The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (32 page)

Michael didn’t answer Rodger, and instead focused on his notebook, where he was busily sorting through notes he had scribbled down about the latest murder scene. Having recently come from the scene itself, Michael was anxious to get this interview, which he regarded as a waste of time for many reasons, over with, and continue with the actual investigation.

“I’m telling you, Ouellette is way out of line this time,” a still gruff and disgruntled Rodger said. “I mean, really, don’t you think the entire thing is ridiculous? Michael?”

Michael, who was now aware that his partner was looking at him, gave a small sigh and partially closed his notebook. Without looking toward Rodger, Michael replied, “It doesn’t matter what we think, Rodger. It’s our job to follow every single angle. And you have to admit, at this point, it’s the strongest one we’ve got.”

Rodger huffed, arms folding even tighter—if that were possible—and sank down into his chair. Michael had to admit that as shitty as the situation was, and as much as he agreed with his partner on what a waste of time this side trip was, the facts were too stark to ignore.

Sam Castille was now being treated as a suspect.

The morning had started off routinely enough, with Michael and Rodger reaching the crime scene and checking in with Ouellette. Michael had been a bit surprised to see Detectives Aucoin and Dixie already there, speaking to Officer Guidry, who had found the victim’s body.

However, Ouellette had soon explained that, feeling increased pressure from the top brass to solve this case, he had decided to put both pairs of detectives on the case. Michael had been fine with that, feeling that having those two, especially Dixie, on the case would increase their chances of a swift conclusion.

However, it was at eight in the morning, just as the five policemen prepared to leave, that the real trouble began. Dixie, who had just picked up a copy of that morning’s newspaper, gave a gasp. The source of her shock was revealed to be a completely accurate recounting of Rebecca Clemens’s last hours alive, including some details withheld by the police, in the form of a serial story chapter written by none other than Sam of Spades.

Michael could hear the investigation derailing, and saw Rodger’s psyche punch itself out.

The next twenty minutes had been exceedingly uncomfortable for Michael, who wasn’t sure how Sam Castille was able to detail a murder so well before it happened, but he was certain there had to be a rational explanation for this occurrence.

His partner, however, had abandoned rationality almost immediately, becoming so defensive of Sam that Ouellette almost sent Rodger home. Fortunately, Michael had been able to calm his partner down enough to avoid a formal reprimand.

Still, Michael hadn’t been able to argue that this didn’t make Sam Castille into a suspect, and he had been not at all surprised when Ouellette ordered them to investigate her. Almost immediately, it had come out that Sam saw a psychiatrist. And given the rising profile of the crime, it hadn’t taken long to get a court order compelling Dr. Klein to divulge information about Sam to the two detectives. Aucoin and Dixie were left to continue working the current crime scene. Michael drew back from the mental review of the past several hours, finally having sorted the facts out in his head, as Rodger asked, “So you know that Sam is innocent, Michael, and that this whole thing is bullshit, right?”

Nodding, Michael replied, “Well, while I don’t think Sam is the murderer, Rodger, this is pretty damning evidence. After all, she had details in her story that we never released to the public. How can you explain that?”

“It has to be a trick,” Rodger said, arms tightly folded in a doubting manner. “Someone is trying to frame Sam.”

“Rodger, we should withhold any more judgments until we speak with Dr. Klein, and, I dare say, Sam herself,” Michael said, his eyes finally sliding over to look at his partner. It was no secret that Rodger cared for Samantha Castille, but in this case, Michael thought that not enough information was present to make any kind of a decision.

“Damn straight we’re meeting with Sam,” Rodger said gruffly.

Michael sighed inwardly.
This is going to be a long day.

About this time, the phone on the receptionist’s desk buzzed, and she picked it up. A moment later, she said, “Dr. Klein is ready to see you, Detectives. You may head inside.”

Gathering up his belongings, Michael followed Rodger into the office of Sam’s psychiatrist.

Michael knew, from his dealings with psychiatrists and psychoanalysts alike, that mental health doctors’ offices always had a modicum of what he referred to as OCD. Michael had surmised many years ago that this nearly obsessive level of neatness and organization was mostly there to calm the patients.

