ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel)

by Susan A Fleet

  Not that he had actually said this, but he’d let her know it, stroking her cheek as they lay in the dark after making love. But his parents didn’t care about inner beauty. They saw only her flaw, the horrible birthmark on her cheek. Tears filled her eyes, and she fought back a sob. If people stared at her when she was little, her parents told her God had given her a special mark to demonstrate His love.

  Too bad God couldn’t convince Dave’s parents to love her.

  The recapitulation of the French horn solo told her the Ravel would soon be over. The next CD was cued up and ready to go: The wedding march from Mendelssohn’s Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Another reminder of what might have been.

  She blinked back tears, sat in her chair, adjusted the microphone and checked the large round clock on the wall facing her. Four-thirty. In an hour she would return to the small cottage she had rented. It was convenient, only three blocks away, and the rent was a lot cheaper than her apartment in Providence. That job had paid well and she’d managed to sock away some money, but if a full time job didn’t open up at WCLA soon she would need to find another source of income. Another nagging worry.

  She did a station break, articulating the call letters clearly, smiling as she introduced the Mendelssohn. Smiling as you spoke was important. Listeners could hear it in your voice if you didn’t, and she didn’t want them to know that her heart was breaking. The music began and she checked the level on the VU-meter. Satisfied, she removed her headset and placed it on the console beside the executive telephone.

  One of the listener-lines blinked, pulsing a soundless “beep.”

  She composed her face in a smile and answered the call.

  “WCLA. Good morning, this is Melody speaking.”

  “Good morning, Melody. It’s Father Tim. We met at the dance the other night at St. Margaret’s, remember?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course I remember. You’re up early this morning.”

  A soft chuckle. “I’m always up early. I officiate at the early Mass every day. That was a lovely piece you just played. Maurice Ravel is my favorite composer. And it’s always nice to hear your beautiful voice.”

  She smiled, pleased at the compliment. “Thank you, Father Tim. You’re very kind.”

  “You sound a bit melancholy today. Is something wrong?”

  Had he heard the misery and grief in her voice? She would have to be more careful. She smiled harder. “Not really. It must be the hour.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose, but I think it’s something else. I pride myself on taking the emotional pulse of my parishioners, Melody, and it seems to me you’re a bit downhearted. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, I have been a bit down lately, but it will pass.”

  “I think you’re pining for a boyfriend. Am I right?”

  Her heart pounded. She didn’t know what to say.

  “Trust me, Melody. I hear lots of sad stories. People talk to me.”

  She gripped the phone. Maybe she should talk to someone. God knows she needed a shoulder to cry on. Her mother hadn’t grasped the depth of her feelings for Dave. “You’ll find someone else,” her mother had said. “There are lots of fine young men out there.”

  As the silence lengthened she heard the priest’s breathing. He was waiting for her to speak, she realized. Say something, you dolt!

  “Six months ago my boyfriend dumped me,” she blurted.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Melody. Would you like to talk about it?”

  “Well … there isn’t much to say, is there?”

  “Of course there is. You’ve been hurt, Melody, and you’re lonely. You have much to give and no one to receive it. You need to talk. Let’s have coffee after you get off work. I’ll be done with the early Mass by then.” He chuckled softly. “I zip through the early ones as fast as I can.”

  “Okay.” She gnawed her lip. That sounded unappreciative. Here this priest was going out of his way to help her, and she sounded indifferent. She pasted on a smile and said, “I’d love to have coffee with you, Father Tim.”

  “Excellent. Discussing personal issues in public is rather awkward. Let’s meet at your place. I make house calls you know, for my parishioners.”

  She tried to recall when she’d last picked up the clutter. Oh well, she could tidy up quickly. The cottage wasn’t that big.

  “Okay. I’m renting a house three blocks from the station.”

  “A house? Goodness, all by yourself?”

  She laughed. “All by myself. I had roommates in college. If I have to fight clutter, I’d rather it be my clutter, not someone else’s.”

