A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Michael frowned, not so much at the barbarism of the procedure, but at the fact that a lobotomy would effectively remove Julius as a suspect. And how old was Camellia if she was around twenty years ago? She looked Sam’s age.

  “When did Julius get the lobotomy?” he asked, closing his eyes.

  “He didn’t,” said Dr. Lazarus. “The fire that destroyed most of those blocks occurred before talks of the procedure went anywhere.”

  “So Julius was killed?” Michael asked, still seeing any leads go up in smoke.

  Dr. Lazarus said, “Sadly, yes. One of the many fatalities. It was Julius that Dallas went after to try to save, which resulted in him getting burnt to the point of brain damage, if you recall. Julius’s body was never discovered, unfortunately. He and so many others were burnt beyond recognition.”

  Michael’s eyes popped open. “Julius’s body was never found?”

  Dr. Lazarus nodded. “Like I said before, Detective. The fire was so bad that almost everyone died.”

  Michael just stared ahead. It was like a plot to a movie, but it made sense. The question was, if Julius’s body was never found, was it possible that he didn’t die that night?

  “Dr. Lazarus, one more question,” he said, frantically sorting through the facts and seeing what was missing.

  “Of course, Detective. What is it?”

  “Did Dallas learn the term ‘Nite Priory’ from Julius?”

  Dr. Lazarus shook his head. “You know, I’m not entirely sure how that came about. Samantha would often talk about the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna. I believe that ‘Nite Priory’ was a purposeful misspelling. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m sure of it. It was part of the word games they used to play.”

  Michael sat back and just stared up at the ceiling. My God. Could it be that simple?

  It was an hour later, after Dr. Lazarus and Camellia had left, that Michael finished sorting out everything he had learned. He was silent as some nurses changed his bandages and took his readings.

  Dr. Lazarus’s parting words had been, “Your commander recommended that I keep an eye on you for a future project. So, I’ll be watching you, Detective. Do your best.” So, the doctor did know Ouellette.

  What stuck out, however, was what Camellia had said. “It’s important to know when you’re out of your league, kid. Just because you can’t understand something doesn’t mean it can’t kill you. Be careful.”

  Michael couldn’t help but wonder if this had anything to do with Fontenot’s warning that “the snake is dangerous because it knows.”

  He sighed and settled down as the nurses left him. He really wanted things to go back to normal. The train to Crazy Town was no longer a fun ride.

  Vincent was using some drug called the tkeeus to extend Sam’s life. This tkeeus made people feel invincible and pull off superhuman stunts. That matched what Michael had experienced and what Richie had seen: the Nite Priory, a group of assassins who performed superhuman feats while slaughtering over a dozen armed men.

  Michael twisted his lips and snorted. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if that same group was responsible for the serial murders as well?”

  Remembering what he just learned about Julius, he suddenly found it to be a lot less funny. Julius had had a rage issue due to his foster parents. What if he was charismatic enough to lead a group like the Nite Priory?

  More than ever, things were starting to make sense. The Nite Priory. The tkeeus. Julius, Sam, and Dallas. And now the M&M sisters.

  Everything is connected.

  It was later in the evening, after Michael had finished dinner, that a nurse came in and connected a phone to the wall. “Detective LeBlanc, you have a call. A family member.”

  He was shaken out of his thoughts. “A family member?” He hadn’t heard from his family in quite some time.

  Picking up the phone almost gingerly, he said, “Hello?”

  “Hey, Michael,” came a teenage girl’s voice. Like his, it was calm and measured.

  A sincere smile parted Michael’s lips. “Alexia! How did my little sister know to find me here?”

  She let out what could only be called a “giggle snort” and said, “Yeah, right. It’s kind of hard not to know that my big brother was shot in the line of duty when it’s in the news.”

  He groaned softly. “You all are getting that story all the way up in Shreveport?” Surely by now all his friends and family upstate knew.

