by Leo King
Michael felt a twinge of triumph. If he could keep Kent on this path, he could get him to confess. He just needed to play up the sympathy more.
Walking more toward Kent, he said, “But it’s not right. What Vincent did was wrong. You deserved something—anything—after all you gave to that twisted family.”
“All I gave, indeed,” said Kent as he rubbed the lower part of his face. “I gave everything to keep that family and that little girl safe from the public. Sam wanted her grandfather’s money to go away. Gladys and the others wanted it to be someplace safe until Sam ‘came to her senses.’ So I split that fortune up amongst hundreds of investments. In the past twenty years, the Castille fortune has grown far beyond what it once was. Sam doesn’t even realize it, but she owns considerable percentages of some of the most successful companies in the world. Her wealth is immense.”
Michael just stood there for a few moments, letting that sink in. Sam isn’t just rich, she’s super rich?
Exhaling, he asked, “OK, so, approximately how much is the Castille fortune now?”
Walking over to the nearby desk, Kent tapped a ledger. “Sam is worth, with her investments and holdings, close to five billion.” He drained his glass of wine.
Michael whistled. While he was glad that his hunch was accurate, he was still surprised by the sheer amount of wealth. However, here is my best chance to get Kent to confess.
“So that’s what this is about,” he said, faking his surprise. “This is about getting a five-billion-dollar fortune? You framed Sam for murder so that you could get her money?”
“Are you so surprised?” asked Kent, his face starting to redden. “I gave everything to that family. Everything! I even hid my own bastard son so that I wouldn’t bring shame to the good Castille name as their lawyer.”
He sat down on the edge of the sofa, wringing his hands. “Then Vincent goes and messes it all up with that Bourbon Street Ripper nonsense. And then Sam goes and gets so screwed up in the head that everything just stalls. And here I am, cleaning up their mess for twenty years without so much as a Mercedes to say ‘Thank you, Kent.’ So you’re damn right it’s about the money.”
He ran his fingers through his gray hair. “I admit that sometimes, I get sick to my stomach over how I’ve screwed over Sam. I have loved that girl since her birth, you have to believe that, but there’s nothing more I can do to help her. She’s far too damaged to ever live a normal life. Framing her for murder ensures she gets locked away. And when she is, she’ll finally get the help she needs.” He looked up. “And I’ll finally get what’s mine.”
Michael smiled. “Checkmate.”
Kent blinked and rose, his face getting red. “You little piece of sh—”
In a flash, Michael had his gun out. “I don’t think so, Mr. Bourgeois.”
At that moment, the door to the room burst open and in came a man in his thirties. He was wearing black leather pants, a fishnet T-shirt, and a leather jacket. His torso, visible through the shirt, was positively covered in tattoos. He had a wild, untamed, and angry look. His eyes were puffy, like he was strung out or had been crying or both.
Michael recognized him from the information on the Times-Picayune as one of its editors, even though he looked different when out of a suit. Michael turned and trained his gun on him. “Jacob Hueber,” he said.
“Nick. Son. What the hell are you doing here?” exclaimed Kent.
Michael blinked as the connection fell into place. Jacob Hueber is Nick Bourgeois.
Nick looked at him, then looked at his gun, and then asked, “Dad, what the hell is going on?”
“Nick, you and your dad are in some serious trouble,” Michael said. He knew that Rodger would be here any minute. He also noted that Nick was alone and looked pale and frightened.
“We’re not the ones in trouble, Detective. You are,” said Kent.
Michael heard the sound of a hammer cocking. His heart rate increased. Quickly, he re-trained his gun on Kent, who was aiming a 9 mm pistol at him.
“You had it in the sofa,” he said, realizing his mistake.
“Of course,” replied Kent, arching an eyebrow. “I just needed you to let me sit down. I didn’t expect you to make me confess. Brilliant tactics, Detective. You pulled one over on me.”
