by Alex Kava
“Have you made any progress in tracking him down?”
“We stopped.”
“What do you mean you stopped?”
“After we found Danny’s body, Weston said it couldn’t be the father. That a father wouldn’t be able to do that to his own son.”
“I’ve seen what fathers can do to their sons. I remember a case three, no, four years ago where a father buried his six-year-old son in a box. He dug a hole in the backyard and left just a small airhole with a piece of rubber hose. It was punishment for something stupid. I can’t even remember now what the kid had done. After several days of rain, he couldn’t find the airhole. Instead of digging up his entire backyard, he tried to make it look like a kidnapping. The wife went along with his crazy scheme. She probably didn’t want to end up in a box of her own. Maybe you should continue searching for Mr. Alverez. Didn’t you say he was abusive?”
“Yeah, the guy’s a real asshole. Beat up regularly on his wife and Danny, even after the divorce. She’s had a half-dozen restraining orders out on him. But what possible connection could there be with this boy? I don’t think Matthew Tanner even knew Danny Alverez.”
“There may not be a connection. We don’t know for sure that this boy was taken. He could still show up at a friend’s house. Or he may have run away.”
“Okay.” He sighed, not looking convinced. He slid down farther in the chair to rest his head against the back. “But you don’t really believe he ran away, do you?”
Her eyes searched his. Despite his confusion and panic, he wanted the truth. She decided to level with him.
“No. Probably not,” she said. “I knew the killer would strike again. I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“So tell me where to begin. Have you had time to figure out anything about this guy?”
She came around the table and stared at the montage of photos, notes and reports.
“He’s meticulous, in control. He takes his time, not only with the murder, but in cleaning up after himself. Though the cleaning isn’t to hide evidence—it’s part of his ritual. I think he may have done this before.” She fingered through her notes. “He’s definitely not young and immature,” she continued. “There was no sign of struggle at the site, so the victim was tied beforehand. That means he has to be strong enough to carry a seventy-to-eighty-pound boy at least three hundred to five hundred yards. I’m guessing he’s in his thirties, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds. He’s white. He’s educated and he’s intelligent.”
At some point during her description, Morrelli sat up, suddenly alert and interested in the mess she poked through.
“Remember at the hospital after I examined the Alverez boy, I told you he may have given the boy last rites? That would mean the killer’s Catholic, maybe not practicing, but his Catholic guilt is still strong. Strong enough that he’s bothered by a medallion in the shape of a cross, so he rips it off. He performs extreme unction, perhaps to atone for his sin. You might check to see whether this boy, Matthew Tanner,” she said, looking at Nick to make certain she had the name right. When he nodded, she continued, “if he belonged to the same church as the Alverez boy.”
“Right offhand, I’d say it’s unlikely,” Nick said. “Danny went to school and church out by the base. The Tanner house is only a few blocks from St. Margaret’s, unless the Tanners aren’t Catholic.”
“Chances are, the killer doesn’t even know the boys.” Maggie started pacing again. “It could be he simply looks for easy targets, boys out alone, with no one else around. I do think he may still be connected somehow to a Catholic church, and quite possibly in this area. Odd as it might seem, these guys don’t often stray too far from their own familiar territory.”
“He sounds like a real sicko. You said he may have done this before. Is it possible he may have a record? Maybe child abuse or sexual molestation? Maybe even beating up a gay lover?”
“You’re assuming he’s gay or that he’s a pedophile?”
“An adult male who does this to little boys—isn’t that a safe assumption?”
“No, not at all. He may be worried that he is, or he may have homosexual tendencies, but no, I don’t think he’s gay, nor do I believe he’s a pedophile.”
“And you can tell all that just from the evidence we’ve found?”
“No. I’m guessing that from the evidence we haven’t found. The victim didn’t appear to be sexually abused. There were no traces of semen in the mouth or rectum, though he may have washed it off. There were no signs of any penetration, no indication of sexual stimulation. Even with Jeffreys’ victims, only one—Bobby Wilson,” she said, checking her notes. “Only the Wilson boy showed signs of sexual abuse and those seemed very obvious. Multiple penetration, lots of tearing and bruising.”
“Wait a minute. If this guy is only copying Jeffreys, how can we be sure any of what he does is an indication of who he is?”
“Copycats choose murders that often play out their own fantasies. Sometimes they add their individual touches. I can’t find any indications that Jeffreys gave his victims last rites, though it could easily have been overlooked.”
“I do know he asked for a priest to hear his confession before he was executed.”
“How do you know that?” She looked down at him, only then realizing she was half sitting on the chair’s armrest. Her thigh rubbed against Morrelli’s arm. She stood up. Perhaps a bit too suddenly. He didn’t seem to notice.
“You probably know that my dad was the sheriff who brought in Jeffreys. Well, he had a front-row seat at the execution.”
