by Diana Kirk
"I'm sorry, sir, but Father's saying Mass right now. Would you care to wait?" the receptionist asked.
"No, I can't," he said, checking his watch. "Tell him to call the Police Division and ask for Krastowitcz. It involves Suzanne Latham. He'll understand."
The elderly lady's eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect bow. "Oh, my goodness. Of course, sir."
Well, he'd certainly frightened a few years off that woman and she was already older than dirt.
PETER MUELLER wasn't at the laboratory. Krastowitcz checked out his home. Maybe he'd left town already. From the looks of it, Peter wasn't paid much. Torn screens and chipped paint adorned the once-grand two-story clapboard home. A Gold Coast area during the turn of the century, the rich and powerful of the city had lived and died in this neighborhood. But that was long before the houses had been divided and subdivided into efficiency apartments and left to rot.
Krastowitcz pressed the buzzer. He hoped this wouldn't turn into a confrontation. Too many cops were killed this way. Letting down his guard for a minute could mean the end of a career, or a life. He'd seen it happen too many times.
The door opened. "What?" The man wore dark circles under red-rimmed eyes and the stubble on his cheeks gave him a tired, haggard look.
"Peter Mueller?"
"Yeah."
"Sergeant Krastowitcz, Omaha Police Department. I've got a few questions for you. Can I come in?"
"Oh. . . I. . . my place is a mess. Please excuse the way it looks."
Krastowitcz scanned the room. Peter picked up a neatly stacked sofa-pillow and nervously fluffed it. Everything was fastidiously in place. Krastowitcz figured each stray dust ball was looked on as a major catastrophe. "I only recently moved in. I used to live with. . . ." His voice trailed off and he slumped into a bean-bag folding in upon himself.
"Milton Grafton?"
Krastowitcz remembered those chairs being the rage in the late sixties. Peter obviously tried his best to make the shabby room look presentable. Krastowitcz was almost sorry for intruding on him.
"I suppose you have access to all that information. We tried to keep it quiet--at least Milton did. He didn't want to jeopardize his reputation."
"You're aware I'm investigating Dr. Grafton's murder."
"Yeah, I know. You've been spending all your time with Pearson. Since when does she know everything?"
"She's been cooperating with me. It'd be nice if others would, too."
"What do you know about cooperation? You haven't been away from her for long enough to find out."
"Beg pardon? What do you know unless you've been following her?"
"I just know, that's all."
This was going to be rough. "Just what was your relationship with Grafton?"
"Why don't you say it, Sergeant? I know you had me checked out at Joey's. Was he my lover? Well, maybe he was, once. But that was over. He was much too involved in his research. We'd come to an understanding."
"What kind--?"
"Friendship. I was thrown. . . I moved here. . . ." His voice trailed off.
"Explain what sort of research he was working on."
"I didn't actually do clinical experiments; I did all his in vitro work." Peter hugged the pillow tighter.
"In vitro?" The airless room was unnaturally warm. No air-
conditioning. Krastowitcz's sport coat stuck to his back.
"Test-tube experiments. Not on living tissue. I also took care of the laboratory, making schedules, managing the personnel. Six assistants were assigned a specific project and reported the information to Milton. He put it all together. Alone. He told me it was better that way."
"What about your relationship?"
Peter got up and paced around the room. "I never understood why he wanted to break it off. . . after all those years. He got involved with a medical student." He covered his face with his hands.
"Student? Can you give me a name?"
"Richard Canfield. Tall and blond. . . just the way Milton liked them."
"Spell that, will you? And what do you mean, was?"
"C-a-n-f-i-e-l-d."
Krastowitcz wrote the student's name in his notebook. "Haven't seen him for a couple of weeks. Just disappeared. May-be he got tired of the relationship and went home. I don't know. Nor do I care."
"Did you quarrel with Grafton?" Krastowitcz sought any-thing, some link that might help.
"Sure. Everybody did. Milton wasn't exactly easy to get along with. Except with that bitch." Peter tossed the pillow on the floor and stepped over it.
"Who?"