Michael looked for some signal or sign that Rodger was watching. Nothing. OK, partner, let’s not wait too long here.
“It’s true I feel bad about what I’ve done to Sam,” Kent said. “But like I told you, she’s damaged beyond what anyone can do to help. She needs to be locked away for the rest of her life. For her own good.”
Another hammer cock resounded behind Michael. Looking, he saw that Nick had a .45 automatic, a very sizable handgun, aimed at him. “Father, we have some problems. My biker group is—”
“Shut up, Nick,” interrupted Kent. “We have to deal with one thing at a time, like I always tell you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Son, are you high?”
“I did a line before coming here,” said Nick, sniffing. “If you had seen what I saw, you would—”
“Jesus Christ, Nick,” Kent said with a shake of the head. “Do you know how to do anything right? Let’s deal with this cop first, then we’ll sit down and rationally talk about your prob–”
Michael heard Nick spit and say, “No, Father, you listen to me right fucking now! Someone murdered my entire posse. Snuck in from the fire escape and cut them into little pieces like they were in a Cuisinart. You hear me?”
He raised his voice. “Fucking spread everyone’s guts around my pad! And whoever it was, they took Emilie. I did all this shit to Sam, years of pretending to be her friend, so you’d fucking approve of me. And now my real friends are fucking dead! So forgive me for doing a fucking line, but someone other than this cop is onto us and is killing us. So, yeah, we have to fucking deal with this, too, Dad!”
For a moment, Michael processed what Nick had just said. He felt a bit ill. Was it possible that there was someone else involved? Could he have gotten his accusation wrong?
“OK, OK. I apologize, son. But one step at a time,” said Kent. “First, we take the detective to the bathroom and shoot him. Next, we get someone to remove the body and toss it in the river. Then, we call the police at your apartment. Finally, we go find your girlfriend before she gets herself hurt. She’s probably doped up beyond belief right now, since she’s a bigger cokehead than you.”
Behind him, Michael could hear Nick muttering to himself. He figured that the mixture of trauma and drugs had likely made Nick less focused. Otherwise, Michael figured he’d be in serious trouble right now.
Still, he wondered what was keeping his partner. Rodger, I know you love dramatic entrances and all, but I really need you right now.
“All right, Dad,” said Nick. He inhaled deeply. “Let’s do it your way. But let’s make sure we don’t waste too much time here. I’ve put too much energy into pretending to be that psycho-bitch’s friend, putting up with her screwed-up family and her faggot writer boyfriend, just so we can cash in her fortune, to get gutted like a fish.”
Kent reached for Michael’s gun. “Let’s go, then, Detective. Time to write you out of this story.”
The sound of a third cocking gun came from the entrance hall, followed by a gruff voice saying, “Don’t edit Michael out just yet.”
It was Rodger.
Michael breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, partner, what took you so long?”
“I wanted to hear these two pieces of trash admit they’ve spent all these years lying to Sam so that they could screw her out of her money. Especially this little shit who was supposed to be her best friend.” From the hallway, Rodger motioned toward Nick with his gun.
Backing away, Nick continued to aim his gun at Michael.
Michael held his gun on Kent.
Kent held his gun on Michael.
Rodger, his gun trained on Nick, came into the room. “It’s over, Kent, Nick,” he said calmly. “You’ve lost. Ouellette and
the others will be here any minute. You’re going to jail.”
“Don’t be so high and mighty, Detective Bergeron. It’s because of you that Edward is dead. We all remember that lovely story,” replied Kent, keeping his gun aimed at Michael. “And maybe you’ll be the cause of your new partner’s death, too, hmm?”
Michael kept his gun trained on Kent. It was a classic stand-off. All they had to do was wait for Ouellette to arrive and it would be over.
“If you shoot Michael,” Rodger said matter-of-factly, “you’re dead.”
“I’ve lost more than you’ve ever lost, Bergeron.” Kent’s eyes were fierce.
