The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (19 page)

The two detectives followed J. L.’s car down the dirt road another few miles, until they were deep in the bayou. The thick canopy of trees made the noonday sun almost like twilight. Like an optical illusion, the road seemed to go on forever. Michael, who had stopped working in his notebook, watched the Jefferson Parish deputy’s car with complete boredom.

Suddenly, the car in front of them veered off to the left, the action jarring Michael out of his parked mental state. Before his mind could catch up to the rest of him, Rodger was veering to the left as well. But instead of going off the road, the two cars merely went onto a smaller, even more rural dirt path, and were suddenly driving alongside the glossy waters of the Lafitte Bayou.

The beauty of the natural waterway was breathtaking, with the branches of the cypress trees, heavy with moss, dipping down into the clear surface of the bayou. The water was still, the current so slight it could be nonexistent. Only the occasional ripple of animal life disturbed the otherwise mirror-like surface.

Michael observed a single water moccasin slithering across the surface toward the far bank. In the middle of the waterway, two small bumps, set with two small eyes, betrayed the presence of what was most likely a sizeable alligator.

Michael was taken aback by the sight before him. “It’s beautiful.”

Rodger smiled as he replied, “Yeah, Michael, it is beautiful. One of the few unspoiled natural beauties left in this country. There ain’t nothing here but gators and natives, and with the only export being mudbugs and catfish, no one is interested in tearing this place apart.”

Leaning back into his seat, Michael nodded, adding, “Well, mudbugs—I mean crawfish—and catfish comprise what, two-thirds of Creole cooking?” The question got the chuckle from Rodger that Michael expected. “But yeah, it’s pretty nice out here. Very peaceful. Very secluded.”

The perfect place to dump a body
, he thought
.

Soon the deputy sheriff’s car stopped in front of them right outside a small wooden path with railings. Off the road some, pulled up right near the embankment and on a wooden deck of sorts, was an old beat-up pickup truck, filled with all sorts of junk, and half-covered in a rotted blue tarp. Deputy J. L. got out of the car and, adjusting his britches, walked over to Rodger’s side of the vehicle.

Rodger rolled down the window, and J. L. bent down, sunglasses still on.

“Okay, Rodger, Shreveport. Here’s the thing. Old Man Fontenot—well, he’s half-crazy. And he hates visitors. But he knows me, knew my mamma, too. So I’m gonna go and let him know the two of you are here, okay? If you don’t wanna get shot at, just sit back until I come to get you.”

“Wait a second,” said Michael, ignoring the second jab at his hometown, “if we go and introduce ourselves as police, he might take a shot at us?” Michael could hardly believe that such a thing would happen, even out here.

J. L. just sniffed derisively and said, “Well, Shreveport, Old Man Fontenot’s hearing ain’t too good, so he might not hear ya. Wouldn’t want you to mess up that fancy suit of yours. Just you sit tight. Ol’ J. L. will make sure it’s safe for you.”

With a smirk and a pat on Rodger’s shoulder, J. L. stood up and headed down the wooden path.

“Man, what an ass,” said Michael.

Rodger just shook his head and shrugged, saying, “Don’t drag me into this, Michael.”

The minutes passed, and soon J. L. came back up the path. Motioning for the detectives to come, the deputy sheriff hollered, “All right, Detectives, we’re good. Come on!”

Michael got out of the car and followed Rodger down the wooden path, which ended up turning out to be a wooden pier leading out to a small houseboat on the water. The houseboat was old, but in good repair, and looked like it had been anchored for many years. The front door was shut only by a screen, but the darkened inside seemed to lead into a kitchenette area. Dirty pots and pans of all sizes rested on a countertop just beyond the doorway, which was as far inside as the detectives could see. The outside front porch, that being the starboard side of the boat, was adorned with drying snakeskins hanging from the ceiling, and a wall that looked to have hundreds of small ornaments attached to them.

As Michael approached, he saw that the ornaments were actually hundreds of snake skulls, mouths open and fangs bare, nailed to the wall. Michael decided that was the creepiest thing he had seen in quite some time.

Sitting on the front porch, near the front door, was a man who looked like he was in his sixties. His body was skinny, but it was obvious from the definition to his arms that he was not weak. Next to him, propped up, was a double-barreled shotgun. Sitting on his lap was a large nutria, and the old man stroked its fur while peering up at the detectives with suspicious eyes.

