by Alex Kava
But she was cool about the whole thing. Asked if he was okay and when Gibson only nodded, she told him to go upstairs to her classroom and hang out for a while. She even told him to get a Pepsi for himself from her minifridge, from her private stash. He barely got to the top of the stairs when he heard her below, stomping down the hall to the monsignor’s office. Gibson waited there, half leaning over the rail, listening, but he didn’t hear Sister Kate knock, just a slam of the door and then muffled voices. It sounded like they were arguing.
He didn’t realize until weeks later that Monsignor O’Sullivan didn’t call him into his office after that day. Gibson was so relieved it took him a while to realize that Sister Kate must have said something. And then, of course, he was embarrassed that Sister Kate might know. But she never said anything to him, never treated him differently after that. Gibson hadn’t thought about that day for a long time. He didn’t like thinking about it. Brother Sebastian made him feel afraid and weak just like Monsignor O’Sullivan always had. He didn’t like that much either.
There was no Kate Rosetti listed in the phone book, so Gibson searched the H’s for any Hamiltons within three or four blocks of his own address. There was a Christine Hamilton on Cass Street just a block north of Goldberg’s. That had to be Timmy’s mom. He memorized the number.
He had no idea what time it was. Goldberg’s didn’t have a clock anywhere. It had to be late. Was it too late to call Timmy? Would his mom be so pissed she wouldn’t let him come to the phone?
Gibson pulled out his wad of bills and under the table peeled off enough to pay his bill with enough for a tip, too. He folded it with the ticket and anchored it down with the ketchup bottle like he remembered his dad used to do. Then he grabbed his backpack, sliding it on arm by arm so that it sat tight against his back, more securely. He left the safety of his booth and found the cubbyhole in the far corner where the pay phone was. He sat, took a deep breath then dialed the number, hoping and praying that Timmy would answer.
No such luck.
“Hello?” a woman said.
“Um, is Timmy there?”
There was a long pause and the cheeseburger twisted a knot in his stomach.
“It’s pretty late. Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“Yeah, it’s his friend Gibson…Gibson McCutty from the Explorers’ Program.”
“Hold on, Gibson.” She repeated his name like she knew him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He wondered what Timmy might have told her about him.
It didn’t take long for Timmy to come to the phone. “Hey, Gibson. Where’d you go this afternoon?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. There was this Darth Vader guy at the school. I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I kinda need some help. Do you think it would be okay with your mom if I stayed overnight at your house?”
“Hold on.” He could hear Timmy yell out, “Hey, Mom, can Gibson spend the night?”
Gibson couldn’t hear Timmy’s mom and he cringed, waiting.
“She said sure, but when you get here, she said she’ll need to call your mom to tell her where you are. Sorry,” Timmy said as if that ultimatum would be a letdown or a deal breaker.
“I’m at Goldberg’s. Can you give me directions?”
“Hold on,” Timmy said, and then to his mom who must have been asking him something, he said, “He’s at Goldberg’s.” There was a long pause while Timmy listened to her.
Geez! Was she changing her mind? Was she telling Timmy to forget about it? Where would he go then?
“Hey, Gibson, my mom wants to know if you have any extra cash could you bring a couple orders of potato wedges and deep-fried mushrooms? She’ll pay you back when you get here.”
Gibson held back the sigh of relief and simply said, “Sure.”
CHAPTER 67
Washington, D.C.
It was almost midnight by the time he made it back home. Thankfully his flight had been on time. Even the cab ride from the airport had gone smoothly. Yet the thumping in his chest had not subsided one little bit. His heart banged and crashed against his rib cage until he swore he could feel bruises. Every muscle ached and screamed. Exhaustion seeped into his pores.
