“So sorry, sweetie!” A young woman slams into Leroux’s arm, making him stumble. She’s apologizing through giggles and fighting to stay upright in sky-high heels.
Wren can’t help but laugh at the scene. She throws her car into park and follows Leroux inside. His partner on the force of two years, Detective William Broussard, is already stationed on a bar stool, apparently having put down roots at the bar counter hours before, judging by the tumbler of amber-colored alcohol half gone in front of him.
“Hello, boys,” she announces, scooting over a stool to sit beside them.
“Muller! Surprised to see you in this neck of the woods. And at this hour. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Leroux responds, smiling cheekily.
“Ha ha. I was just driving by and saw you out front. Figured I’d not let the coincidence go to waste.”
Will hasn’t taken his eyes off the television that sits high above the shelves of alcohol.
“Can you believe this shit still gets steam?” he asks, gesturing with a nod to the news story playing out on the screen.
Leroux and Wren raise their eyes to the screen and follow his gaze. The local news is highlighting a middle-aged man interviewed by a young, eager reporter. The man looks frazzled and wrings his hands anxiously while he talks.
“It is the occult. Devil worshippers are infiltrating this community, and until we get back to respecting the teachings of Jesus Christ, more innocent people will be sacrificed to the darkness,” the man on the screen proselytizes.
He raises his hand during the last few words, and the reporter nods enthusiastically along with his sermon. The camera then switches to another interview with a larger group of concerned citizens, wearing an astonishing array of novelty T-shirts, baseball hats, and jean shorts. The group is frenzied, hyping one another up behind a man with a microphone.
“This community is in danger of falling prey to the ways of the devil!” he yells. “Our children are next! Don’t you get it? These disciples of Satan will tear them from their beds and sacrifice them to their master! The cops need to round these freaks up and toss them into the swamp. Why are the good people of Orleans Parish the only ones who see that this is the work of a group of devil worshippers?”
The reporter, who has tried to interject a couple of times, finally asks, “So, you think the recent murders are not isolated incidents, as has been stated by law enforcement?”
The crowd incoherently yells their answers, and their unofficial spokesman nods aggressively.
“The police are lying to us! They don’t want us to know how deep the occult has embedded itself in this community. This is the work of the devil and his followers. Mark my words!”
Leroux chuckles and turns away from the screen, pointing to Will’s drink as the bartender approaches. “Whatever this is, please.”
She smiles and nods, taking a glass tumbler out from below the bar and filling it with Macallan twelve single malt scotch.
“Cheers.” He salutes and holds his glass up, and Wren mimes clinking an invisible glass with his.
Will shakes his head and takes a sip from his own glass. “This satanic panic stuff was supposed to die out at some point, right? It’s the eighties all over again and completely acceptable to assume angry goths are committing sophisticated murders.”
“Bound to happen.” Leroux sighs.
Will raises one eyebrow and turns to look at him. “Are we really at the point where we are just accepting a complete breakdown of rational thought?”
Leroux shrugs slightly as he takes a sip of drink.
“Well, kind of.” He gestures at the screen up above them. “People look for patterns that aren’t there because they are scared shitless. They can’t handle that they are just as likely to be scooped up by a totally normal-looking psychopath as the victims were, so they make up this crap instead.”