The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (9 page)

BOOK: The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)
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She tried to remember where it was from. As far as she could tell, the only place it could have come from was the box that she had given the detectives earlier this morning, the one that spilled open.

But why is this pen so familiar?

Sam walked to her chair and opened her desk. After rummaging through a small pile of unused sticky notes, paper clips, and pencils, she found what she was looking for: a small pen case.

Taking the case out and opening it, Sam looked over the pens in the case. Just like the one she’d found, these were old fountain pens with a metallic finish and her family surname etched into the side. A gold one, a black one, and a red one were in the case—perfect matches to the silver one.

“Curious,” said Sam to herself as she touched each of the pens. “These belonged to Father. I wonder where this one”—she again picked up the silver pen—“has been all these years?”

Uncapping the silver one, Sam took out a sheet of paper and ran the pen across the surface. Sure enough, dark blue ink flowed out smoothly, writing with ease. This got a small smile from Sam. “Well, if that isn’t a stroke of luck,” she commented. “Looks like the set is now complete.”

Putting aside the case of three pens, Sam again rummaged in her desk, eventually pulling out several sets of five-subject notebooks. Inside each one were pages upon pages of notes, character relationship charts, and diagrams from over ten years of mystery writing. While the majority of the notebooks were filled with notes for Mortimer Branston’s mysteries, some contained stories never finished. Tales of betrayal, torture, and murder scribbled hastily, ideas interlinked and then crossed out, and copious side notes denoting directions characters could take—all of that lined the pages of these notebooks.

Finally finding a notebook with considerable blank space, and putting the others away, Sam opened to a fresh page and, uncapping her newly discovered—or rediscovered—pen, began to write.

An hour later, she had five words on the page: “Bourbon Street Ripper Copycat Killer.”

Feelings of self-deprecation began to rise again, forcing Sam to action. Getting up, she headed over to a bookcase and scanned for a certain binder. Finding it, she pulled it down.

It was an old binder filled with various notes from the original Bourbon Street Ripper case, a scrapbook of sorts her father had made. Sam remembered wanting to throw it away, but her therapist, Dr. Klein, had told her that by keeping it, she could one day confront the demons inside her and bury them.

By the time Sam was sitting down at her desk, her head was again pounding, and with some effort, she opened up the binder. Inside were newspaper clippings, scene photographs, and a myriad of notes, sketches, and diagrams—all of the details of the Vincent Castille murders. Sam’s eyes fell upon a picture taken from the crime scene—a woman’s face, covered in blood and frozen in a look of incalculable anguish.

For a moment, Sam felt as if she was about to be sick, her headache pounding like the clash of a hammer against metal. Forcing herself, she turned to a far less offensive sight—a grouping of newspaper clippings with titles such as “Madman Strikes Metro Area” or “Satan Lives in the Big Easy.”

As she looked at the headlines, Sam felt a tingle go down her spine, like she had gotten cold suddenly. The feeling was both odd and yet familiar, and Sam shivered from it. When it passed, she felt like it would be a good idea to stop stalling and start writing. Picking up the silver pen, Sam started to jot down notes, despite her headache.

She soon found herself immersed in scenario after scenario over who could be the copycat killer in her story, jotting down lists of people who were close to the actual murder, who could have acted as accomplices, or could have snapped due to the stress of the investigation. She even wrote down her name and Rodger’s, intent on basing characters off of the two of them later.

It was after she had an entire page filled with notes on who the killer could be that Sam’s eyes fell upon a particular article, the headlines emblazoned on the page: “Mother and Child Missing. Police Suspect Serial Killer.”

Sam felt powerfully drawn to that article. Resist as she might, she found herself reading it with intense concentration. It was as if everything inside of her was telling her that this article would give her the inspiration she needed.

As she read through the article, Sam tapped the pen to her lips. Of all the murders attributed to Vincent Castille, this was the oddest and the most out of character for him.

And according to the notes scribbled in the margins of the newspaper clipping by her father, this was one of the last murders in the case.

