by King, Leo
“Wait, wait, Sam,” Richie said, “maybe he wasn’t talking about your father being a collaborator with a serial rapist. Maybe he was—”
“Of course that’s what it was,” screamed Sam, her countenance suddenly becoming violent. She waved the gun in Richie’s direction, making him jump back, hands out to defend himself.
“Whoa, Sam, chill the hell out,” Richie exclaimed, caution and shock in his voice.
Sam, who apparently didn’t notice Richie’s outburst, or even that she had a gun pointed at him, continued to rant. “Because right after that, Internal Affairs started to investigate my dad! I heard him talking to Grandpa about it. Grandpa told him to leave town for a few months, to get the heat off, but Dad wouldn’t. He said he had his job! He said he had his honor! He said he had me to look out for! His little magnolia!”
Sam was near tears, and as Richie inched toward her, she started to shake.
Richie realized he had never seen someone in this much emotional pain before in his entire life. He wondered just how much anguish Sam’s heart held, and how deep that pain went. Richie saw that inside her tear-filled blue eyes lay more emotion than he ever thought possible within another human being.
Then Richie moved. With a quick motion, he slid the gun out of Sam’s hand—she wasn’t resisting—and pulled her into his arms. Her arms wrapped around him, and she started sobbing into his chest, dampening his shirt with her tears.
“Sorry,” Sam sobbed. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Richie said, pressing his face against the top of her head. “Really, it’s okay. I’m here, Sam.”
As Sam sobbed on, Richie realized his intuition was right on the money with Samantha Castille. This woman really needed someone to help her. For the moment, thoughts of lust were nowhere in Richie’s mind. Likewise, there were no thoughts of being a macho man and protecting “the female.” It was just him, Richard Fastellos, comforting and caring for her, Samantha Castille.
That settles it. I’m in love with her. God help me.
An hour later, Sam and Richie were back downstairs, having some tea and conversation. Edward’s service revolver was back in its usual place, and the two had searched every inch of the townhome without finding any intruders. They had decided to wait until they heard from Rodger and Michael before doing anything else with the case.
“So, Sam, have you seen or spoken to anyone else today about this incident?” Richie asked, sipping his tea, a refreshing change from all the coffee he’d been drinking lately.
“You’re the first one I spoke with since it happened,” Sam said, sipping her tea with small, less-than-confident sips. “My best friend, Jacob, came by this morning. He told me he wasn’t certain if the Picayune could continue to run my story, and that Caroline, the editor, would call me later today about it.”
Richie nodded, having heard Sam mention Jacob Hueber in passing. “But Jacob believes you are innocent, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Sam said, smiling softly into her cup. “Jacob has had a rough past, too. I’m not sure I can tell you anything. Suffice it to say, however, Jacob knows what it means to be alone. To not let others inside your heart.”
Richie nodded in understanding. He had become increasingly aware that the people involved in this sordid copycat tale were all misfits who had a hard time letting others into their lives. To him, it seemed appropriate that the people to hunt down a true psychotic killer were those who were, in fact, messed up themselves. It’s almost like, in order to find a monster, you have to be a monster yourself.
Richie was drawn out of his thoughts by Sam saying, “So he made some copies of something for work while he was here, said he’d be back tomorrow to check up on me, and left. He’s one of the editors at the newspaper, so he has to go in to work today. Ya know, with tomorrow being Sunday and all.”
“Right,” replied Richie, sipping his tea. “The big print day for a newspaper. So, Sam, um… you are one hundred percent certain that I cannot convince you to call the police and let them know you have a potentially dangerous stalker after you?”
“I’m certain,” Sam replied in a very matter-of-fact tone. She had already told Richie, under no uncertain terms, that she would let Rodger and Michael know the situation when they showed up, and that all four of them would figure out a plan. Richie decided he did not want to push it.
“All right,” Richie said, finally giving up the fight. “But I’m staying here until they show up. No compromise there.”
