by Lisa Jackson
Montoya sped through a yellow light, then cut down a side alley. What if each letter was a symbol? Could the letter represent the victim?
L for Luke Gierman.
A for Asa Pomeroy.
W for . . . William. Montoya’s pulse jumped. The Reverend Billy Ray Furlough’s legal name was no doubt William. LAW . . . could that be it? Again it seemed almost too simple, but it made sense.
Dread settled in his soul. If his theory was right, it meant the preacher was already dead; otherwise the killer wouldn’t have sent the note, right? And if there was one dead body, there was bound to be another, a female to complete the whole of the yin and yang. Montoya realized that if his theory was correct, there was little doubt that his Aunt Maria had been murdered as well.
Anger surged through his veins and pounded in his pulse. Never had he felt so impotent. Though he knew better than to personalize the crimes, Montoya felt that the killer had singled him out, was taunting him.
Don’t lose your cool.
Keep a calm head.
Remain objective.
Maria may still be alive.
He sent up a prayer as he slid his car into a spot close to the station. The streets were clogged with news vans, their white exteriors emblazoned with the names of the stations they represented, satellite dishes and antennae spiking out of the roofs. Several reporters and cameramen were taking position on the front steps—the station doors a backdrop for the segments they were taping. Knots of pedestrians had slowed to rubberneck.
Montoya ducked in through the parking lot door and headed to the second floor, where he was greeted with the clicking of computer keys, the smell of stale coffee, and the buzz of conversation. Detectives were interviewing suspects, discussing cases, or at their desks shuffling paperwork or talking rapid-fire into phones jammed between their shoulders and ears.
Zaroster was at her desk. He slid the note in its plastic evidence bag across to her. “Looks like our pen pal’s back.”
Zaroster eyed the note and whistled softly. “So we have another double homicide out there somewhere?”
“Unless he writes the notes first, then offs his victims.”
She sent him a look that accused him of knowing better.
“Look, I’ve got an errand to run. Could you get this to the lab with a copy to the cryptologist.”
“How’d you end up with this? I thought you weren’t supposed to be on the investigation.”
“Maury Taylor at WSLJ called me. We’re old friends. Go way back.”
“My ass,” she muttered, but took the note and said, “I’ll get this to the lab and see how it compares to the other one.”
He rested a hip on her desk. “How’re we coming with all the evidence?”
“Oh, ‘all’ of it. Let’s see, the lab is still working on the black hair, no DNA matches yet. The bridal dress was recognized by one shop owner as looking like a ‘Nancoise’ creation, whatever that is . . . kind of like a cheaper version of Vera Wang, I guess. We’re looking into it, trying to get hold of Nancoise herself to see if she has any records. No epithelials or trace that means anything. The boots are regular hunting stock, made by, get this, Pomeroy Industries, their clothing division, so we’re making some headway there, although that particular tread hasn’t changed in four years, so it’s slow goin’.
“I did manage to find out something about the caretaker out at Our Lady of Virtues. Lawrence DuLoc? He’s got a record, all stuff done about twenty years ago when he was a kid.”
“What stuff ?”
“Aggravated assault charge—that was dropped. Then later a domestic violence incident, again charges dropped.” She shrugged. “Not much, but something. He’s tall and wears a size eleven and a half shoe, but he’s got alibis for the times of the murders. Brinkman’s checking them out.” She sighed and shook her head. “I talked to DuLoc. He just doesn’t seem to have the smarts to pull off this kind of thing.” She frowned. “You think he could be our guy?”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Our psycho wants to outsmart us and then shove it in our face. Hard for him to pretend he’s no Rhodes scholar. He wants us to know how brilliant he is.”
“So . . . ?”
Montoya was already heading for the stairs. “So, we keep DuLoc on the list and push forward.”
“You’re not on the case,” she yelled after him.
Montoya kept moving.
The pain was an irritation.
His hands clamped around the steering wheel and he felt sweat soaking into his neoprene suit. The first hint of exhaustion was pulling at him. Though he’d rested for a few hours, he could feel his body’s need for sleep.
It would have to wait.
Until after.
His plans were set in motion, and he knew that soon he would feel that unique buzz that kept him going, that rush of adrenalin through his bloodstream that would carry him through and lift him up.
The damned wound bothered him. It hindered him more than he’d expected. Things weren’t going as well as he’d planned, not as smoothly as they had been. Ever since he’d underestimated Billy Ray Furlough, and the bastard had plunged that stupid tool into his chest.
He gritted his teeth.
Carefully, he drove the white Lexus out of the city and into the wilderness. The vehicle handled well but stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Which was a problem. He glanced into the backseat, where his latest victim was shaking like a leaf, eyes blinking rapidly, mewling behind his gag, already pissing himself and causing the car to reek with urine.
You should be scared, you lazy little bastard . . . just you wait.
If the mewling got any worse, he’d use the ether or another shot with the stun gun.
He’d attended Gierman’s service earlier today even though he’d known the police would be watching, monitoring all of the bereaved.
Imbeciles!
They were so easily outsmarted.
He’d walked directly past the cop taking pictures on the sly. Snap, snap, snap.