However, Michael had also surmised that there were some doctors who just had neurotic issues with things being orderly. Either way, he had come to expect it.

However, Dr. Klein took this to a frightening new level. Every book on his shelf was arranged, not by author or title, but by height, from shortest to highest, with each row alternating. The various knickknacks on his shelves were arranged in exact intervals and tilted at identical angles facing the desk. Every portrait on the wall was of the same height, and every item on the desk was arranged in perfect rows.

But the
coup de gr
â
ce
was that the two chairs facing the desk were arranged with their outer legs aligned with the desk’s outer legs—and the chairs were bolted in place.

And people think I’m anal-retentive
, Michael mentally commented to himself as he laid eyes on the doctor behind the desk.

Dr. Klein was a small man and was proportionately skinny. His face had an angular cut to it, the sharp nose accented by the well-groomed, if not equally pointed, mustache and beard, and his eyes, sunken in just a bit behind two uncomfortably squinty eyelids, were best described as beady. His hair, the same dark red as his beard, was slicked back to just above his shoulders. He was dressed in a stylish, if not dated, dark charcoal-gray suit with tails, red shirt, and black tie. And he had a monocle covering his right eye.

Michael, who was a fan of Sam of Spades, instantly recognized Dr. Klein’s visage as the one used to describe Detective Mortimer Branston’s arch-nemesis, Dr. Notoriety.

Michael shook off the thought as Dr. Klein approached from around the desk in a series of steps that looked rehearsed. His thumbs were symmetrically hooked behind the lapels of his jacket, and as he approached Rodger, who still had his arms folded, he presented his right hand at a right angle for the other man to shake.

“Detective Bergeron, I presume?” asked Dr. Klein in an accent that was more stereotypically German than Michael even could have imagined. “Commander Ouellette told me that you und your partner, Detective LeBlanc, vould be coming. Thank you for waiting for me to finish with an important phone call.”

As Rodger finally unfolded his arms and shook the doctor’s hand, Michael said, “Dr. Klein, we thank you for your time today. We won’t be long. We wanted to talk to you about Samantha Castille.”

In the same methodical fashion, Dr. Klein reached out to shake Michael’s hand, but instead was handed the court order. Michael continued as the doctor unfurled the paper and read it.

“The court order to divulge patient information is there, along with the court order to turn over Samantha’s medical records. I must advise you that if you refuse, you will be charged with obstruction of a police investigation.”

Folding the papers up, Dr. Klein looked at Michael with a passionless expression. Turning around and heading back to his desk, while tapping the papers against his midsection, the psychiatrist motioned for both detectives to sit before saying, “Going straight for ze threat of arrest, are we, Detective? You have much to learn about ze slow und methodical pace in which people do things here in New Orleans.”

Turning at a sharp angle and sitting at his desk, Dr. Klein continued, “I have very powerful friends at City Hall, Detective LeBlanc. I am sure I can refuse your court order und get away with it if I am so disposed.” The psychiatrist’s tone was confident to the point of being caustic.

Michael felt his pulse race, and also felt Rodger tense up. For a moment, Michael remembered some conversation he and Rodger had yesterday, something about how he should talk to others, but as it hadn’t been relevant to the investigation, Michael couldn’t remember the details.

However, feeling that he was on the verge of royally messing up the investigation due to his lack of grace, Michael surprised himself with two words: “My apologies.”

Seeing his partner turn to him and look in surprise, Michael struggled to find the words to complement his apology. “This case has everyone… on edge. And we… we’re just doing the job we’ve been… told to do. Nothing personal… was meant by it.”

Michael’s brow furrowed. Those words didn’t come naturally. They felt contrived, and he didn’t like that feeling at all. But what Michael liked even less was the feeling he’d been having lately that his lack of understanding social cues had contributed to the entire situation with Mad Monty.

He really felt that if he had been more emotively on par with Rodger, he could have seen the trap coming and stopped it. Seeing that Rodger was nodding with approval, Michael gave a small smile back.
That took a lot out of me, Rodger. Make sure you get over your own mood soon, so you can carry the emotive half of this team. I don’t think I can do that again too soon. This is something I’ll really need to work on in the coming days.

