by King, Leo
Fat Willie’s eyes trailed over to Sam, who visibly stiffened. Then the man leered back over at Rodger. Keeping that look, he said, “Besides, my weapon of choice is not a scalpel, but a seven-inch-long piece of spicy Cajun Boudin that makes the girlies cry.”
“You’re a serial rapist,” Sam said, her voice and gaze as cold as ice.
Fat Willie returned her gaze. “Guilty as charged, sweetie pie. And lucky for you, ladies with small tits and wide hips are my favorite. You see, I can easily pretend a woman like you is any age I want.”
Leaning forward, his mouth slightly open, the obese convict ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth.
Disgusted, Rodger said, “I think, Fat Willie, that you are full of shit, and that you never worked with Dr. Castille on anything. You’re just a two-bit rapist who could never keep up with someone like, oh, Giorgio Marcello.”
Slowly pulling his tongue back in and shutting his mouth, Fat Willie, who suddenly sounded less playful, said, “Well, now, Detective, you certainly hit below the belt. And here I was going to make our short visitation into something entertaining.”
Straightening up, he said, “As far as Marcello goes, he is how Dr. Castille found me. You see, when Blue-Eyed Marcello would get bored picking women up the old-fashioned way, he’d hire me to add a bit of spice.”
Returning to rubbing his pudgy, oily finger over the table’s surface, Fat Willie continued, “So I would make certain that Marcello’s nightly companion was grabbed, sacked, and delivered unharmed and… unspoiled.”
There was a loud sliding sound as Sam pushed back her chair, got up, and started to pace, eventually standing on the far side of the room, a look of repulsion and rage on her face. Rodger could empathize—Fat Willie was not only a serial rapist, but he had helped another serial rapist commit his crimes by kidnapping the victims.
Rodger was now easily able to figure out how Willie had helped Vincent. “So, you’re the one who kidnapped the Bourbon Street Ripper’s victims. Am I right, Willie?”
“Bingo,” replied Fat Willie, sitting back and shrugging. “In my defense, I had no idea what Dr. Castille was doing with the women. I thought he was trying to create another granddaughter.”
“That’s a load of bullshit,” said Rodger. “There’s no way you could not have known the women you kidnapped were being murdered. That shit was all over the news.”
At that, Fat Willie smirked. “I tend to keep to myself, Detective, and if I’m not playing directly with the goods, I don’t really think twice of them. Truth is, I didn’t know until his last victim, that Maple woman, had been kidnapped that Dr. Castille was the Ripper.”
Rodger, who was following along in disbelief, suddenly stopped and considered what Willie had just said. His brow furrowed for a moment as he said, “Wait a minute. You aren’t the one who kidnapped Maple and Dallas?”
Shaking his head, Fat Willie said, “Nope. Not at all. I do believe, if I may be allowed to theorize, that the doctor took them himself.”
Trying to figure out how a man in his seventies could accomplish such a feat alone, Rodger asked, “So, then, other than the Christofers, you kidnapped every other one of Vincent Castille’s victims?”
“I did,” replied Fat Willie. Then he scratched his head thoughtfully. “Are we counting Sam’s father as a victim? Because, if I remember from the newspapers, he kidnapped himself.”
Sam, who had been standing there and staring narrow-eyed at Fat Willie, sucked in a breath and gave him a look that spoke of premeditated murder. Her fists were clenched and she had almost-inhuman rage boiling in her eyes.
Rodger watched as Sam closed her eyes and turned away from Fat Willie. Looking back at the convict, Rodger asked, “So then, Fat Willie, have you been contacted by someone or something called the Nite Priory?”
This question seemed to take Fat Willie by surprise, and rearing back, he looked Rodger up and down as if he were a long-lost relative. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Suddenly, Fat Willie laughed out loud, a great booming laugh, and clapped his hands. “You have got to be shitting me. I honestly thought I was the only one to get a letter from this Nite Priory thing. But with you asking me about it, that can only mean one thing. This copycat is going around and contacting all of the Ripper’s old contractors, ain’t he? Sweet Josephine, that is too much!”