“Is it possible to ask him some questions?”
“He and my mom bought an RV a few years ago. They travel year-round. They check in from time to time, but I don’t know how to get ahold of them. I’m sure once they hear about this, he’ll be in touch, but it may take a while.”
“I wonder if it’s possible to track down the priest?”
“No problem. Father Francis is still here at St. Margaret’s. Though I don’t know what help he could be. It’s not likely he’ll share Jeffreys’ confession.”
“I’d still like to talk to him. Then we better talk to the Tanners. You’ve obviously met them already?”
“His mom. Matthew’s parents are divorced.”
Maggie stared at him, then began digging through her files.
“What is it?” Nick leaned forward, almost touching her side.
She found what she was looking for, flipped through the pages, then stopped. “All three of Jeffreys’ victims came from single-parent households. Mothers raising their sons alone.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there may be nothing random about how he picks his victims. I was wrong about him waiting to simply find a boy alone. He chooses each one very carefully. You said the Alverez boy left his bike and newspapers against a fence somewhere?”
“Right. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”
“And there was no sign of a struggle?”
“None. It looked like he carefully parked his bike and got in with this guy. That’s why we thought it might be someone he knew. These kids are small-town kids, but they still know the drill. I just don’t think Danny would get into a stranger’s vehicle.”
“Unless he thought it was someone he could trust.”
Maggie could see Morrelli growing more and more concerned. She recognized the panic, that look on people’s faces when they realized the killer could be someone in their community.
“What do mean? Like someone who pretended to know him or his mom?”
“Perhaps. Or someone who looked official, maybe even wearing a uniform.” Maggie had seen it dozens of times before. No one seemed to question whether a person in uniform actually belonged in the uniform.
“Maybe a military uniform like his dad’s?” Nick asked.
“Or a white lab coat, or even a police officer’s uniform.”
CHAPTER 16
Timmy slid against
the wall until he was sitting on the floor, watching the bathroom door. He had to pee but knew better than to interrupt his mom. If he knocked, she would insist he come in and take care of business while she finished her makeup. He was getting too old to pee with his mom in the same room.
He listened to her singing and decided to retie his tennis shoes. The crack in the sole had spread. Soon he’d need to ask for new ones, even though his mom couldn’t afford them. He had overheard her on the phone with his dad and knew his dad hadn’t sent them any of the money the court had said he was supposed to send each month.
It was something from The Little Mermaid—that’s what his mom was singing. Her Jamaican accent needed help, even though she had watched that movie almost as many times as he had watched Star Wars. The phone started ringing. She would never be able to hear it down “under the sea.” He scrambled to his feet to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Timmy? This is Mrs. Calloway—Chad’s mom. Is your mom there?”
He almost blurted out that Chad had hit him first. If Chad said it was the other way around, he was lying. Instead, he said, “Just a minute. I’ll get her.”
Chad Calloway was a bully, but if Timmy had told his mom that Chad had purposely inflicted the bruises, she would have most definitely made him quit soccer. And now the bully had probably lied about his own bruises.
Timmy knocked softly on the bathroom door. If she didn’t answer, he’d have to tell Mrs. Calloway that his mom couldn’t come to the phone right now. The door, however, clicked and opened. His heart sank down to his cracked shoes.
“Was that the phone?” She came out smelling good and bringing a trail of perfume with her.
“It’s Mrs. Calloway.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Calloway, Chad’s mom.”
She squinted at him, her eyebrows raised as she waited for more.
“I don’t know what she wants.” He shrugged and followed her to the phone even though he still had to pee, more than ever now.
“This is Christine Hamilton. Yes, of course.” She spun around to Timmy and mouthed, “Calloway?”
“She’s Chad’s mom,” he whispered. She never listened to him.
“Yes, you’re Chad’s mom.”
He couldn’t tell what Mrs. Calloway was telling his mom. She paced as she normally did while on the phone, nodding though the other person couldn’t see her. Her answers were short. A couple of “uh-huhs” and one “oh, sure.”
Then suddenly, she stopped and gripped the phone. Here it was. He needed to prepare his story. Wait a minute. He didn’t need a story. The truth was, Chad had picked on him. No, beat the shit out of him was more accurate. And for no real reason, other than he liked it.
“Thank you for calling, Mrs. Calloway.”
His mom hung up the phone and stared out the window. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry. She couldn’t make him quit soccer. He was ready to spit out his defense when she turned and beat him to it.
“Timmy, one of your teammates is missing.”
“What?”
“Matthew Tanner never came home last night after the soccer game.”
So it had nothing to do with Chad?
“Some of the other soccer parents are meeting at the Tanner house this morning to help out.”
“Is Matthew in trouble? Why didn’t he go home?” He hoped he didn’t sound relieved, but in fact, he was.