  “I just thought you might want companionship, but maybe you’ve got a pet.” Father Tim chuckled. “You haven’t got a Great Dane, have you?”

  “I haven’t even got a hamster.”

  “Well then, why don’t I drop by after Mass?”

  “That sounds fine. I’ll make some coffee.”

  She gave him the address, rang off and found herself smiling. He was right. She was lonely. After three months here, she hadn’t made any friends. Why bore people with the depressing story of her breakup with Dave, a preoccupation that filled her waking hours and invaded her dreams. Maybe God had sent Father Tim to comfort her. She tried to remember what he looked like. He was young—late twenties, maybe—and average looking, not handsome, but certainly not ugly. She vaguely recalled dark eyes and hair. And that Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist. How sweet!

  He hadn’t once looked at the horrid stain on her cheek. He had complimented her voice, and his smile was one of the kindest she’d ever seen, radiating warmth and compassion and something more, an intensity that touched the core of her being. Seductive, almost.

  Impossible, of course. He was a priest.

  But priests could have sexual feelings, couldn’t they? They just couldn’t act on them. Which meant Father Tim was safe. She couldn’t bear to pour out her feelings to a man and then have him dump her the way Dave had. And the look in Father Tim’s eyes had made her tingle.

  The thought embarrassed her. Since Dave broke their engagement she hadn’t gone on a single date. Her imagination was running away with her. Father Tim wasn’t interested in her in a sexual way. That was foolishness. That was her desperate longing for physical contact with a man. Father Tim had sensed her pain and wanted to help her. It was as simple as that.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunday 2:30 P.M.

  No mouthwatering aromas greeted Frank when he entered St. Catherine’s rectory this time, no sign of Aurora as he followed the priest down the hall to his office, and no welcoming smile from Sean Daily either. Strange. Daily had called earlier saying he had something to tell him.

  Daily went straight to his desk, but Frank stopped by the door to study a color photograph mounted on the wall, a white lighthouse with a red roof perched on a rocky cliff above a stormy sea. It looked like the Maine coast where he and his parents used to spend their summer vacations. Odd. Daily had said he was from California. Maybe he just liked lighthouses.

  He seemed nervous as Frank took a seat in the easy chair facing his desk, fiddling with a felt-tipped pen, staring into space as if riveting scenes from a movie were unfolding there.

  “What did you want to tell me, Sean? Something about Lynette?”

  The priest began to doodle on a yellow legal pad, dark triangles and squares. His face was haggard, looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. After a lengthy silence he muttered, “More or less.”

  More silence, more doodling. Frank let the silence build beyond anyone’s reasonable comfort zone.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” Daily said, meeting his gaze at last.

  He smiled to ease the priest’s discomfort. “I think I can handle it. Life is complicated sometimes.”

  “Not like this.” A tight-lipped frown.

  “Sean, the girl was murdered. I need information and you said you had something to tell me. What’s the problem?”

  “Lynette was a
troubled girl. Her parents were very strict, too strict, if you ask me. They sent her to private school, a Catholic school for girls. Lynette hated it. They wouldn’t let her grow up and have a life like a normal teenager, and the nuns didn’t cut her much slack either.”

  “What’s your point? Her parents didn’t want her dating boys?”

  “Darlene Beauregard once told me that she wanted to become a nun, back when she was in high school, but her father wouldn’t let her.”

  “You think she was pushing Lynette in that direction?”

  “I think Lynette was overprotected. I think she rebelled, had sex with the first boy that showed her some affection and got pregnant.”

  “Okay, but what’s that got to do with the murder?”

  Daily lit a cigarette. “Did you tell her mother abut the pregnancy?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had time. Why?”

  Daily gazed at him with a pleading look in his eyes. “Please don’t tell her. The poor woman has suffered enough, don’t you think?”

  The priest’s take on Lynette’s troubled life was interesting, but he got the feeling that wasn’t the reason Daily had called him.

