by King, Leo
“Good job, Bergeron,” Commander Ouellette said. “You and LeBlanc get out there and see if you can make any sense of this madness. Report back to me when you have something—anything—new that I can push on upward.”
Both men nodded in agreement and got up. A minute later, they were heading down the hall toward the garage. Along the way, Michael had to ward off a storm of applause and praise, fellow officers and detective patting his shoulder and calling him “Karate Kid.” Michael got the reference, but he hated that movie with a passion, so his only reaction, even as he caught up with his partner, was an annoyed scowl.
“Hey, Rodger,” said Michael as they made their escape.
“Hey, Kara—” Rodger started, stopping when Michael shot him a dangerous look. “I mean, hey, Michael, what’s on your mind?”
Michael recounted the revelation he had in Ouellette’s office. “I just had a theory. What if one of those four people in this notebook”—Michael patted his coat pocket—“is actually the killer? It would make sense if someone already associated with Vincent Castille would murder people like he did.”
As Rodger opened up the door to the garage, he shook his head. “Michael, if we could only be that lucky.”
Chapter 4
To Pen a Mystery
Date: Wednesday, August 5, 1992
Time: 1:00 p.m.
Location: Café du Monde on Decatur
French Quarter
“I really don’t believe that you understand at all, Sam,” said Jacob Hueber, editor for the Times-Picayune. “Caroline is ready to can you. You’re underestimating your situation.” He sipped his cup of café au lait.
As she sat across the patio table from Jacob, a plate of half-eaten, powdered-sugar-drenched beignets before her, Samantha Castille had to admit that she was indeed underestimating her situation.
All around them, the people of New Orleans, as well as its tourists, were finishing up lunch at one of the city’s most popular places, Café du Monde. Exclusive to New Orleans, the café was known for its beignets—French-style donuts eaten with powdered sugar—its coffee, which was usually mixed with steaming milk, and its hot chocolate. It was a very popular place for rendezvousing couples, vacationing families, and businessmen on the go.
Under the covered patio, all manner of folk mingled, and Sam noticed them all. Nearby, a couple sat, the man’s ringless hand caressing the woman’s, avoiding her solitary ring of gold. Two children laughed as they chased each other around a table, only to be scolded by an exasperated mother who was trying, and failing, to hold a decent conversation with a woman her own age holding a baby.
In the back, near the entrance proper to the café, three men in business suits traded witticisms about their supervisor, as well as information on the latest football betting pools. To most people, it was the common noise associated with the outdoor patio of Café du Monde, but for Sam Castille, it was a launching point for many a tale.
In the back of her mind, Sam saw how each of those people’s stories could possibly evolve into something unsettling, perhaps even ghastly. The trysting couple would go back to their hotel room, only to find the husband of the woman there, gun in hand. With one pull of the trigger, the man’s brains would splatter upon the wall, leaving the helpless woman screaming in gut-wrenching terror.
The exasperated mother would be barely able to keep watch on both children as they walked home, and when one of them stopped near the trolley tracks to pet a stray puppy, she would turn her whole attention to him for a good scolding. The sound of screeching metal wheels would freeze her blood, and she’d turn to the other child just in time to see her cut in half by the oncoming trolley car.
The three businessmen would head back to their office to discover that they had been fired during their lunch break, and the pressure of losing their job in a slow economy would cause them to snap. The next day, they would go on the worst shooting spree the city had ever seen.
Sam Castille had some problems.
Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by Jacob calling out her name, and the blond woman realized that she had been daydreaming again. The look Jacob was giving her was annoyed.
“I’m sorry, Jacob,” Sam said, absently dabbing a beignet into a heap of powdered sugar. “My mind is just not on the conversation today. Too many people, you see.”
It wasn’t a lie. Sam hated being out in public, preferring the solitude and sanctuary of her townhome. People made her nervous. People made concentrating even more difficult. Suddenly noticing that two of Jacob’s fingers were wrapped with gauze and bandages, Sam asked, “What happened to your hand?”
