Silent Night

by C. J. Kyle

  She held her breath as he pulled the last stack of clippings toward him and slid one from the bottom. “Nothing you have proves this Bobby Harley guy isn’t guilty of all charges.”

  “Isn’t that dead man in the woods proof enough?” She searched her mind for anything that might erase the look of doubt on his face.

  “It could be a copycat.”

  “It’s not.” She glared at him, fatigue making her temper and patience short.

  After what seemed an eternity, he shut his eyes and sighed. “I’ll have to contact the department in Dayton, but nothing here proves that Father Anatole is anything more than a grumpy man who came here from Dayton, just as you did.” His dark eyes fluttered open and nailed her with a glare that sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine.

  “I know you have no reason to believe me. I’m not a cop, and you don’t know me from Adam. I get that. But please, please keep an open mind,” she said. “If I’m right, but you ignore me, more men could die here in your town. Are you willing to risk that?”

  Chapter 12

  THE POLICE DEPARTMENT’S break room was warm enough to allow Tucker to remove his jacket as he sipped his coffee and tried to figure out what to do about the woman in his office. He could have left her at the cottage, had her come in later when they were functioning on at least a couple hours’ sleep. Instead, he’d insisted she accompany him so he could make a copy of her files for his records. Granted, he hadn’t actually insisted anything. But when she’d refused to let him take her files, she’d volunteered.

  His gaze shifted across the hall to his window. Miranda sat board straight, the worn file folder on her lap, her hands folded over the top as if he might rush in there and take it from her. She had nothing to worry about. He’d already called Dayton. Detective Langley hadn’t been in, but Tucker had been assured his call would be returned as soon as possible and that files would be forwarded with Langley’s consent.

  Until Tucker heard differently, he would work off the assumption that some psychopath had likely read about the Rosary Murders and had made the mistake of trying to recreate the crimes here, in Tucker’s town.

  Big, big mistake.

  However, Miranda’s question gnawed at his gut. Was he willing to risk another death just to save himself the pains of the possibility of an active serial killer in his town? He only had one scene and one victim. That was hardly the makings of anything serial . . .

  He thought about Ricky Schneider and his stomach twisted. No. Ricky was a kid. This guy worked with adult men.

  But if it was a copycat, there was no rule saying he couldn’t have screwed up his first re-creation with someone easier to kill than a heavy adult male.

  The Rosary Killer struck on three consecutive Sundays . . .

  Miranda’s words played in his mind. Ricky Schneider had disappeared on a Sunday.

  Tucker refused to think about that possibility. Michael Levi had been left where he’d be easily and quickly found. There was no reason to jump to conclusions until Tucker had a reason to connect the two cases. Until then, Ricky remained a runaway. At least on paper. In his mind, he wasn’t so sure.

  Lisa reached around him and grabbed a mug off the shelf above the tiny sink and filled it with fresh coffee. Even though she should have clocked out at midnight, she was still around, determined as always not to leave until Tucker did. Despite her young age of, what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? She was as professional as they came, a single mom hell-bent on joining the force herself one day—something Tucker was constantly trying to talk her out of.

  Taking a couple packets of sugar from the bowls beside the coffeemaker, she pointed to the hall. “Who’s that?”

  “Anatole’s B and E.”

  Andy strode into the break room and gently nudged Lisa out of his path to the coffee. Like Tucker, the lieutenant looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He poured a cup and leaned against the counter before yawning wide enough to catch a hippo.

  Tucker felt for him. “Body on its way to Knoxville?”

  Andy nodded. “And I gathered all the samples from the scene you asked for. We found a car on the other side of the river. Had it towed in for forensics, but on first glance it looked clean. Made sure the entire half acre is taped off and took more pictures of anything I thought you’d want on the chance it could be the primary crime scene. Some of the stones around the fire pit looked disturbed so I bagged ’em. Saw something on them that might have been blood but couldn’t really tell.” He yawned again. “Knoxville will e-mail a copy of all the photos and notes from the autopsy when they’re done, too. Doc won’t be able to tell us anything until the DNA results come back from the state lab and she can tell if any of it belongs to our perp, but she asked for a rush on them.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered. “You did good. Now go home. Get some sleep. And Andy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for taking over the scene.”

