Gregory smiled. “You don’t have to convince me, Rona. I’m inclined to run it on the front page tomorrow with your column, but I need to consult our legal team first.”
“Of course,” she said with a brisk nod. “This will ruffle some feathers and we want to be on solid legal ground.”
Amusement glinted in Gregory’s eyes. “Should I inform Special Agent Norris about your receipt of this unsolicited sketch of the killer?”
That would be the kiss of death for the column she planned to write. “Don’t you think it’s best to run it first? Norris censors the news every chance he gets. The New Orleans community has a right to this information.”
“I agree. But the final decision rests with the legal eagles.”
“Understood. But regardless of the decision, my next column will demand that every white priest in the area give a DNA sample to the police.”
CHAPTER 16
Omaha, Nebraska 10:45 A. M.
Frank rented a budget-sized Chevy at the airport and asked the rental agent for directions to Wahoo. The man told him it was forty miles west of the airport. “Take Highway 92. You can’t miss it.”
The car radio blared out bible-thumping preachers and conservative talk shows so he shut it off. That left him alone with his thoughts. The prospect of spending time with Maureen made his heart sing. He hadn’t seen her since Christmas when Evelyn had grudgingly allowed him a two hour visit in the house he’d once owned. Recalling how Maureen’s face lit up when she opened his present, two pairs of soft, pliant calfskin riding gloves, he smiled.
Then, darker memories intruded: the Saturday morning four years ago when he entered the kitchen of his modest ranch house in a suburb of Boston, half-awake, needing a jolt of caffeine, got a jolt from Evelyn instead.
“I saw a lawyer yesterday, Frank. Adultery is grounds for divorce.”
Bam. Accusing him of screwing around. Not in his mind he wasn’t. He’d been as faithful to Gina for the past nine years as he’d been to Janine the previous ten. But he couldn’t very well say this to Evelyn.
“What’s his name? The lawyer.”
“Her name. Annette Mitchell. I told her about Gina.”
Another hand-grenade, but he said nothing. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. He took a Sam Adams out of the refrigerator and popped the cap. He couldn’t understand why she was so angry. What did she think he’d been doing for the last twenty years, jerking off in the shower? He figured she was happy enough to look the other way, until her friend Myrna saw him with Gina in a restaurant one night and told Evelyn.
Which meant Evelyn had to do something or lose face. So he stood there drinking his beer, thinking: It’s not Evelyn’s fault. It’s her Catholic upbringing, the bipolar disorder and the Prozac. In his own way, he loved her. She was the mother of his child, and he had gone out of his way to be discreet, never meeting his lover within ten miles of any location Evelyn or any of their friends frequented. Or so he thought.
“What about Maureen? Did you tell her?”
Evelyn gave him her tight pinched look. “Please have your things out of the house by Monday. The lawyer will be in touch with you.” Then, without another word, Evelyn had picked up her purse and walked out the door.
He glanced out the window at a red farm house and a big red barn with a silver silo, full of hay probably, for the cows grazing in a field near the barn. The bucolic scene hinted at a happy family pulling together to tend the family farm, unlike his family, which had disintegrated in bitter acrimony.
Setting his gaze on the endless flat road ahead, he nudged the accelerator. Paying the mortgage on a house that was no longer his didn’t gall him half as much as having Maureen think he’d been screwing around like some tom cat. Or the disapproval in the eyes of Salvatore Renzi, firstborn son of Sicilian immigrants, staunch Catholic and respected Appellate Court judge. Frank didn’t consider trying to explain. No appeal in the world would erase his father’s condemnation.
Ten miles of boring scenery and rancorous thoughts later, he got off the highway, checked into a motel on the outskirts of Wahoo and got on his laptop. Forget the emotional baggage and focus on Timothy Krauthammer, possible serial killer.
