by King, Leo
Michael nodded and turned to Richie. “And you, Mr. Fastellos, what were you doing last night between the hours of one and three?”
Richie, who had been sipping his coffee, asked, “Wait, am I a suspect, too?”
Michael said, “No. But you’re a mystery writer, correct? Then you should know that we have to ask this. It’s police procedure to ask everyone connected to a crime or a suspect what they were doing during the time of the crime.”
“Oh right,” said Richie, giving a bit of a nod. “Well, I was in my hotel room writing. Um, I was pretty tanked as well. I think I ordered a cheeseburger at two? Or was it a pizza? Or maybe—”
“Thank you, Mr. Fastellos,” answered Michael, feeling it was his civic duty to make this man stop talking. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Looking at Rodger, Michael said, “I don’t have any more questions at this time.”
“So that’s it?” asked Sam. “I mean, how we can prove my innocence?”
Michael answered Sam before Rodger could. “You’ll be proven innocent when we catch the real killer, Sam. For now, I advise you to stay in your townhome in case we need you.”
“The hell with that,” said Sam, slapping her hand on her desk and standing. Michael blinked at Sam’s outburst as she continued, “I’ve been sitting here for the past several days, suffering and feeling like my life is falling apart, because some asshole wants to emulate Grandfather from twenty years ago. I finally get the nerve to write about it, to try to put this behind me, and suddenly I’m a suspect.”
As Michael relaxed from Sam’s eruption, she leaned toward him and said, “Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc, if you think for a moment that I am going to sit here and wait for you all to catch this guy, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Well, she won’t be the first suspect who forced herself into an investigation. But for her sake, I hope she doesn’t think she can physically help out. She’s a suspect. If she gets involved in any way, it could—
“You should help us find the real killer, Sam,” said Rodger. “You could hold information that could prove to be invaluable to solving this case.”
Michael felt his carefully built argument crumble.
The idea, however, seemed to bring a smile to Sam’s face, who hastily agreed. Richie also chimed in, stating that he could offer his support as an outsider, giving a point of view that would help the others put things into perspective.
Rodger, much to Michael’s dismay, thought this was a viable and intelligent idea, and that the four of them, together, stood a fantastic chance of catching the real murderer and clearing Sam’s name.
Michael felt that if he didn’t speak up before things completely spiraled out of control, the three of them would end up joining hands together in the center, letting out a college-like “whoop” and running off to derail the entire investigation in a fashion reminiscent of any badly made seventies cartoon containing a group of amateur detectives and a meddling dog. Whether there would be a freeze-frame and a catchy sound bite was debatable.
“Hold it,” Michael finally said, drawing the attention of all three people in the room. “This is not a crime drama on television, and this is not a mystery by Richard Fastellos or Sam of Spades. This is a real-life serial murder investigation.”
Drawing in his breath, Michael continued, “First off, Sam, you are a suspect. I hate to say it as much as Rodger does, but it’s the way things are, and until you are cleared, anything you do, and I mean anything, will be viewed under a magnifying glass.”
Turning to Richie, Michael continued, “And you, Mr. Fastellos, are an outsider. You have almost no idea what the three of us, especially my partner and I, have been through recently. You may be a fantastic writer, but if you get involved in this investigation, and our commander finds out, you’ll be arrested so fast it will make you wish you were back in Pittsburgh. And if you are lucky, all he’ll do is ship you back home.”
Finally, Michael turned to Rodger.
“And Rodger, man, you have got to get your head on straight. I know this is a personal thing for you, but if you hadn’t noticed, we’ve made little to no progress these past three days. Ouellette may like you, but if he knew that you brought civilians into this, especially a suspect, you’d be suspended, if not fired, before you could blink.”
Ending his diatribe, Michael surveyed the room, and saw three people both hating him and silently agreeing with him.
Finally, Rodger spoke up. “Michael, you bring up a lot of good points. However, while you yourself have said you believe Sam is innocent, we both know there is no way Ouellette’s going to let us strike her from the suspect list based on personal feelings. And you also know that with Aucoin and Dixie on the case, we have to tread carefully.
“But two civilians can find out things we police can’t. People open up more to civilians. You know that. If Sam and Richie want to stick their necks out to prove Sam’s innocence, they’re going to do it regardless of our personal wishes. We might as well direct them toward information we need, instead of letting them wander aimlessly.”
Rodger shifted a bit and added, “What I’m saying, partner, is that if these two kids are going to put themselves into this investigation, we can either arrest them now or see what they can find out. I’d prefer the latter. Anything to get this killer off the streets.”
Michael bit his upper lip and scowled at his partner.
That was a very sound, logical argument. As annoyed as it makes me, I have to say I’m impressed. Good play, Rodger. Maybe you’re not as incompetent as I was starting to think.
Even though he barely knew them, Michael had to agree that Sam and Richie had as good a chance of uncovering something important as anyone else. Sighing softly, Michael decided to take a chance. It was better than following a procedure that obviously wasn’t working.
“All right,” said Michael, sitting down. “But if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this by the book. And you three let me coach you on what that means before you agree. Any divergence and you two are done. It’ll just be Rodger and me. That’s my condition to help out.”
