The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)

by King, Leo

  Michael put the information down in his notebook. “Right. So what is your diagnosis of Samantha? Has she still repressed those memories?”

  “Well, this is ze difficult part,” Dr. Klein said, reaching up to stroke his goatee. “You see, Samantha Castille still has many of ze repressed memories. Vhile normally she is functional, even thought she has ze short attention span, ze repressed memories come out in times of great stress. Zherefore, I have been slowly, over ze past twenty years, using a combination of therapy, pharmaceuticals, und hypnosis to bring these memories to ze surface.”

  Rodger half-stood and cried out, “You what?!?”

  Immediately, Michael, who was in no mood to deal with Rodger’s emotions, put a hand on his partner’s shoulder and, using his martial knowledge, tightened his fingers dangerously close to a pressure point. This made Rodger sit, although Michael could feel his partner tense up even more.

  Seeing that they were about to lose the interview with Dr. Klein, Michael turned to his partner and said, “Rodger, let me handle this. You wait outside at the car.”

  As soon as Michael loosened his grip, Rodger smacked his hand away, got up, and, with a glare at Dr. Klein, left the office. Michael watched Rodger leave, then turned back to the psychiatrist to apologize for his partner. However, Dr. Klein was already shaking his head and talking. “It is a shame that Detective Bergeron is so attached to that girl,” he said with an almost rueful tone.

  Looking into Michael’s eyes, Dr. Klein lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “There is much to your partner I suspect you don’t know. He has not been forthright about ze events twenty years ago, has he?”

  Michael exhaled, focusing his mind on the task at hand, and restoring himself to the stoic detective he tried so hard to be. “I am here to find out about Samantha Castille. In your opinion, is she capable of murder?”

  Dr. Klein leaned back and smirked, saying, “Ah! Do I think Samantha is capable of murder? More importantly, Detective, I think you want to know if she can murder like her grandfather, yes?”

  Michael, who was beginning to tire of this man, nodded his head. “Yes.”

  “Samantha Castille is not capable of murdering anyone,” began Dr. Klein. “Deep inside that troubled soul, that frightened ten-year-old girl is still there. Why do you think she never leaves her father’s townhome? Why do you think she is so socially shy und hides behind that villainous Mr. Bourgeois? Because deep down inside, Samantha is stuck on that same day her father died.”

  Michael could see that being true.

  “That is vhat I hope to accomplish with my methods. One day, she will fully relive that horrible event of watching her father tortured und murdered. She will be ready to cope with it. Und on that day, Samantha Castille will be able to truly move on.”

  With a nod, Michael finished his notes and said, “Thank you, Dr. Klein, for your—”

  “I am not done,” interrupted the psychiatrist, motioning for Michael to sit back down. “I said that Samantha Castille is not capable of murder. But I said nothing about Sam of Spades.”

  Michael blinked, tried to process what he just heard, and shook his head. “Wait, what do you mean? Her pen name?”

  Dr. Klein leaned forward again, this time his elbows pushing several pencils aside, and said, “Detective LeBlanc, who do you think told her to become a writer?”

  Thirty minutes later, Michael left Dr. Klein’s office and headed toward the parking lot nearby. He found Rodger leaning against the squad car and smoking a cigarette.

  “Are you feeling better?” asked Michael as he approached his partner.

  “Not really,” replied Rodger, tossing the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out. “I really wanted to punch that guy’s face in for doing that shit to Sam.”

  Rodger unlocked the car doors. “But thanks for stopping me. Punching out well-connected doctors would probably get me suspended.”

  As they got into the car, Michael shrugged it off. “You need to get those emotions under control, partner. I know that you care for Sam, family friend and all, but we have to approach this logically.”

  As he fumbled with the seat belt, finally getting it to click in place, Rodger said, “Oh, piss off.”

  Michael smirked and shook his head, thinking that sooner or later, he and his partner would have a very uncomfortable conversation. Right after that thought, he decided to test those waters.

  “Rodger, I don’t like getting blindsided by information you know and I don’t,” Michael stated they pulled out of the parking lot. “Finding out that Sam witnessed her father’s murder was an unpleasant surprise. So, before we go any further, is there anything else you aren’t telling me?”

