by Leo King
After the second murder, have Nick break into Samantha Castille’s home and vandalize it, accusing her of being the murderer. It will also help if Nick attacks her or any of her friends. Make her think she is being targeted for vigilante justice.
After the third murder, have Nick find a way to plant her skin cells in the third victim’s body. I suggest using a police officer for this task. Nick is good with the ladies, so perhaps he can seduce a policewoman.
Enclosed is a modem that will fit the type of copier Samantha Castille owns. Send me copies of the manuscripts of the story she is writing. I will use them to further discredit her.
Make no move to acquire control of the Castille family fortune until I say otherwise.
From your embezzling, you clearly want Sam’s money. If you follow my instructions, this money will be yours after the final murder. If you attempt to oppose me, or in any way deviate from the instructions in this letter, you and your son will die.
I look forward to our mutually beneficial business relationship.
Sincerely,
The Bourbon Street Ripper
Chapter 25
August Summer Rains
Date: Monday, August 17th, 1992
Time: 10:00 a.m.
Location: Oakland Cemetery
Shreveport, Louisiana
“Let us commend our brother, Michael Stephen LeBlanc, to the mercy of God.”
The raindrops fell like gentle kisses from the heavens above, as if angels were weeping for the lost soul being laid to rest. The rows and rows of uniformed officers stood, saluting the casket as it was lowered into the earth to the minister’s prayer, which mixed harmoniously with the rain and the sound of “Taps” being played.
“Give him, oh Lord, your peace. And let your eternal light shine upon him.”
Rodger held a salute, watching the beautiful brown coffin lower slowly into the ground. To one side, Dixie, Gino, Aucoin, and Cathy stood, the detectives saluting as well. To his other side, Richie stood, holding the handles of Sam’s wheelchair. Her body was still, but tears were streaming down her face. Ouellette stood near the minister. His face was pained, but as strong and resolute as ever.
“We therefore commit his body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Across from Rodger was a plump middle-aged woman crying in an older gentleman’s arms: Michael’s mother and father. Next to the parents stood a girl in her mid-teens: Michael’s sister, Alexia.
“In the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection of eternal life.”
Rodger felt distant, as if he were barely standing there, even with the gunshots of a three-volley salute. Twenty years ago almost to the day, he had buried Edward Castille in a similar manner.
As the casket finished lowering into the earth, a procession of people approached the grave, throwing flowers on top of the coffin. Rodger looked around at the large turn-out to Michael’s funeral. Most of the precinct was able to come, although Rivette and Landry offered to stay behind while Ouellette attended. Michael’s family was extremely large, and every aunt, uncle, and cousin seemed to be there.
Rodger watched as Ouellette handed Michael’s mother the folded American flag that had rested over his coffin. Ouellette looked exhausted. He had been attending funerals for the victims at the wharf all week. Michael’s was the last one, right after Guidry’s.
Michael’s mother took the folded flag and started crying harder. Michael’s father shook Ouellette’s hand and then took his wife into his arms. A Baptist minister, he had given a solemn eulogy that dripped with remorse. Rodger knew that Michael’s relationship with his father had been strained. However, it was obvious that the man had been fighting back tears all morning.
The only one who wasn’t openly crying was Alexia. Rodger was amazed at how strong she seemed.
Even though it was the middle of summer, she was wearing a formal black dress, with a silver cross embroidered over the chest, and silver cross earrings. Her hair was as black as Michael’s, but punky and unkempt. She had strength in her eyes that reminded Rodger of his partner. He could see why Michael had been so close to her.
He came out of his thoughts and realized he and Alexia were the last ones standing over the grave. Looking in her eyes, he could tell she wanted to be alone with her brother. Nodding, he knelt down and tossed the bouquet on top of the coffin.
“Goodbye, buddy. See you around,” Rodger said. He got up, leaving Alexia to get on her knees in silence.
He figured he should offer his condolences to Michael’s parents. He was just about to head over when he heard Richie say, “Hey, Rodger?”
