by John Moore
On the way to my condo, Tom and I stopped by the sporting goods store and picked up my .38 handgun and ankle holster. I wanted it strapped to my leg as long as Rogan’s cartel thugs were still around. Tom needed to get off his leg for a while. He’d been too active lately, which had set back his recovery. I worked on Superior Sugar’s stevia campaign the rest of the day, wanting to bring Mr. Morris some ideas early next week. The day flew by quickly, and before I knew it, I needed to get ready to go to the Broussard’s for dinner.
I dressed very casually in slacks, a starched white shirt and a blazer. I looked in the mirror and remembered that this was the outfit I wore to go shopping with Sarah. Of course, they weren’t the same clothes. My weight loss required me to buy a new wardrobe. I couldn’t help but think how much I missed her and how much things had changed since that day we shopped. I hoped Sarah looked down and smiled with approval at “Sarah’s House.” I accessorized my outfit with the addition of my ankle holster and .38 caliber handgun. From this point forward, I didn’t plan on going anywhere without it. I decided to worry about getting my conceal carry permit later. Tonight I was wearing it.
I drove slowly to the lakefront to Dan Broussard’s house. It was a beautiful place in a ritzy neighborhood. His was the largest house on the street of course. The shrubs and trees were neatly trimmed. From the outside, the Broussard’s house looked like the perfect American home for the perfect family.
I knocked on the door. Bob Broussard answered, sporting a dark tan and a huge smile. “Come in, Alexandra, Dad is in his study and Mom and I are cooking.”
Mrs. Broussard wobbled to the edge of the kitchen and waved to me. She was already drunk. Bob showed me to Mr. Broussard’s study and went back to the kitchen.
“Come in, Alexandra,” Mr. Broussard said. “Would you like a drink? Red wine?”
“Yes, a glass of red wine would be nice,” I said. “Your house is very nice, Mr. Broussard.”
“Please, not so formal. Call me Dan. I have been watching your work. You have a great deal of talent.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Dan and I talked about the weather and the effect Katrina had on New Orleans. Our conversation was a bit stilted. He was killing time till dinner, avoiding mentioning Bart Rogan’s involvement with Bayou Oil. Mercifully, we didn’t have to talk for long, because Bob shouted that dinner was served. We all sat down to a Cajun feast, which included crawfish etouffee, crab bisque and stuffed red snapper. Bob and Dan did most of the talking, while Mrs. Broussard drained her glass of scotch quickly and often. It was obvious she didn’t care much for the company of her son – or husband for that matter. She seemed miserable loving only her glass of scotch.
After dinner Bob said, “Alexandra, why don’t you and Dad go back into his study? I’ll help Mom clean up and then I’ve got a major surprise for both of you.”
Dan looked at his son, perplexed. I did too. What kind of surprise could he have for me and his dad? Oh shit, I thought, is Mandy Miller coming over here? Are they going to make hurricanes or sing Karaoke? Could this evening get any more awkward? Dan and I went into the study and he poured us each another drink. I really didn’t want anything else, so I barely sipped my wine. I wanted to get this evening over with and go back to Tom. Now I needed to wait for Bob’s surprise. He did just cook a fantastic meal. I heard a sound like someone falling and thought: there goes Mrs. Broussard out for the count. Mr. Broussard must have heard it too. He tried to play it off, obviously embarrassed by his wife’s condition.
A few minutes later Bob walked into the study and asked, “Ready for your surprise?” a strange grin on his face.
I had my back to the door, sitting across the desk from Dan Broussard. Dan nodded to his son, indicating we were ready. I braced myself for Mandy’s screeching voice. Instead, Bob sat in the seat next to me. He stared at his father with a peculiar love/hate mixture in his eyes. Dan grew impatient and asked what the surprise was.
Bob brandished a long kitchen knife he’d stuck down the back of his pants. Fresh blood covered the blade. He said, “Well, Dad, Mom won’t be joining us. I just cut her throat. Went a little too deep and almost cut her head off. Her blood smelled like scotch.”