Taken aback by Fat Willie’s reaction, Rodger found himself growing more and more intrigued. From his point of view, both Topper Jack and Mad Monty seemed to be on the outer edge of the Castille murder ring, while it currently looked like Fat Willie was further inside.
The only loose end was how Blind Moses fit into the equation. Rodger shelved that thought for the time being.
“Do you have it with you? The note from the Nite Priory, I mean,” Rodger asked in a voice low enough to force Fat Willie to come closer.
Fat Willie grinned and said, “It’s in my cell. I will have my esteemed assistant warden, Mr. Daigle, get it for you after this interview.”
Rodger was glad there was no dirty joke or disgusting quip for once.
Sam spoke up. “I have a question for you.” She had returned to her seat and had her left fist clenched over what looked like a key chain.
Fat Willie rolled his head over to look at her, leaned forward, letting out a small fart toward Rodger, and said, “You can ask me anything, sugar-cooch.”
Sam’s fist squeezed the key chain several times in a pumping motion, her face getting less tense with every pump. “I’d like to know how Grandfather contacted you with instructions, Fat Willie. Did he leave notes, like the Nite Priory is doing?”
With a smack of his lips, Fat Willie leaned back, shook his head, and said, “He had his own personal courier who did all the messaging and shit for him. That bitch would show up in the middle of the night while I was sitting on my couch watching porn, or soaking my fat ass in the tub, or taking a goddamn shit. She’d stare at me all creepy like for a few moments and then start giving instructions. When she’d leave, there would be money stuffed in an envelope waiting for me.”
Rodger was keenly interested in this piece of information. He got Fat Willie’s attention and asked, “Who was this courier, Willie? We need a name.”
Fat Willie shrugged and said, “Why, Blind Moses, of course.”
The room went silent. Sam’s eyes grew, and Rodger, who was hit with two realizations—Blind Moses’ role in the original murders and her gender—just shook his head. He had never seen it coming.
Finally, Rodger said, “So, then, Blind Moses is a woman and was Vincent’s courier, correct?”
“Yes, indeed. And damn, that bitch was freaky,” replied Fat Willie, lifting up his belly and dropping it as if he was trying to make it bounce. “You ever had a blind woman stare at you? It was like the bitch could see. She had this misty look in those blind eyes, like there was something else inside there. Something inhuman.”
“What did she look like?” Sam quickly asked.
“How the hell should I know?” replied Fat Willie in a tone of increased annoyance. “You seen one nigger bitch, you seen ’em all. She worked for your granddaddy. You should know who it was. Really, it’s like you inherited your brains from your mother’s side of the family.”
Sam’s chair slid back, and she stood up and leaned forward, her eyes narrowing and her face full of rage. “What did you say?”
In a flash, Rodger was also standing, putting his hand out to get Sam’s attention. “Whoa! Whoa! Sam, calm down! This slime ball isn’t worth it.” He shook Sam’s shoulder, trying to get her to relax a bit.
Sam quickly turned to glare at Rodger, and for a moment, her countenance was that of a predator, a killer’s look, that same inhuman look as before. Rodger was taken aback by the sudden glare and stepped back. What the hell? That ain’t the Sam I know.
Lowering her head, Sam took a deep breath, then looked back up. All was suddenly normal with her expression. Turning to Fat Willie, she asked, “How can you know any
thing about my mother? She died soon after I was born. Childbirth complications. You never knew her. She wouldn’t associate with swine like you.”
Fat Willie gave a short laugh and said, “Is that what they told you, sweetie pie, that your mother died of complications from childbirth? That’s funny. Real funny.”
As Sam stared again at Fat Willie, Rodger spoke up, wanting to preserve the peace, as well as Sam’s dignity. “Mary Castille has nothing to do with the questions we’re asking you, Willie.”
Even though Sam again stared at him, Rodger ignored her and continued, saying, “We’ll get your letter from the Nite Priory. Now answer this, if you were the copycat killer, how would you get your victims to their point of execution?”
