The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (3 page)

“Correct. At that time, Moon Landrieu was in the mayor’s office, and already his battle with City Council over desegregation had the police budget in shambles. My partner and I were the only ones sent after this sicko, and every time that it seemed we were closing in on him, he evaded us with ease. After a while, it was like he was mocking us.”

Rodger looked up at a nearby streetlight, watching the raindrops fall silently past the yellow halogen corona. His normally furrowed brow was even heavier this evening, all that stress from twenty years ago crashing back with every second.

“But obviously you caught the Ripper, correct?” asked Michael, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

Rodger nodded in response before taking a third drag of his cigarette. Unlike some people who took lingering drags from a cigarette before accenting a point, Rodger managed to make it look natural. Like Sam Spade or Lieutenant Columbo, being a grizzled and jaded detective looked good on Rodger.

“Yeah, we finally were able to piece together our killer,” Rodger said as he scratched his shoulder blades against the brick wall behind him. “Dr. Vincent Castille, a surgeon at Southern Baptist Hospital in Uptown. Old aristocratic money. Real old. Not that he needed it. The guy was a real genius with the scalpel. It was said he could fix any injury and heal any illness. And he wasn’t cheap. Rich folks would come from all over Louisiana just to place themselves under his care.”

“A real saint,” quipped Michael.

“And a first-rate psychopath. His personal life came out during the trial. Apparently, this monster had been collecting memorabilia from the Middle Ages or the Inquisition or some shit. Real torture equipment, like the kind you’d see down in the Wax Museum. I don’t even know what some of that stuff was, or how it was used, but it looked downright evil. The doc, however, loved that stuff.”

Michael grimaced and then asked, “So the Bourbon Street Ripper—I mean Dr. Castille—tortured his victims to death because he was reenacting scenes from his private collection?”

“That’s what the newspapers wanted to believe,” replied Rodger with disgust, taking a fourth drag of his cigarette, wearing the stick almost to the nub. He exhaled slowly and the smoke billowed out.

“The murders were methodical and well planned, much like a surgery. The wounds were cut cleanly. There was no passion in the crimes, no rage.”

He made a scribbling motion in the air with his stunted cigarette and said, “And he took notes. Lots of notes.”

A coarse voice coughed out a pointed “ahem” beside them. Both detectives turned to see an older gentleman with tired eyes and scraggly gray hair. His black suit and white shirt were crumpled, as if it needed a trip to the dry cleaners as much as its owner needed a trip to the day spa. The man himself looked grim and serious.

“Morton,” said Rodger with a nod of the head to the New Orleans coroner.

“Dr. Melancon,” said Michael. He held out his hand, which the coroner ignored.

“Rodger. Michael,” replied Morton with the look of a man who would rather not be outside in the rain. “I’m sure you know what this looks like, right?”

“The Bourbon Street Ripper murders. It’s obviously a copycat.” Rodger looked over Morton’s shoulder toward the doorway leading to the crime scene. A pair of EMTs were rolling out a covered gurney, a third one behind them holding a black garbage bag that looked mostly full.

“It’s goddamn butchery! That’s what it is,” exclaimed the coroner quite suddenly, his charcoal eyes burning with indignation. “Whoever did this knew exactly how the Ripper did it, down to the amputations and living autopsy at the end. It’s sheer barbarism!”

Rodger didn’t let Morton’s outrage affect him. He knew that Morton had a personal reason for feeling so passionate about these murders. And one glance over at Michael, who had flinched at the outburst, confirmed to Rodger that his partner had no idea.

“All the same,” inquired Rodger calmly, “your assessment is that it’s a copycat, correct?”

Morton thrust his wrinkled hands into his coat pockets and spat on the sidewalk. “If you’re asking me if the victim died of exsanguination, then yes. If you’re asking if there was severe physical trauma, then yes.” Morton’s voice had once again considerably raised, so much that the trio of tourists, who were still on the balcony, perked up their heads with interest.

“If you’re asking me if she suffered, then hell, bloody yes.” Morton was practically in a fit now, to the point where Rodger was holding out his hands to try and calm him. To the senior detective’s dismay, the coroner just railed on, “But if you want the really gory details, Rodger, you’re going to have to wait until I have the autopsy report ready. But don’t worry, if this is anything like the Bourbon Street Ripper murders, we’ll get plenty more where that came from! Until then, I suggest you go say some prayers at Saint Louis Cathedral, because Satan is back in the Big Easy!”

With that, Morton stormed off, drawing looks from the remaining officers and officials at the scene, some of whom shook their heads at the over-the-top outburst from the coroner.

Michael, who by this point wore an exasperated look, turned to his partner, and mouthed the words, “What the hell?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rodger said as he took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it into a nearby puddle. “He has his reasons for being so sensitive about this shit. More so than most of us.”

With that bit of wisdom dispensed, Rodger grew silent, his mind working. He mulled over a way to start the investigation off. He was sure it was a copycat, even though he knew that they needed more than one victim before City Hall would consider it a real copycat murderer.

Goddamn bureaucracy.

Rodger frowned. There was one way to get a jump on this investigation if it was indeed a copycat. It would require bothering someone he didn’t want to bother, but given the grotesque nature of the crime, he felt there was no other choice.

Rodger began moving to his squad car. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Rodger heard a quick “Hmm?” from his partner before hearing those polished shoes scuffling after him.

Like a duckling hurrying to catch up to its mother, Michael scuttled over the sidewalk to the passenger side of the car. “Where are we going?”

“To see someone who can help us get a leg up on this damn thing,” responded Rodger as he slid into the driver’s seat and strapped himself in tightly. The receptacle for the safety belt failed to catch a few times before finally clicking in place. Rodger paid it no mind. The department couldn’t afford to give him a raise after five years, so why have them spring for new seat belt latches?

