The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (27 page)

Rodger aimed and shot again, this time the bullet hitting the side railing nearby. Thinking that Monty was right, Rodger quickly decided that if he was going to shoot the bigger man, he had to get right up next to him—without getting grabbed.

For a few moments, Rodger waited to see if Monty would come up the stairs and close the distance, but the large man had already figured out the same thing as the detective and was waiting. He even held his arms out and laughed up at Rodger, begging him to shoot.

Rodger realized he needed to lure Monty in. Looking around, all Rodger saw were rows upon rows of large metal presses. They were tall machines, with the presses activated by a button on the side of them. Looking them over, Rodger figured they were his best chance at surviving.

Hearing the heavy steps of Monty, Rodger quickly turned. Monty stopped, less than half the distance away now, and mockingly held out his arms again, laughing, his white teeth flashing like the fangs of a wolf playing with its prey.

Rodger fired the gun again, sparks flying as the bullet ricocheted near Monty, the sparks making the large man flinch. With his enemy distracted, Rodger headed in between the metal presses and, hearing Monty run up the stairs, waited for the sound of Monty drawing near.But no sound was heard, not even breathing, and after a few seconds, Rodger looked around a corner and saw that Monty had vanished from view. Then the detective heard it, the sound of heavy breaths—echoing all around him.

He was being stalked.

Looking around, Rodger ducked between another set of presses, even as he heard Monty’s voice ring out. “I’m coming for yooooou, bitch!”

Concentrating on his surroundings, Rodger looked around, trying to sense what direction his attacker was coming from. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t sense where Monty was. Only the sounds of breathing and laughter gave him any clue that he was still being stalked. When Monty got silent, all Rodger could hear was his own shallow, anxious breathing.

Coming across an end row of presses, Rodger suddenly saw something, a flash of white moving in between two of the presses. Quickly, he went on the offensive, ducking around to the interior of the rows of presses, gun ready.

Nothing.

Rodger crept forward, looking around, when he smelt it. The stench of beer and onions, right to the side of him. Looking to the side, Rodger saw Monty’s grinning face looking at him through one of the end row presses. Even as Rodger turned to try to face Monty, the large man reached through the metal press and grabbed Rodger’s jacket, calling out, “Got you, bitch!”

With a hard pull, Monty yanked Rodger forward, slamming the older man’s face into the top of the metal press. Another pull, and Rodger’s head was suddenly in the press itself.

“Guess I gotta make it quick, bitch,” said Monty, reaching for the button to turn on the press. “Too bad. I really wanted to rip your balls off.”

“What is your fascination with my balls, you freak!” said Rodger as he pulled back, his jacket ripping.

With a final tug, the left lapel of Rodger’s old jacket ripped right off, and Rodger flew back. Seeing Monty’s arm thrusting forward and grabbing at him again, Rodger quickly jumped to the side. Immediately, Monty’s left knee came into view.

Roger shot at the knee, and with a popping sound, it exploded, blood and liquid coating Monty’s jeans. The large man cried out, a loud guttural cry, then he leaned forward, his right arm braced inside the metal press. Monty roared out, “GONNA KILL YOU!”

Rodger kicked the side of the press, hitting the activation panel, and the machine lit up.

With a loud
whirring
sound, the metal press kicked into gear. Rodger saw the press come down quickly and, along with the sound of bones crunching and meat squishing, he heard the sound of Monty screaming.

As the press came to a halt, blood leaking out of it, Rodger leaned back against another press and caught his breath. His body hurt all over, his lungs were on fire, and he had never needed a cigarette so badly. Only when he heard the continued screams of Monty did Rodger come back to reality.

Taking his gun and pressing it against the chains around his wrists, Rodger fired. The chain fell limp. Another shot and the chains around his chest were gone. He had two burn marks from the bullets that freed him, but for once, Rodger didn’t care about the pain.

All he wanted were answers.

Stepping around the side of the press, and pointing his gun at Monty, Rodger felt every fiber in his being wanting to pull the trigger and end the man’s miserable life. But when he saw Monty, his forearm crushed in the press, his left knee shattered beyond repair, Rodger realized that living would be far more painful for Monty.

