by Alex Kava
“Are you saying they’ve had your address the entire time?”
“They’ve known how to get in touch with me.”
Maggie couldn’t determine whether it was a lie or not. After what she had learned about the Catholic Church this week, she almost found herself believing him.
“How about the other one?” Pakula asked.
“I’m sorry, the other one?”
“You said the postal service brought all but one. How did you get the other?”
“One of the village boys—Arturo delivered it. He said an old man had given it to him.” He reached for the teacup again.
“Any chance the kid got into it before he handed it off to you?” Pakula asked.
“No, absolutely not,” he said, setting the cup down, and immediately Maggie saw why. There was a slight tremor to his fingers now. “Arturo was one of my best altar boys. He was a good boy. He would never have done something like that.”
Maggie’s stomach did a sudden flip. Keller had referred to the boy in the past tense. “Was? What do you mean, was?”
Keller’s eyes met hers then darted off to the left. In that brief moment she thought she could see him backpedal, shifting gears. Had she caught him or was it the effect of the poison? He looked past her and to Pakula when he answered, “He used to be an altar boy for me. He’s not anymore.”
Pakula seemed to ignore the entire exchange.
“I highly doubt we’re gonna get this guy’s fingerprints no matter how much crap you’ve got in that box,” he told Keller.
“I agree with Detective Pakula,” Maggie said. “I doubt there’s anything you have that will help us.”
Keller pulled the box to him, suddenly protective of it, keeping it on the table but now wrapping both arms around it. “I don’t think he was careful, because I don’t think he believed I’d live long enough to hand this over to the authorities. And if you aren’t able to match his prints, there’s always the trail of e-mails. I have the list.”
“Why do you suppose you’re on the list, Father Keller?” Maggie asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Really? No idea at all?”
She waited, giving him a second chance. He shifted ever so slightly in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. There were a few blinks of his eyes but nothing excessive. Maggie had known killers who had convinced themselves that they had done nothing wrong, so effectively, so completely, that it became difficult to detect the lies even with a polygraph test. She believed Keller had done the same. Four years ago she had come to the conclusion that he had been on a mission. He had appointed himself a sort of savior of abused boys. Unlike The Sin Eater who Maggie suspected avenged, and thus rescued boys by executing their abuser, Father Keller simply rescued boys by murdering them, ending their alleged abuse and getting them out of their misery.
Keller must have realized they wouldn’t go on until he answered. He finally said, “I have no idea why I’m on the list.”
“Now, you see, that’s curious to me,” Maggie started to explain, keeping a calm, even tone though, she’d admit, a bit sarcastic. Surely sarcasm could be forgiven when what she really wanted to do was reach across the table, grab him by the collar and tell him he knew damn well why he was on the list. She continued, “We already know that the other priests have been accused of hurting little boys in one way or another. In fact, we believe the accusers may have somehow submitted the priests’ names to be on the list. What about you, Father Keller? Who might have submitted your name? Who would want you eliminated?”
She tried to stare him down, but he didn’t blink when he repeated, “I’m sure my name was submitted by mistake.”
“A mistake?” She couldn’t believe it. Did he really believe they would buy this crap? She looked to Pakula, hoping to see similar disbelief and frustration. Nothing. He was definitely the better poker player.
“What e-mail name does this guy use?” Pakula took over without missing a beat.
“The Sin Eater.”
“Does that mean anything to you?” Pakula wanted to know.
“Not personally. I’ve done some research. The sin eater was a prominent figure in medieval times. Villagers would leave food items, usually bread, on the chest of their deceased loved one. After everyone was gone the sin eater would come in, eat the bread and ritualistically take the sins of the dead person into his own soul, thereby absolving the dead person of his or her sins.”
“Bread?” Pakula shook his head and glanced over at Maggie. “We found goddamn bread crumbs on Monsignor O’Sullivan, and in Columbia they found some in Kincaid’s shirt pocket. This is freaky crap.”
