A Life Without Fear

by Leo King

  Date: Tuesday, August 11th, 1992

  Time: 8:30 p.m.

  Location: Tulane University Hospital

  Downtown New Orleans

  Blind Moses,

  Years ago, you aided our master, Vincent Castille, in his great experiment. Even after his death, the special talents he bequeathed to you are strong, and it is our belief that you are now more powerful than ever before.

  We know that you seek retribution against those who aided in the downfall of your master, just as we seek retribution against the person who undeservedly received the Castille family birthright. Work with us, and we will extinguish the lives of the people you hate the most.

  A copycat killer will soon begin a reign of terror in New Orleans similar to Vincent’s. These murders are necessary for us to complete our plans. Do not attempt to stop these killings.

  Enclosed is a list of names. These are your targets. For the first four names, make sure that they are eliminated as soon as you are able, so that they will not reveal anything to the police. For the rest of the names, you are to eliminate them when the copycat killer finishes off the last victim. You will know who that is when the time arises.

  You will find a cache of military-grade weapons in an abandoned apartment on the corner of Chartres and Barracks Street in the French Quarter. The cache should be more than enough to see you through these tasks.

  Do not eliminate the detectives who are assigned to this case until the murders are over. Their involvement is necessary to our plans. You may engage them in self-defense, but do not kill them.

  Under no circumstances are you to ever directly engage Samantha Castille. She is ours.

  We appreciate your compliance in this endeavor, and we promise your satisfaction. For your cooperation, we will also ensure that your sister, Tania, remains unharmed and uninvolved.

  Sincerely,

  The Knight Priory of Saint Madonna

  It was earlier in the evening, before Michael called Rodger, when he put down the letter to Blind Moses, which had been translated from Braille.

  In his lap were several sets of notebooks, all open. On and around his bed were stacks upon stacks of papers. In the hospital room were several boxes of papers—all notes on the copycat murder case. Michael was sure Ouellette must have pulled some serious strings to get this to happen.

  He shook his head and looked at the list of names. The first four names were Topper Jack, Mad Monty, Fat Willie, and Robert Fontenot. Then there were the names Rosemary Boucher, Giorgio “Blue-Eyed” Marcello, Louis Ouellette, Kyle Aucoin, and Rodger Bergeron.

  So there it is… Whoever was doing this, whether they were a group or an individual, was using the Knight Priory name. They used the real name for Blind Moses and the fake name for the others. This is stupid. It feels like a damn child’s game.

  He stretched and yawned. “But people have been dying out of order since the start of this fiasco. So I don’t know what to believe about Blind Moses’s ‘hit list’ anymore. What bullshit.”

  He looked up at the clock in the hospital room. In thirty minutes, it would be nine o’clock and time for his final medication. Afterward, he’d be able to check out at any time, even though the doctors had recommended he stay one or two more days. Michael felt fine. He had been in the hospital for three days and was making a remarkable recovery, which he attributed to having a clean gunshot wound and a lot of luck. He was going to be more careful in the future.

  Most of the day, he’d been poring over every document he had on the case, including the letter to Blind Moses that Richie had recovered. From what Rodger had said, it seemed Richie had really stepped up to the plate and become helpful.

  Well, they say love makes you do strange things, Michael thought to himself, chuckling inwardly. He’d never been in love. His few crushes had caused such great problems with his father that he had simply shut down that part of himself. The only people he truly cared about were Rodger, Dixie, and his little sister, Alexia.

  He shook his head to clear his thoughts, going so far as to slap himself on the face a few times. He was starting to lose focus. He knew that he was tired. But he also knew that he needed to figure something out tonight—Sam was due to be arraigned in the morning.

  Focusing on the paperwork, he looked over the various notes that he, Rodger, Dixie, and Richie had taken. He even had Sam’s notebook for her mystery notes and the silver pen she always wrote with.

  And then he had a note from Dixie, delivered by an officer over an hour ago. It read: “Kent stopped us from asking Gladys about weddings. If Gladys was married, would ownership of the Castille estate transfer to the husband?”

