The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (14 page)

Topper continued to pick at his elbow scab, starting to make it bleed, until Gomer removed his hands, making him stop. The junkie continued to ramble. “I said I’d keep an eye out, but for a two-penny piece. Get two Schlitz malt liquor, two-penny piece. Two. Keep an eye out.”

“What is he talking about?” asked Michael, equal parts confused and irritated at the lost time he and his partner were suffering.

“I’m not sure,” answered Gomer as he motioned for an orderly. “He hasn’t ever babbled like that before. Usually, he just asks for his fix.” Gomer completed that statement with a nervous chuckle, one that was not reciprocated by either detective.

When the orderly, a short Latino fellow, came over, Gomer whispered something, mentioning the word
morphine
. Michael unsuccessfully struggled to overhear the conversation between Gomer and the orderly while Rodger moved in and started to talk to Topper directly.

“Topper,” said Rodger, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Vincent Castille. Do you remember him?”

The junkie looked over at Rodger, his upper body twitching, and scratched at his neck with both hands.

“Castille,” repeated Rodger. “Vincent Castille. The Bourbon Street Ripper. You worked for him, remember? You helped with those murders?” It wasn’t a real accusation so much as a traditional police tactic. Get the suspect to admit to something, and then use that to get the real information out.

Michael was aware of this, but apparently Topper was not, since the junkie started to scratch really hard and mutter half-hysterically, “That’s more than a two-penny piece, I said. But he said I should be grateful, since I get the good-night moon sugar and the Schlitz malt liquor. No penny pieces, just the good-night moon sugar. The sugar is sweetest, he said, when the Schlitz malt liquor is flowing. He told me to watch and I’d get the good-night moon sugar, but I wanted the ten-penny piece, so he told me to get the Schlitz malt liquor first.”

The junkie’s voice had elevated, and he was scratching his neck so hard the dark skin was starting to bleed. Both Rodger and Michael were momentarily stunned with horror as Topper gouged troughs into his flesh. “It wasn’t good for a ten-penny piece! So I told him to give the good-night moon sugar! I’d get the Schlitz malt liquor! Just don’t tell me to watch again! Don’t tell me to watch again!”

“Holy shit,” cried Rodger, grabbing the junkie’s hands, even as Michael, now free from the shock, moved in to restrain Topper. It took a few minutes, but soon both men had stopped the skinny junkie from ripping his neck apart. By the time Gomer and the orderlies got involved, Topper Jack was as restrained as he legally could be restrained. Under Gomer’s direction, two orderlies, one young Hispanic and one slightly older Caucasian, started to drag a kicking and screaming Topper inside the clinic.

“I don’t get it,” said an incredulous Gomer a few minutes later, as the detectives and he headed back up to the lobby. “Mr. Topman never acted this way before. What the—what the hell happened?” The head nurse sat down heavily, shaking his head in disbelief.

“He seemed to go nuts the moment that Rodger mentioned Dr. Castille,” replied Michael in a levelheaded manner. While Michael wasn’t sure if what Topper had spewed out was nonsensical rambling or not, he filed it away in his memory for later, just in case.

Rodger nodded in response as Gomer snapped his fingers. “Ya’ll are here about that murder last night, right? That Bourbon Street Ripper copycat, right? Mr. Topman was involved with Dr. Castille, was he?” This revelation seemed to renew both Gomer’s attitude and his annoying grin of anticipation.

Shaking his head, Michael answered, “We don’t know that yet. How long until Mr. Jackson is lucid enough to talk?”

“Oh,” mused Gomer, rubbing his pointed chin, “twenty, maybe thirty minutes, tops?”

Michael was just about to ask if they could wait in Topper’s bedroom when an orderly—the Caucasian who had helped bring Topper inside—came in and said, “Mr. Topman has been strapped into bed. We’ve administered his medication.”

Gomer gave the orderly a thankful nod. “Maybe not even until tomorrow, depending on how sedated we have to make him.”

It was then that Rodger spoke up. “Well, this guy could be a material witness, so can you all keep an eye on him tonight?”

Gomer nodded and said, “Keeping watch on an important police suspect like Mr. Topman shouldn’t be a problem.”

He then turned to the reporting orderly and asked, “So, who is watching over him tonight?”