“Help me, man,” said Monty, gasping for breath, obviously in terrible pain. “My fucking arm. Help me!”

“Help you?” said Rodger, glaring down the sight of his gun at Mad Monty. “You think after what you did to Horace, what you tried to do to me, I’m gonna
help
you?”

“Fucking help me, man,” Monty whimpered. “I’m fucking… My fucking arm, man!”

“Oh, that,” said Rodger, his voice dripping with sarcasm and venom. “Let’s see what we can do about that.” Heading over to the side of the press, he hit the button to release the press. With a
whirring
sound, the press lifted up, revealing the mangled mess that was once Monty’s right forearm.

With another scream, Monty fell to his back and grabbed his ruined arm. Fresh blood leaked out in alarming amounts. Holding his destroyed arm, the man who was, just a few minutes ago, taunting a dying man to tears, started crying himself.

Rodger felt a mixture of disgust and satisfaction at this sight and at the same time was revolted by his own pleasure in Monty’s misfortune. He had known exactly what releasing the press would do, and knew he now had only minutes to get what he wanted out of Monty and stop the bleeding before he died.

“Fucking help me,” Monty whimpered, crying like a little kid. “Gonna bleed to death.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Rodger, still holding his gun on the other man. “I
could
go to my squad car and call for an ambulance to come save your miserable life.”

Rodger kept his gun trained on Monty, but his eyes were focused on the blood coming out of that wound. He wouldn’t let Monty bleed to death, but if he was going to get the information he wanted, before hospitals and lawyers and God knows what else got involved, he had to make Monty believe otherwise.

“Oh God,” cried Monty. “Help me. Please. Help me, man. I’m gonna die. Gonna die!”

“First things first,” said Rodger, glaring at Monty. “What is the Nite Priory?”

“Fucking gonna bleed to death,” Monty continued to whimper. “Help me, man. Gonna die, man.”

“Yeah, I get that, asshole, you’re dying,” Rodger said, his voice louder and angrier than before. His anger stemmed from knowing that if Monty didn’t spill the beans soon, he’d be saving his worthless ass—and getting nothing out of it. “And you
will
bleed to death if you don’t tell me what the Nite Priory is!”

“Fucking dying, man,” whimpered Monty, sobbing pitifully.

“Hell on you,” said Rodger, making a half turn away, as if planning to leave Monty to die. It was a feint, and his last one.

Monty cried, “Wait, Rodger! Nite Priory! That’s them who did that ho in a few nights ago!”

Stopping, Rodger turned and nodded at Monty. “Go on, Monty, and no tricks.”

Monty sputtered as he spoke, obviously weakened from blood loss. “It was someone. Wrote me a letter. About a week ago. It’s in the black car out back. Under the hood. Wanted me to give him the exact location of the first murder of the”—Monty’s lips trembled—“Bourbon Street Ripper.”

“And you did, right?” asked Rodger.

Monty nodded.

“I saw that ho go in there,” Monty said with shallow breaths.

Rodger wasn’t sure he had heard Monty correctly. Starting to apply pressure to the wound, to stop Monty from bleeding out, Rodger said, “She went in to the place where she was murdered?”

Monty gave a weak grin. “Yeah. Musta… musta lured her there… An hour earlier… someone used a pay phone… right on the corner of—”

Then a shot rang out, and Monty’s head exploded like a watermelon.

Rodger was stunned only for a moment before he twirled around and looked up, his police instincts kicking in, gun at the ready, hammer pulled back. Up on one of the ceiling skylights, looking down into the warehouse, was a figure dressed in a dark indigo hooded robe, hands covered in black gloves, face covered completely with a white mask painted to look like a skull.

The masked figure held a large rifle in its hand, the barrel still smoking. A moment later, the figure leapt with seemingly superhuman speed and agility out of the skylight and along the roof of the building. Rodger fired three shots at the retreating figure, succeeding more in hitting the ceiling and making the shots ricochet than anything else.

Rodger wondered what the hell that was.
Maybe it’s the light playing tricks on my eyes, but that figure seemed to jump around like they do in the movies
.

