The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)

by King, Leo

  The bitterness in Sam’s voice had finally started to come out, a strain in the back of her throat.

  “You were there throughout all my childhood, Rodger. You’d come over to my father’s townhome for dinner almost every night. You’d sit for me when Father was busy with that Comus stuff. You’d take me to City Park and Pontchartrain Beach. Hell, until I was seven years old and Dad explained it to me, I thought you were my honest-to-goodness uncle. And then, my life falls to shit, everything I ever cared about is torn from me, and you… you… ” Sam quickly turned her head to look directly at Rodger. “You fucking abandoned me!”

  Rodger, who had been choking up more and more as Sam talked, and using all of his concentration to avoid swerving off the road, found himself flinching at the end of Sam’s speech. His grizzled jaw was clenched, his old, tired eyes were tearing up, and it was all he could do to avoid letting them spill.

  Rodger’s voice cracked, in spite of himself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sam. It was just, I… your father… I couldn’t face you.”

  Sam’s voice had an incredulous tone. “You couldn’t face me? Rodger, no one blames you for my father’s death! Dad went to confront Grandfather alone. He made his choice, and—”

  Rodger couldn’t take it anymore. The gnawing pain that had been eating away at his guts for twenty years became unbearable. A secret pain, one he had hidden from everyone, burst forth. “You don’t get it, Samantha! I’m the one who sent Edward to his death!”

  Sam just stared at Rodger. The older man, unable to keep the tears from pouring down the side of his face, had enough mental acumen to pull off to the side of the road before getting into an accident. Once the car was stopped, Rodger rested his head on the steering wheel—partially because his head had never felt so heavy, and partially to hide the tears streaming down his cheeks.

  For the first time in years, Rodger’s voice was shaking as he spoke. “The investigation really wore on us, Sam. It was like it consumed our lives. Your father and I. We couldn’t eat. We couldn’t sleep. All we could concentrate on was the evidence, those photos of the crime scenes. After a while, it started to get into our heads. Every time we closed our eyes, we’d see the victims, their faces, the agony, and what was left of their bodies. We became so engrossed in this nightmare that we started to lose track of everything around us.”

  Shaking his head, rubbing his brow on the steering wheel, Rodger continued.

  “When Aucoin found Maple and Dallas, though, Edward lost it. It was like someone set off the crazy bomb in his head. I had never seen him so angry. He came to me, babbling, saying he had figured it out. He knew who the Bourbon Street Ripper was—your grandfather. His father.”

  Lifting up his head, Rodger stared straight ahead, seeing nothing before him but his own obscured vision. Like Sam, the floodgates of emotion, held back twenty years, had opened, and nothing would close those gates.

  “No one wanted to believe that Dr. Castille was the Ripper. But your father was convinced. He begged me to go with him, to arrest Vincent. To kill him if necessary. He begged me, Sam! He goddamn begged me!”

  Finally Rodger looked over at Sam, his face drenched in tears. Although he could barely focus, he saw that Sam’s face was covered in tears as well.

  “I didn’t believe him, Sam! I was so exhausted, so wrapped up in my own bullshit that I told him I wouldn’t go in without proof. He went off by himself. Sam, your father never went to arrest a suspect without backup. But he went to the mansion that one time, alone, and… and… ”

  “My grandfather murdered him,” Sam replied, her voice still choked with emotion.

  Rodger said nothing at first. He wanted to tell Sam what Dr. Klein had revealed, but decided that this could only hurt the situation more than help it. To Rodger, letting Sam know she had witnessed that murder wasn’t just unnecessary, it was cruel.

  Instead, Rodger nodded and said, “If I had only believed him, Sam. He’d still be alive. And maybe, just maybe, that sweet little girl I used to take to Pontchartrain Beach would still be around.”

  As Rodger wiped his tears away, he heard Sam’s voice. It sounded softer, gentler than usual. “She’s still around, Rodger.”

  Rodger was suddenly aware that a handkerchief was dabbing the tears off his unshaven face. Turning, he saw Sam giving him a soft, sad smile, and using what looked like a pocket kerchief to dry off his face.