An Internet search yielded a myriad of facts, some more useful than others. Wahoo’s motto was There’s Only One! Statistics for the previous year told him ninety-eight percent of Wahoo’s 4,176 residents were white. The public high school had 280 students in grades 9-12. Bishop Neumann had 382 students in grades 7-12. The previous year there had been no murders, no rapes, and no robberies. Three assaults, eight burglaries and five auto thefts had been reported in the weekly Wahoo News. The most important information: the address of the public library. Citizen Frank Renzi would start there and invent his cover story as he went along.
_____
The Wahoo Public Library, a massive two-story stone structure, had been built circa 1900. The outdoor temperature was over eighty, but the main room was pleasantly cool when Frank went inside. A rotating fan near a circular checkout desk churned air with a faint musty odor. A heavy-set older man sorting books on a two-tiered metal cart beamed Frank a smile.
“Hi, can I help you with something?”
“I hope so. I need some historical background on Wahoo.”
The man turned and pointed to a triple-wide arched doorway. “Ask Mrs. Rademaker in the reference room. She’d be glad to help you.”
Frank thanked him and strolled into a high-ceilinged room with tall windows along one wall. Vacant captain’s chairs surrounded two rectangular oak tables. No Wahoo residents doing research today. Books filled shelves on the three interior walls and freestanding stacks in the middle of the room.
A stout woman stood behind a waist-high checkout kiosk. Mrs. Rademaker, Frank presumed. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun and liver spots dotted her cheeks. She appeared to be in her sixties, peering through granny-glasses at the Around Town section of the Wahoo News. Gossip was often the only entertainment in small towns. She looked up and smiled, which accentuated the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
“Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”
He smiled back. “I hope so. I’m trying to locate the house where a friend of mine grew up. Tim Krauthammer.”
“Tim Krauthammer! Goodness, I haven’t seen him in years. Such a bright boy and he loved books! He started coming to the library in first grade. Are you a friend of his?”
“Last time we talked I said I’d be passing through Wahoo, and he asked me to check out the old homestead. Could you give me directions?”
She opened a local phone directory with a fold-out map and traced the route to the Krauthammer farm with a pencil. “Tim’s father still lives there. His mother died when he was a toddler. But you probably know that.”
“Tim mentioned it, yes.”
“His father remarried.” A look of distaste flitted over her face. “His second wife is much younger, nothing at all like Tim’s mother. She’s a big, busty blonde. The Anna Nicole Smith type, if you know what I mean.”
He nodded to indicate that he did. “Tim’s pretty bright, I guess.”
“Oh yes, very bright, but he had a terrible time in school.” She hesitated as though she might be revealing too much, then added, “The other children made fun of his stutter. His father hired a home tutor when Tim was in second grade. He came to the library almost every day until he went away to boarding school. Was that where you met him?”
“No, I met him later. Tim went to boarding school?”
“Yes, for seventh grade. Somewhere out East. Connecticut, I think it was. A Catholic school.” She pursed her lips. “I’m Lutheran myself. I guess he had problems there, too. He came back in the middle of the year, and his father sent him to Bishop Neumann to finish school.”
As Frank digested this information an older man with a cane limped into the reference room and selected a magazine from a metal rack. “Hi, Gail, how are ya?”
he called. “Hot today, isn’t it?”
“Don’t complain about the heat, Ralph. Be glad it’s not snowing.” She beamed Ralph a cheery smile and returned her attention to Frank.
“Does Tim’s father still work for the insurance company?”
“Yes, Professional Life and Casualty in Omaha. We call it PLC for short. Yes, Mark’s done very well for himself. He’s a vice president now.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by and say hello before I leave.”
“Do that. I’m sure he’ll be there. He’s always working. Maybe that’s why . . .” She caught herself, frowned and then brightened. “You seem like a nice man. I’m so glad Tim’s made a friend. What’s he doing these days?”
Didn’t she know Tim was a priest? She seemed to know everything else about him, and his father. “Tim works in New Orleans now.”
“New Orleans! Goodness, no wonder I don’t see him anymore. Next time you see him you tell him Mrs. Rademaker sends her best regards!”
