by King, Leo
Putting down the report, Michael was caught by one of the phrases: “daughters of civil servants.” In the depths of Michael’s mind, a lightbulb suddenly illuminated. “Wait, you mean like the daughter of Morton Melancon?” One look at the frown that crossed his older partner’s lips, and Michael knew that he was correct.
“Morton’s daughter was the third victim,” said Rodger, shaking his head in disgust. “It was actually Edward who told Morton what had happened. I didn’t have the stomach for it. Sent Morton on a five-year sabbatical, nearly made the poor guy lose his mind. I suspect that even if the chief hadn’t told Morton to bump our case to the top, he’d have done it anyway.”
Well, that explains his reaction last night, thought Michael. He went back to looking over the autopsy report. His eyes moved like the scanner on a fax machine, taking it in line by line. When he set down the report at last, Michael closed his eyes and visualized the entire report. There it was in his mind, clear as day, down to Morton’s accidental transposition of the letters i and e in their.
Opening his eyes, Michael rejoined his partner in the conversation. “So this killer is already doing something different from the doc. He chose someone who is less than an upstanding member of society.”
“Correct,” replied Rodger, sipping his coffee again. “Which means if another of these pop up and she’s in the same social class as the first one, we’ve got us an MO.”
Michael looked grim as he nodded in agreement. “Although, if we’re lucky, this was a one-time situation, and there won’t be another one of these ‘popping up.’”
To Michael’s dismay, Rodger immediately shook his head, saying, “I’ve been on the force over forty years, and my gut is almost never wrong. My gut tells me, Michael, that this is just the beginning.”
For a long moment, Michael was silent. He heard the infant in the background still crying, although not with as much strain to its voice. Someone must be trying to comfort it, at least, thought Michael, who gave a sigh and began spreading out the various pieces of evidence obtained from Sam Castille. He didn’t want to believe that Rodger was correct, but his own gut didn’t offer any solace.
After a few moments, Michael began, “Well, Vincent took one victim every seven days, correct? That gives us six days to find and identify the killer before the next victim goes missing. Now, I’ve been sorting through this stuff we got from Sam and have come up with several things.”
Michael produced a stack of receipts, bound together with a rubber band. “First, we have these receipts. All of these show the purchase of the hardware that the doc used to perform his murders. For each murder, he bought new power tools, new tubing, new everything.”
“Except his scalpel,” stated Rodger, taking the receipts and looking through them. “He used the same scalpel for every murder. He also used the scalpel, and not anything else, to finally kill his victims. Did the same kind of cut given for an autopsy. Everything else was either to torture during the killing, or to dismember afterward.”
“Right,” replied Michael. “And according to the autopsy report, the cuts on Ms. Babineaux were made from a hacksaw, a wire cutter, a circular saw, and a scalpel.”
“Same as the doc,” said Rodger, tossing the receipts back onto Michael’s side of the desk.
“But not quite, Rodger,” said Michael, tapping the upturned autopsy report. “Morton clearly states that the scalpel cuts were amateurish, that they didn’t have the precision of a trained surgeon. That means that the killer doesn’t have any training as a physician.”
As Rodger nodded, Michael continued, grabbing a similar bundle of receipts. “Now these receipts are from various restaurants around town. Commander’s Palace, Arnold’s, and Café Giovanni, just to name a few. Each receipt is always from the same night that the body was discovered.”
“That’s no surprise,” Rodger said, finishing up his coffee and tossing the cup into their already overflowing trash can. “At the trial, the doc was profiled as treating himself to a nice meal after every murder, sort of a reward for a job well done.”
Michael couldn’t hide his disgust at Vincent Castille as he continued. “The point I am getting at is that the doc’s case was highly publicized twenty years ago. So all these facts would be available for someone who knew where to look, correct? So, if this is a real copycat, like we suspect, then he will do more than just murder like Vincent Castille.”