  “She’s not gone. She’s just very frightened of getting hurt again. She never knew her mother. Her father was murdered by her grandfather. And her “uncle Rodger” never talked to her, never visited, didn’t even send so much as a birthday card.”

  His face dry, Rodger sniffled hard and gave Sam a weak smile. “I guess I’ve been pretty foolish, haven’t I? Thinking you’d hate me if you knew the full story.”

  At this confession, Sam chuckled, putting away her kerchief. “And it looks like I was too proud to seek you out. I guess we’ve both been pretty stupid.”

  Rodger felt the weight lift off his shoulders. “Yeah, we’ve been pretty stupid.”

  Then Sam did something that Rodger was not the least bit expecting. Leaning forward, she wrapped her arms around Rodger and held him, her head against his shoulders. Rodger rested his head on hers. For a moment, it felt like he was being hugged by little Samantha again.

  When Sam broke the hug, she wiped away the remnants of her tears and said, “Sorry. I’ve been having a lot of, well, emotional catharses lately, and I feel like I’m, well, feeling again for the first time in years.”

  Rodger noted that Sam was again squeezing that key chain of hers, the one with the red plastic shoe. He figured it must be an emotional safety net, much like him and his cigarettes. He gave Sam a small smile and nodded, then, taking the car out of Park, casually mentioned, “Besides, I sent you cards, remember? Every year. Christmas, birthdays… ?”

  As he pulled out onto the road, Rodger saw Sam shaking her head.

  “No, you never sent me a card, Rodger. I’ve never gotten anything from you,” she said.

  Rodger said nothing. He knew he had sent Sam cards many times. But he didn’t want to argue. Not after everything they had talked about.

  For many long minutes, only the loud hum of the road underneath Sam’s car and the sight of the passing mile markers kept Rodger’s attention.

  Finally, Sam spoke up. “Rodger?”

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “Are we… are we on good terms now?”

  Rodger smiled, saying, “Yeah. We’re good, Sam. I’m glad we got this settled.”

  Sam closed her eyes and seemingly went to sleep.

  Rodger focused on the road, but his mind was elsewhere.

  I sent her two cards a year. Two cards a year, one on Christmas and one on her birthday. I also sent a card for her confirmation and one for her graduation.

  Rodger didn’t like how this made him feel at all.

  Why didn’t she get them?

  He gritted his teeth in rising frustration.

  Who’s been cutting off communication between Sam and me?

  Chapter 23

  The Nite Priory

  Date: Friday, August 7, 1992

  Time: 7:00 p.m.

  Location: New Orleans Police Precinct, 8th District

  French Quarter

  Upon following Detective Aucoin to the police precinct floor, Richie saw a middle-aged woman with gray hair, dressed in drab clothing and carrying a box, approaching the detective. The woman had a teenage girl with her who was dressed in clothing that made her look more like a streetwalker and less like a high school student.

  The girl had Walkman buds in her ears and was apparently listening to something dripping with angst, her expression one of a jaded soul who had seen and suffered it all, and could be impressed by nothing. The woman, who looked rather plain in comparison to the daughter, had a world-weary look about her.

  “Cathy. Cheryl,” Aucoin said with a surprised start, for the moment completely ignoring Richie, ins
tead approaching both ladies. “What are you—”

  “Your box of college yearbooks,” interrupted Cathy, a twinge of what Richie detected as sadness in her voice. “I found it while cleaning out our rental storage. I had left you a message, but”—the woman offered the box to her husband—“you didn’t return any of my calls.”

  Taking the box, Aucoin said, “I’ve been busy with this case, Cathy, you know that.” His voice was, in Richie’s mind, a bit harsh, because Cathy’s face seemed to age almost a year from the comment. Apparently Aucoin caught on to that, because immediately, he rubbed the woman’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Cathy,” said Aucoin before turning to the girl.

  “How’s school, Cheryl?” Aucoin asked the girl, who was busy cracking her gum at the world. “Still acing your trig classes?”

  Cathy made a motion of putting something into and plucking something out of her ears. “She can’t hear you, Kyle. She’s listening to that Manson guy again. Remember, her world is one big dark room right now.”

  “Right, that Manson guy,” Aucoin replied as he put the box down on a desk. “I’ll never understand the music kids listen to these days.” His voice lowered as he leaned in toward the woman. “How’s everything at your mom’s?”

