by King, Leo
“It’s probably packed this time of night,” replied Michael, as he headed out toward the French Quarter. “Besides, Danny O’Flaherty is singing tonight, isn’t he? We won’t be able to hear ourselves think, much less talk. How about Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar?”
Rodger chuckled, then nodded, saying, “Somehow, that is terribly appropriate.”
Michael’s expression didn’t seem to soften, so Rodger tried again to lighten the conversation. “That was a good excuse you gave Sam to getting us out of staying late, that Ouellette wanted to see us tomorrow morning. Pretty ingenious.”
“It wasn’t an excuse,” Michael said curtly. “Ouellette wants to see us both at nine in the morning, sharp.”
Suddenly, Rodger felt that the mood of the conversation didn’t need to be messed with anymore.
Thirty minutes later, both detectives were sitting at a table in a dark, private corner of the Jean Lafitte Bar, far on the Dauphine side of the French Quarter on Bourbon Street. While it was not their usual spot, Jean Lafitte was typically more quiet on any given night. People could actually hear each other.
Rodger liked Jean Lafitte’s, although the irony of this bar and the nightclub that had become an important part of the case was not lost on him. The bar, which had once been a blacksmith shop, had a cozy quality to it.
The atmosphere was kept comfortable and dark, due to the illumination of palely lit lanterns, the tables and chairs had an Old World feel to them, the walls were still made of cobbled stone, and the centerpiece of the bar was the old forge and anvil.
Both detectives had gotten a pint of their favorite beers. While Rodger was looking around at the customers, most of them natives who were enjoying Bourbon Street, he noted that Michael was getting out his notebook and pen. Rodger’s expression soured. As he sipped on his beer, he thought to himself that Michael wasn’t capable of relaxing.
“All right,” Michael finally said, taking a sip of his beer and getting ready to take notes. “Start talking, Rodger. No more bullshit. Tell me everything.”
Rodger decided the best place to start was with Edward.
“You want to know about Edward Castille,” Rodger said, the pale light of the bar’s lanterns cascading off his tired face, “I’ll tell you about Edward Castille. But a word of this isn’t to get to Sam. Ever.” He made sure there was a serious quality to his voice—one that conveyed to his often socially obtuse partner the severity of his “request.”
Rodger went on, “Edward was what one would have called a model cop. The guy fought for the good guys simply because he wanted the world to be a better place. Or so that is what people like Ouellette and I would have you believe. The truth is that, at the time of his death, Edward was under investigation by Internal Affairs.”
Michael, who had been scribbling notes, looked up and blinked. From where Rodger was sitting, the lantern light shone completely on his partner’s face, and every etched line of confused suspicion shone through.
Michael looked Rodger in the eyes and asked, “So, then, Edward was a dirty cop?”
Rodger shifted so that the light of the lantern fell off his face. He didn’t like talking about this ugly part of his former partner’s life, but as Michael had asked for the truth, and a lot more was at stake than Rodger’s comfort, he pushed himself to continue.
“If it were only that easy,” said Rodger, “because the investigation was never concluded. You see, Vincent Castille was business partners with the head of the Marcello crime family, Carlos Marcello.”
“I know that,” Michael replied, looking back down at his notes. “I found that out today. They were, what did she say, ‘real tight,’ right?”
Instantly, Rodger knew who Michael was talking about. Leaning forward and narrowing his eyes some, Rodger said, “You spoke with Rosemary today, didn’t you?”
Michael looked up at him, his surprise evident.
With a smirk, Rodger continued. “Yes, Dr. Castille and Mr. Marcello grew up near each other along Pontchartrain Lake—you know, the area in Mandeville where all big mansions are.”
Rodger didn’t need to elaborate. Unless his partner knew nothing of New Orleans, he’d know the part of Lake Pontchartrain—Northshore—where the obscenely rich lived.
When Michael nodded in understanding, Rodger continued. “One went on to become the head of the biggest crime family in New Orleans, and the other became a respected and beloved doctor. But they remained in contact. So in 1960, the childhood friends funded, built, and managed Jean Lafitte Theater. Why? To live out the glory days of the forties and fifties, I suppose. It’s not really important, because the real meat doesn’t come with those old geezers, but with their sons.”