"Andrea Pearson. Milton always had some sort of soft spot when it came to her."
"Soft spot? Someone else said they didn't get along." Peter plopped down on the worn out couch.
"They lied. Andrea was his pet. Thought she walked on water, but she was a lazy bitch. Oh, yeah. She managed his patients competently, but as far as helping him with research, she didn't do a thing. But Milton didn't care, he thought she was wonderful."
"You're jealous of her."
"Not in the way you think. She had his respect. They shared knowledge. I was just a lover. . . then, a simple lab tech. It never got any better."
"What about Suzanne Latham?"
"What about her? I don't even know her. Oh, wait. She's a friend of Pearson's. Room together or something. Why?"
"She's dead." Krastowitcz watched for a reaction. Nothing. If this guy was the killer, he was good. "Happened last night. Where were you?"
"Dead? My God. I--I was in the lab. Ask your friend, Andrea. She was there," he said and pulled at the fringe on his pillow. "What happened to Suzanne?"
"Can't say. Only that it happened at Dorlynd."
"God, that place is a regular morgue. Administrators must be going nuts keeping this one quiet. What a bunch of bastards. All they care about is their reputation."
Peter rambled on. Krastowitcz noted it was late and he was bored. He edged his way toward the door and politely extricated himself from the apartment. He'd promised to meet Andrea at eleven and it was already eleven-fifty.
Driving toward Headquarters his thoughts turned to the object of Mueller's ire. Andrea. Pretty, smart, and hated by half the males at Dorlynd. Their stupidity or bad luck. She didn't have that effect on him, though. Quite the opposite.
The night before had been phenomenal. He liked her. A lot. Might even be love.
Good way to screw up an investigation, too.
Chapter XVII
. . . AND FURTHER, FROM THE SEDUCTION OF
FEMALES OR MALES, BOND OR FREE. . . .
Jamison held the note in his shaking hand and slumped down on his cot. Suzanne Latham. The Sergeant wanted to talk to him, again. Did he know something? She must've complained about him. Maybe around her, his nervousness showed. After what had happened before, he couldn't survive any more questions. Any more probes into his past, his indiscretions, his failures.
The priest crumpled the note, thought better of it, opened and pressed it flat on his desk. He tore at it until tiny particles fluttered around the room. He had disgraced his collar once, would probably do so again.
He was so weak, she so beautiful. A conflict with his church. He'd taken vows, had known fornication was wrong, but maybe, somehow, God forgave him. He'd been doomed from the start. A sin, but the final one.
The cold gun barrel touched the back of his throat and he gagged. The acrid metal-taste nauseated him, but it wouldn't last long. From his days as Dorlynd Chaplain, he knew exactly where to place the gun to do the most damage, to complete the job. He wasn't going to be a mutilated vegetable, he'd seen the results too many times. All the work of a bullet meant to end suffering, brains splattered, eyes gone, faces pulverized. A bullet that would enter his brain--A bullet that would end everything. . . now--
ELEVEN-THIRTY. Gary was late. Andrea idly rifled through the papers on his desk. She wasn't in her office and had no right going through his. She stopped and glanced around self-consciously. Bus
y officers bustled about their business amid phones, noise, and complaining prisoners.
She drummed her fingers on the desk. Eleven forty-five. Waiting drove her crazy. She had to see that grant. She could go back to Hardwyn's office and search through his files. Time was short.
If she went now, over the lunch hour, the Dean's office would be unattended. Everyone cleared out. Even the phones there switched to a central answering service. Hardwyn would be on rounds now that he'd taken over her clinical service. She couldn't wait for Gary. There was too much on the line. It had to be now. He'd find her later. She dashed off a quick note and left it on his desk: I was here and you weren't. We'll catch up later. Love.
KRASTOWITCZ WAS late, but it couldn't be avoided. Andrea had already left his office by the time he got there. By her cryptic note, she hadn't been too pleased. Guilt throbbed at his temples, but he had to interview these people. Answers slipped away, useless. Even his questions faded. He turned into Dorlynd's parking lot, and the radio interrupted his thoughts. "HENRY 10. . . make an investigation at Dorlynd main campus. . . Chaplain's residence hall. . . Meet Officer Rickowski at the scene."