“I will, Mrs. Rademaker. Thanks for your help.”
He went out to his rental car and got on his cellphone. Directory assistance gave him the number for the PLC office in Omaha. He called and asked for Mark Krauthammer. After a moment a voice said, “Vice President Krauthammer’s office, Marybeth speaking. May I help you?”
“Hi, Marybeth, my name is Frank Renzi. Tim Krauthammer’s a friend of mine. I’m in the area and wanted to say hello to his father. Is Mr. Krauthammer free this afternoon for a half hour or so?”
“His schedule is full today. I could fit you in tomorrow at four.”
“That would be great. Thanks a lot, Marybeth.”
He punched off and jotted notes in his notepad. Mrs. Rademaker disapproved of the second Mrs. Krauthammer, who looked like Anna Nichole Smith. She didn’t seem too fond of Mark Krauthammer either. She’d confirmed his theory about Tim’s stutter and raised a new question: What problems at the boarding school had caused Tim’s abrupt return to Wahoo?
_____
Professional Life and Casualty occupied the top three floors of a ten story octagonal-shaped building in downtown Omaha. Built to withstand tornados—frequent events in Nebraska—it looked like a mini-Pentagon, a perfect reflection of the PLC motto: A good defense is a good insurance policy.
Friday at four o’clock Frank rode the elevator to the ninth floor and presented himself to Krauthammer’s secretary, a matronly woman with a sweet smile, who ushered him into Vice-President Krauthammer’s office.
Poised like a cobra, Mark Krauthammer sat behind a massive polished-walnut desk, an unsmiling man in his sixties with a high forehead and a receding hairline. His eyes were muddy-brown like his son’s, and wary behind gold-rimmed spectacles as Frank approached the desk
He took a seat on one of two straight-backed chairs. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you, sir. I’m a friend of Tim’s, and I wanted to say hello.”
Krauthammer’s face remained stony. “Where did you meet him?”
“At a spiritual retreat.” Having concocted a basic scenario, he riffed on it as though he was taking a jazz chorus. “I’m a motivational speaker, but I hit a rough patch and lost my confidence. Father Tim really inspired me. You must be very proud of him.”
But Krauthammer didn’t look proud, he looked like an anal-retentive sourpuss in a pinstriped suit, his dark bushy eyebrows knit together in a frown. “What is your relationship with him, exactly?”
He analyzed the subtext of the question. Was Krauthammer hinting that his son was gay?
“Just friends, sir. When I said I’d be in Wahoo he told me to check out the family homestead.” And he had. This morning he had driven past the Krauthammer residence, an isolated farmhouse surrounded by thick stands of towering fir trees. “It sure is beautiful, all those woods around it. Tim told me you used to take him hunting when he was little.”
“Hunting?” Squinting at him through his gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Yes. He said you took him out to shoot rabbits.”
“If I did, I don’t remember it.”
“Well, he’s a terrific priest. You must be really proud of him.”
“Mr. Renzi, I wish you’d stop saying how proud I must be. My son and I have been estranged for years. We rarely communicate.”
A bit of honesty ripped from the anal-retentive’s mouth.
“I financed his education at George Washington University. He led me to believe he was studying political science. In fact, he majored in theology. When he told me he intended to be a Catholic priest, I was appalled.”
George Washington University, another mine to excavate.
“Why was that, sir?” Frank asked.
Krauthammer picked up a Cross pen, gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white. “My son has serious problems, Mr. Renzi. In fact he’s been a problem ever since his mother died. First he wouldn’t talk and when he finally did he stuttered so badly he couldn’t put two words together. I had to hire a tutor to home-school him.”
“Really? He didn’t stutter when I spoke to him.” Not until he got stressed out over certain troublesome questions, anyway.
“I’m sure someone told him he couldn’t stutter his way through a sermon. During his senior year at Georgetown he underwent intensive treatment with a speech therapist.”
“I didn’t notice any stutter. I guess that shows how motivated he was. He sure did solve the problem.”
