by Paul Cleave
“See, you do understand. Your actions have consequences, Father. Or should I say Dad?”
“I . . . I don’t know who you are.”
“Would you like to know?”
“Of course! Of course I would!”
“I’m the man who just killed your daughter, Father. Her name was Rachel Tyler. She died slowly, Dad. She was my sister, and she died slowly.”
“No,” Father Julian says, the word coming out in a whisper, and I can hear the pain in his voice. I know that pain. I think I even said the same thing when I picked up the phone to learn Emily was dead and my wife gone forever.
“I told her about you. She never knew her dad, but in the moments before she died I told her. She knew everything she wanted to know and then more than she could handle. Do you think that knowledge comforted her?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“You what, Father? You don’t know? You don’t know what to say? How do you think I felt, finding out who I was? How do you think it felt being abandoned?”
“Please, please, don’t . . .”
“Don’t what? You don’t even know what to do, do you, Father? You feel helpless. Do you suddenly feel as though God has abandoned you? I know all about abandonment. You feel helpless and that’s exactly how Rachel felt in those last moments. Tell me, Father, do you still want to do something good for her?”
Father Julian doesn’t answer. I can hear his breathing. It sounds louder than it ought to be on a tape recorder with such a small speaker. The vocals are tinny, but that breathing is deep, like a wounded whale.
“You can’t kill her,” Julian says at last, but it’s such a ludicrous thing to say to a man who has already committed the act. “Please, please, tell me this is wrong.”
“Bury her,” the killer says.
“What?”
“I’m giving you a chance, Dad. You can bury her and you can pray over her. You can visit her as often as you want—something you never did while she was alive.”
“This is madness,” Father Julian says.
“What other choice do you have? I have kept her for you to bury. She is here, at your church. You cannot go to the police, because you can’t afford your parish to know she was your daughter. Or that you have others.”
“I have no other children.”
“You have me. All you can do now is bury her and pray and maybe we’ll talk about it next time.”
“Next time?”
But the man doesn’t answer. The confessional door opens then closes. Father Julian cries out for the man to wait: there are footsteps, then nothing. A few seconds later the tape goes quiet, and ten seconds after that a new voice comes through the speaker, confessing to an attraction to somebody who isn’t his wife.
I rewind the tape and listen through it again. The words of Rachel’s killer are chilling and form knots in my stomach. Hearing them again is almost enough to take me there, to be inside that confessional booth. I wonder where Rachel’s body was left, whether she was placed on a pew or dumped on the doorstep. I picture Father Julian cradling her, part of him wanting to call the police, a greater part not wanting his secrets exposed. He was a coward who could not betray the confessional, a coward who asked Bruce, his son, to bury the girls and to bury the truth.
I check the log and find the date the second girl went missing. I start forwarding through the corresponding tape, going through snippets of dialogue until I hear the same voice. I rewind it a bit and find the beginning of the conversation.
“You lied to me, Father.”
“I lied to you how, my son?” Father Julian asks.
“My son? That’s very accurate, isn’t it.”
“Oh my God.”
I pause the tape and check the time stamp against the log. This time Father Julian has written down Luke Matthews. Last time it was Paul Peters. I check off the rest of the dates and find more names that stick out: John Philips and Matthew Simons. Four names that are mixtures of names of the apostles. Father Julian never wrote down his son’s real name. Did he not know it? Was it a son he paid child support to? Or one he completely abandoned?
“I knew there were others. And now Julie is the second.”
“What have you done?” Father Julian asks.
“Did you know her?”
“What have you done?” Father Julian repeats.
“You probably never saw her, did you.”
“No.”
“Then thank me. You can give her the same burial you gave her sister. My sister.”
Father Julian starts to cry. His sobs through the tape are the hardest things I’ve ever had to listen to.
I press pause and go into the kitchen. I grab the drink out of the fridge. I need it. I get it up to my mouth and the fluid touches my lips, then I throw it into the sink. I make some coffee. Suddenly I don’t want to go back into my office. I don’t want to listen to the rest of the conversation. I just want to burn the tapes and drive to the nearest liquor store and immerse myself in the bourbon that has kept me so numb for the last month. I look into the sink, but none of what I just poured in there is left. Father Julian’s sobs have brought tears to my eyes. I close them and the tears break away and run down the sides of my face. I am almost with him as he listens. I know how he feels hearing for the first time his daughter is dead. I went through it once. He has gone through it twice. Did he go through it more than twice? I think he did. I think he went through it four times. Did it get easier or harder? Did it age him, did it break him, did it make him deny his God, or make his faith stronger? He could not break the confessional vow. Even when there was a pattern and he knew what was happening, he did not break it. He could break it to blackmail adulterers, but not to save his children. What twisted morals Father Julian had, but then churches are full of people preaching one thing and practicing another. Every day he must have struggled with the man he was. Perhaps he didn’t want to struggle anymore. He hadn’t been to his safe-deposit box in the eight weeks before he died. He knew the key was missing, and maybe he knew Bruce took it. Maybe he even figured out that it had been given to me. I think he knew that in some way this was coming to an end. I think he stood with his back to the man who would kill him, and he waited for it to happen.
