The Bourbon Street Ripper (Sins of the Father, Book 1) Read Online Free

tired eyes and scraggly gray hair. His black suit and white shirt were crumpled, as if it needed a trip to the dry cleaners as much as its owner needed a trip to the day spa. The man himself looked grim and serious.
    “Morton,” said Rodger with a nod of the head to the New Orleans coroner.
    “Dr. Melancon,” said Michael. He held out his hand, which the coroner ignored.
    “Rodger. Michael,” replied Morton with the look of a man who would rather not be outside in the rain. “I’m sure you know what this looks like, right?”
    “The Bourbon Street Ripper murders. It’s obviously a copycat.” Rodger looked over Morton’s shoulder toward the doorway leading to the crime scene. A pair of EMTs were rolling out a covered gurney, a third one behind them holding a black garbage bag that looked mostly full.
    “It’s goddamn butchery! That’s what it is,” exclaimed the coroner quite suddenly, his charcoal eyes burning with indignation. “Whoever did this knew exactly how the Ripper did it, down to the amputations and living autopsy at the end. It’s sheer barbarism!”
    Rodger didn’t let Morton’s outrage affect him. He knew that Morton had a personal reason for feeling so passionate about these murders. And one glance over at Michael, who had flinched at the outburst, confirmed to Rodger that his partner had no idea.
    “All the same,” inquired Rodger calmly, “your assessment is that it’s a copycat, correct?”
    Morton thrust his wrinkled hands into his coat pockets and spat on the sidewalk. “If you’re asking me if the victim died of exsanguination, then yes. If you’re asking if there was severe physical trauma, then yes.” Morton’s voice had once again considerably raised, so much that the trio of tourists, who were still on the balcony, perked up their heads with interest.
    “If you’re asking me if she suffered, then hell, bloody yes.” Morton was practically in a fit now, to the point where Rodger was holding out his hands to try and calm him. To the senior detective’s dismay, the coroner just railed on, “But if you want the really gory details, Rodger, you’re going to have to wait until I have the autopsy report ready. But don’t worry, if this is anything like the Bourbon Street Ripper murders, we’ll get plenty more where that came from! Until then, I suggest you go say some prayers at Saint Louis Cathedral, because Satan is back in the Big Easy!”
    With that, Morton stormed off, drawing looks from the remaining officers and officials at the scene, some of whom shook their heads at the over-the-top outburst from the coroner.
    Michael, who by this point wore an exasperated look, turned to his partner, and mouthed the words, “What the hell?”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Rodger said as he took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it into a nearby puddle. “He has his reasons for being so sensitive about this shit. More so than most of us.”
    With that bit of wisdom dispensed, Rodger grew silent, his mind working. He mulled over a way to start the investigation off. He was sure it was a copycat, even though he knew that they needed more than one victim before City Hall would consider it a real copycat murderer.
    Goddamn bureaucracy.
    Rodger frowned. There was one way to get a jump on this investigation if it was indeed a copycat. It would require bothering someone he didn’t want to bother, but given the grotesque nature of the crime, he felt there was no other choice.
    Rodger began moving to his squad car. “Come on, let’s get going.”
    Rodger heard a quick “Hmm?” from his partner before hearing those polished shoes scuffling after him.
    Like a duckling hurrying to catch up to its mother, Michael scuttled over the sidewalk to the passenger side of the car. “Where are we going?”
    “To see someone who can help us get a leg up on this damn thing,” responded Rodger as he slid into the driver’s seat and strapped himself in tightly. The receptacle for the