by Leo King
Picking up the phone, he said, “Hey, Douglas!”
Douglas sounded overjoyed. “Hey, hey, you old bastard. I hear you’re getting the gold watch soon.”
Rodger laughed. It felt good. “Yeah, yeah, I’m getting shuffled out for a newer model. You know how that goes, right?”
Douglas chuckled and said, “Yeah, I sure do, bud. I sure as hell do.”
“So what’s up?” asked Rodger, settling comfortably into his chair.
Douglas said, “Well, Mabel and I were going to have a potluck tomorrow and she wanted to know if you could come over. I think even Boudreaux wants to see you.”
Rodger liked the idea. “Sure thing. What time, and do I need to bring anything?”
“Come at six. And if you’re offering, bring the beer,” Douglas said. “But make it a light beer, bud. Mabel wants me to watch my weight.”
“Watch it grow, right?” asked Rodger with a good-natured snort.
The two shared a good, friendly laugh over the pun.
“Ah, Rodger,” said Douglas. “Don’t sweat the retirement thing. You’ll never stop being a cop, but you’ll learn to love not working as one.”
“Good to know,” muttered Rodger. That advice was the best he’d heard all day.
Douglas continued. “Anyway, I need to get going. Mabel wants some help in the kitchen. You be careful, see you tomorrow night.”
“Thanks, Douglas. Good night,” Rodger said, hanging up.
He spent another thirty minutes cleaning up his desk. When he was done, all he had remaining were the reports on the new Bourbon Street Ripper case. It was shaping up to be a good start to the weekend.
As Rodger was getting ready to leave but still sitting at his desk, he heard a female clear her throat. Expecting it to be Dixie, he was surprised when he turned in his chair and came face-to-chest with Michael’s little sister—Alexia LeBlanc.
She was wearing a black polo shirt with an embroidered white cross, a pair of blue jeans, and a pair of black boots. She was still wearing the silver cross earrings and silver cross necklace from the funeral. With her punky, unkempt hair, she looked like a younger, sloppier Michael.
Except Michael never had a chest quite that size. It was very noticeable now that she was out of a formal dress.
“Are you going to say hello, Rodger, or are you going to gawk at me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
He averted his eyes, remembering that she was not only Michael’s sister, but a teenager. What do they feed that girl? I swear, kids are becoming adults faster and faster.
“How can I help, Alexia?” he asked, looking her in the eyes.
She smiled softly and said, “I’m here to get my brother’s things. His personal stuff? Remember?”
“Oh, right,” Rodger said, going to Michael’s desk. There were two boxes of Michael’s personal belongings—books on logic and reasoning, puzzle books, IQ test booklets, notebooks, and binders of newspaper clippings. “These are both his, and they’re heavy. Need any help?”
Alexia went over to one of the boxes and, with a sharp inhale, effortlessly picked it up.
He whistled. “Stronger than you look.”
“I work out a lot,” she replied. “If you want to help me, please carry that one to the car. It’ll save me two trips.”
“Car?” he asked, grabbing the box. It was heavy with books and papers. He felt both its weight and his age as he followed her. “Did you drive here?”
“I’m sixteen, Rodger,” she said. “I’m old enough for a license. Besides, Papa is too busy with the church to come and Mama hasn’t been able to drive since Reagan was in office.”
Rodger followed Alexia in amazement. He could completely see how this was Michael’s little sister. The personalities were very similar.
Outside, she headed to a black sedan and popped the trunk. They both loaded the boxes in the back. When they were done, she closed the trunk and waved goodbye. “All right. Thanks again, Rodger. Take care.”
She was halfway to the front when he called, “Hey, wait a second!”
She stopped and looked at him, blinking.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we talk for a few minutes?”
When she again arched an eyebrow at him, he waved his hands in front of himself and said, “I mean, you’re one of the few people who knew Michael well. I just want to know a bit more about him.”
Alexia shrugged and got up on the trunk of her car. She placed her hands on her knees. “What do you want to know about him?”
Rodger stuffed his hands in his pockets. It wasn’t like he had a list of questions. “Really, I just want to know what kind of guy he was before he became a detective. He never talked about himself. Heck, I don’t even know why he became a detective. So, just…” He shrugged again. “Just talk about him.”
She furrowed her brow some and exhaled. “All right. Fine.”
He could instantly tell that she was just like Michael. She liked to get straight to the point. In fact, in some ways, she was even more direct than Michael.
She started talking. “Michael was a good older brother. A lot of times, the boys in the neighborhood would mess with me, because I’ve pretty much always been a tomboy. It didn’t help that as soon as I hit puberty, my cup size shot up to a C. So, yeah, boys would mess with me, and Michael would stand up to them. He kicked their butts and made them leave me alone until I learned to fight for myself.”
God, is she a master of Muay Thai Kickboxing as well? Is the whole family like that? Remembering how slovenly the rest of the LeBlanc family had looked at Michael’s funeral, though, he doubted it.
Alexia continued. “Anyway, Michael always wanted to work in law enforcement, especially in forensics. He loved Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Loved mysteries. He really wanted to join the FBI as a profiler.”
