by Leo King
“Good evening. This is Commander Louis Ouellette of the New Orleans eighth precinct. Today at 4:00 p.m., the body of the third victim of the serial killer known as the New Bourbon Street Ripper was found. The victim was sixteen-year-old Cheryl Aucoin, daughter of Senior Detective Kyle Aucoin. Preliminary medical reports show that she was murdered last night.”
Richie felt his blood run cold. It was that very same girl he had seen only a few days earlier.
“You lied,” Sam said, her voice seizing. “Outside the Ritz. You said it was an adult. Why did you lie to me?” She was squeezing his hand painfully.
He couldn’t respond. It was like someone had sucker-punched his brain and knocked it out. He had seen both Rebecca Clemens and Cheryl Aucoin the nights before they were murdered. What the shit?
Ouellette’s voice continued. “As of this evening, Mayor Barthelemy is declaring a state of emergency over the French Quarter and the surrounding areas, instituting a strict curfew. Anyone caught outside after 10:00 p.m. will be detained and questioned by the police. This extends to the area surrounded by Poydras, Claiborne, and Elysian Fields. We ask that all citizens living in that area stay home with the doors locked after curfew.”
Richie felt Sam trying to wiggle free. “Fuck you, Richie. Why the hell would you lie to me about that?”
He really didn’t want to fight with her. He got up and said, “Let’s get outside. We’ll talk there.”
As they left, he heard Ouellette say, “I’ve brought in the reserve SWAT team, headed by Sergeant Damien Arsenault, to keep watch over the French Quarter. If you see any suspicious activity, report it to them immediately.”
Once outside, Richie turned to Sam to talk. Immediately, she raised her hand to slap him. He flinched and stepped back, throwing up his arms. She then balled her fist up and glared at him
For a moment, he envisioned putting his hands around her neck and squeezing. It would be so easy.
Then he saw the tears in her eyes and the hurt expression on her face. Instantly, his own feelings of anger melted away. He couldn’t be angry at the woman he loved, especially not since he had hurt her. “Sam, just hear me out.”
“You better have a good story, writer boy,” said Sam. Angry tears rolled down her cheeks.
Richie was starting to feel panicked, and knew that without his medication, he’d start having a full anxiety attack within minutes. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t know it was a teenager, Sam, just that it was a cop’s daughter. When I told you about it earlier, I didn’t have all the facts. The truth is that I met the Aucoin girl when the police questioned me the night before. The whole coincidence just freaked me the fuck out. I swear I never meant to lie, Sam. I just didn’t know everything. I swear it!”
He knew he sounded desperate at the end. In his mind, he imagined her telling him to fuck off, saying that she never wanted to see him again, and then asking Jacob to take her home. It was enough to make him want to curl into a ball and cry.
When she looked up at him, he flinched, certain that she was about to break up with him. To his surprise and horror, she let out a blood-curdling scream and threw herself at him.
The psycho-fuck?
Richie stared blankly as she hit his chest again and again, the blows intentionally weak.
“I can’t take this,” Sam cried out into his chest. “I can’t fucking take this anymore. Why is this happening? What the hell did I do to deserve this?”
Suddenly, he realized that everyone in the parking lot was staring at them. Some were looking very concerned, others looked almost sympathetic. He put his arms around her, shielding her face from the crowd. He wasn’t sure what to do, but it was obvious that she was suffering.
“I can’t deal with this, Richie,” she said between sobs. “Everything is falling into hell. Even after twenty years, that evil bastard is still haunting my life. Do I have to die for this to end? Because I’ll blow my damn brains out tonight, I swear I will!”
Richie tightened his grip around her, trying to quell his own feelings of panic. “Don’t say that.”
Selfishly holding onto the relief that she wasn’t breaking up with him, he said, “It’ll work out. I promise. We gotta believe that Rodger and Michael will solve the case and clear your name.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said. She sagged against Richie. “Caroline already said people were going to witch-hunt Sam of Spades if another story matched another murder. I’m dead and you know it.”