Rodger looked up, the look on his face showing Michael that they were both arriving at the same conclusion. With a quick nod, the older man said, “Right, and since a copycat will want to emulate the full Vincent Castille experience, if we analyze lists such as recent hardware purchases and expensive restaurants… ”
“… we can find our man,” finished Michael with a smile. He and Rodger had solved many cases this way, arriving at the same conclusion over conversation. The younger man knew that he and his partner were as different as night and day, but when they worked together as a cohesive team, they could solve any case.
Michael sometimes wondered if Rodger, and not Edward, was the one who had solved the original case.
Rodger motioned toward the contents of the box Sam had given them. “So, then, what else do we have here?”
Michael gestured toward the stacks of notebooks, article clippings, and diagrams. “Well, all that stuff just shows the depths of Vincent’s insanity. The guy seemed obsessed with studying how much people could be made to suffer, as well as dabbling in that occult nonsense.”
Rodger picked up a few clippings and glanced over them, sighing softly before saying, “Yeah, the doc’s defense tried to put a voodoo spin on things in order to go for an insanity plea. It didn’t work, of course. The doc was too lucid, and never rambled about ‘the occult this’ or ‘black magic that.’ Still, they presented it really well. At times, voodoo almost made sense.”
Michael wasn’t surprised. Variations of “The devil made me do it” were centuries old. When facing the death penalty, especially for crimes this heinous, Michael supposed that anyone could be persuaded to try any defense, no matter how ludicrous.
Michael reached down to fish out a small pocket notebook from the pile of belongings. “Then there’s this,” he said, waving the small notebook. “It’s just a list of names and old phone numbers.”
Michael tossed the notebook to his partner. “Mean anything to you, Rodger?”
Rodger opened the notebook and looked at it. Within a moment, the older man’s lips curled down into a frown. “These are aliases, Michael. No one, not even in one of Sam’s detective stories, goes by the names Topper Jack, Mad Monty, Fat Willie, or Blind Moses.”
With a chuckle, Michael shook his head. “I knew that. I also called the phone company and tried to get their records of who owned those phone numbers back then. Of course, I was told that this was too far in the past to… ”
Michael stopped and grew silent as his partner suddenly slapped his desk.
“Oh, of course,” exclaimed Rodger. “I think I know who these guys are!”
Michael, who rarely saw Rodger have a eureka moment, just stared.
Rodger continued, “The prosecution always contended that Vincent had to have one, if not more, accomplices. It makes sense, since a sixty-five-year-old man shouldn’t have been able to carry out those murders alone. However, Vincent never gave anyone any information about who could have helped him. And since the stuff in this box”—Rodger waved the notebook—“was in his son’s townhome, and thus was never under a search warrant, we never got an idea of who they could be.”
Michael stood up and went to the side of his partner, looking at the small notebook again. “Accomplices, you say? This adds a new dimension to the investigation. So you think these aliases are those people?”
With a nod, Rodger looked up at his partner. “That’s my hunch. And I happen to know who can help us. A retired cop by the name of Douglas Dugas. My mentor, actually. Back in the seventies, he had his hands on every Tom, Dick, and Ha
rry that had any information in this town. If anyone, and I mean anyone, in New Orleans would know who these four were, and where we could find them, it would be him.”
Their conversation was interrupted by an earsplitting crash. Rodger jumped up and pushed Michael back while putting his hand to his sidearm.
What the hell is happening? Michael thought as he hit the ground. Quickly, he got back to his feet, and immediately saw the cause of the commotion—the biker, Jones, had broken free of an interrogation room by knocking the door off its hinges. All around him was a swarm of uniformed officers, and the sheer violence of the biker’s outbreak had caused everyone nearby to dive behind their desks.
In the background, the infant shrieked in terror.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed one of the officers as Jones grabbed a nearby chair and swung it at him, barely missing. “Someone bring this guy down, now!”
