by King, Leo
The toy poodle in Michael’s lap apparently decided it was time to part ways with him, and wiggled to get free. Michael helped the small dog get back on the floor. “Well, that’s just as a good a theory as anything else I’ve heard, but do you have any hard evidence?”
“None, hon,” said Rosemary, shaking her head. “Just a woman’s hunch and thirty years of knowing men.”
That was enough for Michael. Mentally noting Rosemary’s theory, he then asked. “So, why did you get fired from the nightclub about the same time as Magnolia’s death?”
Rosemary’s expression grew serious. For a moment, she looked around as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping on their conversation. When she finally did speak, her voice was low. “Because I know who murdered Magnolia.”
Michael’s brow furrowed in confusion. He was getting tired of being caught unaware with surprises pertaining to the investigation.
“Excuse me? Magnolia was murdered?”
At that moment, the door opened and a voice so thick with a Cajun accent that it was nearly foreign called out, “Mama, I’m home! Whew, it’s so hot out there, the sweat’s going down my ass and makin’ my spine tingle like it’s December, ya!”
Looking up, Michael saw a massively muscular Cajun man, with a ruddy face and a big nose. In one hand, he held a large hatchet, in the other hand what looked like a dead oppossum.
Immediately, the big man stormed over to Michael, his brow furrowing, his manner quite threatening. The dogs went wild, barking like mad, as he stood right before Michael.
The big man boomed, “Hey you, what you doing with my mama? You fucking with her? You got a problem, boy?”
Michael kept his wits about him, in case the man got violent. He was physically repulsed by the heavy scent of dirt and sweat about him.
Immediately, Rosemary called out, “Eustace! You be nice! This is the police, and he’s here to talk to Mama, not bother her.”
That made Eustace back off immediately, even though he stared down at Michael.
“Now apologize to the nice police detective, Eustace,” Rosemary said to the big man.
“Sorry, sir,” replied Eustace, his voice suddenly quite contrite. “Don’t like no men messing with Mama. You understand, right, sir?”
Amazed at how quickly this burly truck of a man went from nearly attacking him to being as polite as possible, Michael said, “It’s all right, Eustace. Good for standing up for your mama.”
Michael looked up at Eustace and watched as he just stood there and nodded his head, mumbling apologies underneath his breath. Michael wondered if Eustace was simple. “Yours and Robert’s son?”
Rosemary stood up and walked behind Eustace, rubbing his back gently.
“Eustace, honey, go put that oppossum outside to drain for skinning. Mama will make a mess of jambalaya tonight.”
Eustace hugged his mother and walked off at a plodding pace. Rosemary watched him leave with the fond look one gives a puppy. When he was gone, she turned to Michael and said, “No. Bobby and I had a beautiful baby, but I wasn’t able to keep him. Eustace, on the other hand, is what you’d call an unexpected gift from God after one too many beers.”
Michael nodded his head, mentally filed away that Robert and Rosemary did have a son, and said, “Seems like a nice enough fellow.”
Rosemary shrugged, gave what Michael could only call an uninterested smile, then said, “Well, I think I’m all talked out today, Detective LeBlanc. And I need to make dinner for my boy. Mind if we chat some other time?”
Michael said nothing, but inwardly he found himself annoyed that, once again, he was interrupted by something before a piece of information could be handed out. However, Michael just smiled and nodded, standing and saying, “I should be getting back to New Orleans anyway. It’ll be dinner for me, too, by the time I’m back in town.”
Rosemary nodded and showed Michael to the door, saying, “All right. You come visit me again in a few days. I’ll tell you the rest of what I know. Until then, you stay safe, Detective. There are bad things out there. Snakes waiting to strike. The snake always knows what you’re going to do, hon, always.”
As he headed outside, Michael said, “Yeah, I’ve been told. Thanks for that.”
As soon as Michael was out on the front porch, the door closed and locked behind him.
Michael went to the squad car and got inside. Superstitious idiots. The only snakes I have to worry about are the people who are lying and withholding information from me.
