by King, Leo
The expressions on the two detectives’ faces showed that they weren’t expecting this turn in conversation. Slowly, Dixie’s hands dropped and Aucoin’s smile faded.
Richie continued, “When she saw that her story had the exact same timeline as the murder, she was genuinely terrified. You can’t fake that kind of reaction. So I don’t know who did it, or how, but it’s not Samantha Castille.”
“And why should we believe a goddamn word you’re saying,” asked Aucoin, his eyes narrowing, “when you just admitted you lied to us?”
Richie put his hands behind his head. “I don’t care if you do or don’t believe me. You two are treating Sam as a suspect. You’re trying to get me to slip up and give information away that could incriminate her. I’m telling you that I don’t have anything to give other than Sam was drunk last night and a nervous wreck this morning. So continuing this interview is a waste of time.”
And just like that, Richie had taken control of the interview.
The two detectives straightened up, looked at each other, and nodded.
Dixie offered to take Richie’s coffee, and he said, “I’m not quite finished, but thanks.” She took hers and Aucoin’s coffees and left. Aucoin stood up and straightened his tie.
“I guess we’re wasting our time, then,” he said. “Sorry for having taken up your evening.”
Richie waved off Aucoin’s comment and winked. “This was fun. And for the record, I am a smartass.”
Shaking his head, Aucoin said, “Well, I’m glad you can laugh at this shit, Mr. Fastellos. People are dying out there and my partner and I are wasting time with your sorry ass.”
Richie shrugged at Aucoin and said, “I don’t solve mysteries, Detective. I just write them.”
It was probably the biggest lie Richie had told all day.
Richie finished his coffee and put the cup down as Aucoin went over to the intercom and pressed the button, saying, “Interview’s done. I’m getting Mr. Fastellos out of here.”
While Aucoin had his back to him, Richie took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped down the coffee cup. He didn’t know how desperate or crooked the New Orleans police department was, but he wasn’t about to leave fingerprints that someone could use to frame him later on.
Richie had hidden the handkerchief before Aucoin returned to the table.
“One last thing,” the detective said. “What did you do after leaving Sam’s house?”
Richie nodded and said, “I went to the library to do research for my book—on something that came up in conversation.”
“Oh?” Aucoin asked curiously, leaning in a bit. “Care to tell me what it is?”
Richie thought to himself that it couldn’t hurt to be truthful about this one detail. “I was checking up on information pertaining to the ‘Nite Priory.’”
That seem to satisfy Aucoin, who got a thoughtful look, nodded, and motioned for Richie to stand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Fastellos. You’ve been a great help.”
“My pleasure,” said Richie as he rose, wiping his sleeve over the area that he just touched. “I hope you all catch the sick bastard who’s doing this.”
“We will,” replied Aucoin solemnly, looking at Richie with a piercing gaze and a slow nod of the head. “So help me God, we will.”
With a return nod, Richie followed Aucoin out of the interview room. As he did, he reflected back on what should have been a fairly routine day of brainstorming a writing project. So far, he had gone on two dates with a murder suspect, found potentially important clues to the biggest mystery in New Orleans, and been interrogated by the police.
Richie chuckled inwardly.
Can’t say today has been boring at all!
Chapter 20
Introducing Dr. Lazarus
Date: Friday, August 7, 1992
Time: 2:00 p.m.
Location: Acadia Vermillion Hospital
Lafayette, Louisiana
As he drove along the interstate heading toward the Acadia Vermillion Hospital in Lafayette, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc mulled over recent events involving the investigation.
To say that he felt derailed was an understatement, and to say that he was more than annoyed by it was an even bigger one. Despite his disagreement with Rodger and him separating for the day, Michael had come to the realization that he needed time to himself. It was the perfect chance for him to think over this case.
First, there was the problem with letting civilians be a part of the investigation. Having Sam and Rodger go off together was bad enough, but Michael knew the two had to reconcile whatever was between them.
