The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (23 page)

“Horace Lancaster Blanchard,” said the man with a stereotypical nasally voice, offering a hand to Rodger and then Michael. “I’m Mr. Jones’s probation officer. So you two detectives are here to question Mr. Jones on that nasty murder that happened the other night, correct?”

“That’s correct,” said Rodger, shaking Horace’s hand and noticing how clammy it felt. “My partner and I have just a few questions for Monty regarding the Castille murders. Then we’ll be out of his hair.”

“Mr. Jones has been well-behaved since his release from prison,” said Horace, as he started walking toward the warehouse, the detectives following him, “but he gets rather… what’s the word… indignant at times.”

Rodger couldn’t help but smirk. “That hardly comes as a surprise. Does he know we’re coming?”

Horace nodded, not bothering to turn and look at the detectives. “He’s aware of the situation. I told him to meet us alone outside.”

“Does Mr. Jones know that it’s Rodger who’s coming?” asked Michael, walking alongside Rodger, stride for stride.

Another nod from the probation officer, and Rodger felt his stomach drop.

“Mr. Jones expressed surprise that, after all these years, Detective Bergeron would come and visit.” At that, Horace stopped and turned toward Rodger, looking up at him, his tone as condescending as it could sound. “I know you and him have an unfortunate history together. It would be best if you didn’t mention it, okay?”

Rodger stared for a moment at Horace for stating something so obvious in such an arrogant way, and finally just shrugged, palms out, and said, “I’ll try to keep that in mind. Thanks, Horace.”

The trio headed toward the door of the warehouse, which, with a loud creaking sound, suddenly opened up.

Out stepped a tall man with skin the color of dark chocolate, head and face clean-shaven. His hardened, chiseled face was accented by a large, angry-looking scar that started over his left eye and ended just beneath his thick jaw.

The rest of Monty was equally imposing: a broad chest rippling with muscles, two thick tree trunks for arms, and forearms that looked like they could lift a truck—all of it covered in tribal tattoos.

His chest was covered with a T-shirt that sported a lewd picture of a woman on a stripper pole with text reading “I Support Single Mothers.” His lower half, covered in dirty jeans and army boots, was just as well-built as the rest.

Rodger felt his johnson shrink.

Jesus Christ. He’s gotten bigger.

Alongside Mad Monty, two other men, similar in look but not nearly as big, stepped outside the warehouse. One, also clean-shaven, had his shirt off and sported two bullet scars on his chest. The other, wearing a black do-rag over his head, wore a wife-beater with some questionable stains on it, and had a goatee.

Rodger thought the situation was not a good one, and looked over at Michael, who seemed to be cautious but otherwise betrayed no other emotion. Then Rodger looked over at Horace, as if he expected the short parole officer to somehow manage this situation.

“Now, Mr. Jones, we agreed on the phone that you’d meet with the detectives alone,” said Horace, seemingly unflinching in the presence of a man three times his size and many times more dangerous, even without friends.

Mad Monty gave Horace a toothy grin, his pearly whites shining, before saying, in a voice that rumbled like thunder, “Aw, hell, Mr. Blanchard, I’m sorry. Me and my boys here were just having a beer, and I plain forgot what time it was.” Monty then motioned inside the warehouse. “Ya’ll wanna come in?”

Horace must have shared Rodger’s thought that such an action would be stupid, because the probation officer retorted, “Now you know that’s not a good idea, Mr. Jones. Your friends can come back later, once we’re finished speaking with you.”

“A’ight,” replied Monty, who then turned to the two other men and, after clasping hands in a series of grabs, slaps, and shakes, said, “When I’m done here, I’ll give ya’ll a ring at Leroy’s house. We’ll head to the lake and get fucked up tonight.”

As the two men left, Rodger couldn’t help but wonder if that was code for “wait until the stupid cops aren’t looking and then help me beat them to death.” His senses on high alert, he followed a satisfied Horace Blanchard after Monty and into the warehouse.

The interior of the warehouse did nothing to dissuade Rodger’s feelings that they were walking into a trap, as the assumption Michael had about lots of stuff in there being able to kill them seemed spot-on. From the ceiling hung a series of hooks on chains, all of them arranged on a track that led around the warehouse. In the corner of the warehouse was a large vat, set into the ground, with steam and the stink of sulfur fuming from it. A set of stairs led up to a catwalk and over to an elevated area with rows upon rows of metal presses. And finally, in the center of the room was a conveyor belt leading into a large box-like machine that looked to be made of mangling, crushing murder.

