by Leo King
“You’d scream like that, too, if it was your child,” Rodger said, heading after Dixie. He started to imagine what he’d feel like if it had been Sam. He hastily pushed those thoughts away, as if they would kill him.
When he reached the interview room, he was stopped by Ouellette. “Let them be.”
Through the one-way mirror, he saw Dixie embrace Cathy. Cathy looked as though she had just been beaten up, her clothes, hair, and makeup in a complete shambles. Aucoin was seated at the interview table and had the pallor of a man told he’d be executed within the hour. He was holding onto his hair like death and staring blankly ahead.
The last time Rodger had felt this powerless, he was watching another human being get pulverized by a machine.
As he saw Dixie go to Aucoin to embrace him, and saw Aucoin start to unhinge, burying his face against her, Rodger heard Ouellette clear his throat.
“Bergeron,” he said, snapping Rodger’s attention back to the world around him, “I need you to pull your shit together right now and help.”
Rodger nodded, looking into the room once more. The three inside were holding onto each other and openly crying. He frowned. He couldn’t even imagine the pain Aucoin was in right now, so instead, he pushed those feelings down as deep as they went and focused on the one thing he could do—be a detective.
His emotions buried for the moment, he asked, “What do you need me to do, Commander?”
Ouellette rubbed his hands over his bald head and started pacing. “Find that damn killer before any more people die?”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Rodger said.
Ouellette dashed in, his face darkening, and stuck a finger in Rodger’s face. “That was rhetorical, Bergeron!”
Rodger shook off the urge to punch Ouellette. He hated himself for even having that urge. It was just like the old case back in the seventies—everyone was starting to claw at one another’s throats.
“This is worse than last time,” Ouellette said, almost as if he could read Rodger’s mind. He flicked a switch and the mirror went opaque, giving Dixie, Aucoin, and Cathy privacy. “Half the police force has convinced itself that Samantha Castille is the murderer. And while I’d love to say that we can arrest her, so far she looks less like a suspect and more like a patsy.”
Rodger didn’t respond. He still refused to suspect Sam, certain that she was somehow being framed.
“And now Aucoin’s gone unhinged and Cathy’s had a nervous breakdown. They’ll both be heading to River Oaks as soon as Olivier’s finished talking to them.”
“You’re admitting them to the psychiatric hospital?” he asked, thinking that was a bit extreme.
“They want to go, Bergeron,” responded Ouellette. “Cathy wants to be admitted and Aucoin agreed to a psych-eval to see if he can still work.”
“He wants to work?” Rodger couldn’t believe that.
“He wants to wring Sam’s neck!” Ouellette’s face grew red, his voice deep and threatening.
Rodger backed away. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Ouellette get this angry. Then he realized that Sam had been mentioned. “Wait, Sam? Why?”
“Christ, Bergeron, don’t you ever read the newspaper?”
“Newspaper?” he asked. Then he froze. There was only one reason for the Times-Picayune to be brought up now. He felt the blood drain from his face and his knees shake. “No… No damn way. Not again. Not two times in a row.”
“Read it yourself. It’s on the interview prep table,” Ouellette said, pointing out a newspaper and the official report from Cheryl’s crime scene.
Rodger picked up both the newspaper and the official report. The newspaper featured the morning’s story by Sam of Spades, and he compared it and the report side by side. The details were, once again, remarkably consistent. It was as similar as the previous story was to Rebecca Clemens’s murder.
He put both papers down. He was sweating profusely. How the hell was the real killer doing this to Sam?
“See what I mean?” asked Ouellette. “She may be innocent until proven guilty in the eyes of the law, but in the court of public opinion, as well as in the eyes of most of the officers here, whoever wrote this story is the new Bourbon Street Ripper. I’m not losing any more cops to this bullshit.”
Rodger felt the stress and worry aging him by the moment. “Any more cops? What do you mean?”
Ouellette shook his head. “Officer Guidry found the third body as well. I swear, that girl is going to need years of therapy. She asked to be admitted to River Oaks this morning. She’ll likely resign after all this crap.”
