The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) (50 page)

“Topper Jack’s and Mad Monty’s are almost identical,” answered Michael. “They both point out knowledge of what the men had previously done and asked them to do it again. Payment was offered in advance. For Topper Jack, it was morphine. For Mad Monty, it was cash.”

Rodger picked up for Michael at this point. “Fat Willie’s letter was different. In it, this Nite Priory claims to know about all of Fat Willie’s crimes, both the rapes and helping the Bourbon Street Ripper by kidnapping the victims. But then the letter asks Fat Willie for a list of his rape victims from twenty to fifteen years ago.”

This was news to Michael, and apparently to everyone else, including Ouellette, who asked, “Well, did the bastard send such a list?”

With a sigh, Rodger said, “I wish I knew. I didn’t read the letter until after the interview. I’ll have to call and find out again, pull another favor.”

Ouellette nodded sternly and said, “Be sure you do. So, have either of you had any luck in tracking down Blind Moses?”

Michael said, “No, we haven’t had any luck with her.”

“All right,” Ouellette said and turned around, looking over his military photographs. He seemed to take only a few seconds to reach a decision. “I run a tight ship, and you two nearly brought the weight of Internal Affairs down on me yesterday. Luckily for you both, Aucoin is great at talking bullshit to those ballbusters, and Dixie knows when to shut her mouth.”

Michael looked over at the other two detectives, his eyes widening just a hair for a moment as he realized they had covered for him and Rodger. Trading understanding glances with Dixie for a moment, he knew that the two other detectives understood what was at stake.
They know that we have to solve this case before a third or, God help us, a fourth victim turns up. It will be a serious mess. Who else is putting their careers on the line?

Michael looked back at Ouellette, and suddenly understood the real reason his commander was so angry—the risk and consequences eventually came to rest on his shoulders.

Ouellette was saying, “But you are going to tell me where you are going, and when you get back, until I say otherwise. Also, I’m not inclined to give you all another chance if you fuck up again.”

Ouellette then pointed at each detective in turn.

“So, Michael, no more independent investigations by Mr. Fastellos. You see him snooping around the case again, you arrest him, or your ass is desked for a month. And Rodger, you get over your fixation with Samantha Castille. She isn’t your little niece, or whatever she was twenty years ago, anymore. She’s a grown woman and a suspect. I catch you near her again, your ass is suspended for a month.”

“Understood, sir,” replied Michael.

“Understood, Commander,” said Rodger.

Ouellette sat at his desk. “Now, what are you two going to do today? And will it include nearly getting yourselves killed?”

Before Rodger could speak up, Michael said, “We’re heading back to Bayou Lafitte to speak with Mr. Robert Fontenot again. Rosemary Boucher mentioned Magnolia was murdered. We feel it would beneficial to find out what was meant by that. As we have no jurisdiction in Lafayette, this is the only course of action we can take to get reliable information about that.”

Ouellette nodded. “I see. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the M and M Sisters very well, but I seem to recall Magnolia had some kind of health problem. Very well, go talk to Fontenot. I’ll give Jefferson Parish a call again. Head directly over to the police station near the Bayou. But, make sure you get your ass right back here afterward.”

“Right,” said Michael, who started to leave.

“Wait a second,” replied Ouellette, making Michael stop and turn around. “Call me when you arrive at the police station and before you leave. You all can check in with your buddy J. L.”

As Michael rolled his eyes at the thought of seeing “good ol’ J. L.” again, Rodger responded with, “Checking in and out is a bit excessive, Ouellette. This isn’t Houma all over again. You don’t need to track our every movement.”

The temperature dropped several degrees. Michael and Dixie traded nervous, unsure glances. Rodger, who looked like he realized he had screwed up, shrank like a turtle into its shell.

“Get out of my office,” Ouellette exploded, pointing at the door on the way out. The room outside suddenly got very quiet.

Rodger quickly left the room, Michael right behind him, the two detectives emerging right into the open floor, where almost every single person in the homicide department stared at them. From inside his office, Ouellette could be heard yelling, “So, Aucoin, what the hell has you so distracted today, huh?!”