  “No, nothing else like that,” replied Rodger a little too quickly. “There is some minor shit about Sam’s father that isn’t relevant. I was close friends with him, and he often confided in me.”

  Michael frowned, wondering if any of those things told in “confidence” was vital information. However, he decided to trust his partner, and nodded his head in understanding. “All right, that’s good enough for me. If anything comes to mind, tell me, okay?”

  Rodger didn’t say anything, but his nod was enough for Michael. He took out his notebook and said, “Okay, now I am going to tell you what Dr. Klein told me after you left, and I don’t want any outbursts from you, all right?”

  “Fine,” replied Rodger as he started to head uptown.

  “Good,” started Michael, who began to recount the information to his partner. “Dr. Klein is using those techniques to force Sam to, eventually, relive the murder of her father. His belief is that Sam cannot move on with her life until she remembers her father’s murder, comes to terms with it, etcetera. He is adamant that this is necessary to bring Sam to full mental health.

  “He does not believe Sam is capable of murder. However, in his twenty years of treating Sam, he has noticed a mental anomaly.”

  “A mental what?” asked Rodger.

  “Yeah, I asked the same thing,” Michael said. “Apparently, during times of great stress, Sam will appear to have a second personality, a sort of dissociative identity disorder. This other personality, which Dr. Klein has named ‘Sam of Spades,’ revels in the tortures that Vincent Castille caused, calling them things like ‘beautiful’ and ‘works of art.’ Dr. Klein believes this second personality is very capable of murdering just like Vincent did.”

  This news seemed to make Rodger more tense, and Michael, who hoped his partner could keep it together, waited a bit for him to calm down.

  Finally, Rodger asked, “So Sam has multiple personalities or something?”

  “Well, that is where Dr. Klein and I disagree,” continued Michael, closing the notebook. “If this were true dissociative identity disorder, Sam would switch between these two personalities. It seems more like the violent ‘Sam of Spades’ personality piggybacks on and torments the ‘Samantha Castille’ personality with disturbing visions, flashbacks, and hallucinations. To me, it seems more like her psyche is beating itself up.”

  “Or she’s possessed by demons,” Rodger said.

  Michael shot his partner a look and cocked an eyebrow. “You believe in that kind of stuff?”

  “It was a joke, Michael,” Rodger said, shaking his head. “Poor Sam. I know the girl has problems. How do you figure it’s not true multiple personalities?”

  “Partner, I came a hair’s breadth from becoming a profiler for the FBI. Still might, after you retire.”

  “You’d make an excellent profiler,” replied Rodger. “You’ve got the mind for it.”

  Michael, who was genuinely touched by the compliment, smiled and said, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Michael reopened his notebook and continued. “So, Dr. Klein felt that being a writer would help Sam with this ‘dark side,’ and so Sam of Spades was channeled into the cult author New Orleans knows and loves. Luckily for Sam, a friend from school, Jacob Heuber, has a job at the Times-Picayune. So a few negoti
ations, and probably some bribes later, and Sam had an outlet for those darker tendencies of hers.”

  Michael furrowed his brow and thought to himself.

  Jacob Hueber. Wait, wasn’t he the editor who published the report on the murder? Where have I heard that name before? Jacob Hueber. Sounds familiar.

  Michael’s explanation of Sam’s disorder seemed to satisfy Rodger, who nodded and asked, “Does Dr. Klein feel that Sam could be the copycat killer?”

  “Dr. Klein is being unsurprisingly noncommittal there,” replied Michael. “I believe he is more concerned about his ego and professional image than Sam’s well-being.”

  This made Rodger laugh bitterly. “So, then, Michael, what do you think?”

  Michael knew this question was coming. Closing the notebook and looking squarely at his partner, Michael said, “Rodger, I currently don’t think Sam is our killer. It’s true there is something going on, where somehow the details of Rebecca Clemens’s murder are identical in fact and fiction, but I am far more likely to believe that someone is getting Sam’s information and using it to replicate the crime than that Sam is murdering people and then incriminating herself, Sam of Spades or not. I would need solid evidence that Sam is suffering from true dissociative identity disorder before I could even entertain the thought of her being guilty.”

