by King, Leo
“Hey, Michael,” replied a tired-sounding Dixie. “Wait, the caller ID says… Hey, are you calling from Lafayette?”
“Yeah, the case is leading me here,” Michael said. “Long story, I’ll be sure to include it all in my report. You sound exhausted. Still jet-lagged?”
“Yeah, and Gino is still asleep, poor dear. Kyle is distracted with Cathy and Cheryl. It’s a real mess, Michael,” Dixie replied.
Michael leaned against the desk, looking down and focusing on his call with Dixie. He was still not pleased that his closest friend had to come back from vacation so early, but he knew why Commander Ouellette had put the four of them together.
Fortunately, Dixie soon changed the conversation. “So, Michael, what did you need?”
That snapped Michael back into the present. He quickly straightened up and said, “Right. So I need some information dug up from the archives. From the Bourbon Street Ripper case. Robert Fontenot, the suspect who Rodger and Edward arrested, had a mistress. She worked at the Jean-Lafitte Theater. She lives in Lafayette now. Can I get a name and address?”
“Sure thing,” replied Dixie. “I just got finished sorting all the information from the original case. Man, Rodger takes terrible notes. I think the information on Fontenot is over on Kyle’s desk. Mind holding for a few minutes?”
“Not at all, Dixie, thanks,” replied Michael, who then leaned back as an officer entered the precinct. He was a clean-cut guy about Michael’s age with a handsome face, soft blue eyes, and crew-cut hair.
Seeing Michael behind the desk, the officer came over and asked, “What’s going on? May I help you?”
Michael showed his badge and said, “New Orleans Homicide. I needed to stop by to check back in with my precinct.”
The officer nodded, smiled pleasantly, and headed toward the back.
Michael took a moment to let his gaze linger on the departing officer and how he walked with an admirable posture. Michael had a pleased smile on his lips as he heard Dixie get back on the phone. “Here we go, Michael. You ready?”
Michael slipped out his notebook and said, “Go for it, Dixie.”
Dixie sounded like she was reading off a list. “Okay, her name is Rosemary Boucher. Her stage name was Rose and she lives in West Lafayette. Ready for the address?”
Stating that he was, Michael proceeded to write it down. Once he had the entire address in his notebook, he asked, “Dixie, is there any other information about Miss Boucher?”
“Nothing, really,” replied Dixie, yawning.
Michael was about to thank Dixie and hang up when she added, “Oh wait, she was dismissed from the club about a month prior to the beginning of the Ripper murders. Edward took a note here. It says ‘M and M.’ Does that mean anything to you, Michael?”
A light went off in Michael’s head as he recalled their visit to the ruins of the nightclub. He remembered a poster of two women in red—twins. The M&M Sisters. I remember Rodger mentioning that they were a staple of the club. What was Edward’s interest in them? Would Rosemary know about them?
Michael said, “Yeah, might be a lead. I’ll follow up on it. What about you, any leads yet?”
“Just one for now,” replied Dixie. “Kyle and I have a potential witness we need to interview later this evening. Gotta go pick him up at the Ritz.”
Wondering if that was Richie, and hoping it was not, Michael said, “Thanks for the help here, Dixie. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, Michael,” replied Dixie. “I hope you have more success than Rodger and Sam do. Talk to you later.”
And just like that, Michael’s brain went on a coffee break.
For a long time after Dixie had hung up, Michael just stood there, stunned. Then, slowly, very slowly, he hung up the phone. She knew that Rodger and Sam went off together. But how?
Michael forced his mind back to analyzing the facts. Once he had refocused, it took a short amount of time to determine that Aucoin and Dixie must have staked out Sam’s townhome.
So they saw Rodger leave with Sam. Which means either we’re in deep shit, or they think we’re playing a card with a potential suspect. Either way, we can’t bullshit our way out of this, and I’m not about to let my partner take the fall for this alone. I’m just as guilty of not following the rules. I’ll just have to accept whatever happens.
Once he had come to that conclusion, quelling any panic and mentally returning to the investigation was easy. Michael gathered up his belongings and left the precinct, thanking the front desk officer again for use of the phone.
