The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (18 page)

Sam reached up with her free hand to cover her face, fingers and plastic charm soon getting soaking wet. It was in many ways the beginning of true healing, as Samantha Castille, for the first time in twenty years, began to cry.

Chapter 9   
Why a Snake Is Dangerous

Steam rose from the ceramic cup in Michael’s hands as he brought it toward his mouth. The moment the sting of heat reached his lips, however, he pulled back. He blew on the drink to cool it off, then raised the cup to his lips and sipped. It was a chocolate almond herbal tea, with a perfect mix of flavors, and as the drink greeted his taste buds, he knew a peaceful feeling of Zen.

“Ah,” said Michael to himself. “There’s nothing like a cup of herbal tea in the morning.”

Glancing around as he waited for his partner to show up, Michael noted how cluttered Rodger’s desk was. Old receipts for Chinese food, validated parking stubs, sticky notes dating back to the Reagan administration, and a curious stain that was probably made from that noxious coffee all littered the surface. It was a disaster area, in contrast to Michael’s own desk, which was as pristine and organized as an altar.

It’s amazing someone as disorganized as Rodger managed to crack the Bourbon Street Ripper murders,
thought Michael as he sipped his tea.
I wonder if his partner, Edward, was as organized and methodical as I am.

Michael decided he’d have to ask Rodger about that later.

He found himself wondering how late Rodger would be coming in to work.
He’s probably still sleeping, and after last night, I won’t be surprised if he just calls me and asks me to meet him someplace.

Reflecting back on the previous night, Michael closed his eyes and sifted through the events, one after another, in the same manner that one would watch a slide show. When he and Rodger had gotten back from the rehab clinic, it was late, and the officers were finished booking T-Dawg, the gang member who had nearly succeeding in silencing Topper Jack once and for all.

Of course, T-Dawg had pretty much clammed up on the officers after screaming that Michael’s subduing of him was “police brutality,” so Rodger volunteered to go in and interrogate the suspect himself.

With Rodger as tired, frustrated, and stressed out as he was, the interrogation went about as well as it would on an episode of any crime drama show ever created.

T-Dawg’s snide comments and disrespect seemed to wear on Rodger’s last nerve, and when the suspect spat in his face, it seemed to put him over the edge. After putting T-Dawg in a full nelson, Rodger was extricated from the interrogation room by Commander Ouellette, who bellowed his disapproval and told him to go home and get some sleep before he was suspended.

Michael, who had been watching the interrogation from the other side of the one-way mirror, had made a move to enter when Rodger’s temper got the better of him, only to be trumped by Ouellette. After Rodger was sent home, Michael had the wrath of his commanding officer turned on him.

Michael had handled himself calmly, simply stating that neither had slept in twenty-four hours and both were under stress. After calming down enough to impress upon Michael the importance of reining in his older partner, Ouellette had sent Michael home as well.

Having had a solid night’s sleep, Michael was in a good enough mood, and he was enjoying his tea when he heard a
clunk
from Rodger’s desk. Looking up, Michael saw his partner, looking haggard, but better than before. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth. Rodger had dropped a paper bag on his already cluttered desk.

“Bagel?” asked Rodger.

“Sure. Thanks,” replied Michael.

As Rodger took out the bagels, plastic dinnerware, and cream cheese, Michael looked over at his partner for signs of whether he had slept. While the bags were still present under Rodger’s eyes, they weren’t as heavy as they were before, and the bloodshot was gone from the whites. Satisfied that his partner had actually slept, at least a few hours, Michael finished off his cup of tea and took a bagel.

“You know, Rodger,” Michael said as he cut his bagel in half and smeared a measured portion of cream cheese on it, “I was thinking that, before we go for Mad Monty, we should check out that guy whose locker key was left at one of Vincent Castille’s murder scenes. The offshore worker?”

Rodger nodded as he glopped a much more generous portion of cream cheese on his bagel. “How do you figure?”

“Well,” said Michael, “I think it’s somehow important that a serial killer who did such a professional job of covering his tracks would do such a poor job of throwing suspicion onto another person.” He took a bite from his bagel.

