The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (7 page)

As Jones turned to fully face Michael, the younger detective took a moment to calm his nerves. This man was huge—easily six feet tall and muscular—and high on something that made him immune to pain and fear.

Michael thought,
I have one chance to take this guy down. If I’m off by even a few inches, I’m screwed.

With a frothing cry of “Up yours, copper,” Jones ran at Michael, arms outstretched, mouth opened wide, tongue flapping out—generally making the man look like a maniac. His eyes, pupils heavily dilated, focused on Michael as a hunter does its prey. Michael stood his ground and watched, waiting, calculating.

A little more,
Michael thought.
A few more feet. Come on, you sad sack, you’re doing exactly what I anticipated, running straight at me.

Just as Jones was within arm’s length of Michael, Michael dropped down, his right shoulder dropping, and his arm getting in a relaxed position to strike. It looked, to anyone watching, like Michael planned on hitting the biker between the legs.

But just as Michael’s body dipped down, he suddenly came up, bringing his right hand up as fast as a bullet. His hand opened and his palm connected with the underside of Jones’s jaw, bringing his mouth shut so hard that part of the biker’s tongue flew off and onto the floor nearby. Jones’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head as Michael moved quickly behind him and, jumping up, brought his elbow down on the back of the biker’s head.

The baby in the background stopped crying.

The hit was hard enough that blood spewed from Jones’s mouth as he slumped forward into a heap. Landing from his elbow attack, Michael turned back and stared for a long moment at the now prone biker, his eyes still rolled back. Michael viewed him with remorseful pity.

In an instant, the other officers were all over Jones, cuffing him and dragging him away. Already the biker was conscious again and screaming about having bitten off part of his tongue, leaving a bloody trail on the floor as a reminder.

Joined by his partner, who whistled and patted him on the back, Michael did the only logical next step.

He straightened his tie.

“BERGERON!” came out a loud voice that reeked of authority. “LEBLANC! AUCOIN! GET YOUR ASSES IN HERE NOW!”

“Crap,” said Rodger, giving a defeated sigh. “The commander wants to see all three of us.”

Aucoin, who had since extricated himself from the inglorious pile, winced at Ouellette’s voice, saying, “Shit, Rodger, we are going to get our asses torn apart!”

Michael said nothing, still coming down off of the high of the fight. All three men headed toward Ouellette’s office.

Commander Louis Ouellette’s office was what one would expect a police commander’s to be—clean and orderly. In fact, the lack of ornamentation pointed to a spartan attitude, one that supported Ouellette’s status as an armed forces veteran. On his bookcase, Commander Ouellette displayed a photo of himself posing with President Nixon, as well as a folded American flag in a shadow box. His desk had only two photos, one of his late wife posing in front of a Christmas tree, and one of his daughter and grandchildren playing in Audubon Park.

As for Ouellette himself, the only things that screamed military more than his spit-cleaned uniform and complete lack of hair were his ferocious gaze and his manner of screaming out half his sentences. And to Michael, as the three detectives entered their superior’s office, it seemed that Ouellette was spoiling for a good ass-reaming.

“What the bloody hell, and I do mean
what the bloody hell
just happened out there?!” started off Commander Ouellette in his generally congenial way. Having spewed out his question, the police commander just stared at each man in turn, as if his gaze alone could result in a full confession.

Michael drew in a breath. Even though he had subdued Keith Jones without drawing his sidearm, he had beaten the hell out of a citizen. That kind of thing never went well. It was a surefire way to get Internal Affairs involved. Commander Ouellette had a policy of protecting his own, but only when his own kept him in the loop. Michael knew that, just as he knew that if he had taken the time to inform his superior of his plan, someone would have gotten severely injured. Or worse.

“It was—” Michael started to say.

“The blame is all on me, Commander,” Aucoin interrupted. “I didn’t have Jones frisked before being brought into the precinct. If I hadn’t been negligent, he’d have never used whatever he’s on and caused all this shit.” Aucoin nodded his head toward Michael. “If the newbie hadn’t jumped in with that karate shit, Jones woulda ripped someone’s head off.”

