon for robbers - a flashy blue suit that looked rather expensive coupled with his fancy cane, whistling as if fearless of anyone knowing he was there. He chuckled at the funny memories of red-nosed delinquents trying to steal from him. As he made his stroll, whistling a little tune to himself, he ruminated over the evening's events, his mind lingering particularly on Sal Montenegro.
He recalled nearly everything that had happened the evening they had met, but for some reason, he only just then fully remembered what had struck him about Montenegro when he had first laid eyes on him. He walked ever so slowly as all the memories of what he had experienced at the Guills' returned to him.
The strawberries and cream boy with his lazy smile and his wild eyes, the way that he had impacted Alastor even though he had never really met him. After his premonitory visions about the Cormiers, Alastor knew better than to assume that that had been the drugs acting weird on him.
Had the vision somehow taken him back in time to when Montenegro had been young? Had the vision somehow twisted time to show him the past and reflect how important Montenegro would be to him in the future? Somehow the theory didn't seem all that right, but he still couldn't shake off the feeling that he had to decipher what it all meant. Though he had been well instructed in what it intended to be patient, he was still buzzing with the thought of meeting Montenegro again and finding the answers to his questions.
It was rare that Alastor didn't immediately acquire whatever he desired, but the waiting made it all the more mystical and unique. He went to bed that night thinking incessantly of the boy he had seen in his vision and how he could be related to Mr. Montenegro. And when he fell into a deep sleep, all fifteen locks of his apartment well in place, he dreamed of the boy, his cloudy pink eyes looking at him with more emotion than Alastor had seen in many years. He awoke in a state closest to impatience and anticipation that he could feel.