“Edward and Giorgio,” replied Michael.
With a nod, Rodger leaned back into the darkness, taking his beer with him. For a few choice moments, he sipped on it. It had a bitter taste, but it was cool and felt good going down.
“Fathers knew each other, sons knew each other. You could call the two pals, even though they ran in obviously opposing circles. Fast-forward to the seventies. As Blue-Eyed Giorgio came under suspicion of being a serial rapist, the police put him under more and more surveillance. And Giorgio got better and better at dodging the heat.”
“And let me guess,” Michael said, scribbling like mad. “Edward was under suspicion of protecting his friend, right?”
“Yeah. At first, it seemed ridiculous. Edward was an upstanding cop. He had a young daughter, Samantha, to care for. And together, he and I had closed hundreds of tough murder cases. It was inconceivable that Edward would be dirty.”
Michael looked up for a moment, obviously trying to see Rodger in the shadows. “But I don’t get it, Rodger. Internal Affairs back then wasn’t what it is now. What made them focus so heavily on Edward?”
“The Jean Lafitte Club,” Rodger said. “That damn club. I hated going there, but Edward went there all the time. And guess who else was there?”
“Giorgio,” was Michael’s reply.
“You got it, partner,” Rodger said, taking another long swig of his beer. “When I stopped going, and Edward continued to go, and Giorgio started dodging the cops, suspicious eyes fell on Detective Castille.”
Rodger paused for a long time and then said, “And me. Giorgio and Edward would often be heard arguing behind closed doors, and the next day the trail of Blue-Eyed Giorgio’s activities would go cold.”
Michael looked up, and Rodger could see that his partner finally got it. “So you had to distance yourself from Edward, while maintaining the illusion of being close to him, in order to keep yourself from being investigated.”
Rodger leaned forward, his face fully in the lantern light. He knew the tired lines on his old face showed. Nodding, he said, “It was the hardest balancing act I have ever had to play. I cared for Edward. He was a friend. And I honestly believed I was better friends with him and Blue-Eyed Giorgio. Not to mention that I loved Samantha like my own daughter. But this… this sucked. And it happened during the worst possible time.”
Michael’s face again registered comprehension. “During the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.”
“Correct,” Rodger said. He took a sip of his beer, and then sighed. “So, when you think about it, Edward should not have been buried with full honors. But considering that he gave his life to bring down the most infamous serial killer this city had ever seen, it was no surprise when Internal Affairs sealed the case and swept the matter under the rug.”
Michael asked, “So, how many of you covered it up? How many are left who still know?”
Rodger thought about it long enough to get an accurate count. “Myself; old Dugas, who headed up the investigation against Giorgio; Ouellette, who, believe it not, was already bald back then; and Kyle Aucoin. We’re the only ones left who remember.”
Michael nodded his head and, after a few seconds, finished writing. Looking at Rodger, he said, “So that is why Sam is being observed and treated so carefully as a suspec
t. Her grandfather was the Ripper and her father may have been on the take.”
Rodger nodded, figuring that the matter of Edward was closed. He started to drink his beer, but nearly choked when Michael said, “Rodger, I think Edward was innocent. Rosemary said something that resonated with me. I don’t think that the arguments had to do with Blue-Eyed Giorgio being under suspicion of rape.”
“Whoa, slow down, Michael. Old Rosemary hasn’t opened up to anyone before. And believe me, the pressure was put on her. So what’s the story there?”
Michael said, “It’s simple. I know that Blue-Eyed Giorgio wanted to have a relationship with Magnolia of the M and M Sisters, while she already had a relationship with Edward.”
Rodger thought for a moment, sure that the situation didn’t add up, swirling the ideas around in his head. After a moment, Rodger shook his head and said, “No, you got that backward. It was the other one, Marigold—Magnolia’s twin sister—who was Edward’s lover.”
The look on Michael’s face showed that he wanted to argue, but was fighting it.