Oh, shit. Not another one. Couldn't be. Cold invaded his veins. But what else? They only called if there's a body.
"Already at Dorlynd." He would make it up to Andrea later. "Clear."
ANDREA ENTERED the main office, amazed at how easily she gained access to the Dean's office. Just walk in. No locks. Nothing. It was almost scary. Her gaze darted back and forth around the area. Only in a university would they leave an office unattended, vulnerable to theft and vandalism, in order to save a few dollars in personnel costs. But it worked to her advantage this time. And she'd seized the moment presented.
She slipped easily inside Hardwyn's office and her gaze searched for something, anything that might lead her to answers.
Metal file cabinets.
She tested their locks. Unlocked. Once again, university laxity worked in her favor. Hot damn! She was on a roll.
She pressed the button and pulled the drawer toward her. It contained faculty files. Freedman, Foley, Franklin, Grafton--ah, success. She grabbed it, her eye catching a name three files back. Harrisburg, Jackson. . . Pearson. Pearson? She grabbed hers as well. Grafton's file was unusually large. The grant.
Inside the file marked, "Pearson," was her faculty application and the letter she had wondered so long about. Teresa had found it after all.
It gives me great pleasure to recommend Andrea Marie Pearson, M.D. for a faculty appointment at Dorlynd University School of Medicine. I have known Dr. Pearson for approximately three years, ever since I joined Dorlynd, and have found her performance to be exemplary.
I have had the opportunity to observe Dr. Pearson's performance and in all areas both clinically and personally, her performance is of the highest caliber. She has been an enthusiastic teacher and clinician.
In conclusion, I am happy to propose Dr. Pearson for a faculty appointment with the confidence that she will be an asset to this University.
Milton G. Grafton, M.D.
Professor and Chairman
Department of Internal Medicine
Andrea stood catatonic with the letter fluttering in her shaking hand. What did this mean? This letter glowed with praises. Milton hadn't recommended that she have another year of fellowship, no such thing. Why did Hardwyn say those things?
She barely caught the sound of the outer office door opening.
Hardwyn! Frantically, her gaze darted around the room for a place to hide.
There was no escape except his bathroom, and she was afraid to go in. What if--? There was no other choice. Hardwyn or another body. She ran for the bathroom.
RICKOWSKI ROPED off the priest's room. Krastowitcz figured it for a suicide. At least, that's what it appeared to be from the lividity and blanching of Jamison's remains.
"He must've knelt, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. What do you think?" Krastowitcz asked the other officer.
"Blew the back of his freakin' head off, that's for sure." Rickowski pointed to the wall behind Jamison splattered with blood and brain matter. "The force of the blast knocked him on his ass and he landed there."
Slumped on the floor next to his bed, Jamison stared at the world through bulging eyes. Eyes that seemed to plead for forgiveness. A thin trail of blood trickled from his ears. Except for the back of his head, he looked normal.
"Shit. Things are really bad when a priest kills himself," Krastowitcz said, and caught himself. A priest who committed suicide? The worst crime of all against the church? How could the brethren get into heaven if God's messenger was condemned to hell?
"I don't know, Man. God, the body count around here just keeps on growing. Dorlynd's looking like a goddamn combat zone." Rickowski said, throwing down a cigarette and stomping it.
"This time, no one touches a thing until Iverson gets here," Krastowitcz said. "You all understand? The last one was botched because he was out of town."
"You're the boss," Rickowski replied and cocked his head. "Hey, look," he pointed at the corpse. "There's something in his hand. Like a note."
Krastowitcz placed his pencil in Jamison's cuff and picked up his hand. A crumpled piece of paper showed slightly in his clenched left fist. One by one, he pried Jamison's fingers open and eased out the note, smoothing it with the pencil. The note contained only nine words. I'm sorry. Best that I'm out of the way. Surrounding the body lay bits of shredded paper. Krastowitcz picked up one of the larger pieces and recognized his own handwriting.
