All the Dead Fathers

by David J. Walker

  * * *

  An hour later Kirsten was back on the road. She figured Wardell wouldn’t want to hang around downtown to meet with her and then have to drive home in rush hour, so if he called she wanted to be somewhere on his route to Rockford. Meanwhile, with her free hand she paged though her notebook for the number of the cell phone she had given Michael. She’d made him promise to carry it with him and keep it turned on.

  It rang several times, and she imagined him fumbling the phone out of his pocket, then trying to find the right button. Finally, he said, “Hello?” Very loudly.

  “I can hear you,” she said. “You don’t have to shout.”

  “Is that you, Kirsten?” A little softer.

  “Yes. Just talk normally. It’ll pick up your voice.”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s better,” she said. “It sounds like you’re in a car.”

  “Yes, on the way to Vernon Hills. There’s a shopping mall there. I might buy a shirt. But it’s mainly … you know … sort of an outing.”

  “Are you driving? By yourself?”

  “I’m driving, but I have three guys with me. Bob Carrera, Bri—”

  “Is Aloysius Truczik one of them?”

  “Al? Oh no. He’s—”

  “Please, Michael,” she said, “I’d rather the others don’t know what I’m asking.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Where do you think Truczik is right now? And tell me in a way that the people with you won’t know what it’s about, okay?”

  “Why, what is it? Is something—”

  “Michael! Just tell me.”

  “Sorry. Well…” He paused, apparently trying to figure out how to answer, and then said, “Not me, I don’t play golf very often. Um … there’s a course right here on the seminary grounds that’s leased to a company that runs it as a public course. We priests get a discount, and they’ve finally added a bar and a rest—”

  “You mean Truczik’s playing golf there now,” she said.

  “Right.”

  So he’d be out in the open and around other people. “Until when?” she asked.

  “That’s why I don’t play. If you go out after lunch, you don’t finish until almost six o’clock. Of course, you’re not stuck in a boring mall someplace looking for—”

  “Almost six, I got it,” she said. “What about you? When will you be back to Villa St. George?”

  “Depends. We’re trying to agree on a movie. But by about six, anyway. Is that okay? Should I be doing any—”

  “No, no. Really, there’s no problem. I’m just trying to figure things out, is all.” She tried to sound lighthearted. “You guys have a good time.”

  “Thanks, although that’s just about impossible. But I … I do what I can to help.”

  “Gotta run. You remember how to end a call with that thing?”

  “Yes … I think so.” And he was gone.

  * * *

  Michael hated malls, hated shopping, seldom went to movie theaters. She knew his “I do what I can” meant he was trying to help some of the others keep their spirits up.

  As far as most people were concerned, these men were beyond redemption. But Michael was trying to help them. Was that only because he was one of them? And what about her? She was trying to help them, too. Because Michael was one of them and she had to help Michael. She was glad what he did wasn’t as bad as what some of the others had done. Still, though, it was bad.

  Was it bad enough to merit being tied down and having his skin and parts of his body sliced away? And Al Truczik? Is that what Al Truczik deserved?

  There was at least one person out there who certainly thought so.

  30.

  At two o’clock Wardell called. “You looked great on TV,” Kirsten told him.

  He told her that after “that bullshit” he’d had to go downtown to the Dirksen Federal Building, with the cops from the other jurisdictions, to meet with an FBI profiling team. He didn’t sound thrilled.

  “Take a lot of notes?” Kirsten asked.

  “Hey, they were full of insights. New stuff … if you never saw a Hannibal Lecter movie. Gotta give ’em credit, though, these are guys who’ve found their niche, and truly enjoy their work … which is mainly talking to each other.”

  “And you’re headed back to Rockford right away?”

  “Soon as I pick up my damn car.” It sounded like he was walking down the street. “What you got for me?”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “I’ve had about eight doughnuts and a gallon of coffee since ten o’clock. Just tell me whatever you got.”

  “We should talk in person.” She hesitated, then jumped in. “I know who the next victim’s going to be.”

  “Yeah, me too. It’ll be some priest who—”

  “No, I know which priest it will be. And I know the one after that, too.”

  “Uh-huh.” He thought she’d gone over the edge, she could tell. “So, have you notified the appropriate law enforcement agency?”

  “I’m notifying you. Like I said I would. As to the guy, he seems safe enough for the moment. We really need to talk in person.”

  “I just spotted the garage where my car is, and I’m sure as hell not gonna wait around and get caught in rush hour. I’ll call you from the road, and—”

  “You don’t believe me. And you won’t, not unless we sit down and go over it. If you’re not interested, I’ll take what I have elsewhere.” As if she had some elsewhere to go. “But,” she said, “I know where we can meet.”

  She told him and he agreed. Which was good, because she was already there, waiting for him.

  * * *

  “Great,” Wardell said. He lifted the cup that would start him on his next gallon of coffee. “So the killer is spelling out your name with his victims. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”

  “I didn’t say it made sense,” Kirsten said. “Serial killers aren’t famous for making sense. Maybe your FBI consultants failed to point that out.”

