The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (13 page)

His resolve drew a slightly pleased, if not slightly bored, smile from the woman in red. Standing up, she said, “I had better get back to my room, before the crowds thin out too much.” She smiled again, a mixture of pleasantness and seductiveness in her look. “See ya around, maybe. Sleep well, hon. And thanks for the conversation.”

“And thank you for the idea,” Richie replied, “Miss—” But she was already gone before he could finish asking her name.

Richie sat there and mulled over the conversation for a few more minutes, until he became aware that someone was staring at him. He looked and saw the bartender, who was eyeing him curiously from across the bar. When their gazes met, the bartender shook his head in what seemed to be pity, and then went back to cleaning the bar.

Richie looked away, flustered.
Great, she probably is a mobster’s woman, and the bartender is one of them, and now I’m suspected of putting the moves on her.

Not wanting to wait around to find out if his fears were true, Richie quickly got up, tossed the requisite amount of money on the bar, and headed out to the lobby. Soon, he was back in his room, the alcohol fully in effect, hardly able to stand. It was all Richie could do to remove his shoes and get his pants off before falling into bed. As he did so, his eyes focused on his laptop on the nearby desk. An e-mail was waiting for him.

With a monumental effort, Richie got up, dragged himself to his computer, and clicked on the message to open it. It was a simple note from the office of Kent Bourgeois, one line saying only one thing: “I’ll see you tomorrow at two o’clock. My office.”

Richie grinned to himself and passed out on the keyboard.

Chapter 7   
Topper Jack

The police precinct at nighttime, while considerably less loud than it was during the day, was still neither peaceful nor relaxing. The humid smell was replaced by pine cleaner and Freon, the floors long since cleaned and the air conditioners finally turned on—the department kept them off during the day to save money.

The fluorescent ceiling lights still brightly illuminated the floor, although only a handful of detectives were still working—the ones with too many open cases, heavy workloads, or broken marriages. Among them was Michael LeBlanc, who sat at a computer terminal on a table pushed against one of the room’s walls.

Michael had been there for several hours, running checks through the New Orleans police database for Topper Jack, while Rodger, using a computer elsewhere in the department, ran his searches on the poor guy whose Greyhound locker was implicated in one of the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.

Michael, who had already lost track of time, had scribbled several pages of notes in his notebook dedicated to Topper Jack. Amongst the notes were last-known whereabouts, other aliases, and a list of rehabilitation facilities he had been in and out of over the past twenty years. Satisfied with his work so far, Michael leaned back and closed his eyes, sorting out the information in his mind.

His inner thoughts were disrupted, however, by Aucoin loudly saying, “I don’t give a shit that she’s almost seventeen, Catherine! There is no way my daughter is going to The Point with some college student!”

Opening his eyes, Michael looked over to see Aucoin yelling into the phone. Sorting out his information on the senior detective, Michael remembered that Aucoin had a daughter, Cheryl, in her teens.

She had two bad habits: wearing inappropriate clothing and dating men in their midtwenties. Aucoin was getting into more and more fights with his wife over both his long hours and his daughter’s behavior.

Michael had very little pity for Aucoin’s situation. The way Michael saw it, men who wanted to be good detectives, especially in homicide, had no business being a husband or a father, let alone both.

“Wait, Catherine,” Aucoin said, a sudden panic in his voice, “don’t do that! I… we’ll talk about it when I get home! Catheri—” The sudden silence from Aucoin was all Michael needed in order to know that the older man had been hung up on.

Quickly, Aucoin threw on his coat, put on his hat, and headed out the door. Michael didn’t bother asking after the other detective—it wasn’t any of his business.

When Aucoin’s phone rang a few minutes later, Michael didn’t pick it up, figuring it was Catherine calling back. However, a moment after Aucoin’s phone stopped ringing, the phone at his desk rang. Looking up in surprise, Michael hurried over to his desk and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc,” he answered.

“Michael? Finally, someone picks up,” came a feminine voice on the other line, one he immediately recognized as belonging to Dixie Olivier, Detective Aucoin’s junior partner. She was one of the few people he really got along with and was his only close friend. Right now, Dixie sounded ragged.

