“Sean, you’ve pulled it off all these years.”
He forced down a spoonful of gumbo and smiled at the woman he loved more than anything in the world.
“Aurora, you’re the best cook in Louisiana, I swear.”
CHAPTER 7
Wednesday 6:30 A.M.
“What the fuck are you doing, Renzi? You think you can nose around, find some off-the-wall witness and blow my investigation?”
Frank stood by his bed, dripping wet from the shower. Just what he needed to start his day: a phone call from Norris, screaming at him. “Good morning to you too, Burke. Mind telling me what you’re talking about?”
“The column that black bitch wrote for the Clarion-Call, that’s what. Christ, I got every media outlet in the country calling me.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said, hoping to prevent Norris from transforming a brushfire into a raging inferno.
On the way to headquarters he stopped at a convenience store to buy a copy of the Clarion-Call. Rona’s column was on the front page, WOMAN FOILS TONGUE KILLER, alongside Monica’s sketch. A sick feeling invaded his gut. He scanned the first two paragraphs, an abbreviated version of Kitty’s story about the john trying to cut her tongue that ended with a jibe at Norris for failing to catch the Tongue Killer. The third paragraph was the kicker.
NOPD Detective Frank Renzi listened to her story and deemed it credible. The woman hopes it will help the police capture the killer. But will it? When asked about suspects at a recent press briefing, Norris refused to rule anyone out: “During the Baton Rouge serial killer investigation, FBI profilers pegged the killer as a white male, but a black man was later convicted of the crimes.”
He stared at the words, unable to believe Rona had put his name in her column, but there it was on page one, front and center. Seething with fury, he read the rest of the column.
All the victims are white, and police believe the killer sexually assaults them. By promoting his black-killer theory, Norris taps into an ugly racial stereotype: black men attack white women. This rubs salt in old wounds. Norris has already held three black men overnight for questioning, but, lacking evidence to charge them with any crime, he was forced to release them. Must every black man in the area look over his shoulder, fearing the police will arrest him?
The woman described her attacker as a young white male, and she believes he may have been a priest. A sketch artist helped her produce his likeness. [See graphic] Find the man in the sketch, Agent Norris, and arrest him. Only then will the women in this city feel safe.
He flung the paper on the passenger seat in disgust. Rona had used his name to lend credence to a sensational story, a story that advanced her racial agenda. Worse, she had published the sketch. The one positive: she hadn’t named Kitty. He dialed Rona’s extension at the Clarion-Call. Shunted onto voice mail, he left a terse message: “Frank Renzi. Call my cellphone ASAP.”
A headache pounded his temples. Now he had to go and placate Norris, if indeed that was possible, a delightful encounter, sort of like dancing with killer bees. Maybe if he was really careful, he wouldn’t get stung.
_____
After the early Mass the sinner escaped a tedious conversation with an elderly parishioner and returned to the rectory. The moment he stepped inside he heard Monsignor Goretti and Father Cronin in the parlor. It wasn’t difficult. Both men were hard of hearing and tended to shout even in normal conversation. And this was no normal conversation.
“How dare they?” the Monsignor shouted in an angry voice. ”Ever since The Scandal they accuse us priests of everything under the sun!”
Monsignor Goretti always referred to the pedophile priest litigation that had recently rocked the Catholic Church as The Scandal.
“Exactly!” Father Cronin said. “It’s preposterous! Printing that sketch in the newspaper and saying the Tongue Killer is a priest!”
A sketch? In the newspaper? His heart jolted. He tiptoed past the parlor door. If he could get to his room to watch the news …
“Father Tim! Come here and take a look at this.”
The Monsignor had the antenna of a bat, homing in on him wherever he was. His heart pounded. What if the sketch looked like him? What would he say? Once Monsignor latched onto an idea he was relentless.
Sweat dampened his armpits, but he feigned a carefree smile and entered the parlor. Father Cronin fixed him with a frigid stare. Monsignor Goretti thrust a copy of the Clarion-Call at him and said, “Does this look like anyone you know?”