Sucking in his breath, Rodger said, “I could have it wrong, partner. It’s been twenty years. Magnolia died shortly before the Ripper murders began, and Marigold ran away soon before Dr. Castille was arrested.”
Michael didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was very firm. “We need to get that straight, Rodger. I’m sure it’s important. Rosemary stated, before I left, that Magnolia was murdered.”
This revelation made Rodger blink, and again he was sure the confusion shone on his face.
“Magnolia was murdered? Hmmm. I thought she had a heart attack. Man, this shit from twenty years ago, it just won’t go away.”
While it was obvious that Michael was tensing up again, Rodger could tell his partner was still managing to keep his cool.
“It is relevant, Rodger,” said Michael. “Even if it’s not linked to the current case, figuring it out should give us an idea of the big picture. Besides, wouldn’t you like to be able to go to the office of the police chief with evidence that Edward Castille was an honest cop caught in a dirty game?”
That thought made a part of Rodger that had been tense for years start to relax. With a tired nod, he said, “I would love that. For his sake. For Sam’s.”
Michael turned the pages in his notebook and said, “Now, that brings me to the current investigation. Rodger, I am sorry, but the circumstantial evidence points to Sam as the killer. She has a history of mental illness, she was as messed up as Dallas, who I met, by the way, and who is completely off the list of suspects—the guy couldn’t hurt a fly—and she has the access to everything her grandfather had, including his property on Lake Pontchartrain, where the torture chamber is located and where the last murder was committed. I don’t want to believe it, and I’d want hard evidence before I’d consider arresting her, but it doesn’t look good.”
Rodger felt his stress level return. Shaking his head, he said, “No freaking way. Sam didn’t do it. My gut tells me—”
“Your gut, I am sorry to say,” Michael replied, his voice elevated, “hasn’t been worth shit lately. In fact, Rodger, who really solved the Ripper murders? You and Edward? Or just Edward?”
Rodger’s brow furrowed. As he pulled himself back in the shadows, obscuring his face, he said, “Fuck you, Michael.”
From the darkness, Rodger could see his partner’s expression soften, Michael getting a look that showed he realized that he had gone too far.
“I’m sorry.”
Rodger didn’t feel like accepting that apology. He had been wrestling with this for a long time, and Michael’s lack of social graces were bringing him to the very edge. He knew the answer, but admitting it out loud would take a surplus of courage that he no longer had—not after today.
After a few moments, Rodger said, “Let’s just say that I have as much to prove this time around as you do, and leave it at that.”
That seemed to be good enough for Michael. He nodded and sipped his beer. “Well, Sam could be cleared if we could just search her apartment. But that damn Kent keeps stonewalling us from doing so.”
“Kent is just looking out for Sam,” Rodger replied coolly. “The real thing that concerns me is that someone has deliberately sabotaged my relationship with Sam. Can you believe this shit, Michael? Today, I discovered that someone had stopped her from getting every card I’d ever sent her. All those years of trying to foster goodwill, while nurturing my own injured ego, fucked over because someone decided to block my efforts to be Good Uncle Rodger.”
Michael looked up for a second and then nodded. Rodger wondered, through the haze of his mind, muddled now with exhaustion and alcohol, what his partner had figured out. Rodger was sure he’d figure it out later and slid it into the messy stockpile of information that was his memory to sort through later.
Michael turned the page of his notebook and read a note. “By the way, Rodger, Blind Moses is a woman.”
“I know,” was Rodger’s relaxed reply. “Fat Willie told me. And that reminds me. I’ve got some shit to tell you on him, but let’s save it for after I’ve sobered up.”
Michael nodded and said, “That’s fine. Anyway, assuming Sam and Richie can keep themselves out of trouble, I have our next two locations figured out. We need to go back to Robert Fontenot and drill him on some particulars that Rosemary said. Then, we need to go to the Castille Mansion on Lake Pontchartrain. I’ve already got a search warrant in the works, in case the proprietor there tries to stop us.”
“That’s a good idea,” Rodger said, the feeling of booze and sleep deprivation mixing like a Zen cocktail. “If this Magnolia, Marigold, and Mary thing is going to get sorted out, the Castille Mansion could very well be the place to do it.”