“But wait a minute,” Maggie said. “This killer is eliminating abusers. Why would he want to absolve the abusers of their sins?”
“I believe,” Keller said, taking a quick swipe at his sweaty upper lip, “this person may feel he’s absolving the sins of the person he’s killing for, instead of the priest he’s killed.” He said it with almost an admiration for The Sin Eater, the same person who was attempting to kill him. He looked at Maggie and added, “Does that fit your profile, Agent O’Dell?”
She held his gaze without flinching. That actually made sense. The Sin Eater believed he was not only killing for the boys, but taking on their sins of submitting and wanting their abusers dead.
“Yes, actually it does fit my profile,” Maggie told him. “I think you’re right.” Keller blinked hard at her as if he didn’t hear correctly. Even Pakula did a double take. “Maybe he is rescuing abused boys from their tormentors by killing their tormentors.” She paused. “Unlike you, Father Keller, who thinks he’s rescuing abused little boys by killing the boys.”
Both men stared at her, silenced for a second time by her bravado. Keller plucked at a piece of packing tape on his box. The room had gone so silent she could hear the scraping, pinching and pulling of his long nervous fingers.
“Is that what you did with Arturo, Father Keller?” she asked. “Did you rescue him before you left Venezuela?”
“Agent O’Dell,” Pakula said, his warning calm but she could hear the impatience. “I think it’s best we remember why we’re here today. We’re trying to stop a killer.”
“Exactly,” Maggie said and she looked at Keller. That’s exactly what she was trying to do, stop a killer who should have been stopped four years ago. But she sat back, instead, and laced her fingers together in front of her on the table, preventing them from balling up into fists and slamming them into Keller’s smug, sweaty face.
“Why don’t you tell us what you have for us, Father Keller,” Pakula told the priest, but now Maggie could feel him watching her out of the corner of his eyes.
“I’ve included copies of our e-mails,” Keller continued, but now kept looking at Maggie, as if expecting her to interrupt. “I know there’s a way you can trace Internet e-mail.”
“Possibly,” Pakula told him. “It would be better if we had your computer.”
“Oh, I’ve brought my laptop. It’s in my hotel room.”
“I would guess,” Pakula said, “that he’s used some standard measures to prevent anyone from finding him. I doubt we’ll be able to track his e-mail.”
“But the FBI has all sorts of things they can do now since 9/11, right?” Father Keller asked. Now Maggie thought she could hear a tinge of frustration in his voice.
“What else do you have?” Pakula pressed on, glancing at Maggie. Finally he was showing some doubt and dissatisfaction. She sat quietly.
“I have a copy of the list,” Keller said and gave the top of the box a tap. “Father Paul Conley was on it.”
“What about Father Rudolph Lawrence?” Pakula asked.
“Lawrence? No, I didn’t see that name.”
“Are you sure?”
“When you discover your own name on a list of people to be eliminated you tend to know who else is on the list.”
“How many are on the list?” Pakula wanted to know.
“
Including myself, five.”
Pakula let out a long breath. His eyes met Maggie’s before he reached up to swipe his hand over his shaved head.
“The deal was to turn over everything that I believe might help you capture this person. It’s to my benefit that he be caught. However, before I do that,” Keller said, but by now there was a definite, although subtle, quiver to his strong deep voice, “there’s something else I need.”
Of course there was, Maggie thought. What good timing. She wanted to tell him to forget it. They weren’t even sure any of his information would help. But she could see Pakula sit forward and shift in his chair. She knew he wanted to see what was in the box and if there were actually any fingerprints.
“What else?” Pakula asked, glancing at Maggie but not waiting for her okay.
“As I mentioned to Agent O’Dell, I believe I’ve been poisoned. I have reason to believe it’s something called monkshood.”
Maggie wanted to laugh at the irony but instead muttered, “How appropriate.”
Both men ignored her.
“I believe The Sin Eater sent me tea laced with monkshood. That’s how he thought he would eliminate me.”