"I left this note for him. Asked him to call me. Maybe we've found our killer here." Krastowitcz let out a huge sigh. "Couldn't take the pressure of knowing what he'd done to Grafton and Suzanne. Decided to end it all."
"That's one sick sonofabitch."
"Good. Now wait for Iverson, get busy on our paperwork, and close this case. Dr. Pearson will be more than relieved when she hears this news. Rickowski turned to leave the room. "Hey," Gary called. "Get the head honcho of this place on the phone and tell him I want to talk to him, ASAP."
"You got it, Bwana," Rickowski called back.
Krastowitcz pulled the unsmoked Marlboro from his suit jacket. In light of his brilliant sleuthing and cracking the case, he deserved it. This was as good a time as any to take up smoking again. He stuck the filter-tip in his mouth. Stale tobacco still held a strong aroma and it still had the same effect. He opened a crumpled matchbook and struck the phosphorous. The flame exploded and caught the tobacco, curling the end as it glowed. His lungs filled with smoke. At first, he coughed fitfully, then the nicotine entered his blood stream making him dizzy, light-headed, and euphoric. How long had it been? Only three months? Too long. Way too long. He'd almost forgotten the forbidden pleasure of smoking. Almost, but not quite. Well, this was an occasion to celebrate.
Wrapping up this case gave him another notch on his gun handle. He smiled. And this had been a helluva big case, a long and tedious investigation, with nothing concrete. Then, like a gift, Jamison couldn't stand the guilt anymore and whacked himself. Maybe his message pushed Jamison over the edge. Whatever did the job, Krastowitcz didn't care. If Jamison committed the murders, he got what he deserved. Priest or not.
Krastowitcz dragged deep on his filter tip. He couldn't wait to tell Andrea to breathe easy. He twisted his wrist and checked the time. Jeez, twelve-thirty. Hopefully she hadn't gone back to his office and waited for him, again. Using a handkerchief, he gingerly picked up the phone next to Jamison's bed and punched his office number with a pencil. According to the day-Sergeant, Andrea had been there and gone, but just once. He called her office. No answer. A thought about what she was up to skulked through his head, but he dismissed it. He'd catch up with her later. A knock on the door refocused Krastowitcz's attention.
A tall, gray-haired man waited in the hallway. "Officer Krastowitcz? I'm Michael Sullivan, president of Dorlynd." He stepped into Jamison's room, his gaze immediately snagged on the bod
y. He fell to his knees beside him. "Oh, my God!"
Krastowitcz leaned down and grabbed the man before he could reach out.
"Don't touch anything! The medical examiner hasn't come yet."
"He should have the last rites. I must get a priest."
"Not, now, sir," Krastowitcz said. "Jamison was a suspect in Grafton's homicide. Clues are of vital importance in the closure of this case. Understand?"
"But this is a travesty. Father Jamison couldn't have killed Dr. Grafton."
He struggled against Krastowitcz's grip.
"It's more than possible."
"But how? Why?"
"Don't know. Had a suicide note clutched in his fist." Krastowitcz held fast until Sullivan relaxed.
"He had some personal problems. He tried this before. . . but. . . we thought he'd worked them out."
"Personal problems?" Krastowitcz asked. Trouble? What kind of trouble had Jamison had before?
Sullivan eyed the officers milling in and out of the room. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" He led Krastowitcz out into the main hallway. "My office is right next door. Can we go there?"
"Sure. Hang loose a minute. Rickowski?"
"Yeah?" Rickowski poked his head around the corner.
"I'm going to Mr. Sullivan's office in the building next door. Send someone for me as soon as George gets here."
"You got it."
They hurried in silence to the President's stately administrative offices.
"Please sit down, Sergeant," Sullivan offered. "Coffee?"
"Water, if you don't mind."
"Maryanne?" Sullivan said into the intercom. "Please bring me a cup of coffee and some water for Sergeant Krastowitcz. Nothing stronger?" he said, covering the phone with his hand.
"No, Thanks." Krastowitcz leaned forward. "What did you want to tell me?"