The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (38 page)

Richie caught on to the three taps and felt a sense of satisfaction. He easily recognized it as some sort of code between partners.

“Right, right,” replied Aucoin as he leaned forward, looking more intently at Richie from across the table. “We have some questions about this morning. First off, Mr. Fastellos, what did you and Miss Castille talk about this morning?”

Richie considered his answer. The two detectives seemed pretty good at what they did. Aucoin seemed to have the “act” down, and Dixie was uncomfortably perceptive. Richie reasoned that bullshitting them probably wouldn’t work and figured that being transparent would best give him a chance to push Sam’s alibi forward.

“We’re working on a joint project concerning these serial murders,” Richie said, swishing his coffee around some more. “I’m going to be writing a True Crime novelization of the investigation while Sam is writing a fictionalized version of the murders.”

“Yes, we saw her first chapter,” Dixie said, looking steadily into Richie’s eyes. “Hardly a ‘fictional’ account of the murders.”

Before Richie could reply, Aucoin spoke up. “Yeah, that was pretty disturbing, Richie, to have her chapter be identical to the murder scene.”

Aucoin shrugged at Richie, asking, “Any idea how that happened?”

Again, Richie felt that honesty was the best course of action.

“Believe you me,” he said with a shrug of his own, “if I knew the answer to that, Detective, I wouldn’t have spent the entire morning comforting a grown woman who was having a nervous breakdown.”

“Pretty convenient, Mr. Fastellos, that you are the only one to be at that grown woman’s house to say how she was reacting,” replied Dixie, smirking at him as if she didn’t believe a word he was saying.

Before Richie could respond, Aucoin asked, “Were you with Miss Castille last night?”

Richie nodded and said, “Yes. We were having dinner at the Ritz-Carlton.”

“Can you show us a receipt to prove that?” asked Dixie.

“No. Sam paid for the meal.”

“What time did you two part ways for the evening?” asked Aucoin.

“I don’t remember. We were pretty drunk.”

“Again, this is all very convenient,” replied Dixie, steadily gazing at Richie. “You and Sam have dinner last night, she pays for the meal, then she invites you over to her house the next morning.” She shook her head. “Sounds like someone was creating an alibi last night, Mr. Fastellos. And you get to be that alibi.”

Richie stared back into Dixie’s eyes, feeling that she was gaining the upper hand in this interview. His mind raced, trying to sort through a way to take back the lead from her. He got a gut feeling that Dixie would momentarily abandon logic if she got angry. Thinking back on her questioning, Richie realized she was fixated on him being alone with Sam.

A moment later, Richie knew what he had to say.

Leaning back in his chair and adopting a playboy’s sneer, Richie said, “Okay, Detectives, you got me. I wined and dined Sam last night in hopes of tapping that sweet ass of hers. Even though I got her shit-faced drunk, she wouldn’t put out, so I sent her home to sleep it off. This morning, I went over to her house in hopes of getting some morning nookie. No dice, but I’ll try again tomorrow.”

The sound of a chair sliding against the floor resounded throughout the room as Dixie stood up with an angry look about her, her voice raised as she said, “You son of a bitch. I’ll kick your teeth—”

“Whoa, whoa,” said Aucoin, suddenly standing as well, gesturing for his partner to relax. “Calm down, Dix. Take five, okay? Take five.”

Richie kept up the smirk. Again, the detectives were derailed.

Gotcha, bitch
.

Dixie walked to the back end of the interview room, running her fingers through her hair and huffing softly.

Aucoin sat back down and said, “Hey, sorry about my partner. She’s on edge. We all are on edge. And she really hates chauvinistic comments like that.”

Richie smirked, his guess about Dixie being a feminist right on target. “That’s okay,” he said, “because I’m bullshitting you both.”

That seemed to catch both detectives off guard.

Richie felt a sense of accomplishment. With Dixie angry and both detectives derailed, all he had to do was give them the information he wanted them to walk away with, and end the interview.

Before either detective could respond, Richie said, “This interview has been a lot of fun, but it’s starting to drag. So here’s what you need to know from me, even if you don’t want to hear it.”