  Michael felt that she was on to something pretty important.

  Looking over all the notes, he started to feel his eyes hurt. He rubbed his brow and sighed. “So much information. But the answer to this case is in that mountain of notes. I’m sure of it. It’s no longer about finding out information, it’s about deducing the answer from what we know.”

  Taking out his own notebook, he reviewed the facts.

  Someone was killing people in the exact same way that Vincent Castille had. The victims were unrelated to each other. The first victim, Virginia Babineaux, was lured to her death at Ursuline and Dauphine. The second victim, Rebecca Clemens, was abducted on her way to the drugstore and taken to Pirate Alley. The third victim, Cheryl Aucoin, was last seen at O’Flaherty’s Irish Pub on Toulouse but was murdered all the way north on Burgundy. Only Virginia was kidnapped and murdered in the same area. The other two were lured from their point of abduction to the place they were murdered.

  The junior detective furrowed his brow. Why take the victims so far? And how? How do you get someone like Cheryl Aucoin over eight city blocks away?

  Unfolding his personal map of the French Quarter, Michael marked off all the known locations. There was no way anyone could drag a girl with them that far and not have someone notice. And O’Flaherty’s would have been too crowded to kidnap a teenager. So whoever kidnapped Cheryl had to have been someone she trusted.

  Michael blinked and looked up. “Someone she knew…”

  Quickly sifting through his notes, he pulled up Dixie’s impressively assembled biographical data on Cheryl Aucoin. “Sixteen years old. Was a junior at Chappell High School. Average GPA. Favorite musician was Marilyn Manson. Favorite books were supernatural romance. Hobbies included poetry, motorcycles, cemeteries, and photography. Ah, a Gothic girl. Was dating a college student. Whoa!”

  Putting down the notes, he nodded to himself. “Rebellious and dated college guys. She was a cop’s daughter, so I can’t see her being completely stupid and going out with just anyone. So whoever lured her to her death must have known her through her boyfriend.”

  He flipped through Dixie’s notes and found the name of Cheryl’s boyfriend. “Gregory Billot. Senior at the University of New Orleans School of Science. Sheesh, talk about robbing the cradle.” Michael noted that Gregory was majoring in computer science.

  Looking back at his notes, Michael continued to lay out the facts. Sam’s DNA was only found in the third victim. Skin cells from the hand. For both the first and second victims, no DNA evidence was found. The only thing connecting Sam to the second murder was her story. And there was nothing connecting Sam to the first murder.

  Closing his eyes, he thought, Skin cells from the hand. You can get that easily. Just a few cells would be needed to positively identify the DNA. If Sam was awake, he would just ask if anyone had scratched her hands recently. He opened his eyes and put that thought aside for the moment.

  He then focused his attention on Sam’s published stories in the Times-Picayune, reading them very slowly. He noted that they were extremely well written. He had always liked Sam’s old stories—the Mortimer Branston stories—but the writing wasn’t this good. It was like this project had inspired her.

  Michael frowned. Now that he had carefully read both stories, he saw that while there were some stark similarities, the
details weren’t as exact as the media was making it out to be. In fact, Sam’s story didn’t include a lot of details.

  “All the killer would need to do is get a copy of this manuscript. Then they could fill in the details themselves.” He put the newspaper clippings away.

  With a sigh, he picked up the list of people at the Times-Picayune who had physical access to Sam’s manuscripts before print—the list Richie had gotten from Jacob. It was about a dozen names, including Jacob’s and Caroline’s. None of the names stuck out. But someone at the Times-Picayune had to be involved. There was no conceivable way for anyone else to have access to a copy of Sam’s manuscript in order to fill in the blanks.

  He stopped writing. A copy…?

  Quickly, he organized all his notes and very carefully got out of bed, making sure not to detach either the monitoring equipment or the IV drip. Soon, he was opening a box stuffed with police reports. He took out the report of the police search of Sam’s townhome.