A woman, Maple Christofer, and her ten-year-old son, Dallas, were kidnapped from their home on a summer evening. Eventually, both bodies were found buried in a coffin in a field not far from the Castille Estate, underneath a cypress tree.

This last tidbit gave pause to Sam, who rubbed her eyes and thought out loud, “Cypress blossoms are used for funerals. Why so reverent? That doesn’t seem like Grandfather at all.”

Suddenly, Sam looked up, as if coming upon a moment of pure clarity. What if Grandfather was associated with Maple Christofer? What if she had been his lover, or was a kept woman, or something similar? Sam’s mind raced as she jotted down the idea. Excitedly, she finished reading the article, reaching the biggest surprise at the end.

When the bodies were found, Dallas was still alive, but in a coma, having been badly beaten with a shovel. His mother, who had been executed in the same gruesome manner as all of Vincent Castille’s other victims, was found in pieces in the same coffin, Dallas having been buried in his mother’s own viscera.

Her headache gone, Sam felt elation as she scribbled furiously in her notebook, the silver pen a mere blur as she took down all of the information. When she finished dotting the last
i
, Sam triumphantly closed the binder. She had found her murderer.

Several hours later, Sam had finished filling up over a dozen pages of notes. She had written that Dallas Christofer was the copycat killer. She had given herself the alias Julia Castille, and Rodger was now Horatio Benoit. She had also assigned aliases for everyone else who was going to be involved in the story, with the exception of her killer. Something inside of her told her to keep that name as it really was.

Sam had also jotted down a timeline detailing Dallas’s mental deterioration into psychosis, his subsequent escape from the mental asylum, and his murderous killing spree emulating the Bourbon Street Ripper.

The timeline came easily to Sam, every fact coming effortlessly, as if she were taking down dictation. When she finished coming up with Dallas’s timeline, she stared at it, contemplating one of the most important questions in any mystery: Why did the killer do it?

Finally, Sam felt a lightbulb go off in her head, and with a victorious smirk, she put the tip of the pen to the paper. She would go with one of the oldest reasons for any sort of crime, other than money or love.
Revenge
. Sam thought to herself and wrote down: “Dallas Christofer is a copycat killer of the Bourbon Street Ripper because Dallas wants revenge on the Castille family’s heir, the granddaughter of Vincent Castille.”

As the silver pen dotted the final period of that sentence, Sam felt herself shiver again, that tingling sensation going down her spine. She was starting to like that feeling, equating it to the excitement of the story she was crafting. For once, coming up with ideas came easily, and while this surprised Sam, she figured it had everything to do with how personal this story was to her.

“If I was Dallas Christofer and I was the murderer, this is why I’d do it,” Sam said out loud, high from the intense brainstorming session. “And I’d make sure that Sam—er, Julia—suffered until her very last breath.”

Sam felt as if she had just starting penning her very best work.

The ringing of the phone on her desk pulled Sam from her reverie, the loud clanking of the bell indicative of the age of the phone. It was her father’s, willed to her, and Sam liked the old-world style of it, with the receiver resting on the cradle and the large internal bell rung by the clanking of a metallic hammer. She felt all mystery authors should have a phone like this one.

Picking up the receiver, Sam said, “Hello?” and was delighted to hear Jacob on the other line. He reminded Sam that it was almost ten o’clock in the evening, and that Caroline needed an answer. With her grin widening from thoughts of how brutally delicious her story was going to be, Sam answered her friend, “Tell Caroline that she’s got herself a deal.”

Chapter 5   
Stories and Shih Tzus

 

 

Date:
Wednesday, August 5, 1992
Time:
3:00 p.m.
Location:   
Suburbs of Marrero
Westbank, New Orleans

 

When Rodger pulled up to the small house in Marrero, a city on the Westbank of New Orleans, everything looked just as he remembered it: the flock of five or six pink flamingoes as tastefully arranged as is possible with such a decoration, the garden gnome with its red pointy hat discolored from years of rain and sun exposure, and the well-tended flower beds.

The sprinkler system was currently sputtering out water, due to a knot in the line. The house itself was in good repair and had a homey feeling to it Rodger liked.