“Oh, this. I burned myself on the stove several nights ago. I really should stop trying to cook after working all day.”
“You could let me cook for you,” Sam offered. She fancied herself a pretty good cook. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.”
Jacob wasn’t “people” to Sam. He was a friend, someone she had learned to trust ever since he befriended her in college, when she was even more reclusive.
Jacob didn’t seem to be interested in talking about culinary arts, however. He shook his head, saying, “Look, we have to talk about your job, like it or not. It’s come down to a simple, black-and-white situation, Sam. You’re not making any deadlines, and Caroline is ready to cut you loose.”
This time, the comment got Sam’s attention. Caroline Saucier, the executive editor of the Times-Picayune, was a mirthless woman whom Sam did not like. Everything about Caroline, from her Jones New York business suits to her Prada knock-off shoes to her wide-brimmed glasses, screamed the word bitch. The woman seemed to be the most expressive when she was yelling at an employee, usually Jacob, about his “male incompetence.”
And the few times they had met, Sam was pretty sure that Caroline was hitting on her.
With a sigh, Sam nodded her head, her ponytail bobbing about her neck. “I get the point, Jacob,” she said. “I know I’m unreliable. Hell, I’d have canned me years ago. But I really hate to think that you’re taking heat for me.”
“That’s the problem, Sam,” said Jacob as he met her eyes. “We’re both in hot water over this. I brought you in as Sam of Spades, and Caroline loved the idea of the Picayune having its own female mystery author. And your job isn’t that hard. Five thousand words a week. That’s all we ask for. Tell your stories about your detective, Mortimer Branston, and get paid for it. Not that difficult, right?”
Sam’s lips grew tight. She knew where Jacob was going with this, and she knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “So then why haven’t you turned in anything in over four weeks? We’ve run out of filler, and our readers are sending in letters and calling us on the phone wondering when Sam of Spades’s next chapter is coming out. It seems that half of New Orleans is waiting to see how The Mystery of the Crimson Mask ends.”
At that, Sam let out a heartfelt sigh, averting her eyes and saying, “Look, Jacob, I just haven’t felt inspired with a good ending lately. I want to give the readers something really amazing, and—”
“Don’t give me that, Sam,” Jacob said, a twinge of disgust in his voice. “You’ve never cared about quality before. Hell, your last Branston story, The Mystery of the Gill-Slit Killer, was so cheesy that the critics refused to pan it. You write campy mysteries, Sam. You don’t have to go for a Pulitzer Prize here.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam replied with a frown. “I know that I’m not taken seriously by most. But for this story, I really wanted to give the readers something amazing. I guess… ” Sam struggled for a moment to find the right words. “I want to be like Richie Fastellos. I want to enter the big times.”
At that, Jacob laughed—a short but hurtfully direct laugh—one that made Sam flinch. The expression on her face must have betrayed her feelings, because in the next moment, he was leaning forward and placing his injured hand gently on hers. To Sam, the scratchy and coarse bandages took a lot away from his warmth.
“Sam, I’m sorry.” Jacob�
�s voice had softened. “I’m not laughing at you because I think light of your situation. I just find it amazingly ironic that you, after all this time, want to be taken seriously as a writer.”
As Jacob’s hand left hers, the gauze scratching her skin, Sam gave her friend a wry smile.
She had met Jacob when she was only twenty years old, in a creative writing class. He seemed to take an interest in a short story she wrote about a young girl hitching rides across the country on trains and nearly falling out of one of those trains, only to be saved by the ghost of her dead companion. Up until then, no one had ever paid attention to her writing before.
They had continued to talk throughout the semester until Halloween, when Jacob had invited her, a recluse, to go to a Halloween Vampire Ball hosted by a famous New Orleans author.
Sam had originally declined, but Jacob was so earnest in his insistence that she’d enjoy herself, she eventually told him she’d go to this one party if he promised to never ask her out again. Jacob agreed, and so she went dressed as Elvira, and he went dressed as Gomez Addams. Three highballs and a sorry attempt at dancing the tango later, they were becoming close friends. Ever since then, Jacob had sort of looked out for Sam, even going so far as to vouching for her writing ability to Caroline.