The orderly thought for a moment and said, “Oh, the new guy.” This led to a look of concentration as the orderly thought on it. “I forgot his name. The black guy. Young dude with a tattoo. Just started a few days ago.”

“Huh?” asked Gomer, scratching his head in confusion. “The only new guy is the Mexican guy I hired last week. Who is this new guy again?”

The moment Gomer voiced his doubt, something clicked in the back of Michael’s head. He remembered seeing three orderlies out with the patients. Two were Caucasian and one was Hispanic.

His mind racing, he only remembered seeing one African American orderly, the elderly man who was giving a spiteful, bitter look as he cleaned up some vomit. And if Gomer didn’t remember a new African American guy…

Michael moved forward, followed closely by Rodger, who said, “Take me to Mr. Jackson’s room—NOW!”

They raced down the hallways. Once inside the room, Michael’s suspicions were confirmed. Topper lay there on his bed, eyes open, mouth agape, while the heart monitor flat-lined. Not seeing anyone else in the room, Michael quickly looked around the hallway, even as Rodger moved to a nearby patient outside the room and hurriedly asked, “Have you seen anyone out of the ordinary?”

It was a dance the two detectives had practiced before, agreeing on certain roles should a subject ever be in danger. Rodger would look for the perpetrator while Michael secured the scene and, if applicable, got help for the victim.

Seeing Gomer move toward the bedside, specifically going for a syringe on the bedside table, Michael screamed, “Don’t touch that, you idiot! Don’t touch anything on that table!”

The head nurse jumped back as if struck by lightning. Michael immediately added, “Don’t hesitate! Call for a Code Blue!”

Gomer nodded and sprang into action, his training overcoming his lack of common sense. As soon as he hit the emergency button on the wall, an alarm went off with a female voice saying, “Code Blue. We have a Code Blue.”

Satisfied for the moment, Michael rushed out to the hallway where Rodger was, but his partner was nowhere to be seen. Michael looked around for any quick way to exit the building and could only see one—the doors leading to the courtyard.

Closing his eyes, Michael recalled the details of the courtyard. The tables, the chairs, the plants, the fire escape.

“Fire escape,” Michael said out loud and rushed out to the courtyard. Once outside, he saw a young African American orderly running up the fire escape toward the roof. Rodger was trying to running toward the fire escape, but he was already clearly out of breath. Michael began to move. As he passed his partner, he yelled, “Call for backup, Rodger, I got this!”

“Michael, be careful,” called Rodger. “You don’t know if he’s armed or not!”

“I’ll be fine,” Michael yelled as he reached the fire escape, his eyes locked upward at the fleeing orderly. “Just make sure they don’t contaminate the crime scene!” With those words, Michael tore off after the perpetrator.

Michael raced upward along the fire escape, his heels
clanking
loudly on the corrugated metal stairs. It was five stories to the roof. Wary of the possibility that the perpetrator was armed, Michael stopped at the top of the stairs and peeked over the edge, reaching for his sidearm.

Greeted by the sight of the orderly running along the rooftop, Michael watched the way he ran. It was a full-on sprint, and Michael concluded that the perpetrator most likely was not armed.

Michael was glad of that as he let go of his weapon. He was certain he could move faster if he wasn’t shooting. He jumped up the last few stairs, rushing after the orderly, his feet crunching on the gravel of the rooftop’s surface.

Michael’s blood pumped and his heart raced as he chased the orderly past skylights and air-conditioning units. The perpetrator just ran straight ahead as fast as he could go, heading directly toward the edge of the building.

What is that idiot doing?
Michael thought with a growing since of dread
. Is he going to jump? That’s insane! We’re five stories high. That’ll kill him!

Michael suddenly felt cold, shivering as his spine briefly tingled with what he assumed was the release of pure adrenaline. Deep inside, Michael felt like he could make a difference if he put everything into an all-out sprint and tackled this guy. It was a gamble, and Michael knew it, but for that brief moment, he felt confident that he could pull off this feat.

“Stop,” Michael cried out, putting everything he could into the sprint, his muscles burning as he rushed forward to catch up to the orderly. With his quarry just a few yards from going over the side of the building, Michael pushed himself with everything he had—and jumped!

The sky was very black, and the wind hot and muggy, as Michael and the orderly tumbled down to the surface of the rooftop.