  Andy nodded toward Miranda. “She tell you anything useful?”

  “Maybe.” Maybe not.

  “Think she has anything to do with this?”

  “That little thing?” Lisa laughed. “Is that what you brought her in for? She’s like five-foot-two and small enough to break in half with a strong cup of coffee. Besides, women like guns and poison. The pictures I saw . . . It would take one hell of a monstrous woman to do that.”

  “Can’t rule anything out.” Andy took off his hat and used it to wave farewell. “I’m out. See you in the morning.”

  Lisa dumped out her coffee and rinsed the cup. “That go for me, too? I’m beat.”

  Tucker nodded. “Thanks for staying. Hope your sitter didn’t mind.”

  “She’ll be happy for the extra money.”

  “I’ll talk to Shannon, see if she can hold your seat till you come in in the morning.”

  The early morning dispatcher wouldn’t have a problem picking up a couple of extra hours to help Lisa out. That’s the way they were here. A small family. Watching each other’s backs. The whole town worked that way. It was only one reason he had difficulty thinking of Father Anatole as a possible murderer. The priest might be the new, cranky old uncle to their family, but he was part of it now just the same.

  It was also the reason another ulcer was eating its way through Tucker’s stomach. The town was going to riot when they found out one of their own had been killed. He trusted Andy and Walt to keep the news from leaking, but in a town like this, there were ears everywhere. He’d be lucky if he had a day before he’d have to prepare a statement for the local paper.

  He waited for Lisa and Andy to disappear before forcing his body to move in the direction of the office. When he stopped in the doorway, Miranda looked up at him, her dark eyes glazed and watery.

  “You’re free to go. But not far—”

  “Trust me. I won’t be leaving until that bastard is behind bars.” She stood and draped her purse across her body, holding the files close to her chest. “Good night, Tucker.”

  “You need a ride back?”

  “No offense, but I think I’d prefer a walk.”

  As she passed Shannon at the reception desk, Tucker’s gaze drifted south to the tired swagger of her derrière. He was exhausted. That was the only explanation for where his mind was beginning to wander now. Hell, he didn’t even know if she’d ever really been interested in him. For all he knew, she’d used him for his badge.

  He slid behind the wheel of the cruiser, watching her. Her parka hood covered her head, and the farther away she got, the smaller and more fragile she appeared. He felt all kinds of wrong taking pleasure in the way her body moved as she jogged. She was definitely trouble, with her sad eyes and Snow White visage.

  Dark hair, pale skin, rosy lips and cheeks. Trouble indeed.

  He’d met a lot of young reporters over the years chasing their breakout story and they’d all shared one thing—excitement. In Miranda, however, that telltale hunger seemed to be hidden behind a sheen of desperation—if it existe
d at all. Maybe she really was a nurse. If so, then what would she gain from trying to nail Anatole?

  He was so tired his brain wasn’t finding answers to any of his questions. There was still so much work to do, but it would wait. Right now someone could walk up to him and confess to crucifying Jesus and he’d likely tell them they were free to go if it meant he was, too. The cold crept inside the car, forcing him to crank up the heat. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned south toward his bed, slowing only once when he passed Miranda to ask again if she wanted a ride. She waved him off and kept walking.

  His body might be a few hours past exhausted, but he couldn’t shut off Miranda’s voice in his head detailing each of the murders and her certainty that Father Anatole was the man responsible. A lead lump sat in his stomach at the realization that he had a family in his town who had no idea their son had been killed just hours ago.