He turned on the TV and powered up his computer while he flipped channels, watching for any news from Boston. He pulled off his sweat-drenched polo shirt and tossed it in the corner, still disappointed that he had to throw out his Boston Red Sox T-shirt and his old Nikes. It was a good thing he had brought a change of clothes. He hadn’t been able to bring along enough plastic to contain the mess. And his frenzy was such this time that he hadn’t even realized how much blood had splattered on him and the walls of the gardening shed while he hacked Father Paul’s body to pieces. Pieces that fit quite nicely into three garbage bags. Sometimes the frenzy became almost a blackout, like he had no control over his mind or body. He could watch himself, looking down, suspended from a far corner of the ceiling, but only able to watch, not participate, not stop.
Later the calm returned, a calm after the storm instead of before. He had used the outside shower stall alongside the shed to wash himself, relishing the quiet of the afternoon and the secrecy that the six-foot wooden privacy fence, the huge oaks and flowering hedges provided. Despite the sticky, hot July air it reminded him of being in the Garden of Eden and finally he could wash away his guilt, his hatred, his sins. So why did the throbbing continue?
He stopped flipping channels, catching a glimpse of the old church on a Fox News Alert. He left the sound turned off, reading the crawl at the bottom of the screen. They showed Blessed Sacrament Church and the rectory while the crawl told that Father Paul Conley had been the victim of a brutal murder. They mentioned Mrs. Sanchez and the regret tugged at his innards. It still bothered him that he’d had to kill her. But the old woman had been in the way. He couldn’t help that.
There was no mention of the display he had left on the altar, using Father Conley’s key to enter the quiet locked church from the back. No mention that most of the priest was still missing. And he smiled. He had left the bags three blocks away in the back alley of Joe’s Seafood Grill and Bar where the week’s garbage had already piled up in smelly heaps falling out of the Dumpster. He’d tossed Father Paul Conley up on top of the heap, one bag at a time. It seemed an appropriate place for him.
Yes, despite the constant banging in his chest he felt quite good, satisfied.
He shut off the TV and turned to go to bed when he noticed an instant message flashing at the upper corner of his computer screen. It winked at him almost as if it knew his secret. He stared at it, a new wave of panic threatening to unleash itself. Without sitting, he clicked on the icon. It was from The Sin Eater and its one-line message had him looking over his shoulder and double-checking the locks on his door. The message read:
WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?
CHAPTER 68
Wednesday, July 7
District Police Department
Washington, D.C.
Gwen Patterson waited in the metal folding chair Racine had offered her beside the detective’s cluttered desk. Racine had disappeared for what felt like hours, but was in fact only a few minutes. She wasn’t sure why Racine insisted she come down to the police station. Maybe she did intend to arrest her. Whatever the purpose, Gwen was quite certain Racine enjoyed making her sit and wait here in the middle of the noise and chaos of her world instead of what Racine would probably consider the cushy soft comfort of Gwen’s office, what she believed was Gwen’s world.
“He has a list of assault charges,” Racine suddenly said, coming from behind Gwen, startling her so much that she jumped. Racine didn’t seem to notice. She slapped a file folder on her desk, or rather one of the piles on her desk, then sat on the only corner clear of clutter. “No convictions. The good news is that we have his fingerprints on file, so we didn’t need to use your water glass, especially since it was obtained without his consent or knowledge. The bad news is they aren’t matching up to any prints on t
he stuff you handed over to us. Is that what he’s seeing you for? His little habit of beating the shit out of women in the guise of having sex?”
Gwen tried not to look surprised. Was she surprised? It came with the territory for someone like Rubin Nash. Men who were abusers had often been abused as children. Nor should it surprise her that he wouldn’t tell her. So he didn’t want her to know that his conquests were brutal. When did they turn fatal? Should she have seen those signs?
“I didn’t know he had charges filed against him,” she said and evidently sounded more guarded than she meant to, because Racine was frowning at her, disappointed or angry again. It was hard to tell which. With Racine both seemed to automatically go together.
“Is this part of that patient/doctor confidentiality crap?”