Michael was stunned into silence, even as Commander Ouellette’s gaze moved from him to Aucoin and back. Everyone knew that Aucoin was a hard-ass who didn’t respect rookies until they earned it. So for him to take the fall like this was shocking.

“Fine,” said Commander Ouellette at last, nodding his head toward the door, “you’re desked for the next two days. Get a report ready for Internal Affairs. You know they’re going to be up our ass about this.”

Aucoin left without so much as a glance toward Michael or Rodger.

Once he was gone, Commander Ouellette turned back toward the two detectives. Regarding Michael with the gaze of a drill sergeant, Ouellette asked, “So that was some fancy shit you did, LeBlanc. Where’d you learn it?”

Michael hated that his commander called him by his last name, but he knew that he referred to everyone that way. Even Rodger, who had apparently known Ouellette from childhood, was no exception. Michael answered, “Muay Thai kickboxing, Commander.”

Commander Ouellette seemed impressed, sitting down as he gestured for the pair to sit as well. “You a black belt, then?”

As Michael took a seat, he explained, “Muay Thai doesn’t have a ranking system. But yes, I’d be comparable to a black belt in something like karate.”

“Very good, LeBlanc,” stated the police commander. Michael knew that was the only praise he’d get and was unsurprised when his superior moved onward with the conversation. “So, where are you two on that French Quarter murder last night?”

Rodger picked up the conversation, something that didn’t bother Michael at all. “Well, Commander, we’ve gone through a box of evidence donated by Samantha Castille, and we’ve found a potential lead on profiling the killer—that is, if the killer is a copycat.”

With a
tsch
sound, Commander Ouellette shook his head. “Keep an eye out for that Samantha. The Castilles are nothing but trouble. But with the way that the chief’s and district attorney’s office is acting, it damn well better be a copycat. And don’t get me started on the media. The newscast this morning is already calling this ‘The New Bourbon Street Ripper.’”

“Pardon me, Commander,” interjected Michael. “I understand that everyone is anxious to call this a full-fledged copycat, but we can’t be sure just off of one murder. Serial killers have to establish a patt—”

“Yeah, LeBlanc, I know that,” interrupted Commander Ouellette. “And not one single member of the brass, including the DA and the goddamn mayor, wants to wait for another body to show up. So what leads do you have to find this guy and put him away before the city gets plunged into hell again?”

Again Rodger led the discussion, causing Michael to sit back and wonder if respect was something that was earned in ways other than stopping a biker high on PCP without killing him.

“We’ve got a lead on some potential accomplices from the Castille murders,” continued Rodger. “Potentially, the DA’s office could have new people to charge with aiding and abetting those murders. Also, if this is indeed a copycat, perhaps one of these people knows something that can help us.”

In the depths of Michael’s mind, another lightbulb went off, but he kept his mouth shut for now, allowing his partner and their superior to finish.

“Good job, Bergeron,” Commander Ouellette said. “You and LeBlanc get out there and see if you can make any sense of this madness. Report back to me when you have something—anything—new that I can push on upward.”

Both men nodded in agreement and got up. A minute later, they were heading down the hall toward the garage. Along the way, Michael had to ward off a storm of applause and praise, fellow officers and detective patting his shoulder and calling him “Karate Kid.” Michael got the reference, but he hated that movie with a passion, so his only reaction, even as he caught up with his partner, was an annoyed scowl.

“Hey, Rodger,” said Michael as they made their escape.

“Hey, Kara—” Rodger started, stopping when Michael shot him a dangerous look. “I mean, hey, Michael, what’s on your mind?”

Michael recounted the revelation he had in Ouellette’s office. “I just had a theory. What if one of those four people in this notebook”—Michael patted his coat pocket—“is actually the killer? It would make sense if someone already associated with Vincent Castille would murder people like he did.”

As Rodger opened up the door to the garage, he shook his head. “Michael, if we could only be that lucky.”