  “My FBI consultants pointed right up their collective—”

  “Serial killers are psychotic, or psychopathic, or whatever. They’re crazy, anyway. And often enough they’re highly intelligent people who get drawn into fantasies and…” She paused. “Anyway, we don’t need to get into all that stuff here.”

  Here was a booth in a McDonald’s along I-90, just northwest of O’Hare Airport on the way to Rockford. Convenient for Wardell, which was the point. For Kirsten it was out of the way, but at least she got an edible chicken salad.

  “Look,” she said. She took the sheet with Michael’s list of eighteen names from her folder and put it on the table between them. “The three that are dead already and the one presumed dead—presumed by me, at least—are lined out. Kanowski, Immel, Regan, and Stieboldt. That’s K-I-R and—”

  “I know the alphabet. And you look. This freak is almost certainly some crazy mope who was abused by one of these creepo priests as a kid. Now he’s striking back. What makes you think he even knows who you are?”

  “Whoever it is—and there’s at least a chance it’s a woman—is smart, smart enough not to leave a trace so far, at least not until Stieboldt. He also seems to know an awful lot about the men he’s after.”

  “You just said it might be a woman.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “So, if this person has studied the priests on the Sun-Times list, he or she—”

  “We don’t even know if the killer—and the possibility it’s a woman is about zero—is working from that list.”

  “The killings started shortly after the list appeared,” Kirsten said. “Every victim so far is from the list. Some of these men have never been identified publicly as sex abusers. So without the list how would whoever it is know that?”

  “Kanowski was charged and convicted. That’s public. Regan messed with about a dozen kids and the archdiocese was sued because of him. That’s public.”

  “Immel, though,” she said, “that was kept qu
iet. And so was Stieboldt.”

  “We don’t even know yet that Stieboldt’s dead.”

  Kirsten shook her head. “Now you’re just arguing for the sake of argument. He’s a victim, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe he’s the psycho. Maybe he chopped off his own fingers to throw us off.”

  “Right. Jesus.” She took a bite into her salad and thought a moment. “I think the killer’s working from the list, and my uncle is on it.” She pointed. “Michael Nolan.”

  “Uncle?” He stared at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “Yeah … well … it never came up. Anyway, my uncle’s case was made public a couple of years ago in a lawsuit by the parents of the girl he … he had sex with. And anybody who checked could easily find out I’m his niece. Also, I helped him when he was sued.”

  “You helped him? A fucking child abuser?”

  “You’re helping him, too. Trying to catch whoever wants to kill him.”

  “Because that’s what they pay me for. Catching bad guys. I don’t give a fuck who the victims are. That’s different.”

  “Whatever, but the killer knows who Michael Nolan is, and could easily find out I’m his niece and that I’ve helped him in the past. I still see him fairly often, too. Maybe the killer thinks helping an evil man is evil. So I’m evil, too, and he wants to—”

  “What, you think this maniac is gonna go after all the relatives of these child fuckers, too? Gimme a break.”

  “The families of a lot of these guys probably abandoned them long ago. My own mother wouldn’t even talk to her brother, my uncle. And until he got sued I never knew why. I’m just saying I’m on record as trying to help him. I got my husband to represent him in the lawsuit.”

  “Then your husband’s nuts, too.”

  “My husband feels the same way you do about Michael and the rest of them, but … you know … he’s my husband.”

  “Right. So that’s it? That’s what you got? A fucking alphabetical coincidence?”

  “Coincidence? Four victims. Four last names starting with letters that start to spell out my name. The odds against that are forty-seven million to one.”

  “You made that up.”

  “I know. It’s probably way higher than that. But there’s something else.” She took out a photocopy of the postcard, front and back, and laid it on the table in front of Wardell. “A few weeks ago I picked up my mail at my office and found this. Look at how it’s addressed to me. With a label which was cut off a magazine, one that had earlier been taken from my office.” She tapped her finger on the copy. “See the message? ‘Here I come.’ That’s not creepy?”

  “Creepy, maybe.” He looked up from the card. “But tied to these killings? No.”

  “The day I got the card was the very day Kanowski was killed.” She went on to tell him about someone puncturing her tire, “which happened Tuesday, the day Regan got it, and the day before Stieboldt,” and about the magazine having been returned—minus its mailing label.

  “You’re sure it’s the label from that particular magazine?” Wardell asked.

  “Leroy Renfroe says it is.”

  “Well then, it is.” Renfroe’s expertise was widely respected.

  “And yesterday it was returned, put back on the table … inside my locked office. A lock which could be picked by a ten-year-old, true. But still…”

  “So yeah, maybe someone’s trying to mess with your mind. But that still doesn’t show a connection with these killings.”

  “K-I-R-S,” Kirsten said, and tapped her finger on the list again. “K-I-R-S. And there’s one T on the list and that’s—”

  “I told you … I know the goddamn alphabet. The only T is this guy Truczik.” He shook his head. “Christ.”

  “You don’t have to tell anyone you actually buy what I’m saying. But it has to be brought to someone’s attention, and at least they’ll listen to you.”

  “I gotta check with my boss before I say anything beyond him.”

