The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (39 page)

The interior of the office was similar to Dr. Klein’s, only far less neurotic and much more tasteful. The office had large windows along the exterior walls, with comforting artwork covering the interior walls. Soft flute music, melancholic and beautiful, played in the background. At the far end of the room was a single oak desk.

Dr. Lazarus sat behind his desk, looking outside the window, his back to Michael and his hands resting behind his back. The man had gray hair and wore a white doctor’s coat.

“Director Lazarus,” said the nurse, who had come in with Michael, “this is Detective Michael LeBlanc, from New Orleans.”

“Thank you, Miss Cormier,” replied Dr. Lazarus, with the kind of calm voice you’d expect from an older doctor who had seen it all. “You may go now. The detective and I have a lot to talk about.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Miss Cormier, who winked at Michael and then left.

Michael ignored the wink. Approaching the desk, he started to say something, but the doctor spoke instead. “Have a seat, Detective. So, you’re here to talk about Dallas Christofer, correct?”

Dr. Lazarus turned to Michael. It was then that Michael realized that the doctor’s chair was actually an electric wheelchair, controlled by a small stick on one of the rests. His face was old and had a burn scar on the right side, but otherwise he seemed very congenial. Smiling pleasantly, the doctor said, “I had a feeling, after hearing about the new serial murders, that someone would come.”

He’s lame. And a burn victim.

As Dr. Lazarus motioned for Michael to sit down, he noticed a strange tattoo on the doctor’s wrist—a circle with an eye in the middle. Filing that away for later, Michael asked, “Before we get started with him, I have to ask you a strange question, Doctor. What do you know about Blind Moses?”

The doctor’s gentle smile never faded as he shook his head. “Not as much as I’m sure you’d hoped. I am not surprised to hear her name come up, however.” Now Michael realized why Douglas had chuckled at Rodger calling Blind Moses a man.

I get it now. Blind Moses is a woman. Ha! Old Rodger got the same stunt pulled on him that he pulled on me about Sam!

Michael’s momentary amusement was pushed aside as the doctor invited him again to take a seat, this time with a more visible motion. As Michael did so, taking out his notebook and pen, he asked, “Well, if you don’t mind indulging me a bit further, what do you know about Blind Moses?”

Dr. Lazarus replied, “Only that she worked closely with the original Bourbon Street Ripper, Dr. Vincent Castille. When I visited him in prison, Vincent mentioned her several times. I never actually met her.”

Michael nodded, theorizing that Blind Moses must have had something to do with the voodoo stuff Sam was talking about. Even though he still found it ridiculous that a grown woman would believe in something like that, he was beginning to wonder if the theory of the present-day killings being carried out by a cult had some credence to it.

Filing that information away in his memory, and coming back from his thoughts, Michael followed up. “One more question unrelated to my visit, if I may. What was your relationship to Dr. Vincent Castille?”

Keeping up his soft smile, Dr. Lazarus said, “He was a colleague of mine in the field of neuroscience. We studied together at Tulane’s School of Medicine. He was also a dear friend.”

“Neuroscience?” asked Michael, his voice obviously perplexed. “I thought Vincent Castille was a surgeon.”

“He was a surgeon, and a brilliant one at that,” replied Dr. Lazarus, a reminiscent quality to his voice. “Never before and never since have I known a man with hands so skilled on the operating table. However, his true passion was the study of the mind. Like many in his field, Vincent believed that man could overcome any limitations by unlocking this.” The doctor reached up and tapped the side of his head.

Michael sat there, thinking. This was the first time something like this had come up in the investigation. Wondering if Dr. Lazarus had even more pertinent information on Vincent Castille than he did on Dallas Christofer, Michael asked, “So, given our conversation, Doctor, do you have any idea why Vincent Castille became the Bourbon Street Ripper? Why he committed those horrific murders?”

To Michael’s disappointment, Dr. Lazarus shook his head. “I am afraid not, Detective. I really wish I knew. Vincent was a good friend of mine, and we often traded research information. I was horrified to find out that he was the Ripper. I, and many other colleagues, all felt like he had betrayed everything we held dear as doctors.”

Michael frowned. Another brick wall.