Fat Willie crossed his hands over his chest, his fat face crinkling up in what looked like deep thought. “Honestly, Detective, I’d lure them there. People are a lot more street-savvy nowadays, so unless you have a series of vacant alleyways to drag your victims along, you need them to come to you. You’d have to convince them to meet you, alone, at a certain time of night.”
For the first time since the interview, Fat Willie seemed serious. He continued, “Once she arrived, I’d drug her, probably with chloroform, but maybe with something more potent. Then I could get her and my equipment set up for the party. When she woke up, she’d wish she hadn’t.”
Nodding, Rodger thought about the two victims, Virginia and Rebecca, as well as how Mad Monty mentioned that at least one of them had been contacted on a pay phone.
“Has your question been answered satisfactorily?” Sam asked Rodger.
Rodger came out of his thoughts and nodded his head.
Sam turned back to Willie and said, “Good. Now you will tell me what you know about my mother.”
The clanking of iron from the hallway signaled the return of Daigle and the prison guards. Fat Willie gave a nasty grin and shrugged, saying, “Them’s the breaks, sweetie pie. Maybe you need to look further into how your daddy met your mommy, and how your grandpappy was involved in all that.”
Sam glared at Fat Willie. Rodger starting getting nervous.
“You know what the worst part about all this is, sweetie pie?” said Fat Willie. “Ain’t no one been honest to you your whole life, girl. You need to question why the Ripper killed your daddy. You really need to question that.”
Just then, Rodger heard the sound of a door opening and closing loudly. Daigle and the guards came up from the hallway, unlocked the cell, and entered it.
“All right, Willie,” said Daigle as the guards helped Fat Willie to his feet. “That’s enough being a dick for one day. Back to your cell.”
As Fat Willie was ushered out of the cell, he turned his head back to the duo and said, “And sweetie pie, if you ever want some real lovin’, come see me. I bet my Boudin link could split you down the middle and soak up your sweet Burgundy. You’ll scream for me, won’t you, baby?” He accented the question by blowing a final lewd kiss.
Rodger felt a strong desire to punch Fat Willie square in the face. Fortunately, the convict was soon gone, and Rodger was left standing there with Sam, who looked both fatigued and disgusted.
As if handling a stick of dynamite, Rodger placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders and said, “Let’s get that note and then get back to your car. You want me to drive?”
“Yes, please,” Sam said from in between her teeth.
It took them only a few minutes to tell Daigle about the note. Rodger was exhausting the last of his favors with his friend, but soon had the note in his hands. Fat Willie had sealed it in a plastic bag. Rodger decided to wait until he got back to the precinct to open it.
Once on the road out of Angola, Sam reached into her glove compartment, took out a notebook and her silver pen, and started scribbling furiously. Rodger, who had one eye on the highway and one eye on Sam, watched her with increasing caution.
Soon Sam had scribbled so hard in her notebook that the pages started to tear. Her jaw was clenched and tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. She was whispering to herself in what Rodger recognized as Haitian Creole, and her eyes once again had that murderous, inhuman look.
“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Rodger said, reaching over to touch Sam, only to have his hand slapped away. Hearing a truck’s horn, he looked forward again.
What Rodger saw scared the shit out of him.
While dealing with Sam, he had pulled into incoming traffic. An eighteen-wheeler was barreling down on them, the grill mere yards away from smashing them both to pieces. Rodger’s spine tingled as he felt his body unlock from the shock, a burst of adrenaline rushing through his system. His body snapped into action of its own accord, and with a sudden quick turn, Rodger pulled off the road onto the grass, narrowly missing a head-on collision.
It took Rodger a few moments to collect himself, and when he turned to say something to Sam, he saw that she was still scribbling hard, tears in her eyes caused by what he could only gather was anger.
“Sam,” Rodger called out. When he got no answer, he called out again. Then, reaching over, he grabbed her hands and made her stop writing. She looked up at him, her blond hair falling to either side of her face, her eyes filled with tears. Her jaw was tightly clenched and her ears were red.