Remembering hearing Michael say something about that once, Rodger asked, “So why did Michael become a police detective instead of joining the FBI?”
She sighed and looked away. “Our papa sabotaged him. Michael graduated top of the class. He passed his tests with flying colors. He was all set to be accepted into the FBI when Papa made a few phone calls to people he knew in the Louisiana branch and had Michael rejected at the last minute.”
Rodger was stunned. He had never heard of anyone doing something so cruel to their own child before. It was utterly incomprehensible. “Why?” he asked. “Why would he do that?”
“You do know that my brother was gay, right?”
Rodger cleared his throat and nodded. Much like the sun rising and the moon setting, it was something he had always known but never talked about. It wasn’t polite.
“Yeah,” she said. “Papa and Michael never got along because of it. Michael always knew. Mama knew. I knew. Papa didn’t. When Papa found out, he lost it. Every time he’d push Michael, Michael would push back. The FBI thing was just the result of many years of fighting.”
Rodger shook his head. “To think that someone would do that to their own son.”
She frowned. “Well, Papa is a Baptist minister. To him, Michael was sinning, plain and simple. To Michael, Papa was being a bigot. It was never meant to work out.”
Alexia kicked her feet a bit, doing the first real teenage thing so far. She shrugged. “After that incident, Michael left for the New Orleans Police Academy. I’m sure in a few years he’d have tried again for the FBI. Maybe not. He didn’t like talking about it. Very sore subject.”
Nodding, Rodger asked, “So why did he choose New Orleans? Because it’s far away from Shreveport? Because of the open culture here?”
“Nah,” she said as she jumped off the trunk. “He wanted to work with the guy who solved the original Bourbon Street Ripper case. So all’s well, ya know?” She winked at Rodger.
He felt himself suddenly choke up. It was becoming a regular thing. “Well, Alexia, it was nice chatting with you. Are you heading back up to Shreveport tonight?”
Alexia shook her h
ead and walked back to the front of the car. “Nah. Brother’s apartment still needs to be emptied. I’ll be here a few more days. We can do lunch this weekend if you want. I’d love to hear about Michael as a detective. Call his apartment and leave me a way to get in touch with you.”
Rodger nodded again. He liked this directness. And swapping stories with Michael’s sister sounded like fun.
“All right then, Alexia,” he said. “Have a good night.”
“Good night, Rodger. God bless.” She waved and then got into the sedan. In a minute, she was gone.
Watching her drive off, he chuckled to himself. “Already an adult, eh? Sixteen going on sixty. Man, do I feel sorry for the guy who falls in love with that girl.”
Taking out a cigarette, he started to light it and then stopped. He looked at the unlit cigarette for a moment, then put it back in the pack. I should probably cut down if I want to make it past my sixties.
When Rodger finally finished up at his desk, it was late and he was looking forward to his nice, warm bed. The only one still working was Dixie, wrapping up her reports. He stopped by her desk and said, “Good night, Dixie. Get some sleep soon.”
Dixie smiled sweetly, got up, and hugged him. “You have a good night, Rodger. And don’t worry about me. That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.”
He winked and said, “Well, make sure nothing kills you. The world needs more people like you.”
Rodger walked to his squad car and got inside. The safety belt clicked in on the first try. “Stupid thing finally works and I’m on the way out.”
Putting the car in gear, he headed toward home.
He stopped at a street light at the corner of Bourbon Street and Saint Peter. He saw people walking around Bourbon Street, laughing, drinking, and partying—having a good time. The French Quarter, and all of New Orleans, was already starting to heal.
He smiled as he saw the street-side vendors dispensing liquor by the boatload. He smiled as he saw the topless and bottomless bars advertising their cheap sexual thrills. He smiled as he saw people on the balconies of the hotels goading the passersby to flash for a handful of glass baubles. Everything about the city was beautiful. Every speck of dirt, every puddle of vomit, and every drop of human decadence. He loved it all.
It was New Orleans. It was the Big Easy. It was hell. It was his home.
“Time to go home,” Rodger said as the light turned green. He hit the accelerator and drove across Saint Peter.
Just as a delivery truck swerved and hit his car head on.
He didn’t even see the truck coming. One second, he was driving into the intersection; the next second, the truck was hitting him. The force was so strong that he was thrown forward. As soon as he hit the safety belt, the latch gave way, and he crashed through the front window and out into the street.
The pain was excruciating as he tumbled along Bourbon Street, coming to rest in a heap. He couldn’t move anything. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the wrecked remains of his squad car. He heard people screaming in his direction. He smelled blood. Lots of blood.
He saw his own blood pooling around him. As he blinked a few times, he realized that there was hardly any more pain. Instead, he felt a coldness that seemed to come from within.
I don’t think I’m getting up from this one, Rodger thought, amazed at how calm he felt. I’m sorry, Sam. I guess Uncle Rodger won’t be there after all. Forgive me.
In the distance, he heard sirens.
Something caught his eye. His cigarettes were scattered on the pavement.
He mentally chuckled. I always thought those things would kill me.
In the distance, he heard the sound of someone digging. The sound was getting louder.
