Silent Night

by C. J. Kyle

  “It’s not a theory. I showed you my proof last night.”

  “You showed me a bunch of clippings from a case that has nothing to do with me. Everybody has a past. Father Anatole’s is none of my business. Why are you so damned positive he had anything to do with those murders, anyway?”

  “Several reasons, actually.”

  “Then start talking.”

  Miranda brushed her hair behind her ears and sighed. “Do you know who Bobby had been the closest with those months before the murders? Father Anatole. Working in the private sector, defending people he believed were guilty and getting them acquitted of their crimes, had started to take their toll on him. He’d needed guidance. A friend.”

  It should have been her. Maybe if she hadn’t been so far away Bobby would have turned to her instead of to the priest when his life had started to spin out of control. But how could she have known? She couldn’t have predicted his world would soon implode so horrifically.

  “When I’d left for South America, Bobby had had a beautiful girlfriend, an expensive home, and his dream job working for a large firm in Dayton.”

  “So he’d turned to his priest for spiritual and moral guidance.”

  Miranda nodded. “Father Anatole had asked Bobby to help those less fortunate with free legal advice.” His letters had become a little more frequent again . . .

  Until they’d abruptly stopped for good.

  “Bobby’s last letter had stated how happy he was working pro bono for the church shelter. It had doubled his workload, which he hadn’t seemed to mind at all, but in hindsight, I’m certain it gave the priest everything he’d needed to set Bobby up for the murders, too. Anatole knew Bobby’s whereabouts often enough to follow behind him and dump a body. Always in a place they’d be easily found. Always with plenty of witnesses to identify Bobby because he had been in those places. Just not when the murders had occurred.”

  He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “I want to offer you a warning here. Everything you’re saying about Father Anatole sounds like it’s coming from a desperate sister.”

  “That’s not true. He befriended Bobby. Knew that my brother had been seen and identified. He framed my brother and got away with it. Who is he going to frame this time? That old man because the body was found on his property? Me?”

  “So he’s from Dayton and knew your brother. If that’s enough to prove guilt, then you’d be a prime suspect right along with him. And he’s not being a pain in my ass.”

  “I was in South America when those murders happened!”

  “You weren’t in South America last night.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was halfway through the father’s window if you’ll recall.”

  “You mean the same time he was pulling you out of that window?” Tucker leaned back again and clasped his fingers together. “Are you seeing my dilemma now? If you couldn’t have killed that man because you were at the church, how could Father Anatole have done it?”

  Chapter 14

  “WE DON’T KNOW yet what time that man was killed, Miranda,” Tucker said. “That’s my point. You can’t give me an alibi until I have a time of death. Neither can Father Anatole. I’m sorry that you haven’t had a good reason to trust the law, but I’m also not stupid enough to completely ignore all you showed me last night and told me today, any more than I’m stupid enough to simply take your word for all this.”

  He let his words register with her while he sipped his coffee. Not one bit of makeup on and she was still cute as hell. But the last thing he needed in his life was a five-foot tiny ball of crazy.

  “If you do decide to question him, you’ll be careful?”

  The distrust in her eyes bothered him, and the concern behind the distrust confused him.

  He didn’t like being punished for other people’s crimes. “I appreciate you worrying about me, Miranda. I really do. But believe it or not, I used to deal with cases like this a lot back in Chicago. I’m not an incompetent ass.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. He also didn’t have all the resources he’d had in Chicago, which was going to make things a lot harder and a lot slower. “I’ll question him because Michael Levi deserves every ounce of my effort to find his killer, and I can’t afford to set aside anyone who might be a suspect. Even you, so I hope you don’t have plans for leaving town anytime soon.”

  “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere until Anatole’s in jail where he belongs.”

  Unless she had some sort of super power, she would have had a hell of a time moving someone the size of Michael Levi around. However, she had an entire file folder filled with details of past crime scenes. If anyone could pull off a copycat murder, unfortunately, it was Miranda Harley.

  “And I hope you understand,” she continued, “why I didn’t just blurt out that Bobby is my brother. He deserves a champion, too, Tucker. Bobby was just as much a victim of the Rosary Killer as those men were. His life was taken from him, only he was never put out of his misery.”

  There was no doubt in Tucker’s mind that she believed every single word she was saying. He tried to imagine his sister in jail and it sickened him. Worse was picturing her there undeservedly. Miranda loved her brother. There was a fierce loyalty in her defense of him that Tucker admired and respected.

  “I’ll do what I can. But you’re going to have to trust me, all right? No lies. No omissions. And for God’s sake, no more breaking and entering. Can you promise me that?”

  “No more lies. I can promise that.”

  But not the omissions. Not the breaking and entering. He rolled his neck, popping the tension from his shoulders. “Stay out of trouble, Miranda. That’s not a suggestion. Just because I’m willing to listen doesn’t mean I won’t throw your ass in a cell if it means saving me from headaches I don’t have time for. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  He rolled his eyes at the stubborn set of her jaw. “Let me nose around the Dayton case and see what my gut tells me before you do anything stupid. Will you at least give me that much, or should I just put your name on a cell now?”

