A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Taking out his gun, he made sure there was a full clip. Then he got out his flashlight, put on his bullet-proof vest, and headed up to the front of the house.

  Standing at the front door, he listened. Inside, he could hear a vinyl record playing “It Had To Be You” by Django Reinhardt, likely over the mansion’s PA system.

  Now that’s just plain creepy, thought Rodger as he headed inside.

  “It had to be you…”

  The front hall was illuminated by the outside light, but otherwise the first floor of the mansion was dark. He could see the bottom of the staircase and a few doors leading to side rooms—but that was it. The only other light was a dim, flickering one coming from somewhere on the second floor.

  “Yes, it had to be you.”

  He snuck through the front hall, his feet sliding quietly on the floor. As he moved, he shined his light on every shadowed part of the room, gun ready and finger on the trigger. If his fight with Mad Monty had taught him one thing, it was to never let his guard down. Rodger would not be ambushed like that again.

  “I wandered around and finally found the somebody who…”

  When he got to the stairs, he saw a person leaning against the banister of the second floor landing. The flashlight couldn’t illuminate the details from that distance, but the person was taller than the average. Keeping his weapon trained, Rodger called out, “Who’s there? This is the police. Identify yourself!”

  “Could make me be true, could make me feel blue…”

  The person didn’t answer. Keeping his back to the wall, Rodger slowly crept up the staircase, flashlight and gun trained on the figure. When he reached the second floor landing, he saw who it was. “Oh, no…”

  “And even be glad just to be sad thinkin' of you.”

  It was the butler, Reggie, dead. He had been tied to the railing and shot several times in the chest. His eyes were open and glazed over, and his jaw was slack. Considering what Rodger had seen in the past two weeks, this was a relatively tame death, but no less cruel.

  “Some others I've seen might never be mean…”

  “What a disgusting thing to do to another human being,” he said, closing Reggie’s eyes. He didn’t do anything else, leaving the rest for the crime lab to do their analysis. But this didn’t bode well for Jonathon, so Rodger headed toward the study.

  “Might never be cross or try to be boss…”

  The going was slow, because with all the lights out, there were dozens of places where an attacker could be hiding. Rodger kept his eyes, flashlight beam, and gun trained on them all. It took several minutes to reach the doorway to the study, where lights flickered inside.

  “But they wouldn't do…”

  Slowly, he opened the door to the study and looked inside. The flickering light was coming from a desk lamp. He could see the silhouette of a figure behind the desk, seated in the large wing-back chair. Cautiously, he crept inside, checking the blind spots of the room for an ambush. There was none.

  “For nobody else gave me a thrill.”

  By now, his heart was pounding. While he wished that he had gotten to the estate earlier, the thought of finding another dead body didn’t faze him. He had seen too much recently. So with a quick inhale, he shined his flashlight on the figure in the chair.

  “With all your faults…”

  Jonathon was dead, shot in the chest several times. His eyes had been gouged out and his nose had been cut off. The body parts lay on the desk before him, right next to the large red button.

  “I love you still.”

  Rodger fell back against the wall and covered his mouth to muffle any sounds. It looked like someone had shot Jonathon and then mutilated his dead body. He was both disturbed and perplexed. That’s not the way the Bourbon Street Ripper is operating. Who did this?

  “It had to be you…”

  Then he heard the hammer of a gun click. His blood went cold.

  “Wonderful you.”

  Coming out from behind the desk was a figure in a black hooded coat. He was wearing black gloves and a pull-on mask with the imprint of a devil. He was also holding a .45 automatic pistol.

  “It had to be you…”

  Rodger stood face-to-face with the masked figure. Both had their guns pointed at each other.

  “Oh… it had to be yoooooou!”

  Rodger and the masked figure pulled their triggers at the same time. The sound was deafening.

  They both fell.