Michael looked at Rodger with a confused expression, and asked, “Who the hell is Mary, Rodger?”
Rodger started to answer when someone out the corner of his eye caught his attention. Rodger got up, ignoring his partner calling after him, and headed over to the person in question.
“Kyle,” Rodger said, approaching Aucoin, who was still in his suit, standing in the middle of the bar as if he were lost, and looking around. “Here for a drink?”
Aucoin turned toward Rodger, a surprised look on his face. “Rodger, what the heck are you doing here?”
“Having a drink with his partner,” replied Michael, who was by now at Rodger’s side. Rodger felt a bit of his tension release and some of his pride return at Michael calling him his partner again. “If you’re here about Ouellette, we already know. I found out from the commander himself.”
“Ah, right, the meeting tomorrow,” Aucoin said, looking around the bar again and then back at the detective duo. Patting Rodger on the shoulder, Aucoin managed a small wry smile and said, “Just so you know, you better not plan on having any balls tomorrow after the commander gets done with you.”
Apart from helping to sober Rodger up, Aucoin’s comment grounded Rodger back into reality. Looking over at Michael, Rodger realized that he had brushed him off again, and said, “I’ll tell you about Mary later. Sorry, I got distracted.”
“It’s okay, thanks,” Michael replied. “Detective Aucoin, if I may ask, what are you doing here? You’re looking like you’re waiting for someone. Is it Detective Olivier?”
Aucoin chuckled and shook his head. “Dixie? No. No. She’s probably having a Greek gyro right now. No, I’m looking for someone. Although I guess this is not the place. Man, I am really out of touch with the hot spots in the Quarter.”
“Well, there’s any place on Bourbon Street,” Rodger said. “And there is O’Flaherty’s on Toulouse, and House of Blues on Decatur. Why, who are you looking for?”
“My daughter, Cheryl,” Aucoin replied. “We got into a fight earlier this evening and she ran off with her friends. With that copycat killer on the loose, Cathy is sick with worry and wants me to find her and bring her home.”
Rodger looked over at Michael.
As his partner nodded, Rodger realized that the Ripper copycat investigation was going to get put on pause for the night, and all three of them would be getting to bed late after trying to find Cheryl.
“We’ll help you,” Rodger said to Aucoin. “Let’s split up and search for her until we find her.”
Michael said, “Right. And if Rodger or I find her, we’ll detain her and call Cathy to come pick her up.”
Aucoin, who had been looking around again, looked back at the two detectives and gave the kind of tired smile that only a grateful father could give.
“Thanks. I’ll remember this, guys. So let’s get started. She didn’t disappear by magic.”
Chapter 25
One Last Chance
Date: Saturday, August 8, 1992
Time: 9:00 a.m.
Location: New Orleans Police Precinct, 8th District
French Quarter
“Rodger, Michael, I am trying so hard not to have a reason to suspend you,” Ouellette said to the two detectives, his palms resting flat on the surface of his desk. The tension in the office was palpable, hanging in the air like thick smoke. The door was closed and the shutters were drawn over the windows. Outside the office, the conversations were hushed at best.
Michael was standing to the side of his partner, who, like him, had his hands at his sides and was in an attentive, almost military stance. Sitting to the other side, looking less tense but equally troubled, were Aucoin and Dixie, the former of whom kept looking at his watch. Michael noted that, with the exception of Dixie, everyone in the room looked haggard, tired, and on edge. Even Ouellette, who held himself together with admirable military discipline, seemed like he had not slept in days.
“I am trying so very hard not to have a reason to suspend you,” Ouellette repeated, his hands lifting from the surface of his desk and leaving sweat marks, “but your behavior yesterday broke so many rules that I have basically two choices.”
Lifting a finger, Ouellette said, “One, I suspend you both right now without pay, and hand the investigation to Aucoin and Dixie. After this case is closed, we can review why Rodger saw fit to take a suspect to Angola, and why Michael saw fit to allow a known witness, who, might I add, gave my other two detectives a real piss-poor attitude, to perform a private investigation.”