“Robert,” said J. L., “these are the two detectives from the city I was talking about. The young one here is Michael LeBlanc, and the older one is—”

“Rodger Bergeron,” Robert said with a spit to his voice. “I remember you, ya. You and that partner of yours, what was his name, sent my ass to jail some twenty years ago.”

Rodger seemed to be expecting this, as he didn’t flinch, but instead rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, we both, and the city of New Orleans, have apologized for that many times, Robert. You were a suspect in a murder investigation, and we had to hold you in custody while we ruled you out.”

J. L. quickly chimed in, “Old Man Fontenot was a murder suspect, you said?”

Michael, who was at his limit with the Jefferson Parish deputy, said, “The Castille murders, you dunce. Didn’t your superior tell you why we were here?”

To Michael’s surprise, J. L. seemed almost apologetic, saying, “Sorry ’bout that, Shreveport, but I guess I wasn’t listening too good when he mentioned it.”

With a sigh of frustration, Michael started to step forward to take control of the questioning, and to his surprise, Rodger held his arm out to stop him.

Rodger quickly said, “We have a few questions about that incident, Robert. It will really help us out if you would cooperate.”

“Shit, Bergeron,” Robert said, spitting on the ground, “my wife left me soon after that shit. Took my baby girl with her, too, ya. I ended up coming out here because half my family thought I was responsible for those murders. It was bullshit, Bergeron. Bullshit.”

“And yet,” said Rodger, “you never sued the city. Why is that?”

That question seemed to stop Robert in his tracks. He huffed and looked away from the two detectives. “Man, Bergeron, go fuck yourself, ya.”

After an exhale, Rodger spoke again. “Look, Robert, Mr. Fontenot, I am sorry for what happened. A lot of people were under a lot of pressure back then. You caught a bad break, and it messed your life up. For that, I am sorry. But I’m not sorry that I did my job. If there had been even the smallest chance that you were the Bourbon Street Ripper, I had to get you off the street. And for the record, you were off in Lafayette cheating on your wife.
That
is why she left you, not because we arrested you for Castille’s crimes.”

This seemed to calm Robert down some. He just snapped, “So what do you want, ya?”

Rodger stopped and turned to Michael, who had been just waiting for his chance to speak.

“Mr. Fontenot,” began Michael, “what we want is information on anything relevant to why you were chosen by Vincent Castille to be his patsy. Anythi—”

“I already done said years ago,” spat out Robert, “to Rodger’s partner himself, ya. I said that I had never known Vincent Castille, that I had never heard of him before they arrested him. It was years ago, and I was spending most of my time offshore on the dredger, digging up shit. So what do I know of why Vincent chose me? Maybe it was funny to him, ya?”

Michael implored, “Are you sure? No matter how trivial, any reason can be—”

“For God’s sake, Shreveport,” said J. L. with a disgusted singsong to his voice, “the old man said he don’t know, okay? Quit busting his ass over it.”

“Deputy Sheriff Jean-Luc,” Rodger suddenly said in a manner so curt and cross that it even took Michael by surprise, “will you please shut the hell up and let my partner do his job?”

There was a moment of awkward silence before J. L. quietly apologized and backed off.

Michael thought for a moment, then asked, “Mr. Fontenot, do you remember where you lost your key?”

“I already said I don’t remember where,” Robert replied.

Michael, however, refused to let up. “What were your days like when you were not offshore?”

“With my family, like any good Catholic would be,” said Robert, perhaps more indignant than he needed to be.

Michael smiled inwardly.
He’s being too defensive. First off, that means he’s hiding something. Second, he knows we suspect that he’s hiding something. Third, it has to be something embarrassing. There is no other reason for a man to act this way.

Michael asked, “Okay, then tell me this, Mr. Fontenot. Where did you meet your mistress?”

“You leave her out of this, ya.”

Robert nearly spat venom at Michael, his eyes showing a growing, testosterone-driven anger.

I knew it
, Michael thought to himself.
It has something to do with his extramarital affair. Somehow, some way, Vincent Castille is linked to that.

Michael then said, “Okay, okay, then tell me this. You obviously were not faithful to your wife—did you have any other affairs?”

