The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (35 page)

Michael continued, turning to face the two writers. “Third, we have a short period of time for everyone to get on the same page. Sam and Richie, Rodger and I have a lot to catch you up on. Some of it, particularly what happened yesterday, is really horrific stuff. What we need from you two is for you both to just listen. Let us get out this glut of information. Then, in kind, we’ll let you all tell us anything we may need to know. Finally, after that, we can plan our next move.”

Michael’s proposition seemed agreeable to everyone present. So for the next hour, Michael and Rodger, taking turns, recounted their investigation over the past three days. Although Sam and Richie kept to their word and didn’t interrupt, both looked positively horrified at what had transpired so far, especially the events at Mad Monty’s warehouse.

When they were finished, Sam, who had been sitting on the edge of her seat, leaned back and fanned herself. “Honestly, what’s happened to you two is as crazy as what’s happened to me.”

Looking over at Richie, Sam gently slapped his forearm and said, “You sure we’re all not in one of your stories?”

Richie, who had started sweating profusely during the telling of the events with Mad Monty, fanned himself as well. To Sam’s query, Richie shook his head.

“I don’t think I’d write something about a person getting pulverized by a machine. That’s”—he paused for a moment—“a little too dark for me.”

Rodger shook his head and said, “You should try living it, Richie. It’s a whole different kind of nightmare.”

As Richie, who had since gotten the coffeepot from the kitchen, poured another cup for everyone, Sam said, “What gets me is what that Fontenot guy said to you all as you left.”

Michael blinked, having forgotten what Sam was talking about. “What do you mean, Sam?” asked Michael. “What about what Fontenot said?”

Sam said, “He said that the snake is the most dangerous creature because the snake knows. That’s a warning from the Haitian voodoo religion. It means that your enemy already knows what you are doing, and will likely turn your actions against you.”

Sam got a thoughtful look. “Something like that. It’s a warning to be careful where you tread.”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “Well, folklore and superstition don’t really fall into the logical boundaries of a murder investigation. So how is this relevant, Sam?”

“First off,” said Sam, standing up and leaning on her desk, “Robert Fontenot knows something he wasn’t telling you, but he tried to warn you all, Rodger especially, that the enemy, the killer perhaps, knows you both are investigating.

“Second, it made me think of a possible angle to all this,” Sam continued, moving out from behind her desk and walking along the wall of her study toward her sizable bookcase. “It’s just that my grandfather had an interest in the occult. He always claimed people were limited by how much of their brains they used. With time, he thought, we could live forever, and that pain and suffering brought out the full potential in people.”

Michael nodded at Sam. “Yes, and during his trial, your grandfather was shown to have occult magazines, dealing in voodoo and witchcraft and other nonsense. Again, what does that have to do with the investigation now?”

Sam reached her bookcase and started looking for a book. “While that stuff is superstition, like you say, there is always a kernel of truth. Usually, it’s people making things happen to manipulate others, other times it’s science that appears to be like magic. I’ll show you what I mean.”

Richie and Rodger seemed engaged with whatever it was Sam was talking about, as they were watching her intently. Michael, on the other hand, felt that the conversation was going off topic. However, trying to be patient, he asked, “Sam, please explain what you mean.”

Sam nodded, pulling out a large black book titled
Modern Vodoun
. Opening it, Sam turned the book around to show a picture of a dark-skinned man directly in front of what looked like half a dozen shambling people with dead looks in their eyes. The caption read “Zombi.”

Sam began to explain. “See, we fictionalize zombies as reanimated corpses, while in voodoo, they are people who have been heavily drugged for forced menial labor. The reality is that there are no zombies, but the fictional idea we have of them is based on this fact.”

Michael spoke again, “That’s nice, Sam, but please explain to me how this pertains to the investigation.”

Sam shuffled through the book. “What Robert Fontenot was talking about, with the comments about snakes, are called loa, powerful spirits that serve the voodoo version of God. They can be animal spirits similar to Native American totems. Or spirits of the dead that have ascended to minor deities. Or even gods from the old world. Loa, according to voodoo, not only guard us, but can influence us, harm us, empower us, and even possess us.”