Michael stewed over the information all the way back to New Orleans and the 9th Precinct. By the time he was walking to his desk, carrying a bag filled with comfort food—fried chicken and mashed potatoes—it was ten o’clock and Michael was in a thoroughly bad mood.
“Hey, Michael,” called out the familiar voice of Dixie. Looking over at his friend, he saw that she was looking worse for wear, too. He didn’t see anyone else.
“Hey, how did your investigation go today?” asked Michael, opening his bag and pulling out his unhealthy but hopefully worry-numbing dinner. He tried offering his friend at least a tired smile, but found he just couldn’t muster up the energy to care.
Dixie leaned over Michael and gently rubbed his shoulder. It felt good, and Michael was grateful for it. Despite being only friends, Dixie had a way of making Michael just feel better. And Dixie was known for being one of those rare types of people whose smile and laugh could turn your day around.
“It was shitty. We questioned that prick of a writer, Richard. We might as well have asked a Ouija board to divine answers from Vincent’s ghost. Richard, or Dick as Aucoin now calls him, was completely unhelpful.”
Michael wasn’t surprised to hear that. He was glad that Richie, despite not belonging in this investigation, had managed to follow the instructions given earlier that day. However, this train of thought made him think about her parting comment on the phone, and the advance knowledge that others knew Rodger had taken Sam with him. “So, be honest. Am I in hot water, Dix?”
Dixie got up, slid a chair over and turned it around backward, and sat next to Michael.
Once she was leaning forward on the chair, Dixie said. “You? No. But Rodger’s going to have a lot of explaining to do. We all know he’s protective of Samantha Castille, but Ouellette’s pretty pissed at him for this crap he’s pulled.”
“This entire investigation is crap,” replied Michael, trying to eat his dinner and finding he wasn’t hungry. “I just had a long conversation with Dr. Lazarus, and an equally long one with Miss Boucher, and while I’ve got some great information, I still feel like I’m being left in the dark.”
Michael’s diatribe earned him a sympathetic look from Dixie. He was glad there was someone he could talk to, especially when he had never felt more estranged from his partner. “You’re angry, Michael,” Dixie finally said. “I wish you’d just go ahead and admit it.”
Michael shook his head. Admitting that he was angry with Rodger was something he was hesitant to do. The flood of emotion would be too strong.
Instead, Michael said, “I just want to know why he’s so invested in Sam Castille that he’s risking both the investigation and his career. I really want to know that, Dix.”
Dixie started to open her mouth when a strong but gentle voice called out, “Dixie. Honey.”
Both detectives looked up. Standing at the doorway was a handsome man in his midthirties, with long black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. Michael recognized him as Gino, Dixie’s long-term boyfriend.
“Hey, honey,” Dixie replied, getting up and going over to Gino. Michael looked away as the two embraced, focusing on his fried chicken.
“Evening, Michael,” said Gino at last, prompting Michael that it was polite to look back at the two.
“Evening, Gino. How goes work?” Michael asked.
“Slow. Thank you for asking,” Gino replied.
He nodded toward Dixie. “I was just here to take Dixie home. Will that be okay?”
; Michael nodded to Gino, whom he had a lot of respect for. He considered Gino to be one of the more courteous people he knew. “That’s fine with me. Dix, I’ll see you tomorrow. Gino, take good care of her.”
“Of course,” replied Gino, putting an arm around Dixie.
“You make sure you get some rest, okay, Michael?” said Dixie. She paused for a long moment, looking down at Rodger’s desk. Finally, she spoke up.
“And Michael… ”
He looked up and saw his friend tapping a photo on Rodger’s desk.
“Sometimes, the truth is right under your nose. Take care of yourself, and even more so, take care of your partner.”
As the pair walked off, Michael noticed what Dixie was tapping. A framed photograph. Looking at it, he realized it was a picture of Rodger and Edward posing with Ouellette for the press. It was signed: “We did it, buddy. Edward.”
Looking at the picture, Michael smiled to himself, remarking how similarly Edward and he dressed, only Edward wore a suit without a tie.
Suddenly, Michael’s pulse quickened, and something in his memory clicked. He studied the photograph of Edward closely. Something seemed familiar about the clothing Edward was wearing.