His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe, and his left eyelid twitched in uncontrollable spasms. Willing the nervous tick to stop, he took the newspaper, too terrified to look at it.
I told you to stop, said the voice. They’re going to catch you!
With a supreme effort, he feigned an expression of calm serenity and studied the sketch. And almost laughed aloud. The face in the sketch looked nothing like him, hair in a buzz cut like a Marine recruit, eyes that were pale, not dark like his. He handed it back to the Monsignor.
“Looks like the guy on Rifleman to me. Remember that old TV show? Chuck Connors, wasn’t it?”
The Monsignor burbled a happy laugh. “Exactly right, Father Tim.”
“They’re saying the killer is a priest?”
“May they rot in Hell for such blasphemy,” Father Cronin shouted. “May they suffer fire and brimstone for eternity!”
The sinner nodded his enthusiastic agreement. Desperate to escape, he cast about for a way to make a quick exit. Bending down on one knee, he unlaced his shoe. “These new shoes are too tight. I think I’ve got a blister.”
“Don’t let it fester,” the Monsignor warned. “Put a band aid on it.”
“Right away, Monsignor.” He turned as if to leave, hesitated, and turned back. “Are you done with the newspaper?”
Monsignor thrust the paper at him. “Here, get it out of my sight.”
He rushed down the hall to his room, locked the door and read the column. The prostitute had told them he was a priest! But how did she know? He had worn civilian clothes that night. The NOPD detective must have arranged for her to do the sketch. Renzi was probably behind the priest theory, too, a theory that would make his mission infinitely more difficult.
He took a Mr. Goodbar out of the top drawer of his bureau, ripped off the wrapper and took a large bite. But the chocolate failed to sooth him. The sweet taste brought only memories of Nanny, none of them sweet. Nanny had moved in after Mother died. His memory of Mother was hazy: a woman with a vague vanilla-scent and a pale oval face. But he would never forget Nanny and her rapacious blue eyes, and her cruelties.
As a five-year-old, his innocent request for a drink of water had interrupted her favorite soap opera. “Stop pestering me! Get it yourself!”
“I c-c-can’t reach—”
With a look of pure fury, she grabbed him by the neck, shoved him into the coat closet, shut the door and locked it. He could still remember the ominous click of the lock, the darkness closing in on him in that coffin-like space, the odor of rubber from the winter boots on the floor.
“L-l-let me out!” he wailed.
“Shut up you little creep or I’ll leave you in there all day!”
His wail became a whimper. All day. In this closet. Alone in the dark. Overcome with terror, he wet himself. Sobbing, he sat in the darkness in his smelly wet clothes for what seemed like forever. Forever in hell.
The worst was yet to come.
When Nanny finally unlocked the door and dragged him out of the closet, her nostrils flared. “What’s that smell? You pissed your pants! Take them off, you worthless little shit!”
Expose himself to this monster? He covered his crotch with his hands.
“Take. Them. Off.” Her pale-blue eyes were shards of ice.
Disobey and he was dead. He took them off. Holding his underpants between her thumb and forefinger, she dragged him to the bathroom and sat him on the toilet. “Open your mouth,”
she commanded.
His heart pounded in fear. He shut his eyes. Opened his mouth.
She stuffed the urine-soaked underpants in his mouth.
Tears oozed from his eyes and ran down his cheeks.
“Look at me, you little shit. You soiled your pants and you will sit on that toilet until I come and get you. Don’t you dare take those pants out of your mouth or I’ll get the meat cleaver and cut off your dick.”
Hours later the torture ended. Before Father came home, of course.
“Don’t tell your father,” Nanny had warned. “Not one word.”
But now he had the power, not Nanny.
He finished the Mr. Goodbar, licked chocolate off his fingers and studied the newspaper. The sketch didn’t present much of a problem, but the prostitute did. Something had to be done.
_____
When Frank got to headquarters Miller stood outside the back door, grim-faced, sipping from a takeout coffee container. “Rona’s gone and done it now. Norris got a bug up his ass bigger than a pony.”