He looked over. Richie was drying Sam’s face. Rodger knelt down to look at her. She actually shifted her gaze over to him and grunted. But she didn’t speak, nor did her head move. Although her progress the past couple of days had been remarkable, she was still a long way from a full recovery.
“We’re gonna probably need to go soon,” Richie said, wiping away the last of her tears. “This weather can’t be good for Sam. And with both of our hearings coming up, we need to be healthy and rested.”
Rodger kissed her forehead, and then patted her knee. “Good idea. I’ll be ready to go in a bit.”
He was glad he had come up with Richie and Sam the night before, as he got to spend time with her. Her commitment hearing for the various assaults committed as Sam of Spades was within a few days. Dr. Klein was doing all he could to get her committed to his care.
As Richie started to wheel Sam away, he stopped and turned back to Rodger. Despite having refilled his medication, he still looked extremely anxious. “Rodger, do you think things will end up OK for Sam and me?”
Rodger forced a smile. Richie’s situation was not as bad. After having been found naked and badly beaten in an alleyway off Bourbon Street, he had led the police to the remains of Officer Guidry. He had then told the police everything: the group calling themselves the Knight Priory, their assassinations of Marcello’s and Nick’s gangs, and meeting the new Bourbon Street Ripper face to face.
Even though Richie’s story seemed like the most convoluted jumble of facts, it conveniently filled in all the remaining holes of this sordid tale. It also seemed to satisfy the district attorney’s office. Richie was scheduled to testify on Wednesday in front of a grand jury in return for not being charged with obstruction.
“Well, you sat on important information, but the DA is more concerned with wrapping up the case than with sending you to jail,” Rodger said, shrugging. “As for Sam? Well, I think she’ll be fine. A lot of people are on her side now.”
Richie said nothing. He wheeled Sam back to her car.
Rodger shook his head slowly. There hadn’t been any more murders, so most people were convinced that Nick was the killer and that Guidry was the last victim. The timelines barely added up, but it was plausible. Rodger didn’t buy it, though.
The killer is still out there.
He took out a cigarette. He needed a smoke.
As he puffed on his cigarette, he became aware that Gino and Dixie were standing by his side. Her ruined left arm was in a sling, where it would stay until the stump was healed enough for a prosthesis. She seemed to be taking it well, all things considered.
“She gonna be OK?” Dixie asked about Sam, heaviness in her voice. She had cried for almost two days when she found out Michael had died.
“Hope so,” said Rodger with uncertainty in his voice. “That bastard Dr. Klein is doing everything to get her. And the way Sam reacts when he hears his name? She’s terrified of him.”
Dixie shook her head. “There’s something wrong with Dr. Klein, Rodger. He visited me in the hospital, and he’s called me twice since I got out. I feel like he’s stalking me or something. It’s really creepy.”
“I told him if he came near Dixie again,” said Gino, “that I would break him in two. The little prick laughed.”
Rodger had never heard him swear before.
“Well, one
thing at a time,” Dixie said, turning back to Rodger. “I’m going to use my time off to see if I can find out what this guy is about. Like we agreed, Rodger. You just handle your end of things.”
He nodded. The agreement between him, Dixie, and Ouellette was as under the table as it could get. “I’ll keep my end up. Gonna go talk to Ouellette now. Take care, Dixie.”
He approached Ouellette, saw that he was talking to Aucoin and Cathy, and waited nearby. He knew that Aucoin was on administrative leave for the next few months, and that his marriage with Cathy was on the edge of oblivion. Rodger found himself wondering if Aucoin would remain on the police force or not. Cheryl’s death had caused irreparable harm to his life.
When Ouellette was done, Aucoin and Cathy walked off with distance between them. Then Ouellette came over. “It’s late, Bergeron. Shouldn’t you be getting Miss Castille home?”
“Heading out now, Commander,” Rodger said, finishing off his cigarette.