Sam came back from the nostalgia and looked down at her hand. Jacob’s bandage had scraped her skin, leaving white marks. She thought that he must have really hurt himself to be wearing such thick bandages.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I know I’ve been a real pain in the ass to the Picayune all these years. I miss deadlines all the time, my work has to be heavily edited, and I seem to go on a sabbatical every time I near a story’s completion. I really am a bad investment.”
To Sam’s surprise, Jacob shook his head. “No, you’re not a bad investment, at least not as a writer. Sam, I’ve read your stuff. You’ve got good ideas, you just lack organization. It’s amazing that you’ve lasted this long. Don’t you take notes on your stories?”
“Of course. I just don’t organize them very well,” answered Sam, looking guilty. “I think… ” For a long moment, she sat there and thought, her brow furrowed with effort. “Honestly, I don’t think I go into my stories with a good plan. I just sort of wing it.”
With a nod, Jacob leaned back and sipped his café au lait, only to make a face indicating that the coffee was now cold. Putting the cup down, he shook his head and said, “Well, Sam, I can’t make you get more organized. But I can tell you that Caroline wants something by tonight.”
“Or I’m sacked?” asked Sam point-blank.
Jacob nodded. “Pretty much. But that may not be a bad thing. I mean, come on Sam, you’re independently wealthy. Your father may not have been well off, but your grandfather left you wi—”
“Stop right there,” Sam snapped at her friend, who withdrew hastily. “Never suggest I live off of that man’s inheritance. I’d rather live on the streets than touch a dime that bastard left me!”
Sam soon realized that her outburst had gained the attention of almost a dozen people. Her ears burned as she turned back to her beignets, realizing that she had been mashing one against the powdered sugar this entire time, rendering it an inedible mess. Embarrassed, Sam wiped her fingers clean and washed them off in the small water glass near her plate.
“Sorry, Sam, I know how you feel about him. But if you don’t start producing, you may not have a choice.”
Finishing wiping off her fingers, Sam nodded in disgust, saying, “I know. Believe me. I know. It seems that no matter how hard I try, though, Grandfather’s ghost won’t let me be.”
Now it was Jacob’s turn to get silent. As he pondered, Sam stacked all the dirty plates to the side for a busboy to take away. She had an anxious desire to thank her friend for his time and head home.
“Sam, here is an idea,” started Jacob, his tone very businesslike. “Scrap the stories with Branston for now, and focus on a different series altogether. You may or may not know this, but last night a woman was brutally murdered.”
Sam’s heart started to pound in her chest, her blood pressure rising, her mouth going dry. He isn’t about to suggest what I think he’s about to suggest. Is he?
“The murder was very similar to the Bourbon Street Ripper murders. In fact, Caroline’s already having us call it a copycat. It would be an incredible tie-in for the granddaughter of Vincent Castille to write about this copycat, give it her own—”
Something about Jacob’s suggestion set off an explosion in Sam’s skull. Her head started to ache, the veins in the side pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. Closing her eyes tightly, Sam took in a short breath and clenched her jaw. The world around her seemed narrowed, as if she were looking through a tunnel. She felt like everyone was now looking at her and waiting for a response.
“I have to go,” said Sam, moving quickly as if she were in a bad dream that she had to escape. Reaching into her jeans’ back pocket, she threw out some money and gathered her things. In a heartbeat, she was walking out onto Decatur Street and heading toward the trolley stop.
“Sam! Wait,” called out Jacob as he hurriedly paid for his own coffee, gathered his leather portfolio case, and followed. When he caught up to Sam, he added, “Look, I know that was in poor taste, but I’m just try—”
“You’re damn straight that was in poor taste,” snapped Sam again, turning to Jacob, her voice low and venomous. “You haven’t the smallest clue how much it sucks being that man’s grandchild. I live every day with the memory of what he did to those women. What he did to me… ”
“Sam… I… ” Jacob reached out to touch Sam’s shoulders, only to have his hands swatted away.