What really annoyed Michael was that they allowed someone not even related to the investigation get personally involved. To Michael, Richie was nothing more than a useless liability.
Another problem Michael had was that not enough effort was being put into discovering how the real killer was able to learn of Sam’s manuscript before it was published.
While having lunch, Michael was able to come up with two plausible explanations: One, the killer worked at, or had connections with, the Times-Picayune, and therefore could intercept Sam’s work before it went to publication. Two, the killer had somehow gotten a copy of Sam’s work right after she wrote it.
Sam had stated that she had dropped off her manuscript at four o’clock the day of the murder. Michael had verified that drop-off time by calling the Times-Picayune and speaking with Jacob Hueber, Sam’s liaison to the newspaper.
Therefore, of his two theories, the first was more possible, allowing for a warm body to easily take Sam’s writings and tailor the murder to it; however, it gave very little wiggle room for time: the murderer would have had only five hours to get the manuscript, memorize the information, and commit the crime in a similar fashion.
But what disturbed Michael about this timeline was that Sam had several hours unaccounted for, having no solid alibi after dropping her manuscript off. If Sam was the killer, her time unaccounted for could be enough to prepare the location. And if Sam had already chosen the victim, all she would have had to do was leave the Ritz-Carlton after dinner, reroute her taxi to a location near where the victim was located, and commit the crime.
It’s unlikely that Sam could pull this off if she was as drunk as she claimed to be, but if she was acting drunk—if she was deceiving Richie—then it’s not impossible that she could have done it.
Putting that aside, Michael’s mind turned to the third problem he was having in the investigation: people were withholding information from him. To Michael, it seemed that every time either Sam’s father, Rodger’s former partner, Edward, or details concerning the original Bourbon Street Ripper murders started to come up, something derailed the conversation.
There is something about the relationship between Rodger, Edward, Sam, Sam’s father, and Vincent. It’s almost like Sam’s father stumbled upon something that got him killed. What was it? Did he solve the murder and die because of it?
Despite trying as hard as he could, Michael could not figure it out. Resigning himself to there still being something missing—some key piece of evidence—he instead focused on getting safely to his destination.
Soon, he was within the city limits of Lafayette, developed on the interstate cutting through Southern Louisiana and built primary on wetlands. Following his handwritten instructions, Michael turned north off the interstate, traveling just a few minutes before reaching the hospital.
Michael had expected the hospital to look more run-down, more ominous, considering that the hospital had been around for several decades. So he was pretty surprised when he drove past a motorized metal gate, up a paved driveway, past groves of freshly pruned cypress trees, and saw white-stucco, sparking clean buildings that looked fairly modern.
Parking in a space marked “visitor,” Michael looked again at his notes on the hospital. Sure enough, this was the correct place, and looking out of the car window, he saw a covered walkway leading up to a building marked “Administratio
n.”
It was a short, brisk walk. Out and about on the lawn, patients dressed in white robes were walking, sitting, or being pushed along in wheelchairs by orderlies and nurses. The atmosphere was serene, and Michael found himself genuinely at peace.
Inside the hospital lobby, a comfortable room with gentle music, soothing aesthetics of cool colors, and large windows letting in healthy amounts of sunlight, Michael approached the front receptionist, a nurse who looked to be in her early twenties.
The nurse smiled at Michael and said, “Hey there, handsome, welcome to Acadia Vermillion Hospital. How may I help you today?”
Michael smiled and replied by showing his badge and saying, “Detective Michael LeBlanc, New Orleans Police, Homicide. I have an appointment to speak to Dr. Lazarus.”
The nurse looked at Michael’s badge, keeping up that pleasant smile and saying, “Director Lazarus is expecting you. Come this way, Detective.”
With thanks, Michael followed the woman, who hugged a clipboard to her chest as she walked along the halls. Soon, Michael found himself being ushered through a door that had a plaque with “Director Lazarus, Ph.D.” written on it.