Driving along a heavily wooded back road, comprised more of dirt and gravel than concrete, Michael looked out for the address of Miss Boucher. Finally, a weather vane"“topped mailbox with her number came into view from amongst the foliage, and a small metal gate provided an entryway to the well-secluded property.
Michael carefully pulled up behind an old Oldsmobile Cutlass that had seen better days. Getting out of his car, Michael heard loud barking coming from inside the house, some of it very high-pitched and some low and deep.
Great. She’s a dog person. I’ll bet there are a dozen mutts in there.
Michael looked over the house and figured he was right. The smell of dog shit and doggie chew toys were everywhere. Overall, the yard looked and smelled like it had seen better days.
Going to the front porch, Michael rang the doorbell. When he didn’t hear anything, he knocked.
The riotous sound of dogs got closer, right against the door, as a woman’s voice called out, “Get back! Back, you mutts! Get back!”
Michael expected the door to swing upon, and was a little surprised when he heard, “Who the fuck is there? Tell me now, or I’ll sic my mutts on your sad ass.”
With a bit of a start, Michael replied, “New Orleans Police Department.”
The blinds on the side window parted and a woman’s finger tapped the glass. “Show me your shield then. Show it here. Where I can read it.”
Sighing inwardly, Michael slowly took out his badge and held it up over the glass. “Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc, ma’am. How’s this, Miss Boucher?”
“It’s fine,” came the reply, and then silence. Looking toward the glass, Michael saw a rather bright blue eye looking at the badge from behind the blinds. In the dark interior of the house, it looked almost disembodied. The eye suddenly looked up and locked eyes with him, and then the blinds snapped shut. A few moments later, there was the sound of three locks unlocking, and the door opened.
On the other side was a woman in her forties who looked like she, at one point, had been quite attractive. However, the lines on her face, the faded look in her eyes, and the wrinkles over her brow showed a woman who had had the fire in her extinguished a long time ago.
She was wearing a bathrobe, and had her hair up in rollers. A lit cigarette hung from her lips.
Rosemary looked Michael over and smirked, shaking her head and saying, “Christ, are they letting babies on the police force now? How old are you, kid?”
Not giving an answer to that question, Michael nodded his head toward the interior of Rosemary’s home and said, “I’d like to speak with you about Robert Fontenot and the Jean-Lafitte Theater. May I come in?”
Rosemary stood there for a few seconds and looked into Michael’s eyes. Michael could see the hardness there, the edge that he was used to seeing in the eyes of vagabonds and prostitutes. It was not what he expected to see in the eyes of a woman who had once been someone’s mistress.
Rosemary stepped back and turned around, leaving the door open for him to come inside. Michael considered her for a few moments, thinking, This woman has been through a lot of crap. But she doesn’t see the police as the enemy. And she doesn’t come across as hiding from anyone. She’s like a person who just doesn’t give a shit anymore.
Stepping into the house, Michael saw the dogs. Not just three or four dogs, but at least a dozen, were all lounging about the front room as if they were the house’s rightful o
wners. There were dogs of several breeds and all sizes, from Pekingese and toy poodles to rottweilers and a pit bull.
Almost all were facing a large, bulky television that was showing an afternoon soap opera. A few feet away was a sofa, a small wingback chair, and a coffee table with an ashtray and a slew of magazines on it.
Michael couldn’t help but wonder how this woman cared for them all, much less was able to function with this many animals. Several of the larger dogs, such as the rottweilers, came up to Michael, sniffing him curiously before heading back to wherever they felt like sitting.
“When I saw on the news that someone was copying the Bourbon Street Ripper, I knew it was only a matter of time before the police came by asking questions,” said Rosemary as she sauntered to the sofa, picked up a lazy-looking Scottish terrier, and sat down, placing the dog back in her lap. She motioned for Michael to sit on the wingback chair, which currently had a sedentary and quite comfortable-looking bulldog on it.
“Is that so, Miss Boucher?” Michael moved to remove the bulldog from the chair, only to have the dog look up at him and give him the most condescending snort he had ever heard.