Michael shook his head in disbelief that this conversation was even taking place. He also wondered why someone like Sam would give it any credence.

Sam, seeing Michael shake his head, said, “Now wait a minute, Michael, I’m not saying this is real, but stuff like voodoo is powered by belief. A lot of people allow the occult or superstition to influence their everyday decisions. Many world leaders, good and bad, have placed faith in the supernatural. Abraham Lincoln had dream interpreters, for example, and Adolf Hitler routinely used astrologers.”

Michael, who was feeling increasingly less tolerant, said, “I don’t allow ridiculous beliefs to influence my decisions. And I think it’s preposterous that a grown woman like you would place any stock in ghost stories.”

Sam looked hurt for a moment, then furrowed her brow and said, “Michael, it’s not about whether what you believe is real or not, it’s about what others, like the killer, believe. I mean, there are too many occult references in my grandfather’s past, as well as what is happening now, to be a coincidence. Someone in the past, like my grandfather, and someone presently, is using the concept of voodoo and loas as either a motivation or an excuse to commit murder.”

Sam turned the page in the voodoo book. “Take this passage, for instance: ‘Loa can physically influence the world around them by piggybacking on, and in extreme cases, possessing a host after a ritual is performed to call down, or summon, the loa. The direct influence of a loa is always preceded by—’”

“Stop right there, Sam,” interrupted Michael, who felt his patience finally wearing thin. “So you think someone is using, or did use, these serial murders in a more sacrificial or religious way?”

Sam sighed, a look of pity crossing her face. Michael arched an indignant eyebrow at her.

Placing the book back where she got it, Sam nodded to Michael. “Why not? There has to be a reason for these murders, right? Why not have them be connected to voodoo or something similar? This is New Orleans. Haitian voodoo is practiced here. Why can’t the murders be connected to a voodoo cult?”

“Because of one reason,” said Michael, trying to get the conversation back on track. “Unless Rodger and Edward, along with everyone else in the New Orleans Police Force, missed something, there was never a single shred of evidence pointing to any voodoo cult. Even less so in the current investigation.”

Richie suddenly spoke up. “What about that person or group you mentioned who contacted Topper Jack and Mad Monty? You know, the Nite Priory.”

Everyone turned to Richie, who continued, “Sounds religious to me. Maybe Sam is right, Michael? Think about it for a minute. Vincent Castille had an interest in the occult, all that loa and zombie stuff Sam just mentioned. So what if this Nite Priory is a cult, or something similar, that is romanticizing what Vincent Castille did, and is using his interest in the occult to act like some kind of directive or something for murder.”

“I hate to say this,” Rodger said to his partner, “but Richie and Sam both have points. We’ve been looking at these murders as being the work of some sort of lone psychopath. But what if it is a cult? What if it’s more organized than we thought?”

Before Michael could answer, Rodger continued, “And as for twenty years ago, Michael, you can’t be sure there wasn’t something that might have been religious. When the doc was arrested, there was a glut of occult magazines and clippings with him. He never spoke of it in trial, even though the defense tried to use it for an insanity defense, but there
was
evidence that he might have been involved a cult of some sort. Who’s to say that this Nite Priory, as Richie was getting at, isn’t a remnant of that now?”

Sam nodded and said, “Right. I don’t know why my grandfather committed those murders. No one does. And you, Michael, even mentioned that no one looked into ‘why’ twenty years ago.”

Michael nodded, feeling his incredulousness dropping as the other three started to make more sense to him. “Agreed. I’ve always felt that the ‘why’ is vital to this investigation and that it being overlooked was a big mistake.”

Michael looked over at Rodger.

Rodger frowned, saying, “We were all in such a hurry to stop the murders that we did drop the ball on why he did it. And no one wanted to follow up on the voodoo thing once the trial had started. What did Ouellette say back then? Ah yes, that it was better to focus on putting Vincent on death row and being done with it.”

Nodding at his partner, Michael wasn’t too surprised to hear that his commander didn’t put much stock in the occult back then. Ouellette had always struck him as being an extremely logical person, not one to buy in to nonsense.