To his surprise, Sam smiled into her teacup, batted her eyelashes, and said, “That’s a bonus.”
Richie blinked. Did she just… flirt with me?
Suddenly, thoughts of getting cozy with Sam didn’t seem so far out of the ballpark.
Coming back to reality, and clearing his throat, Richie said, “So, Sam, I need to tell you about what happened last night.”
“Probably not a good idea to talk about it before Rodger and Michael arrive,” Sam replied.
Richie frowned and sucked in his breath. “I’m not talking about the investigation, Sam. Something… happened last night. Something that is, well, bad and yet holds a lot of answers.”
Noting that Sam was staring at him, Richie added, “And I could get arrested if the cops find out about it.”
After gently setting her teacup on her saucer, Sam rested her hands on her knees. Her expression was neither disapproving or judgmental, just coolly observant. “Go on.”
Drawing his breath in, Richie focused his thoughts on getting the story out as concisely as possible. The novelist in him came out as he sipped his tea, wet his lips, and began his tale.
Richie recounted how he was picked up and interviewed by Aucoin and Dixie, how he had been kidnapped by Giorgio Marcello, and how the Nite Priory had saved him by killing Marcello and all of his thugs.
Sam blinked, then registered surprise. “Wait, everyone is dead? Blue-Eyed Giorgio is dead? His men are dead?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Richie, knowing he was sweating. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Sam. They moved so fast that the thugs didn’t have a chance. And I was rushing so hard from adrenaline that the whole thing seemed to go in slow motion. But it was a massacre—a total massacre, Sam. No one survived.”
“Jesus, are you sure this happened?” asked Sam. “This wasn’t some crazy drug trip or something?”
Richie’s voice snapped some as he exclaimed, “Sam! I may be a writer, but even I can’t make that shit up! The entire time it was happening, I thought I was crazy! It was… surreal. Even now, my rational mind tells me that I was dreaming, but it can’t be a dream, because of this!”
Reaching into his pants pocket, Richie took out a folded piece of paper. It was an article taken from that morning’s edition of the Times-Picayune. He had originally assumed all this time that Sam had already read the headlines, but given how her morning had gone, Richie now assumed she hadn’t.
Richie unfolded the paper and showed it to Sam. There an image of human bodies being fished out of the Mississippi River took up a large portion of the page.
The text was as bold as the image: “BODIES OF BLUE-EYED GIORGIO AND ASSOCIATES FOUND.”
As Sam looked over the newspaper clipping, shaking her head in disbelief, Richie continued, “If I hadn’t seen that, I would have thought the events of last night were some kind of psychotic dream. But seeing this headline proves it was no dream. Last night, I witnessed a mass murder the likes of which I have never seen before.”
Sam skimmed over the article. “So, you said the Nite Priory saved you? I thought the Nite Priory were the bad guys, the ones committing the murders.”
Chuckling, Richie waved for Sam to wait, saying, “It may seem like that, but that’s not what’s going on. Let me explain.”
Then, just as Richie was about to talk, Sam’s phone rang.
Sam lurched, a bit startled, and got up, going over to her desk. Picking up the phone, she said, “Hello?”
A few moments
later, Sam’s face tensed with rage and she screamed, “Fuck you, asshole!” Slamming the receiver into the cradle, she paced a bit, seething.
Finally, she said, “I need a drink.” With an angry scowl, Sam headed over to a small cabinet in one of her bookshelves. Opening it revealed rows of liquor. She stood there, considering for a few moments, before taking out a bottle of black label Jack Daniels and pouring herself a drink.
Richie was standing by the time Sam slam-dunked the drink, and he watched her with silent concern. He could see she was mixing her emotional problems with alcohol, a combination that meant she was spiraling out of control. I need to do something, and quick!
