by Leo King
Dr. Klein turned a cold gaze on him. “Her name is Samantha. Und, Detective Bergeron, please remember that you are a guest in my office. If you cannot keep your rude comments to yourself, I suggest you wait outside.”
Rodger tightened his jaw. “No, I’ll shut up and deal with it. I left Michael alone with you. I sure as heck am not going to make the same mistake twice.”
Dixie flashed him a small smile, mouthing the word “thanks.” She was thankful to him, for both staying and for behaving. In truth, Dr. Klein made her feel very uneasy. She wanted to interview him and be done with it.
Dr. Klein offered her a seat and then sat down himself. “So, please, Detective Olivier. Tell me what it is you want to know about Sam of Spades.”
Rodger remained standing.
“Specifically,” she said, flipping to a blank page in her notebook, “we want to know when the Sam of Spades personality first came out and what it has said to you over the years.”
“Ah,” said Dr. Klein, rhythmically nodding his head as if it were a metronome keeping time. “Well, Sam of Spades showed up in my very first session with Samantha. It vas a very engaging conversation. After the first half dozen or so sessions, Sam of Spades became more dormant, und I started talking to just Samantha.”
Dixie wrote that down. “So what did she talk about? Sam of Spades, that is?”
“She talked about how much she enjoyed hurting other people,” he replied. “Listening to her speak, it was obvious zat Sam of Spades despised humanity as a whole. She was even personally condescending to me, of all people, acting as if I were uneducated und stupid.”
“So Sam of Spades just talked about hating people?” she asked.
“Not entirely, Detective,” said Dr. Klein. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows cocked at perfect angles on either side. “Her contempt und hatred for people was tempered by her admiration for Vincent Castille’s work. The murders, precisely. Sam of Spades wanted to emulate zat brutality in her own way, saying it was a beautiful work of art.”
Dixie frowned as she scribbled down notes. More and more, Sam of Spades was sounding like a violent alternate personality. And yet Michael, in his own notes, was adamant that Sam didn’t have a true dissociative disorder. Could Michael have misjudged Sam’s psychosis?
“So did the threats about hurting people, making others suffer, and so on, ever actually come to anything?” She figured the answer was no, but she needed to ask anyway.
She wasn’t expecting Dr. Klein’s response.
“Yes.”
She looked at him, confused.
From behind her, Rodger said, “Wait, excuse me? Sam of Spades confessed to murder?”
Dr. Klein shook his head. “Not murder, Detective. Assault and battery.”
Rodger was at Dixie’s side before she could speak. “I think you better explain—”
“Rodger, please,” she interrupted. He had been handling himself so well up until now, and she didn’t want him to blow it.
Settling back, he muttered, “This is all bullshit. She’d never hurt anyone. All bullshit.”
“I apologize for Rodger’s outburst,” she said. “This is a very emotional case for him, as you are aware. Now on the matter of Sam of Spades and assault and battery, who did she attack?”
“I wish I knew, Detectives,” Dr. Klein said. “I’m not sure when she started attacking people. I would suspect as early as sixteen, after she left ze Castille mansion und started living on her own. I advised Samantha to stay indoors whenever she was suffering from any sort of stress. From vhat Sam of Spades told me, during that time, she’d take control, don a costume to hide her face, und attack random people throughout the French Quarter and Uptown.”
“A costume, eh?” said Rodger. “What kind of costume?”
Dr. Klein shrugged. “An indigo hooded robe with a skull mask. Something she got from a second-hand Mardi Gras shop, if I recall correctly.”
Dixie sat there, stunned. Without prompting, he had just described the indigo assassin. Could Sam really be her? The one who had almost killed Michael? What were the chances that the two were the same?
Looking over at Rodger, she could see that he was stunned as well, his face pale.
Quickly, she turned back to Dr. Klein. “So is this something I would have read about in the newspaper? I haven’t heard anything about a person in this costume attacking people.”