  Finishing, Michael looked forward. “Having said that, I do believe Sam Castille is a very deeply troubled woman. I do believe she is somehow involved in everything, twenty years ago and today. But I do not believe she is the copycat killer.”

  That seemed to satisfy Rodger, who gave his partner the first real smile he’d had all day as he pulled the squad car into Sam’s driveway. Unlatching his seat belt, he said, “Good, then. Ready to go talk to her?”

  “Yes,” said Michael, finding himself relieved that he and his partner were both on the same page again. “Let’s go see what Sam has to say for herself.”

  Chapter 18

  Meeting of the Minds

  Date: Friday, August 7, 1992

  Time: 11:30 a.m.

  Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome

  Uptown New Orleans

  Michael looked at his watch as Rodger rang the doorbell to Sam’s townhome. It was already eleven thirty. As much as he couldn’t stand coffee, he was looking forward to a cup of it. Looking over at his partner’s face, and seeing the bags underneath his eyes, Michael concluded that Rodger was probably looking forward to the same.

  We’re both exhausted. I’ve had four hours of sleep, maybe five. I can’t imagine Rodger’s had much more. We’re going to need to rest soon, or our investigative abilities, among other things, will start to suffer.

  It wasn’t the longest stretch, Michael thought, that he and his partner had gone without any rest, which was somewhere at forty-two hours, but it was close. Michael’s thoughts were interrupted by the door opening, and a man answering it instead of Sam. Rodger seemed completely surprised, and Michael, who could have sworn he had seen this man’s face before, was just as taken aback.

  “Um, is Samantha Castille there?” Rodger finally said. “I’m Detective Bergeron and this is Detective LeBlanc. We, um… ”

  “Sam, you were right,” called the man to the interior of the house. “It’s the detectives.”

  The man muttered, “One second,” before closing the door. A moment later, Sam, who looked like someone had just told her she was scheduled to be executed, opened the door.

  “It’s about my story in the newspaper, isn’t it?” asked Sam. When Rodger nodded, almost whispering a “yes,” Sam let the two detectives into her foyer. As they entered, she said, “I’ve spoken to Kent already. You two don’t have permission to look around my house. But we can talk, for now.”

  That only brings you up higher on the suspect list, Sam, Michael thought. An innocent person has nothing to hide. However, given everything, I really can’t fault your lawyer for advising that, or you for listening to him.

  Entering Sam’s study, Michael looked Sam over. She was paler than usual, her face tighter, and her expression less open. The man helped her sit behind her desk in a surprisingly familiar way, as if they were close friends. Michael wondered if perhaps this was that Jacob fellow Dr. Klein had mentioned, even though he couldn’t get the nagging feeling out of his head that he had seen this man before.

  “Have a seat,” said Sam as she motioned for the two detectives to sit. Rodger immediately took a seat, but Michael did not. Although he could not search the house, the law stated that anything “in plain sight” was fair game.

  “I think I’ll stand for a bit, Sam,” said Michael. “I’ve been sitting a lot today.”

  Sam nodded and then motioned toward the strange man. “This is Richie. Richie Fastellos. The author. He’s”—Sam looked up at Richie and gave what Michael considered a needful smile—“a friend.”

  Michael and Rodger shook Richie’s hand. Michael noted his hands were a bit clammy. Michael figured that he must be as nerve-racked as Sam.

  So that’s Richard Fastellos. I thought I recognized him from the back of The Pale Lantern and Darkness Rising. Wasn’t he supposed to be doing a book signing? I wonder how he’s involved in all this.

  Michael’s questions were answered as Richie said, “I was here on business for a book signing. Sam and I, well, we’re working on a joint project. We were just having some breakfast and brainstorming when we found out about this mess.”

  As Richie continued to talk about how he and Sam knew each other, giving out information such as his publicist being stranded in Pittsburgh and such—things that Michael deemed irrelevant—he looked around the study.