Clearing his throat, Richie began, “Last night, while Rebecca Clemens was being murdered, Sam was sleeping off being drunk. Like I told you, we had dinner at the Ritz-Carlton. She had an entire bottle of Lucien Le Moine 1983. I was just as sloshed. I put her in a cab. She went home. She passed out. I can promise you, Detectives, that Sam was in no condition to stalk, capture, and kill anyone last night.”

The expressions on the two detectives’ faces showed that they weren’t expecting this turn in conversation. Slowly, Dixie’s hands dropped and Aucoin’s smile faded.

Richie continued, “When she saw that her story had the exact same timeline as the murder, she was genuinely terrified. You can’t fake that kind of reaction. So I don’t know who did it, or how, but it’s not Samantha Castille.”

“And why should we believe a goddamn word you’re saying,” asked Aucoin, his eyes narrowing, “when you just admitted you lied to us?”

Richie put his hands behind his head. “I don’t care if you do or don’t believe me. You two are treating Sam as a suspect. You’re trying to get me to slip up and give information away that could incriminate her. I’m telling you that I don’t have anything to give other than Sam was drunk last night and a nervous wreck this morning. So continuing this interview is a waste of time.”

And just like that, Richie had taken control of the interview.

The two detectives straightened up, looked at each other, and nodded.

Dixie offered to take Richie’s coffee, and he said, “I’m not quite finished, but thanks.” She took hers and Aucoin’s coffees and left. Aucoin stood up and straightened his tie.

“I guess we’re wasting our time, then,” he said. “Sorry for having taken up your evening.”

Richie waved off Aucoin’s comment and winked. “This was fun. And for the record, I am a smartass.”

Shaking his head, Aucoin said, “Well, I’m glad you can laugh at this shit, Mr. Fastellos. People are dying out there and my partner and I are wasting time with your sorry ass.”

Richie shrugged at Aucoin and said, “I don’t solve mysteries, Detective. I just write them.”

It was probably the biggest lie Richie had told all day.

Richie finished his coffee and put the cup down as Aucoin went over to the intercom and pressed the button, saying, “Interview’s done. I’m getting Mr. Fastellos out of here.”

While Aucoin had his back to him, Richie took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped down the coffee cup. He didn’t know how desperate or crooked the New Orleans police department was, but he wasn’t about to leave fingerprints that someone could use to frame him later on.

Richie had hidden the handkerchief before Aucoin returned to the table.

“One last thing,” the detective said. “What did you do after leaving Sam’s house?”

Richie nodded and said, “I went to the library to do research for my book—on something that came up in conversation.”

“Oh?” Aucoin asked curiously, leaning in a bit. “Care to tell me what it is?”

Richie thought to himself that it couldn’t hurt to be truthful about this one detail. “I was checking up on information pertaining to the ‘Nite Priory.’”

That seem to satisfy Aucoin, who got a thoughtful look, nodded, and motioned for Richie to stand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Fastellos. You’ve been a great help.”

“My pleasure,” said Richie as he rose, wiping his sleeve over the area that he just touched. “I hope you all catch the sick bastard who’s doing this.”

“We will,” replied Aucoin solemnly, looking at Richie with a piercing gaze and a slow nod of the head. “So help me God, we will.”

With a return nod, Richie followed Aucoin out of the interview room. As he did, he reflected back on what should have been a fairly routine day of brainstorming a writing project. So far, he had gone on two dates with a murder suspect, found potentially important clues to the biggest mystery in New Orleans, and been interrogated by the police.

Richie chuckled inwardly.

Can’t say today has been boring at all!

Chapter 20   
Introducing Dr. Lazarus

As he drove along the interstate heading toward the Acadia Vermillion Hospital in Lafayette, Junior Detective Michael LeBlanc mulled over recent events involving the investigation.

To say that he felt derailed was an understatement, and to say that he was more than annoyed by it was an even bigger one. Despite his disagreement with Rodger and him separating for the day, Michael had come to the realization that he needed time to himself. It was the perfect chance for him to think over this case.