Michael looked back at Sam and said, “All right, I’m willing to entertain this cult angle in things, especially since there is a ‘Nite Priory’ that keeps popping up.”

Michael shifted in his seat. “But now, Sam, I have a question for you.”

As Sam returned to her seat, Michael asked, “In your story, who is the murderer?”

Sam looked about as surprised as could be at that question. “Wait, what? Why do you want to know?”

“Because I believe someone is setting you up,” replied Michael. “We need to show that this is the result of someone getting ahold of your notes or your manuscripts. The sooner we do that, the sooner you won’t be a suspect. If you tell me now who your murderer is, we can use that to start setting a trap.”

Michael chuckled and added, “Besides, you may give us a lead.”

Sam lowered her head in thought. After a long moment, she looked up and said, “My murderer is Dallas Christofer.”

Michael, Richie, and even Rodger sat there in total silence. Michael had no idea who this person was, and from the look of confusion on Rodger and Richie’s faces, neither did they.

Finally, Michael shook his head, shrugged, and said, “I’ll bite. Who is that?”

Sam looked a bit annoyed as she began to explain herself. “Dallas Christofer was the only survivor of a Bourbon Street Ripper murder. He was buried alive with his mother, Maple Christofer—Grandfather’s last victim.”

“Holy crap,” said Rodger suddenly. “I remember that! Wait, it was Kyle Aucoin who found Maple and her son. He was alive? Holy shit, I thought he had died. Wait, no, he was committed to an institution, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, committed to the Acadia Vermillion Hospital in Lafeyette. As far as I know, that is where he is to this day.”

Michael was silent, but his eyes were widening. In his head, a lightbulb went off.

Acadia Vermillion Hospital. Wait, wasn’t that where
Sam
was committed?

Michael got excited. This couldn’t be a coincidence. “Sam, that is sheer brilliance. You may have solved this case.”

Again, the room got silent.

Sam asked, “Are you serious, Michael?”

Michael cleared his throat. “I mean, has anyone else in this room thought to check up on Dallas Christofer?”

The obvious “no” came quickly, and Michael continued, “Okay, it’s a long shot, I agree, but it can’t hurt, Rodger, for us to follow up with the Acadia Hospital and see if Dallas is still there, or if he was discharged, or even escaped.”

“Brilliant idea,” said Richie, giving Michael an approving nod. “We should get going right away, yes?”

“Not so fast,” said Michael, asserting his control over the scenario again. “Remember, we do this my way, and while this Dallas thing is a great lead, it could just as well be a red herring.”

Michael’s statement got agreeing nods from the room, and so he continued, “Rodger, we still have two accomplices left. I believe that Fat Willie is next. One of us should head to Angola State Prison to talk with him. The other should head to Lafayette and check up on Dallas. We can deal with Blind Moses in Jackson Square tomorrow.”

After a few moments’ thought, Rodger said, “Let me handle Fat Willie. I have contacts—old friends—in Angola and should be able to get myself in easily.”

Michael nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll handle going to Lafayette and the Acadia Hospital. Sam, you—”

“I’m going with Rodger to Angola,” replied Sam.

“Um, no,” replied Michael. “First off, we’re doing things my way, and I want you to search old articles for references to that voodoo stuff. Second, I can’t imagine them letting a civilian into the state penitentiary. Third, why would you want to go?”

Sam inhaled, then sighed, saying, “Because Rodger is going.”

Michael looked at Sam, who had the most adamant and unyielding look on her face, and then at Rodger, who looked simply terrified. Michael blinked and starting rubbing the area between his eyes.

This is a mess, but maybe these two need to talk their problems out. Maybe, just maybe, for once I should follow my gut and let these two go together.

Michael looked to his partner, and asked, “Is there was a way to get Sam into the state prison?”

Rodger, who still looked horrified, managed to mutter, “I can swing it if I pull in some favors.”

Sam nodded and smiled at Michael. “Good. We’ll take my car. Michael, that should give you use of the squad car, yes?”

Michael, still rubbing between his eyes, nodded.

“So?” asked Richie, who at this point was looking around the room. “Um, what do I do? Go with Sam and Rodger? Go with you, Michael?”