However, off to one side several folding lawn chairs sat circled around an ice chest. Nearby was a folding table with a boom box playing Beethoven’s 6th symphony, a tune that seemed totally out of place for either the location or the man. As soon as Monty reached the largest lawn chair, he took a seat and offered one to each of the detectives.

“Ah, I see you took my advice and started listening to classical music,” said Horace as he took the proffered seat. “Is it helping that rage problem of yours, Mr. Jones?”

“Huh?” asked Monty as he opened the ice chest and took out a beer. “Oh yeah, that. Yeah, that shit’s cool. That Beethoven, man, he was a hardcore motherfucker.” Glugging down the beer and then crushing the can with minimal effort, Monty took out two more cans and offered one to Horace.

Horace shook his head, saying, “No, thanks, I don’t drink. And how many have you had, Mr. Jones? You know the judge said you aren’t supposed to imbibe too many spirits.”

“Relax, it’s nonalcoholic,” thundered Monty as he tilted the cans of beer to show the brand. “Seriously, Horace, I need to get your ass laid sometime.” He made the same offer of beer to Michael, who refused, then to Rodger, saying, “For old time’s sake, Detective.”

“Sorry, I’m on duty,” said Rodger, looking Monty in the eyes as much as he dared.

“Suit yourself,” Monty said with a shrug as he put back one beer and popped the top off the other. Taking a seat on one of the lawn chairs, legs spread as if inviting the detectives to take in the view of his crotch, Monty spoke directly to Rodger. “It’s fucking amazing, ain’t it? Last time I saw you, Detective, I said I was gonna rip your balls off… ”

Instantly, Rodger tensed up, his jaw tightening.

“… but ya know,” Monty said, shrugging with a sort of bored indifference, “nowadays I just don’t feel like it.” He sniffed at the air derisively. “I dunno, it’s old shit, and I got other stuff going on.”

Rodger relaxed some, and sensing that Michael was relaxing as well, nodded to the man who had once threatened his life. “Yeah. Old shit. We’re too old to be playing those games, ain’t we, Monty?”

“Now I never said I was too old,” Monty said with a sudden life, his white teeth like the jaws of a shark. “I fuck three hos a night, Detective, and between that and my detailing business, I ain’t got time to go ripping the nuts off of police.”

“Well, that’s a fucking relief,” said Rodger with a hint of sarcasm. While he didn’t want to antagonize Monty, he didn’t want to look like a coward. He knew that men like Monty pounced at the first sign of weakness.

“If you two are done fanning out your plumage like two peacocks,” said Horace, in a voice that sounded both cowardly and whiny, “I believe there were some questions for Mr. Jones?”

“Right, right,” said Monty as he settled down. He looked Rodger over. “Horace here tells me you have some questions about the Bourbon Street Ripper. That so?”

“Yes,” replied Rodger, sitting up and focusing on the task at hand—the interrogation of a potential witness to the Castille murders. “We’re investigating the murder that took place two nights ago. We think this is a copycat killer.”

“Yeah, I figured the same thing,” Monty said, sniffing again at the air and looking over at the large machine in the center of the warehouse. “Read about that shit in the
Picayune
. Yeah, it’s fucked up. The devil is back in the French Quarter, eh?”

Rodger nodded again, deciding that Monty was beating around the bush. Not wanting to waste time, the detective got straight down to business.

“So, Monty,” Rodger said, leaning forward and looking him in the eyes in a challenging way, “your name was found in one of Vincent Castille’s notebooks, along with a list of other accomplices. What kind of dealings did you have with the good doctor back then?” He stared unflinchingly at Monty.

“I can’t believe after all these years that shit’s come back to haunt me,” Monty said. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Well, if this is some shit to get me back behind bars, I’d better give my lawyer a call.”

Rodger shook his head. “Nothing like that at all, Monty. We’re not out to bust you over something that happened twenty years ago. We are, however, looking for information on the doctor from the point of view of any… associates he may have had at the time. So, we’d like to know what you did for him. Strictly for the purpose of profiling this new killer.”