“He’s not the only one. I told Rona to keep quiet and what does she do? Writes a shit bomb column and puts my name in it.”
“Monica’s pissed, too. She called me a half hour ago, near hysterical. I promised her we wouldn’t tell anyone she did the sketch.” Miller opened the door. “Let’s go see The Man.”
He grabbed Miller’s arm. “Hold it. It’s me he’s after, not you.”
“Frank, we’re in this together. I talked to Rona, you talked to Kitty. I got Monica to do the sketch. We’re partners. Let’s go.”
Moved by his partner’s loyalty, Frank followed him into the command center. No one met his gaze, everyone staring at their computer screens. They’d read the column. They knew Norris wanted his ass on a platter.
A red-faced Norris waved them into his office. The instant the door closed he said, “What the hell are you doing in here, Miller?”
“I’m here to backup my partner.”
Norris glowered at Frank, anger radiating from him like heat from a blast furnace. “Who’s the woman?”
“Burke, I don’t blame you for being upset—”
“Upset! The bitch called me a racist! Christ, I never said the killer’s black, but I can’t rule it out. Those guys on the Baton Rouge serial killer taskforce looked like assholes, hunting a white guy and all along the killer was black. Who’s the mystery woman? You talked to her, right?”
“I talked to her, yes, but I wanted to check—”
Miller stepped on his foot. “We wanted to check out her story before we told you.”
Norris looked at Miller, his eyes baleful. “Get out of here and get to work, Miller.”
“Sir—”
“Don’t argue! Do it!”
A muscle jumped in Miller’s jaw as he left, stony-faced.
“Tell me her name, Renzi,” Norris said in an ominous voice. “Now.”
“She’s a prostitute. The guy was a john.” Get the worst part out right away and hope for the best.
“A prostitute! Christ, she’s after the reward! It’s no secret he cuts their tongues. She saw it on TV and made up a story.”
“I don’t think so. She was scared, no doubt in my mind about that.”
“I want to talk to her. Bring her down here.”
“She won’t talk to you. She hates cops. That’s why she called Rona. And if she comes to the command center, the reporters will see her and it’ll be all over the news. If the killer hears about it, he’ll go after her.”
“Bullshit! You don’t know he’s the killer. What’s her name?”
Kitty was a confidential informant and Frank always protected the identity of his CI’s, but if Kitty’s weirdo john was the killer, he wouldn’t need her name to remember their encounter, which meant Kitty was in danger. And Norris had the power to protect her.
“Kitty Neves, and she needs protection. She’s afraid he’ll kill her, and now that Rona published her story, so am I. Kitty said she got the impression the guy was a priest.”
A dark flush mottled Norris’ cheeks. “You interview a prostitute, a streetwalker giving ten-dollar blow jobs on street corners for all you know, and you think this fairytale she told you is credible?”
He clenched his jaw, fighting for control. “I believed her, yes.”
“You gave Rona the sketch, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.” Not a total lie. Rona had gotten it from Monica.
“If I find out she got it from you, your ass is grass, Renzi. You might have been some kind of hotshot up in Boston, but down here you’re not.”
He bit back a nasty retort. Norris would never find this killer, could only follow the FBI Commandments. Obey the rules. Defer to superiors. Norris was a manager, and piss-poor one at that, issuing threats when a subordinate dared to show some initiative.
“Think positive, Burke. Publishing the sketch might get us a break. Maybe someone will come forward with new information. The killer follows the news. This might shake things up, cause him to make a mistake.”
Rigid with outrage, Norris said, “Shake things up? I’ll give you shook up. A college kid came home shitfaced last night, lost his keys, and tried to climb in a window. The neighborhood vigilantes saw him and started shooting.”
Frank inwardly groaned. Anytime you had civilians patrolling the streets with guns, it was only a matter of time before someone got popped.
“The kid’s in the hospital. His parents are flying in from Utah. Wait till CNN gets hold of it. Christ! Why is this Jefferson bitch beating me up about race? I never said the killer was black.” Norris’ expression morphed into a hangdog look. “The goddam paper should never have published her column. It’s inflammatory.” He jutted his jaw and stretched his neck. “What do you think? You think the killer’s black?”
