by King, Leo
It was a plain white envelope, the kind one can get at any office supply store. It had been taped shut with Scotch tape, and had a stamp glued in place. Looking it over, Michael immediately saw two things that stood out. For one, the envelope was a security business envelope, the kind that obfuscates the contents, rather than a small stationery envelope. Another was that the address on the envelope was typed up using a typewriter.
A typewriter, thought Michael, looking the envelope over, not a computer, but a typewriter.
Michael hummed to himself, tapping his lips with the corner of the envelope. That’s significant. Typewriters are not like computers. What does this mean?
Before Michael’s wheels started turning too much, he remembered that the envelope had contents. Hastily, Michael opened the envelope up and scooped out what was inside.
Inside the envelope was the Polaroid picture of a woman on a street corner, a lady of the night, looking off to the side with disinterest. The photograph was obviously taken from a distance, so that the woman wouldn’t know she was being stalked.
“Miss Virginia Babineaux,” Michael said to the photo. It was the murder victim from the night before. The last time he had seen this woman, she was tied to a table, her body vivisected with cruel precision, a look of agony and fear on her face that still curdled Michael’s blood. And here she was, in this photo, looking bored, jaded, and very much alive.
Turning the photo over, Michael saw nothing of interest on the back of the Polaroid, so he instead looked over the letter. The language was simple, but the message was chilling.
Mr. Topman,
You don’t know me, but I know plenty about you. Twenty years ago, you offered your services to Dr. Vincent Castille, aiding in a great experiment. I now ask you to do the same for me.
Enclosed in this envelope, you will find the photograph of a woman. I want you to follow her and determine when she is alone. You can leave the information I need at your usual drop-off point.
For your services, I will give you what you have been craving. Don’t let the orderlies catch you with them.
Signed,
The Nite Priory
Michael reread the letter two more times before tucking it back into the envelope and tucking the envelope into an evidence bag. He noted that the envelope didn’t contain anything else, but assumed it had held morphine pills. The guys in the lab can test for residue, Michael thought as he pocketed the evidence bag and headed out to join his partner.
Rodger was waiting for him in the lobby, lighting up a cigarette, a tired look on his face. Before Rodger could ask, or say, anything, Michael asked, “Is Topper still awake?”
Rodger shook his head, and Michael knew they’d be waiting another day before finding out about Topper’s “usual drop-off point.” With a sigh, Michael said, “I’ll tell you what I found on the ride back to the station.”
It took the detectives ten more minutes of signing incident reports for the clinic before Gomer Bernard allowed them to leave, and by that time the squad car with Topper’s would-be assassin was already gone. On the way back to the precinct, Michael read the letter out loud.
“The Nite Priory, what is that?” asked Rodger.
Michael pondered for a moment and said, “An alias. A clue, I guess, like Zodiac or BTK.”
Rodger harrumphed. Michael looked over and noticed that his partner’s eyes were getting bloodshot. Both of them had been awake for over twenty-four hours. They’d need to rest soon.
“So when Topper wakes up, we’ll ask him where the usual drop-off point is.”
“Right. And when we get back to the station, we can interrogate that sonabitch that you caught up on the roof.”
Rodger half-turned to his partner, which was a splendid feat considering he was driving the squad car, and said, “That reminds me… what on earth did you do up on the roof that ripped your jacket and nearly broke the perpetrator’s ribs?”
Michael, despite being tired, gave a small chuckle. “It was the weirdest thing, Rodger. I had to tackle him just before he jumped off the roof, and I suddenly felt all my inhibitions and concerns melt away. I felt invincible.”
That got another sideways glance from Rodger, who replied with, “Invincible? That’s crazy talk, Michael.”
“I know,” said Michael, nodding in agreement. “It must have been a serious adrenaline rush, Rodger. I have never felt so confident.”
“Confident, huh?” Rodger gave a bit of a laugh as he turned to the street where the precinct was located. “Just promise me one thing, Michael.”
