by Chris Culver
“Not a clue,” said Lawson. “Approximate times of death range from one year to two months. On two of the victims, our coroner found soot in the trachea below the vocal cords. They had breathed in smoke, which means the Apostate burned them alive. You told Bryan Costa the Apostate had turned that church into hell. It was an astute observation.”
My tea had cooled enough to drink.
“I don’t like being right about that.”
He put his cup down and glanced up at me with a crooked half smile on his face. “I rarely say nice things to people. You should accept the compliment.”
“Thank you,” I said, returning his smile with a tight one of my own. “What do we do next?”
“You keep working your double homicide. The Apostate didn’t kill your victims or abduct Trinity and Thad. I’m sorry.”
I put my drink down and furrowed my brow.
“Is that conjecture, or do you know something I don’t?”
“We’ve ID’d the Apostate from a fingerprint found in the church,” he said. “He’s an art history professor who sits on the admissions committee at Waterford College—which every victim applied to. He’s a loner, he’s white, he’s intelligent, and he had access to every victim’s admissions application. He fits our profile, and he’s got a flair for the dramatic. Two years ago, he curated an exhibit at the St. Louis Art Museum called Expositions from Hell. It was a series of paintings by Hieronymus Bosch.”
I stayed silent as that set in.
“Does he have a record?” I asked.
“No, which is why it took us a while to find him,” said Lawson. “We found a set of prints at the church but didn’t have anything to match them to until a couple of hours ago when a member of the college’s custodial staff gave us a cup from his office.”
I looked down at my drink and nodded.
“Why would an art history professor murder his potential students?” I asked.
Lawson sipped his coffee and then took a bite of his pecan roll while tilting his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.
“If you want answers, you’re in the wrong business. In law enforcement, we make arrests. If we’re lucky, we prevent tragedy. We don’t give answers. I thought you’d be excited to hear we’re close to arresting a serial murderer who’s already killed a lot of people.”
That broke me out of my stupor. I drew in a breath and nodded.
“I am glad, but it’s bittersweet,” I said. “If you’re right, Trinity and Thad are once again my primary suspects in the murder of Mark and Lilly Foster. For a while, it was nice to think they were innocent kids.”
“Don’t focus on innocent or guilty. Focus on alive and dead. Trinity and Thad may have killed Mark and Lilly Foster, but they’re alive. They’ll spend a few years in prison, but they’ll get out when they’re still young enough to rebuild their lives. You can give them a chance to start over. Before you can do that, though, you’ve got to catch them.”
He was right. He was also inspiring. Without wishing it, I found the corners of my mouth turning upward.
“That was helpful,” I said. “You’re much better at giving speeches than my actual boss.”
Lawson smiled.
“Thank you,” he said before drinking his coffee. “Like you said, I’m not your boss, so you don’t have to listen to me. But can I give you some advice on your case?”
“Sure,” I said, resting my elbows on the table.
“You’ve been up all night after working the entire day previous. Go home and sleep.”
I scoffed and picked up my tea. “That’s your big advice? I was expecting something wise and uplifting.”
“You’re no good to anybody if you’re exhausted. You’ve got a good team, and they’re working. They need a leader who can keep up with them, not somebody so tired she struggles to put her thoughts in order.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do I sound as if I’m struggling to order my thoughts?”
“Not yet, but it’s not even noon, and you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you,” said Lawson. “Trust your team. Go home, sleep, and then get an update.”
“No one has ever ordered me to take a nap before.”
“It wasn’t an order,” said Lawson. “It was a suggestion.”
I focused on my paper cup of tea and felt my limbs grow just a little heavy. I stood as a dull, constant pain traveled up my legs and into my spine.
“Looks like I’m going home to take a nap,” I said. The moment the words left my lips, I yawned. “If I didn’t know you were an FBI agent, I’d suspect you put something in my drink.”
Lawson stood up. “Go home, Detective. You’ve earned a few hours off.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, picking up my tea. Lawson and I walked back to the station in relative silence. Once we reached the building, he went inside, while I got in my truck. As I drove home, I wondered what it would be like to work for a boss like that. Sheriff Delgado was a horrible human being, but the two sheriffs before him had been good at their jobs. I learned a lot working with them, but none of them had ever reminded me of my reasons for becoming a police officer. They had never made me feel as if the work mattered. Agent Lawson did. That was a rare gift. I hoped his employees appreciated that.
Once I got in the house, I locked up, changed into some pajamas, and crashed onto the bed for one of the best naps of my life.
17
I slept for a few hours and woke up when the hinges of my front door squealed open. The sun still beat against the curtains in my bedroom, and my lips were chapped, but my body felt relaxed and strong. I swung my legs off the bed.
“Hey, Joe, you around?”
The voice belonged to Harry Grainger, St. Augustine’s former sheriff and one of the very few persons who had a key to my house.
“In my room,” I called. “Give me a minute.”
I threw on a pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt before leaving my bedroom. Harry was in the living room, looking through the piles of paper on my coffee table. He had a white file box at his feet and a coy smile on his face.