Damnable budget cuts!

“All right, I’ll bite,” replied Michael as he effortlessly latched his safety belt in place. “Who is this person? How can they help us?”

Rodger turned the key in the ignition, and with a roar the Ford Crown Victoria came to life, headlights spilling out over the back of Ursuline Street.

Putting the vehicle in gear, he replied, “Sam Castille, Vincent’s only living descendant. Sam has some stuff of the doc’s that police never got warrants for during the trial. Some bullshit red tape thrown up by the defense that ultimately did that scumbag no good. If we can get our hands on that stuff, it may help us understand how Vincent thought out his crimes.”

With a nod, Michael leaned back in his seat, folding his arms thoughtfully. “I see. So we establish a pattern of behavior and use that to predict the copycat’s next move.”

“Exactly,” replied Rodger with a small smile.

Michael’s expression was still thoughtful as he asked, “And you think this Sam fellow will help us out?”

“I hope so,” replied Rodger as he pulled off Ursuline and onto Dauphine Street, passing underneath the balcony where the tourists still watched the gruesome gallery below. “Sam and I… we go way back. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

In truth, however, the uncertainty was still there, along with a pang in his chest. Sam was a delicate matter to Rodger, but Sam was also the only one who could give Rodger what he needed. It was a real conundrum.

“Great,” answered Michael as he relaxed and looked out the window. “So where does Sam live?”

“Uptown,” replied Rodger as he stopped at a stop sign, checking both ways before proceeding forward through the intersection. “Near Tulane University.”

The rain had started up again, coming down in sheets of water that made visibility nearly zero.

“Nice area.” Michael looked out the window, before looking over at the clock, blinking a bit, and calling Rodger’s attention to the time. “Will he even be awake at this hour? It’s only three thirty.”

Rodger chuckled to himself. If he remembered properly, Sam was an incurable night owl. As he turned out to the highway, leaving the French Quarter and its grisly murder behind, Rodger said, “Oh yeah. By the time we get there, Sam will definitely be awake.”

By now, the summer storm was raging on in full force.

Chapter 2   
Sam of Spades

With a shuddering series of clanks, the door to the medicine cabinet more or less slid open, revealing row after of bottles, each bottle filled with pills. Triazolam, Temazepam, Zolpidem, and other sleep aids shared the shelves with NoDoz, Vivarin, and other pills meant to do the exact opposite.

Only on the bottom shelf were pills dedicated to functions other than promoting or inhibiting sleep. One such bottle, a bottle of plain aspirin so old the label was half-worn, was the target of Sam Castille’s search.

Sam spent a moment or two half-opening and closing the cabinet door, listening to the mirror as it shuddered in its track, before finally sliding it all the way open. To Sam, the sound was reminiscent of heavy rain on a tin roof, and that was very relaxing. Finally, with the cabinet completely open, Sam found and snatched up the bottle of aspirin. Then Sam closed the door to the cabinet, coming face-to-face with her own reflection.

Sam wasn’t pretty by conventional standards. Her face was more gaunt than normal, her cheekbones were too high, and her nose was a little too big. Her blue-gray eyes didn’t shine, and her sandy blond hair wasn’t remarkable, especially pulled back in a tight ponytail as it was. Her frame was slender, with only her hips having any definition.

Many people had told Samantha Castille that she had that “hometown girl” look. She couldn’t care less. People weren’t something Sam was interested in.

After staring at her reflection for a few moments, Sam flipped open the bottle of aspirin with her thumb and popped a few pills right into her mouth. She stared again at her reflection before leaning forward to check under her eyes to see if the bags were as heavy as they had been the night before. They were. By the time the bitter taste of the pills dissolving in her mouth registered, Sam was already washing it down with a mouthful of cold coffee.

The vile combination of tastes made Sam’s face crunch up into a comical pucker. The surge of bitterness passed within a few moments, and she swallowed the wretched mouthful and shuddered in disgust.

Leaving the opened pill bottle on the sink, she took her coffee mug, which was marked with the phrase, “If I gave a penny for your thoughts, I’d have change coming,” and headed downstairs to her study.

Outside, the patter of raindrops softly rolled off the slated roof and down to the gutter below, sloshing out to the sidewalk of Uptown New Orleans.

It had been storming earlier, and Sam, after trying with all her might, had abandoned all pretense of trying to work and had contented herself with sitting outside on her back porch, holding a mug of cooling black coffee, listening to the torrents of rain, and thinking of as little as was humanly possible. Only when the rain had finally dwindled to a mere patter had Sam realized she had a splitting headache, and that she had daydreamed away two hours.

“Isn’t that just lovely,” Sam had said to herself before unfolding her legs, sliding her feet into her slippers, and walking back inside the house in search of some aspirin.

But now with the rain having lessened up, Sam returned to her study and the large solid oak desk that acted as a centerpiece to the room, taking a seat in a large red velvet chair. The desk, the chair, the house she lived in, and most of her belongings were keepsakes from her father.

Even the lonesome and frightfully old-looking typewriter resting on the desk was once used by her father. Sam’s fingers lingered on the sides of the typewriter, lost in nostalgia for a moment’s passing, before she ritualistically slid her fingers over the keys of the typewriter and began to type.

Sam stopped typing in midsentence, her lips scrunching up into a pucker and shifting to the side. “Right,” she said and moved from the typewriter to a pile of handwritten notes. There were scribbles, mind-maps, jots, and musings—all the notes of a mystery writer—and Sam shuffled through them several times before finally letting out a deep sigh. Her fingers slid from the loose-leaf papers and ceremoniously slid back to the typewriter. For a long moment, she just sat there, fingers on the keys, not typing anything.