“But you found out?” Pakula said. “How?”
“He told me. He seemed rather proud of his cleverness.” Keller wiped at beads of sweat now on his forehead despite the room’s still being freezing cold. Maggie thought his pupils were dilated and one of his hands had dropped to his lap where it fisted up as if he might be in pain.
“What do you want from us?” Pakula asked.
“I think it’s called digitalis. It’s used in heart medication. It’s supposed to be an antidote to treat monkshood poisoning. I need it. You bring it to my hotel room and I’ll hand over the box and my laptop.”
He pushed back strands of hair sticking to his forehead and now he stood. She saw him wince; perhaps that simple movement was painful. Maggie tried to remember what the symptoms were for monkshood poisoning but couldn’t be sure of anything other than it had been used mostly during the Middle Ages. It certainly wasn’t a modern-day poison of choice.
Pakula stood, too, but looked at Maggie, waiting for her response, letting her finalize what had initially been her deal.
She remained seated. “Why in the world do you think you can trust us,” she asked Keller, “when I’ve made it quite obvious that I think you’re a cold-blooded killer?”
Although he appeared to be in some discomfort—she could see him using his left hand against the table to steady himself—his voice didn’t waver when he met her eyes and said, “Because you gave me your word, Agent O’Dell. And I happen to know that means something to you.”
CHAPTER 76
The Embassy Suites
Omaha, Nebraska
Pakula had finished his call to Chief Ramsey, then checked his voice messages to see if any were urgent. Kasab had taken Keller back to his room before the priest ended up having some sort of attack or before O’Dell ended up strangling him. She still looked like she wanted to. Pakula thought it looked more like Keller had malaria than been poisoned, but Keller seemed pretty certain what was wrong with him.
“Chief Ramsey’s wife is an internist over at the Med Center. He’s having her get whatever the hell Keller said he needed.” He wondered if O’Dell heard him. She was pacing again, back and forth across the room.
“That boy, Arturo,” she said. “Keller murdered him before he left. He hasn’t stopped.”
Pakula let out a long sigh. She didn’t look like she cared if he believed her or not. He knew what she was probably thinking. He didn’t know Keller the way she did. He was meeting him for the first time, seeing him only as he was today, sick, sweating and trembling. However, Pakula could still remember details of that case four years ago. He’d never seen the killer’s handiwork—the raw carvings sliced into the chests of those poor innocent little boys—but anything with kids was hard to stomach. He could understand it driving O’Dell crazy if she believed Keller was the killer, and especially if she believed he hadn’t stopped.
“Look, O’Dell,” Pakula said. “You might be right about Keller killing those boys outside of Platte City. Maybe you’re right about this Arturo kid, but we have nothing on Keller. You’re gonna have to let it go.” He wasn’t pissed at her. He hoped she could hear sympathy more than impatience in his voice. “You’re no help to me in catching this killer if you don’t let it go.”
She was quiet and continued pacing. Then out of the blue she said, “Monkshood,” and let out a laugh.
“Excuse me?”
“The Sin Eater certainly has a sense of humor.”
“Careful,” Pakula joked. “You sound like you’re starting to admire him.” He needed to get her mind on the killer and off Father Keller.
“Wouldn’t you agree that the evilest of evil are those who intentionally harm children?” Her question sounded like a challenge.
“Without a doubt,” he answered without hesitation.
“And what about the ones who not only intentionally do harm but use a child’s respect and reverence for authority, like for a priest, in order to keep doing it again and again? Come on, Detective Pakula, you and I both know pedophiles well enough to know that Mark Donovan’s experience with Monsignor O’Sullivan was not an isolated case.”
“Agreed.” He crossed his arms over his chest, suspecting that she was going somewhere with this, and that he didn’t necessarily want to go along.
“How many pedophiles do you know who’ve been rehabilitated?”
“I know what you’re getting at, Agent O’Dell.”