Ouellette didn’t look at him. Instead, he surveyed the dispersing groups of people. “Well, Bergeron, my precinct is under investigation for the next few days. Why don’t you take some time to rest and recuperate? You know, put this ugliness behind you and focus on what’s important?”
Nodding, Rodger replied, “That’s a good idea. I might get bored, though, doing nothing at home.” It was a simple verbal code Ouellette, Dixie, and Rodger had worked out.
Ouellette said, “I’ve already taken the liberty of lending you some reading material. You should enjoy it. I left it at your apartment this morning.”
Rodger nodded and said, “Thank you for that, Commander. See you in a few days.”
He was almost at Sam’s car, where she and Richie were waiting, when Alexia stepped right out in front of him. She had the same intense look Michael had had right before he punched Rodger out.
Rodger flinched.
“Detective Bergeron,” she said. “May I have a moment of your time?”
He blinked. “Sure. Just… don’t surprise an old man like that.”
“Sorry.” Her eyes were puffy. It was obvious that she had been crying over her brother’s grave. “I just want to say ‘Thank you.’”
Blinking, as the rain started coming down more heavily, Rodger said, “Um, you’re welcome? Thank you for what?”
Alexia sucked on her bottom lip. “My brother hated New Orleans. He was only there because he loved being a detective and wanted to make a difference. But he always felt out of place, like he never belonged.”
Rodger nodded.
“But you made it worthwhile to him. He’s told me so many times on the phone that the only reason he stayed in the eighth precinct was because of you.”
Rodger felt a lump forming in his throat.
She bowed her head. “So, thank you. For all you did for my brother. For being his best friend. All’s well.” She left to join the rest of the LeBlanc family.
He was thankful for the rain. It hid any tears he might have had.
The drive home was long and quiet. Several times, Richie tried to strike up a conversation, but Rodger wasn’t interested. He was mentally preparing himself for when he got home. The arrangement made between Ouellette, Dixie, and Rodger was simple: Ouellette would run interference for a few days, Dixie would find out what Dr. Klein was up to, and Rodger would figure out who the real killer was.
This was everyone’s last chance to make it right. And they knew it.
It was six thirty when Richie dropped Rodger off at his apartment.
On his way through the courtyard, Rodger heard the familiar voice of Ms. Parkerson saying, “There you is, Rodger Bergeron. I needs to speak with you.”
He turned to his landlady and smiled through heavy fatigue. “I am thoroughly exhausted, Ms. Parkerson. Can this wait?”
She shook her head and clanked her cane on the concrete. “I mades some of my famous chicken and dumplings. I figured you could use a good cooked meal.”
“That would be nice, Ms. Parkerson, just bring it over when you have a chance.” He tried to sound congenial. He had already informed her of Michael’s death, and while he appreciated her kindness, he really didn’t want to be social right now.
As Rodger headed toward his front door, Ms. Parkerson, still clanking her cane, said, “Oh, and your mail arrived a little bit ago. Mail slot is busted, so I brought it inside so it wouldn’t get soaked. I’ll bring it over with your chicken and dumplings.”
Despite himself, he chuckled. For years, she had brought his mail inside when it rained. He was OK with this. However, she always found it necessary to explain herself. It was a quirk that he found amusing. “Thanks, Ms. Parkerson. I’m going to shower off. Bring it over in half an hour.”
As she muttered that she’d bring the food over when her soaps were done, he entered his apartment. The entire front room, from front to back, was stacked with boxes. Reports, profiles, notes, and more, ranging from 1972 to today—his home was filled with every file the police had on both Bourbon Street Ripper cases.
A note from Ouellette read: “You have three days. Get the bastard.”
Rodger sighed as he crumpled up the note. He had already agreed to take the fall should the wrong people find out about this arrangement. He was risking his retirement, his pension, and his freedom—but he didn’t care. Considering what both of his partners had lost, this was a small chance to take.
