Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Eleven

  It is a myth that classic British roadsters drive poorly in snow. The two-thousand pound rear-wheel drive car can do well if the snow is only a few inches deep. Its clearance is six inches. Weight on the rear wheels can improve the car’s ability to negotiate snowy streets. So it was with the red MGA being driven by the man whose license identified him as Walter Williams of Seattle. His real name Darius Welsh, SJ. There was nothing in his possession that would identify him by that name. He had removed the spare tire to make room for a wrapped package weighing just over two hundred pounds. Inside was a living man, bound and gagged. Pressed onto his head was a coiled crown of wire to which were attached a number of two inch razor spikes, each with a barb that made them exceedingly difficult to remove. The man was bleeding at an alarming rate and the driver was worried that his sacrifice to The Virgin would die before he could deliver him to the spot he had chosen.

  Only one lane of Route 123 through Mclean was plowed in each direction and abandoned cars littered the roadway. It was late so traffic was light but the going was slow. The small roadster was in the hands of a skilled driver, so the icy road was not a danger. The southbound lanes of the George Washington Parkway were almost clear after road crews had done their work to prepare the road for morning commuters. The Roosevelt Bridge was snow-covered but Constitution Avenue was clear. A D.C. police officer sitting in a cruiser near the Museum of Natural History noticed the car and gave the driver a thumbs up. The cop turned to his partner and said, “I’d hate to be in a stinkin’ accident in a thing like that.”

  The MG proceeded down Constitution to Pennsylvania and New Jersey Avenues, then turned left on North Capitol Street at the main post office. Plows were still clearing the main roads but there was very little traffic as the car proceeded north to Michigan Avenue, where it turned east. There, on the left, was the largest Roman Catholic Church in North America, the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, a basilica dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Its Romanesque-Byzantine dome and tower rise over Catholic University and nearby neighborhoods. It is the center of worship for the veneration of Mary in the United States and, according to the Church, for the entire continent.

  The small car turned left into a parking lot and the driver got out and knelt in worship on the icy blacktop as he gazed up at the blue-tiled dome. “It is all for you,” he whispered. The basilica was quiet. There was no one about and magnificent structure rose from the white of the recent snow as a profound statement of faith and Father Daruis began to sob. He allowed himself a moment of torment to ponder the sins of the world. “We are here to suffer!” he shouted into the cold night air.

  He rose and went to the MG and opened the small trunk. His package was leaking blood. He gently removed the man known as Monsignor Jose de Palma of the Diocese of Arlington, whose special ministry was to the Hispanics who had no papers to work in this country. These men, women, and children had a special affinity for The Madonna and in his twisted logic Father Darius believed that Monsignor de Palma was deserving of special suffering because of his love for them.

  Monsignor de Palma was only vaguely aware of what was happening to him. His loss of blood had weakened him and he had trouble breathing through the thick butcher’s paper that was tied to his face and body. He felt himself being lifted out of the car but could not determine whether he was being carried up or down. He tasted blood. He felt no pain. He could not remember what he had been doing before this moment.

  Father Darius carried Monsignor de Palma up a small set of stairs and across a paved area to a spot against the basilica, where he propped his package against the outer wall. He opened the butterfly knife and cut the twine that held the paper to the priest. The Monsignor was bleeding profusely and his head and neck were crimson and shiny in the light from lamps that illuminated the area. To Father Darius the monsignor was a holy sight, an example of suffering for The Virgin. He believed that the priest was only moments away from his heavenly reward and he was grateful that he had been chosen to give this gift to the Monsignor as he had given the gift to the others. God Himself would make final judgments on us all but He had chosen those who would act here on Earth.

  Father Darius was delirious with joy and the effects of his own suffering. He bent to look into the Monsignor’s face and to gaze into his eyes at the moment of death, hoping to see even a small glimpse of Heaven as the soul departed. The knife did its work and the man watched as the soul of Jose de Palma left the bloody body that had been its home for forty-three years. He saw no sign of heaven as life left the priest. Disappointed, he wiped the knife on the priest’s sweater and walked back to his car. He went to his room to pray.