  “Fine,” replied Cathy. “We’re gonna stay there until, you know, we’ve had a chance to start going to—”

  Aucoin’s voice dropped, as if he were embarrassed to be having this conversation. “Cathy, honey, I said that wasn’t necessary. We just need a chance to talk this out, you and me. There’s no reason—”

  It was at this point that both Aucoin and Cathy, whom Richie could only assume was the detective’s estranged wife, realized that Richie was standing a few feet away, watching. Cathy’s face started to flush while Aucoin, who looked to be holding in his temper, nodded at Richie and said, “You mind, Dick?”

  Dixie, who was walking up to the group, said, “I’ve got him, Kyle. This way, Mr. Fastellos.”

  Richie walked alongside Dixie, who neither looked at or spoke to him. Soon they were in the precinct lobby. Dixie was showing Richie to the door when the officer at the front desk said, “Hey, Dixie! Gino’s on the phone. Want me to tell him that you’ll call him back?”

  Dixie shook her head and said, “No. Tell him to hold. I’ll take it over in the squad room.” She then escorted Richie outside.

  As the warm night air washed over Richie, he felt Dixie pull on his arm until she was eye-to-eye with him. Her voice was low as she said, “I’ve got my eye on you, Mr. Fastellos. Don’t screw up.”

  As she went back inside, Richie rubbed his arm, wondering what the hell was wrong with the police in this city. As he started walking through the French Quarter, heading back toward the hotel, Richie began to wonder if the stress of the investigation was already causing these seasoned cops to crack.

  It was almost like something was making a bad situation worse.

  Richie’s thoughts were interrupted by someone stepping in front of him, having come out of an alleyway. Richie froze in his tracks as the large person with a thick square jaw, dressed in a pinstriped suit, looked down at him. Just as quickly, he realized that an equally large man was right behind him. Then it clicked in Richie’s head—these were the two men who had been with the Lady in Red at the Ritz-Carlton bar!

  Again, Richie’s muscles started to coil, and his fists started to tighten, when a voice nearby spoke.

  “Good evening, Mr. Fastellos,” said a weasel-like voice. From behind the big man in front of him came a smaller man, about a foot shorter than Richie, his hair slicked back, his nose pointy, and his shoulders obviously artificially enlarged by his jacket. The short man grinned up at Richie.

  “Lovely evening for a drive, don’t you think? Why not come for one? I have someone who wants to talk to you.” Just as the short man said that, a black Cadillac pulled up beside the four of them, and a burly black man with dreadlocks and sunglasses got out of the driver’s seat. Richie suddenly realized he was getting “taken for a ride” by mobsters.

  “Nice night for a ride?” asked Richie, looking for a quick exit. “Who are you guys? What did I do?” The fear he had about the Lady in Red suddenly bubbled to the service. “I swear, I’ve never touched her!” Richie immediately regretted the outburst.

  The short man just laughed and held out his hands in the least genuine gesture of goodwill Richie had ever seen. “Just a conversation, Mr. Fastellos. Nothing more.”

  “Well, can’t we have a nice chat back in the hotel bar?” Richie asked, feeling more out of control by the second. His last panic pill was no longer at its full strength.

  “You’re a funny man, Mr. Fastellos,” replied the short man, eying Richie as a predator would his prey. “Please try not to piss your pants. We just got the car cleaned.”

  The short man addressed the chauffeur. “Damarco, is Mr. Marcello ready?”

  The black man nodded, speaking in a decisive Jamaican accent. “Of course, Mr. Ernesto. He’s just having himself some dinner right now.”

  Ernesto smiled toothily at Richie as he motioned toward the car. “See, Mr. Fastellos? You get to have dinner with Mr. Marcello. How lucky of you! Now, come this way, and please”—the short man’s teeth glittered like fangs—“don’t make a scene.”

  Richie felt that he was trapped, a feeling he did not like at all. Looking around again, he quickly realized that he had nowhere he could run. He was too far from the police station to call for help, and there weren’t enough pedestrians to see that he was in trouble.

  He must have hesitated a bit too long, because Ernesto made a motion toward Richie, and the two men on either side of him grabbed him, one hand under each arm, and pulled him into the car.