Christ!
Michael thought as he rolled, holding on to the perpetrator with a death grip fueled by determination and fear. His face rubbed against the gravelly surface of the rooftop as he and the orderly rolled several times. The world spun, and then Michael saw an elbow coming right for his face.

The rush of adrenaline was still there, and Michael felt like he had an incredible amount of energy. Instinctively, his hands came up to block the blow, the sheer force enough to make his own hands hit his face. Michael grunted as he rolled away from the perpetrator, who was scrambling to get to his feet.

“The hell you do,” he screamed and, spinning his body around on his back, kicked the orderly’s feet out from under him. As he did this, Michael felt and heard his jacket rip down the back.This only served to make Michael angry, and with another spin on his back, this time using the momentum to flip over on his stomach and then up to his feet, Michael jumped up and slammed his knee into the orderly’s back, hitting him in the kidney.

The perpetrator cried out, his eyes bulging and his face going deep purple, before going limp. Keeping the pressure on the man’s back, Michael reached into the pocket of his now ruined jacket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. As he clicked them into place, Michael told the unconscious man, “You have the right to remain silent, asshole.”

Ten minutes later, Michael was back on the ground, looking over his ruined jacket in disgust.

“Hey,” said Rodger, coming up from behind. “You okay? Your jacket is ripped to shreds.”

“No worries,” Michael replied, tossing the jacket into a nearby garbage bin. “I’ve got five more like it at my apartment.” He turned to his partner and folded his arms before asking, “So, did Mr. Jackson make it?” With the way things were going, he honestly expected the answer to be no.

To Michael’s pleasant surprise, Rodger nodded. “Topper will live. EMTs got here when backup did, and aside from having a splitting headache, and a heroin addiction, he’ll be all right. That sick bastard who tried to kill him pumped him full of morphine, the drug that helps heroin addicts deal with the withdrawal symptoms. Luckily, morphine isn’t lethal in the dosage he was given, but I doubt the perp knew that.”

Michael nodded to his partner, then looked back at the interior of the clinic. “Probably a contract killing, then. It’s not like the gangs here hire professionals to do this sort of thing.”

Rodger nodded. “Agreed. Any idiot with a gun can be a hired killer nowadays.”

“I doubt this had anything to do with the Bourbon Street Ripper murders.”

“Yeah. This was most likely a hit by the drug ring Topper helped Narcotics bust up a few weeks ago. However, just to be safe, let’s interrogate the perp back at the precinct later.”

The door to the clinic opened and Head Nurse Gomer came out. “Detectives,” he said. His naïve enthusiasm was long gone, his bloodshot eyes and red face showing that he was taking things seriously. “Mr. Topman is awake and wants to talk to you both.”

Michael and Rodger looked at each other before heading inside, Michael thinking to himself that this was a night when they were blessed (or cursed) with the devil’s luck.

Both detectives followed the nurse to the infirmary where Topper lay, hooked up to about half a dozen machines, some of them monitoring his vitals and others administering time-released dosages of medication.

“Detectives,” said Topper Jack in a raspy voice as they approached him, “looks like I owe you all for saving my life.”

“Don’t mention it, Topper,” said Rodger, standing at the edge of the bed and resting his hands on the side railing. “The doctors say you’ll live. How are you feeling?”

At that, Topper gave a short cough that had a laugh buried somewhere deep inside. “I suppose I’ve been better, but thanks all the same.” The junkie cleared his throat and coughed a bit more before continuing. “Mr. Bernard tells me you all have some questions for me?”

“That’s right, Mr. Jackson,” said Michael, standing to the side of Rodger, his arms folded. “We’d like to talk to you about Vincent Castille.”

“Vincent Castille,” said Topper, looking up at the ceiling. “Now there is a name I haven’t heard in many a year.”

“So,” said Rodger, “you knew the doc back then?”

“Knew him?” asked Topper as he coughed out another laugh. “He was my doctor.”

This revelation came as a shock to Michael, and apparently to Rodger as well, for his eyes widened as he exclaimed, “Wait, what? Dr. Castille was an expensive doctor. How did you afford him? And why didn’t we find your name on the patient list?”

“Because his kind of help was the kind a respectable doctor don’t give an undesirable like me,” said Topper with another cough, his raspy voice strangling a bit from exhaustion and effort.