would be fun.”
Though she looked like she thought it would be anything but.
“You’ll see that certain things in New Orleans haven’t changed in the past one hundred and fifty years. Still plenty of drinking and sex.” The very things that had sucked him in, the sins he still missed. He had learned nothing, knew he should condemn the licentious, knew he should want the purity of life as he was trying to lead it now, but he didn’t. He still wanted to taste a woman’s flesh and to float off into the haze, removed from the indelicate rude details of mortality. Those were his vices, and he knew that.
He stopped and stared at the light blue house across Dauphine Street.
But he needed to know, needed to believe, that while he did most certainly have flaws, and deep ones, he was not capable of violence. Anger. That he could not have picked up a knife and sliced through Anne’s ivory skin, drawing blood over and over.
He didn’t think he could. Didn’t think he’d done that. But he needed to know. Or he would never let it go, never forgive himself, and the doubt would eat through the center of his already rotting soul.
October 9, 1849
Report taken by William Davidson, second district
The women of twenty-five Dauphine Street were cooperative in discussing the night in question, but none have any helpful insight to offer. No one saw or heard anyone entering or leaving Miss Donovan’s room, other than Mr. Thiroux, and no one heard anything out of the ordinary, aside from a single cry from Miss Donovan overheard by Molly Faye. Approximate time thought to be one a.m., given that Miss Faye insists her client was still in her room at the time, and that he left at a quarter past the hour when he realized he was late returning home.
Miss Donovan’s room is shuttered to the street and remained so, and there is a great hulk of a man who watches the front door for Madame Conti. He insists no one got past him at any time during the hours in question. In speaking to the six ladies who were in the house, I can conclude with a fair amount of accuracy that there were five men present at the time of Miss Donovan’s death, including Mr. Thiroux and the doorman. Twelve persons total when counting the victim. Three of the six ladies provide alibis for three of the men, and vice versa. Two ladies provided alibis for each other, as they were playing cards together in their shared room. That leaves only Madame Conti, the doorman (whose name is Jim Fury), and Mr. John Thiroux in doubt.
While it is easy to imagine the giant of a doorman, or the street-hard Madame Conti as capable of violence, I cannot see where either would benefit from the death of Miss Donovan. Madame Conti certainly had much to lose in terms of business from the notoriety of such a death, and no one in the house indicated there was ever any animosity displayed between Jim Fury (despite his sobriquet) and Miss Donovan.
The natural conclusion, therefore, is that Mr. Thiroux took the knife to his lover under the influence of pharmaceuticals and stabbed her to death.
Sara really had no interest in going to Bourbon Street. From all accounts, it was loud and dirty, and she envisioned drunken men spilling beer on her while women with vast amounts of cleavage vied for attention from same-said drunken men. It made her brain hurt just thinking about it. But she had said yes immediately, because the offer came from Gabriel, and that disturbed her. She wasn’t in a good place. It wasn’t the time to get involved with a man.
But she didn’t see herself begging off the plans either.
Gabriel had stopped walking and was taking his lens cap off again.
“Is that the house?” He was staring across the street at an innocuous light blue structure that came right up to the sidewalk like all the buildings in the French Quarter. The house had darker blue shutters closed tightly on both the bottom and top floors. Only the little third-floor dormers were open to light. While it
Though she looked like she thought it would be anything but.
“You’ll see that certain things in New Orleans haven’t changed in the past one hundred and fifty years. Still plenty of drinking and sex.” The very things that had sucked him in, the sins he still missed. He had learned nothing, knew he should condemn the licentious, knew he should want the purity of life as he was trying to lead it now, but he didn’t. He still wanted to taste a woman’s flesh and to float off into the haze, removed from the indelicate rude details of mortality. Those were his vices, and he knew that.
He stopped and stared at the light blue house across Dauphine Street.
But he needed to know, needed to believe, that while he did most certainly have flaws, and deep ones, he was not capable of violence. Anger. That he could not have picked up a knife and sliced through Anne’s ivory skin, drawing blood over and over.
He didn’t think he could. Didn’t think he’d done that. But he needed to know. Or he would never let it go, never forgive himself, and the doubt would eat through the center of his already rotting soul.
October 9, 1849
Report taken by William Davidson, second district
The women of twenty-five Dauphine Street were cooperative in discussing the night in question, but none have any helpful insight to offer. No one saw or heard anyone entering or leaving Miss Donovan’s room, other than Mr. Thiroux, and no one heard anything out of the ordinary, aside from a single cry from Miss Donovan overheard by Molly Faye. Approximate time thought to be one a.m., given that Miss Faye insists her client was still in her room at the time, and that he left at a quarter past the hour when he realized he was late returning home.
Miss Donovan’s room is shuttered to the street and remained so, and there is a great hulk of a man who watches the front door for Madame Conti. He insists no one got past him at any time during the hours in question. In speaking to the six ladies who were in the house, I can conclude with a fair amount of accuracy that there were five men present at the time of Miss Donovan’s death, including Mr. Thiroux and the doorman. Twelve persons total when counting the victim. Three of the six ladies provide alibis for three of the men, and vice versa. Two ladies provided alibis for each other, as they were playing cards together in their shared room. That leaves only Madame Conti, the doorman (whose name is Jim Fury), and Mr. John Thiroux in doubt.
While it is easy to imagine the giant of a doorman, or the street-hard Madame Conti as capable of violence, I cannot see where either would benefit from the death of Miss Donovan. Madame Conti certainly had much to lose in terms of business from the notoriety of such a death, and no one in the house indicated there was ever any animosity displayed between Jim Fury (despite his sobriquet) and Miss Donovan.
The natural conclusion, therefore, is that Mr. Thiroux took the knife to his lover under the influence of pharmaceuticals and stabbed her to death.
Sara really had no interest in going to Bourbon Street. From all accounts, it was loud and dirty, and she envisioned drunken men spilling beer on her while women with vast amounts of cleavage vied for attention from same-said drunken men. It made her brain hurt just thinking about it. But she had said yes immediately, because the offer came from Gabriel, and that disturbed her. She wasn’t in a good place. It wasn’t the time to get involved with a man.
But she didn’t see herself begging off the plans either.
Gabriel had stopped walking and was taking his lens cap off again.
“Is that the house?” He was staring across the street at an innocuous light blue structure that came right up to the sidewalk like all the buildings in the French Quarter. The house had darker blue shutters closed tightly on both the bottom and top floors. Only the little third-floor dormers were open to light. While it
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