“But Vincent did become reclusive several months preceding the murders,” the doctor said so suddenly that Michael was jarred out of his disappointment. “He wouldn’t return my phone calls. He missed lunch dates. He missed guest lectures. He just shut himself off in that mansion of his at the lake.”

As Michael took notes of that information, adding the Castille Mansion at Lake Pontchartrain to his list of places to investigate, Dr. Lazarus added, “Perhaps that will help your investigation.”

“Perhaps,” replied Michael, finishing his notes on the conversation so far.

A moment or so later, Michael said, “So, on the matter of Dallas Christofer. I’m here because one of the leads in the case points in Dallas’s direction. I’m here to see if he’s here, talk to him if possible, and find out what I can about him.”

“Ah yes, indeed,” replied Dr. Lazarus, shifting to sit up more in his seat. “The subject of Dallas Christofer is a delicate one at best. You see… well, perhaps it’s best that I start by explaining what Acadia Vermillion Hospital is, as opposed to what it used to be.”

“All right,” replied Michael as he started taking notes again.

“This hospital is an addiction and behavioral modification facility,” began Dr. Lazarus. “Over ninety percent of our patients are dealing with some kind of addiction, be it a substance addiction, gambling addiction, or even sexual addiction. The rest are patients who suffer from serious behavioral problems, such as uncontrolled anger, impulse control, or severe discipline issues.”

Michael nodded, taking notes as Dr. Lazarus continued speaking.

“This facility is the best in the state at treating addiction and behavioral problems because of the research done during the seventies. During that time, and before then, this hospital housed people with severe emotional and traumatic disorders, often leading to violence and psychotic behavior.”

Michael thought Dr. Lazarus’s statement certainly made Dallas a favorable suspect. Michael wondered if Sam really was on to something with naming Dallas as her murderer.

Dr. Lazarus concluded, “So Dallas Christofer, and several others, are leftover patients reminiscent from those days. They are housed in the old building at the heart of the facility, and kept separate from the general populace.”

“I see,” said Michael as he finished his notes. “In your opinion, then, is Dallas Christofer dangerous? Would he be capable of murdering someone?”

At that, Dr. Lazarus chuckled. It wasn’t a particularly unpleasant chuckle, but it had a sinister air to it. Finally, the doctor shook his head and said, “No, but I can see why you’d ask that.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why would you say that?”

Instead of answering, Dr. Lazarus turned on his wheelchair and moved to the front of the desk, saying, “Come with me, and I’ll show you and explain everything.”

Michael looked down and realized that Dr. Lazarus wasn’t lame. He just didn’t have any legs below the knees.
My God! What happened to this guy?

Michael quickly got up, moving alongside the doctor. Surprisingly to Michael, Dr. Lazarus seemed adept at moving around his office. Michael, although impressed with the doctor’s ability to maneuver an electric wheelchair, wondered how he lost his legs. However, he was unable to bring himself to ask.

As he headed out of his office and toward the elevator, electric wheelchair zooming along with a
whirring
sound, Dr. Lazarus said, “If you are investigating the old Bourbon Street Ripper murders as well as these new ones, Detective, then you undoubtedly know who Samantha Castille is, correct?”

“Yes, Dr. Lazarus,” replied Michael, walking alongside the doctor. “I am well acquainted with Miss Castille. And I do recall that she was housed here for a short while after her father’s death. What does that have to do with anything?”

Taking the elevator down, Dr. Lazarus continued, “I was the attending physician for both Dallas and Samantha. I’m guessing you know these details because of a certain so-called Dr. Klein, yes?”

The distaste he revealed as he said Klein’s name was enough for Michael to ascertain that Dr. Lazarus had no use for Sam’s psychiatrist either.

“Correct again, Doctor,” replied Michael. He was impressed with the doctor’s deductive abilities.

As the pair exited the building, Doctor Lazarus said to Miss Cormier, “The detective and I are heading toward the old building, Hold my calls, please.”