Rodger sighed, wondering if he should retire after the case concluded. “So what happens now?”
“I get a search warrant for Sam’s townhouse,” said Ouellette as they headed back to the squad room. “And when I do, we tear that place apart looking for evidence. Then we either arrest Samantha Castille…” He turned to Rodger. The look on his face was deadly serious. “… or we take her into protective custody before she becomes a victim herself.”
Rodger followed Ouellette to the squad room in silence.
There, Ouellette jumped up on a desk and whistled loudly, getting everyone’s attention. Standing off to the side, Rodger wracked his brain for theories on how the killer could be framing Sam. It was the only hope he had to hold onto.
Ouellette spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. “Okay, listen up, people! From this moment on, we are all on the New Bourbon Street Ripper Task Force. This order comes from the very top. Mayor Barthelemy wants this case closed and this son-of-a-bitch caught before another body turns up. So here’s what will happen. Bergeron, you and Olivier are partners until this case is over. No Aucoin and no LeBlanc. They’re both on the sidelines until I say otherwise.”
Several heads turned toward Rodger as he was mentioned. He barely noticed as Dixie came to his side.
“Meanwhile,” Ouellette said, “Breaux and Gravois, you two start sifting through the profiles of every person who knew the three victims. See if you can find a link or a common thread.”
Breaux and Gravois, two older, seasoned veterans, nodded, Gravois giving the commander a thumbs-up. Rodger remembered that they were particularly good at profiling suspects and victims.
Ouellette motioned toward Detective Rivette and his partner, a big-bodied guy who was eating a hoagie. “Landry and Rivette, I want you to interview the entire Castille family, as well as everyone who has had personal contact with Samantha Castille in the past five years. That includes her friends at the newspaper. And track her movements since the killings started. I want to know what she ate, when she slept, and where she crapped. Lastly, find out as much as you can about Richard Fastellos, the author from Pittsburg she’s been hanging around.”
Rodger felt sick to his stomach. There was no way this could end well for those who were close to Sam.
Rivette slapped Landry on the arm to get him to put down the hoagie. “We’ve got it covered, Commander.”
Ouellette called out. “Sergeant Arsenault?”
The crowd of officers parted. A tall, dark, and very muscular man in a SWAT uniform with its sleeves ripped off stepped forward. His brutally unattractive, pug-like face sported a scar over his left eye and a scowl that could scare an angel.
Oh, and he made Mad Monty look small.
“Here, Commander,” Arsenault said in a voice that could only have gotten more manly if it had made the room shake.
“Good,” replied Ouellette, showing no reaction to Arsenault’s appearance or voice. “Get all your men and start patrols. From now until this case is closed, you keep every area of the French Quarter covered. Every tourist trap. Every hotel. Every titty bar. Everywhere. I want it all patrolled. You see someone so much as sneeze suspiciously, you take them in for questioning. The mayor has given me full authority to keep the French Quarter safe, and I’m passing it to you and your Arsenal.”
Arsenault nodded and popped his head to the side, crac
king it loud enough to make people flinch. “Don’t worry, Commander. No one dies on my watch unless I kill them myself.”
A murmur went through the crowd. For the past ten years, Arsenault had refused promotion beyond sergeant, stating that he wanted to be “in the trenches.” Heading up the SWAT team nicknamed Arsenault’s Arsenal, he was the guy Ouellette called in when things got out of control. Rodger was impressed but concerned. He wondered if the Arsenal was really necessary.
The Arsenal was known for its impeccable tactics and ruthless aggression, sometimes going overboard on what was acceptable. On more than one occasion, Ouellette, the only person in the city who Arsenault seemed to respect, had to do damage control when the Arsenal got too close to the proverbial line.