The interior of the office was similar to Dr. Klein’s, only far less neurotic and much more tasteful. The office had large windows along the exterior walls, with comforting artwork covering the interior walls. Soft flute music, melancholic and beautiful, played in the background. At the far end of the room was a single oak desk.
Dr. Lazarus sat behind his desk, looking outside the window, his back to Michael and his hands resting behind his back. The man had gray hair and wore a white doctor’s coat.
“Director Lazarus,” said the nurse, who had come in with Michael, “this is Detective Michael LeBlanc, from New Orleans.”
“Thank you, Miss Cormier,” replied Dr. Lazarus, with the kind of calm voice you’d expect from an older doctor who had seen it all. “You may go now. The detective and I have a lot to talk about.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Miss Cormier, who winked at Michael and then left.
Michael ignored the wink. Approaching the desk, he started to say something, but the doctor spoke instead. “Have a seat, Detective. So, you’re here to talk about Dallas Christofer, correct?”
Dr. Lazarus turned to Michael. It was then that Michael realized that the doctor’s chair was actually an electric wheelchair, controlled by a small stick on one of the rests. His face was old and had a burn scar on the right side, but otherwise he seemed very congenial. Smiling pleasantly, the doctor said, “I had a feeling, after hearing about the new serial murders, that someone would come.”
He’s lame. And a burn victim.
As Dr. Lazarus motioned for Michael to sit down, he noticed a strange tattoo on the doctor’s wrist—a circle with an eye in the middle. Filing that away for later, Michael asked, “Before we get started with him, I have to ask you a strange question, Doctor. What do you know about Blind Moses?”
The doctor’s gentle smile never faded as he shook his head. “Not as much as I’m sure you’d hoped. I am not surprised to hear her name come up, however.” Now Michael realized why Douglas had chuckled at Rodger calling Blind Moses a man.
I get it now. Blind Moses is a woman. Ha! Old Rodger got the same stunt pulled on him that he pulled on me about Sam!
Michael’s momentary amusement was pushed aside as the doctor invited him again to take a seat, this time with a more visible motion. As Michael did so, taking out his notebook and pen, he asked, “Well, if you don’t mind indulging me a bit further, what do you know about Blind Moses?”
Dr. Lazarus replied, “Only that she worked closely with the original Bourbon Street Ripper, Dr. Vincent Castille. When I visited him in prison, Vincent mentioned her several times. I never actually met her.”
Michael nodded, theorizing that Blind Moses must have had something to do with the voodoo stuff Sam was talking about. Even though he still found it ridiculous that a grown woman would believe in something like that, he was beginning to wonder if the theory of the present-day killings being carried out by a cult had some credence to it.
Filing that information away in his memory, and coming back from his thoughts, Michael followed up. “One more question unrelated to my visit, if I may. What was your relationship to Dr. Vincent Castille?”
Keeping up his soft smile, Dr. Lazarus said, “He was a colleague of mine in the field of neuroscience. We studied together at Tulane’s School of Medicine. He was also a dear friend.”
“Neuroscience?” asked Michael, his voice obviously perplexed. “I thought Vincent Castille was a surgeon.”
“He was a surgeon, and a brilliant one at that,” replied Dr. Lazarus, a reminiscent quality to his voice. “Never before and never since have I known a man with hands so skilled on the operating table. However, his true passion was the study of the mind. Like many in his field, Vincent believed that man could overcome any limitations by unlocking this.” The doctor reached up and tapped the side of his head.
Michael sat there, thinking. This was the first time something like this had come up in the investigation. Wondering if Dr. Lazarus had even more pertinent information on Vincent Castille than he did on Dallas Christofer, Michael asked, “So, given our conversation, Doctor, do you have any idea why Vincent Castille became the Bourbon Street Ripper? Why he committed those horrific murders?”