All right, Edward, Michael, first I take a nice, cool shower. Second, I get a glass of whiskey. Third, I solve this goddamn case.
Thirty minutes and one cool shower later, he was sitting in his favorite chair amongst the literally hundreds of files making up the entire Bourbon Street Ripper case. He was dressed in a change of clothes and nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He was ready to begin the arduous task of solving the mystery.
“I know that Kent and Nick were being blackmailed by our killer, who has masterminded everything from start to finish.”
Ice clinked in his glass as he sipped the liquor. But who is this guy? He’s so good at covering his tracks, it’s like he’s a ghost.
He shivered. All talks of voodoo and loa aside, he was pretty sure he was chasing a living, breathing murderer—someone with the cunning and financial means to orchestrate a massively successful killing spree while simultaneously killing off all the accomplices and police involved in the original Bourbon Street Ripper case.
“A mastermind murderer who wants to erase everyone involved in the original case,” Rodger said out loud, taking out Michael’s notes on the case. Everything had started with Vincent Castille’s accomplices: Topper Jack, Mad Monty, Fat Willie, and Blind Moses. And each one was now dead.
The killer used Blind Moses to kill Topper Jack and Mad Monty. Fat Willie died by accident. Sam killed Blind Moses. Did the killer know that Blind Moses would go after Sam? Was the killer banking on Sam killing Blind Moses?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the front door. When he opened it, Ms. Parkerson came storming in like an alligator charging its prey. She was holding a covered cooking pot nearly half her size. Mail was resting on the top. “Gotta gets this on your stove and warms it up, Rodger Bergeron. Move aside.”
It was all he could do to sidestep the elderly landlady, who managed to take the mail off the top of the cooking pot and put it in his hands and close the front door before an errant mosquito flew inside.
I swear to God, Rodger thought with an internal laugh, this woman has four arms.
As she barged her way into his kitchen, mumbling something about “too many boxes” and “fire codes” and “raising the rent to include someone’s take-home work,” he looked down at the mail.
On top was the Times-Picayune, the front page showing the images of Kent and Nick Bourgeois. The article was about their involvement in the new Bourbon Street Ripper murders. It was the usual unsubstantial sensationalism. He could tell that Caroline was doing all she could to separate her paper from Nick, which was an alias for Jacob, one of her ed
itors. “Well, I can’t say I blame her.”
“Can’t say you blame who-what, Rodger?” crackled Ms. Parkerson from the kitchen. The sound of clanking metal and the smell of chicken and dumplings floated into the main room.
Rodger, realizing he had spoken out loud, snorted playfully. “Nothing. Just talking to myself. Those chicken and dumplings smell good, by the way.”
“Of course they good,” came her reply. “I cooked them.”
Still grinning at his landlady’s antics, he returned to the mountain of notes, focusing on the paper trail that had led Michael to Kent and Nick Bourgeois.
Pretty good detective work there. From the trail of logic, it looked like Kent and Nick had been given just enough rope to hang themselves.
Rodger rubbed his chin as a realization came to mind. “We all cleaned up the killer’s loose ends. He used Kent and Nick to facilitate these murders and then we killed them. Just like Blind Moses killing Vincent’s accomplices, the killer used other people to remove his trail.”
He shook his head at what that implied. “The killer has been planning this for years. There’s no way there’s not some underlying reason behind everything. The killer had a real agenda here.”
“What you say?” asked Ms. Parkerson as she came into the room. She was carrying a large bowl of scrumptious-smelling chicken and dumplings.
“Oh, talking about the Bourbon Street Ripper case,” he said as she set up the bowl on a tray table in front of him.
“I thought that hogwash was over with,” she said as she emphatically replaced his glass of whiskey with a glass of iced tea. “Besides, never much liked the name anyway.”
Rodger shrugged. “Well, it may be over, but… Who what now? The name? You mean ‘Bourbon Street Ripper’?”
Nodding, she said, “Always bothered me, the papers using that name. Both times. Too much like Jack the Ripper.”