“For the rest of you detectives,” Ouellette said, looking over the rest of the room, “you have a list of every business and residence in the French Quarter. You and your partner’s names are next to a portion of that list. You are to go to all those businesses and residences and ask about the nights in question. Get any information. You see something suspicious, you call in for a search warrant. Connick has people on call just to get those warrants. Contact information is at the top of the list.”
Rodger exhaled and looked over at Dixie. She was shaking her head. It was bad if Harry Connick Sr., the district attorney, wanted someone on call just to bother judges for search warrants. It was obvious that fear was starting to override common sense, and that the investigation was getting dangerously close to stepping on the civil rights of New Orleans’s law-abiding citizens. Just like last time, he thought to himself with a frown.
“So now for the suspects,” Ouellette said. “First off, there is an unidentified woman in an indigo hooded robe and what looks like a voodoo skull mask. She is armed with military-grade equipment. Forensics suspects she has a Soviet Dragunov semi-automatic sniper rifle. Since the Soviet Union was dissolved last December, the black market has been flooded with these weapons. This woman has killed two people already, one being a Jefferson Parish deputy. She is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you see her, call for back-up immediately. Do not engage her alone.” He turned toward Arsenault. “I repeat, do not engage her alone.”
Arsenault tightened up his face, but didn’t say anything, just nodding in understanding.
“Another suspect,” Ouellette said, “is Samantha Castille, the granddaughter of the original Bourbon Street Ripper. She is a high-value suspect. You are to observe her only. Do not, I repeat, do not make a move against her unless I authorize it beforehand. I want a tail on her constantly until this situation is resolved. Rivette and Landry, you two sort that out.”
Rivette saluted. He looked proud of himself for being given so much authority.
Rodger, on the other hand, felt ill. Despite his best efforts, Sam was more a suspect than ever.
Ouellette continued. “Then there is something called the Nite Priory. This name has been attached to letters sent to old accomplices of the original Bourbon Street Ripper. We know nothing about the Nite Priory, and I don’t like not knowing anything about them. Ask around, people. It may be a person. It may be a cult. When you gather evidence, look for the words. It’s Nite Priory. N-I-T-E P-R-I-O-R-Y.”
People scribbled down the name.
“Lastly,” he said, “we have an unknown group responsible for the mass murder of Giorgio ‘Blue-Eyed’ Marcello and his men the other night. Rivette and Landry have been looking into the case. Unfortunately, the security cameras were off. Marcello had been putting pressure on City Hall to arrest Samantha Castille, likely in revenge for bad blood between him and her father. But anyway, whoever did this were expert assassins.”
Dixie whispered, “Just remember, partner. We need to tell Ouellette everything that Richie told you. It looks like the Nite Priory really did murder Marcello.”
Rodger nodded. He didn’t want to focus on it. It was yet another mark against Sam.
As everyone wrote down the information, Ouellette concluded his speech. “So that’s it, people! Detectives and SWAT, get going now. The rest of you, help make room for the map and boards. We’ve got a lot of crap to put up. Okay, everyone, get your asses in gear. Let’s put an end to this Bourbon Street Ripper bullshit before Labor Day.”
As he stepped down from his desk, the crowd dispersed. About a dozen officers started moving desks around to transform the room into the task force command center.
Rodger motioned for Dixie to follow. They headed toward Ouellette’s office.
On the way, they passed Arsenault, who was busy giving instructions to his men. Spotting them, he stepped in their way and said, “I just want to say that I hope you catch the killer before I do.”
Having to lean back to lock eyes with him, Rodger asked, “Oh, yeah, why so?”
Arsenault grinned wolfishly and said, “Because if I catch him first, there won’t be enough left to stand trial.” He blew them a kiss, then smirked at them before heading back to his team.
Dixie whistled and shook her head. “I’m glad he’s on our side.”
Rodger knew she was trying to lighten the mood, but it didn’t help. He was determined to be sour grapes.
Later that night, after reporting everything to Ouellette, from Richie and the Nite Priory to Jonathon and the Knight Priory, Rodger parted ways with Dixie. She wanted to be with Aucoin and Cathy. They agreed to meet again the following morning to continue the investigation.