  A few minutes later, Michael found what he was looking for: the report on Sam’s office equipment. There had been a module missing from Sam’s photocopier. Computer forensics said that that brand of copier had one module that could hold either extra memory or a telecommunications modem. So it had to have been one or the other.

  He snickered. “Extra memory, my butt. Someone had a modem in Sam’s copier. That’s how they got Sam’s manuscripts. I’m certain of it.”

  Excitement was growing inside him. If his hunches were correct, then he was homing in on the guilty parties.

  “Ahem, Detective?” said his nurse from the doorway. It was nine o’clock. Time for his medication.

  Michael blushed and slid back into his hospital bed. “Sorry.”

  She administered his medication and took his readings. While she did, he said, “I need to make a phone call or two. Important to the case.”

  She nodded, got him some slippers, and helped him out of bed. He leaned on the pole holding his IV drip as the nurse helped him hobble along the hallway to an empty nurse’s station.

  “You can make the calls here, Detective,” said the nurse with a congenial but tired smile. She looked like she’d been working a long shift.

  Flashing a small, handsome smile of his own, Michael said, “Thanks. Do you mind giving me some privacy?”

  She paused and got a thoughtful look. Then she said, “I’ll go take care of a few more patients and then come back. Just be quiet. If the doctors find out…”

  “It’ll be our secret, but thanks. And I understand. I’ll stay put here until you get back,” Michael said.

  Once she had left, Michael dialed the precinct. He hoped that Rodger would be there, but he doubted it. He recalled that his partner had a very full plate today.

  Someone picked up. “Eighth precinct, Detective Rivette speaking.”

  “Hey, Rivette, it’s Michael. Do you have a moment?”

  Rivette replied with a loud yawn.

  Michael held the receiver away in disgust. “Rivette, this is serious,” he said, trying to keep from losing his patience.

  “Sorry, man,” Rivette said. “The commander has about half a dozen of us on clean-up duty. Landry and I still have to get back on the Marcello murders. And—hey, aren’t you still in the hospital?”

  “Yeah, I am,” Michael said, holding back a snarky comment. “I just need some information, Rivette. Then you can go to bed.”

  “Fine, fine,” Rivette replied. It sounded like he was getting out a pen and paper. “What do ya need, you slave driver?”

  Michael began. “I need to know who installed Sam’s office equipment. A complete paper trail, from ordering to delivery to installation. If there was pre-assembly, I need to know that, too. I want to know who pays for it, how often there is maintenance, etc. I am specifically interested in Sam’s photocopier. The forensics report here says it can have extra memory or a modem. I want to know if it had either.”

  Taking a breath, he waited for Rivette to catch up. He heard scribbling.

  “OK, anything else?” asked Rivette.

  “Yes,” said Michael. “I need to know the last time it was maintained, who did it, and what was done. I need—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down, Speedy. We’re going to need subpoenas for that,” replied Rivette. “You’re basically asking me to get records on all business dealings with Samantha Castille. I’m sure her lawyer will have a field day with that.”

  Michael thought hard about that. He hated to admit it, but Rivette was right. The only thing covered in the search warrant was Sam’s townhome. But there has to be a way to do this legally.

  A moment later, he hit upon the answer. “All right, here’s what we do. Just get the names of the companies that handled, delivered, or installed Sam’s photocopier. If you can get who owns those companies, even better. We can question them. Then pull the LUDs for Sam’s townhome. I am specifically looking for outgoing calls on the 6th and 8th. Call me back with them.”

  “Right,” said Rivette, scribbling. “OK, I’ll call you back tonight if I find anything. Otherwise, your ass can wait.” He chuckled.

  Michael was glad for his recent experiences giving him a little perspective. A week ago, he’d have taken offense to that. “Thanks, Rivette. Get some rest when you do,” he said as he hung up.

  For a few minutes, he sat there, waiting for his nurse to show back up. When he finally heard footsteps, they were accompanied by a familiar female voice.

