by Leo King
Rivette shrugged and dropped his action figure into his lap. “Probably because I’m the only one who will talk to you. The lieutenant is about to pop, the commander wants nothing to do with you, and Landry, Gravois, and Breaux are convinced you’re gonna go on a killing spree any day now.”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Give you guys a reason to put me down.”
Frowning, Rivette said, “Man, don’t even kid like that. Look, if Rodger or Michael were still alive, they’d be taking you out for drinks at Jean Lafitte’s. But since they’re not, I’m more than happy to treat you to a few pitchers.”
Aucoin grunted. It was always tedious talking to Rivette, whom he regarded as a child. “Thanks, but all the same, I’m gonna finish this up and go home. I have a crossword puzzle with my name on it.”
“Fine,” Rivette said, getting up. He shook the action figure as if it were talking. “But the captain says that the invitation is out there for ya.”
With a murmur, Aucoin waved him off.
A moment later, though, Rivette cleared his throat. “Hey, Kyle.”
“What?” He didn’t try to hide his annoyance.
Stroking his goatee, Rivette said, “Real talk time. Just remember, no one can go it alone, OK?”
For a few seconds, Aucoin gawked at Rivette, his mouth open. Then he said, “Why, thank you, Scott. I have seen the light and am now a changed man. Truly, you are an amazing individual with the ability to save the soul of even the most embittered person with just a well-rehearsed philosophical line or two.”
Rivette ignored him the rest of the night.
When Aucoin got home, he jerked off and then took a long, hot shower. Then, dressed in his robe, he fixed a microwave dinner and sat down in front of the television. The scent of pine cleaner and fresh carpet surrounded him. The few containers he had managed to stack up on the coffee table were gone, and there wasn’t any dust anywhere.
Damn maids were here again. Jesus, Dix, I told you once a month was fine!
He considered calling her to complain, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. She had made it perfectly clear that if he didn’t allow a maid service, she’d come and clean his house herself—pregnancy be damned.
“So much for not helping until I ask for it.” But despite it all, he couldn’t be angry. She was only looking out for him, and he knew it.
He turned on the television. The rerun of the evening news had just started.
“Tonight, another murder in Metairie. Police are looking for any leads in the stabbing death of local teenager Luane Calvin. Luane, who had been in and out of drug rehab since last Christmas, was found in an alleyway behind the Ship’s Wheel Gentlemen’s Club in Fat City. He had been stabbed thirty-seven times.”
Aucoin shook his head in disgust. Over the past month, five teenagers had been found stabbed to death in Fat City, Jefferson Parish’s version of the French Quarter. The media was already giving it the same level of coverage that they had given the new Bourbon Street Ripper back in August.
“A memorial service for the sixth victim of what is being called ‘the Fat City Stabber’ will be held this weekend. Jefferson Parish Sheriff Harry Lee has also issued the following statement.”
The report cut to a portly Asian man standing behind a podium. He had the look of someone who did not play around. “We’re devoting full-time resources to finding this killer. For now, I urge all Metairie residents under the age of eighteen to stay inside after nightfall unless with large groups or parents. I’ve also spoken with Commander Louis Ouellette of the New Orleans Eighth Precinct. Commander Ouellette oversaw the new Bourbon Street Ripper case last year. He has promised to bring in additional, specialized resources. I’m sure with his expertise, he’ll—”
Muting the report, Aucoin said, “Well, I don’t know what resources the commander’s bringing in, Harry. They’re all either dead or on medical leave.”
He rifled through a stack of notebooks and picked one out, opening it up. Inside was page after page of personal thoughts. They were all extremely dark—some of them outright murderous. Then he took out a silver fountain pen that he had recovered from the ashes of Sam Castille’s home. “All right, time for some therapy.”
After his mental breakdown, he’d started seeing a city-appointed therapist. One of his exercises was learning how to admit to his feelings. The counselor suggested that he write down every twisted thought that came to mind in stream-of-consciousness writing to “get it all out” instead of bottling it up inside.