  Her jaw released and her shoulders relaxed. “I can give you that.”

  “Then I think we’re done here.”

  She stood, but halfway to the door, she turned to look at him again. “Are you planning on letting the town know what’s going on? Maybe post a report telling them to lock their doors? Set a curfew? Anything? It might spook Anatole enough to at least stop him for a while, until he thinks he’s safe again.”

  He sighed. “Not until I know what’s going on. Having a town in an uproar can cause a lot more chaos than this department has the manpower to handle. I assume I can trust you to keep quiet?”

  Her nod was barely perceptible. Silently dismissing her, he turned his attention to Levi’s case file in front of him. When he didn’t hear the door open, he looked back up at Miranda. She was staring at the file.

  “I’d give anything to have been able to stop that, you know. Even the chance at catching Father Anatole this time isn’t worth that man’s death. I’m truly sorry.”

  He believed her.

  She opened the door and started to leave again, but swung back around before she could step foot in the hall. “Tucker?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nose around quickly, okay? If I’m right, and he’s still going in order, this might have been the sacrament of marriage. That leaves confirmation, last rites, and holy orders. You only have six days to prevent another rite from being recreated.”

  As the door clicked shut behind her, Tucker rubbed his eyes. Six days to prevent another killing when he had no leads and no real suspects—unless he took Miranda at her word and considered Father Anatole. That also meant he’d have to follow his gut about this being a copycat and consider her, too.

  He reopened the Levi file and scanned the forensic report sitting on top. Michael Levi’s car had come back clean, so no leads there, either. Bowen had been right about the car’s location being the primary crime sc
ene. They’d found blood, nearly washed away by snow, close to where the car had been parked. But Tucker was fairly certain that blood belonged to their victim. He could always hope he was dealing with a sloppy killer, but the chances of him being that sloppy were slim.

  Grabbing a pen, he jotted down the four sacraments Miranda had listed. He wrote Michael’s name next to marriage. Was Michael planning to get married? If so, why would that alone make him a target for the killer?

  He took the paper and moved to stuff it in the file folder only to pull it out again. Next to confirmation he wrote the name Ricky, and beside it, a question mark. Tucker thought about the box he’d found under the boy’s bed. Would his lack of faith be enough to make him a target? He wasn’t a grown man, but confirmation took place at a young age. Was that reason enough for the killer to change his MO? Or was it proof that they really were dealing with a copycat and he’d chosen his first victim to be someone weak, easier to kill? A practice murder?

  He called Bowen, instructed him to get a more detailed, formal statement from Ricky’s parents regarding where’d they’d been the night Ricky had disappeared, and grabbed his hat in preparation to hit the streets.

  A rap on his door stopped him. It cracked open, and the coroner, Samantha Murray, popped her head in. “You on your way out?”

  He’d worked with Doc Sam a lot, but never on a case like this. He sincerely hoped she knew her shit. “I was, but it can wait. Tell me you have news for me.”

  “Drove straight here from Knoxville. I want credit for that, damn it. Tired as hell, but I wanted to fill you in before I caught up on all my missed sleep.”

  Tucker fell back into his chair, scrambling for pen and paper. “Credit noted. Have a seat.”

  She dug through the big satchel on her shoulder and passed him a folder. “Keep in mind, I only know what they found in the prelims. Won’t know more till the full autopsy report comes in.”

  “Do you have a time of death for Levi?” He opened the file, scanned the documents as she spoke.

  “Going on core temp and rigor, between six and eight.”

  That was quite a large window to find an alibi for Anatole or anyone else, for that matter.

  “Any idea when we’ll get an autopsy?”

  She raked a hand through her messy blond hair. “It’s only been a couple of hours and they’re swamped, but they promised to put a rush on it. I’ll be there when they do the autopsy, of course, but unfortunately we’re still working off their timetable. The chief ME and I are friends, but I can’t promise that will move things along any faster. I was lucky to get the information I have.”

  He reached for his coffee, grimacing as the icy coldness passed his lips. “Any other details you can give me now? Anything you might have made note of at the scene?”

  There was always a chance he’d missed something that she’d seen.

  “The shirt and pants he was found in were about two sizes too small, while the jacket was way too large. And before you ask, no. There was no sign of any other clothes anywhere. Not so much as a pair of socks. So whoever put him in these must have taken the victim’s clothing with him.”

  He was going to have to go back over the scene at Walt’s. Do a grid search there and where Levi’s car was found himself to make sure they hadn’t missed anything, check all trash cans and Dumpsters in the area for a set of men’s clothing. More than likely, it would take questioning the family to find out if anything stood out as missing from Michael’s body. A watch, a ring. Something personal like that.

  “Hey, don’t look so defeated.” Sam smiled and eased off the desk. “I do have something that might help you with leads while you’re waiting for information.”

  She dug through her satchel again and pulled out a paper bag, from which she pulled out a smaller, plastic Ziploc containing something silver.

  Tucker took it and frowned. “Jewelry?”

  Sam snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened the baggie, spilling its contents into her palm. “It’s pretty darned distinctive. Looks like something that could have been handcrafted right here in town. Maybe you’ll catch a break.”