“The original Jack the Ripper covered his tracks and was a murderous ghost that was never seen. Only the aftermath of his victims proved that he even existed. Vincent Castille was methodical enough to do just the same thing, and yet he deliberately implicated someone else—and only one other person, and not someone who would actually be found guilty. Why?”

“That’s really good, Michael. Ya know, Edward said the same thing after we crossed off that offshore worker as a suspect. He believed we should investigate more into the person, his background, and factors that could lead to why he was chosen to be Castille’s patsy.”

Michael nodded, a small smile crossing his lips as he was compared to Edward. It wasn’t the first time Rodger had done so, but it was a very rare compliment, and Michael had learned to appreciate it when it was given.

It was obvious, from both Rodger’s stories and the way people like Aucoin and Ouellette spoke of him, that Edward was admired and respected as one of the best detectives to ever work for the New Orleans Police Department.

“Well, then, what is this man’s name?” Michael finally asked. “You were finding that out last night, while I was looking up Mr. Jackson’s information.”

“Ah, yes,” Rodger replied, and he opened his desk drawer, taking out a piece of paper. Michael frowned. How his partner was ever able to find anything in that mess was well beyond him. Rodger handed him the paper, saying, “His name is Robert Fontenot, and he still lives down in Bayou Lafitte. Here.” He ate his cream-cheese-slopped bagel in four bites.

Ignoring his partner’s messy eating habits, Michael looked over the paper. On it was just a name and an address. “Bayou Lafitte, eh?” said Michael, mulling over the sparse information. His gut told him it was important, but he just couldn’t put the pieces together.

We don’t have enough information,
Michael thought to himself,
but I am sure something about this man will be key to breaking this case.

Michael was suddenly aware that he was starting to clench his jaw, the frustration of having his gut tell him one thing and logic tell him another starting to raise his stress level. Unlike his partner, who operated primarily on his intuition, Michael always relied on logic. Cold, hard facts broke a case, not gut instinct. So when his own gut nagged at him this badly, Michael got anxious, needing to know why he felt this way and how logic could back it up.

Michael’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Commander Ouellette calling out, “Bergeron! LeBlanc! Office, now!” With a small sigh, and another nibble on his bagel, Michael headed with Rodger to their commander’s office.

Inside, Ouellette, who was standing up, had them close the door, but didn’t motion for them to sit down. “All right,” said Ouellette as he looked over both men. “I’ve convinced T-Dawg not to sue the department or you, Rodger.”

Rodger nodded and opened his mouth to speak, when Ouellette cut him off. “But you two are not to go near him or his gang. Narcotics has him now, and he’s out of our hands. Understand?”

“With all due respect, sir,” Rodger said, drawing a surprised look from Michael, “we need to make sure that T-Dawg doesn’t have any link or information to the murder we’re invest—”

“He doesn’t,” interrupted Commander Ouellette. “After I sent you two home, I interrogated him myself last night. The attack on Jackson Topman was purely narcotics-related. It had nothing to do with the murder you’re on now, or the murders from twenty years ago.

“It was a good thing you two were there, or else that witness for Narcotics would be dead right now. Because of that, I’m not going to squash your sorry ass over this, Bergeron.”

Rodger seemed to tighten up. But he nodded and dropped the argument. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” replied Ouellette, sitting down at his desk. “So the investigation is coming along well? Any more leads?”

“Plenty,” said Michael, before his partner had a chance to speak. “In fact, sir, we need to get moving. We have to travel south to Bayou Lafitte today.”

“Bayou Lafitte, eh,” said Commander Ouellette, rubbing his chin, then nodding. “That’s Jefferson Parish. I’ll give them a call and let them know you’re coming.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Michael. His partner said the same, and with a dismissal from their commander, the two were off to their desks.

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” said Rodger as the two collected their belongings. “I really didn’t want to talk to the son of a bitch anymore.”

Michael, who was only trying to be efficient, shrugged.

The two soon headed out of the room and toward the garage.