  For a couple of seconds, Rodger couldn’t move, having had his breath knocked out by the bullet’s impact. His ears rang with the echo of the gunshots. As he lay there, frantically trying to intake air, he saw the masked figure struggle to his feet. That bastard also had a vest.

  Rodger continued to struggle to sit up as the masked figure came around with his gun pointed at him. Rodger was helpless as the intruder pulled the trigger several times.

  Nothing happened. The masked figure pulled the trigger a few more times and then smacked the gun in frustration.

  Out of bullets. Good. Rodger was going to enjoy arresting this son-of-a-bitch.

  By then, Rodger was on his knees and trying to stand. His hearing had returned, and he saw the masked figure slipping behind the desk, frantically looking around for an escape. There was a lack of calmness in him that felt out of place for a serial killer. This couldn’t be the guy.

  Rodger and the masked figure locked eyes, and then the masked figure looked down at the large red button on the desk. “Oh, no, you don’t!” shouted Rodger, leveling his gun at the masked figure’s chest.

  Before Rodger could get off a shot, the masked figure smashed his hand down on the large button. Immediately, red lights started to flash within the room. Throughout the house, a loud klaxon horn started going off.

  Rodger covered his ears. He could barely hear himself think.

  The masked figure jumped over the desk and ran toward the doorway. Rodger shot at him several times, but the sound of the horn was too distracting. He wasn’t able to get off a good shot. The masked figure was gone before Rodger could stand.

  By the time he was on his feet, loosening the vest so he could breathe, the horn had stopped and the red lights had changed from flashing to solid. He looked around, staring wildly. Something about this situation seemed extraordinarily bad.

  Then he heard, from within the house, the sound of machinery whining as it came to life. It came from everywhere—the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Looking about with an anxious gaze, he recalled the last machine he had had an encounter with. It hadn’t gone very well.

  What the hell did Jonathon build in his house?

  As if answering that question, the wall behind him slid open. Jonathon’s desk, corpse and all, glided into a safe room lit with blue lights.

  Rodger rushed for the safe room only to have the wall shut so fast, he hit his nose. As he stumbled back, he heard another clicking sound, and he turned just in time to see the exit slam closed. Whatever machine was active, it had trapped him in the study.

  Then he heard a loud crashing sound. Hundreds upon hundreds of long metal spikes burst from the ceiling. Slowly, they started to lower. He was transfixed and in complete disbelief.

  When he finally grasped that he was in some sort of death trap, all he could say was, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Chapter 18

  Concerning Rosemary’s Child

  Date: Tuesday, August 11th, 1992

  Time: 6:00 p.m.

  Location: Home of Rosemary Boucher

  Lafayette, Louisiana

  It was nearly six in the evening when Richie arrived at the dilapidated home of Rosemary Boucher. He had heard of people living in such rundown rural homes, but he’d never seen it. He wasn’t sure which turned him off more: the sound of dozens of dogs barking or the smell of dozens of dogs’ droppings.

  As he knocked on the door, he went over what he was supposed to talk to her about—her son, Julius, and the night Magnolia was murdered. He ha
d even brought a notebook and pen with him to take down notes.

  When she answered the door, he was taken aback by how worn-out she looked. Between the lines on her face, the faded light of her eyes, and the wrinkles over her brow, she looked like she had seen everything. She was dressed in a pair of black shorts and a loose black shirt with a pair of pink lips on the chest. She was holding an unlit cigarette and looked like she didn’t care about anything.

  “Hello,” Richie said, offering his most charming smile. “I am, well, my name is Richie Fastellos. Michael LeBlanc sent me.”

  Nodding, Rosemary lit her cigarette, blew smoke to the side, and said, “I figured one of you would be back. Come in, Detective.”

  She thinks I’m a cop. Well, that could work in my favor.

  He followed her inside, watching as she walked to a nearby couch where five or so dogs sat. There was noticeable cellulite on the backs of her thighs and protruding veins on the sides of her calves.