“Butch, go on and let the nice man sit down,” called out Rosemary, petting the dog in her lap.
The bulldog, moving only its eyes, looked over at Rosemary, then looked back up at Michael. After a second of what must have been deep contemplation, the bulldog let out a tremendously loud fart and jumped off the chair, trotting off to lie down on a patch of carpet.
It took Michael a second to come to terms with being both snorted at and farted at by a dog. He finally fanned the area around the chair a bit and took a seat. Then he picked up where he had left off in the conversation. “Well, why would you say that you expected the police? What did you know about the original case?”
“Not much, hon,” said Rosemary, taking a few drags of her cigarette, “but I was acquainted with one of the suspects. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Chuckling softly, Michael leaned back and said, “So then, what was your relation to Mr. Robert Fontenot?”
“I fucked him,” said Rosemary, her lips curling around the cigarette almost lewdly. “Every night if he wanted. Bobby was what you would call my sugar daddy.”
“Right,” replied Michael, who tried to rest his hands in his lap, only to find a toy poodle there instead, looking up at him and panting merrily. Remembering Boudreaux, Michael figured that being good to the dogs would build a rapport with Miss Boucher. And so, petting the small dog, Michael continued the interview. “What doesn’t make sense is this: how can a man like Robert Fontenot, an offshore worker, afford to, well, keep a woman like you?”
Much to Michael’s surprise, Rosemary started laughing, smoke blowing out her nose. After a few moments, she said, “Is that what you think? That he was an offshore worker? Kid, where do you get your information? I already told that detective twenty years ago that the offshore bullshit was a front!”
Michael felt himself again in the maddening position of being a deer caught in the headlights. His hand stopped caressing the toy poodle, which did its best to restart the petting with a few choice licks. Holding his frustration inward, he asked, “Which detective was that? Rodger Bergeron?”
“Oh hell, no, not that dolt,” replied Rosemary in a shocked tone. “Rodger’s partner. What was his name? I should know, because I saw him every—Edward! It was Edward. I told him.”
Michael was relieved this wasn’t another secret of Rodger’s; however, he was just as annoyed that this was another case of Edward having a sizable role that had been hidden from him. Again.
Rosemary, who had since taken another long drag off her cigarette, said, “I’ll tell you what I told Edward, hon. Robert Fontenot, my Bobby, only worked offshore to keep his cover up. In reality, he was the Black Bayou Boatman.”
It took a few seconds for Michael to register what Rosemary was talking about, for the Black Bayou Boatman was well before his time. As it dawned on him what Rosemary was saying, Michael shook his head in disbelief.
“The Black Bayou Boatman, so named in honor of Charon, the boatman to the Underworld, was one of the most prolific hit men to ever work for the Marcello family. In both the sixties and the seventies, he was implicated in over two hundred contract murders, although no one was ever able to identify him. Witnesses would vanish without a trace, and there were even whispers that the CIA had him on retainer.”
Michael recalled that some of his more conspiracy-minded friends from college believed that the Black Bayou Boatman was involved in, among other things, the John F. Kennedy assassination.
“He also etched his initials into his victim’s bodies,” finished Michael, making a cutting motion with his free had. “Three interlocking Bs.”
“That’s right, hon,” replied Rosemary, taking a final drag and putting out her cigarette.
Leaning back, Rosemary said, “Bobby was a cold-blooded killer nearly sent to death row by an even more cold-blooded killer. He worked directly under Carlos Marcello, the head of the Marcello family back then. If someone crossed Carlos, they’d get a midnight visit from the Boatman.”
Michael’s mind was a whirl of activity, trying to make a connection between Robert Fontenot, alias the Black Bayou Boatman, and Vincent Castille, alias the Bourbon Street Ripper.
“You’re trying to figure out why the Ripper framed him, aren’t you, hon?” asked Rosemary, reaching into her robe and pulling out a cigarette case and lighter. She took a few seconds to light the fresh cigarette. “So was Edward. Drove the poor dear nuts, but he finally figured it out.”
“He did? What did he figure out?” asked Michael, a bit shocked that what seemed to be such an important lost connection was just within reach.