  The piece looked fragile, almost made of thread, the silver was so thin. Tiny black pearls beaded the circle, unworn by worried fingers as they were meant to be. The intricate crucifix sparkled as it caught the overhead light.

  “I found it wrapped around his upper right arm, stopping at the bend of the elbow. If you didn’t lift his sleeve, you would have missed it.”

  A rosary. The Rosary Killer.

  Tucker felt a little ill. He took the sealed evidence bag from Sam. “We need to get this to the lab. Maybe the killer left some trace evidence when he secured it on Levi. And let me know when you’re back from Knoxville with the autopsy results?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Tucker watched her go and took a second to himself before gathering Ricky’s file and shoving his hat on his head.

  Acid boiled his stomach. He had to find that kid.

  Dead or alive.

  Chapter 15

  TUCKER SPENT MOST of the afternoon at the high school and library. Even though there were a couple of weeks till winter break actually started, a lot of families had already left town, their kids armed with a month’s worth of schoolwork. While tourists came here for the holidays, many of the townies did the exact opposite and sought warmer climates, so there weren’t as many kids to talk to as Tucker would have liked.

  Of the kids who’d remained in town, only a few recognized Ricky from his photo, but other than saying he was just a weird kid, they didn’t have anything to offer. His teachers weren’t any help, either. They knew Ricky. He was quiet, kept to himself, didn’t have friends. They suspected there were problems at home since Ricky missed a lot of school, but none had ever reported it. That fact made him ashamed of his small town for the first time since he’d arrived.

  Every minute that passed, he was feeling sicker and sicker about how this case was going to end up. Even if the kid’s disappearance had nothing to do with Michael Levi’s, no one lost that amount of blood and just disappeared like that unless foul play was involved.

  The kid had been jumped before by his classmates . . . and his father . . . but so far that had been a dead end. Bowen had called in a few minutes ago. Both Mr. and Mrs. Schneider had pretty solid alibis for the night their son disappeared. The owner of the local bar had seen to that when Bowen had called to verify that they’d been there all damned day. The blood in the alley had been too fresh that evening for them to have done anything to the kid before that.

  He had nothing to bring Stan Schneider in for now.

  How did a kid just disappear?

  He drummed his fingers on the school’s reception desk, waiting for Principal Plough to finish with his parent conference. The receptionist offered him a flirty smile as she glanced up from her computer.

  “Sure I can’t get you some coffee, Chief?”

  She was a cute brunette with nice eyes, and a couple weeks ago, he might have asked her out for that coffee. Right now, all he cared about was getting some small tip that would point him toward a missing teen. Not to mention, she wasn’t Miranda.

  “No, thanks.” He jutted his chin toward the closed glass door in the corner. “You sure you told him I was here?”

  She nodded. “Of course. He won’t cut the meeting short, though. He’s been waiting for them to have time to come talk about their daughter for weeks. It could be a while, if you wanted to come back later.”

  The school bell rang and within seconds, the corridor behind him was filled with the sounds of opening classroom doors, teen footsteps clomping to lockers, roughhousing, and laughter. Tucker thumbed through the file under his hand. He was going to wear the damned thing out.

  “Do me a favor,” he said, still rummaging through the papers. He’d wanted to get Plough’s permission before calling in the kids, but the man was taking too damned long. Tucker was going to have to work around the principal. “Can
you call . . . here it is . . . can you call three kids up here for me? I’d like to talk to them about something.”

  “Possibly, but it will be a few minutes. I won’t be able to locate them until they’re in their next class. About five minutes.”

  He pulled out the sheet of paper listing the names of the kids who’d jumped Ricky months ago and read them off for her while she scratched them down. He wouldn’t be able to officially question them without their parents present, but he might get lucky and see some flash of guilt on the brats’ faces when he mentioned Ricky. Or fear when they saw whom they’d been summoned to talk to.

  Their reactions might be enough to let him know if he was on the right track.

  “Thanks. Is there a quiet place I could meet them in? Library maybe?”

  “Vice Principal Carthage is out for the day. You could use her office.” She pointed toward another door behind the reception area. “Right through there.”

  He waved the file at her. “Thank you”—he glanced at the name plaque on the desk—“Sheila.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Tucker sat behind the desk and flipped open Ricky’s file. He set out the single-page data sheets he’d gathered when Ricky’s grandfather had filed the assault charges against the teens. No one, not the school, other students, or the parents he’d spoken to, had labeled the kids bullies. They claimed they were just strong-willed leaders.

  He’d thought they were all full of shit.

  There was a soft tap before Shelia opened the door. “Chief? Here are two of the boys you asked to see. The third, Mark Welby, has already left for Christmas break.”

  “Thanks again, Shelia.” He stared at the kids until the receptionist closed the door softly behind her. Wanting to keep them on edge, he didn’t offer them a seat. Instead, he leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared.

  When they were both squirming and looking at each other, the stockier of the two held out his hands and, with nothing but attitude, demanded, “What?”

  Tucker narrowed his eyes. He glanced down at the forms, looking at the names printed beneath the photos. “Why don’t you tell me, Caiden?”