“Oh?” replied Michael, curious. “What’s that?”
“That you won’t take chances like that again,” Rodger said, adding with a smirk, “I don’t believe the department will send me any more partners.”
Michael was surprised to find that he laughed out loud at that one.
Chapter 8
No More Fake Smiles
Date: Thursday, August 6, 1992
Time: 3:00 a.m.
Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome
Uptown New Orleans
Clank. Clank. Clank. Ching!
With a final ring, Sam’s typewriter clanked out the last line of her first chapter, and the writer, eyes transfixed on the last word of the page, spoke two relief-filled words: “I’m done.”
It seemed almost surreal for Sam, that she would have completed five thousand words in one evening, but even as she sat there and stared at the last page of her manuscript, the reality hit her. She had done it! She had finally made a deadline. Her first installment would go out on time.
She had always wondered what she would do if she completed a project on time, and the theoretical responses ranged from a shout of joy to a New Orleans “Who Dat” to a fist pump conjoined with a rowdy chorus of “whoops.”
However, in the face of actually completing the task, Sam found herself just leaning back and giving a heartfelt sigh of relief.
“I’m done,” she said, leaning her head back and looking up at the ceiling. “Thank. You. God.”
After a few minutes of silent reverie, Sam leaned forward and began to collect her pages, arranging them in order. Once that was done, the blond woman got up and headed across the hallway from her study, into Sam of Spades’s “office.”
It wasn’t really an office so much as a place where she handled her business, as Sam disliked technology newer than the seventies. Only at the behest of Jacob, as well as the urging of her lawyer, Kent Bourgeois, did Sam get devices such as a personal computer, a television, a fax machine, and a copier. She had adamantly refused, however, to write her manuscripts on anything but a typewriter.
So Sam’s office contained over five thousand dollars of equipment only used to send and receive faxes, copies, and e-mails. She wasn’t even sure where the equipment had come from—Kent had handled the details of their purchase, delivery, and installation, and also made sure she got a sizeable tax write-off for them. This did nothing to enhance the communication between her and the outside world, however, as Sam rarely used e-mail, preferring the phone, and had never quite figured out how to work the fax machine.
But she did use the copier to make copies of her manuscripts, and often called Kent when the toner (or ink, as she called it) ran low. Even though her attorney consistently reminded her that he wasn’t her secretary, he would end up getting the order placed, delivered, and installed anyway. All this made for a very grateful Sam, and a very satisfied Kent got to bill his client two hours each month for “miscellaneous services.”
Turning on the lights and the copier, Sam leaned against a wall and waited for the machine to warm up. As she waited, Sam read over her draft. She had to admit she had never written so well before. Even though this was just the first chapter, she managed to capture the spirit of the mystery, as well as the gruesomeness of the murders, in stark detail. Without being too graphic, she placed the reader in the role of the victim, creating the tension of being stalked, of being hunted like prey, and the
terror of finally being caught. Then there was the murder itself.
Sam had wrestled for a while with how to handle the murder, knowing that she could, all too easily, go too far into the graphic detail of a torture murder at the hands of a serial killer. She had tapped her newfound pen to her lips several times, considering the shock value it would present to readers to read the vivid details locked away in her memory of her grandfather.
However, she had finally decided against it for now, cutting away from the victim’s point of view right before the first cut. With a loud rolling sound, and then a short beep, the copier signaled that it was ready. Sam busied herself with making two copies of her manuscript. One would go into a file here in her house, to keep in case she needed to refer to it later.
Another would go to Jacob, and ultimately Caroline, at the Times-Picayune. The original would go into Sam’s safe deposit box at her bank, locked away with all her other manuscripts. It was Sam’s way of securing herself against plagiarism, or so she told herself. The truth was, she didn’t fully trust anyone but her attorney or Rodger Bergeron, and hadn’t for years. And with Rodger still avoiding her, Kent was the only person who seemed to actively look out for her.