Rodger shook his head. “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard. I’ve lost more than a narcissist like you can ever dream.”
Kent winced and stomped his foot like a child would, yelling, “All I want is what’s mine!”
Rodger sighed and again shook his head. “That doesn’t excuse anything that you’ve done. In the end, you’re just a pathetic con man.”
“What do you know?” Kent spat out with growing rage. “So what if Sam goes down for murder? You know the whole damn family is evil. All those sick voodoo rituals and shit they used to do! What kind of a man tortures dozens of women to death and then laments that he didn’t kill enough? The whole family deserves to burn in hell.”
“You’re babbling. And it’s starting to bore me,” said Michael. “We can be here like this all night, but as soon as the rest of the precinct arrives, life is going to get very uncomfortable for you two.”
Just as he said that, the night sky lit up with dozens upon dozens of red and blue flashing lights.
Nick jerked his head toward the window. “What’s that?”
“The entire eighth precinct,” replied Rodger, keeping his gun on Nick. “Ouellette had to rouse everyone, I’m sure, and our numbers are reduced after the bullshit at the wharf, but we all have a way of pulling together when it counts.”
“Crap!” exclaimed Nick. “So what do we do, Dad?”
Michael wasn’t surprised that Nick was cracking under the pressure. He just hoped it wouldn’t result in someone’s gun going off by mistake. Whatever had happened at Jacob’s apartment had thrown a monkey wrench into everything.
“Shut it, son,” replied Kent, smirking. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to end. We’ll get a few months, a year or two at the worst, for framing Sam. So what? You won’t get us on those murders and you know it. There’s no evidence. And this won’t stop her from being committed. What will you gain, Detective Bergeron?”
“Closure. Something I need,” Rodger replied. “Cuff him, Michael. Let’s go back to the hospital. Sam started moving her eyes about half an hour ago. I want to see my niece.”
Michael felt nothing but pride in both his partner and their department. Finally, after all that had happened, something had gone right. For the first time in weeks, it felt great to be part of the Eighth Precinct Homicide Division.
Moving toward Kent, he said, “Kent Bourgeois, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit—”
Then a shot rang out.
Michael stood there, shocked. Looking down, he saw blood leak from a hole in his left pant leg. He could feel the pain spreading throughout his thigh.
Looking back up, he saw Kent with an expression of absolute horror on his face. His hand was shaking, and while he was holding the gun, his finger was nowhere near the trigger. In that instant, Michael knew what had happened. Somehow, the gun had gone off without Kent doing anything. It was a horrible, horrible mistake.
Rodger yelled, “No!” He aimed his gun at Kent, while Nick aimed his gun at Rodger.
Michael wanted to yell that it was an accident. But it was already too late. Nick and Rodger were seconds away from shooting—everything was unraveling in the blink of an eye.
If I don’t act, Nick will shoot Rodger.
Michael felt any hope of a peaceful end to this standoff slip away. He could hardly remain standing with a bullet in his leg. All he could do now was save his partner’s life. Biting his bottom lip, Michael aimed his gun and fired it point-blank at the side of Nick’s head.
The gunshot rang out and Nick fell back, dead.
Michael heard Kent shout out his son’s name, heard a bang, and then felt pain explode along the left side of his neck.
Kent had shot him again.
As Michael fell backward, he heard Rodger yell again. Then he heard three shots ring out. As he fell to the floor, he saw Kent fall back onto the sofa, holes in his chest, dead.
Then Michael landed in a heap.
As he lay there, he tried to breathe. It was very difficult. Blood was pouring from the side of his neck. Looking up, he saw several pieces of folded paper slip from Kent’s pocket. His gut told him it was important.
That has to be it. The final piece of evidence. Please let it be that!
Rodger ran to Michael’s side, pressing his hand to the wound. His voice was distant as he took out a walkie-talkie and cried out, “Officer down! Officer down!”