After six months, he had filled up over a dozen notebooks with some of the sickest shit imaginable. It started as a rambling narrative and transformed into full-blown prose, focusing on his rage. Just as he hadn’t been able to save his daughter, he fixated on others dying violent deaths that could have been avoided if they had just listened to their fathers.
“Let’s see.”
After a few seconds of thought, he began to write:
The killer skulked about in the shadows like a plague waiting to be unleashed, stalking his prey with murderous intent. Betty had gone out for a pack of smokes, disobeying her parents’ pleas for safety. Betty’s father, Mike, had even offered to take her to the gas station himself, but she was too cool for that. And so, poor Betty arrived at the gas station alone and got her pack of cigarettes, tucking one behind her ear and lighting another. She thought she was fine as she headed home, but the killer was already waiting for her in the alley behind the comic shop. Before she even knew it, he was upon her, stabbing her again and again, slicing through her arteries and cutting into her heart. She was dead before she could even gurgle.
Aucoin shivered as a tingle rippled down his spine. He put the notebook and pen away without reviewing his story, thinking about something else instead. It was what the therapist had suggested, getting the negative thoughts out and then forcing them away. Then he quietly ate his now-cold dinner. Eventually, he fell asleep in his chair. It wasn’t a choice so much as a necessity. Cathy had taken the bed when she’d left.
“Sir, you’re doing what?”
Aucoin sat across from his commander, staring in disbelief. He hadn’t even gotten to his desk before Ouellette had called him into his office.
Ouellette stared back, arms folded and as dour-looking as ever. “Believe me, Aucoin. If there was any other way, I wouldn’t. But Connick’s kicking up shit, and the mayor’s seat is up for election next year, so Barthelemy don’t give a crap. And seeing as how everyone else is working triple overtime, you’re the one. So, instead of sitting there bitching like a little girl, how about you find your balls and start being a cop again?”
Under normal circumstances, Aucoin would enjoy every second of Ouellette’s tough attitude. It was the one thing about his boss he’d always loved. But with his own life falling to pieces, he just wasn’t into it. He especially didn’t feel up to the task he’d been given.
“Sir, I get that we’re understaffed. But asking me to go help the Jefferson Parish police find the Fat City Stabber?”
With a snort, Ouellette said, “Who else do I send? Bergeron and LeBlanc are gone. Olivier is about to drop her baby. Rivette is constantly acting up. Landry is occupied with personal assignments. Breaux and Gravois are doing more work than everyone else combined. There’s no one else. You’re it.”
As Aucoin opened his mouth to protest, Ouellette held up a hand and locked eyes with him. “Look. I know you’re in pain. I get it. No father should ever have to bury a child. I’ve been there. And also, like you, I’ve had a marriage ruined by a child’s death. So I know you’re suffering. I know it better than you can ever imagine.”
He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “But I also know that you’re a detective and a damn good one. You squeeze this last one out for me, and I’ll make sure you get on paid leave for a month. Deal?”
After a few seconds, Aucoin nodded.
“Good,” Ouellette said. “Report to Harry Lee’s office tomorrow. You’ll work there until the
Fat City Stabber is caught.”
“Yes, sir,” Aucoin said. “I’ll make sure Dix knows what’s going on. Otherwise, she might worry herself into labor.” He smirked. It was a joke. His former partner was anything but weak.
Ouellette snickered. “And she’d beat the crap out of you with her one hand if she heard you say that. Now get going. I’ve got too much to do. That fat-ass Landry needs to report on a special project, and he’s running late.”
However, Aucoin didn’t want to leave yet. His commander’s comment about burying a child brought forth something he’d been holding in for months.
“One question, sir, if I may?”
“Yes?”
“I was just wondering, given what happened to your son, Jason, and all…”
That made Ouellette scowl. “Your point, Aucoin?”
Asking the question was harder than he had anticipated. “How long does it take to come to terms with your child’s death? How long does it take to forget the pain?”
For a moment, Ouellette looked old and tired. It was the first time Aucoin had ever seen his commander with that expression.