Jacob came out from where the pay phones were, looking concerned. “Hey, um, what’s wrong with her?”
Richie mouthed the word “breakdown” and then said, “We need to get Sam home. Can you follow us, just to make sure she’s OK?”
Jacob nodded and said, “Yeah, come on. You drive her. Let’s go.”
The drive home was eerily similar to the drive home from the Pattersons’ voodoo shop. Sam just scribbled in her notebook, muttering, “I’m gonna make up the most twisted shit ever. People getting arms blown off, houses eating people, half the police force getting killed off. No goddamn way all this nutty shit’s gonna happen. If I write something crazy enough, then there won’t be a coincidence next time.”
“Sam, are you gonna be OK?” Richie asked at last, feeling that it was the weakest thing he could have said.
“Just get me home,” she replied and closed the notebook. “I need to rethink this whole writing thing. Hell, I need to rethink my whole life.” She leaned against the window and closed her eyes.
Sam was asleep by the time they got home, so Richie and Jacob went to unlock her townhome before waking her. But when they got to the front patio, they both stopped.
The front door was open.
“Oh, shit,” Richie said. He looked over at Jacob, whose face was starting to show signs of incredulous anger.
“Go back to the car and keep an eye on Sam. I’ll make sure it’s safe.” Jacob took out a keychain with a metal bar attached to it. Saying, “It’s not supposed to go down this way,” he headed inside looking like he was spoiling for a fight.
Richie paid him no mind. Quickly, he returned to the car.
Sam was waking up. Groggily, she said, “What’s going on?”
He leaned in and said, “Wait here, hun. I’ll be right back.” Kissing her forehead, he locked the door. Then he headed back inside. If this was the Nite Priory and they didn’t know that Jacob was a friend, they would slaughter him.
The front hallway was quiet, the lights out. He moved toward the grandfather clock, where Sam kept her father’s service revolver. Retrieving it and making sure it was loaded, he crept toward the kitchen in the back of the townhome.
The sound of movement upstairs startled him. With a quick motion, he spun around, looking for a sign, any sign, of an intruder.
Nothing.
Upon entering the kitchen, Richie could only hear droplets of water splashing into the empty porcelain sink. Each of his steps creaked loudly. Each of his breaths was like a bull's. The silence within the townhome was deafening.
At the far end of the kitchen, he saw that the pantry door was slightly ajar. He couldn’t remember if they had left it that way. Cocking back the revolver’s hammer, he walked forward.
He had never fired a gun before in his life and wasn’t sure how well he’d do it. But despite his previous feelings of anxiety, he felt strangely calm now. It was surreal, like someone else was moving him and he was just watching. He wondered if the fear and stress were making him so dissociative.
At the pantry door, he heard what sounded like breathing. Keeping his own breaths shallow, he formulated a plan. He'd throw the door open, point the gun right at the intruder, and tell them to freeze. Perfect plan.
Hand on the doorknob, Richie took a deep breath and counted to three. He thought of Sam and reminded himself that should he be forced to shoot someone, it was for her sake. With that resolve, he opened the door.
Nothing. The sound was coming from an air vent in the floor.
/> “Old goddamn house,” he said in disgust, turning around to leave.
In his way was a man wearing a black ski mask.
“Bitch!” the man said before punching Richie in the face so hard he saw Lite-Brites.
With a thud, Richie hit the ground, blood filling his vision and the back of his throat. The revolver flew from his hand. His nose was surely broken and his adrenaline was in full swing. He was vaguely aware that someone was stepping on him. “We’re gonna kick your ass, pussy boy. Then we’re gonna fuck that murdering whore to death.”
Sam, he thought. I have to protect Sam.
The last time he had felt this defenseless, the Nite Priory had murdered a crime boss and over a dozen of his thugs. As panic set in, he heard the sound of meat hitting meat, and felt the man get pushed off of him. Are they here?
He cleared the blood out of his vision, half-expecting to see them again.
Instead, he saw Jacob fighting the man. His movements were fluid, like a boxer’s, and after raining several punches on the intruder, he threw an uppercut that looked like it belonged in a movie.