“Dixie,” Michael replied, “yeah, it’s pretty late. What’s going on?”

“Is Kyle there?” replied Dixie, her voice momentarily muddled by the sound of what Michael figured was an airplane landing. “I’ve been trying to reach him all evening.”

“No,” replied Michael. “He and Catherine are having another fight about Cheryl. Hey, Dixie, are you at an airport? I’m getting a lot of background noise.”

“What?” Dixie replied. “Oh yes, we’re at an airport. I wanted to let Kyle know that I spoke with Ouellette about an hour ago. With the murder last night, I’m heading home early.”

Michael frowned. If there was ever a couple who deserved time alone together, it was Dixie and her boyfriend. Since he’d known them both, they’d had very few successful dates. He couldn’t imagine how that relationship was lasting.

“Dixie,” said Michael, “I’d really rather you and Gi—”

Michael’s rebuttal was cut short by a very loud sound, what must have been a large plane passing directly overhead. After the rattling in the receiver stopped, he heard Dixie say, “Hey, Michael, I need to run. We’re going to try and get a plane home tonight, but we may be stuck over another day. I’ve got you a souvenir. Talk to you when I get back. Later!” And then Dixie hung up.

Hanging up his receiver slowly, Michael got up and shuffled back to the computer terminal.
A souvenir from Cancun. Dixie, you’ve gotten all tourist on me.

Michael chuckled inwardly at that as he sat back down, remembering how the last time he and Dixie got stuck working late, they went out to a bar on Bourbon Street called Oz and shared about two pitchers of lager out on the balcony, complaining about their senior partners’ bad habits and sharing funny stories until four in the morning.

That was a few weeks ago. She had promised him then that she’d bring him back a souvenir from her vacation in Cancun.

Michael smiled to himself and said, “Well, Dixie never breaks her promises.”

Closing his eyes, Michael returned to sorting out the information about Topper Jack. He stayed that way for several long minutes.

His internal work was soon interrupted again, this time by Rodger’s voice, saying, “Damn. Did you see Kyle before he left?”

Opening his eyes, Michael looked up at his partner, seeing the older detective leaning against the same wall as the table the computers were on, arms folded and looking at him. Michael nodded.

“His wife is packing up and moving in with her mother,” said Rodger, even though Michael didn’t ask. The older man circled around to where his partner was and, pulling out a chair, sat in front of him. “How many times is that this year?”

“Four,” answered Michael with what he hoped was obvious disinterest. “Looks like they’re on the way to getting a divorce.”

“Probably,” answered Rodger. “It hasn’t been this bad in a long time. I may have to go out with him one night and, you know, offer a shoulder to cry on.”

Michael recalled that Rodger and Aucoin were friends, having had a friendly rivalry over the years. Michael seemed to remember hearing that Aucoin was there for Rodger when Edward died.

The fraternity here is pretty strong amongst the old guys
, Michael thought to himself, then said, “Dixie called. She’s coming back home. Ouellette talked her into it.”

Rodger leaned over Michael, facing the computer terminal. “Oh no, that sucks. I’d be pissed if my romantic two-week luxury vacation to the beach was cut short by something so trivial as a serial killer.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Michael couldn’t help but chortle. “Ass.”

“So, what have you found out about Topper Jack?” asked Rodger, apparently done with the comedy portion of the evening. He looked over at the computer screen Michael was working on, the green hue of the out-of-date system casting light over the older man’s face.

Michael slid over his notebook for his partner to see. “I came up with quite a lot, actually. Topper Jack, alias Tip Top, alias Jack Off, alias Toppers. His real name is Jackson Topman, he’s forty-three years old, and his last known address was Odyssey House on North Tonti.”

“The rehab clinic,” Rodger replied with a nod. “So old Topper put his ass back in the House, eh? Feel like taking a trip there?”

“What, now?” asked Michael, looking at the time. “It’s almost eleven. Don’t you think Mr. Jackson will be asleep by now?”