  The body of Monsignor de Palma was found by a priest who was on his way into the basilica to prepare for early Mass. He was walking near the parking lot when he saw something that looked like a pile of red clothing standing out from the snow against the building. Upon investigation he vomited on the ground and dialed 911. A squad car arrived within five minutes, followed almost immediately by a D.C.F.D. medical team, whose members saw immediately that they could do nothing for the victim. The scene was secured to await the arrival of detectives.

  O’Neil was cutting apples for his son when the phone rang. It was his morning to fix lunch for the boy and take him to school. His wife, a nurse, had worked the overnight and exhausted. He let his cell phone ring while he bagged the apple slices and placed them and a small container of peanut butter into an insulated canvas lunch bag, along with a cheese sandwich and a juice box. He zipped the bag closed and handed it to the boy, then he checked the phone and saw that Sergeant Meyer, who had overnight duty on the squad, had left a message.

  “Captain, we got a situation with a priest. Call me.”

  O’Neil knew that Meyer would not have called on a routine murder in a rowhouse in Northeast or a drive-by in Anacostia. Those cases would have been handed by the duty squad. The key word in Meyer’s message was “priest”. He drove the boy to school and dropped him off near the multi-purpose room, where kids hung out before the opening bell. It took him an hour and a half to get to the Shrine because, in a process as mysterious as life itself, traffic in the Washington area becomes a nightmare at the merest hint of snow, even if roads are plowed to the pavement. The weak winter sun was well up when O’Neil arrived to gaze upon the stiff body of Monsignor de Palma, now fully photographed and examined and waiting for O’Neil’s permission to move it.

  Waiting with the other reporters was Dave Haggard, bundled against the cold in an overstuffed jacket recently purchased from a mail-order New England outdoor store. Dave was dictating something into his smart-phone when O’Neil waved him over. “How long you been here?”

  “I got a call from the desk at Now News about an hour ago. These guys were here when I got here. Some of the TV people have been doing live shots. The Archdiocese hasn’t issued a statement yet. Is it true that the guy was wearing a crown of thorns?”

  “Just between us girls, yes. Pretty sick stuff. And he was also cut up with appears to have been the same type of knife. It looks like he was alive for awhile with the crown. It’s actually a kind of barbed wire that uses razors shaped like barbs. His head is cut up pretty bad. Keep that on background until the PIO gives you the usual bullshit then come to me and I’ll fill in the blanks anonymously. You know the drill. Now, what do you have for me?”

  “Nothing new. No new deliveries. You get any information on Peppers?”

  “He was a veteran. Real name was Andrew Krieger from someplace in Pennsylvania. His prints came up on that database and he might have worked for the FBI at some point. We’re not getting much help from them. I think they’re looking at him first to see if there’s anything they don’t want to share with us. He could have been an informant or something else. It might not mean anything. I’ll keep you posted.” O’Neil was looking at Dave to gauge his reaction. “You’re not recording this, are you?”

  Dave looked at his phone and saw that the record program
was on. “Nah, I was just making some notes to myself.”

  “I’m just gonna tell you in a nice way that if I hear this conversation on the air in any way, even in Chicago, I’ll make sure you never get so much as a press release from downtown on any police story. We clear?”

  “Yeah, no problem. You get any history on Peppers? Like how he became homeless?”

  “Who knows with these guys? Like I say, we’re working some other angles. And we got this situation here. Pretty sick stuff.”

  “Has an FBI profiler looked at this guy?”

  “Just the usual stuff these guys come up with. We already know he’s a religious nut who’s got a knife and Mary thing. Probably a self-flagellator. Likes to whip himself or stick pins in his eyes. Who knows? For all we know he’ll crucify somebody next. Indiana Avenue is up my ass on this because we’re getting a lot of media heat. Maybe you could mention something about how we’re working some leads and we think we’ll bring this guy in soon.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah, sure.” O’Neil chucked his mirthless noise. He walked away as two men from the coroner’s office took de Palma’s body to the morgue for an autopsy that would find that the Monsignor had died of multiple stab wounds to the chest. It would also find that the priest’s blood volume was critically low at the time of death. There were seventy-three arrow shape razor barbs in his head.