“Yes, and I paid for it, but it didn’t cure his other problems. My son was sexually abused at boarding school. Did he mention that at this spiritual retreat or whatever you call it?”
He wasn’t all that surprised by the revelation. It explained why Tim had come home in the middle of the year. “No, sir, he didn’t.”
Krauthammer clicked the Cross pen—in-out, in-out—and an angry flush mottled cheeks. “The home tutor quit, so I sent him to a Catholic boarding school. One of his teachers molested him. I got him out of there as soon as the principal told me about it.” Krauthammer’s mouth twisted. “The principal told me. Not my son.”
“That’s not unusual. Lots of abuse victims don’t tell their—”
“No! You don’t understand.” Krauthammer’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “My son liked it.”
“How do you know?” Frank said quietly, moved by the father’s distress, though he would have liked to hear Tim’s version of the story.
“He taunted me with it! Brother Henry loves me more than you, he said.” Krauthammer’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What a rotten thing to say! And he wanted to be a priest. What more proof could I have?”
“Did Tim get any counseling?”
“Of course. I hired the best therapist in Omaha. Dr. Dana Swenson. She specialized in child abuse cases. Still does, as far as I know.”
He made a mental note of the name. “How long did Tim see her?”
“Several years, but it didn’t help. He had no friends, no girlfriends.” Krauthammer raised his chin. “So, Mr. Renzi, do you still think I should be proud of my son?”
“That’s not for me to say, sir.”
“I should hire you to motivate my sales staff. You got me talking about something I rarely discuss. Could I have your card?”
He patted his pockets, feigning dismay. “Sorry. I don’t have any with me. It was nice meeting you, sir. Sorry to hear of your troubles.”
Krauthammer swiveled his chair in a half-turn to face a window and muttered, “Say hello to my son the next time you see him.”
_____
Frank hurried to his car, got on his cellphone and called Dr. Swenson, hoping she was still in her office at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. When the receptionist answered he identified himself and said he was calling about one of Dr. Swenson’s patients. The woman put him on hold.
A minute later the line clicked and a voice said, “This is Dana Swenson. How can I help you?” Her voice was low and well-modulated and sounded as if she were smiling.
“I’m investigating a series o
f murders, and I need information about a former patient of yours.”
“I see.” Her voice took on a sudden chill. “That might be a problem. I have a doctor-patient confidentiality agreement with all my clients.”
“Doctor Swenson, this is really important. Lives are at stake.”
“Is it a local case?”
“No. The Tongue Killer case, New Orleans. Tim Krauthammer lives there now. I understand you were his therapist about fifteen years ago. It’s possible he might be involved in these murders.”
A faint exhalation of breath. “Oh.”
The single syllable spoke volumes.
“I know it’s late, but is there any chance we could talk tonight?”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I could see you Monday morning.”
“I fly out tomorrow afternoon. Could we talk tomorrow morning?”
“I’m afraid not. I jump show horses and I’ve got a meet—”
“No kidding! My daughter Maureen rides show horses.”
“Really? Whereabouts?” The smile back in her voice now.
“As a kid she took lessons at a stable in Milton, Massachusetts. Now she’s in Baltimore, finishing up medical school at Johns Hopkins.”
“Impressive. That’s a tough school to get into.”
He grinned. “All horseback riders are smart, aren’t they?”
A soft chuckle. “How can I resist a complement like that? I reserved an hour of rink time at ten o’clock tomorrow. Could you meet me at the Omaha Hunt Club at eleven for breakfast?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for accommodating me, Doctor. I just talked to Mark Krauthammer and—”
“I’d love to hear about it, Frank, but my next patient is waiting.”
“Right. See you tomorrow at eleven.”
Maybe Dana Swenson would shed some light on Tim’s relationship with his father. In his opinion, it was pretty fucked up. He’d spent almost an hour with Mark Krauthammer and the man had never once uttered his son’s name.
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 18