The two detectives got to their desks, sat down, and started getting ready to depart. Michael gathered up his notebook, the three letters from the three accomplices, and his jacket.

Rodger was almost finished getting ready when Aucoin stormed up behind him and shoved him into his desk. “You wanna piss the boss off, asshole, so he can take it out on me?”

Rodger turned around, looking ready to belt Aucoin in the face, and said, “Back off, shithead. Don’t blame me for you being distracted with your kid.”

“I should bust your teeth out,” Aucoin said, raising a fist.

Michael started to move to intercept the blow when Dixie grabbed her partner from behind and pulled him back, saying, “Kyle, it’s not worth it! Just let it go!”

As Dixie pulled Aucoin back, Michael moved to stand beside Rodger.

Aucoin finally calmed down enough to get Dixie off of him, then, dusting off his jacket, he pointed at the two detectives. “Next time you two screw up, you’re on your own.” He stormed off.

Dixie stayed behind a moment to say, “Sorry, it’s just that—”

“Cheryl is still missing,” Rodger interrupted, pulling his trench coat on. “I know. Michael and I stayed up all night helping Mr. Grateful look for her. I still say she got drunk with some friends and is over at one of their houses.”

Michael found himself hoping that was the case, as he was telling himself the same thing, hoping that nothing terrible had happened to Aucoin’s daughter.

Dixie gave them a worried smile and said, “We all hope that. Unfortunately, this case takes priority, and Ouellette just turned down Kyle’s request for some time off.”

Michael wasn’t surprised to hear that. “This case is rapidly becoming a high-profile case, Dix. One more victim, and Ouellette will probably have to form a task force.”

Dixie, shaking her head, said, “I know. Let’s just focus on getting the job done. We can quibble about this some other time.”

“Agreed,” said Rodger, who was ready to leave.

Michael watched as Rodger walked over to where Aucoin was sitting. Dixie started to move forward to say something, but Michael put his arm out to slow her down.

“Trust me,” Michael said to his friend, certain he knew what his partner’s action would be. “Rodger needs to do this.”

Michael and Dixie watched as Rodger stood next to Aucoin until the latter noticed and looked up at him. Then Rodger put his hand out and said, “I’m sorry for what I said, Kyle. I promise that as soon as we get back, I’ll help you find Cheryl.”

Aucoin stared at Rodger for a long time before shaking the other man’s hand, saying. “It’s cool, man. Just… just stay out of trouble. We don’t need to lose any more veterans to stupid shit.”

Dixie turned to Michael and gave him a small grin. “How’d you know that?”

Giving her an equally small wry grin, Michael replied, “I figured at this point, those two could only make up or kill each other.”

Dixie chuckled, shook her head at Michael, and reached over to rub his shoulder fondly. “You never cease to amaze me, Michael. But I swear, Rodger is starting to rub off on you.”

“Ouch,” Michael said in mock hurt, “no need to insult me.”

Dixie headed off as Rodger returned. Fluffing up his trench coat, Rodger said, “Ready, partner?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Michael replied, and headed out alongside Rodger toward the garage.

The two were almost to the car when a uniformed officer came running up to them, a bit out of breath and holding a folded piece of paper.

“Detective Bergeron?”

Rodger said, “Yeah, I’m Detective Bergeron. What’s going on?”

The uniformed officer held out the folded paper, saying, “A faxed report just came for you from a Charles Daigle up at Angola.” The officer finished catching his breath and handed the paper to Rodger before heading back toward the building.

Michael leaned against the car, watching as his partner unfolded the report and started reading it. After a few moments, Rodger leaned heavily on the side of the squad car, his face showing incredulity.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Rodger said out loud.

Michael was at a loss. He didn’t know who Charles Daigle was, or why he’d be writing from Angola. After waiting several long seconds for his partner to recover and answer, but with no answer forthcoming, Michael asked, “So, Rodger, what’s going on in Angola?”

Rodger slowly folded up the paper and handed it over to Michael, who read it as his partner explained.

“Last night, there was a riot at the prison. A couple of dozen inmates were injured. However, Fat Willie, well, he tripped on the stairs while he and some others were being ushered by the guards to a secure area.”

Michael looked up from the fax and asked, “Is Mr. Benedict badly hurt?”