Suit without a tie. Suit without a tie. Suit without—
Suddenly, it hit Michael where he had seen a picture of Edward before. The same man in the same suit, only this time with hair a little grayer and face a little older, riding a children’s train ride in City Park.
“Son of a bitch,” Michael said, a sudden feeling of anger, rage, and betrayal welling up inside of him. “How could you not tell me this, Rodger! How is this ‘minor shit’ that’s ‘not relevant’? How can you expect me to trust you now?”
With a sudden and uncharacteristic spark of fury, Michael slammed the photograph facedown onto his partner’s desk, glass shattering. Particles of glass sparkled in the homicide department’s dimmed light like angry tears.
“Edward was Sam’s father!”
Chapter 22
Fat Willie
Date: Friday, August 7, 1992
Time: 5:00 p.m.
Location: Louisiana State Penitentiary
Angola, Louisiana
The cold clanking of metal bars sliding resonated in the background, and together with the stark and unforgiving glare of the fluorescent lighting, created an atmosphere devoid of warmth. From the courtyard, where inmates were engaging in outdoor activities, to the dormitories, where the sound and smells of human defecation oozed from the walls, to the silent and isolated death row, every part of the prison complex felt like it had been abandoned by hope.
Every time he came to the Louisiana State Penitentiary, Rodger felt that lack of warmth and hope, and it chilled him to the bone.
As he sat in an interview cell at a table, across from Sam Castille, both wearing “Visitor” name tags, Rodger reflected back on the long drive to Angola, where the state prison was located.
He had expected Sam to waste no time in having the talk he dreaded, but Sam had remained silent, concentrating on driving. By the time they had gotten halfway to Baton Rouge, Rodger had fallen asleep. Sam had woken him up as they arrived at the penitentiary’s entrance.
Rodger had had a quick smoke. He’d been craving one since morning. The check-in procedure had gone quickly. Rodger’s main contact within the prison, Assistant Warden Charles Daigle, had been understandably perturbed when Rodger showed up with a civilian. It wasn’t until Rodger made certain to assure Daigle that Sam was there solely to act in an observational capacity that tensions lessened.
Coming back from his thoughts, Rodger became aware that Sam was now looking over at him. He wished he hadn’t lied to Daigle. He knew Sam would be asking questions. He also knew he would be allowing it.
“Everything okay? You’ve been tense since we got here,” Sam asked, her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. She had a tired look on her face and dark circles under her eyes. Despite that, she looked genuinely concerned for him.
Rodger shrugged and said, “I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now, Sam. I’m trying to figure out how to catch this killer before anyone else dies, how to keep my ass out of hot water, how to keep your ass out of jail, and how to keep Michael from hating my guts.”
Looking at him, Sam smiled a little and relaxed her shoulders. Rodger couldn’t help but notice how much like her father she looked like at times, despite inheriting both her hair and eyes from her mother.
Finally, Sam said, “You’re too harsh on yourself, Rodger. You’re trying to do too much. That’s why Michael and Richie and I are here—to lessen your burden, and to take some of the pressure off your shoulders.”
Rodger shook his head. “A nice sentiment, Sam. But let’s be realistic. It was your father who figured out the case last time, and he was a genius. Michael isn’t that good yet, although he will be one day, when he gains the intuition that Edward had back then. And you are a brilliant woman, much like your father, but you’re too deeply involved in this, on account of you being both a Castille and a suspect, to provide the objectivity I need. And, Richie, well, he seems like a nice guy, but… ”
“… he’s a bit of a goof, I know,” replied Sam, almost giggling for what seemed like the first time in two decades. “But he’s a lovable goof and a real sweet guy. Despite his lack of grace and poise, he has been essential in helping me come out of my shell for the first time in many years.” She accented that last statement with a faux French accent, arching her blond eyebrows at the old detective.
Rodger chuckled at Sam’s girlish ways, having not seen this much life in her since before her father’s murder.
Rodger’s thoughts were interrupted by the metal bars sliding aside, a sound soon eclipsed by the sounds of feet shuffling and chains sliding. Daigle’s voice could also be heard, saying, “Come on, Willie, the sooner you talk to the detective, the sooner you can get back to your books.”