Three officers leapt on the biker, swinging their batons at his head. Jones seemed to ignore the repeated blows, and instead rammed his fists in two of the three’s midsections. As the sound of cracking ribs resonated throughout the room, Michael heard the one uninjured officer saying, “Shit! It’s like this guy’s immune to pain!”
That comment got Michael’s mind spinning, and he said, “Rodger! Sounds like this guy is high on something like PCP! Beating him with those batons isn’t going to do anything.”
Before his partner could react or protest, Michael was running toward the carnage.
The biker had just picked up the third police officer, who was screaming for someone to help him, when Michael reached the heart of the fray. All around were other detectives and officers, as well as citizens, most likely there just to file reports or follow up with investigations. Loosening his tie, Michael called out, “Keith Jones!”
Keith turned around and, seeing Michael, threw the officer he was holding to the side. Unfortunately, that happened to be just where Aucoin, who had emerged from the side room right after the mayhem started, was standing. The two crumpled into an ignominious heap.
As Jones turned to fully face Michael, the younger detective took a moment to calm his nerves. This man was huge—easily six feet tall and muscular—and high on something that made him immune to pain and fear.
Michael thought, I have one chance to take this guy down. If I’m off by even a few inches, I’m screwed.
With a frothing cry of “Up yours, copper,” Jones ran at Michael, arms outstretched, mouth opened wide, tongue flapping out—generally making the man look like a maniac. His eyes, pupils heavily dilated, focused on Michael as a hunter does its prey. Michael stood his ground and watched, waiting, calculating.
A little more, Michael thought. A few more feet. Come on, you sad sack, you’re doing exactly what I anticipated, running straight at me.
Just as Jones was within arm’s length of Michael, Michael dropped down, his right shoulder dropping, and his arm getting in a relaxed position to strike. It looked, to anyone watching, like Michael planned on hitting the biker between the legs.
But just as Michael’s body dipped down, he suddenly came up, bringing his right hand up as fast as a bullet. His hand opened and his palm connected with the underside of Jones’s jaw, bringing his mouth shut so hard that part of the biker’s tongue flew off and onto the floor nearby. Jones’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head as Michael moved quickly behind him and, jumping up, brought his elbow down on the back of the biker’s head.
The baby in the background stopped crying.
The hit was hard enough that blood spewed from Jones’s mouth as he slumped forward into a heap. Landing from his elbow attack, Michael turned back and stared for a long moment at the now prone biker, his eyes still rolled back. Michael viewed him with remorseful pity.
In an instant, the other officers were all over Jones, cuffing him and dragging him away. Already the biker was conscious again and screaming about having bitten off part of his tongue, leaving a bloody trail on the floor as a reminder.
Joined by his partner, who whistled and patted him on the back, Michael did the only logical next step.
He straightened his tie.
“BERGERON!” came out a loud voice that reeked of authority. “LEBLANC! AUCOIN! GET YOUR ASSES IN HERE NOW!”
“Crap,” said Rodger, giving a defeated sigh. “The commander wants to see all three of us.”
Aucoin, who had since extricated himself from the inglorious pile, winced at Ouellette’s voice, saying, “Shit, Rodger, we are going to get our asses torn apart!”
Michael said nothing, still coming down off of the high of the fight. All three men headed toward Ouellette’s office.
Commander Louis Ouellette’s office was what one would expect a police commander’s to be—clean and orderly. In fact, the lack of ornamentation pointed to a spartan attitude, one that supported Ouellette’s status as an armed forces veteran. On his bookcase, Commander Ouellette displayed a photo of himself posing with President Nixon, as well as a folded American flag in a shadow box. His desk had only two photos, one of his late wife posing in front of a Christmas tree, and one of his daughter and grandchildren playing in Audubon Park.
As for Ouellette himself, the only things that screamed military more than his spit-cleaned uniform and complete lack of hair were his ferocious gaze and his manner of screaming out half his sentences. And to Michael, as the three detectives entered their superior’s office, it seemed that Ouellette was spoiling for a good ass-reaming.