On the way out, they passed Aucoin, who, despite looking like he had slept last night, still managed to look haggard. Although it was obvious to Michael that Aucoin did not want to discuss last night, Rodger spoke to him anyway, and was able to determine that his wife, Catherine, and his daughter, Cheryl, were staying at Catherine’s mother’s house for a few weeks. Rodger gave the other senior detective his condolences, which were received with a grunt, before he and Michael headed out to the garage and their car.

A few hours later, they were driving along a dirt path in the middle of Bayou Lafitte.

The August sun beat down through the foliage, the cypress and tupelo trees hanging like thick canopies overhead. The filtered sunlight through the branches created a beautiful cathedral effect, which helped to detract from the oversized mosquitoes and the large wolf spiders that seemed to be everywhere.

“There’s the cop Ouellette was talking about,” said Rodger, jarring Michael out of his thoughts.

Michael had been scribbling in his notebook, furiously trying to come up with ideas and theories as to Robert Fontenot’s role in this mystery. Now Michael looked up and saw they were approaching a Jefferson Parish deputy sheriff’s car, and leaning against it was a deputy sheriff.

The man was, from what Michael could tell, in his midthirties. He had swarthy tanned skin, an expressionless face, and a thick black mustache. He also wore those aviation sunglasses that hid most of his upper face, and a short-sleeved brown uniform. He got up from leaning on his car as Rodger slowed down and stopped.

“All right, it’s showtime,” said Rodger as he put the car in Park, leaving the engine idling.

Michael nodded and got out of the car. As he and his partner approached, the deputy sheriff unfolded his arms and reached out his hand to shake Rodger’s and Michael’s.

“Morning, hello there, and welcome to the lovely Lafitte Bayou, gentlemen,” said the deputy sheriff in a voice so Cajun it had its own unique spice. “I’m Deputy Jean-Luc Thibodeaux, but you can call me J. L. Now who do we have here?”

Michael had met plenty of Cajuns before, but this was the most cliché one. After Rodger introduced himself, Michael did the same. To his surprise, J. L. looked at him funny and said, “LeBlanc, huh? You don’t sound like any LeBlanc I know. Where you from?”

Disinterested, Michael said, “LeBlanc is a very common last name, sir. And if you must know, I’m from Shreveport.” He stared at the Jefferson Parish deputy, wondering what any of this had to do with the case at hand.

“All right, all right,” J. L. said, holding up his hands in a lackadaisical way. “I’m just asking. Just being friendly.” The deputy turned to Rodger. “So ya’ll here to see Old Man Fontenot, right?”

“Right,” said Rodger. “Were you able to call and verify that he’s home?”

“Ain’t got no phone,” said J. L. “Ain’t got no computer or television neither. Man just lives on his houseboat and eats moccasins.”

Michael found himself blurting out, “He eats what?” Moccasins could mean anything from shoes to water snakes.

J. L. turned to Michael and said, in a voice as disinterested as Michael’s must have been earlier, “He eats snakes, Shreveport.”

Michael began to feel snubbed.

“All right, then,” continued Rodger, as he motioned to their respective cars. “Let’s go pay Old Man Fontenot a visit then. Lead the way, J. L.”

As soon as they got into the car, Rodger turned and said, “Hey, Michael, there is something you need to know about these guys.”

Michael, who had started to retreat into his thoughts on Robert Fontenot, just said, “What’s that?”

Rodger continued to look at Michael, who found his partner’s gaze more and more unsettling.

“These guys are all about clan, family, and conversation. You can’t just go rushing into a meeting with them, and you can’t take offense if your last name is the same last name as a family they’ve known since childhood, even if it’s in no way related to your own family. It’s just their way.”

“I see,” said Michael, filing the information away for later consideration. His mind was focused solely on the task at hand now, and he found the pep talk about Cajun etiquette to be superfluous. Looking back at his partner and matching his gaze, Michael said, “I get it. Let’s get going.”

Rodger sighed and shook his head as he took the car out of Park. Michael returned to his notes, creating potential links between Vincent Castille, the victims, and the accomplices.
Nothing links this guy to anything. Could this truly be a red herring? No. There is no way that this is not somehow important.