First, there was the problem with letting civilians be a part of the investigation. Having Sam and Rodger go off together was bad enough, but Michael knew the two had to reconcile whatever was between them.

What really annoyed Michael was that they allowed someone not even related to the investigation get personally involved. To Michael, Richie was nothing more than a useless liability.

Another problem Michael had was that not enough effort was being put into discovering how the real killer was able to learn of Sam’s manuscript before it was published.

While having lunch, Michael was able to come up with two plausible explanations: One, the killer worked at, or had connections with, the
Times-Picayune
, and therefore could intercept Sam’s work before it went to publication. Two, the killer had somehow gotten a copy of Sam’s work right after she wrote it.

Sam had stated that she had dropped off her manuscript at four o’clock the day of the murder. Michael had verified that drop-off time by calling the
Times-Picayune
and speaking with Jacob Hueber, Sam’s liaison to the newspaper.

Therefore, of his two theories, the first was more possible, allowing for a warm body to easily take Sam’s writings and tailor the murder to it; however, it gave very little wiggle room for time: the murderer would have had only five hours to get the manuscript, memorize the information, and commit the crime in a similar fashion.

But what disturbed Michael about this timeline was that Sam had several hours unaccounted for, having no solid alibi after dropping her manuscript off. If Sam was the killer, her time unaccounted for could be enough to prepare the location. And if Sam had already chosen the victim, all she would have had to do was leave the Ritz-Carlton after dinner, reroute her taxi to a location near where the victim was located, and commit the crime.

It’s unlikely that Sam could pull this off if she was as drunk as she claimed to be, but if she was acting drunk—if she was deceiving Richie—then it’s not impossible that she could have done it.

Putting that aside, Michael’s mind turned to the third problem he was having in the investigation: people were withholding information from him. To Michael, it seemed that every time either Sam’s father, Rodger’s former partner, Edward, or details concerning the original Bourbon Street Ripper murders started to come up, something derailed the conversation.

There is something about the relationship between Rodger, Edward, Sam, Sam’s father, and Vincent. It’s almost like Sam’s father stumbled upon something that got him killed. What was it? Did he solve the murder and die because of it?

Despite trying as hard as he could, Michael could not figure it out. Resigning himself to there still being something missing—some key piece of evidence—he instead focused on getting safely to his destination.

Soon, he was within the city limits of Lafayette, developed on the interstate cutting through Southern Louisiana and built primary on wetlands. Following his handwritten instructions, Michael turned north off the interstate, traveling just a few minutes before reaching the hospital.

Michael had expected the hospital to look more run-down, more ominous, considering that the hospital had been around for several decades. So he was pretty surprised when he drove past a motorized metal gate, up a paved driveway, past groves of freshly pruned cypress trees, and saw white-stucco, sparking clean buildings that looked fairly modern.

Parking in a space marked “visitor,” Michael looked again at his notes on the hospital. Sure enough, this was the correct place, and looking out of the car window, he saw a covered walkway leading up to a building marked “Administration.”

It was a short, brisk walk. Out and about on the lawn, patients dressed in white robes were walking, sitting, or being pushed along in wheelchairs by orderlies and nurses. The atmosphere was serene, and Michael found himself genuinely at peace.

Inside the hospital lobby, a comfortable room with gentle music, soothing aesthetics of cool colors, and large windows letting in healthy amounts of sunlight, Michael approached the front receptionist, a nurse who looked to be in her early twenties.

The nurse smiled at Michael and said, “Hey there, handsome, welcome to Acadia Vermillion Hospital. How may I help you today?”

Michael smiled and replied by showing his badge and saying, “Detective Michael LeBlanc, New Orleans Police, Homicide. I have an appointment to speak to Dr. Lazarus.”

The nurse looked at Michael’s badge, keeping up that pleasant smile and saying, “Director Lazarus is expecting you. Come this way, Detective.”

With thanks, Michael followed the woman, who hugged a clipboard to her chest as she walked along the halls. Soon, Michael found himself being ushered through a door that had a plaque with “Director Lazarus, Ph.D.” written on it.