The look from Rodger was one of sarcastic joy. “Then we’ll do him a favor and wake his ass up. You know what they say, shock is good for the system.” As Rodger gathered his coat and hat and prepared to depart, Michael was left wondering who exactly came up with statements like that.

Twenty minutes later, the two detectives walked into Odyssey House, one of the many rehabilitation facilities in the city. The lobby was clean and freshly vacuumed. The walls were adorned with portraits of happy families doing happy activities.

A large television showed a short video about Odyssey House and the “power of positive thinking,” complete with campy music and even campier voice-overs.

Finally, the nurse on duty showed up. He was in his late forties, had a mostly bald head with a dark splotch of a birthmark on the side, was dressed in blue scrubs, and clearly thought, by the way he eagerly shook both detectives’ hands, that a visit by the police was the most exciting thing in the world.

“Good to meet you, Detective Bergeron, Detective LeBlanc,” he said, “and welcome to Odyssey House. I’m Gomer, Gomer Bernard, the head nurse and sort of a night manager around here.”

He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, apparently savoring the moment. “So what can I do for you? One of our patients here implicated in criminal activity?”

Rodger said, “Not yet, anyhow, but we need to speak to one of your patients concerning recent criminal activity. Is the upstanding citizen known as Topper Jack awake and available?”

Gomer grinned a wide grin. “Mr. Topman is indeed awake and available. He’s playing checkers, I believe, in the courtyard out back. Want me to bring him to you?” He looked eager to do so.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Rodger, his voice flat. “Just take us to him. This won’t take a moment.”

As Gomer hastily agreed and bade the detectives to follow him, Michael matched his partner’s stride. He hadn’t ever met someone this excited about a patient possibly being a suspect.

“Is this gonna be one of those things where you gotta take him into one of those in-terro-gation rooms and sweat him out?” asked Gomer.

“Not likely,” replied Michael hastily, wanting less to do with Gomer every minute. “If he doesn’t act suspicious, there’s no reason to treat him like a suspect.”

The trio turned a corner and headed down another hallway, past an old African American orderly mopping up some puke and watching the detectives with disinterest.

“Was Mr. Topman implicated in something? Was he a witness? Will you have to escort him out of the building?” Gomer asked excitedly.

Michael felt himself getting annoyed at the head nurse.

Rodger said, “You don’t have a lot of excitement in your life, do you, Gomer?”

After that, Gomer didn’t ask any more questions.

Going through another doorway, Michael found himself outside, the hot and humid August night air hitting him full in the face. Within the inner courtyard, adorned with bushes and trees along the exterior walls, with only a break for the occasional doorway and a single fire escape, were about two dozen or so patients, and three orderlies—two Caucasian and one Hispanic. The patients, ranging from late teens to twilight years, both male and female, were reading, playing checkers, or quietly conversing.

Leading the two detectives into the thick of the courtyard, Gomer approached two older men in green gowns. The slightly younger man, who had skin the color of hot chocolate, had scraggly black stubble with specks of gray.

Michael knew from the photos that this was Topper Jack. The criminal was covered in sores, some of which had healed only to be broken open again, and he was still scratching. Michael noted that he had never seen anyone that skinny outside of an oncology ward before.

“Topman,” said Gomer, tapping the skinny man’s shoulder, “got some
police
here to speak with you.” The needling way that the news was delivered made Michael’s temperature rise. It was as if the head nurse was purposefully trying to get Topper Jack to clam up.

“It’s not a good thing to talk to the poh-lice,” muttered Topper, scratching a scab on his elbow. “Get a penny piece to keep an eye out. Just keep an eye out and you keep your penny piece. Gotta go and get me some Schlitz malt liquor. Penny piece to keep your eye out. Schlitz malt liquor. Keep your eye out.”

“What the hell is he saying?” asked Rodger in a low, but surprised voice.

Gomer looked both apologetic and embarrassed. “Sorry. He’s been having some bad shakes lately. He always gets like this during withdrawal.”