Chapter 4   
To Pen a Mystery

“I really don’t believe that you understand at all, Sam,” said Jacob Hueber, editor for the
Times-Picayune
. “Caroline is ready to can you. You’re underestimating your situation.” He sipped his cup of café au lait.

As she sat across the patio table from Jacob, a plate of half-eaten, powdered-sugar-drenched beignets before her, Samantha Castille had to admit that she was indeed underestimating her situation.

All around them, the people of New Orleans, as well as its tourists, were finishing up lunch at one of the city’s most popular places, Café du Monde. Exclusive to New Orleans, the café was known for its beignets—French-style donuts eaten with powdered sugar—its coffee, which was usually mixed with steaming milk, and its hot chocolate. It was a very popular place for rendezvousing couples, vacationing families, and businessmen on the go.

Under the covered patio, all manner of folk mingled, and Sam noticed them all. Nearby, a couple sat, the man’s ringless hand caressing the woman’s, avoiding her solitary ring of gold. Two children laughed as they chased each other around a table, only to be scolded by an exasperated mother who was trying, and failing, to hold a decent conversation with a woman her own age holding a baby.

In the back, near the entrance proper to the café, three men in business suits traded witticisms about their supervisor, as well as information on the latest football betting pools. To most people, it was the common noise associated with the outdoor patio of Café du Monde, but for Sam Castille, it was a launching point for many a tale.

In the back of her mind, Sam saw how each of those people’s stories could possibly evolve into something unsettling, perhaps even ghastly. The trysting couple would go back to their hotel room, only to find the husband of the woman there, gun in hand. With one pull of the trigger, the man’s brains would splatter upon the wall, leaving the helpless woman screaming in gut-wrenching terror.

The exasperated mother would be barely able to keep watch on both children as they walked home, and when one of them stopped near the trolley tracks to pet a stray puppy, she would turn her whole attention to him for a good scolding. The sound of screeching metal wheels would freeze her blood, and she’d turn to the other child just in time to see her cut in half by the oncoming trolley car.

The three businessmen would head back to their office to discover that they had been fired during their lunch break, and the pressure of losing their job in a slow economy would cause them to snap. The next day, they would go on the worst shooting spree the city had ever seen.

Sam Castille had some problems.

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by Jacob calling out her name, and the blond woman realized that she had been daydreaming again. The look Jacob was giving her was annoyed.

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” Sam said, absently dabbing a beignet into a heap of powdered sugar. “My mind is just not on the conversation today. Too many people, you see.”

It wasn’t a lie. Sam hated being out in public, preferring the solitude and sanctuary of her townhome. People made her nervous. People made concentrating even more difficult. Suddenly noticing that two of Jacob’s fingers were wrapped with gauze and bandages, Sam asked, “What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, this. I burned myself on the stove several nights ago. I really should stop trying to cook after working all day.”

“You could let me cook for you,” Sam offered. She fancied herself a pretty good cook. “I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.”

Jacob wasn’t “people” to Sam. He was a friend, someone she had learned to trust ever since he befriended her in college, when she was even more reclusive.

Jacob didn’t seem to be interested in talking about culinary arts, however. He shook his head, saying, “Look, we have to talk about your job, like it or not. It’s come down to a simple, black-and-white situation, Sam. You’re not making any deadlines, and Caroline is ready to cut you loose.”

This time, the comment got Sam’s attention. Caroline Saucier, the executive editor of the
Times-Picayune
, was a mirthless woman whom Sam did not like. Everything about Caroline, from her Jones New York business suits to her Prada knock-off shoes to her wide-brimmed glasses, screamed the word
bitch
. The woman seemed to be the most expressive when she was yelling at an employee, usually Jacob, about his “male incompetence.”

And the few times they had met, Sam was pretty sure that Caroline was hitting on her.

With a sigh, Sam nodded her head, her ponytail bobbing about her neck. “I get the point, Jacob,” she said. “I know I’m unreliable. Hell, I’d have canned me years ago. But I really hate to think that you’re taking heat for me.”