“Are you alone?”
“My mama’s here.”
As she answered me the door behind her opened and a woman in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her hair stepped out. “Rosa,” she said sternly. “What have I told you about opening the door?”
When she lifted her head to face us, I did a double take. “Sandra?”
“Britt? What is this?” she asked, her eyes immediately fearful. “Where’s Karen? Is she okay?”
Griff looked at me.
“This is Sandra Carlisle. She runs the shelter.”
“We’ve met. Can we come in?” Griff held out his ID where she could see it.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “Is Karen all right?” She was staring at me.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
She sank onto a kitchen chair. “Take Cassie into the bedroom, Rosa,” she said. “Now.”
Rosa disappeared down the hallway, holding the giggling child tight to her chest.
The uniforms had slipped in behind us and we stood in the overcrowded kitchen trying to make sense of the scene.
“He got her,” Sandra said. Her words came out as a statement rather than a question.
“Who’s he?” Griff asked.
“Her husband, Charles. She knew he’d kill her if he found her. She just never thought he’d look at Barlow’s. She thought she’d be safe, at least long enough. It was all arranged. She had a plan.”
“What was it?” Griff pulled out the chair across from her.
Sandra put both palms over her face and shook her head then she dropped her hands into her lap and turned a weary, tear streaked face to Griff. “Only one person arranges a woman’s exit. I didn’t know where she was going or how she was getting there. I only knew that things were in place and she was ready to leave. It’s much safer that way. Cassie was staying with me until Karen got settled. Karen felt it was too big a risk to take Cassie now. The initial escape is always the most dangerous.”
I glanced at Griff. He was taking in the overstocked kitchen and heavily furnished living room. Despite the abundance of food, furniture and two small children the place was impeccably clean. Cans were stacked in perfect rows on the countertop, arranged by height. Boxes of Kleenex arranged by color, trashcan liners by size. I cringed comparing it to the chaos of my own apartment
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“We alternate staff. We use it when we need it.”
That explained the abundance of groceries, donations, probably the furniture as well. “And the kids?”
That’s my daughter,” she nodded toward the back of the apartment, “Rosa. Karen was staying here until she was ready to execute her plan.”
In all the time I’d known Sandra this was the first time she’d ever mentioned that she had a daughter. In her line of work, as in ours, the less personal information exposed, the better. You never knew who might see you as the enemy.
“How’d you meet Karen?” Griff asked.
“She came to the shelter, but she was afraid her husband would find her there. So I brought her here.” She put her face in her hands and started to cry again.
“Does she have any family?” I asked.
“Her mother lives on Munjoy Hill, but she didn’t want to involve her. Family is the first place a husband will go. If the family knows nothing, there’s no chance he can get information from them. In these situations, a woman is much safer with strangers.”
“I have the address,” a uniform piped up behind us.
“I’ll call Social Services,” the female officer said. “The child needs to be taken to her grandmother.”
“May I?” Sandra asked. “I just have to get dressed.”
The officer nodded. “I’ll take you.”
Griff and I headed back to the car. We were both quiet until we hit the interstate.
“Two women escaping their abusive husbands killed one week apart in the same town,” I said.
He looked at me.
“I don’t want to read something into this that isn’t there and I know you don’t want to follow me into the shit, but it’s the same MO. It’s a little coincidental, Griff. I think you’ve got to say it.”
“You mean that we might be looking for the same perp for both murders? Not a Killer Husbands’ Club?”
I sighed and looked out the window.
“What?” Griff asked.
“Why are you so reluctant? That’s why John called you this morning. He said there were similarities. Did you look at her? We’ve got two abused wives, both beaten to death, same head wound and clean hands. They’re identical murders. I’ll put money on them finding a brick in the dumpster and Clorox on her hands.”
“I saw the similarities,” he said and floored the accelerator, cutting into the left lane too soon.
The guy behind us blared his horn.
“If some sicko has it in for abused women they know the first place we’ll go is to the husband’s,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“It buys him time while we hit the ground running, in the wrong direction.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t want to take a leap, scare the shit out of the city and then be proved wrong. Maybe it’s a coincidence that two guys lost it a week apart.”
“And killed their wives in exactly the same way?”
“Until we have victim number-three we stay with the husbands and keep the details to ourselves. Call Katie and tell we’re not taking any other cases right now. And tell her not to talk about this to anyone. Not even to what’s his face.”
“Travis.”
“Yeah, Travis. If the media gets wind of this and alludes to what you’re saying all hell’s gonna break loose and we’ll have a community in panic mode. Every nutcase vigilante will be walking the streets trying to be a hero and we’ll be fucked. We all know what this is beginning to look like, but we still have two abusive husbands that haven’t been cleared and we need one more body before we say the word.” He stared at the road ahead and set his jaw. Conversation over.
I could hear the investigator in him refusing to jump to conclusions. But in my head, after seeing Karen, this one was foregone.