“This is it?” asked Michael as Rodger parked the car. “Somehow, I expected more from the detective who taught you everything. Not something so… tacky.”

Rodger looked at his partner and sighed, shaking his head at Michael’s lack of social graces. “Well, when you’ve put in as many years on the force as Douglas, you go right ahead and have your house cleaner than a virgin’s knees and your yard straighter than a nun’s ruler. Until then, you can hush your mouth. Douglas is a good man.”

Getting out of the car without another word, Rodger walked carefully along the walkway leading toward the house’s front door. Michael was soon following, saying, “Man, Rodger, I’m sorry for being out of line there. It’s just that I’m surprised, even shocked, that such a successful detective lives in such a downtrodden location.”

“It’s mostly due to cutbacks on pensions,” replied Rodger as he got to the front door, having navigated the labyrinthine front yard. “Men like Douglas gave their all for this city. They struggled on a daily basis to clean up the filth that polluted the streets—from mobsters to murderers. They sacrificed their days, their health, their youth to make sure the bad guys didn’t win. And all it took is one instance of them collaring the son or nephew of someone with a little too much power, a little too much money, and
bam!
” He clapped his hands together. “Their careers were over. No advancement. No opportunity. Just put in your time, get your gold watch, and hope no one’s around to hold a grudge. That’s why good cops like Douglas live in shit holes like this.”

Michael nodded with an understanding look in his eyes.

Rodger nodded back, glad his partner “got it.” It wasn’t that the entire system was corrupt, but it was just corrupt enough that good people got punished.

Rodger rang the doorbell. Immediately, there was the sound of a small dog barking, followed by the sound of its paws scuffing at the other side of the front door. There was a long pause filled only with the yapping of the dog, before the sound of shuffling and moving could be heard.

“I’m coming,” said a gruff old voice from the other side of the door. “Boudreaux! Get your damn ass back, dog, or I swear I’ll put you in the stew, ya!”

A moment or so later, the door opened, revealing an old man with a strong build, a thin head of gray hair, and a clean-shaven face. He was hunched over some, as if his back had stopped working a long time ago, and he was wearing reading glasses, which slid precariously close to the edge of his nose as he stared at the detectives at the door.

“Well, holy shit,” said Dugas, opening the door completely and embracing Rodger with a familiarity that was as warm as his voice was gruff. “Rodger Bergeron, you old goat! How the hell have you been?”

“Douglas,” replied Rodger, embracing his old friend and former mentor before clapping him on the arm. “Damn, it’s been how long?”

“Not since Christmas last year,” replied Douglas with a pleasant smile. “What the hell have you been up to? Come on in, will you?”

Rodger started to move in, but there was a small shih tzu dog growling as it bit his pants leg, swinging its head from side to side rapidly with a mouthful of fabric. Looking down at the animal, Rodger said, “I’d love to, but I think Boudreaux has decided to eat my pants.”

With an apology, Douglas dropped down and picked up the dog, who refused to let go of Rodger’s pants leg at first. Growling with frustration, Boudreaux finally let go, and contented himself with applying his tongue liberally to Douglas’s face, who replied with doting baby talk. Out the corner of his eye, Rodger saw Michael struggling to keep a straight face.

“Come on in,” said Douglas finally as he carried the squirming dog into the house. “Mabel was just about to go making groceries for dinner, but I think she can whip up some coffee and cakes.”

Rodger and his partner followed the older man into the house. Roger noted that the house hadn’t changed much in five years. The walls and old wooden tables were covered in photographs of children and grandchildren, from infancy to graduations and weddings. An old grandfather clock stood in the living room. Old wooden consoles and coffee tables were littered with more photographs, including pictures of Boudreaux. The mantel had a shadowbox above it that contained an old badge labeled “Lieutenant Dugas,” as well as a service revolver.

As he took it all in, Rodger felt a peaceful nostalgia flow through him. Some things didn’t need to change with the times, and Douglas was one of those things.

“Mabel,” called Douglas from the living room, putting down Boudreaux, who padded off to who knew where, “Rodger and his new partner are here. Come on out and say hello!”

BOOK: The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1)
3.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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