Kent had been her family lawyer since her grandfather’s time. He had been a man of thirty when Vincent Castille was arrested for serial homicide. Sam remembered that Kent was just the estate law attorney, and while he had nothing to do with her grandfather’s trial, he had been there for her when she was literally left alone—her father dead and her grandfather accused of heinous crimes.
As Sam watched the copier’s light sway back and forth, copying her manuscript, her thoughts drifted like eddies in a river. Soon, the swaying light of the copier was the swishing of wiper blades, and the repetitious hum and stutter of the machine was the monotonous patter of rain on a windshield.
Samantha was ten years old, dressed in a simple black dress, her long hair in a black ribbon, and was seated in the back of a black Mercedes-Benz, leaving her father’s funeral. In the front of the car, a chauffeur named Reginald Washington, a well-groomed and well-dressed man of color, drove. In the back of the car with Sam was Kent Bourgeois.
“Don’t worry, Samantha,” Kent said softly. He was dressed in a black Armani suit, streaks of gray already visible in his hair.
“All we need to do is find a guardian who will agree to act as executor for your estate, and who will grant you access to your trust fund. You won’t be without, I promise.”
Samantha said nothing, her hands resting motionless on her lap. The funeral had seemed so distant, like she was watching herself on the television, and even as she had laid the bouquet of cypress flowers on her father’s coffin, it hadn’t felt real.
It had been only when the coffin had started to lower into the ground, the sound of a lone trumpet playing a lonesome song, that Sam had finally reacted to her father’s death.
She had fallen to her knees and screamed.
“Samantha,” Kent said, his hand resting on her shoulder, “don’t feel like you shouldn’t cry. It’s perfectly okay. In fact, I’d say it’s healthy to cry.”
“I don’t want a relative to watch over Grandfather’s money,” Samantha suddenly interrupted.
This appeared to surprise Kent. He pulled his hand away. “What do you mean, Samantha?”
“I don’t want any relatives to watch over Grandfather’s money,” Samantha repeated, looking out the window as they passed through the rain-swept streets of New Orleans. “I don’t want anyone spending that man’s money. I want it put away.”
“Put away?” asked Kent, who then rubbed his chin in thought. “You mean, like in a bank?”
“In whatever you have to put it in to lock it away,” Samantha said, her voice devoid of any emotion, save for a trace of hostility. “I don’t ever want anyone to benefit from Grandfather’s life. Ever.”
Kent adjusted his glasses and looked at the ten-year-old girl. “Well, technically your grandfather’s money doesn’t pass to you until he’s dead—”
“Oh, you know he’s going to get the death penalty, Mr. Bourgeois,” piped up Reginald, looking at the pair through the rearview mirror. “They are going to find him guilty and light him up like a Christmas tree. I am just so glad he never did nothing to my Constance. Let me tell you!”
Kent snapped, “Reginald! Will you please refrain from such commentary in front of Miss Castille here!”
“No, it’s okay,” Samantha said, turning to face Kent, feeling devoid of almost any emotion. “Reggie speaks the truth, and I hope my grandfather burns in hell.” Her voice was so harsh, so hateful, that Kent, his glasses sliding down his nose, recoiled from the girl.
She immediately turned back to looking outside the window, her fists tightening as she continued, “I don’t care how, but I want my grandfather’s money locked away. Forever.”
Kent straightened his glasses and replied, “I understand that, Samantha, but assuming that your grandfather does indeed pass everything on to you—because you know I cannot divulge that information—and you do ‘lock it away,’ you will still need to live. Remember, we read your father’s will last night, and he only left you that townhome in the Garden District, as well as a few choice belongings.
“Your grandfather could potentially leave you his entire mansion on Lake Pontchartrain, all of his automobiles, as well as access to his various accounts and holdings. That could amount to”—the attorney cleared his throat before finishing discreetly—“a great deal of money.”
