Beneath The Crescent Moon

Chapter 1 New Orleans Police Department NEWS RELEASE Homicide in Metairie February 2nd, 2018 11:55 A.M. 18-76159 On Thursday, February 1st, 2018, at approximately 6:45 A.M., the New Orleans Police Department responded to the call of a deceased subject found in a car at the Grand Mart Motel, 8006 W Metairie Drive, in Metairie. Upon arrival, officers found a deceased female. New Orleans Police Officers and Investigators conducted interviews and collected evidence at the scene. On Friday, February 2nd, 2018, additional interviews were conducted at the New Orleans Police Department Investigations Division. The interviews resulted in the recovery of additional information and evidence. There has been no arrest currently. The identity of the deceased is being withheld until next of kin has been notified. If you have any information regarding this crime, please contact Detective Dominic DeAngelis at the New Orleans Investigations Division, 504-335-7888, Extension #442. A Louisiana Deputy stands by the black metal door that allows prisoners in and out of the gray cinder block room at the Orleans Parish Prison. I sit and watch from outside the glass enclosure as a prisoner shuffles into the room. His ankle fetters make an eerie scrapping noise as they slide across the dusty concrete floor. The sound makes my skin crawl, like someone dragging their fingernails down a chalkboard. My muscles quiver uncontrollably for a microsecond and I feel prickly bumps flush on my arms. A dwarf like shadow, distorted by the overhead light, slowly moves across the block wall. As the silhouette falls off the wall onto the floor, Raymond Lester Morone takes a seat behind enclosure #3. His lifeless face droops in silence. Picking up my paired phone, I wait for a connection on the other side. Raymond’s head slowly rises until our eyes meet. Sunken cheeks and protruding face bones declare major weight loss. Dark stringy hair drapes over his ears and shines as if smeared with baby oil. His unshaven face and blood shot eyes reflect a tale of sleep deprivation. The orange jumpsuit contrasts his ivory skin. A large bruise, with yellow edges, accents the back of his right forearm. Another one covers the back of his left hand. I judge Raymond to be around my height, a little less than 6 feet tall, maybe 140 pounds. It’s hard to tell in his oversize clothing and slumped position. Trembling cuffed hands pick up the phone. Spindly fingers tipped with blackened nails place it to his ear. “Mr. Morone, my name is Justin Lancer. I’m an investigative reporter for the New Orleans Chronicle. I have read the recent articles in the Daily News Journal and wanted to follow up on the information that was presented. Will you talk to me about what happened?” Raymond looks up at me. His mouth quivers as if he’s trying to speak and he drops his eyes. He repositions himself in the plastic chair. He glances back at the guard and after a minute, returns to reality. “Can you help me?” The news article runs through my mind. Raymond Lester Morone, 37, was arrested for suspicion of several murders in the New Orleans area. All were young women in their thirties. All were found in their car after working late and all died of strangulation. The first victim was a late-night motel clerk in Metairie. One was a nurse at the Picayune General Hospital. Another worked at a 24-hour market in Kenner, near the Louis Armstrong Airport. The article states that Raymond was arrested at 2:00 am, on the morning of April 21st, 2018. Until the day he was arrested, Raymond seemingly led a normal life. His arrest revealed more questions than answers. No records could be found. According to the police, Raymond doesn’t exist. He had a fake ID and a copy of an Alabama vehicle registration, also fake. He claims to be a graduate of Delgado Community College, Slidell Campus, in St. Tammany Parish and received his Bachelor of Arts in 2005 at the age of 22. Delgado has no record of Raymond Lester Morone. He never married and for the last three years worked as a handyman. His last known address is an apartment on Esplanade. Raymond turns to stare at the blank gray cinder wall, as if frozen in time. “Raymond. Raymond, talk to me. I will do all I can to help but you have to talk to me.” Raymond slowly turns his head back toward me and makes eye contact. “They say they’re going to send me to ‘The Farm’ and fry me.” “Who, Raymond? Who said that”? “One of them,” motioning toward the jailer. “They say my brain will cook.” I had visited the Louisiana State Penitentiary, known as Angola, back in 2006. That was the year I received my BS in Criminal Justice at LSU, at the age of 24. It is often referred to as the "Alcatraz of the South" and "The Farm". Angola is the largest maximum-security prison in the United States. It houses over 6,300 prisoners and 1,800 staff. It is located in West Feliciana Parish and is surrounded on three sides by water. The 18,000-acre of land the prison sits on, was known before the American Civil War as the Angola Plantations and was owned by Isaac Franklin. The prison is located at the end of Louisiana Highway 66, around 22 miles (35 km) northwest of St. Francisville. It’s about an hour drive from Baton Rouge and two hours from New Orleans. Death row for men and the state execution chamber for both sexes are located at the Angola facility. “Raymond, listen to me. I can’t promise anything, but if you will talk to me, I’ll do all I can to help you. Will you do that?” Raymond stares down at the floor. I can hear the fetters around his ankles drag the floor. “They tell me I will get a public defender in court. Is that true?” “That’s true. But don’t you have some family who can hire an attorney for you? You need more help than just an appointed defender.” “No. Nobody. No family anymore.” Raymond stares off into space and remains silent, as if trying to evaluate his position. “Raymond, you need someone to help investigate your case. A public defender won’t spend the time investigating like I will. He’s tied up with dozens of cases. If you will give me your side of the story, I’ll trace back each incident. You need some outside help. And Raymond, if you’ll sign over the rights to your story, my service will cost you nothing. Will you do that?” Raymond looks down as if he’s inspecting the bruise on his right forearm. Seconds tick by in silence. “Do you think I killed those women?” “Did you?” Raymond leans forward and moves closer to the glass partition. His bloodshot eyes contact mine. “I did not.” His stare never changes. No blink or nerve movement in the eyebrow. The stare is so strong that I feel an uneasiness in my stomach. I’ve interviewed a lot of people over the years. I consider myself rather good at reading faces. This man is either telling me the truth or he’s the best damn liar I’ve ever met. I force a smile to break the tension. “Then you need my help. Think it over. I’m offering you a chance for free help. I’m only allowed to visit once per week. You must let me know something if you want my help so I can get started. Can I call on you next week? You okay with that?” Without answering, Raymond places the receiver back in its cradle. He stands up and motions to the Deputy that he’s through. Starting to leave the enclosure, Raymond turns back toward me and muffles the words, “Next week.”