“I don’t think you’ll find much, Detective. Sam of Spades would ambush people in dark alleys und other places where ze lighting was bad. But I would check any story where the victim states to have seen ze skull mask.”
Dr. Klein leaned back in his chair again. “Und they stopped several years ago anyway, when Samantha was about twenty-five years old. I started to prescribe very potent medication that seemed to quell Sam of Spades’s dominance. I believe the side effects were waking nightmares, but better than random acts of violence, yes?’
Dixie shook her head. This was almost too much. “Another question, please. How many counts of assault and battery did Sam of Spades tell you about?”
“Oh, many dozens,” he said, rubbing his goatee. “Hundreds, possibly. I have all my sessions taped, if you wish to hear zem.”
Dixie nodded. “That would be—”
“Hold on a minute,” Rodger interrupted.
She looked at him, wondering what he was doing.
Poking his finger into his palm, he said, “I know that you cannot divulge privileged information unless there is a clear and present danger to the client or others. Now I may not buy into any of the crap you’re spewing about Sam, but if you give us those tapes without a subpoena, then whether they exonerate Sam or convict her is irrelevant. It’ll get thrown out in a heartbeat.”
Dixie blinked. She was sure that he was trying to protect Sam again, but at the same time, he had a valid point. Indeed, if Sam wasn’t given due process, it could make the case very difficult. Defense lawyers loved that stuff.
Before she could speak, though, Dr. Klein spoke in a stern voice. “No, I have told you. The good person’s name is Samantha und the bad one is Sam. You must say it properly!”
She looked back at him with a start. His eyes were like coals. She shook her head. He’s already a bit creepy, but that was crazy. It seems like, bit by bit, the madness is spreading.
She sighed and softly said, “We apologize, Dr. Klein. However, it’s true. If there is no clear and present danger, we cannot accept those tapes.”
Dr. Klein calmed down. “Well, then, you are in luck. There is a clear und present danger. I do believe that Sam of Spades will surface again very soon, und this time she vill kill someone.”
Rodger again seemed stunned. Dixie took advantage of his silence to ask, “How do you know that?”
With a smug expression, Dr. Klein said, “Sam of Spades told me herself when Samantha came in today und quit as my patient.”
Chapter 7
The Monster Inside
Date: Monday, August 10, 1992
Time: 10:00 a.m.
Location: Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Canal Street
The French Quarter
A few hours before Dixie visited Dr. Klein, Sam looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror of Richie’s hotel room, brushing out the tangles in her wet blond hair. Her bruised eyes and the pencil-thin lines on her face clearly showed her stress.
Yesterday had begun so well. She was in love with Richie, had given herself to him, and was living in a dream world where life was a collection of sweet moments. It was a kind of happiness she had never known before. She wondered if she’d ever know it again.
“Sam,” called Richie from outside the bathroom, “Kent said he’s available at eleven, but only until noon. Afterward, he’s busy the rest of the day.”
She didn’t reply. She had started shutting down emotionally after her outburst at Landry’s, and by the time the break-in at her house had been resolved, she was as unresponsive as the dead. Richie had tried to show her affection,
just by holding her gently, but she hadn’t reciprocated. She had just lain there.
“Sam?” Richie called, concern in his voice.
Sam gradually looked in the direction of the door. In her heart, she knew that he was doing all he could for her. She valued that. However, the numbness she felt was overwhelming. Upon hearing that her story was once again the same as what had actually happened, she felt like the last of her humanity had burned away. She also felt that within her beat the heart of a monster. And every time she focused on that feeling, she felt that monster grin.
“Sam?” His voice sounded a bit panicked. The doorknob started to turn.
“I’m here. Just thinking,” she lied. The truth was that she wasn’t thinking about anything.
“Well, don’t scare me like that,” he said. There was a long pause. “I’m really worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. She knew the moment the words left her lips that Richie would know it was a lie.