Richie stared in disbelief. Could everyone other than him fight like an expert?
The man stumbled back from the uppercut and bellowed with rage. “That bitch is dead. Just a matter of time!” He knocked Jacob back and ran out of the front of the house.
“Get Sam!” Jacob yelled as he chased the assailant.
By this point, Richie was able to get up, grab the revolver, and stumble up front. Sam’s home office, where she kept her computer, copier, and fax machine, was trashed. Revolver in hand, he stumbled out to the car.
Sam was awake, watching Jacob pursue the man down the highway. The intruder jumped into the back of a pickup truck that was filled with a couple of other guys. The truck zoomed off as they shouted obscenities and yowled out a rebel yell.
Richie helped Sam out of the car. She took one look at him holding the revolver, his face bloody, and said, “My hero?”
He spat out blood. “Jacob did most of the work. I was useless and stu—”
Sam kissed him. It effectively shut him up.
An hour later, the three of them were cleaning up the front of the townhome. Richie had an ice pack on his face, his broken nose throbbing. Jacob was sweeping out the entry hall while Sam was examining her office and study.
While she refused to call the police until she spoke to Kent, she agreed that the incident had to be reported. Richie was glad that she didn’t fight that—the threats were rapidly escalating.
“It seems the only thing they took was something from my copier,” she finally said.
Richie and Jacob looked up. Jacob tilted and shook his head, saying, “Um, what?”
“What did they take?” Richie asked. He didn’t know the first thing about copiers. Looks like Jacob didn’t, either.
“I don’t know what it was, some device with green and amber blinking lights on it.” Sam shrugged. “It’s always been there. I figured it was part of the machine.”
Jacob shrugged as well and stood up. “Well, don’t stay here tonight, Sam. It’s not safe. Go to the Ritz with Richie.”
Richie smirked and said, “Well, not how I had planned on getting you in my hotel room, but yes, please come stay with me tonight, Sam.”
She nodded, rubbing her tired, baggy eyes. His flirtation seemed to go over her head. “Yeah, this is too serious to ignore. Richie, I’ll stay with you. Tomorrow, I’ll speak with Kent and then file a police report.”
Jacob gave her a thumbs up. “Sounds like a plan, Sam.”
Richie stood up as well. “So, then, let’s go get you packed.”
Sam agreed. The three went upstairs.
Thirty minutes later, Sam was loaded up with a suitcase in her car. It was raining now, a light, warm summer drizzle. Once she was settled, Richie headed over to Jacob and his motorcycle.
“Look, man,” Richie said, clearing his throat. He had gotten so used to swallowing his pride lately that he was starting to like the taste. “I thought you were a bit of a dick before, but what you did back there was amazing. You really care about Sam. So, in my mind, you’re cool. Let’s keep Sam safe together, OK?”
Jacob grinned. “That’s cool. I kinda thought you were a wuss, but you took a punch to the face like a champ. You’ve got my permission to date Sam.”
He then leaned in and said, “But break her heart and I’ll mess you up worse than those guys ever could.”
For once, Richie didn’t bristle at being threatened. “Get in line.” After all, Rodger had made a similar threat.
He shook hands with Jacob just as the rain started to come down even harder. “Take care. It’s storming tonight, ya.”
“For God’s sake, can this night get any worse?” Jacob pulled a large, black hooded coat out of the side compartment of his motorcycle and threw it on. “Later, Richie. I’ll call you and Sam tomorrow,” he said before driving off.
Richie just stared, watching as Jacob drove off. He had seen that coat before. It looked a bit newer and a bit less tailored, but the shape and color were unmistakable.
That’s the type of coat the Nite Priory guys wore.
He looked down, the rain pouring down his aching face, as a theory came to mind that made him shiver. Was Jacob a member of the Nite Priory?
Or was he one of the people the Nite Priory was after?
He looked over at Sam. She was waiting patiently in the car. The rain was coming down in torrents.
Christ. Nothing makes any sense.
He watched Jacob ride off in the distance.