“Ah,” said Monty with a nod, his squashed nose sniffing the air a third time. “Well, that makes sense.” He rubbed his thick lower jaw. “Well, I’ve always known of good places to hide shit. The doctor wanted out-of-the-way locations. Hell if I knew what he wanted it for. Hell if I cared. The doc supplied me with enough cold cash to make me think of retiring from my regular job.”

“You mean the car theft rings, Monty?” asked Michael suddenly, giving Monty an icy stare.

Monty turned to face Michael and scrunched his face up. “Yeah,” he said, “something like that, kid.”

Rodger smirked, finding Michael’s lack of social graces appropriate for once. “So, what else did the doc have you do?”

Looking back at Rodger, Monty grimaced and said, “Nothing else, Detective. I was the one who gave the Ripper his murdering locations. After the first one, I knew what was up. After all, some bitch gets cut open in one of my stash-houses, what the fuck am I gonna think? But the doc’s money was too good, so”—he gave another toothy white grin—“I had me a bad case of amnesia about what my shit was used for.”

Rodger leaned back and nodded in response to Monty’s last confession. “So this is what you did in the past, Monty,” he said. “But what about the present? Anyone contact you looking for new hiding places to torture victims?”

Mad Monty again scrunched up his face, puckered his lips, and furrowed his brow, then scratched the side of his head while making a
Hmmm
noise. The overall effect made the large black man look as stupid as possible, and Rodger suspected that at this point, Monty was messing with him.

“Ya see,” Monty finally said. “I don’t ’member. It’s been a rough couple of days, Detective, and I’ve been getting fucked up every night on Jack Daniels.”

“You really expect us to buy that?” Michael suddenly asked, straightening up. “Seriously, Rodger, let’s run this guy in for helping the Ripper out. I’m sure we can get the DA to send his ass up the river for the rest of his life.”

“That will be enough of that, Detective,” Horace said, jumping in. “Mr. Jones is speaking to you in confidence, and I don’t think threats are the way to resolve this matter.”

Rodger felt utterly undermined. He and Michael were playing the good cop and bad cop routine perfectly, and here was Horace “Poindexter” Blanchard messing the whole thing up. Their one chance just went up in a puff of nerd-smoke. One look over to Michael, who looked like he wanted to karate-chop Horace in the head, and Rodger knew his partner felt the same way.

“Yeah, ya’ll coppers infringing on my civil rights,” said Monty in a voice that would sound innocent if the tone weren’t utterly mocking. “And here I was trying to be helpful.”

By the time Monty pouted out his bottom lip like a child would, Rodger knew that the interview was over.

Standing up and dusting off his coat, Rodger said, “Sorry about that, Monty. You’ve been a great help to us. We thank you for your time.”

Monty stood up and offered his hand for Rodger to shake. “My pleasure,” he said in his boomingly large voice.

Rodger, still not wanting to show any fear, shook Monty’s hand. Not surprisingly, Monty’s grip was as strong as steel.

Monty grinned his white, toothy grin down at Rodger, released the grip, and then started to show everyone out of his warehouse.

“I want you to know, Mr. Jones, that you performed admirably today,” said Horace as he waddled in front of the group toward the warehouse’s exit. “I’ll be sure to note this in my report to the Board.”

“Aw, that’s mighty white of you, Horace,” Monty said with a low chuckle. “Let them know about the nonalcoholic beer, too, a’right? I want them to know I only drink that shit at night, like we agreed.”

As Horace confirmed that he would add such information to his report, Rodger and Michael traded looks. At that moment, Rodger decided he would give Horace the dressing-down of his life once they were out of Monty’s earshot. As Monty opened the large open door of the warehouse for all three officers, Rodger swore that for every two steps forward he and Michael took with this investigation, something stupid pushed them three steps back.

The fresh open air outside was a welcome change from the stuffy interior of the warehouse. Horace was the first one out, then Michael. As Rodger started to step out, Monty said, in a lower tone, “Hey, Detective. About all that shit I said I’d do to you at my trial. You know that was shit-talk, right?”

That made Rodger stop, turn around, and look at Mad Monty, who had his hands stuffed in his jeans.

Monty nodded and said, “I was really pissed about shit, lots of shit. Just want you to know that I don’t want to rip your balls off.”

Rodger found himself actually relieved, nodding his head and saying, “Well, that’s good to know, Monty. I’m kind of attached to them. But thanks all the same.”