  The image of Michael Levi’s body slumped against the tree churned that lead lump in his gut. He checked the clock. It was nearly midnight. No matter how tired he was, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Not with Michael’s face clogging every damned brain cell he owned.

  Passing his property, he continued toward the outskirts of town. Andy had said that Michael had once attended St. Catherine’s with his family. There might be a way to question the priest without coming right out and accusing him of anything.

  Just before he reached the town limit sign, he turned onto Anatole’s drive and followed it a short distance through the trees to the tiny house the parish provided for the priest. A soft light shone from the front porch and flickered yellow against the pristine snow piling up around the weathered guardrail. Tucker killed the engine and stepped out.

  Before he could make it the short distance to the porch, the door opened and Father Anatole greeted him. “A little late for a visit, Chief Ambrose. Everything all right?”

  Tucker took off his hat out of respect, even though his ears and scalp immediately felt the sting of cold. “A man was killed tonight and Lieutenant Bowen thinks he might be a member of your congregation. His family is, anyway. I thought you might go with me to notify them.”

  The priest crossed himself. “That’s horrible. Who was it?”

  “Michael Levi.”

  The priest frowned. “Related to Mayor Levi?”

  Tucker nodded. “His son.”

  Father Anatole’s face fell. He stepped aside, allowing Tucker to enter, and closed the door behind him. “Of course. I’d be happy to accompany you. Just give me a moment to dress.”

  Tucker dusted some snow off the shoulder of his coat and followed the priest into the small kitchen. He watched Anatole disappear down the hall, leaning heavily on his cane, the limp even more pronounced tonight, and tried to picture him brutally murdering a man. The image just wouldn’t come.

  Not that Father Anatole was old. But he was a man of God. There was something too pure in that to accuse without damned good cause and proof. Of course, Tucker still planned to ask him what he knew about the murders in Dayton, but that would wait until Tucker had read every word of the files being sent to him.

  He took a moment to look over the photos hanging on the fridge. Most people hung pictures of loved ones, but Tucker couldn’t see a single one that didn’t spotlight the priest. They were of Father Anatole and his deacons, Father Anatole preaching at the pulpit, Father Anatole baptizing a child. The good father seemed to like looking at himself a good deal.

  “All right then, we can go.”

  The father had dressed in record time. Bible in hand, he led the way back through the house, pausing to grab his keys from the hook by the door before stepping outside. He shivered, pulling his coat closed at the throat.

  “Winter here is difficult to manage when you’re not used to it,” Tucker said. “But after living in Chicago all my life, it’s not so bad, really. Where are you from, again?”

  Father Anatole looked at him from over his shoulder. “Ohio. Gets a bit cold there, too, but we didn’t get tourists this time of year like Christmas does. I don’t understand the willingness to come and spend the season here, if I’m honest.” He carefully made his way down the snow-covered porch steps. “Why not head to Florida or somewhere else that offers relief from the cold?”

  “Guess it takes all kinds,” Tucker muttered. “Thank you for coming with me.” Tucker waited while the priest climbed into the front seat before making his way to his. “I’m sure the family will appreciate having you there.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  He studied the priest for a moment. He rubbed his Bible, his lips moving in what Tucker guessed was silent prayer. He scanned the cover of the leather-bound Bible, searching for similarities between it and the one found on Michael Levi’s body. Both looked like standard-issue Bibles found in churches everywhere. Nothing remarkable.

  He sighed and started the engine. Thanks to Miranda, he was looking for suspicious behavior where none existed. Of course the priest would be upset about visiting a family who’d just lost their only child. It would make him a monster if this didn’t disturb him.

  He didn’t try to pull the priest into conversation as he drove up the mountain toward the secluded Levi family estate. The huge mansion, sitting on a peak overlooking the town, had been built by the Levi family not long after Christmas had been founded.