What a joke.
Pedro, the picture-taking detective. The defiler who had slept in Abby Chastain’s bed.
Thinking of them rutting, he lost control for an instant, the Lexus wandering over the center line. No! He could not bring attention to himself. Fortunately there was little traffic on this back road. To calm himself, he flipped on the radio, heard some classical crap, then managed to find WSLJ. But Gierman’s Groaners wasn’t on the air at the moment.
Another aggravation.
Hadn’t that stupid radio jock discovered the second letter? Why wasn’t he on the air crowing about it? He checked his watch. It was early yet, darkness a few hours away, which made his job all the more difficult.
He’d drive this car to the spot where he’d ditched his truck. But first he needed to unload the shackled man in the backseat. The pisser.
The radio was playing some smooth jazz that caused him only more irritation. He snapped it off, warned himself to be patient. He’d waited twenty years. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt.
His lips twisted at that thought. Just a few more hours and then the culmination . . . five of the seven would be disposed of—the most precious already dealt with. The other two couples were not in the area, and would have to wait . . . but he would need a cooling-off period anyway.
After tonight.
The pain in his chest eased a bit as anticipation sang through his veins. Soon he would feel that intense, incredible rush. He thought of the daughter, so much like the mother . . . only a few more hours . . .
The Mother Superior looked tired. Beneath her wimple furrows lined her brow and below her half-glasses were dark smudges. “This is difficult for me,” she admitted, pointing to a manila envelope in the middle of her wide desk. “Those are the records you requested. Sister Madeline, bless her heart, knew where they’d been stored up in the attic and had Mr. DuLoc bring them down.” She motioned to the boxes that had been pushed to the corners of her room. “I’m keeping th
em here, just in case you need anything else, but I think everything you want is in here.” She tapped the large envelope with one unpolished nail, then slid it across the desk to Montoya. “There was a time when confidences were kept, where faith was not only essential but embraced, when there was more . . . order. But now . . . oh, well.” She offered up the ghost of a smile. “I’ve thought long and hard and prayed for God’s blessing and intuition, that He would help me understand the path I should take,” she said. “In the end, He’s left me with a difficult choice.”
Pushing herself to her feet, she seemed to totter a bit as she walked to the window. She stared outside where a hummingbird was flitting through the hanging pots, seeking sustenance from the dying blooms. “I suppose I should have told you earlier. Your aunt confided in me that she had a son out of wedlock. She came here after the boy was adopted out.”
Montoya watched the old nun finger her rosary. “I know.”
She nodded, still staring out the window. “That boy grew up and became a local celebrity, an athlete, a scholar, and eventually a man of God.”
“Billy Ray Furlough?” Montoya asked, stunned.
“So she told me.”
Furlough was the right age, and if he thought about it, there was a bit of a resemblance between the flamboyant preacher and the Montoya family—the dark hair, burnished skin, and natural athleticism.
“When I heard that Mr. Furlough was missing as well as Sister Maria, most likely abducted on the same day, I thought I should contact you. And I didn’t want to tell the other officers, not when I knew that Sister Maria would prefer you to know.” She turned to face him, her back to the window. “You’re her favorite, you know. Of all her nieces and nephews.”
Montoya felt a fresh rush of guilt. He wondered if the killer knew that he’d murdered mother and son. Of course he did. These murders were not random. They were meticulously planned.
“What can you tell me about Lawrence DuLoc?” Montoya asked, deciding to cover that ground first.
“Mr. DuLoc is invaluable here, helps us immeasurably.” She drew a deep breath. “He was a patient at the mental hospital. He had anger issues as a youth, though, of course, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” She turned her palms heavenward in supplication and barreled on, almost as if she were relieved to open the floodgates of her secrecy. “Yes, he was accused of some crimes long ago, but he has been with us for a long while. His work record is impeccable.” She looked up at Montoya. “I will personally vouch for him.”
“The department has to look at all the evidence.”
“I believe your colleagues already questioned him.” She walked to her side of the desk, reached across the glossy surface, and touched Montoya’s hand. “Larry is not a murderer.”
Montoya tended to side with her, but he didn’t let on. “He’s a tall man, right. Six-one or -two?”
“He’s tall, yes,” she admitted, straightening and folding her arms over her chest. “You can talk to him. Larry wants nothing more than to help you find your aunt. Larry DuLoc is a very devout man, Detective. His faith is strong.” She motioned toward the window. “He’s in the garden now.”
“Thank you.” Montoya hesitated, eyeing the nun. After a moment he asked, “And did you learn anything about Faith Chastain?”
She folded her hands. “She fell out of the window of her room on her birthday,” she said, sounding like she was reciting a tired story. “The hospital was sued for not having the windows secured properly. The grating was defective.”
“She fell through the glass.”
She nodded. “Had there been metal bars, or the decorative grating across the lower part of the window secure, the tragedy might have been avoided, or so the lawsuit suggested.”
“Who sued you? The State of Louisiana?”
Her smile was patently patient. “The State eventually got involved, but the lawsuit was initiated by the family. Faith’s husband, Jacques. It never went to trial, of course. We settled out of court.”