“Dammit, Sam, we very nearly just died!” Rodger said as he looked down at the page she was writing on, half-torn with the strokes of her pen. He looked back at Sam. “Look, I know you’re upset and everything, but you have got to get it together. If you don’t get your shit together, people will think you’re a nutcase. And if they think that, then they’ll think you’re guilty. And once they think you’re guilty, that’s it—it doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not. To them, you will always be guilty.”
As Rodger slowly took the pen out of Sam’s hands and the notebook from her lap, Sam looked down. To his surprise, Sam’s tears began to flow freely, and she sniffled several times. To Rodger, Sam looked like that ten-year-old girl who used to look up to him as an uncle—a girl who desperately needed someone to listen to her, to be there for her.
“Do you think I’m guilty?” Sam asked, her voice thick with tears.
Rodger shook his head and said, “No. No, not at all.”
“Do you think I’m a nutcase?” Sam asked, her voice quieter.
Again, Rodger shook his head. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I do, however, think you are suffering a lot right now. And that Fat Willie guy got to you.”
Leaning back, Rodger looked at the page Sam was furiously writing on. It was detailed notes of a scene where a character, Big Charlie, was killed in a horrible accident while in prison. All sorts of brainstormed ideas were there—falling and getting impaled on a metal pole, getting burned alive from an explosive furnace, even falling into a laundry press—and those were the less gruesome ones. Turning back to the previous page, Rodger saw a note saying:
“Fat Willie = Big Charlie”
“Okay… ” Rodger said, a touch of concern readily apparent in his voice, “Fat Willie really got to you.”
And then the notebook was gone from Rodger’s hands, Sam having snatched it back. Her expression was stern and hurt, and she held the notebook protectively to her chest. “I can’t kill him in real life, but I can kill him again and again in my stories.”
Rodger cracked a small smile and handed Sam her pen back. “It’s a good outlet, Sam. Therapeutic, right?”
With a sardonic chuckle, Sam put both back into her glove compartment. “Sorry about that outburst. It was that stuff about my mother. You have no idea how hard it was to get any information about her from Father. It was like he was hiding something. Grandfather, too. Grandfather would always say that I was the only important one.”
Sam turned to Rodger and, wiping her eyes, asked, “Did you know my mother?”
Rodger shook his head and said, “I wish I had known Mary Castille. She and Edward were married in a private ceremony at the Castille Estate. And just the Krewe of Comus was i
nvited. Strange, I know. He never talked about her, and by the time you came along, I was told she had died in childbirth.
“I always wondered why Edward kept Mary a secret. Wouldn’t even tell me where he met her, only that she was a singer. I used to joke with him that she was a celebrity, just like I used to joke with him that you got all the traits from her side of the family, since he had dark hair and brown eyes. He never liked that joke. He always told me not to talk about shit I didn’t understand.”
Sam looked down at her lap and nodded, saying, “Thanks for telling me what you know.”
Soon, the two were on their way again, Rodger driving back toward the city of New Orleans. Looking at the clock in the dash, he noted to himself that they still had time before they reached the city. He had gotten so comfortable with this pseudo-closeness with Sam today that he had all but pushed the idea of the “important conversation” out of his mind. He knew, however, that until they actually talked about it, they couldn’t move past it.
“Hey, Sam, it’s going to be a few hours before we get back,” Rodger said, focusing on the road before him. “Anything else you want to talk about?”
“Let’s talk about my father and his death,” came Sam’s curt reply.
Rodger’s expression grew very serious. “All right, the hell with it,” was his decisive reply. He looked over at Sam. “But you go first, Sam. I don’t have the nerve.”
“Very well,” Sam quietly responded, then straightened up and began. “It’s really obvious that you have been avoiding talking to me for, well, close to twenty years. At first, I thought it was like Kent said, that you wanted to put the murders behind you.” Sam wasn’t looking at Rodger. Instead, she was looking outside as the scenery passed by.
“However, as time went on, and you still didn’t contact me, didn’t even drop me a line, it became obvious—painfully obvious—that you didn’t want to talk to me. Hell, you wanted nothing to do with me.”