Leaning back against the same metal press that had taken Monty’s right arm, Rodger closed his eyes and concentrated on nothing at all, the adrenaline wearing off and the pain starting to rise. As his heart rate finally lowered, Rodger thought to himself once more,
I’m getting too old to do shit like this.

Rodger stayed this way for a while, just breathing in and out and letting his mind empty. It was the only way he could deal with everything that had just happened.

Only when Rodger heard the door open to the warehouse did he open his eyes. Having his gun ready, in case it was Monty’s henchmen, Rodger limped forward and carefully peered over the balcony down at the warehouse floor.

Light flooded into the warehouse from outside, and Michael came inside, walking with a distinct limp. Behind him were Captain Ouellette, Detective Aucoin, and several other uniformed officers of the New Orleans Police Department.

Chapter 14   
The Investigation Continues

Despite backup coming later than he would have liked, Rodger was grateful to see them. He was also grateful to see his partner alive, injuries aside. As he watched his fellow officers discover the gruesome scene below, Rodger drew himself to his feet. Now was not the time for rest—that could come later.

“Rodger,” Michael called out, limping around, gun in hand, looking for his partner. “Rodger, answer me!”

“My God in heaven,” Ouellette said as he looked upon what Rodger assumed was the gory remains of Horace Blanchard. “What the hell happened here?”

Even as an officer shut off the machine that had nearly killed him, Rodger waved his hand and called out to his frantic partner and disgusted commander. As soon as he saw Rodger, Aucoin rushed up the stairs and helped Rodger downstairs. He was grateful for the help—his body ached all over.

“Jesus, Bergeron,” said Commander Ouellette as Rodger reached the lower level. “What happened? What is that mess over there? Where the hell is Mad Monty?”

Still supported by Aucoin, Rodger replied, “Sir, the mess you see there is what’s left of Monty’s parole officer, Horace. As for Monty, well, he’s upstairs, missing a hand and a head.”

As Ouellette looked the scene over, Rodger knew they were all keeping their cool only because they had already seen far too many gruesome murders over the years. Ouellette just shook his head.

“For God’s sake, Bergeron, can’t you ever have a normal interrogation?”

Wryly, Rodger said, “Commander, next time, I’ll leave the questioning to someone else.”

Ouellette said, “And leave me with more bodies to clean up? At least I know
you’ll
survive this kind of crap, Bergeron. Good job.”

Rodger wasn’t surprised at the compliment. It was an unspoken understanding between him and his commander that if he could arrest the Bourbon Street Ripper, he could survive almost anything.

Rodger mentioned to Ouellette that there was an important piece of evidence, an envelope, underneath the hood of a black car out back. Ouellette said he’d get a uniformed officer to retrieve it, then headed off to manage the cleanup of the warehouse. Aucoin helped Rodger limp to Michael, who was standing over the mess that was once Horace.

Rodger could tell Michael was upset, but hiding it.

“We should have seen this coming, Rodger,” Michael said as his partner approached. “We’re trained police detectives. We should have anticipated this trap. We should have done something about it.”

“Michael, please,” said Rodger, not in the mood to give emotional pep talks. He wanted nothing more than a shot of whiskey, a hot bath, and his bed. “There is no way we could have known about—.”

“We should have!”

Michael’s uncharacteristic outburst seemed ill-timed, if understandable. After all, if Rodger or his partner had been just a little more vigilant, Horace Blanchard would be alive right now, they would be uninjured, and a material witness wouldn’t be dead.

As the two limped out of the warehouse, heading toward the dozens of police cars outside, Rodger asked his partner what had happened to him after he ran off.

“Oh, that,” said Michael, limping in time to Rodger’s limp. “First off, sorry if it looked like I abandoned you, Rodger. The moment the trap sprang, I knew I had to shift things back into our favor.”

Rodger gave a soft laugh, that motion alone making his ribs ache. “I figured as much, partner. I also figured that once you took care of those guys you’d come back and rescue me.”

Michael nodded. “Exactly. It took me longer than I expected, though. Those two were really fast and nearly caught me several times. In the end, I ran down to the riverside and engaged them in a game of hide-and-seek.” He chuckled. “They didn’t win. One is cuffed and presumably being carted away right now. The other is… ”