  Michael’s gaze happened upon the mantle of the study’s fireplace, regarding several pictures of Sam as a child. One particular picture caught Michael’s attention. It was of Sam, around seven or eight years old, sitting in Audubon Park, New Orleans’s largest city park, in one of those children’s railway trains that would circle the perimeter of the park.

  Seated behind her was a middle-aged, dark-haired man, wearing a suit without a tie, his hands on the girl’s small shoulders, steadying her as she raised her arms in the air, holding on to a balloon that was dangerously close to flying away. The girl was laughing mirthfully.

  Must be her father, Vincent Castille’s son, Michael remarked to himself, focusing between the man’s kind expression and Sam’s jubilant one. Michael then furrowed his brow as he felt he should recognize the man.

  Odd, where I have I seen this man before? Perhaps a newspaper clipping? Or maybe a painting somewhere? Or a photograph at Rodger’s apartment? Was this guy connected to someone else other than Vincent Castille?

  Michael’s thoughts were jarred as Rodger called out to him. Turning to see all three people looking at him, Michael cleared his throat. “Sorry, I was washed up in my own thoughts. What were you asking me, Rodger?”

  “Sam was asking if you wanted any coffee,” said Rodger.

  “Yes, please,” replied Michael. “Light and sweet, if you would.”

  “I can handle this,” Richie said and quickly walked past Michael, leaving the room.

  Once Richie was gone, Sam quietly asked, “So Rodger, Michael, tell me the truth.” She exhaled softly. “Am I a suspect?”

  Michael let Rodger reply, “I’m sorry, Sam. Yes, you are a suspect.”

  “My story is rather condemning, isn’t it?” asked Sam, looking down, her expression devoid of emotion.

  “Yes,” replied Rodger solemnly. “But neither I nor Michael believe it. Right, Michael?”

  Michael nodded his head, saying, “Correct, Sam, I don’t believe you’re the murderer. I do believe, however, that you are being framed. It would help if you would let us search your house.”

  “I don’t know,” said Sam, shaking her head. “I need to protect myself right now. And Kent has always guided me properly. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “We understand,” replied Rodger. “But Michael just wants to help. We
might find something here that could help find out who is framing you.”

  Sam shook her head and said, “Sorry, let me get my legal ducks in a row, so to speak, and then I’ll talk to Kent about it.”

  Michael looked at Sam and said, “That delay could give the real killer time to make any evidence disappear. It would be best if—”

  “We won’t pressure you any more, Sam,” Rodger suddenly interrupted.

  Michael furrowed his brow and sighed. There Rodger goes again, undermining my techniques. He needs to stop letting his feelings for Sam get in the way of the investigation.

  As Michael stood there, Richie returned with a tray of hot coffee. Michael thanked Richie for his coffee and tasted it, and was surprised that he actually liked it.

  Rodger seemed to like the taste, too, as he said, “Well, Richie, this is the best coffee and chicory I’ve had in a while.”

  “Agreed,” replied Sam with an appreciative smile, sipping from the cup and nodding. “You make it as well as a native.”

  This caused Richie to chortle softly, and as Michael sipped his cup, he saw the novelist reach over and touch Sam’s hand, saying, “Thanks, but I just followed the instructions on the canister. Honestly, I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

  Michael looked at Richie and shook his head. He knew a guy making a play for someone’s attention when he saw it.

  Bullshit, Richie. You are trying to impress Sam and you know it. Put the brakes on, cowboy. This is a murder investigation, not a dating service.

  Finishing his coffee, Michael set down the cup and turned to Sam, saying, “Sam, I have to ask you a few questions. What were you doing last night between the hours of one and three?”

  Sam leaned back in her chair and sucked on her bottom lip for a moment before saying, “I was here, in bed, probably snoring very loudly.”

  When Michael stared at Sam with an unimpressed look, she added, “I had dinner with Richie at the Ritz-Carlton. Check with the host and my credit card company if you don’t believe me. I had a lot to drink. We both did. After dinner, I caught a cab home and pretty much passed right out.”