“Now, I don’t want you to worry, Timmy, but do you remember my articles about that boy, Danny Alverez?”
He nodded. How could he not remember? She had sent him out yesterday morning to buy five extra copies of the newspaper, even though she could have had as many copies as she wanted from work.
“Well, we don’t know for sure yet, so I don’t want you to get scared, but the man who took Danny may have taken Matthew.”
His mom looked worried. Those lines around her mouth showed up every time she frowned.
“Go use the bathroom, and I’ll take you to school. I don’t want you walking today.”
“Okay.” He raced back to the bathroom. Poor Matthew, he found himself thinking. Too bad Chad couldn’t have been the one taken, instead.
CHAPTER 17
Christine couldn’t believe her luck, though she tried to contain her excitement. While Timmy had been in the bathroom, she had called Taylor Corby, the news editor, her new boss. They had talked several times over the weekend by phone, and, although they had never met, Christine knew exactly who he was. Her coworkers in the “Living Today” section called Corby a news nerd. He wore funky wire-rimmed glasses and seemed to own only black trousers and white oxford shirts, which he decorated with different Looney Tunes ties. To make matters worse, he rode a bicycle even in the winter—and not because he couldn’t afford a car, but simply because he wanted to.
This morning when she told him about Matthew Tanner, Corby quietly listened.
“Christine, you know what that means?”
It was easy to understand why he had chosen print instead of broadcast journalism. His voice never changed, showed no emotion. And regardless of his choice of words, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether he was excited, bored or simply disinterested. “If you have copy for this evening’s paper, we will have scooped the other media three days in a row.”
“I still need to convince Mrs. Tanner to let me interview her.”
“Interview or not, you already have enough for a great story. Just make sure you substantiate your facts.”
“Of course.”
Now, Christine looked over at her son, knowing he must be worried about his friend. He had made no fuss about her driving him to school and had sat most of the trip in silence. She turned the corner to the school and immediately slammed on the brakes. A line of cars extended to the corner as parents pulled in front of the school to drop off their children. On the sidewalks, parents walked alongside their kids. Every intersection in view had adult crossing guards accompanying their smaller charges.
A horn behind them blasted, making both Christine and Timmy jump. She inched the car forward, getting in line.
“What’s going on, Mom?” Timmy snapped out of his seat belt so he could sit on his feet, allowing a view over the dash.
“Parents are just making sure their kids get to school okay.” Some of the parents looked frantic, scurrying along with one hand on a shoulder, an arm, a back, as though the extra contact would add protection.
“Because of Matthew?”
“We don’t know what’s happened to Matthew yet. He may have just gotten upset and run away from home. You shouldn’t say anything about Matthew.” She shouldn’t have told Timmy about Matthew. Though she had promised to be open and honest with her son after Bruce left, this was not something she should have shared with him. Besides, very few people even knew about Matthew. This panic was in response to her articles. Just the mention of Ronald Jeffreys invoked a protectiveness in parents. This was the same panic parents had displayed when Jeffreys had been on the prowl.
Christine recognized Richard Melzer from KRAP radio. He hurried up the sidewalk in his trench coat, carrying his briefcase and holding the hand of a small blond girl, his daughter no doubt. Christine needed to get to Michelle Tanner’s as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be long before others found out about Matthew.
The line moved along at a crawl, and she searched for an opening. Perhaps she could just let Timmy out here. She knew he wouldn’t mind, except everyone would notice.
“Mom?”
“Timmy, we’re moving as fast as possible.”
“Mom, I’m pretty sure Matthew wouldn’t just run away from home.”
She glanced at her small son perched on his feet, watching the unusual parade outside his window. His hair stuck up where he had plastered down the cowlick. The sprinkle of freckles only made his skin more pale. When had this little boy grown so wise? She should have felt proud, yet this morning it made her a little sad that she could no longer preserve his inno
cence.
CHAPTER 18
Brightly colored stained-glass figures stared down from their heavenly perch. The scent of burning incense and candle wax filled Maggie’s nostrils. Why was it that being inside of a Catholic church always made her feel as if she was twelve again? Immediately, she thought of the black bra and panties she wore—too much lace, an inappropriate color. The butt of her gun stabbed into her side. She reached inside her jacket and readjusted the shoulder strap. Should she even be carrying a gun inside a church? Of course, she was being ridiculous.
She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the click-clack of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.
“Everything okay?”
He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin—even more pronounced—added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.
“O’Dell, are you okay?” he asked again.
She looked around the church. It seemed large for a town of Platte City’s size, with rows and rows of wooden pews. She couldn’t imagine all of them being filled.
“I’m fine,” she finally answered, then regretted taking so long because he truly did look concerned. His eyes betrayed his fresh appearance, still puffy from too little sleep. She had tried to hide her own signs of fatigue with a bit of makeup.
“It seems so big,” she said, trying to explain her distraction.