“What?” Dan asked, his eyes flung open wide, his mouth making a large oval.
“That’s right, Dad. I just killed that drunken bitch. Something I’ve wanted to do for a while. You know she’s not my mother. She adopted me because you threatened to take away all her toys if she didn’t. Your little boy knows all about what you did years ago. Sit there, don’t move, and listen to me or I’ll cut Alexandra’s throat, then yours.”
Dan and I froze in our seats. Was my luck running out? How many of these scenes could I live through?
“Let me tell you about my father, Alexandra. He had an affair with my real mother, a Haitian woman who worked for him. He got her pregnant. He sent her to a house he owned in the countryside till I was born. Then he used his political contacts to get her out of the country. He never allowed me to meet her. He and Mommie Dearest adopted me. They wanted to fool everyone and make all of the New Orleans society snobs believe Mom couldn’t have children. The truth was she hated kids. But she went along with the ruse. After all, Dad here gave her all the nice things she wanted in life. That’s what she cared about, clothes, cars, jewelry and country club memberships. She went along with everything except taking care of me. She hated me. She tortured me. When Dad wasn’t around, she locked me in my closet and threatened to beat me senseless if I told Dad. She practiced hitting me and not leaving marks. She tortured me every chance she had. I grew to hate her. I spent hours thinking of ways to get even with her. Dad, remember her little poodle, Mr. Bojangles? I cut his throat and told her he ran away. She knew the truth but couldn’t prove it. I started plotting to kill her when I was in 6th grade. I just couldn’t find the right time. I started making paper voodoo dolls to stick knives in, imagining they were her. As I got older, I decided to practice on other women so I wouldn’t lose my nerve at my moment of truth. I stalked women in the French Quarter. I took pictures of them. I called them. When the time was right, I slipped roofies in women’s drinks to incapacitate them. Once they were out, I threw the bitches in my car and brought them to our condo. That’s right, Alexandra, the same condo you went to Mardi Gras night. It was convenient. I parked in the garage, brought them upstairs in the elevator, and put them in one of the bathtubs. I stabbed them where their ovaries were. They died bleeding in the bathtubs in the condo. Mommie wouldn’t want me to make a mess. It was perfect. I waited till the French Quarter was quiet, the right time in the early morning to dump them where I knew there were no cameras. Eventually, they gave me a name for disposing of all of those worthless whores on my practice runs. The papers called me the Quarter Killer. I stuffed my paper voodoo dolls in their mouths. I knew one day I’d be ready to kill the real bitch I hated. I couldn’t wait any longer. It was your blog, Alexandra, which made me realize the time was right. You exposed my Dad’s buddy, that asshole Rogan, for what he really is. He and Dad are peas in a pod. You know, Alexandra, I was going to take care of Sarah for the role she played taking me from my real mother. I didn’t get the chance. Dad and Rogan beat me to it. He and Rogan had her killed.”
Dan Broussard started to get up. Bob thrust the edge of the knife against my neck and made him sit back down.
“I’m not finished yet, Dad. Alexandra, remember the night you went with Mandy to The Cat’s Meow? I drugged you that night. I was going to practice on you too. But you weren’t like all of the other high society bitches. You seemed like a genuinely nice person, so I brought you to your condo and put you to bed. I watched you sleep for a while. You were a normal person, vulnerable and sweet. I didn’t want to kill you. I really didn’t want to kill anyone but Mom. Then, I’d meet bitches just like Mom, and they had to die. I imagined they had someone just like me in their life they were torturing.”
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br /> “Bob,” Dan Broussard said. “You are not the boy I raised. I taught you better. I sent you to the finest schools. You are sick. There is something wrong with you.”