The apology seemed to be enough for Dr. Klein, who nodded and again motioned for the two detectives to have a seat. Michael obliged and sat, finding he had to rotate his body to directly face the psychiatrist. Another look over at Rodger, who was struggling with the same revelation, and Michael concluded that both he and his partner were of the same mind—this was a ludicrous setup designed to make Dr. Klein, and only Dr. Klein, comfortable.

Another strike against Dr. Klein,
thought Michael as he took out his notebook.
How can Sam, or anyone, get therapy in this situation? This office doesn’t even have a couch to lie down on. Is Dr. Klein trying to cure psychological disorders or create them?

Michael’s thoughts were interrupted by Dr. Klein. “So, Detectives, vhat do you vant to know about Miss Samantha Castille?”

Michael thumbed through his notebook and found the page where he had scribbled down copious notes about Sam. Since he and Rodger had come to the agreement that he should handle the questions, with Rodger only chiming in when necessary, Michael asked the first question.

“All right, Dr. Klein, so Sam—”

“Samantha,” interrupted Dr. Klein. Before Michael, whose mind had hit the brakes, could recover and answer, the psychiatrist said, “It is very important that you call her Samantha.”

Okay…
Michael thought to himself, growing less impressed and more annoyed with the doctor’s nuances every passing second.
This guy has held on to his medical license for this long how?

Shaking it off, Michael continued, determined not to get waylaid again. “Very well. So Samantha has been your patient for how long?”

“Since she vas ten years old,” Dr. Klein replied, tilting his head up as if about to crow. “Right after Dr. Castille vas found guilty of being ze Bourbon Street Ripper, ze courts appointed me her psychiatrist as a condition of being ze heiress to her grandfather’s fortune.”

Michael nodded and, despite thinking that was a bit extreme, scribbled down the notes. “Really? Why did the courts make that decision? Do you know?”

“Of course I know,” replied Dr. Klein, puffing his lips on a nonexistent pipe. “I know everything about Miss Castille. After ze murder of her father, ze young Samantha vas suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder. She vould not eat. She could not sleep. Und she vould be prone to ze horrible fits, much like schizophrenics having ze convulsions.”

Shit, are you serious?
thought Michael. One look at Rodger’s steely expression, and Michael knew it to be true.

“So, wait,” he said, looking back over his notes. “I know that Sam… antha’s father was murdered by her grandfather, and I know that Samantha was the sole heiress to her grandfather’s estate, but what caused all these disorders?”

Dr. Klein, again methodically puffing on a pipe that was not present, replied, “Ah, you see ze reality that vas hidden from public record is that Samantha saw her father murdered.”

“Yes, I know that,” retorted an increasingly annoyed Michael. “The reports state that Sam came across her grandfather right after he had murdered her father.”

“I said, call her Samantha,” Dr. Klein loudly snapped at Michael, before leaning in and resting both arms on his desk in two precise spaces obviously reserved for his elbows. He linked his fingers together and stared down his nose at Michael. “Und your reports are not accurate. Ask your partner, Detective LeBlanc. Samantha Castille vas in ze room to watch her grandfather torture und murder her father.”

Michael sat there, stunned, staring back into the beady eyes of the psychiatrist. Slowly, Michael turned to his partner, wanting to hear that Dr. Klein was a quack, mistaken, or otherwise wrong. However, upon seeing Rodger’s grim face, Michael realized that this information was accurate.

“Sorry, Michael,” Rodger said quietly, his voice tense, most likely from a dry throat. “Dr. Klein is correct. He… that evil bastard made her watch him kill her father.”

The hell, Rodger?
Michael thought, his blood pressure starting to rise.
What the hell else aren’t you telling me?

Michael sighed softly, keeping his cool, and asked, “So, Dr. Klein, how does someone make a ten-year-old girl watch as they butcher their father?”

Dr. Klein leaned back, hooking his thumbs again under his lapel, and said, “With a low-level general anesthetic. You see, at ze right levels, an anesthetic will produce ze paralysis within ze victim. They will be completely aware of vhat is happening around them, fully conscious und fully capable with all five senses, but completely unable to move or communicate to ze outside world.”