  Man, this woman is spent. Hard life, I guess.

  Looking around the house, Richie saw the sheer number of dogs and made a face. He wasn’t fond of dogs. The smell of their dander always made him nauseated and gave him a sinus attack. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual allergy, but he knew that too much exposure to dogs messed him up.

  “Take a seat, Detective,” Rosemary said, sitting on her couch between a toy poodle and a bulldog. She motioned to a large wing-backed chair. “How is Michael doing?”

  “Truth be told, Michael’s recovering in the hospital. He was injured in the line of duty,” he said, taking the offered seat. He was trying to sound as official as possible.

  Shaking her head, she said, “That’s a shame. Real nice kid. Easy to look at, too, even though he’s on the other side of the fence there.” The embers of her cigarette lit up as she took an exceptionally long drag. “Tell me why you’re here, Detective.”

  Richie looked Rosemary over. The bags under her eyes weren’t like Sam’s, from lack of sleep. The woman looked high on something. And all around both of them, the dogs were gathering, panting and shaking off dander. Sighing, he sat back in the chair. Already, he could feel the back of his throat starting to tickle. He really disliked dogs.

  He forced himself to focus on his task. “Right before Michael left, you had mentioned that Magnolia was murdered. I’d like you to tell me all about it.” He brought his fingers together in what he hoped was a contemplative look.

  She smirked with amusement and crossed her legs. Richie tried not to stare at them. Her age was ruthlessly noticeable. Puffing on her cigarette some more, she said, “Magnolia was a sweet girl, but she always had heart problems. She called it a congenital heart defect. During their act, Marigold would go out into the audience while Magnolia would stay on stage. Poor thing. It was amazing that she was able to have a child.”

  “That would be Samantha Castille, right?” he asked.

  Rosemary took a long drag off her cigarette and nodded.

  Magnolia was Mary Castille. It was no longer a suspicion, it was a fact. Ignoring the itching starting in his nose, he asked, “So, then, if Mary was Magnolia’s real name, what was Marigold’s?”

  She paused for a moment and furrowed her brow. “Lord, Detective, it’s been twenty years. Started with the same letter as Mary. Marie, perhaps? Martha? Minnie?”

  How can you forget a person’s name like that? He frowned and then sneezed, the itching spreading to his eyes. He knew his body. He’d start feeling nauseated soon. “And did Marigold have a child?”

  Rosemary shook her head and inhaled the rest of her cigarette before leaning back and blowing the smoke up at the ceiling. It reminded him of a factory’s smokestack in Pittsburgh. “That I don’t know. Only Magnolia’s child was ever talked about, being that she was a Castille. But if Marigold had a kid, it was at the same time as her sister. They were only gone for an extended period of time once, and that was right before Samantha was born. So if Marigold had a child, then both sisters were expecting at the same time.”

  She lit up another cigarette just as Richie finished his notes. “It’s always possible that Edward got both women pregnant.”

  He looked up so fast, he nearly got whiplash. “Why would you say that?”

  Shrugging, she said, “Hun, I know men. The M&M sisters were beautiful. Magnolia was sweet and quiet, Marigold was lively and energetic. Now anyone with eyes could tell that Edward and Marigold was already an item. But when that slimeball Blue-Eyed Giorgio started cozying up to Magnolia, Edward scooped her up as well. And it was obvious that Marigold did not like having to compete with her own sister.”

  Richie snapped his fingers. A lot of theories started falling into place. “Rosemary, do you think that Marigold murdered Magnolia out of jealousy?”

  She grinned in amusement and blew smoke right toward him. The smell of the cigarette mixed with the stink of the dogs was almost overpowering. “Hun, I don’t think Marigold wanted Magnolia dead. But I do believe it was both Marigold and Edward who killed her.”

  For a moment, Richie just sat there and registered what he had heard. “Wait a minute! Time out! Why would Edward kill the mother of his own child?”