Despite his vision darkening, Rodger thought he recognized someone in the crowd. A cloudy figure came into focus, leaning against a lamppost with folded arms, watching him. This figure had a small, sad smile. Rodger recognized him as the digging sound grew louder still.
Michael.
The figure walked toward him, reaching out his hand. As everything else went out of focus, Rodger saw that it was indeed Michael, but translucent. His deceased partner’s lips mouthed the words “Time to go.”
The digging sound was all around him.
Rodger’s vision went dark. All right, buddy. Let’s go home.
Rodger Bergeron died at 9:52 p.m. on Tuesday, August 25, 1992.
Chapter 34
Isn’t it Wonderful?
Date: Tuesday, August 25th, 1992
Time: 10:00 p.m.
Location: Sam Castille’s Townhome
Uptown New Orleans
With a loud crash, Sam’s mug of coffee hit the ground, shattering across the wooden floor. She fell back against her staircase, her face frozen in horror. Her blue eyes were wide, her pupils were dilated, and her breath was shallow.
Her heart and head started to pound.
Rodger… Rodger is dead? How?!
Outside, rain began to pour. Thunder crashed in the distance.
The radio crackled. “Commander Ouellette, at the scene, stated that Detective Bergeron was just heading home after completing his reports on the new Bourbon Street Ripper case. It is reported that the driver of the delivery truck which collided with Detective Bergeron’s vehicle had been drinking at the Jean Lafitte Blacksmith Bar. Police have… already started… pieces of…”
The radio started to crackle with static.
Sam felt like she was about to throw up. Quickly, she rushed into the half bath underneath the stairs. She barely made it to the toilet in time. The vomit burned as it came up, only making her head pound more.
I can’t believe he’s dead. Rodger’s dead! How did this happen? How?
Once Sam had finished puking, she flushed and went over to the sink. She splashed water on her face, rinsed out her mouth, and fought against hyperventilating.
Shutting the water off, she stared down into the sink for a long time.
The radio’s static continued to worsen as the rain poured down harder and the thunder crashed closer. “The coroner has been… police are sectioning… keeping crowds back…”
OK. Get a hold of yourself, Sam. Call Dixie. Get the facts.
Sam exhaled, the pain in her head lessened enough to where she could think clearly. She looked up into the bathroom mirror at her reflection, ready to move.
Her reflection’s eyes were gone, just blank flesh covering up the sockets.
With a blood-curdling shriek, she fell back, landing in the open toilet bowl. As the cold water hit her ass, she threw herself forward and scrambled out into the hallway. Her head pounded with incredible pain.
Stopping in the hallway, Sam could barely hear the radio, which was thick with static. The sound of the heavy rainfall and the thunder outside was so much louder. “So much blood… a beautiful crimson… such a lovely treat…” The words from the radio sounded garbled and twisted.
Getting up slowly, she braced herself on the grandfather clock. Her heart was still pounding hard enough to thump in her ears.
What the hell was happening? Had she finally lost her mind?
The grandfather clock began chiming very loudly. The sound made her stumble back against the rise of the staircase, her head bouncing off the railing. Pain exploded in her head.
Chime!
The new pills, Sam thought, holding the back of her throbbing head. I have to get those pills!
Tripping forward, dizzy and off-balance, she fell to the side, landing in the entrance hall of her townhome.
Chime!
The radio was almost all static now, the voice distant and crackling with every word. “Most beautiful thing… shown in the history… we are blessed…” The radio was giving off nonsensical static-riddled phrases.
Grabbing onto the console table, Sam pulled herself up. In doing so, she came face-to-face with her reflection in the entrance hall mirror. She flinched back in instinctive fear, the memory of her fleshed-over eyes still fr
esh in her mind.
Chime!
Her reflection was not monstrous at all. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “At least you’re normal,” she muttered.
Chime!
At that, the reflection’s eyes grew wide and black, the face gray and pale. Its jaw unhinged and its mouth opened into a wide black maw with razor-sharp teeth. It let out a high-pitched caterwaul.
Chime!
With a terrified squeal, Sam jumped back, hitting her coat rack and falling on the floor in a heap. From there, she could see right into her office.
Chime!
The copier was running, but instead of paper coming out, it was squirts of blood. The fax machine was on, constantly making that grating connection sound. The keyboard of the personal computer was rapidly typing by itself.
Chime!
I’m having a full-on schizophrenic episode. I need those pills.
Only able to crawl, Sam pulled herself to the study. The radio was just pure static now. Outside, the rain was pouring down in sheets, thunder crashing loudly. Sam’s head pounded so hard she thought it would crack open.
Chime!
Reaching her desk, Sam grabbed her bottle of new medication, opened it, flipped her head back, and slammed back its contents.
Only a single object fell into her mouth. It wasn’t a pill.
Chime!
With a retch, Sam threw the bottle to the side and spit. A rolled-up piece of paper fell to the floor. She looked at it in confusion. The pounding in her head was like hammer strikes to her skull.
Chime!
Outside, the thunder crashed with frightening intensity and lightning flashed so often it seemed like daylight. The rain was so heavy it was like hail.