“Really, Dad? You are worse than me. You pollute water and land to line your pockets with money. You and your buddy, Rogan, kill people too. Maybe you kill them slower and less directly than I do, but you kill. You kill more than me. It’s just like Alexandra said in her blog. You hide behind corporations and lawyers but you kill just like me. The Times calls me a serial killer. But, Dad, you, Rogan, and the rest of your corporate buddies are the real serial killers. You are much more evil than me. At least I kill people who deserve it. You kill innocent people you’ve never even met.”
I looked at Bob and actually felt sorry for him. He looked back at me and said, “I’m sorry.”
Boom! An explosion went off. Bob’s chest spattered blood and he and his chair fell backward. I cut my eyes to Dan. He had a gun still pointing in Bob’s direction, smoke spiraling from the barrel. He must have pulled it in that second Bob looked away from him. He must have been ready to move at any time.
Dan Broussard looked at me with tears rolling down his face and said, “Tell them I’m sorry.”
He placed the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered on the walls and ceiling. After the deafening noise of the gun, the room filled with silence. I sat in my chair, welded to the seat, waiting. For what, I couldn’t say. For the universe to repair itself, maybe. To see a father killing his son, no matter that the son was a homicidal maniac, made everything I called reality slip a little out of focus.
For what seemed like hours, I couldn’t move. I’m sure I really only sat there for a few minutes, but time had stopped. I took my cell phone out of my purse and called 911.
“This is Alexandra Lee. I am at Dan Broussard’s home on Lakeshore Drive. Three people have just been injured. I think they may be dead. Please send ambulances and police.”
Within five minutes flashing lights decorated the neighborhood. Yellow tape went up around the Broussard residence. Detective Baker was one of the first on the scene. He didn’t want a repeat of a compromised crime scene like the one at my condo. I sat in the rear of an ambulance while paramedics checked me out. Blood once again covered my face and clothes. Not my blood. Guilty blood. As I sat and watched the chaos, the paramedics rushed Bob Broussard from the house on a gurney. They put him in the back of an ambulance and sped away toward the hospital. The coroner attended to Dan Broussard and his wife. He put them in shiny black body bags and wheeled them to his van. Their final bill was paid.
Detective Baker took me to the precinct in his car. Baker noticed the ankle holster and gun I was wearing. He hid it in his car. Guess he didn’t want me to get in any trouble for not having a permit to carry a concealed weapon. When we arrived at the precinct, I had to go through all of the normal police questioning, telling the story over and over again. Tom rushed to the precinct and took me in his arms. I felt safe. After four hours of telling the story to at least 10 people, Tom and I went home.
We didn’t say much to each other on the ride home. We didn’t need to. We needed to hold each other and start fresh tomorrow morning.
Chapter Thirty-Four:
Trapped Again
Tom and I awoke in the same position as we’d fallen asleep. He lay on his back. My head was nuzzled on his chest, his left arm around me. It was a new day. I hopped out of bed and started the coffee. Tom stirred when I got out of bed but snoozed till I returned with our coffees.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“Like a rock,” I said. “What time are we meeting with the ROLF folks today?”
“Around 10:00 this morning,” he said. “Are you OK? You went through major trauma yesterday. How do you feel about it? Do you want to talk about what you saw last night?”
“Tom, I feel fine. I have learned how to compartmentalize events. What happened to the Broussards, they brought on themselves. Life is full of choices. There are consequences to the decisions each of us makes. Maybe we get by for a while without suffering the complete ramifications of our actions, but one day we have to pay the bill. Evil exists in this world and will always exist. I believe that there is order in the universe and as long as we follow that order, we will be fine. Evil defies the order. It is much like cancer in our bodies. It is an abnormal cell, and left unchecked, it will destroy all that it contaminates. We must remain vigilant against evil. This is why I’m not freaked out about the fate the Broussards suffered. It was inevitable.”
Tom said he understood. We spent the morning writing my blog, reporting the events of the night before. My blog had more than five million readers now. It had gone super viral. I loved every minute I spent reading and writing on it.