First he reams me out, now he wants to pick my brains.
“I think it’s a longshot. All the victims are white. Most serial killers choose victims from their own ethnic group—”
“The Baton Rouge killer didn’t.”
“I’m not done,” Frank snapped. “I think he cases the victim’s neighborhood ahead of time. People notice a lone black male, even in racially-mixed neighborhoods. This killer plans everything, stalks the victim, brings his own tool kit, cleans up so there’s no forensic evidence.”
“So?” Norris gave him a smug look. “What are you saying? A black guy isn’t smart enough? You’re the one who sounds like a racist.”
“My point is this. The killer gets to know his victims first. There’s more tolerance of racially mixed couples these days, but a black man with a white woman is still conspicuous. I think the odds that our killer is black are pretty slim, less than ten percent.”
“Well, I’m not going to rule out the black guys and wind up looking stupid later. Christ, what a cluster fuck! We got vigilantes patrolling neighborhoods, five victims and all the families bitching to the media, fucking reporters put ‘em on TV every chance they get.”
Frank gritted his teeth. Norris was more interested in saving face and preserving his image than he was in catching the killer.
“And now,” Norris said, aiming a forefinger at him, “I got you acting like John fucking Wayne, making a splash in the newspaper. You better watch your ass, Renzi, or you’ll be out of a job. Next time you get a tip, tell me, right away. Get the prostitute down here so I can question her. And stop talking to that goddamn reporter!”
_____
Father Sean Daily sat in his office, hunched over the sketch in the Clarion-Call, tracing the lines that defined the face with a black felt-tipped pen. Aurora was in the kitchen washing the breakfast dishes. She wanted to talk about the column, but he didn’t, not when some woman was saying the killer was a priest, some poor unfortunate short on brains probably, a prostitute perhaps, who’d taken to the streets to avoid the grinding poverty that came with a welfare check, concocting a story to get the reward money.
He lit a Best Buy and bl
ew a stream of smoke. Only once in his life had he been with a prostitute. Two weeks on the run and desperate for the solace of a woman’s arms, he’d spent a half hour with a whore he met at a smoky dive in Cleveland. The encounter had relieved his sexual needs but had brought him no comfort.
He set the cigarette in the ashtray, studied the sketch, then dotted the brows with tiny strokes and cross-hatched the hair to darken the buzz cut. Last night he’d hardly slept, worrying about what Detective Renzi would do. If Renzi told Lynette’s mother about the pregnancy, she would ask how he knew, and if Renzi revealed who’d told him, Darlene Beauregard would descend upon him like the furies of hell. She might even stop contributing to St. Elizabeth’s, money that was desperately needed.
Lost in thought, he resumed his doodles, darkening the eyes and outlining the lips on the tight, unsmiling mouth in the sketch. He couldn’t understand why Renzi had come here, questioning him about Lynette. What if Renzi made him tell the agents on the taskforce about Lynette’s pregnancy?
His stomach clenched and bile rose in his throat. He tried to calm himself, tried to think it through rationally. Lynette’s pregnancy had nothing to do with her murder. Renzi had no interest in Father Sean Daily; Detective Renzi wanted to catch Lynette’s killer. It was as simple as that.
His gaze settled on the composite sketch. His mindless doodles had transformed the generic face in the newspaper into a much clearer portrait. He sketched in the outline of a shirt. On impulse, he added a Roman collar, crosshatched the shirt to darken it and studied the face.
Dark eyes, an angry mouth, thick dark brows. He held the newspaper out at arm’s length. It looked a bit like Father Tim.
Two years ago at a convocation the newly ordained priest had introduced himself, Timothy Krauthammer, assigned to St. Margaret’s parish in Metairie. When Sean said the girls must be thrilled to have such a handsome young priest, Krauthammer had flushed beet-red and stammered, “Y-y-you t-t-talk like a dirty old man.”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 7