Going over to Sam, Richie took the bottle and began to screw the top back on and put it away. When Sam glared at him, he said, “One drink is enough on a stomach with nothing but tea in it. You may need a drink, but your body is going to need some food with that, or you’re going to get sick.”
Sam’s reply sounded like horse snorts. She downed more of the whiskey, only to wince from the alcohol seconds later.
Man, that woman can drink.
“Telling me they know where I live and that they are coming for me. The hell with them,” Sam said into her drink.
Hearing what the threat had been only made Richie tense up more.
The silence of the afternoon was again pierced by the sound of the phone on Sam’s desk ringing. Sam froze in place, her face starting to turn red.
Wanting to nip this in the bud, Richie held out his hand and said, “Let me. They may piss off if they hear that someone else is here.”
Before Sam had a chance to reply, Richie was at the desk, picking up the phone. Putting the receiver to his ear and speaking in his manliest-sounding voice, he said, “Hello? What do you want?”
A woman’s voice was on the other line. She sounded like someone who could only be described as a class-A bitch. “Hello, is Sam there?”
Richie wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a threatening call. “Who wants to know, eh?”
The woman replied in a very cold-sounding voice. “Caroline Saucier. Editor-in-chief of the Times-Picayune. Who the hell are you?”
Richie was caught off guard. Again that suave smooth-talker who made two seasoned detectives throw in the towel had been beaten by a single, calculating female.
By the time Richie mentally recovered, the woman on the other line had apparently grown impatient, as she was saying, “Look, whoever you are, just tell Sam to get her ass down here by four o’clock with her submission for tomorrow’s paper, or she’s fired. Got it, stud muffin?”
Caroline hung up.
Slowly, Richie hung up the receiver and gave a sardonic chortle, shaking his head before looking over at Sam and saying, “Well, that was decisively rude and unfriendly.”
“Let me guess,” replied Sam, leaning back against the liquor cabinet. “Caroline wants me to turn in my submission.”
Richie was both surprised and impressed, although more the latter than the former. “How did you know?”
Finishing off her whiskey, Sam chuckled and winked at Richie. “The look on your face was enough. Also, I remembered that I never turned in my submission. You know, intruder-slash-stalker crap. I should probably get it to Caroline before I get canned.”
Sam then tilted her head at Richie, her voice dropping a little in volume and rising a little in pitch as she said, “Wanna come with?”
Richie felt his heart race. On the outside, though, he played it cool and said, “Sure thing. I’d love to see what the inside of the Times-Picayune looks like. Been dreaming about it every day for a year.”
Sam smirked and said, “Smartass.” She put her hair back in a ponytail, gathered her boots, watch, and wallet out of the foyer, and sat down to lace up her boots. Richie watched her move and felt a small smile come to his lips. Just watching her put him in a good mood.
Soon, Sam was picking up her manuscript and heading into her home office, where she started up the copier and started making a copy of her manuscript.
Richie watched with interest. “So you make copies of your writing, eh?”
“Yeah,” Sam said matter-of-factly as the two watched the copier spit out page after page. “Originally, I was going to go to Kinko’s, but then I found out that using those places isn’t very secure. Nothing would stop an employee or someone from stealing your work and publishing it themselves. So I asked Kent what I could do, and he said it would be easiest to have a copier at home.”
“So Kent really looks out for you, doesn’t he?”
“Oh yes, absolutely,” replied Sam, as she gathered the first copy of her manuscript and put it in a manila envelope. “Kent is one of the few people I trust. He’s always looked out for me.
“In fact, before I met you”—Sam paused as she wrote The Bourbon Street Ripper—Chapter 2 on the envelope—“Kent and Jacob were my only friends after my father died.”
Richie nodded. He understood that all too well. He was barely acquaintances with Gordon, rarely spoke to his mother about anything substantial, and hadn’t spoken to his father since he was a child. For a moment, Richie felt very lonely.
“So, Richie… ” Sam said, leaning forward on the copier, her hips jutted back as she swayed absently.