  He pressed the call button on a panel centered on the large ornate security gate decorated with lit wreaths and gaudy garlands of gold and green. Within minutes, a tired, slow-moving guard made his way out of a small gatehouse hidden behind a nest of tress. He bent to peer into the car, waving at the priest before turning his gaze to Tucker. “Can I help you, Chief?”

  “Hi, Fred. We need to see Mayor Levi.”

  Fred glanced at his watch. “After midnight?”

  “If it could wait, do you really think I’d be here now?”

  The guard punched in a code, then turned back to Tucker. “Do you wish to see the whole family?”

  “Just the mayor.”

  “Follow the drive to the left until the end, round behind the main house. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

  “This place is like stepping into another country.” Father Anatole glanced at Tucker.

  Tucker remained silent. It really did seem more European here than in any other part of Tennessee he’d seen. Huge groves of oaks and elms overhung the long, winding driveway, shielding it from most of the snow. There were three houses on the hundred acres plus the house where Ethel Levi’s mayoral son resided with his family. The mayor’s was the last and most distant from the main house, and by the time Tucker pulled up to the porch, the front door was opening and the mayor himself was making his way outside, tying the sash of his robe as he walked.

  “Chief,” he said, the minute Tucker stepped out of the car. “What brings you . . .” His gaze shifted to Father Anatole. Fear clouded the man’s eyes. His voice quivered when he asked, “What’s happened?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Steven? Is everything okay?”

  At the sound of Tilly Levi’s voice, Tucker’s gut sank. He’d hoped to tell the mayor and allow the man to tell his wife in private. From his experience, Tilly was as nice as they came. Always bringing refreshments to the town meetings, greeting citizens and tourists alike with warm embraces. Things never went well when he had to tell a mother her baby wasn’t coming home again—and this was the first time he’d ever had to do so with someone he knew and liked.

  She appeared in the doorway, her hands patting at her brown, shoulder-length hair, her fleece robe closed from ankle to neck. She smiled, her gaze welcoming. “Good morning, Tucker, Father Anatole.” She swatted her husband’s shoulder. “If your meetings get any later we’ll forget how to sleep at all. Let them in, honey, it’s starting to snow again. Can I offer you gentlemen some coffee? Tea?”

  The fact that, unlike her husband, the thought that he was bringing them bad news hadn’t yet struck her humbled Tucker.
In her world, things like this didn’t happen. Christmas was immune, especially the town’s leaders. He loathed having to be the one to burst that bubble.

  “No, ma’am,” Tucker mumbled, then asked again. “Can we . . . sit somewhere?”

  “Sure.” Tilly smiled again. “I’ll just show you to the sitting room and leave you men to it.”

  “Actually . . .” Now that they were both here, might as well suck it up. Tucker looked plaintively at Steven.

  “I think—I think he wants to talk to both of us, Tilly.”

  Tucker spent the next half hour feeling like the Grim Reaper. By the time he was finished telling the family their son was dead, he felt unclean and guilty as hell that he had no answers for them. Leaving Tilly in the arms of her watery-eyed husband, he grabbed his hat and offered his apologies one more time.

  “If you need anything . . . anything at all, please call me or come by.” He glanced at Father Anatole, who sat on the other side of Tilly, silently clutching the woman’s hand as Steven rubbed her shoulders. “Let’s go, Father.”

  As Tucker and Father Anatole retreated to the door, Tilly’s voice followed them. “Father? Can you stay?” Her meek voice carried the hoarseness of tears. Tucker’s heart broke a little more, knowing he’d just taken a very strong woman and turned her back into a terrified, grieving child.

  “Of course.”

  Feeling rightfully like a dismissed outcast, Tucker found his way out alone. He felt horrible for the Levis, but at least he hadn’t had to contend with Steven’s mother, Ethel. That, he was sure, would come all too soon. As would questioning Father Anatole. He was glad he’d brought the priest, however, even if he hadn’t figured out a way to subtly question him. If the priest offered any solace to Tilly, the trip by Anatole’s house hadn’t been wasted.