Rosemary sat back and took a long drag of her cigarette before leaning back and crossing her legs. Every movement of hers seemed to Michael like she was putting on a show.
“Well, hon, it’s a long and sordid story. You ever heard of the M and M Sisters?”
Again, a light went off in Michael’s head. He had been waiting for the conversation about Robert to lull before bringing up Edward’s note about them, and here was Rosemary bringing them up herself. What luck!
Michael sat up straight, full attention on the reclined woman before him, and said, “Yes. I have heard of them. They were a staple at the Jean-Lafitte Theater, correct?”
“Correct, hon,” replied Rosemary, who took a few moments to get comfortable. “Magnolia and Marigold were their stage names. Now, see, they weren’t the best act. They could sing well enough, and they had a look that belonged in the fifties, but that isn’t what made them so popular.”
“Oh? So what made them so popular then?” asked Michael, as the toy poodle in his lap fell asleep, snoring softly. Looking down at the sleeping animal, Michael rested his hand on it and looked back at his hostess, waiting for her answer.
“They were the hottest damn pair of blondes you’d ever seen, hon,” said Rosemary, smirking. “Two women in red who just slipped out of your most sensual fantasies. Ruby red lips, blue eyes, and bodies that were too fucking perfect—they made me sick.”
“Is that all?” replied Michael, cocking an eyebrow at the “big surprise.” “They were really attractive?”
“You were expecting something more?” asked Rosemary, who leaned forward to flick some ashes off her cigarette, the embers fluttering down into the ashtray. Looking back at Michael, Rosemary shook her head. “You don’t know much about women, do you?”
Michael’s brow furrowed, his countenance growing indignant as he said, “That’s not relevant to this conversation, Miss Bou—”
“Oh hon, but it is relevant,” interrupted Rosemary, leaning back and looking at Michael for a long time.
Just when Michael started to feel his patience wearing thin, Rosemary said, “Well, maybe you don’t think with your dick, hon, but most men do. And back then, Carlos’s grandson, Giorgio, decided that Magnolia was going to be
his woman. But what Giorgio didn’t know was that Magnolia already had a sugar daddy, someone who she was in real tight with.”
Michael thought for a moment, considered the logical direction the story could go in, and then said, “Let me guess, Vincent Castille, right?”
“Close, hon, real close. It was Dr. Castille’s son,” Rosemary said, taking a drag on her cigarette.
In the depths of Michael’s mind, a bell went off. Suddenly, Michael sat up so fast that the toy poodle nearly fell out of his lap. “Wait, if Vincent’s son was with Magnolia, then does that make her Sam’s mother?”
Rosemary gave a wicked little smile to Michael. “That’s what Bobby and I thought. Of course, we never saw the two together, but it made sense. Edward was always protective of the sisters, even though he had no investment in them. And why not keep it a secret? After all, it wouldn’t be proper for the mother of someone as well-bred as a Castille to be a lounge singer, so I’m sure that family did their bit to keep her their dirty little secret. Besides, if that bitch Magnolia had a child, how she was able to perform afterward is beyond me.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Michael, who was thirsting for any information Rosemary could offer.
“Hon, she had a weak heart,” replied Rosemary, pausing to take another drag. “Was born with it, poor girl. That’s what killed her. One night, the two of them were performing and Magnolia just fell over.”
Rosemary looked up at the ceiling for a moment, her brow furrowing as if parting the haze of twenty years spent trying to forget. After a few moments of what must have been furious thinking, she looked back at Michael and nodded. “Dr. Castille was there. He was the one who ran to her side and had someone call for an ambulance. He tried to resuscitate her, but she never regained consciousness.”
Rosemary took a lingering drag of her cigarette and said, “She died that night in the hospital. That was back in May of 1972.”
Michael added Magnolia’s death to the timeline he had been constructing, saying, “So about a month before the Bourbon Street Ripper murders began, correct?”
“Correct,” Rosemary replied, leaning forward and putting her cigarette out. “After Dr. Castille’s arrest, I started thinking that Magnolia’s death was what set him off.”