“The county’s only full-time detective sleeping through the heart of the day,” he said. “Oh, how the standards have fallen since my retirement.”
“Shove it, boss,” I said. “I picked up a double homicide late last night and didn’t get much sleep. What’s going on?”
“Just delivering the day’s gossip,” he said, motioning toward his file box. “It’s thinner than usual.”
I nodded. “Yeah, Agent Lawson is boxing Sheriff Delgado out of the Apostate case. I’m surprised we can access anything. Trisha still at work?”
Harry nodded and sat down to pop the top off the box.
“Most of what we’ve got are phone dumps from the victims,” he said, pulling out two thick manila envelopes. “The boys and girls who were dating spoke to each other often, but none of the couples contacted the other couples. So that’s a dead end.”
I yawned and stretched.
“The Bureau’s got a suspect,” I said. “They matched fingerprints at the church to a man who fits their profile. They’ve got their guy.”
Harry paused and cocked his head at me. “Why haven’t they made an arrest?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re trying to shore up their case against him. Maybe they’re hoping he’ll lead them to his other victims if they watch him long enough. Either way, they’ve got him under surveillance twenty-four hours a day. He didn’t kill my victims last night.”
Harry leaned back and crossed his arms. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Yeah. My case is ugly. I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nodded. “Who’s the Bureau’s suspect?”
“An art history professor on the admissions committee at Waterford College. The kids all applied to the same school, so he had all their contact information. That was the connection. He fits the profile, but even if their profile is off, it’s hard to argue against fingerprints.”
Harry r
an a hand across his brow and then looked at the stacks of paper on the ground and the whiteboards scattered throughout the room.
“So it’s over. I hate to admit it, but I’ll miss this,” he said. “I was useful again.”
“Oh, even if you’re not working a case, you’re still useful,” I said. “Just look at all the stuff you carried into my living room. I mean, you’ve got at least a few more years until your back and legs give out. You can start a moving service. You can call it ‘Old Man and a Truck.’”
“Ha,” he said, his voice and face flat and devoid of emotion. I smiled.
“You’re a friend who’s there when I need him, too, so you’ve got that going for you.”
Harry’s expression softened a little, and he nodded.
“At least I’ve got that,” he said. “Because I care about you, I’ll leave all the heavy file boxes in your living room. I know how hard it is to find time to exercise when you’re on the job. This way, you dovetail two activities into one.”
“You’re a real pal,” I said, standing.
Harry stood and nodded. “Since this is over, I’m going fishing. If you need anything, call me.”
“Will do, old man,” I said. I walked him to the front door and waved as he drove off. I felt better than I had when I first got home, but I didn’t feel energized. Still, I had work to do. I pulled out my cell phone to call Darlene McEvoy with my forensics lab, but I stopped and groaned when I saw a reminder on the screen. I had a meeting scheduled with my therapist at five. Terrific.
I took a shower and then made a turkey and cheese sandwich for a late afternoon snack before hopping in my truck. It didn’t take long to drive downtown, so, before going to my session, I stopped by Rise and Grind for the second time that day and purchased a bottle of water along with a cheese danish. The danish tasted good, and the water was wet. I couldn’t complain.
Afterwards, I went to Dr. Taylor’s office and did my best to avoid saying anything personal for an hour. It took work to stay evasive that long with a persistent therapist, but eventually Dr. Taylor’s frustration overcame her professional demeanor.
“This will be our last meeting,” she said near the end of our session. “I can give you the names of other therapists, but you obviously don’t value my time or expertise.”
“It’s not personal,” I said. “You’re a good therapist, but I don’t need therapy.”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Do you have nightmares?” she asked.
“Everybody has nightmares.”
“Do you have them every night?”
I looked out the window.
“If you lived my life, you’d have nightmares, too.”
“I know I would,” she said, nodding. “And I’d see a therapist.”
I smiled to humor her and then tilted my head to the side.
“The nightmares are a symptom, doc. I’ve had them my whole life, and I can deal with them. The things I have a hard time dealing with are my memories. Can you do anything about those?”
She blinked and then folded her hands together.
“I can help you process the things that have happened to you to help you overcome the tragedies of your past. That’s my job.”
“I’ve already processed my memories. I know who I am. My mother was a drug-addicted prostitute who couldn’t get her life together to take care of her own kid. I’m a woman whose foster father raped her before she even had a driver’s license. I’m the adopted daughter of a family that loves and supports me. And I’m the woman who fired my weapon in the line of duty while trying to protect two of my colleagues—one of whom died and the other of whom was permanently injured.
“I also drink too much, I have few friends, and I push away everybody in my life because I don’t want anyone to hurt me. Some days I feel sad. Other days I feel lonely. I still wake up every morning and put on my badge and go to work because that’s my job. If you can help me do my job better, great. If you can’t, thanks for trying. I appreciate what you’re doing, but I’m fine.”
Dr. Taylor blinked and smiled, her expression soft.
“Leaning on other people doesn’t make you weak,” she said. “You understand that?”
I tilted my head to the side. “Intellectually.”