Richie just said, “I’ll have some fresh clothes laid out for you. Then we’ll head out to meet your lawyer.”
Without replying, Sam looked back at her reflection. The person looking back didn’t look thirty—she looked older and more tired. She continued brushing out her hair, yanking so hard that sharp pains tore through her scalp. She didn’t mind. Part of her liked the pain. It had been her only constant companion for the past thirty years. People had come and gone. Mostly, though, she’d been alone.
When she finished, she put down the brush and closed her eyes. She remembered that Richie was out there, waiting for her. And later today, they’d meet up with Jacob again. And then there was Rodger, sweet Uncle Rodger, who was doing all he could to clear her name.
Richie. Jacob. Rodger. Three men who loved her in their own ways. With a soft sigh, she remembered that she was not alone.
A few minutes later, Sam was dried off, towel wrapped around her body. She stepped out of the bathroom and looked for Richie.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed and wringing his hands nervously while half-looking at the television. She felt bad for him. The call to his doctor for a new prescription wouldn’t go through until Monday. And she could tell, just from watching him rock back and forth, that her attitude was causing him to feel what was likely unbearable anxiety.
“Hey, honey.” When he turned to her, she smiled. “I love you. I’ll be OK now. I’ve got you at my side. Let’s go put this crap behind us and then get on with our day.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. She hugged him close. She had to believe that this would work out. I’m not a killer. Things will be OK.
An hour later, Sam and Richie were seated in Kent’s office.
She noted three things about her lawyer that seemed very different. One, his entire office space had painter’s paper down everywhere. Two, he looked exhausted, much more so than usual. And finally, he seemed less than pleased to see Richie, shooting him a few unsavory glances.
“So, Kent, are you moving? Or just redecorating?” Sam motioned around the room.
Kent was cleaning his glasses. “Oh, just some redecorating, Sam. I haven’t spruced the old place up since before your Aunt Marguerite passed. Figured it could use a new look and all.”
She looked around again. She had grown to like the old feeling of Kent’s office. It was one of the few things that had remained the same since she was a teenager. “Well, change is good, for the most part. Speaking of which, how are you? You look exhausted.”
He straightened his glasses. “I’ve been a very busy person. All of my clients have been reacting poorly to the new string of murders. Wills have been updated, estates have been modified. It’s been a real mess. In fact,” he said with a bit of a laugh, “the Castille accounts are the only ones that aren’t making me work late. Ironic, isn’t it?”
Sam laughed, too, and then reached for Richie’s hand. She squeezed her charm in the other hand. “Well, Kent, I need your legal advice.”
Kent arched an eyebrow when he saw them holding hands. “So what’s going on, Sam?”
She took her time explaining everything that had happened to her since the copycat murders had started. She told him of the similarities between her stories and the murders. She told him of the threatening notes. She told him of Michael wanting to search the house for ways to prove Sam’s innocence. And lastly, she told him of the break-in the previous night.
The entire time she spoke, she and Richie held hands. She squeezed his hand the way she squeezed her charm—it gave her a sense of security.
“So that’s the gist of it, Kent,” Sam said, finishing her story. She sat back and exhaled. It was draining just reliving it.
He sat back in his chair, peering at her from behind his glasses. His look was a cross between analytical and annoyed. It made her feel apprehensive. Then he spoke.
“It sounds like you’re in a world of trouble, Sam,” Kent said. “I’ll be honest with you. As your lawyer, I don’t see any way that you can get out of having your house searched. One coincidence is enough to rouse suspicion. But twice?”
He continued to speak as Sam, who was starting to feel uneasy, squeezed more rapidly on the charm. “Also, the fact that someone broke into your townhome several times is not something that can be ignored. You could have been seriously injured or worse.”
She frowned. He was saying exactly what she had been afraid he would say.