“There’s a fine line.” Gwen took yet another stab at trying to explain it to the detective. “Yes, why he’s seeing me is confidential. He’s not even a suspect yet. But our professional code of ethics also makes allowances for the need to warn.”
Racine rolled her eyes at her and let out a deep sigh.
“I can’t tell you why he’s seeing me,” Gwen offered calmly, slowly. “However, if you were to ask my professional opinion as to whether I believe he had perhaps a resentment toward women I could tell you, yes, I believe he does.”
This time Racine looked at her, tilting her head as if studying Gwen. She could almost see the sarcastic wiseass fade into the background while the puzzle-solver came to the surface.
“Okay, so in your opinion,” Racine said carefully, like someone testing the rules of a new game, “this type of…resentment, would it become such a problem that it might extend to others?”
“Others? You mean like people he knows—friends or family members?” Gwen was growing impatient even with her own game. “Dena wasn’t someone he had randomly chosen. I don’t mean to be rude, Detective Racine, but why am I here? These are things we’ve already gone over and your questions certainly could have been answered on the phone.” If Racine was going to file charges against her, Gwen would rather she just do it and not beat around the bush.
“I invited you here because I’ve been waiting on some new information.” Racine glanced over her shoulder then above Gwen’s head, looking for someone.
“New information? Oh, Jesus! Has there been another one?”
“Not sure. This one might not be connected, although there are similarities. It was in the Boston area and it was—oh, here it comes,” she interrupted herself, standing to meet the uniformed officer who came from behind Gwen to give Racine a set of papers. “Here it is, or at least what details they have so far.”
Racine shuffled the pages. Without looking up, she said, “O’Dell told me you’ve done consultation with the FBI to help them come up with criminal profiles.”
“That’s right, although it’s been a few years since I’ve worked a case.”
“We have a killer,” Racine continued, glancing at Gwen then back to the papers, flipping and scanning, “who seems to kill and dismember in an uncontrollable rage. But he has the intelligence and wherewithal to compose himself after the murder enough not only to clean up, but to dispose of the body and strategically place the victim’s head.”
“I know the basics of this case, Detective Racine.” What was it Racine wanted from her? Did she expect her to pick up where Maggie left off in coming up with a profile? She had a profile. She had, quite possibly, the name of the killer. What more did she want?
“He’s chosen women randomly with the exception of Dena Wayne. Libby Hopper was a college student. One of the other victims was young, too, or so we think. She had a tattoo that seems to be connected to a computer game. The computer game is really popular with kids. So as far as we know, all of them were young women. Rubin Nash has a history of brutally assaulting young women.”
“Is there a question for me, Detective?” Gwen’s patience started to unravel. The emotional roller coaster of the last few days threatened to push her over the edge. “What do you want to know?”
“I need to know if Rubin Nash might move on to someone other than young women he’s picked up in nightclubs. Is Rubin Nash capable of this?”
And she tossed a color copy onto the desk in front of Gwen. It was a crime scene photo, a dark macabre set that looked like something from a horror movie, a decapitated head in the middle of a church altar with candles lit on both sides.
“That’s all that’s left of Father Paul Conley.”
CHAPTER 69
Omaha Police Department
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie stared out of the conference-room window. She hadn’t slept well despite the comfy king-size bed. Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Father Keller face-to-face again after four years. Of course, it could have been the thought of Nick Morrelli sleeping somewhere down the hall from her in the same hotel. She kept thinking she certainly would have slept much better had she given in and drunk the Chivas. But no amount of Scotch would make seeing Keller any easier. Or at least that’s what she told herself as Detective Pakula handed her yet another set of reports. These were from Santa Rosa County, Florida. They had the conference-room table filled with reports, maps, autopsy photos and evidence bags.
“There’s actually a Bagdad, Florida?” she asked, starting to scan and flip through the papers while she paced the length of the room.