After leaving the precinct, he headed to Tulane Hospital and visited with Michael for a while. They traded information, especially about Sam’s mother and the M&M sisters. Michael appeared to be in good spirits and seemed to be piecing the case together in his head. Rodger left him shortly after his evening medication.
After a boring dinner at a nearby diner, he wandered along Bourbon Street.
Police were everywhere. Arsenault’s Arsenal was standing at nearly every street corner. The few civilians out and about the French Quarter were looking around nervously. It was surreal, like the city had transformed into a police state.
Ducking into the bizarrely empty Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar, Rodger sat at a table, the same one he had usually shared with Michael, Edward, or any other detective who would tolerate his company. He opened a tab and ordered a beer.
Two pints later, he was starting to feel comfortably numb. That was when he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder and heard an older man’s voice. “Mind if an old timer like myself joins you?”
He looked up and saw the wizened face of his old mentor, Douglas Dugas, who looked congenial but concerned. “Douglas,” said Rodger, smiling for the first time in hours.
Douglas, who was a retired and decorated detective, sat across from him.
Even though Rodger hadn’t seen Douglas in several days, he could only think of one thing to say. “So, I patched things up with Sam.”
Douglas chuckled and said, “I figured as much, Rodger. You were always like an uncle to her. I’m glad for you.”
Rodger started to drink his beer and then realized that he was talking to Douglas on Bourbon Street. “Wait, why are you here, Douglas? It’s half past real late. I thought you’d be in bed by now.”
Douglas waved him off. “When I saw what was happening on the news, Mabel told me to find you and make sure you were OK—else I’d never taste her pound cake again. So I went by the precinct, found out that you weren’t there, had a quick chat with Ouellette, and finally figured if there was anyplace you’d be, it would be here getting a drink. Sitting at the same damn table drinking the same damn beer.”
Rodger laughed out loud, and then, without warning, began sobbing uncontrollably. Douglas silently watched as Rodger wept into his hand. It took a few minutes before he could speak. “It’s all gone out of control again. Sam. That poor girl. She’s going to die. Either the police or some vigilante or some mob is going to kill her. And there is nothing I can do about it.”
Douglas’s lips drew tight, and he got a lo
ok of concentration. “Rodger, it’s not your fault that Edward died. He knew the risks and made his choices. You couldn’t have saved him. You may not want to hear it, but it’s true. Edward chose to put himself in harm’s way.”
Rodger looked into Douglas’s eyes, searching for hope.
“However,” Douglas said, pointing at him, “Sam isn’t making any choices here. Someone else, someone very intelligent and very evil, is making the choices for her. So while you couldn’t save Edward, you can save Sam.”
“How?” Rodger asked, hoping for answers one more time.
Douglas tightened his fist. “Find the person who’s making the choices for her, and stop them. Give Sam control of her life back, so that she can make those choices. You do that, Rodger, and you’ll be the one who saves that little girl.”
Rodger nodded, his eyes puffy and aching. He felt like someone finally understood. To him, Sam was still that ten-year-old girl, her eyes hollow and devoid of life, who needed someone to save her.
“Come on,” Douglas said, getting up. “You’re drunk and blubbering like a little kid. That means it’s time to get you home. You still living at the apartment with the Rent Nazi?”
Rodger struggled to his feet. “Ms. Parkerson? Yeah, same place. Keys in my pocket.”
Looping Rodger’s arm around him, Douglas said, “All right, then. Let someone else take care of you tonight.”
Rodger had never been so happy to have Douglas as his mentor.
Chapter 5
A Black Hooded Coat
Date: Sunday, August 9, 1992
Time: 4:15 p.m.
Location: Tulane University Hospital
Downtown New Orleans
Richie Fastellos was in a bad mood, and he owed it all to Dixie Olivier. With just a few choice comments, she had made every negative feeling he had bubble up to the surface. After storming away, he took a few minutes to calm down in the men’s bathroom.