  “I can’t promise, Sean, but I’m inclined to let it stay buried, provided it’s not connected to the murder. Lynette told you she was pregnant more than a year before she was murdered, correct? ”

  The priest appeared visibly relieved. “Correct.”

  “And you never found out who the father was, correct?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So what’s the point of telling me all this?”

  “I felt sorry for the girl. I used to see her sometimes at the Lakeside Mall, talking to . . . boys.” He waved his hand, and ash from cigarette fell on the yellow legal pad. He mustered a smile. “Last time we spoke you asked about my childhood. What about you, Frank? Where did you grow up?”

  He tried to quell his mounting irritation. This was turning into a wild goose chase. “Swampscott, Massachusetts, a little town near Boston.”

  “A little town on the coast.” Daily gave him a wistful smile. “I love the ocean. I’ve missed it, living in New Orleans so many years.”

  He’s trying to tell me something, Frank thought, but what? On full alert now, he remained silent. Let the priest ramble, see where he goes.

  “I found some articles about you at the library. You’ve had quite a career. Your father must be proud of you. He must love you very much.”

  Frank shifted in his chair, beyond irritated now. Daily must have found the articles about the Fuckup. The Boston Globe had been all over the story. Why was this priest prying into his private life? And why bring up his father?

  “I’ve got a son, too,” Daily said. “He’s a few years younger than you. Ralph’s thirty-five. I’ve never seen him and I probably never will.”

  “A son? You mean before you became a priest?”

  “I’ve never been a priest.”

  Dumbfounded, Frank stared at him. The idea that someone might pose as a priest seemed bizarre. On the other hand, it confirmed his suspicion that Daily was hiding something. “I think you better tell me about that.”

  Daily pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a sigh. “If I tell you my real name, you’ll know part of the story. But not all of it.”

  Weary of the fencing, he said, “Tell me everything, Sean. Don’t lie to me and don’t skip anything.”

  “The Lomax case. Hampton Beach.”

  The words hit him like a one-two knockout punch. Judy Lomax. Right before he left Boston the Boston Globe had run a series of articles on an unsolved murder at a summer resort in New Hampshire. He studied Daily’s face, trying to match it with his recollection of the old news photo.

  “Don’t tell me you’re . . . ?”

  “George Dillon. But I didn’t kill Judy.”

  He tried to reconcile the notion that the man across the desk from him was George Dillon. According to the Globe article, Judy’s elderly parents had hired a private investigator in a last ditch attempt to obtain justice for their daughter, but the PI had been unable to oblige. Dillon had been a suspect from the get-go, but the evidence against him was circumstantial. Back then there had been no DNA tests, and no other suspects.

  “If you didn’t kill her, why did you run?”

  The man who called himself Sean Daily shrugged. “Stupidity. Fear.”

  “Does Aurora know?”

  A look of anguish swept over Daily’s face. “She knows I’m not a priest. She doesn’t know my real name, but she knows I never killed anyone.”

  “Yeah? How does she know that?”

  “I’ve hurt some people, Mary Sweeney for one, but I’ve never killed anyone, Frank. Back then Mary was my steady girl, but we had a fight and split up. I didn’t know she was pregnant. Two weeks ago she sent me a letter, forwarded through my cousin. He’s the only person who knows where I am. Mary’s dying of cancer, and she wanted me to know about Ralph. In case I wanted to get in touch with him after she’s gone.”

  Frank puffed his cheeks. This was worse than a bad soap opera. Real life trumped fiction any day. “How did you get away?”

  “I took off in a raging blizzard, figured the cops would expect me to head south, so I went west. They closed the Mass Turnpike so I had to use secondary roads to reach the New York State Thruway. After they closed that too, I stayed in a Red Cross shelter in Syracuse for two nights.”

  Frank watched him puff his cigarette, staring into space, reliving his desperate flight as he spun the tale.