It was as if someone were playing a broken record, as Samantha just replied, “I don’t care. I don’t want anything of his. Ever. Lock it away. Seal it away from everyone.”
“But, Samantha,” said Kent, the exasperation much more clearly prevalent in his voice, “you need to eat. Houses require upkeep. And don’t forget”—the attorney motioned toward the chauffeur—“you have five servants. Reginald. Your housekeeper, Miss Patterson. Your butler, Mr. Mason. And Tania and Violet, your two maids. What are you going to do, fire them?”
“Oh, don’t mind us, Miss Castille,” chimed in Reginald as he braked for a traffic light. “We’ll all manage somehow. You do what’s best for you, you hear?”
“I swear, Reginald,” retorted a clearly disgusted Kent, his voice thick with fatigue, “it’s almost like you want to get fired.”
“Oh, I don’t want that,” replied Reginald hastily. “I just want Miss Castille to be happy, that’s all. She’s always been so good to us who run Mr. Cast—I mean, the doctor’s—house. We all just want her to be happy, that’s all. We don’t want to stop working for her, but if that’s what she wants, that’s all fine by us. We’ll get by.”
Samantha, who had been silently listening to her lawyer and her chauffeur, finally spoke.
“Reggie,” she said softly, her blue eyes looking up at the black man through the rearview mirror, “I don’t want to punish you and the others. It’s not right. You all have been like family to me and my… ”
Samantha’s voice trailed off, and Reginald looked to be choking up, when Kent jumped into the conversation. “Well, Samantha, there is a way to help ‘Reggie’ and the others, you know.”
“Oh? What do you mean, Mr. Bourgeois?” asked the girl, feeling neither a glimmer nor a sparkle within her.
Kent folded his arms, looking thoughtful. “Well, Samantha, there is your trust fund, the one your grandfather established when you were born. It’s worth several million now, and will grow as time goes on.”
Looking at the child to make sure she was following him, the lawyer continued, “You can ‘lock away,’ as you said, your grandfather’s estate, when and if he wills it to you. I’ll take care of that. I’ll put it in so many different places that no one will ever get it again. And you can use your trust fund to live off of, pay for Reginald and the others, and keep your house running.”
With a nod of her head, Samantha said, “Okay, let’s do that.”
“Not so fast,” said Ke
nt, again adjusting his glasses. “This is where things get tricky. You see, Samantha, since you are a minor, even though it is your money, the law requires you to have an adult manage your money. That is what the courts call a ‘trustee.’
“Your grandfather’s trust specifically states that you will have full control of your money on your eighteenth birthday. But until then, you need a trustee. And you’ll need a guardian. Someone to take care of you.”
“So you’ll be my trustee and my guardian,” Samantha answered, “and you can manage my money, like you did for Grandfather, until I’m eighteen.”
Kent chuckled, patting the girl on the poufy shoulder of her black dress. “I wish it were that simple, Samantha, but your grandfather names your trustee, not you. And he named your great-aunt Gladys. And only a family member can be a guardian.”
For the first time since before the funeral, Samantha’s voice had emotion in it, a pouty sort of huffiness, as she said, “I hate Auntie Gladys. She locks my dolls away. She’s mean.”
“Well, then, Samantha,” replied Kent, thinking for a moment, “if you had a choice with a family member, who would it be?”
For a long while, Samantha sat there, her young brow furrowing with effort. Finally, she said, “Auntie Marguerite. She’s much nicer.”
Nodding, Kent sat back and exhaled, lost in thought for a moment. As he sat there, Samantha looked outside the window again, and noticing how heavy the rain was falling, found herself wondering if her father’s grave was going to flood.
Finally, Kent spoke up. “All right, I’ll see what I can do, Samantha. I’m going to have to talk to your grandfather anyway, especially if the verdict comes back as we all anticipate.”