“Just piss off, Jacob,” Sam snapped for a third time, everything around her moving in slow motion as she focused on her shocked friend. “A real friend would never ask me to capitalize on that bastard’s work. It’s bad enough that your newspaper is already calling this a copycat. How long do you think it will be before reporters are knocking at Samantha Castille’s door wanting an interview? You think I enjoy being known as a serial killer’s granddaughter?”
By this point, Jacob was looking quite sick to his stomach. Sam, however, gave no indication she was going to let up, a rush of adrenaline pouring through her to the point that she felt like she was wading through a fog.
“So whose idea was it? Yours? Caroline’s? Did you all have a group circle jerk and decide to ask Vincent Castille’s granddaughter to create the next series about the Bourbon Street Ripper murders?”
“No,” said a pale-looking Jacob. “Nothing like that at all. I just thought that—” He softened and lowered his voice. “I thought that it might help you deal with those demons. By, you know, writing about it.”
“Deal with it?” asked Sam, turning and walking away, Jacob following in a meek manner. “Let me tell you something about dealing with it. I haven’t slept well in over twenty years. I see and feel death all around me. Right now, every demon and dark loa in New Orleans is laughing at me. Tell me, how do I deal with that?”
By this point, Jacob had the look of a man who’d rather be swallowing razors than staying where he was. Somehow, he managed to say, “Sam, you’re freaking out. Have you… have you taken your medicine today?”
“Have I taken my medicine?” Sam yelled at Jacob. By now, they were both at the trolley stop, and the trolley car had arrived, heading uptown. Sam got on board, paid the toll, and then turned to offer one final attack on Jacob. “Yes, let’s just ask Sam the psycho if she’s loaded up on her Lithium and Valium today. You’re an asshole like every other person, Jacob. Good-bye!”
With that, Sam headed to her seat on the trolley as it began to speed away, leaving behind her distraught friend. As for Sam, as soon as she found a place to sit, her thoughts turned inward. She wondered how any friend could ever even dare to suggest she make a dime off of her grandfather’s evil.
They are all the same. Jacob. Klein. Caroline. They hate me
because I’m Vincent Castille’s granddaughter. They all want to see me suck and die.
The fog around Sam thickened, the pounding in her skull like the screams of restless demons, as she got an image in her head. Again she was ten years old, standing at the end of a long hallway. The smell of blood and bile was faint but present. Walking down the hallway, her eyes were fixed on a single door, red luminance and smoke drifting from it. With every step, her heart beat faster. Her grandfather’s words echoed in her head, Why do I do these things? Because this is what you want, Sam.
Sam’s vision blurred as, in her mind, she saw the door open, then a close-up of her grandfather, in surgical scrubs and with a surgical mask on, holding a bloody scalpel. Behind him was a corpse with its chest opened in the manner of a full autopsy, the heart beating rapidly. The smell of blood and bile was much more intense. Vincent Castille’s gaze was iron as he exclaimed, “Life everlasting through pain. Isn’t it wonderful, Sam? Sam!”
The fog began to lift, to thin out, the pounding overshadowed by a voice calling out her name.
“Sam!”
Sam’s attention came back to herself and her surroundings.
She was not on board the trolley as she had thought. She had not gotten up, had a nervous breakdown in public, and stormed off.
Instead, she was seated at the table at Café du Monde. Sam looked up and saw Jacob with a concerned expression on his face. He leaned back and frowned at her, saying, “So what do you think? I mean, I know it’s crappy to ask you this, but what about writing about those murders? Give it your own spin. Any direction you want to go is fine. Do that, and I’m sure Caroline will give you a few more days to get yourself straightened out.”
For a very long time, Sam sat there, her eyes focused on Jacob, her mind and heart racing.
God help me, I think I do need my meds.
After a long pause, one that got several uncomfortable “ahems” from Jacob, Sam gave a small nod and answered in a soft voice, “Let me think on it. I’ll call you tonight.”