THIRTEEN
Father Francis had just finished saying his required Sunday morning Mass. It had been a full house, the nine o’clock service usually was. He couldn’t take credit for the standing room only crowd, knowing it had more to do with fitting church into a busy family schedule. Parents could get kids fed, washed, dressed and into the car and then the pew by nine-o’clock, be back out the door by ten and still have a full day left for fun. The Saturday night partiers were more likely to make it to the eleven o’clock service and the elderly always hit at seven-thirty. If today was their last, one final communion might make the difference as to whether their journey went north or south.
He stepped into the rectory’s kitchen. Monsignor McCarthy was seated at the table sipping from a steaming cup. “Water’s still hot,” he said nodding to the teapot on the stove.
“Thanks.” Father Francis took a tea bag from the cupboard and dropped it into a mug with a Red Sox logo on the front. He poured water from the pot over the bag and watched it transform from stiff to pliable. He could feel the Monsignor’s hooded eyes on him and turned to face him.
“Something on your mind, Francis?” He nodded toward the chair across from him.
Father Francis pulled it back, scraping the worn, wooden floor and sat.
“Have you ever heard a confession that you wished you hadn’t?”
Monsignor McCarthy raised his teacup and took a sip then set it carefully back into the round center of the saucer. He raised his eyes. “The answer is of course, yes. Things I hear often nag at me for days or weeks. Some people I want to shake by the collar and ask them what in the world they’re thinking? But of course I can’t. Ours is not to judge, but to help the sinner access forgiveness.”
“What if it’s not forgiveness they want?”
The monsignor raised his eyebr
ows. “Then why come to confession at all?”
“Torment for the priest whose hands are tied by sacramental law.”
“I don’t know that I’m following you.”
“How steadfast is the ‘Sacramental Seal’?”
Monsignor McCarty straightened. The wooden chair creaked beneath his weight. “It’s absolute, Francis. It can never be broken.”
“Not even in the case of life and death?”
“Never.”
Father Francis pounded a fist on the table, rattling the teaspoon on the monsignor’s saucer. “It’s not right that we have no voice. How are we expected to listen to the crimes of the most damaged, and not speak up when it means saving their victims? We’re supposed to take care of God’s children and yet our faith prohibits us from doing so.”
Monsignor McCarthy stood and carried his cup and saucer to the sink. He came up behind Francis and placed a hand on each of the young priest’s shoulders. “Francis, we are tested over and over again. We agreed to that when we accepted this calling. It’s not our place to question what God asks of us. We simply do the job, as you call it, in the way we have promised to do it, by upholding our holy orders. Following the rules is all you can do and pray for strength. God will take care of the rest.”
“What if God’s not doing His job?” Father Francis asked then caught his breath, realizing where he’d heard those words before.
FOURTEEN
We pulled up in front of a red colonial on a street canopied by nearly naked elm trees. A police cruiser was parked in the driveway. Landscapers held leaf blowers like automatic weapons in the neighboring yard, directing wayward leaves into neat piles. Karen Westcott’s lawn was manicured as though it were July, not October. Not a leaf in site.
The front door was slightly ajar when we approached and the voices coming from inside were not happy. A dog announced our arrival.
“Enough,” one of the angrier voices said and the door swung open.
An Irish Wolfhound came across the threshold and shoved its nose into my waist.
“What the hell do you want?” The man in the doorway was wearing a plaid bathrobe, the belt around his middle struggling to hold it together. He was about six feet tall, two hundred and thirty pounds and unshaven. His hair suggested that he hadn’t showered recently.
“Charles Westcott?”
“Who wants to know?”
Griff flipped open his ID.
“A goddamn PI? Look, I told these two,” he nodded toward the uniforms, “I left after those two gorillas threw me out. I didn’t cause any more trouble, but that two-bit-thug owner can be sure my lawyer will pay him a visit tomorrow morning. I’m not putting up with his bullshit.”
“Mr. Westcott can we come in?”
“Dr.,” he said and took a step back motioning us into the entryway. “I’m a surgeon.”
A crystal chandelier hung above my head and a black and white tiled floor flowed before me. A tea table in the center held fresh sunflowers and beyond it an oak banister led the way up a marble treaded staircase. From this to Barlow’s I thought, Karen sure as hell wanted out.
Two uniformed cops stood beneath the chandelier. One of them stepped forward as he spoke. “We’ve got this, Cole.”
Griff nodded. “I’m sure you do Officer, but Detective Stark asked me to drop by. Just doing a friend a favor.”
The cop looked at his partner and shook his head then took a step back.
“Dr. Westcott,” Griff asked, “when was the last time you saw your wife?”
He ran his hand through his bed head only making it worse, if that was possible. “When I tried to get onto the stage at Barlow’s. Not that I’m proud of it, but this is where she belongs…belonged,” he gestured to the surrounding walls, “not in that pig-sty.”
“Doctor,” I said. “According to police reports filed by your wife, there’s a history of domestic violence.”
“We had some minor issues. What marriage doesn’t?”
“The reports indicated more than minor issues. And it’s true, isn’t it, that Karen moved out and took your daughter with her?”