To Michael’s disappointment, Dr. Lazarus shook his head. “I am afraid not, Detective. I really wish I knew. Vincent was a good friend of mine, and we often traded research information. I was horrified to find out that he was the Ripper. I, and many other colleagues, all felt like he had betrayed everything we held dear as doctors.”
Michael frowned. Another brick wall.
“But Vincent did become reclusive several months preceding the murders,” the doctor said so suddenly that Michael was jarred out of his disappointment. “He wouldn’t return my phone calls. He missed lunch dates. He missed guest lectures. He just shut himself off in that mansion of his at the lake.”
As Michael took notes of that information, adding the Castille Mansion at Lake Pontchartrain to his list of places to investigate, Dr. Lazarus added, “Perhaps that will help your investigation.”
“Perhaps,” replied Michael, finishing his notes on the conversation so far.
A moment or so later, Michael said, “So, on the matter of Dallas Christofer. I’m here because one of the leads in the case points in Dallas’s direction. I’m here to see if he’s here, talk to him if possible, and find out what I can about him.”
“Ah yes, indeed,” replied Dr. Lazarus, shifting to sit up more in his seat. “The subject of Dallas Christofer is a delicate one at best. You see… well, perhaps it’s best that I start by explaining what Acadia Vermillion Hospital is, as opposed to what it used to be.”
“All right,” replied Michael as he started taking notes again.
“This hospital is an addiction and behavioral modification facility,” began Dr. Lazarus. “Over ninety percent of our patients are dealing with some kind of addiction, be it a substance addiction, gambling addiction, or even sexual addiction. The rest are patients who suffer from serious behavioral problems, such as uncontrolled anger, impulse control, or severe discipline issues.”
Michael nodded, taking notes as Dr. Lazarus continued speaking.
“This facility is the best in the state at treating addiction and behavioral problems because of the research done during the seventies. During that time, and before then, this hospital housed people with severe emotional and traumatic disorders, often leading to violence and psychotic behavior.”
Michael thought Dr. Lazarus’s statement certainly made Dallas a favorable suspect. Michael wondered if Sam really was on to something with naming Dallas as her murderer.
Dr. Lazarus concluded, “So Dallas Christofer, and several others, are leftover patients reminiscent from those days. They are housed in the old building at the heart of the facility, and kept separate from the
general populace.”
“I see,” said Michael as he finished his notes. “In your opinion, then, is Dallas Christofer dangerous? Would he be capable of murdering someone?”
At that, Dr. Lazarus chuckled. It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant chuckle, but it had a sinister air to it. Finally, the doctor shook his head and said, “No, but I can see why you’d ask that.”
Michael cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why would you say that?”
Instead of answering, Dr. Lazarus turned on his wheelchair and moved to the front of the desk, saying, “Come with me, and I’ll show you and explain everything.”
Michael looked down and realized that Dr. Lazarus wasn’t lame. He just didn’t have any legs below the knees. My God! What happened to this guy?
Michael quickly got up, moving alongside the doctor. Surprisingly to Michael, Dr. Lazarus seemed adept at moving around his office. Michael, although impressed with the doctor’s ability to maneuver an electric wheelchair, wondered how he lost his legs. However, he was unable to bring himself to ask.
As he headed out of his office and toward the elevator, electric wheelchair zooming along with a whirring sound, Dr. Lazarus said, “If you are investigating the old Bourbon Street Ripper murders as well as these new ones, Detective, then you undoubtedly know who Samantha Castille is, correct?”
“Yes, Dr. Lazarus,” replied Michael, walking alongside the doctor. “I am well acquainted with Miss Castille. And I do recall that she was housed here for a short while after her father’s death. What does that have to do with anything?”
Taking the elevator down, Dr. Lazarus continued, “I was the attending physician for both Dallas and Samantha. I’m guessing you know these details because of a certain so-called Dr. Klein, yes?”
The distaste he revealed as he said Klein’s name was enough for Michael to ascertain that Dr. Lazarus had no use for Sam’s psychiatrist either.