Sam immediately nodded, saying, “I will do anything to clear my name and to catch the person responsible for this, Michael. Name your parameters and I’ll follow them.”
Richie nodded, saying, “I just want to help Sam prove her innocence. So I agree as well.”
Rodger smiled and nodded. “I also agree. Thanks for your help, partner.” He patted Michael on the back.
Ignoring the friendly gesture, already being in “work mode,” Michael began. “First off, you three do whatever I say. I’m dispassionate enough to keep us from making mistakes that will get us caught. So if I say to do something, you three will do it.”
Michael closed his eyes and pointed up, visualizing his mental task list. “Second, we have two new detectives on the case: Kyle Aucoin and Dixie Olivier. They can’t know anything about this agreement. Sam. Richie. If you run into them, give them short, honest answers and then disengage. Don’t give them reason to suspect anything.”
Michael continued, turning to face the two writers. “Third, we have a short period of time for everyone to get on the same page. Sam and Richie, Rodger and I have a lot to catch you up on. Some of it, particularly what happened yesterday, is really horrific stuff. What we need from you two is for you both to just listen. Let us get out this glut of information. Then, in kind, we’ll let you all tell us anything we may need to know. Finally, after that, we can plan our next move.”
Michael’s proposition seemed agreeable to everyone present. So for the next hour, Michael and Rodger, taking turns, recounted their investigation over the past three days. Although Sam and Richie kept to their word and didn’t interrupt, both looked positively horrified at what had transpired so far, especially the events at Mad Monty’s warehouse.
When they were finished, Sam, who had been sitting on the edge of her seat, leaned back and fanned herself. “Honestly, what’s happened
to you two is as crazy as what’s happened to me.”
Looking over at Richie, Sam gently slapped his forearm and said, “You sure we’re all not in one of your stories?”
Richie, who had started sweating profusely during the telling of the events with Mad Monty, fanned himself as well. To Sam’s query, Richie shook his head.
“I don’t think I’d write something about a person getting pulverized by a machine. That’s”—he paused for a moment—“a little too dark for me.”
Rodger shook his head and said, “You should try living it, Richie. It’s a whole different kind of nightmare.”
As Richie, who had since gotten the coffeepot from the kitchen, poured another cup for everyone, Sam said, “What gets me is what that Fontenot guy said to you all as you left.”
Michael blinked, having forgotten what Sam was talking about. “What do you mean, Sam?” asked Michael. “What about what Fontenot said?”
Sam said, “He said that the snake is the most dangerous creature because the snake knows. That’s a warning from the Haitian voodoo religion. It means that your enemy already knows what you are doing, and will likely turn your actions against you.”
Sam got a thoughtful look. “Something like that. It’s a warning to be careful where you tread.”
Michael sighed and shook his head. “Well, folklore and superstition don’t really fall into the logical boundaries of a murder investigation. So how is this relevant, Sam?”
“First off,” said Sam, standing up and leaning on her desk, “Robert Fontenot knows something he wasn’t telling you, but he tried to warn you all, Rodger especially, that the enemy, the killer perhaps, knows you both are investigating.
“Second, it made me think of a possible angle to all this,” Sam continued, moving out from behind her desk and walking along the wall of her study toward her sizable bookcase. “It’s just that my grandfather had an interest in the occult. He always claimed people were limited by how much of their brains they used. With time, he thought, we could live forever, and that pain and suffering brought out the full potential in people.”
Michael nodded at Sam. “Yes, and during his trial, your grandfather was shown to have occult magazines, dealing in voodoo and witchcraft and other nonsense. Again, what does that have to do with the investigation now?”
Sam reached her bookcase and started looking for a book. “While that stuff is superstition, like you say, there is always a kernel of truth. Usually, it’s people making things happen to manipulate others, other times it’s science that appears to be like magic. I’ll show you what I mean.”
Richie and Rodger seemed engaged with whatever it was Sam was talking about, as they were watching her intently. Michael, on the other hand, felt that the conversation was going off topic. However, trying to be patient, he asked, “Sam, please explain what you mean.”
Sam nodded, pulling out a large black book titled Modern Vodoun. Opening it, Sam turned the book around to show a picture of a dark-skinned man directly in front of what looked like half a dozen shambling people with dead looks in their eyes. The caption read “Zombi.”
Sam began to explain. “See, we fictionalize zombies as reanimated corpses, while in voodoo, they are people who have been heavily drugged for forced menial labor. The reality is that there are no zombies, but the fictional idea we have of them is based on this fact.”
Michael spoke again, “That’s nice, Sam, but please explain to me how this pertains to the investigation.”
Sam shuffled through the book. “What Robert Fontenot was talking about, with the comments about snakes, are called loa, powerful spirits that serve the voodoo version of God. They can be animal spirits similar to Native American totems. Or spirits of the dead that have ascended to minor deities. Or even gods from the old world. Loa, according to voodoo, not only guard us, but can influence us, harm us, empower us, and even possess us.”
Michael shook his head in disbelief that this conversation was even taking place. He also wondered why someone like Sam would give it any credence.