There’s no way any of this is going to end well…
Chapter 6
The Madness is Spreading
Date: Monday, August 10, 1992
Time: 7:00 a.m.
Location: Esplanade Apartments
New Orleans City Park
“You’re kidding me,” Dixie said into the receiver of her cordless phone.
She already knew that Rivette wasn’t kidding. He might be the kind of guy to pull a few pranks in the precinct, like replacing the sugar at the coffee station with salt or sliding a signed photograph of a Playgirl model into Aucoin’s jacket, and he might keep toys on his desk, but when it came to work, he was completely serious—arguably the hardest-working detective in the division.
“I wish, Dixie. I really do,” said Rivette. “Gravois took the call before he and Breaux headed out. That witness, Topper Jack, was found with a bullet in his head. Stone cold dead.”
Sitting at the dining table in her apartment, her breakfast still steaming before her, Dixie felt her appetite vanish. Now all of Vincent Castille’s accomplices, save for Blind Moses, were dead. Dixie recalled that Harry Connick Sr., the district attorney, had offered Topper Jack protection if he provided every bit of information he could about working with the original Bourbon Street Ripper.
“Did you hear me, Dixie? Ouellette wants you and Rodger to check the scene out first thing.” He sounded more tired than annoyed. “Maybe you can find something the other guys couldn’t.”
She tried to take a bite of her breakfast and then put down her fork. She wasn’t hungry.
“I heard you. No worries. We got it covered. Now what about the info on Sam I asked about?” She had requested that Rivette get information on Sam’s psychological profile.
“Right, right,” he said, the sound of shuffling papers overtaking his voice for a moment. “Her psychiatrist is Dr. Lucius Klein. He has a private office on St. Charles Avenue. Did you want the phone number?”
“That and the address,” Dixie said, scribbling it down as Rivette gave it to her. “Any chance you know what Sam was treated for?”
“It just lists ‘trauma,’” replied Rivette. “Good luck getting a doctor to divulge anything about a patient.”
She didn’t respond to his comment. Michael and Rodger had already been there. She was certain she knew what she was getting into. “Thanks, Rivette. As always, you’ve been a great
help.”
“I live to server, m’lady,” he said in a faux British accent before hanging up.
Dixie put down the phone. From across the table, Gino was looking at her, concern on his face, as he paused between bites of his breakfast. When he caught her gaze, he motioned to her plate. “Breakfast is getting cold, Dixie.”
Offering him a little smile, she ate a few more bites before she realized her appetite was completely gone. She sighed and then downed her coffee. “Sorry, Gino. I’m not all that hungry. I’ll—”
“You’re turning on the work mode, honey,” he said, offering her a small smile back, and motioned toward the eggs. “Just eat those, then. Protein, Dixie. Will keep you going.”
She gave the eggs a dubious look before eating them quickly. She knew he had a point, but it didn’t help when she had no appetite. At least he looked out for her.
In fact, Dixie was grateful that so many people in her life had always looked out for her. As she forced herself to drink her glass of orange juice, she remembered how her foster parents used to fuss over her just as much.
While her sister had been placed in the care of a family in New Orleans East, Dixie was fostered by a simple, older couple up in Covington, a town north of Lake Pontchartrain. The area they lived in was relatively rural.
The old couple, Bensen and Millicent Olivier, were conservative and kind and very empathic about the emotional trauma and abuse she had suffered. They went beyond the basics of making sure she was well-fed and clothed. When the state-funded therapy didn’t seem to be doing enough, the Oliviers reached into their own savings account and sent her to a private therapist. They also made sure she stayed in school.
When she was fourteen, she found out that her father was dead, having been murdered by her older sister and her boyfriend. She never saw them again. She later heard that the two of them had fled the state, perhaps even the country, to avoid arrest.
A year later, Dixie’s mother, who had fallen into drug use and moved in with her dealer, sued for custody of her. The Oliviers fought the battle in court and won, and three months later, they formally adopted her. She then changed her name to Dixie Millisen Olivier—her middle name a combination of their first names.