Rodger shook his head, saying, “He broke his neck, Michael. He’s dead.”

Michael wondered just how much bad luck he and Rodger were capable of having with this investigation.

The first thirty minutes of the ride were filled with complete silence, and while Michael wasn’t fond of driving the squad car, he had volunteered due to Rodger’s physical condition continuing to deteriorate.
He’s going to need to get some sleep soon. He’s not functioning as well as he could be. Hell, I’m younger, and I know I’m not at a hundred percent.

As they pulled onto the highway that would lead them south into Bayou Lafitte, Michael’s thoughts focused on the recent death of Fat Willie. To Michael, foul play was definitely a possibility. After all, of all the accomplices so far, Fat Willie would have been the best possible material witness, someone to testify as to the way the copycat killer was operating.

And with him dead, another lead, that list of rape victims, is done. Unless…

Michael suddenly snapped out of his thoughts and turned to his partner. Rodger was snoring softly, and as much as Michael didn’t want to wake him up, he needed him to do something.

“Rodger,” Michael said, softly at first, and then again more loudly when his partner didn’t wake up. After the second attempt, Michael abandoned all subtlety and shook Rodger awake. “Rodger, wake up!”

“Uhh!” was Rodger’s jarred reaction, the older man shaking himself as he awakened and sat up. “Are we already there?”

“No, sorry,” was Michael’s response, sounding unusually apologetic. “I need you to do something for me. When we’re done, you can go back to sleep.”

“All right, all right,” said Rodger gruffly, sitting up straight. “What do you need?”

“Get my notebook and pen out of the glove compartment,” Michael began, concentrating on driving. “Go to a fresh page of paper, and write down, in a box, four words per row, ‘Call Angola and see if they have a copy of Fat Willie’s letter to Nite Priory.’ Then circle it.”

Rodger, who had the notebook opened to a fresh page, and the pen in his hand, said, “Do what now?”

Michael sighed. This was why he hated to get others involved in his processes. They always managed to mess it up. Only Dixie seemed to take to it well, and only after many nights of working late with her did Michael trust her enough to be a part of his logical methods. Their last all-nighter, about a month ago, ended with both of them going out for drinks after closing the reporting on close to fifty cases.

Taking a breath, Michael explained, “Whenever I write a note that is arranged in a box shape and circled, it means I need to do it as soon as possible. It’s a physical symbol for me to see that registers a necessary action in my mind.”

It took a few tries for Michael to convey the concept to Rodger, especially the fact that the box was the arrangement of the words and not a drawn box, as well as that he chose four words per row because he knew the entire note was sixteen words, but Rodger finally got it.

Once Rodger had the note down correctly, he commented, “That’s an, um, interesting way of doing things there, Michael.”

“It’s what works for me,” Michael replied, trying not to get irritated. “What’s your method of organizing your notes, scribbling them down catawampus and hoping to find them later?”

Rodger chuckled and snorted. “I write them on napkins and Post-it Notes. Back off. We each have different ways of being detectives.”

Michael apologized, noticing that he was becoming more emotionally sensitive as this case wore on. “Sorry. I think trying to crack this case is making us crack. Is this how you and Edward were near the end of the first case?”

“We were like this near the middle. It got a lot worse near the end,” Rodger said, having settled down to go back to sleep.

Michael looked over at his partner, and remembered something he wanted to ask. “Hey, before you go to sleep, partner, what is Ouellette’s deal with Houma?”

Rodger stirred a bit and sat back up. “Well, about five years ago, Ouellette, his wife, and their only son were visiting family in Houma. Ouellette’s son, Jason, was in his early twenties and had enlisted with the army. He had just completed basic training and was going to be shipped off to Panama—ya know, to help take that bastard Noriega down—and Ouellette thought that it would be a good idea to have a boat party with the entire clan.”

Michael nodded, taking it all in. “So what happened?”

“Well,” Rodger said, rubbing his brow as if warding off a headache, “Jason and some of his cousins and their friends want to take a midnight alligator cruise of the bayou down in Houma. Ouellette usually kept a pretty close watch on his son, but this being his last weekend in the States for a while, figured the boy could handle himself.”