“Just outside of Pensacola. It’s spelled without the ‘h’ though. This campground is on Blackwater Bay. I’ll show you the area in a minute.” Pakula was unfolding a map, making room for it on the bulletin board next to the map of the Midwest region that already had the first three murders marked with bright-colored stickpins, a red one in Omaha, blue in Columbia and yellow in Minneapolis.
“Where’s the fifth?” she asked, craning over the scattered reports. “You said there was one in Boston yesterday?”
“Carmichael will bring it in as soon as Boston PD sends it.”
“He’s escalating. Three of them in five days,” she said. She was antsy, unable to sit still. Thank goodness Pakula didn’t mind her pacing. When it got to this stage it was almost as if she could feel the killer’s frenzy or panic or whatever it was propelling him to hurry.
“You think that’s proof of escalation, wait until you see the Boston one.” He noticed her checking her watch and added, “Kasab and a uniformed officer are meeting Keller at the airport.” He checked his own watch. “They should be here in about an hour if his flight’s on time.”
An hour. In approximately one hour she would be staring into the eyes of a child killer and promising him protection from being killed.
She tried to concentrate on the new Florida case. The body had already been identified as seventy-three-year-old Father Rudolph Lawrence, known to friends and parishioners as Father Rudy. A recent photo sent along with the report showed a short, stocky, white-haired, almost elfish-looking man at a party, with a colorful banner behind him that read: Happy Retirement, Father Rudy! She placed that copy next to the one of his corpse at the crime scene. What was left of the face had bloated beyond recognition. There was a tuft of white hair—that and the white roman collar stood out in the otherwise mangled and dirty mess that looked more like a pile of rags than a body.
The medical examiner had estimated no less than a week. Other tests were needed for a more accurate time of death. Maggie remembered Adam Bonzado telling her that in a matter of a week maggots could consume a body down to the bone in a moist, hot environment. The Florida panhandle in July seemed to fit that environment, but the corpse had been partially hidden with debris and dirt thrown on top, which would have slowed down the process.
Maggie stood in front of the map Pakula had just finished tacking up. “Why try to hide him when he’s already in the middle of what looks like several acres of thick woods.”
“Wetlands,” Pakula said. “They call them wetlands and you’re right—it is thick with trees, scrub grass and some kind of vining crap, not
to mention the mosquitoes and the no-see-ums.”
“You sound like a fan of the area.”
“Oh, I love it. Sugar-white beaches and emerald green water. But a lot of places inland aren’t developed. A lot of it is owned by the government. I can’t think what they call it,” Pakula said. “Oh, I know, historic preservation. It’s along the gulf coast where the early explorers landed. In fact, Pensacola would have had the oldest settlement if it hadn’t been washed away by a hurricane.”
“Do you usually learn this much about your crime scenes?” Maggie asked, smiling.
“No, I’ve got friends who live down there. I’ve already been in contact with them. Since they’re Catholics I’m hoping they might be able to dig up some dirt for me on this Father Rudolph.”
“Father Rudy,” she corrected him.
“Yeah, right.”
“The single stab wound to the chest is consistent with our guy, but this is definitely not a public area.”
“Actually, it is.” It was Pakula’s turn to correct her. “It’s part of a public campground. Friends claim the old priest lived about a mile away. He took walks down to the boat ramp, using, of course, the road that runs alongside this wetland area.”
“Okay, so it’s a public area, but why not slice him on the road and leave him in the ditch? The killer would have had to coax him into the trees and then kill him or kill him on the road and drag him into the trees. Why bother? He’s left all the other bodies out in the open. He seemed to have gone to great lengths to hide this one.”
“I don’t know. You’re the profiler, you tell me.” Pakula shrugged and smiled.
“This one feels different,” she said, stopping at the table’s edge to glance over the other reports.
“Wait until you see the Boston one.”
“You already said that.”
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty freaky,” Pakula said just as Carmichael came waltzing in.