“What the hell do you want from me? My wife’s dead and I don’t know where my daughter is.” Westcott took a step backward. He looked at me then at Griff, and back again, as if waiting for one of us to provide some answers. When we said nothing his face drained of color and he swayed away from us. Griff reached for his arm and led him to a small love seat beneath the staircase.
Westcott collapsed onto the striped, silk fabric and shook his head. “Karen’s dead.” He raised bloodshot eyes to Griff, “Where’s my daughter?”
“She’s been taken to her grandmother’s.”
“Grandmother? What the hell? She belongs with me.”
“I’m afraid under the circumstances her grandmother is the best option.”
“What circumstances?”
I was getting a little irritated with his act and found myself fishing for compassion and coming up empty. I know it’s supposed to be innocent until proven guilty, but with wife beaters I had a hard time remembering that.
“With the history you have of physically abusing your wife and the fact that she’d left you and taken Cassie, you do not appear to me to be the best choice for the child at this time.”
“The hell I’m not.” He stood and took a step toward me.
Griff grabbed his arm. “Dr. Westcott, you need to get dressed.”
As if on cue there was a knock at the door. John walked in flanked by two more men in blue and nodded to Griff. “Dr. Westcott,” he said, “we’re taking you in for questioning. Get some clothes on.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Sir, if you refuse I’ll place you under arrest for your wife’s murder. Let’s not go there until we have to.”
“I’m calling my lawyer.”
“Be my guest,” he said. “Tell him to meet you at the station.”
While Westcott got dressed, Griff and John wandered the downstairs rooms touching nothing, but taking in everything. The uniforms stood obediently by the door. When Westcott reappeared in khakis and a flannel shirt the cops guided him to the backseat of a cruiser.
Griff followed John to his unmarked. “You want us to come with you?”
“No, I have this. Why don’t you go see Karen’s mother? See if you come up with anything. She wouldn’t talk to the cops. Threw ‘em all out. Maybe you two will have better luck.”
“Haggerty gonna give you shit for sending us?”
“From the looks of the two victims I’m guessing there’s a connection. I think he’s gonna pull you on board. Anyway, you still need an answer for Beth Jones. At this point we’re just sharing information. This isn’t the first time we’ve done that.”
We headed for Karen’s mother’s house. I wanted to talk to Sandra again. Somebody let it leak that Karen was at Barlow’s. We needed to know who besides Sandra had that information.
FIFTEEN
“Quite a leap from the home she shared with her husband,” Griff said as we pulled up to Karen’s mother’s house on Summit Drive. The yellow ranch sported twenty-year-old vinyl siding that tilted slightly to the right. Green shutters leaned left.
Sandra and the officer who’d driven her were sitting in a cruiser parked in the driveway.
The cop shook his head as Griff and I approached. “Maybe you’ll have better luck,” he said. “The old woman is not a fan. After we brought the baby to her and told her about her daughter she threw us all out. Said if we’d protected Karen when she’d asked for it we wouldn’t be here today.”
“She talk to you?” I asked Sandra.
“Some. No love between her and Dr. Westcott, that’s for sure.”
“Sandra,” Griff said, “Are you available tomorrow?”
“I’ll be at the shelter in the morning.”
“I’ll need a list of the staff, including volunteers and any employee files you have.”
“Everything pertaining to
the shelter is highly confidential. You understand the necessity of that.”
Griff nodded. “Detective Stark’s orders. I’ll pick it up in the morning.”
“I’m not just going to hand over that information.”
“Two women who made plans with your staff are dead.”
“You’re not suggesting that someone at the shelter harmed these women?” Sandra took a step toward Griff. “Look Cole, this is Domestic Violence 101. The only thing you need to do is help the police get their husbands in custody.”
I listened to them banter. Sandra hadn’t seen the bodies. She didn’t know the similarities of their deaths. No one did, yet.
I took a step up beside Sandra. “How about if I look at the files? We have to investigate all the angles or when this goes to court the charges won’t hold up. It’ll help make the DA’s case a sure thing.”
Sandra sighed. “I’d feel better about Britt looking at them first. If there’s something in there that warrants further consideration, I’ll hand them over. That’s the best I can do. If Detective Stark wants more tell him to get a court order.”
Griff glanced at me. “You’ll look at them in the morning?”
I nodded
“Good enough.”
As we ventured up the walk, I turned to Griff. “Did John really ask you to get the files from the shelter?”
“No, but he will.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A way to get them back to your apartment.”
“That’s gonna be like getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Thanks for giving me the easy stuff.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “I only give you what you can handle.”
“Isn’t that what they say about God?”
“There are similarities, don’t you think?” He grinned at me and knocked on the door.
Before I could answer, a fragile, but attractive, white haired woman swung it open. Cassie lay against her chest, dimpled arms hanging limp, eyes closed in sleep.
Griff held up his ID and I did the same.
She studied them for a moment. “Private Investigators?”
“We’re actually working on another case, but…”
The Church of the Holy Child Page 7