“I don’t know of any, but I can tell you about the little girl who was sexually assaulted and buried alive by a pedophile who had just been released from prison. In fact, I can tell you about dozens of cases.” He watched her pause to run her fingers through her hair, her frustration clear. But her mind was off Keller and so he’d allow her the soapbox.
“You know as well as I do,” she continued without any prompting, “that with pedophiles the violence usually accelerates, instead of stops. And yet in the last fifteen years the Catholic Church reassigned approximately fifteen hundred priests after allegations of sexual abuse. That is, of course, with the exception of a short vacation for some of them to a magical treatment center. My guess,” she said, rubbing her shoulders as if she still hadn’t gotten rid of her earlier chill, “is The Sin Eater is someone who simply got tired of seeing it happen over and over again without anyone else doing something about it. And yes, I suppose unlike any other killer I’ve profiled, I have to admit, I can almost sympathize with this one.”
He was afraid that was exactly where she was going. “Is that your new profile?” he asked, smiling just enough, hopefully, to get her to relax and let the intensity go. “Yesterday you were telling me it was two killers, teenage boys who had been abused and were playing some game.”
“It could be,” she said, considering this as she began pacing again. “Kids sometimes have a basic, clear-cut view of justice.”
“Father Paul Conley’s head on the altar isn’t my idea of any kind of justice.”
She stopped for a minute and he wondered if she was reminding herself of the magnitude of these murders, or if she was simply envisioning Father Keller’s head in Conley’s place.
“I don’t believe the man who killed Monsignor O’Sullivan killed Father Paul Conley,” she said.
“Which follows your theory of two killers.” Pakula still wasn’t sold on the idea that teenage boys could pull these murders off. But he was beginning to think she was right about two killers. All the more reason they needed anything and everything Father Keller had brought with him.
“Why do you suppose Father Rudy down in Florida wasn’t on the list?” she asked. But before he could answer she continued, “That may mean Keller’s list is bogus. The murderer gives Keller a list knowing he’ll hand it off to the authorities. Of course, he’s going to include those who have already been killed
to give the list some credibility. But why isn’t Father Rudy on the list?”
She was back at the service butler, pouring more hot water over another tea bag. She was getting as bad with the hot tea as he was with the coffee. That was just great—both of them pumped with caffeine. Then she was back to her pacing, although a bit slower with the full mug.
He got up from the table and stretched his arms and back. He spent too many hours these days sitting. Maybe pacing would do him some good, but he only got as far as the service butler. No sense in all that free food going to waste. He’d be banging at his punching bag for an extra thirty minutes, but he sampled several of the little cubes of cheese.
“Maybe Father Rudy was a mistake.” He popped a couple of grapes into his mouth. Then he remembered his voice messages. “Hold on. I forgot, I have a message from my friend down in Pensacola.” He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, punching through the missed calls. When he got to the 850 area code one, he hit Play and listened.
“Hey, Tommy. Gotta make this short. Actually there’s not much to tell. I finally found someone who didn’t mind telling me that Father Rudy was a real pervert. But Tommy, it wasn’t little boys he liked. There was at least one eleven-year-old girl. Call me tonight if you wanna talk.”
Pakula folded up his phone and stared at it. Without realizing it, he had wandered over to the easy chairs in the corner and now dropped into one. He had treated this case like any other, disgusted anytime kids were involved. But for some reason it suddenly struck him. His youngest daughter, his baby, Madeline, had just turned eleven last month and for a brief moment he thought about her trusting a man, a priest, and that man, a priest, taking advantage of her respect and reverence for him just as O’Dell had outlined in her earlier sermon. Suddenly he could taste the bile backed up in his throat, and he felt an incredible urge to hit something.
He looked up to find O’Dell had stopped pacing and was standing in front of him, staring, waiting.
“What is it?” Her frustration was gone and now there was concern because he hadn’t been able to hide his disgust. She must have read it on his face, in his grimace.