“You never get over it,” he said. “A parent shouldn’t have to bury their child for any reason. Even if you start another family, the pain doesn’t go away.”
Aucoin blinked. “Start another family? I thought Jason was your only child.”
With another scowl, Ouellette waved him off. “I try offering counsel, and you pry into my past. Get your ass back to work. Focus on your fixing your own life instead of sticking your nose into mine, all right?”
He then turned his attention to the reports on his desk, leaving Aucoin to wonder just what past his commander was hiding.
Once back on the floor, Aucoin saw Detective Landry on the phone, cupping his mouth around the receiver. He wiped sweat from his forehead. As Aucoin approached, all he heard was “keep an eye on her” and “do my best.”
Coming up behind Landry, Aucoin squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, Paul. Everything OK?”
Landry squeaked and hung up the phone. “Yeah! Yeah, Kyle. Everything’s fine.” He grinned nervously, avoiding eye contact.
“Right. Hey, man, you know if you’re ever in trouble, you can give me a call. I’ll help.”
Throwing on his overcoat, Landry said, “Yeah, thanks, Kyle. No, I’ll be OK. I was just talking to my, um, mother. My little sister’s dating another deadbeat, and Mom wants me to keep an eye on her.”
He gathered his belongings and waved goodbye. “So I’ll catch you later, right?” He was gone before Aucoin could respond.
With his hands on his hips, Aucoin said, “Right. So what was that all about?”
Then something on the ground caught his eye—a scrap of paper that had fallen from Landry’s coat pocket.
Aucoin skimmed the room, but the only other person around was Rivette, and he was having a fight with the coffee machine. Nonchalantly, Aucoin snatched up the paper. Then he went back to his desk, smoothed it out, and looked it over. It was a series of street addresses and times.
Well, this is nothing special.
A moment later, his detective instincts kicked in, and he realized what he had. Confusion settled within him.
I don’t get it. Why does Landry have Dix’s daily schedule?
Chapter 17
Enter Caroline Saucier
Date: Wednesday, March 21, 1993
Time: 6:00 a.m.
Location: Severn Avenue
Fat City, Metairie
The sun hadn’t risen yet as Aucoin headed out to Fat City, a large, square area of bars, clubs, and restaurants in the heart of Metairie. In many ways, it was the little brother of the French Quarter—it was a place of vices that stank of well-seasoned bodily fluids. But unlike the Big Easy’s main attraction, Fat City was filled with low-rise buildings and cheap expectations, with only the occasional drunken bum or high teenager to show what it wanted to be.
To Aucoin, it was a punishment just having to be there.
His check-in with Harry Lee was brief and uneventful. He learned that the Fat City Stabber had struck again the previous evening. He was also informed that he’d be working with Detective Bradley, who was heading up the investigation.
As he pulled up next to a police car, which was silently flashing its lights, he saw several trucks from the local television stations and a growing mass of pedestrians. At the outer edge of the crowd was a truck from the Times-Picayune, and behind it was a red Cadillac convertible with a white hood and tinted windows.
Aucoin got out and pulled his overcoat around him. The air was still chilly, and the humidity was as terrible as always. As he passed by the Cadillac, his gaze lingered. He could just barely make out someone inside and heard NPR playing. He nodded briefly at whoever was inside and moved on. “Now that’s a gorgeous car.”
Sparing a glance at the reporters and the crowd, he slipped under the police line and headed down the alleyway toward the crime scene. A uniformed officer stopped him about halfway.
“Who are you?”
He showed his badge. “Kyle Aucoin, New Orleans Eighth Precinct Homicide. My boss has me helping your boss with this mess.”
The officer nodded at the badge and then motioned for him to follow. “This way, sir. I’ll introduce you to the detective on scene.”
He led Aucoin to a tall, suited man with a beer gut and a dangerously receding hairline. “Detective Bradley, this is Detective Aucoin. He’s the guy from New Orleans.”
They shook hands. “Aucoin, eh? Glad you could make it. It’s a shit sandwich here, and I’m about full.” He slapped his bulging stomach.