  “Yes, Director. I’ve already contacted Abel. The final tests have come in positive.”

  It was Camellia, Dr. Lazarus’s personal assistant. She was talking into something that looked very similar to a cordless phone receiver.

  Michael didn’t know why, but he quickly hurried into an alcove of the nurse’s station. He wanted to trust Dr. Lazarus and his people, but they were a little too secretive for him.

  “I’m afraid it’s a complete match,” Camellia said. “It confirms our suspicions that the tkeeus is nothing more than a catalytic agent.”

  What are they talking about? Michael thought to himself. Who are they talking about?

  Camellia paced back and forth. “No, sir. Detective LeBlanc refuses to take any hints regarding the tkeeus. He’s certain it’s just a drug. With all due respect, both Abel and I think it’s a waste of time pursuing him.”

  Michael listened intently, wondering what he was missing.

  “Yes, sir,” said Camellia, her voice getting softer. “We’ve analyzed surveillance video from the wharf. And we’ve performed all the spectral analyses and EMF tests on her. There is a definite presence there. We’re certain of it.”

  Michael’s eyes widened. I bet they’re talking about Sam! He wasn’t sure if they were testing Sam for brain wave activity or if this was more of that supernatural bunk they had hinted at earlier.

  The footsteps stopped right by him. Michael’s heart pounded in his chest, and he felt a cold sweat. He was sure he’d be discovered.

  Camellia’s voice returned to normal. “I understand, sir.… Yes. Right now, Dr. Klein is moving to get custody of her. He’s using that attorney’s help. We’re trying to block him, but one more incident where she exhibits abnormal behavior, and we’re certain she’ll be remanded to his care.”

  “Yes, sir,” Camellia said, her footsteps picking up again. “I’ll contact Abel and tell him to get her into your custody. Since she was a previous patient of yours, that should give us some latitude.… I understand. I’ll pull back and let the detectives finish their investigation.… As you command, sir.”

  A moment later, the footsteps were gone.

  Michael stood there for a long time, sweating. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just overhead something very important.

  “Hello, Detective,” came the voice of his nurse. She was standing behind him, arms folded. She looked cross.

  Michael grinned nervously. “Back to my room, right?”

  A few minutes later, he was back in his hospit
al room, back in his bed, and once more alone. Closing his eyes, he started to think things out again.

  Why would Dr. Klein be pushing to have Sam committed? Did he really want to make a case study out of her that badly? Or was there another reason?

  Opening his eyes, he recalled what he had just overheard. “Camellia said that it was Dr. Klein and ‘that attorney.’ ‘That attorney’? She can’t mean Kent, right? Surely Kent has nothing to gain if Sam is committed?”

  Flipping through the notes Richie had given him, Michael found some on Sam’s last meeting with her lawyer. “Richie doesn’t know the details, but that meeting didn’t go well. Would this Kent guy betray Sam?”

  Getting up again, he crept over to another one of the boxes, carrying the IV with him. In the box was a copy of the Castille estate files. While he hadn’t seen any use for it yet, suspecting Kent was enough of a reason to look through them.

  It took him a while to sort through the documents before finding the clause he was looking for. Right here. The section was drafted after Sam was committed with Dallas to the Acadia Vermilion Hospital, right after Vincent’s arrest.

  He read through the document carefully. It stated that if Samantha Castille was ever declared legally insane, either by commitment or by being found not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect, or was convicted of a capital offense, all ownership of the Castille estate would be transferred to the next of kin.

  Michael blinked and put down the document. “Next of kin? Says here that Gladys is the only next of kin. Vincent’s sister and Sam’s great-aunt. Now, I wonder if—”

  “Ahem, Detective?” said his nurse, once again at the doorway. She held up an envelope. “You got a letter from the clerk of court. Also, would you like me to unhook you? You don’t really need the drip anymore.”

  His ears burned. “Yeah, can you?”

  As the nurse unhooked the IV, he closed his eyes in thought.