Richie was entranced for a long moment, before asking, “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Tell me about the Nite Priory.” Sam turned around and looked seriously at him.
Richie’s expression returned to being serious, matching Sam’s pace stride-for-stride. Slipping his thumbs into his pockets, he recounted everything that had happened the previous night pertaining to the Nite Priory, and how the Lady in Red, their apparent leader, needed their help to find out who was framing them.
“What do you think?” Richie asked.
“I think you’re nuts,” Sam replied.
Richie felt his ego deflate like a balloon.
Before Richie could think of how to respond, however, Sam smiled and said, “But I must also be nuts, because I believe what you’re saying.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, Richie wiped his brow. “I’m so glad. You have no idea how worried I was that you’d just call me crazy and kick me out.”
Sam smirked and turned around to gather up the second copy of her manuscript, which had been sitting there finished for a while, and placed it in another manila envelope. Making the same scrawl on it as the first one, Sam said, “Nah. Lately, I’ve been thinking Grandfather was up to something.”
Richie cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Oh?”
Sam nodded. “There was something my grandfather was up to before the murders, or maybe during the murders, that seems off. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. But it reminds me of that voodoo cult stuff we talked about. And Vincent Castille was a member of New Orleans’s elite. We’re talking families that have been in the city for over ten generations.
“That makes him nobility as far as this city is concerned. They even had a Mardi Gras krewe exclusive to them—the Krewe of Comus. If there is a secret organization like the Nite Priory that has some kind of weird voodoo thing going along with it, and there is a frame job, maybe from a traitor or something, and it’s all cultish… ”
Sam turned and shrugged at Richie, saying, “I don’t know. It’s all speculation right now, but I’m finding out stuff about my family every day that I never knew. A secret society is not too far off from the crazy shit I’ve seen lately.”
Richie, who had been silent the entire time, nodded in agreement. Everything Sam had just said made perfect sense. “I think we’re on the same page then. Shall we get going? And get you some lunch before you get sick from drinking whiskey like that?”
Gathering her manila envelopes, Sam again smirked, saying, “Yeah, I’m a tough Nawlins girl, Richie. I grew up on red wine, White Russians, and a street named Bourbon. I’ll be fine.”
Richie couldn’t help but laugh out loud at that one. As he held the door open for Sam, he asked, “So, give me a sneak p
review. Who gets axed in this chapter?”
Sam chuckled nervously. “Oh yeah, that. I was thinking of changing it, after what happened yesterday morning. But Michael told me not to change anything.” Any trace of amusement vanished from her countenance, her look suddenly gravely serious. “I hope what happened Thursday night doesn’t happen this time. This time, my victim is a teenage girl.”
Chapter 27
The Scent of Fruit
Date: Saturday, August 8, 1992
Time: 2:00 p.m.
Location: Bayou Lafitte Police Department
Jefferson Parish, Louisiana
The two detectives entered the Jefferson Parish Police Department. It was a mostly open room, with doors on all three sides leading off to various other rooms and hallways. The air inside was hot and thick with the smell of human odor.
Ceiling fans slowly turned above, doing little to alleviate the heat. All around, people of all ages and colors sat around, waiting to see the police, or stood around talking with the police. The large African-American woman muscled her way past a small line of people, and immediately laid in on some poor clerk who looked like he desperately needed a day off.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” came a deep voice to the side of the detectives. Turning, Michael saw a large man in a Jefferson Parish uniform. His skin was as dark as pitch, and he looked like he could be Mad Monty’s long-lost cousin. The badge on his uniform bore the title “Sergeant.”
Rodger moved in first, taking out his badge. “Detective Rodger Bergeron of the New Orleans Eighth Precinct. This is my partner, Michael LeBlanc.”
Michael nodded and showed his badge as well. Once the officer seemed satisfied, he introduced himself as Sergeant Calvin Carter, and asked what had brought the two detectives all the way to Bayou Lafitte.