  Rosemary put out the cigarette and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Listen closely, Detective, because I have never told anyone this story before. The night Magnolia died, she mentioned that her medication tasted funny. She wanted to get Dr. Castille, Vincent, before taking it. However, Marigold said they were in a hurry, and so Magnolia took it. Except for one pill, and when they went on stage, I swiped it.”

  He anxiously bit his bottom lip. “So what kind of a pill was it?”

  “Nicotine, hun. And you don’t give nicotine pills to someone with a heart condition,” she said, leaning back and giving him a wise nod.

  He sat back and looked at his notes. Nicotine pills? He was no doctor, but he was pretty sure that an overdose of those would make a person’s heart rate soar. He coughed a few times, his throat itchy. “So, why do you suspect Edward as well as Marigold?”

  With a sly look, she said, “Because whenever the M&M sisters had a nighttime performance, Magnolia had an extra batch of pills delivered to her. It was always Edward who would deliver those pills. Who else could switch them out?”

  Richie shook his head slowly. “Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  Rosemary shrugged. “Detective, someone in that group of elitists, the Knight Priory of Saint Madonna, paid me a lot of money to keep quiet. I figured if anybody ever needed to know, they’d hunt me down. Just like you did.”

  He quickly wrote that down, figuring Michael and Rodger could use that information. “You mentioned Vincent Castille. So he knew the sisters?”

  She ran her fingertips over her robe and concentrated a bit before saying, “Yes. Although Dr. Castille clearly liked Magnolia more than Marigold. He’d always ask for her whenever he’d visit. And it was Vincent who ran to Magnolia’s side first when she collapsed on stage that night. He tried to revive her.”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. The glut of information was a lot to absorb, and the dog dander was really getting to him.

  She lit another cigarette, then looked him up and down and asked, “You OK, hun?”

  “It’s the dog dander,” Richie said, finishing up the notes. “I never could tolerate it. I’m going to have to jump to the next question and then wrap this up.”

  Rosemary chortled and said, “Dog allergies, huh? Poor kid. What else did you need to talk about?”

  “I wanted to talk about your son, Julius,” he said. “We learned that you had him with Robert, then gave him up. What can you tell me about him?”

  That seemed to get a reaction. Her eyes cast down, she brought the cigarette to her lips, taking another long drag. The ember went out, and she dropped the nub into an ashtray on the coffee table. “Julius,” she said. “My precious baby.”

  He waited for her to begin.

  “My baby came along during a time when I couldn
’t have children, on account of working at the Jean-Lafitte Theater. I knew he was Bobby’s son, and not just because Bobby was the only one with me at the time. He had his daddy’s eyes, you see. Those deep blue eyes. And he was so full of personality and charisma, and very smart. He had a mind for puzzles and creativity to match. I was certain my precious Julius would end up like his daddy, a true killer.” Her tone was longing.

  Richie nodded, remembering that Robert Fontenot was the “Black Bayou Boatman,” a rather notorious hit man for the Marcello family. Strange that she’d want to have her child grow up to be an assassin. Richie tried to imagine what kind of a party they’d have thrown after “little Julius” made his first kill, and shuddered.

  Rosemary sighed. “Or so I’d like to believe that’s how he turned out. I was unable to keep him. If old Carlos Marcello had learned that Bobby and I’d had a kid, I’d have lost my job. I suspect Marcello would even have forced Bobby to break off our relationship. I couldn’t have that, you see. I needed that job, I needed Bobby. So I gave my precious Julius up to foster care.”

  Richie just stared at her, his jaw clenched, his heart pounding. Something about what she had said had triggered every anxious nerve in his body. Whoa! I’m freaking out! He wanted to wring her neck.

  He inhaled and exhaled several times, even though the smell of dog was starting to make his head hurt. With an effort, he calmed down. He was glad his mom had loved him and looked out for him. He resolved to visit her at the home when he got back to Pittsburg.