Dr. Taylor closed her notepad. “Do you have someone you can talk to? A friend? A boyfriend?”
“I’m well-loved,” I said.
She lowered her chin. “Please answer my question. Do you have someone you can talk to?”
Trisha at my station would sit and talk if I needed her. Harry would, too. As much as I cared about them, though, I couldn’t open up to them. Only one person came to mind.
“My mom. She was a police officer.”
Dr. Taylor considered me and then stood and walked to her desk.
“I’m signing your return-to-duty form,” she said. “If you’re willing to talk like this, I wouldn’t mind seeing you again. Maybe once a month.”
“Is that necessary?”
She looked up at me. “It would help you, but it’s just a recommendation. Think about it. In your job, it’s nice to have someone objective to talk to.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask for,” she said, smiling.
I left the doctor’s office a few minutes later and drove to the grocery store, where I picked up a frozen pizza and ingredients for a salad. It was a lot of food for one person, but it’d get me through two or three days. When I reached the house, I turned on my oven and checked my phone. While in Dr. Taylor’s office, I had missed one call from my station and two others from the same unknown number.
As a detective, I passed out a lot of business cards to potential witnesses and sources, so it wasn’t uncommon for complete strangers to call at crazy hours to tell me things. Most of those calls wasted my time, but now and then somebody offered information I never would have gotten otherwise. Police work was like that sometimes.
The caller could have been a witness on a case. Or it could have been a lonely person who thought I had a nice ass. I got those calls, too. Whoever it was, I needed to return it. I dialed the number and sat down at my breakfast table in the kitchen. The phone rang three times before a small, female voice answered. My entire world stopped at once because, with one word, I knew who had called me.
“Aunt Lacey?” I asked.
“Joey?”
I had loved Aunt Lacey, but I hadn’t expected to feel my throat tighten or my skin to tingle when I heard her voice again.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s Joe. I called you the other day. I hope I didn’t bother you.”
“No, honey,” she said, her voice still as sweet as I remembered. “You’re not bothering me. How are you? I’ve seen you on TV.”
I didn’t know which news appearance she was referencing, but cops didn’t make the news for good things. My appearances had been for reasons worse than most lately.
“I’m good,” I said. “I’m happy.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. We lapsed into an uneasy silence for a few seconds. Then I cleared my throat.
“I called because I was hoping to talk to you about Erin,” I said.
“Your mom,” said Lacey. I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me.
“I came out of Erin, but she wasn’t my mom,” I said. “It’s important you understand that.”
Lacey drew in a pained, low breath. “Erin tried her best. She loved you.”
If Erin had loved me, she would have gotten her life together for me. Lacey didn’t want to hear my vitriol, though, and I hadn’t called to start a fight. Besides, as much as I wanted to hate Erin, I couldn’t. Years ago, I had made a conscious decision to cut her out of my life. I gave up feeling anything at all toward her. Even still, my skin grew hot, my throat tightened, and my heart pounded.
“I understand she thought so,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and controlled. “I didn
’t call you to hear excuses for her.”
Lacey paused.
“I’m sorry if that’s what you think I was doing,” she said, her voice soft. “I’m glad you called, Joey. I’ve missed hearing your voice.”
It wasn’t a rebuke, but it stung like one. I drew in a deep breath and ran a hand across my face. My arms and legs felt heavy. Lacey was fifty or sixty miles away from me, but I wanted to get behind my furniture and hide.
“I’m sorry I lost touch. Life got hard after Erin overdosed. I was bouncing around from one foster home to another.”
“It was hard for me, too. I lost my friend, and I lost my niece.”
Growing up, I didn’t have a grandma or a big sister to hold me at night and tell me I’d be okay. I had a mom who shot heroin and turned tricks in cheap hotels. Aunt Lacey was the closest thing I had to a family. She hugged me when I cried and loved me even when I misbehaved. She hadn’t wanted anything from me, either. At the time, I didn’t understand how rare that kind of love was. I did now. For a few seconds, my lips moved, but no words came out. Finally, I drew in a breath.
“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking hard as my eyes grew moist. “This is harder than I thought. I need to go.”
“Don’t hang up yet,” said Lacey. “You and your mom had differences, but she left you some things when she died. You need to call her lawyer. She’s a nice lady. Her name is Brenda Collins. She works in Clayton.”
“Erin gave me enough memories and scars as is,” I said. “Whatever this lawyer has, tell her I don’t want it. If it’s valuable, she can donate it to the Salvation Army.”
“Honey, you need to call—”
“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up before she said anything else. Then I stared at my phone, half-wishing for her to call me back and half-dreading to hear it ring and to see her number on the screen. I had so many emotions running through me that I didn’t have names for most of them. My skin felt both hot and cold, my heart raced, my eyes burned with tears, and every muscle in my body twitched.
Above all that anger and pain, though, I felt guilty. Aunt Lacey had loved me, and I had loved her. She may not have been a blood relative, but she had cared for me when Erin couldn’t. She deserved better than to be pushed out of my life and forgotten.