Aucoin scanned the scene. A single body lay underneath a white sheet with pools of blood leaking out from the sides. Several smaller puddles of blood led from a nearby wall toward it. “Looks like the victim was attacked over by the wall there and made it about four yards before being overtaken.” It felt good to be a detective again, even if he was stating the obvious.
Bradley cleared his throat and spit a wad of phlegm to the side. “Excuse me. Yeah, it’s disgusting. This is the seventh victim of the Stabber. The son-of-a-bitch is getting bolder, like he’s daring us to catch him. But there’s no trail and no evidence. Whoever this guy is, he’s good at covering his tracks.”
Kneeling down next to the body, Aucoin gingerly picked up the corner of the sheet. “May I?”
With a shrug, Bradley said, “Sure. I’ll guess you’ve got the stomach for it, based on your work on the Ripper case. So be my guest.”
Aucoin peeled back the sheet. It was an awful sight. The victim was a girl in her mid-teens with chestnut-brown hair and too much makeup, like she was rebelling against being a child. From the denim jacket to the pack of cigarettes clutched in her hand to the Walkman buds in her ears, she had stark similarities to Cheryl. Her chest and abdomen were covered with blood, her eyes were open, and her mouth was stretched into a frozen scream.
For a brief moment, he was standing in the morgue over the tortured remains of his beautiful daughter, the pieces of her that were left detailing the hours of relentless agony that Dallas had made her suffer.
Dropping the blanket, Aucoin rushed behind a dumpster. He barely made it before vomiting. It wasn’t the brutality of the crime, as he had seen far worse over the course of his career. If it had been a teenage boy, or an older girl or an adult, or even a girl who dressed differently, that would have been OK. But to see a girl who reminded him of his Cheryl was way too much.
“Hey, whoa, you OK there?” Bradley stood behind him. He sounded concerned.
After he had emptied his stomach of the store-bought waffles he’d had for breakfast, Aucoin wiped his mouth and said, “Yeah. Just, long story. I’ll be OK.”
Bradley jerked his head toward the alleyway’s exit. “Why don’t you go chill out at the street? I’ll come join you in a bit. Then we’ll go have breakfast, and I’ll fill you in on the case.”
“Breakfast?” Aucoin spat out the remaining vom
itus. “Yeah, sure, whatever. I have room now. I’ll wait for you by the cars.”
He hurried out of the alleyway, images of the dead girl still fresh in his mind. His thoughts then wandered to how much he wished Dallas was still alive. He often fantasized about how he would torture him slowly over a period of days or even weeks, taking care to ensure he didn’t die until all that remained was a lump of flesh and organs that could barely be called human.
By the time he reached the street, he was so firmly entrenched in his elaborate revenge fantasy that he didn’t realize he’d walked straight into a group of reporters. The next thing he knew, several microphones, cameras, and lights were in his face. Questions were being fired off at him.
“Excuse me, Detective, but what can you tell us about the death? Is it being ruled another homicide?”
“Is this another victim of the Fat City Stabber?”
“What is Sheriff Lee doing to keep the teenagers of Metairie safe from this killer?”
Aucoin stood in shock as the half-dozen reporters waited for an answer. Luckily, his training in dealing with the media kicked in after only a few seconds. “Sorry, I’m not authorized to comment on the case. You’ll have to wait for Detective Bradley.”
More questions flew at him anyway.
“Are you working with Detective Bradley?
“You’re Detective Aucoin from Downtown, correct?”
“Why have you been assigned to this case?”
Starting to sweat, he noticed the passenger-side door of the Cadillac open and a feminine hand gesture to him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Again, no comment.” He slipped through the crowd into the car. Once inside, he closed the door and adjusted his overcoat. “Thanks. Can you drive me around the block?”
Then he got a good look at the person behind the wheel. He had thought it might be someone he knew, but he had never seen her before. Dressed in a charcoal business suit, she was in her early forties with dark auburn, bob-cut hair and cold, blue eyes. There was something about her that just said “bitch.” She flipped a switch, locking the car, and then put it in drive. “Buckle up, Detective.”