Later in the day, we met with the ROLL people. They were an interesting group. Some were well-educated professionals. Some were rough and ready rebels. What they all had in common was a love for the natural waters of the world and no tolerance for polluters. My favorite of the group was Amanda Michaels, a young lady maybe 23 years old. She hailed from Oberlin, a small south central Louisiana Cajun town. She had just graduated from Tulane with a degree in fine arts. Amanda was naive to the ways of the world but passionate about protecting the environment. The group planned a trip to Mexico in two weeks to protest a competitor of ACC’s spraying insecticide on tomato crops. The spray was poisoning the local rivers. Tom and I promised to join them.
I reconnected with Jess Johnson in her office a week later. She offered me a job again. Of course, I turned her down. I loved writing my blog. She suggested I write a column based on the topics in the blog and syndicate it to papers around the country. I wrote the column and had no problem selling it. My blog had made me well known in the journalistic community. With Rogan locked up and Broussard dead, the deal to sell the Times fell through. Jess’ job was safe at least for the moment.
Tom went back to work. His leg healed nicely. I teased him and told him I liked the more ruggedly handsome look. We were perfect together. Much like peanut butter was with jelly. We returned to Indiana to interview contractors to clean up my farm. Tom couldn’t find a contractor that he had confidence in. We kept searching. Marine biologists were such perfectionists.
Dan Broussard and Julie Broussard had separate funerals. Fitting, I thought, since they lived together but separate all of their lives. Bob Broussard, the infamous Quarter Killer, survived his chest wound and was placed in the Louisiana State Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He was not allowed to attend either of his parents’ funerals. I wondered how long he would stay locked up. If I’d learn one lesson over the past few months, life has many unpredictable twists and turns. All you can do was buckle your seatbelt and get ready for the ride.
Rogan’s extradition hearing was brief. The judge ordered him to be extradited to India. The Indian policemen took custody of him immediately and headed back to Mumbai. He was going to have to face charges for the evil he’d wrought on the Indian people. I said good riddance.
The day came for Tom and me to travel to Mexico to join in the pesticide spraying protest. We didn’t go with the group. We chose to travel by ourselves. We enjoyed our time alone with each other. When we arrived in Mexico, we were questioned heavily by the immigration authorities. They were sensitive to foreigners joining protests in their country. We told them we were just there on vacation. I suspected they knew of my blog and didn’t believe a word we were saying. No matter, they let us in anyway.
The protest lasted for more than an hour before the police started making arrests. They arrested, Tom, me and Amanda and threw us all in the same dirty little cell. Poor little Amanda looked lost. I put my arm around her and told her everything would be OK.
She looked at me and said, “How did I end up here? Here in a Mexican prison?”
I told her not to worry. The Mexican authoritie
s would have to release us soon. But I reflected on how I ended up here too, behind the once gray steel bars disfigured with rust. Rusty maybe, but still strong enough to hold me in place. Hold my body but not the ideas that helped launch a movement against the evils in the world. As I looked back at my early days in New Orleans, pursuing my escape-driven pleasures, partying and picking up strangers, I laughed at myself, because I was more of a prisoner then than I am now. I, like so many other people acting like sheep, had not known it, going through my daily life thinking I was directing my life when that wasn’t the case at all. I had been just like the rest of the marionettes, clicking and clacking to the rhythms of the hidden hands controlling the strings controlling me.
I don’t know what will happen to me next. I am a little scared, but that’s probably a good thing. I can’t give in. I can’t quit. I know the truth about what serial killers do to lives. They destroy good people. I can’t sit idly by and watch that happen anymore. What Edmond Burke said in the 1700s remains true today, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”
Me, Alexandra Lee, do nothing? Not a chance.
About the Author
John Moore was born in Louisiana where his family roots run deep. His mother married a military man who adopted John and his two brothers. The family traveled from base to base as most military families do. His travels exposed him to a diverse cross section of American life.