“I don’t see how it’s your business, boy,” said Robert, now full-blown indignant. The nutria in his lap bristled at his master’s tension and hissed at Michael.

He did have other affairs
, thought Michael.
If I can just get him to name where he’d go for his affairs, I’d have it.

“Hey, Old Man Fontenot,” chimed in J. L., “you need to answer their questions, or people here gonna think you ain’t made right. Now you’ve done a good job of showing folks around here that you made good, but you start dodging police questions, and people gonna think you hiding something.” It was, in Michael’s eyes, J. L.’s first bit of real help all day.

This elicited a scowl from Robert, who leaned back and said, “Fine. But I answer this and you fuck off for good, ya?”

“Sure,” replied Michael, staring down at the older man, waiting for his answer.

Robert closed his eyes and said, “It was a place called the Jean-Lafitte Theater. That’s where I met her. I’m pretty sure that’s where I lost my key, ya.”

“Jean-Lafitte Theater?” asked Michael, now feeling a bit confused. “You mean the bar on Bourbon Street?”

Rodger answered this, shaking his head. “No, although I wouldn’t expect you to know what he’s talking about, Michael. Jean-Lafitte Theater was a nightclub on Toulouse Street that operated back in the seventies. It was burlesque. You know, a cabaret.”

“Oh,” said Michael, having indeed never heard of such a place before. “Well, what happened to it?” A sudden feeling of panic started to work its way into Michael. What if this place had been burnt down? Or flooded? Or was sold and turned into a bed-and-breakfast? Would their best chance at cracking this case be gone?

Rodger alleviated all those worries by saying, “It was closed down after a disgruntled ex-employee took a submachine gun to the performers and clientele one night. It was a real mess. Owners closed it down and, as far as I know, never sold it. Should still be there, just closed up.”

Michael felt hope again that this was not a red herring, but something deliberately planned out. Turning back to Robert Fontenot, Michael said, “Thank you so much, Mr. Fontenot. We won’t bother you again.”

“Agreed,” said Rodger, nodding his head to the older man, “and sorry about your loss, again. We won’t come back.”

As the two detectives turned to leave, Robert suddenly said, “Rodger.”

Stopping, Michael and his partner turned around. Robert had reopened his eyes and was looking at them. “Do you know why a snake is so dangerous?”

This question got a blank stare from both detectives.

Robert answered, “People think that it’s because of the snake’s bite, but that’s not it at all. The snake is the most dangerous creature because the snake knows. It knows what you are going to do. It knows when you are going to do it. The snake knows everything.”

Michael took it for what it was seemed, a threat from a bitter old man, but Rodger seemed to be more tense about it. Once they were inside their car and pulling around to leave, Rodger lit up a cigarette and said, “You get what that meant, right?”

Michael shook his head. “It’s not just Robert trying to get the last word in, then?”

“No,” replied Rodger, setting his eyes on the road. “It hearkens back to the religion back here. A Haitian religion called voodoo.”

“Seriously?” asked Michael, cocking an eyebrow at his partner. “Voodoo? You’re bringing voodoo into this investigation?”

“No,” growled Rodger as he swerved left back onto the main road. “But the people of the bayous take it seriously, and if we’re going to deal with them, you gotta know how they think. Anyway, in voodoo, there are these powerful spirits called
loa
, and the snake is one of the most powerful, often associated with—”

“Wow.” Michael cut his partner off, shaking his head. “Look, Rodger, I appreciate you trying to educate me in bayou culture, but this has nothing to do with the investigation. Unless you’re actually superstitious about this stuff?”

Rodger, who momentarily looked upset at his partner, seemed to fight it off and managed a smile before saying, “Well, I’ve had my fair share of jackrabbit feet, but fine, if this is something you don’t want to hear about, then I won’t go there. But I’m telling you, Michael, a lot of people put a lot of stock into that stuff. But anyway, Mr. Ace Detective, what should our next move be?”

“Honestly,” Michael said, getting his mind back on track, “I think we need to check out that abandoned nightclub. Then we need to go and hunt down that Mad Monty.”

That seemed to get a concerned expression from Rodger, who said, “Yeah, about Mad Monty. Michael, there are some things you need to know.”