by Alex Kava
Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim’s hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.
She had ruled out a disorganized killer because of the planning and discipline it had taken not just to discard the heads but to complete the grisly process three times. Not to mention that he had also been able to hide or dispose of the torsos without getting caught. Dismembering a body took time and privacy. No matter where he killed his victims, he would need to take them back someplace safe, someplace where he knew he wouldn’t be interrupted, where he could make a mess and have time to clean up.
And yet, something bothered Maggie. If he was, indeed, organized and had carefully planned each murder, why hadn’t he gone to the trouble of buying a hacksaw or something that would have made the job much easier?
The sound of electric hair clippers interrupted her thoughts as Stan began shaving off the victim’s long hair. She looked younger than Maggie had first thought. Without the tangles of hair, she noticed small diamond studs in one of the victim’s earlobes. As far as she could tell, there were no other piercings in either brow, the nose, lip or chin. She made a mental note to have Stan check the woman’s tongue.
“We don’t have much to go on,” Stan said, as if reading her thoughts.
As soon as he finished with the clippers, however, he pointed to a wound, a circular indent smashed into the top left side of the victim’s skull.
“I’m guessing ball-peen hammer,” he said, running a gloved index finger over the area.
“Is that how he killed her?” Racine asked, swiping a couple of maggots to the floor before coming in for a closer look.
“He smacked her pretty good,” but Stan didn’t look convinced. He continued his hands-on examination. “The hair samples should tell us if she was on any drugs at the time.”
Maggie nodded; she knew the hair bulbs could be read almost like a drug timeline, since substances are captured and remain locked as the hair grows.
“What if he gave her something to knock her out?” Racine wanted to know. “Would that show up?”
“Oh, sure. Hair analysis can identify the heavy-duty stuff like cocaine and heroin, but we can also identify any tranquilizers or GHB. Should even be able to tell you whether she was a smoker or on Prozac. People think we can’t figure out much when we have only the head,” Stan continued. “There wasn’t much with the other two.”
“That reminds me,” Racine interrupted. “I’ve made arrangements to take the other two up to a forensic anthropologist in Connecticut.”
“Fine, fine. I can’t do much more on those because of the level of decomposition. But this one has a lot to tell.” And thankfully he was still anxious to share.
He tilted the head back, readjusting his vise-grip contraption so that she stared at the ceiling. More maggots slid off, hitting the stainless-steel table with tiny plops like raindrops on a tin roof.
“Despite the head wound, I doubt that was what killed her. Take a look,” he said, flinging maggots off her cheeks, “at the area around her eyes.”
He took a pair of forceps and, although Maggie thought Stan was a bit clumsy and slow at times, surprised her by expertly pinching and flipping up the right eyelid.
“See what I mean?”
“Petechial hemorrhages,” Maggie said.
“Petechial what?” Racine asked.
“Petechial hemorrhages are capillaries that ruptured,” Stan told her and his fingers moved on down the victim’s face.
Racine still looked confused.
“She was strangled,” Maggie said.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes,” Stan said without looking up. “Petechial hemorrhages occur when air is cut off. You see, we don’t need her neck to conclude that she was, in fact, strangled.”
“Wait a minute,” Racine said, hands on her hips. She wasn’t happy with Stan’s conclusions. “You’re saying he drugged her—”
“No, I don’t know that for certain, but we should be able to tell from her hair samples.”
“Okay, so he may have drugged her,” Racine qualified her remarks and continued. “He then hit her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. All this before he strangles her. Oh, and then just for fun he cuts off her head.”
“Actually I’d say it was more like ripped,” Maggie said, joining the speculations.
“Excuse me?” Racine came around the table for a better angle.
Stan turned his contraption so that Racine had a better view of the decapitation area.
“Agent O’Dell’s correct,” Stan confirmed.
“Jesus,” Racine said. “What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?”
CHAPTER 16
Washington, D.C.
Dr. Gwen Patterson tried not to stare at Rubin Nash’s hands. He sipped from the glass of water she had offered him and set it aside, not letting it slow him down as he continued on and on about his mother’s best friend taking his virginity when he was fifteen. It was one more thing he felt a woman had taken from him. First, his mother had taken away his father, now her friend had taken away his virginity. Yet, that revelation seemed secondary to him. Instead, he wanted to share the illicit details, trying to be as graphic as possible. Perhaps he wanted to shock her, or at least get some reaction from her. There were few, if any, sexual deviances and perversions, let alone words or phrases, that could shock her. Besides he sounded too proud of his teenage prowess. The incident had certainly influenced him and shaped his attitudes about sex and women. However, would it have affected him enough to make him a murderer?
His hands were large but the fingers stubby. How much strength was needed to squeeze the life out of someone? Gwen wished she had turned off the air-conditioning in her office, forcing him to roll up his shirtsleeves. Were there scratches on his arms? Why else would he wear long sleeves on a hot July day?