  “After the weather cleared I drove to Pennsylvania, holed up in a cabin and called my cousin. Leo owns the tavern in Hampton Beach where I used to tend bar. He said the feds were after me because I’d crossed the state line.” Daily looked at him. “Is there such a law?”

  “Yes. Interstate flight to avoid prosecution.”

  Daily locked eyes with him in an unwavering stare. “I didn’t kill her, Frank. I took her out that one night. We had a few drinks. Okay, more than a few, but I never slept with her. She fluffed me off when I took her home. But the cops were all over me. I had no alibi. I didn’t want to face a murder rap.”

  “How’d you get to be a priest?”

  “I’m no priest. I’m an Irish mick pretending to be a priest.”

  “Well, you fooled me. How’d you manage that?”

  “I met an elderly priest in a little town in Wyoming, three feet of snow and the poor guy was freezing his ass off shoveling his driveway, so I did it. Father O’Brien. He liked my name.” Daily grinned. “I made it up on the spot—Sean Daily—got the fake ID papers later. Father O’Brien took a liking to me and let me stay at the rectory. After a week, he hired me to be his helper. I think I’ve done some good over the years.”

  “What about Aurora? How much does she know?”

  “You probably already figured out that we’re . . . more than friends. But Aurora doesn’t know about George Dillon, or the Lomax case.” Daily gave him a broad smile. “She thinks you’re great, Frank, and—”

  “The Lomax case is still open. And federal warrants don’t go away.”

  Daily’s smile disappeared and a pall of silence fell over the room.

  In the silence Frank’s cellphone chimed. He punched on and Miller said, “The bastard got another one. I’m at her house. The crime scene unit’s almost done, get here quick, you might get to see the body.”

  “I’m on my way.” He wrote down the address Miller gave him, punched off and stood. “I have to go.”

  “Wait! Don’t leave yet! I’ve got something important to show you. The day before Lynette was murdered I saw her talking to a priest.”

  His heart jolted. “You saw her talking to a priest?”

  “Yes. The day before she was murdered. I was at the Lakeside Mall and I saw her talking to a young priest.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before? Who was he? Do you know him?”

  Daily nodded, clearly unhappy. “If I tell you his name, are you going to t
ell the taskforce?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Do you have to tell them where you got the information?”

  Frank saw panic in the old man’s eyes. The man who wasn’t a priest was terrified that he’d be exposed as a fraud and taken into custody on an old federal warrant. “Who’s the priest? Tell me his name.”

  Daily clamped his lips together and set his jaw. Stalemate. Daily was a tough old bird. He could give up the name, the first real lead in the Tongue Killer case, or he could withhold it and plead ignorance.

  “If you tell me his name, I might be able to keep my source confidential.” For a while, until Norris squeezed him for it.

  With a heavy sigh, Daily handed him a photocopy of the front page of the Clarion-Call. It took him a second to realize that it was Kitty’s composite because the original sketch had been altered with cross-hatchings and heavy outlines around the features. Now it looked amazingly lifelike, especially with the addition of a Roman collar. “Who did this?”

  “I did,” Daily said. “I got to doodling on it and sketched in the Roman collar. It reminded me of this young priest I met a couple of years ago. He was fresh out of seminary, newly ordained. He told me he’d come to New Orleans the previous October when he was assigned to St. Margaret’s.”

  “What’s his name?”

  After a brief hesitation Daily said, “Timothy Krauthammer. It was right after the first murder. Later I got to thinking about what he said. Everyone was talking about it, you know? About the tongue mutilation.”

  His heart hammered his chest. Krauthammer’s arrival fit the timeframe. The john had attacked Kitty two years ago on a rainy night in October. The first victim had surfaced three months later.

  “What did he say?”

  “It seemed like he was blaming her. He’d seen pictures of the girl and criticized the way she dressed, as if she deserved to be killed. No one deserves to die like that. But some of these new priests are very judgmental.”