“That’s a good thing,” replied a Southern gentleman in what sounded to Rodger like a thick voice, the kind of voice that sounds like someone with a throat too big to open properly. Pulling his emotions inward and seeing Sam do the same, Rodger mentally prepared himself for the interview.
Then Fat Willie rounded the corner, and Rodger instantly felt disgust. Calling him fat was like calling a volcano hot—it was a gross understatement. Fat Willie was obese, at least four hundred pounds, and could pass for a Caucasian Sumo wrestler.
He wore the same bright orange prison uniform one would expect of an inmate, but it was obviously tailored to his size. His face sported unsightly reddish stubble, and his hair, a mixture of red and spots of gray, was short and messy. His hands and feet were handcuffed and chained, loose enough so that he could walk, but not so that he could run.
And he smelled of hamburger grease.
Fat Willie, being escorted by Charles Daigle and a prison guard, entered the cell. Daigle sat Fat Willie down at the head of the table, patting him on the shoulder and saying, “Now, Willie, this is Detective Rodger Bergeron, and the charming lady with him is—”
“Samantha Castille,” interrupted Fat Willie. He nodded cordially to her. “William K. Benedict, otherwise known amongst members of the esteemed Louisiana Penal System as Fat Willie. It’s a pleasure to meet such a celebrated young lady, Miss Castille.”
When Sam just nodded, her lips tight and her face emotionless, Rodger could tell he needed to take control of the interview right then, or Fat Willie’s putrescence would make Sam lose her cool.
“Sam won’t be talking to you, Willie,” said Rodger. “She’s just here to watch. You will be talking with me.”
Fat Willie turned to look Rodger up and down, saying, “Weren’t you Edward Castille’s boyfriend?”
The jibe did nothing to Rodger’s mood, but he held his tongue and said, “Partner, Willie. He was my partner.”
Fat Willie nodded and scratched under his nose, saying, “My mistake. No offense intended.”
Not buying that for a sec
ond, Rodger turned to Daigle. “Give us about thirty minutes alone to interview him, okay, Charles?”
Daigle snorted and shook his head, saying, “You have fifteen. Any more and Whitley will have my ass.”
As Daigle and the guard started to leave, Fat Willie looked back and over his shoulder, saying to the assistant warden, “Hey, Daigle, give Warden Whitley my love.”
Fat Willie then puckered his lips and blew a kiss in a manner that was both obscene and unsettling. Turning back to Rodger and Sam, Fat Willie said, “See, Whitley is such a decent fellow, he wants to fix all of Angola’s violence problems. But what our venerable and honorable warden forgets is that man’s own nature is to fuck each other up, figuratively and literally.”
Leaning toward Sam, Fat Willie said, “Isn’t that right, Samantha Castille… sweetie pie?”
Rodger slapped the tabletop. When Fat Willie looked over, Rodger made a motion and pointed toward his eyes. “Talk to me. Not her. Me.”
“Fine,” replied Fat Willie, shifting his weight to look over at Rodger. “So, what can an exclusive lifetime member of the Louisiana State Penitentiary do for you?”
Rodger leaned forward to lock eyes with the repulsive convict. “You can start by telling me what manner of accomplice you were to Dr. Vincent Castille—the Bourbon Street Ripper.”
“Oh, come now, accomplice is such an ugly word,” replied Fat Willie with a sort of indignation about him. “And it’s so inappropriate for what I was assured would be a gentleman’s conversation.”
Rodger couldn’t believe what he just heard. “Excuse me, what?”
Leaning forward, Fat Willie started to rub a pudgy finger over the surface of the interview table as if he were caressing the skin of a lover. The motion was crude and left a trail of oil on the faux wood.
“You see, accomplice denotes assistance with the execution of the crime, or otherwise points to personal participation. Dr. Castille always kept to himself during those most intimate and, might I add, satisfying moments. No, I was more of an independent contractor facilitating the events leading up to the crime, instead of actually participating in a ménage à trois of suffering with the Bourbon Street Ripper.”