Gwen studied his face. The cut on his lower jaw was probably a shaving nick. His open-collared shirt allowed a censored view of his neck. A person who was being choked or strangled would fight back. She would claw and scratch and punch. Unless he caught her off guard. Rubin had wondered what it would feel like to twist someone’s neck and hear it snap.
She would need to find out from Maggie how the victims were killed. Maybe she was way off base suspecting one of her patients as the killer.
“Isn’t that right, Dr. Patterson?” she heard Rubin ask and realized she had drifted too far.
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
“Why older women fuck young boys? It’s not just a control thing. It’s because they want to be adored. Isn’t that what they really want?”
“Did you adore her?”
He looked away before she could see the answer in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for her to turn it around on him. Was it embarrassment or guilt he was trying to hide? The question had definitely surprised him.
“A good place for us to pick up next time,” he told her, reversing their roles with a glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll try not to be so crude next time,” he added with a smile—almost a smirk—that instead of a promise was more a revelation of how proud he was of today’s performance.
“That’s your choice,” Gwen told him, standing at the same time he did, never allowing her patients to tower over her. “Just keep that in mind, Rubin. Everything you do is ultimately your choice.”
This time his eyes met hers, dark gray eyes that reminded Gwen of a wolf’s. He held her gaze, then dropped his eyes to the front of her blouse and his smile resumed. It was a habit she was familiar with. His way of intimidating her when she dared get too close, too much on target. And to remind her that to him every woman was—what was that phrase he used—” a potential sexual conquest.”
“Until next time,” he said and turned to leave.
She waited for the door to close behind him before she began her frenzied note-taking, recording anything and everything she had observed whether or not she deemed it important at this time. There would eventually be some clue. Perhaps something Maggie discovered at the autopsy would shed new light on Gwen’s observations. She started the sixth page on her legal pad when her assistant buzzed her with her next patient.
Gwen ripped the pages from the notepad and shoved them into a file folder, but her mind was still racing. Still preoccupied with Rubin Nash when James Campion walked in.
“Hello, Dr. Patterson.”
“James.” She pointed for him to take a seat, but already knew he’d wait until she sat, ever the polite gentleman, a stunning contrast to Nash. He told her early on that the nuns at Blessed Sacrament had done an excellent job of drilling into him good manners and respect despite their failing him in other ways.
Gwen sat, nodding for him to do the same. His long legs stretched out and then crossed at the ankles. It was the most he allowed himself in an attempt to relax.
Today more than ever—probably because she had been focused on Nash’s physical traits—Gwen noticed the sharp contrast between the two men. Also she had never seen the two patients in back-to-back sessions until today, accommodating Rubin’s new travel schedule. For as cocky and boisterous as Rubin Nash was, James Campion was the direct opposite, introverted and self-conscious. Even James’s long-sleeved shirt could easily be explained away as an embarrassed attempt at hiding the hesitation marks on his wrists. She had noticed them during their very first session, long before he had confessed that sometimes he thought about suicide.
And instead of bragging about his sexual escapades or rather dysfunctions, or when discussing the sexual mistreatments of his childhood, James seemed almost shy and remorseful, especially when talking about the abuses he had suffered at the hands of a Catholic priest he had admired and trusted. Both Nash and Campion had been two teenage boys taken advantage of by adults they had trusted. But that’s where the similarities ended.
Gwen sat back, feeling her shoulders relax, only now realizing how close to the edge Rubin Nash was able to put her. She watched James cross his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits before deciding to uncross them again and leave his hands in his lap. His handsome, boyish face seemed almost soulful, his eyes attentive but patient as if waiting for her permission to begin.
No matter how long it took, Gwen felt certain she could help James Campion. Rubin Nash, she wasn’t sure about.
CHAPTER 17
Downtown Police Station
Omaha, Nebraska
“This is ridiculous,” Nick Morrelli told the detectives who introduced themselves as Detectives Carmichael and Pakula. They were an odd pair, a short, chubby Asian woman and a middle-aged linebacker with a shaved head. Hardly Hollywood’s version of the good cop/bad cop. “You’re treating him like he’s a suspect.”
“Who exactly did you say you are?” Carmichael asked.
“His friend, Nick Morrelli.”
“Who happens to be an attorney,” Tony added.
Nick could see it wouldn’t matter. Detective Carmichael already had that I-don’t-give-a-shit look that he recognized. He had even used it himself a time or two as a deputy prosecutor when he had to convince some lowlife that the deal he was offering was final.
“Morrelli?” Pakula was scratching his shaved head. “Do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Nick was growing impatient. Carmichael may have noticed. She uncrossed her arms, but that was all.