I don’t touch the coffee. I leave it on the counter and walk back to the office.
“You can pray over them, Father. You can pray at the same time.”
“How did you know she was your sister?”
“Perhaps God can tell you.”
The confession ends. I find the third one, and match the time stamp to John Philips.
“Why are you doing this?” Father Julian asks as his son tells him he has met another of his sisters. “What did they do to you?”
“It’s what they could have done.”
“Why any of this? Why come here and tell me?”
“Because you’re the only family I have.”
I keep listening. The dialogue is similar to the others. Father Julian’s sobs are just as loud. A name comes up. Jessica Shanks. She was the third girl to have gone missing and the oldest. She was the one Father Julian started paying for in the beginning, five years before Rachel was born.
I stop the tape and find the last confession.
“They are all dead now, Father.”
“I don’t want you coming back here.”
“All of the sisters. You can see them whenever you like. Do you now finally take the time to visit them?”
“I want you to leave.”
“Am I right?”
“What?” Father Julian asks.
“There are no more, are there.”
“No.”
“If you’re lying to me, Father, I will find out.”
“I know.”
“And I won’t be happy.”
“I’m not lying,” Father Julian says.
“If you are lying, Father, I will do two things. I will find the girls and I will kill them. I will make them suffer. Do you want to know what
the second thing is?”
“No,” Father Julian says, but there is no doubt he’s about to find out.
“I’m going to come back here, Dad, and what I’m going to do is cut out your tongue so you can never lie to me ever again.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
It’s about as official as it can get. The dead girls are Father Julian’s daughters. Their killer is Father Julian’s son. I look down at the photographs of Jeremy and Simon and Bruce. Then I look at the photograph of the fifth girl, Deborah. Could be she is dead already, dead and buried and never found, or it could be she is living in another city in another part of the world, oceans and landscapes away from all of this.
Father Julian’s logs show who he was recording and blackmailing, but they don’t show how many children he had. The bank statements don’t show that either. There aren’t any Aldermans in these statements for a start. There isn’t enough information to know how many women Father Julian used his position to take advantage of.
There are seven names on the bank statements. Four of them belong to the families of the dead girls. Of the three left, two might be for Simon and Jeremy, and one might be for Deborah, or it could be for different children I don’t know about. All I can do is hope the photographs match up with the bank statements.
I have three first names—Jeremy, Simon, and Deborah—and three last names from the bank statements. I grab a phone book and start matching the names up, hoping for a hit, and when the first one comes I end up speaking to Mrs. Leigh Carmel. I identify myself and she quickly asks what it’s about, and there is a hesitancy in her voice that suggests she thinks I’m about to try and sell her something. I tell her I’m trying to track down her son, figuring I have a two-to-one chance it’s a son rather than a daughter, and I’m correct.
“What’s he done now?” she asks.
“I just need to talk to him. It’s important.”
“He’s always done something,” she says. “That’s always been the problem with Jeremy. Why don’t you speak to his probation officer? They seem to have a closer relationship than we’ve ever had.”
She gives me the number, and I hang up and call the probation officer straightaway, a guy by the name of Austin Bracken. Bracken doesn’t sound thrilled to hear from me.
“You know that ain’t the kind of information I can give out over the phone,” he says. “Not to a private investigator.”
“How about I give you my number and he can call me?”
“We’re not in this business to forward messages,” he says.
“Okay, okay, let me think a minute. Right, can you tell me where he was two years ago? Was he in jail?”
“Two years ago? Yeah. He was in jail then. He’s been in for a four-year stretch. Got let out two months ago,” he says, which means Carmel was in jail when Rachel Tyler was killed.
“What’d he do?”
“It’s public record,” he says. “Look it up.”
I thank him for his time and cross Jeremy Carmel off my list. It leaves me with two first names and two last names that could match up either way.
My next hit comes a few calls later, when a woman answers the phone and I ask for Simon.
“Who?”
“Sorry, I mean Deborah. I’m trying to get hold of her.”
“Well, so are we. We haven’t seen her since yesterday. Can I ask who’s calling?”
Her words make me tighten my grip on the phone. I tell her who I am and that I’m a private investigator.
“Investigating what?” she asks. “Has something happened to Deborah? Is she in trouble? Is that why we haven’t heard from her?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I say, hoping my words are true.
“Then what?”
“I just need to get hold of her. It’s important.”
“I don’t like the way you sound,” she says, and I realize my grip is so tight on the phone my knuckles have turned white. “You make it sound like she’s in danger.”