“What I advise you to do is what you had planned on doing. You need to file a report with the police. You will want them to come and look at your house to do this. However, the law states that they can only use in court what’s in plain sight. So I suggest you take your notes, all your notes, for your story, and your manuscript, and hide them. Or, better yet, give them to someone you trust.”
“Will you hold onto them?” asked Sam.
Kent chortled and brushed his fingertips over the lapel of his jacket. “Sam, I’d have suggested that if doing so wasn’t so egotistical.”
Richie spoke up. “Either that, or give them to Rodger.”
Kent shot him a nasty look. “I don’t recommend that. Detective Bergeron may be your friend. He may even be ‘Uncle Rodger.’ But he is a police officer.”
“I trust Rodger with my life,” she said. It was true. Despite all the years of distance between them, in that one moment of reconciliation after visiting Fat Willie, she had felt a complete reconnection with Uncle Rodger.
Kent leaned forward, his tone becoming patronizing. “Sam, I don’t mean to preach to you, but I’ve known you since you were a child. I’ve always looked out for you and your family, despite the… complications of your grandfather being the Bourbon Street Ripper. Believe me when I say that I want to trust Rodger as much as you do. But remember, this man hasn’t been in contact with you in years. He never sent you a single Christmas or birthday card. He didn’t even give you a call for your confirmation or graduation. In short, until this copycat murderer showed up, he basically ignored you.” He leaned back and held out his hands. “So tell me. Can you trust a man like that to stay true to you now?”
Sam didn’t show any outward emotion, but inside, she felt like someone had sucker-punched her in the gut. Rodger had specifically mentioned sending her cards for her birthday and Christmas, her confirmation, and her graduation. That was way too precise to be a coincidence.
“I’ll take that under advisement,” she said flatly, giving her charm a hard, long squeeze. Someone was stringing her along—either Kent Bourgeois or Rodger Bergeron. And since she felt she could trust Rodger with her life, things weren’t looking great for Kent.
Kent arched his eyebrows and then said, “Well, I can only advise you, Sam. I do think that whatever you choose, make sure you clear those items out before you file your report.”
Sam nibbled on her bottom lip. “Thanks, Kent. I really appreciate the help.” She couldn’t hide the suspicion in her voice no matter how hard she tried. Something wasn’t right. Someone did not have her b
est interests at heart.
As they all stood, Kent straightened his glasses again. “Mr. Fastellos, may I have a moment with Miss Castille? I need to go over something confidential with her.”
Richie flashed a look over at Sam. She kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Go on. It’ll be fine. I’ll meet you in the lobby downstairs.”
As Richie was leaving, Kent motioned to the charm. “So what’s with the shoe? New nervous habit?”
“Good luck charm,” she said, holding it up and giving it a jiggle. “A keepsake from Mom.”
Kent nodded in understanding. Once Richie had left, he led her to a window. His voice was hushed. “Sam, I don’t trust that Fastellos fellow. When he was first here, he told me an outright lie. He said his reason for being here was to buy your townhome. Watching you two together, I can clearly see that he was after something else.”
Sam smiled a small, tight-lipped smile. She didn’t want to believe that Kent was purposefully trying to throw suspicion onto Richie. Giving her charm a few pumps, she said, “Well, he’s my boyfriend.”
His expression fell. “Sam, I know you’re lonely, but—”
“Whoa, whoa,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “First off, bucko, I’m not a little girl. I’m an adult. I choose who to sleep with. I choose who to be with. Second, you work for me. You may be a friend of my family, but you are still my lawyer. That doesn’t give you carte blanche to stick your nose in my love life. Just don’t be a prick, Kent. You’ve been a great asset to my family and to me. And thank you for helping me out during this difficult time. But stay out of my personal life.”
Kent narrowed his eyes. His expression was cold. “As you wish, Princess. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for a very important meeting.”
She left the office, fighting back the urge to say something else. Part of her wanted to apologize, while the other part wanted to tell him off even more. She hoped Kent was just being an over-protective jerk, instead of deliberately trying to sabotage her.