Montoya looked at her, feeling as if she was holding back. “Anything else about it?”
Mother Superior fingered the cross at her neck and seemed to be wrestling with an inner demon. Montoya waited and she finally admitted, “I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. It’s been so long ago, and if it will somehow help you find Sister Maria, then . . .” She made the sign of the cross and seemed to whisper a silent prayer. “There was talk of abuse, or molestation—that one of our doctors and Mrs. Chastain were involved in a sexual relationship. At first the man involved denied everything. Then others came forward: staff members who had seen things they hadn’t reported for fear of losing their jobs. When that happened, he said the affair was consensual.” Her lips twisted downward in disgust. “Consensual? Can you imagine? With a woman who was suffering from mental illness?” Her nostrils flared angrily. “He was let go immediately,” she said.
“No charges filed?”
She shook her head. “The family filed the civil suit for Faith’s death, and that was the extent of it. Perhaps they never knew about the other.” Her gaze slid to the floor. “Not the finest hour for Our Lady of Virtues Hospital.”
“Who was the man?”
She met his eyes. “Dr. Heller was a brilliant psychiatrist. In many ways ahead of his time. But he cut corners, was a little sloppy, lazy, if you will.” Her back grew even straighter, as if a rod held her up. This was difficult for her. “One of his worst critics was Gina Jefferson. She worked with us at the time.”
“Did she witness the molestation?” Montoya asked, feeling that little frisson again. He sensed he was finally on the right track.
“I don’t remember, but she was no fan of Simon Heller.”
“Do you know where Dr. Heller is now?” Montoya demanded.
“No . . . I didn’t keep up with him. He moved out of state. Somewhere west, I think.”
“Dr. Simon Heller. Does he have a middle name?”
“Yes . . . I remember he was particular about the name plate on his door.” She thought hard and Montoya had to force himself to remain seated. The clock was ticking. His aunt and Billy Ray could already be dead, and Abby’s mother was somehow involved. She was the link. “Simon T. Heller, that’s what was on his name plate. I can’t remember what the T stood for. Theodore or Thaddeus, something like that.”
“His name and social security number are in this file?” Montoya asked, holding up the manila envelope.
“Yes. And his picture, I think.”
Montoya didn’t waste any time, but opened the clasp, sliding out the yellowed pages. “Was Heller a big man?”
“Tall, but not big. Almost scarecrowish. One of the patients saw a picture of a praying mantis in one of the nature books, pointed to it, and said, ‘Heller.’ ” She smiled despite herself. “That was unkind, but there was a nugget of truth in it, I suppose. He wore huge glasses and had extremely long legs.”
Montoya found a small photo of Heller attached to his long-ago employment application. The color had faded but Heller’s features were clear. He had black hair, a thick mustache, and glared out through huge, wire-rimmed, aviator-type glasses.
“He wasn’t very old.”
“Just out of medical school,” the Mother Superior admitted. “Under thirty.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?”
“He had an air of superiority about him that he tried to mask with bedside manner. It didn’t work very often. He was a bit of a loner, and he ran, oh, my, how he ran. I think he did marathons, but . . . oh, well, I’m not certain. A lot of years have passed.”
Montoya fingered the faded photograph. “Do you have pictures of everyone who lived here?”
“Just the staff, for identification.”
“Was Heller still employed here when Faith died?”
“He was in the room with her,” she admitted. “He witnessed her fall but couldn’t save her. The molestation issue was brought up after her death. That’s when he was asked to leave.”
He gazed hard at the picture of an unsmiling man. His arrogance came through clearly. Montoya remembered the picture of Abby’s mother he’d seen on her bookcase. A beautiful woman with a sexy smile—a smile her daughter had inherited. Faith had been Simon Heller’s unwilling lover.
Montoya’s gut twisted. What had really happened the day of Faith Chastain’s death? Had her fall been a misstep? Or had Heller, maybe aware that the molestation issue was coming to light, given his victim a push?
The reverend mother cleared her throat. “Faith’s daughter witnessed the fall as well. She ran in just moments before.”
“Which daughter?” Montoya asked, but he already knew the answer. He’d witnessed Abby’s nightmares.
“The younger one . . .”
“Abby.”
“Yes, that’s her name. Abigail, though Faith often referred to her as Hannah.”
“Do you know why?”
“Oh, it’s been so long ago, and though I did work at the hospital then, I can’t remember. The daughter was just fifteen. It was her birthday as well as Faith’s. Apparently she rushed in, saw Dr. Heller there . . . and that’s all we know. Somehow Faith fell through the window. Hannah was so traumatized that she fainted. When she woke up, she remembered very little.” Clearly disturbed by the tale, Mother Superior walked back to her desk. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
“It might be enough,” he said, meaning it. Simon Heller. Montoya now knew where to look. He just hoped he wasn’t too late to stop another murder.
CHAPTER 26
Hidden in the surrounding forest, he watched her house. As it was still light, late afternoon, he kept back a long distance and was careful with his field glasses, making certain the lenses wouldn’t reflect the sun’s rays, alerting her. He’d also made certain he was downwind, so her stupid dog wouldn’t smell him.
What a pain.