  “I guess I’m not going to get any medicals, huh? Or autopsy reports?” He shook his head, and she said, “Was Regan sliced up, too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “While he was … alive?”

  He nodded. “Pretty bad.”

  “And that happened late Monday or early Tuesday, Stieboldt was taken Wednesday evening, and today is Friday. So you can’t waste a lot of time thinking about what I—”

  “Hey!” Wardell glared at her. “I don’t need you to tell me my fucking job. Got it?”

  “I’m just saying…” She shrugged. “Meanwhile, I’ll cover Truczik. It’s what, four o’clock?” She checked her watch. “He’s safe for now … in the middle of a round of golf at a course right there at the seminary. I’ll get there before he’s—”

  “Golf?” Wardell pointed toward the windows behind her and she turned and was shocked at how dark it was getting outside. “You oughta leave your radio on,” he said. “A big thunderstorm coming out of the northwest. High winds, heavy rains, maybe some hail. Lightning, for sure. The seminary’s in Mundelein, right?”

  “Right.” She was already on her feet. “About due north of here.”

  “Better hurry. That golf game’s gonna be called off before you get there.”

  31.

  No route would be a fast one at this time of day, but Kirsten chose local roads rather than face the tangled expressways. Before long, rain was pelting her windshield. Why had she wasted time meeting Wardell? She should have gone straight to the seminary. Gotten to Truczik before the storm forced the golfers off the course. Warned him. Stayed with him. Not that she’d ever care a whole lot about a guy who Michael’s notes said had been accused of fondling young teenagers. Four boys in three incidents over twenty years ago, all of which he denied. Assuming the charges were true, it was hard to give a damn whether the creep lived or died. But dammit, she still didn’t like the idea of anyone—no matter what hateful things they’d done—being skinned alive. Not on her watch, anyway.

  If she’d been paying attention she’d have known about the storm. Besides, now that she thought about it, storm or not, what was so safe about letting a man wander around a golf course, even a busy one? He could have been picked off by someone hiding in the woods with a rifle and a halfway decent scope. Which wasn’t at all the way this killer worked, and she knew she was just beating herself up, not being rational. Still, she should have gone straight to Truczik.

  It was past five-thirty when she reached the seminary and found the golf course, called Pine Meadows. Although sundown was still over an hour away, it was very dark. Rain poured down and the sky grumbled almost nonstop with low, rolling thunder, broken periodically by fierce lightning and sharper crashes.

  She sat in the car in the parking lot, with her windows fogging up, and called Michael. Again there were lots of rings before he said, “Hello?” in a stage whisper. “I’m watching the movie. Just a minute.” She heard breathing and mumbling, and pictured him crawling over people to get out. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’m out in the lobby. Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Everything’s fine. I’m at the golf course, looking for Aloysius Truczik. But it’s raining like crazy and obviously nobody’s still playing. Is he likely to be in the bar?”

  “Usually not. Unless someone else is buying. Al’s got money, but—”

  “I don’t recall meeting him by name when I was there. What does he look like?”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “Didn’t I just say everything’s fine? I need to ask him something, that’s all.”

  “If he’s there you can hardly miss him. At the meeting Al was the big heavy guy with the sort of irritating voice, who kept—”

  “I got it. Thanks, and don’t worry. If I don’t find him here I can talk to him later, or tomorrow or something.” At least I hope so, she thought.

  “Should we come back? I mean, the movie’s a loser and—”

  “Michael, please. Every
thing’s okay.”

  She ended the call and tried Cuffs Radovich. She got his voice mail. She knew he didn’t check it often, but she stated where she was and that she’d try again.

  She couldn’t find the umbrella which should have been under her front seat. She shoved her purse under there instead and got out of the car and made a run for it, holding her jacket up over her head and splashing through deep puddles. Inside, the bar was crowded, but she didn’t see Truczik. She asked for help from a woman serving drinks, and was told there was a “starter” who kept track of all the golfers and Kirsten could find him in the pro shop.

  * * *

  The starter was a young, cheerful Matt Damon look-alike, but in a larger size, wearing crisp blue slacks and—what else?—a golf shirt, pale yellow. “Oh yeah,” he said, “Father Truczik. I was lucky today. I was able to put him with three guys who didn’t already know him. He’s a decent golfer for a guy his weight, but he’s usually by himself looking for a foursome, and there’s a lot of people who won’t … you know…”

  “You mean he talks too much,” she said.

  He grinned. “You got it.”

  “Anyway, he’s not out—” A sharp clap of thunder startled her, and the lights went out, and then back on. “No one’s out on the course, I take it.”

  “No way. All that lightning? A person could get killed out there.”

  “I was to meet him here,” she said, “but I don’t see him anywhere. Do you think he might … I don’t know … be taking a shower or something?”

  “Nah, he usually heads—” He snapped his fingers. “You know, there was a message for him to call someone and I gave it to him. I remember I wrote it on the back of … something.” He rummaged around on the cluttered counter in front of him. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “he took it with him. ’Cause it had the number on it.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “It was a woman on the phone. It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “No. But didn’t she give a name?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember. Christie? Kristen? Something like that.”