Once he and Michael were outside, Dr. Lazarus continued, “That man has no business caring for someone like Samantha Castille. That girl’s mind is so badly fractured that she, like Dallas, will likely never live a normal life. As it is, I’d wager that her ability to form emotional bonds is virtually nonexistent.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Michael, noticing that the foliage of the cypress trees was starting to thicken. “Sam seems very emotive and very friendly. I really don’t think there is much wrong with her, outside of the obvious anxiety issues.”

“And you’re a doctor now, Detective,” quipped Dr. Lazarus so quickly that Michael blushed.

Dr. Lazarus took in a breath and said, “When I first started treating Dallas and Samantha, I could see it. Inside them both was a ticking bomb of unfathomable rage and violence, just waiting for the right trigger to set them off. Remember, Detective, both children, at the age of ten, watched their parents tortured to death by that murderer. And in the case of Dallas, he was buried alive with his mother’s remains.”

“Yes. I remember the story of Dallas and Maple Christofer,” replied Michael, who watched absently as Dr. Lazarus wheeled effortlessly along the now darkened path toward an old brick building, which indeed looked ominous, and in some places darkened, as if the mortar had been charred. “They were the last known victims, not counting Sam’s father, of the Bourbon Street Ripper.”

“Correct,” answered Dr. Lazarus. As the two approached the door to the old building, two security guards, armed with side arms, opened the doors for them both.

Michael looked the two over and realized that the side arms were tranquilizer guns. He mulled over the presence of those weapons, thinking that this Dallas must pose a threat to people’s safety after all.

Sam
,
if you end up being right about Dallas, I will buy you a steak dinner at Commander’s Palace.

Once inside, Michael and Dr. Lazarus were joined by a pair of burly orderlies, who led the two downstairs and along a long corridor. Dr. Lazarus was silent during the walk, which gave Michael a chance to look around. Despite the exterior of the building looking dilapidated, the interior of this building was even more modern. The walls were made of polished metal, the ceilings had recessed fluorescent lighting, and the floors were made of tiled ceramic.

Michael did not know what to make of this facility. It was like he had just stepped into a science fiction television show. He was both amazed and incredulous. All he needed now to have his suspension of disbelief utterly destroyed was to pass by an open doorway where a group of surgeons were performing an alien autopsy.

But nothing of the sort happened. At the end of the corridor, right after a sign marked “Block A,” they emerged in a larger circular room with many metal doors all around. The room itself had a raised ceiling with a balcony all around the outer rim, a second floor of sorts. Standing along this balcony at regular intervals were guards with what Michael recognized as tranquilizer rifles.

From inside those doors, Michael heard all sorts of sounds. From some rooms, he heard the sounds of laughing. From other rooms, he heard the sounds of conversation. And from other rooms, he heard the sounds of wailing, crying, and even screaming. It was extremely unpleasant, and despite his own emotional detachment, Michael found himself wanting to leave.
What is this place? How does such a facility exist?

“This is Block A,” explained Dr. Lazarus as the group moved past metal doors, screams of torment from within. “This block was one of four in this old building, and used to house children and adolescents suffering from psychotic conditions. Now it holds patients who are too unsafe to be part of the general population.”

Eying the room where the horrendous screams were coming from, and wondering what demons could make a human make those noises, Michael found himself asking, “What happened to the other blocks?”

“Destroyed,” said Dr. Lazarus. “Ah, here we are.” He stopped in front of a metal door with the number six on it. One of the orderlies unlocked the door with what looked like a touch telephone’s keypad.

Michael asked, “Wait, is it safe to go in like this? Shouldn’t we have a guard with us?”

But Dr. Lazarus didn’t answer, and instead just wheeled into room six. Clenching his jaw in a manner that felt uncharacteristically anxious, Michael followed him inside.

Inside the room, which was small and plain but comfortable-looking, and had a single bed, a sink, and a toilet, Michael came face-to-face with whom he could only assume was Dallas Christofer.

He was the complete opposite of what Michael had expected.

Crouched in the corner of the room was a man in his midthirties, short hair bald in several places, with a skinny frame. His entire body was badly scarred, as if he had been burned long ago. Every piece of his body was covered in scar tissue, his lips and most of his nose and ears were gone, and he wore a simple white patient gown. In his scarred hand was a piece of white chalk, and the man was busy rubbing the chalk along the wall and floor of his cell.