Michael pointed at the folded pieces of paper. His hand was shaky; his voice was raspy. “Evidence?” He hoped it was important.
Rodger looked toward the paper. “Don’t worry about that, bud. We gotta keep pressure on the wound. Gotta keep—”
“Please,” Michael said, feeling his body getting colder. “Gotta know… if we got the killers.” He needed the paper to be important.
In the distance, he could hear the sound of someone digging.
Rodger gave him a despairing look before quickly heading to where Kent lay. He grabbed the pages and hurried back, dropping them on the floor where he could read them while compressing Michael’s wound. His face showed no emotion.
“Was I right?” Michael asked, straining. He could hardly hear anything but that digging sound.
Rodger nodded. “It’s a letter, partner. You were right. It was them. They were the killers.”
Michael started to laugh, although it was more of a series of gasping chortles. Despite Rodger’s best efforts, already Michael was losing his sight. “We did it… Thank God, we did it…”
“You did it,” said Rodger, tossing the letter to the side and holding him close.
Michael smiled, even as he felt wetness on his face. Is it raining?
Looking up, he wondered why the lights were dimmed. He could hardly see his partner with the lights out. The sound of digging was all around him, enveloping him. “No, we did it, buddy. I’m glad we’re partners… friends. I’m so… happy…”
With a smile on his face, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc quietly passed away.
Chapter 24
A Neatly Folded Letter
Kent Bourgeois,
You don’t know me, but I know everything about you. For the past twenty years, you have been scamming the Castille family for millions of dollars. Moving the money around investments and umbrella corporations, you have been skimming off the top and living high on the hog. Your pathetic story about starving on Vincent Castille’s pickings is nothing more than lies. You lied to Vincent when you hid Nick, and you lied to Samantha when you said you’d take care of her.
In short, your entire life is a lie.
If you doubt my knowledge, see the attached records of your personal bank statements. Getting them was easy, and at the push of a button, I can send them to every newspaper and law enforcement agency in Louisiana.
But I am offering you a chance at salvation. I am offering you a chance to make this right. If you follow my instructions to the letter, I guarantee that you and your son will live well for the rest of your lives. But if you break a single rule, you will die as nothing more than a petty criminal.
In six months, I will arrive in New Orleans and begin a copycat killing spree modeled after Vincent Castille’s twenty years ago. You will help me accomplish this killing spree.
I have vetted the original four accomplices to Vincent Castille and know which ones may be useful. I have a
lso cased the townhome of Samantha Castille. She will be the one to take the fall for my killing spree.
Here is how we will do it:
Included are four drafts of four different letters. Three are to be typed on a typewriter. The one to Blind Moses is to be typed on a Braille machine. You are then to have all four letters anonymously delivered. Do not let it be traced back to you.
You are then to use some of the money you have swindled from the Castilles to purchase one Soviet Dragunov semi-automatic sniper rifle, one standard-issue Armed Forces .45-caliber pistol, and enough standard and explosive ammunition for both to have two full weeks of use. This should be simple—all of these weapons are available on the black market for those with enough cash to throw around. You are to stash these weapons and ammo in a cache at the address provided on the included dossier.
There are six addresses listed as “locations.” These are where I will perform my executions. They are all abandoned, so purchase them under one of your many fraudulent accounts. I’ll use the ones I see fit when I need them. I may or may not use them all.
Starting the second week of July, rent Room 205 at the Inn on Bourbon Street under a pseudonym. Stay there every night. If I have additional instructions, I will have them delivered to your room via courier.
I will begin the murders within the first few days of August. Be ready.
After the first murder, have your son, Nick, meet with Samantha Castille and make sure she is publishing murder mysteries regularly with the Times-Picayune. It would be best if the stories were about the Bourbon Street Ripper, but any murder mysteries will do. I will do the rest.
While Nick is meeting with Samantha Castille, have him collect some of her skin cells. I don’t care how you do this. Preserve the skin cells.