  Richie’s heart pounded in his chest, his head beginning to hurt, as he felt the situation spiraling totally out of control. He was sure that the Lady in Red was indeed some mob boss’s woman, and that he was being taken to get fitted for a pair of cement boots. I’ve got to explain to this Marcello guy that it’s all a misunderstanding!

  Mr. Ernesto got into the front passenger seat, while Richie, who was seated in the middle of the backseat, had the two large goons on either side of him. This situation did not help set him at ease.

  Neither did Mr. Ernesto’s chatter during the ride, which was about how easy it was to hide dead bodies.

  The car took them to the Riverwalk, an elevated shopping mall located right on the Mississippi River. The white polished exterior rose up from the end of Canal Street, near the ferry, and extended along the river all the way toward Poydras.Right next to the entrance to the Riverwalk was a building Richie recognized as the Rivergate, which currently sported a large sign titled “Future Site of Harrah’s Casino and Resort.”

  This time of the evening, the entrance to the Riverwalk was mostly deserted, and the Rivergate, which had people walking in and out of it, was too far away to shout at. Richie focused on keeping himself from panicking, knowing that if he gave in to fear, he’d be good as dead. Doing all he could to keep his anxiety down, Richie tried to focus on how he would talk his way out of this situation.

  As the car stopped, Ernesto finished his useless babble with, “But the best part is that the mudbugs and fish in the river will eat any kind of carrion, Mr. Fastellos. It’s really an amazing way to get rid of something you never want to be found.”

  It took all of Richie’s willpower to keep from freaking out. He really wished he had just one more pill, something to help him get through this. Shutting out Ernesto’s comments, Richie put all of his focus into appearing completely normal as he was walked up the ramp and into the Riverwalk.

  The mall was closed, and except for a few janitors, who paid the five people no mind, no one else was there. The interior of the mall was very attractive, with stores lined up around a center atrium that traveled alongside the bank of the river. Ceiling fans were rotating nice and slow, keeping the muggy August air from getting too stagnant. The shops all had metal mes
h doors over their entrances, and in the air hung notes of Brahms’s Fourth Symphony. The entire place smelled of pine.

  As the group headed upstairs, Richie spotted a lone security guard at a station, and he was about to call out to him when he saw that the guard was both listening to headphones and reading the newspaper. Richie felt his stomach sink. It was obvious to him that this guy was on the payroll of this Marcello person.

  The second floor, which overlooked the atrium, sported an area near a long outside balcony, café-style seating everywhere. The seats and tables were moved to the side, and sitting at a large round table was an older gentleman with a brunette women sitting opposite him. The older gentleman, Richie noted, was quite handsome, with that charming, lady-killer look about him. His hair was obviously dyed black, slicked back in the traditional “wise-guy” manner, and his suit, clearly tailored, sported a red rose on the lapel.

  The woman was wearing a red and black dress that was both revealing and uncomfortable-looking, and apart from having an obviously inflated chest size, she seemed positively bored to tears with her dinner.

  All around were big, strong-looking goons, all wearing pinstriped suits. As Richie approached, escorted by Ernesto, he wondered if he really had left reality and entered into a film noir.

  “Mr. Marcello,” Ernesto said as he and the others stopped with Richie a few feet from the table. “This is Mr. Fastellos, as you requested.”

  Marcello, who was trying to enjoy a particularly juicy cut of steak, turned to look at the short man, with some of the most blue eyes Richie had ever seen staring at Ernesto. Looking back at his dinner, Marcello motioned toward his glass. Out of seemingly nowhere, a butler appeared with a bottle of wine and refilled Marcello’s glass.

  Maybe it was the almost casual dining atmosphere, or the soft classical music, or even the nonthreatening way in which Marcello nodded, but Richie felt any fleeting remnants of his anxiety, like what he felt when he saw that the security guard was ignoring him, melt away. It seemed like maybe he was anxious over nothing, and that this Marcello person just wanted to talk to him. Instead, Richie focused on getting his charm up, so that he could smooth-talk his way out of this situation and back to his nice, safe hotel room. Keep it simple. Sit down. Find out what he wants. Give it to him. Leave.