“What the bloody hell, and I do mean what the bloody hell just happened out there?!” started off Commander Ouellette in his generally congenial way. Having spewed out his question, the police commander just stared at each man in turn, as if his gaze alone could result in a full confession.
Michael drew in a breath. Even though he had subdued Keith Jones without drawing his sidearm, he had beaten the hell out of a citizen. That kind of thing never went well. It was a surefire way to get Internal Affairs involved. Commander Ouellette had a policy of protecting his own, but only when his own kept him in the loop. Michael knew that, just as he knew that if he had taken the time to inform his superior of his plan, someone would have gotten severely injured. Or worse.
“It was—” Michael started to say.
“The blame is all on me, Commander,” Aucoin interrupted. “I didn’t have Jones frisked before being brought into the precinct. If I hadn’t been negligent, he’d have never used whatever he’s on and caused all this shit.” Aucoin nodded his head toward Michael. “If the newbie hadn’t jumped in with that karate shit, Jones woulda ripped someone’s head off.”
Michael was stunned into silence, even as Commander Ouellette’s gaze moved from him to Aucoin and back. Everyone knew that Aucoin was a hard-ass who didn’t respect rookies until they earned it. So for him to take the fall like this was shocking.
“Fine,” said Commander Ouellette at last, nodding his head toward the door, “you’re desked for the next two days. Get a report ready for Internal Affairs. You know they’re going to be up our ass about this.”
Aucoin left without so much as a glance toward Michael or Rodger.
Once he was gone, Commander Ouellette turned back toward the two detectives. Regarding Michael with the gaze of a drill sergeant, Ouellette asked, “So that was some fancy shit you did, LeBlanc. Where’d you learn it?”
Michael hated that his commander called him by his last name, but he knew that he referred to everyone that way. Even Rodger, who had apparently known Ouellette from childhood, was no exception. Michael answered, “Muay Thai kickboxing, Commander.”
Commander Ouellette seemed impressed, sitting down as he gestured for the pair to sit as well. “You a black belt, then?”
As Michael took a seat, he explained, “Muay Thai doesn’t have a ranking system. But yes, I’d be comparable to a black belt in something like karate.”
“Very good, LeBlanc,” stated the police commander. Michael knew that was the only praise he’d get and was unsurprise
d when his superior moved onward with the conversation. “So, where are you two on that French Quarter murder last night?”
Rodger picked up the conversation, something that didn’t bother Michael at all. “Well, Commander, we’ve gone through a box of evidence donated by Samantha Castille, and we’ve found a potential lead on profiling the killer—that is, if the killer is a copycat.”
With a tsch sound, Commander Ouellette shook his head. “Keep an eye out for that Samantha. The Castilles are nothing but trouble. But with the way that the chief’s and district attorney’s office is acting, it damn well better be a copycat. And don’t get me started on the media. The newscast this morning is already calling this ‘The New Bourbon Street Ripper.’”
“Pardon me, Commander,” interjected Michael. “I understand that everyone is anxious to call this a full-fledged copycat, but we can’t be sure just off of one murder. Serial killers have to establish a patt—”
“Yeah, LeBlanc, I know that,” interrupted Commander Ouellette. “And not one single member of the brass, including the DA and the goddamn mayor, wants to wait for another body to show up. So what leads do you have to find this guy and put him away before the city gets plunged into hell again?”
Again Rodger led the discussion, causing Michael to sit back and wonder if respect was something that was earned in ways other than stopping a biker high on PCP without killing him.
“We’ve got a lead on some potential accomplices from the Castille murders,” continued Rodger. “Potentially, the DA’s office could have new people to charge with aiding and abetting those murders. Also, if this is indeed a copycat, perhaps one of these people knows something that can help us.”
In the depths of Michael’s mind, another lightbulb went off, but he kept his mouth shut for now, allowing his partner and their superior to finish.