  “Don’t go thinking for a moment that just because of problems between you and Papa that Mama and I don’t worry about you.” Her tone was lecturing. He imagined she was wagging her finger at the receiver. “Whatever happens, Michael, you’re family. We wanna know what’s going on with you.”

  Michael frowned a little when Alexia mentioned their father.

  A Southern Baptist minister, Frank LeBlanc had never agreed with what he saw as Michael’s “choices.” And just as his father had cut him out, Michael had cut out religion. Only his sister, Alexia, who was devout yet significantly more tolerant, and his mother, who was his mama through and through, remained in contact with him.

  He realized he had gone silent.

  “Sorry, Michael,” she said. “I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

  “It’s OK,” he said, clearing his throat. “And I’ll be fine. The bullet went clean through. Tell Mama I’ll be out in a few days.”

  “All right, then, all’s well,” said Alexia. He knew that when she said “all’s well,” that part of the conversation was effectively over, ending on a positive note.

  The two of them talked for a little while longer, catching up on each other’s lives. He found out that his sister was graduating high school in May with a grade point average high enough to be in the top five percent. He also found out, not surprisingly, that her latest boyfriend had dumped her for not “putting out.”

  Ever moral, Michael thought with an inward chuckle. He loved talking to her. She was like him in many ways, but underneath her calm and calculating exterior was a genuinely sweet girl. A bit jaded at the mental ineptitude of others, but a sweet girl nonetheless. She was one of those beacons of light in an otherwise dark world.

  He spent time telling Alexia the basics of the Bourbon Street Ripper investigation, leaving out anything that was confidential. She asked a lot of questions about the technical aspects of the crimes—not surprising, as she had more than a passing interest in forensic science. By the time they were done, he was pretty worn out but in quite a good mood.

  “All right, Alexia. I’ll call you and Mama next week,” he said, wrapping up the phone call. “I love you, sis.”

  “Love you, too,” she said. “I’ll pray for God to watch over you.”

  Michael hung up, a warm feeling in his heart. Alexia offering to pray for him was the same as a kiss on the cheek.

  Well, at least they won’t be affected by the ugliness down here. People getting cut up and thrown into the river and…

  Michael’s thoughts went back to the deaths of Blue-Eyed Giorgio and his men. Maybe someone in the Nite Priory had slipped up at the Riverwalk.

  Who was handling that case? Rivette and Landry, right?

  Dialing the precinct, Michael asked for either of them. In the background, he heard what sounded like a rather intense commotion.

  A moment later, Landry picked up. “Hello, Detective Landry speaking. Who’s this?”

  “It’s Michael. Landry, do you have a moment?” Michael asked.

  “Um, Michael? Wow, what are you doing on the phone?” Landry asked. “Yeah, I have a moment. Not long, things are about to get crazy in here.”

  Michael said, “OK, look. I need to know if, when working the Marcello murders, you or Rivette got any witnesses. And if those witnesses saw anyone suspicious leaving the Riverwalk.”

  “Suspicious?” Landry paused for a moment. On the other line, Michael heard Ouellette ask where Rodger was, and then heard a muffled response from Dixie. What was going on over there?


  A moment later, Landry said, “Yeah, here it is. The only witness was Gloria Lambert. That was Marcello’s girlfriend. She was found in his limousine, passed out drunk. She only remembers one guy coming out. She said it was the same guy who was taken to have dinner with Marcello a few hours before the murders. She didn’t remember any details other than him being Caucasian.”

  Who the hell was that? “Any security footage?”

  “Nothing,” said Landry. “Marcello always turned the security cameras off when he had dinner at the Riverwalk.”

  Damn it, another brick wall. Michael gritted his teeth in frustration.

  “What about the Rivergate next door? They’re building a casino there and should have cameras up, right?”

  Landry said, “Just a moment, Michael.” Again there was a pause and some muffled yells. Michael could hear Ouellette calling the squad room to order.

  “Sorry, Michael,” said Landry. “This is just not a good time. Try calling back tomorrow.”

  Michael shook off Landry’s dismissal and said, “What’s going on over there, Landry? What’s Dixie doing?”