I decide to go with the truth. “She might be. Please, you have to help me out here, I need to—”
“What kind of danger? Tell me! What’s happened to my daughter?”
I ignore her question and push on. It’s the only way, otherwise I could end up spending two hours on the phone with her. “Do you know if she was seeing anybody?”
“Is this some kind of joke? Has somebody put you up to this? I’m calling the police.”
“Wait, wait just a second. Does Deborah know who her real father is?”
The woman says nothing, and I don’t jab her with another question, just ride the silence out, knowing her shock at the question may turn to anger or denial.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“I’ve already told you,” I answer.
“What is it you’re trying to ask? Tell me.”
“Is her real father Stewart Julian?”
Again a pause. “Where’s my daughter? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Please, is Father Julian Deborah’s real father?”
“How is this important?” she asks.
“It’s important because it will help me find Deborah.”
“I’m phoning the police.”
“Good, I want you to, but first tell me. Father Julian was murdered because he was protecting secrets. They were his own secrets. Was he Deborah’s father?”
I realize I’m overloading her with way too much information. At any second she might shut down. She doesn’t answer. “Was he—”
“Yes,” she says. “He was.”
“Did he have any other children?”
“Other children? I . . . I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose it’s possible, just like anything is possible. But I doubt it.”
“Okay, I’m going to look for Deborah. I want you to call the police and tell them she’s missing. But first I want you to tell me where she lives and give me her number.”
I write the details down, and try calling Deborah immediately after I’ve hung up. She doesn’t answer. I leave a message.
That leaves me with Simon Nichols. He is the last person in the photos, the last person to be paid for in the bank statements. I think about what that means, and decide it stacks the odds in favor of him being the killer. I suck in a few deep breaths. I never would have thought when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I would have the name of the man who killed those poor girls.
There are a few people with that name and initials in the phone book. I call them all, but get nowhere, which I find frustrating—I’m so close now. But then I’m able to track down his mother, who answers on the tenth ring, just before I hang up.
“I’m trying to get hold of Simon,” I say.
“Simon?” she says. “Um, can I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Theodore Tate. I’m a private investigator.”
“What is this about?”
It’s about Simon being a serial killer. It’s about Simon being a monster. It’s about Simon killing his father then trying to frame me for murder. I don’t say any of this. Instead I say what I already had scripted in my mind. “I just have a few questions for him, just some routine stuff that might really help me out on a case.”
She doesn’t answer at first, then there are some soft sounds and I get the idea she is crying. Before she can say anything, I get another idea—I know what she’s about to tell me.
“You’re about a year too late,” she says, and suddenly I know that not only is her son dead, that he was murdered. I just know it.
And I’m right.
“It was about a year ago,” she says, then tells me that Simon was stabbed to death in his own home. “The police haven’t caught the . . . the guy, not . . .” She can’t finish.
Her sobs remind me of how Julian sounded when he was listening to the confessions of his daughters’ killer. I hear her cries, but all I can do is think about how empty my suspect pool is, and I now have absolutely no idea how to find the other broth
er who has killed so many.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
I stare at the photographs of the girls as if somehow they’re going to rearrange themselves and reveal an answer. I look at Simon, dead now, one more unsolved murder in a city with dozens of murders. The killer’s signature is different for his sisters and brother. I wonder whether he’d have killed Jeremy too, whether the desire is there, or whether he even knows of the other brother. He certainly knew about Bruce. What relationship did they have for Bruce to be safe? Bruce’s last words about dignity echo in my thoughts, making me shiver. Between Bruce and Father Julian, they thought they were giving the girls some dignity, a burial place where they could be prayed over and looked after. But what of those they took from the coffins and discarded into the water? What of their dignity?
I keep starting to reach for something different, to move it from one place to another, to shift about the bank statements and the logs, hoping, hoping . . . but there is nothing. I look at my watch. Saturday is shifting along quickly. And Deborah Lovatt is in danger.
I head back out to the car. The mud I splashed through it last night has dried. Dad would have a heart attack if he saw it. I dial the cell phone and try for Schroder, but he doesn’t answer. I hang up and dial back and get the same result. I leave a message, then decide to call Landry.
“Tate, you just don’t know when to let go,” he says.
“I might have something for you.”
“Really? I have something for you. You left your jacket and shoes at the church last night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Good one, Tate, but you know what? I’m not even going to get into it. We both know you were there and we both know that I can’t prove it. So how about you do me a favor and stay the hell away from me.”
“Look, Landry, this is important, okay? Real important. Did you find a tape recorder at the church?”
“A tape recorder? What the hell are you on about?”
“Did you find one or not?”
“What? What are you on about? No, there was no tape recorder.”
“Okay,” I tell him. “I can help you find who killed those girls.”
“No, no you can’t, Tate. This isn’t your case. You’re not even—”