Sam, seeing Michael shake his head, said, “Now wait a minute, Michael, I’m not saying this is real, but stuff like voodoo is powered by belief. A lot of people allow the occult or superstition to influence their everyday decisions. Many world leaders, good and bad, have placed faith in the supernatural. Abraham Lincoln had dream interpreters, for example, and Adolf Hitler routinely used astrologers.”
Michael, who was feeling increasingly less tolerant, said, “I don’t allow ridiculous beliefs to influence my decisions. And I think it’s preposterous that a grown woman like you would place any stock in ghost stories.”
Sam looked hurt for a moment, then furrowed her brow and said, “Michael, it’s not about whether what you believe is real or not, it’s about what others, like the killer, believe. I mean, there are too many occult references in my grandfather’s past, as well as what is happening now, to be a coincidence. Someone in the past, like my grandfather, and someone presently, is using the concept of voodoo and loas as either a motivation or an excuse to commit murder.”
Sam turned the page in the voodoo book. “Take this passage, for instance: ‘Loa can physically influence the world around them by piggybacking on, and in extreme cases, possessing a host after a ritual is performed to call down, or summon, the loa. The direct influence of a loa is always preceded by—’”
“Stop right there, Sam,” interrupted Michael, who felt his patience finally wearing thin. “So you think someone is using, or did use, these serial murders in a more sacrificial or religious way?”
Sam sighed, a look of pity crossing her face. Michael arched an indignant eyebrow at her.
Placing the book back where she got it, Sam nodded to Michael. “Why not? There has to be a reason for these murders, right? Why not have them be connected to voodoo or something similar? This is New Orleans. Haitian voodoo is practiced here. Why can’t the murders be connected to a voodoo cult?”
“Because of one reason,” said Michael, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Unless Rodger and Edward, along with everyone else in the New Orleans Police Force, missed something, there was never a single shred of evidence pointing to any voodoo cult. Even less so in the current investigation.”
Richie suddenly spoke up. “What about that person or group you mentioned who contacted Topper Jack and Mad Monty? You know, the Nite Priory.”
Everyone turned to Richie, who continued, “Sounds religious to me. Maybe Sam is right, Michael? Think about it for a minute. Vincent Castille had an interest in the occult, all that loa and zombie stuff Sam just mentioned. So what if this Nite Priory is a cult, or something similar, that is romanticizing what Vincent Castille did, and is using his interest in the occult to act like some kind of directive or something for murder.”
“I hate to say this,” Rodger said to his partner, “but Richie and Sam both have points. We’ve been looking at these murders as being the work of some sort of lone psychopath. But what if it is a cult? What if it’s more organized than we thought?”
Before Michael could answer, Rodger continued, “And as for twenty years ago, Michael, you can’t be sure there wasn’t something that might have been religious. When the doc was arrested, there was a glut of occult magazines and clippings with him. He never spoke of it in trial, even though the defense tried to use it for an insanity defense, but there was evidence that he might have been involved a cult of some sort. Who’s to say that this Nite Priory, as Richie was getting at, isn’t a remnant of that now?”
Sam nodded and said, “Right. I don’t know why my grandfather committed those murders. No one does. And you, Michael, even mentioned that no one looked into ‘why’ twenty years ago.”
Michael nodded, feeling his incredulousness dropping as the other three started to make more sense to him. “Agreed. I’ve always felt that the ‘why’ is vital to this investigation and that it being overlooked was a big mistake.”
Michael looked over at Rodger.
Rodger frowned, saying, “We were all in such a hurry to stop the murders that we did drop the ball on why he did it. And no one wanted to follow up on the voodoo thing once the trial had started. What did Ouellette say back then? Ah yes, that it was better to focus on putting Vincent on death row and being done with it.”
Nodding at his partner, Michael wasn’t too surprised to hear that his commander didn’t put much stock in the occult back then. Ouellette had always struck him as being an extremely logical person, not one to buy in to nonsense.
Michael looked back at Sam and said, “All right, I’m willing to entertain this cult angle in things, especially since there is a ‘Nite Priory’ that keeps popping up.”
Michael shifted in his seat. “But now, Sam, I have a question for you.”
As Sam returned to her seat, Michael asked, “In your story, who is the murderer?”
Sam looked about as surprised as could be at that question. “Wait, what? Why do you want to know?”
“Because I believe someone is setting you up,” replied Michael. “We need to show that this is the result of someone getting ahold of your notes or your manuscripts. The sooner we do that, the sooner you won’t be a suspect. If you tell me now who your murderer is, we can use that to start setting a trap.”
Michael chuckled and added, “Besides, you may give us a lead.”
Sam lowered her head in thought. After a long moment, she looked up and said, “My murderer is Dallas Christofer.”
Michael, Richie, and even Rodger sat there in total silence. Michael had no idea who this person was, and from the look of confusion on Rodger and Richie’s faces, neither did they.
Finally, Michael shook his head, shrugged, and said, “I’ll bite. Who is that?”
Sam looked a bit annoyed as she began to explain herself. “Dallas Christofer was the only survivor of a Bourbon Street Ripper murder. He was buried alive with his mother, Maple Christofer—Grandfather’s last victim.”