  “Yeah, we need to get going,” said Landry. “Dixie cracked the case wide open. We’re about to go arrest the prime suspect. Sorry, got to run.” He hung up the phone.

  Michael was stunned. “Prime suspect? Who are they going to arrest?”

  A feeling of helplessness overtook him.

  They can’t mean… Sam?

  Chapter 9

  Magnolias and Marigolds

  Date: Monday, August 10th, 1992

  Time: 3:00 p.m.

  Location: Castille Family Mansion

  Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans

  By the time Rodger and Dixie got to the Castille mansion on Lake Pontchartrain, it was already mid-afternoon. Since she had wanted to take a break from driving, he drove the Porsche—slowly and deliberately. He knew he couldn’t afford to fix even a scratch on a car that expensive.

  Dixie, for the most part, just kept her eyes closed. She had said she was preparing herself for the upcoming interview.

  He was already prepared to meet the Castille family matriarch, Sam’s aunt Gladys. He had his list of questions ready. Nothing would derail the interview today.

  A pair of armed security guards met them at the gate, checked their badges, and called ahead. A moment later, the gate opened and he was driving toward the mansion.

  And indeed it was a mansion, with the estate as beautiful as a dream: expansive green lawns, bushes trimmed into perfect shapes, and the greenery of willows and cypresses forming a luscious curtain of privacy. All along the driveway leading up to the mansion were rows upon rows of carnations, in bloom with glorious reds, pinks, and whites. Similar flowering plants framed the side of the sparkling white mansion, built in Plantation style, complete with oversized pillars, extended balconies, and a large, sweeping staircase going from the front porch to ground level.

  In the center of the horseshoe driveway was a single magnolia tree, young and in full blossom. Rodger remembered that Vincent had planted that tree when Sam was born. It was as old as her, to the day.

  He parked the car in the front of the horseshoe.

  Dixie looked over the mansion. “Are you sure that everything’s in order, Rodger?”

  He nodded. “Ouellette set up the interview himself. It’s ridiculous the number of hoops you have to jump through to talk to old Madame Castille.”

  Like everyone else who knew of “old Madame Castille,” he was aware of how much of a recluse she was. But it couldn’t be helped. All the other Castilles with links to Vincent were dead. There was no one else to ask about Edward’s marriage—something that was becoming more and more of a key point in the investigation.

  “All right,” replied Dixie as they got out of the car. “Think we can get her to open up about Edward’s marriage to Mary?”

  “I hope so. We have to treat this very delicately.” He knew that with one wrong push, the iron gates to the Castille estate would close to them.

  As he climbed the large sweeping steps to the Castille mansion, Rodger felt the start of a sweat. While he had only been here a few times during his life, the experiences were impossible to forget. It was here, after all, that Vincent murdered Edward in front of Sam, and that Rodger arrested him and ended the original Bourbon Street Ripper murders.

  As they reached the top of the steps, the front door opened. An aged Caucasian man, dressed in a tuxedo and tails, his mouth puckered like he always tasted something sour, looked down at the two detectives.

  “You are the two detectives from downtown?” He arched a single eyebrow, and said nothing more.

  Rodger took out his badge and said, “Detectives Bergeron and Olivier, New Orleans Homicide, eighth precinct. We’d like to speak to Madame Castille, please. We have an appointment made by Commander Ouellette.”

  The butler stared down at the two a bit longer before stepping back and motioning for them to enter. “This way, Detectives.”

  He walked stiffly across the white marble flooring of the foyer, where the Castille family crest, an embroidered ‘C’ over a coat of arms, was emblazoned.

  The foyer alone was massive, two stories high with a gold and crystal chandelier casting radiant light throughout the room. Two staircases swept up to the second-floor landing. Underneath the stairs, a set of double doors led toward the dining room, while to the left and right, doors led to the music room and the drawing room respectively. A scent of musk perfume wafted in the front hall.