“My apologies if the officers may have given you the impression that you’re a suspect,” she told Tony. “And that they dragged you all the way down here. We only want to ask you a few questions. Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want to answer our questions?” Her voice was a little softer suddenly. Nick wondered if she wasn’t used to playing the role of bad cop. Or was she simply changing her route of manipulation?
Tony looked to Nick as if he expected Nick to answer for him again. Nick gave him a nod that it was okay, but at the same time, he didn’t like how nervous Tony seemed. Did he have something to hide?
“Go ahead,” Tony told the detective. “Of course I don’t mind answering your questions.”
“We understand that the monsignor called you from the airport,” Detective Pakula said as he started pacing the length of the room. Carmichael remained sitting, but Nick noticed her foot tapping out her nervous energy under the table.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You may have been the last person to talk to him. That he knew, that is. You mind sharing the contents of that conversation?”
“We had spoken earlier in the day about the schedule. I was going to fill in for him while he was gone. He couldn’t remember if he had told me about the church board meeting and where he kept his notes.” Tony crossed his legs, his right ankle rested on his left knee. To Nick he looked perfectly calm and natural. Almost too much so.
“Where were you when you got the call?”
“In the rectory,” Tony said without skipping a beat and Nick thought this should be easy. No big deal.
“Really?” Pakula asked.
Nick recognized that look. He had used it himself, a look that wobbled between surprise and sarcasm, but Tony didn’t flinch.
“You sure you were at the rectory?”
“Yes, of course. I usually do paperwork on Fridays.”
“Uh-huh. So Monsignor O’Sullivan would know this, right?” Pakula kept up his pacing, nodding.
“Of course.”
“Why do you suppose he called you on your cell phone instead of the phone at the rectory?”
“I have no idea,” Tony said.
It was a little like watching a tennis match, only Nick couldn’t tell what Pakula would do with that lame lob.
“What a minute,” Pakula said, spinning around to look at Nick and surprising them all. “Morrelli. Nick Morrelli. Now I remember you. You quarterbacked for the Huskers 1982, ’83.”
It took Nick a second or two to register the switch of subject. Earlier, when the detective thought he knew him, he had thought it might be from his stint as sheriff for Platte City, Nebraska, several years ago. After the media circus, it was difficult for anyone in the area to forget the murder of two little boys and the investigation that Nick almost flubbed up. Two men were serving life sentences and yet Nick wasn’t convinced he had caught the killer. Now he found he was relieved that Detective Pakula recognized him, instead, from another era, a more successful time in his life.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Nick said.
“I knew I recognized that name.” But as quickly as the detective had been distracted he returned to his questions. “So, Father Gallagher, how long have you worked with Monsignor O’Sullivan at Our Lady of Sorrow?”
“I’ve been the associate pastor there for almost three years.”
“Do you like him?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you like him? Did the two of you get along? Were you buddies?”
“I wouldn’t use the term buddies. We were colleagues.”
Nick noticed that Tony uncrossed his legs. Both hands were on his knees. Suddenly he didn’t seem so comfortable.
“Does he travel quite a bit?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘quite a bit.’”
“Why was Monsignor O’Sullivan going to Rome?”
“I believe the archbishop asked him to go. The monsignor had never been to the Vatican.”
“So he was excited
about going?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t he be?”
“Was he delivering anything important for the archbishop?”
“Like what?” Tony asked, and Nick wanted to grab Tony by the collar and tell him to just answer the fucking questions. But instead he shifted in his chair, trying to catch Tony’s eyes, maybe give him a warning glare.
He saw Detectives Pakula and Carmichael exchange a glance. They might be pretending these were only fact-finding questions, but they were fishing for something. What exactly did they know and what did they think Tony wasn’t telling them?
“We were just wondering.” This time Carmichael took over while Pakula leaned against the wall as if taking a break. Carmichael braced her elbows up on the table, but she, too, looked calm, a bit too nonchalant, and Nick wondered what they were hoping to get out of this interview.
“The archbishop,” she continued, “asks the monsignor to go to the Vatican. Doesn’t it make sense that he’d want to make the most of the trip?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
Tony was good at this. Nick wasn’t sure why he was so surprised.
“Did Monsignor O’Sullivan carry a brown leather portfolio with him?” Carmichael moved on. Maybe he was wrong about them knowing what they were doing.
“Yes, I think I do remember a portfolio,” Tony finally answered.
“Did he have it with him yesterday?”
“I didn’t see him leave for the airport.”
“But you saw him right before?”
“Yes.”
Carmichael stared at Tony, waiting for more. Nick found himself staring and waiting, too. Tony, however, just shrugged and said, “If I didn’t see him leave for the airport how would I know for sure what he took with him?”
This time there was a sigh from Carmichael. Nothing from Pakula except a slight shift in his leaning.
“Last question…for now,” she emphasized. “Any idea why someone might want to kill Monsignor O’Sullivan?”