  Just taking in the foyer was enough to remind Rodger that the Castille family was one of the oldest and wealthiest in all of southern Louisiana. He remembered that Vincent Castille, the eldest brother in a family of three, had inherited the estate from his father, Louis Castille, who had vanished in the African Theatre during World War I, when Vincent was just five years old.

  And after Louis vanished, they had all his pictures taken down and locked away. Never did understand that, but Edward certainly loved having a mysterious grandfather. It was always something he liked to brag about.

  Rodger came out of his memories and realized that he had stopped walking. Mason was standing at the end of the foyer and clearing his throat in an annoyed fashion, while Dixie was looking at him curiously.

  Rodger ignored his embarrassed blush and whispered, “You probably didn’t learn this in school, but the Castille family is heavily rooted in the history of New Orleans.”

  “News flash, Rodger,” whispered Dixie back, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Castille family is filthy rich.”

  He smirked quietly and said, “They have a little bit saved up, yes.” Still, the wealth of the Castille family always felt foreign to him until he was standing in the mansion. He was far more used to the townhome.

  This is all rightfully Sam’s.

  The butler led the detectives to the right—into the drawing room. Plush red carpet covered the floor, with wooden panels for the walls, and a vaulted ceiling. Oversized windows let generous amounts of sunlight into the room. The central pieces of furniture were two large chairs and two large sofas that looked to be from the Elizabethan period.

  The sound of a Chopin piano sonata—beautiful, yet sad—sculpted a restful atmosphere.

  Mason announced both detectives. “Detective Bergeron and Olivier here to speak with you, madam and sir.”

  In the center of the room, sitting on one of the sofas, was Gladys Castille. She was wearing a hand-crafted gray dress and drinking a cup of tea.

  Rodger tried not to stare. Time has not been kind to this woman.

  Her pinched, gaunt face, her sunken eyes, and her thin lips made her look more skeletal than human. Her cold gray eyes were focused on the two detectives. Around her neck was a sizable gold chain and pendant with a photo etching of a pudgy woman in a state of perpetual mirth.

  Sitting in a nearby large chair, dressed in a tailored Armani suit, was the Castille family lawyer, Kent Bourgeois. He looked older than the last t
ime Rodger remembered seeing him.

  “Well, hello, Rodger,” Kent said, heading over to vigorously shake his hand. “How have you been? You look great.” Kent patted him on the stomach.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Rodger was surprised. He hadn’t expected to see Kent there, even though it did make sense that, since the interview had been set via official channels, the family lawyer would be contacted. “You’re looking pretty well.”

  “That will be all, Mason,” crackled Gladys, her voice sounding as old and decayed as she looked.

  Mason bowed his head before leaving, nose tilted up in the air.

  “Who are these people, Kent?” she asked.

  “This is Rodger Bergeron, Gladys,” said Kent. “He’s the detective who captured Vincent. He’s an old friend of Edward’s. And that young woman is his partner, Dixie Olivier.”

  “Ah, good. Captured Vincent. Very good,” she replied, bobbing her head up and down. “I’m glad you caught my brother, Detective. He was an evil man. Heart full of poison and malice.”

  “She’s lost a bit of her hearing in her old age,” Kent said, tapping an ear gently. “Come, have a seat. It’s been such a long while. How have you been? How’s the murder investigation?” He returned to his seat and motioned for the detectives to sit as well.

  “Mr. Bourgeois, forgive me for asking,” Dixie said, walking around the room instead, “but are you on a first-name basis with all your clients?”

  He wrinkled his brow at her. “Only to members of the Castille family. Remember… Detective Olivier, it is, yes? Remember that I have been the trusted lawyer of the Castille family since I was able to practice law. Why, I knew Sam when she was just a baby.”

  “Well, that’s good,” replied Rodger, sitting across from him. “Because we’re here to talk about Sam. More precisely, we’re here to talk about Sam’s mother.”

  “My mother was a very strict woman,” said Gladys in a matter-of-fact tone. “If we said anything out of sorts, she’d have us kneel on a bag of rice and say the entire rosary.” She nodded her head several times as if answering a question.