by Alex Kava
CHAPTER 10
Saturday, July 3
Washington, D.C.
Gwen Patterson sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of her living room dressed only in her robe. Her hair was still dripping from her shower. Her usual one cup of coffee had extended to three. She had pushed the coffee table out of the way and surrounded herself with newspaper articles and scattered files. To her right were the assorted handwritten notes from the killer—scraps of paper, each now in a plastic bag and lined up beside her. She treated the notes as evidence, handling them carefully, as if trying to compensate for not turning them over to the proper authorities. The proper authorities being Detective Julia Racine and company, which now included Maggie.
Outside, she could hear the early-morning thunderstorm receding, reduced to a gentle patter against the windows and a distant rumble of thunder. She had left the living-room windows open, hoping the cool breeze and the fresh scent of rain would revive her after another night of tossing and turning.
She glanced around at her mess, wondering what exactly she was looking for. And would she recognize it if she saw it? Was it possible the killer was someone she didn’t even know? Maybe he had seen her photograph in a newspaper or on TV? He could have heard a radio interview or perhaps attended one of her book signings? Was it possible that he had randomly chosen her as his contact because he thought she was an expert? All he had to do was a LexusNexus search and discover plenty of information about her professional background. Enough information to sound as if he knew her without ever having met her.
She poked at one of the plastic-encased notes, reading the carefully chosen block-lettered words that gave basic instructions, and then almost as an afterthought came the subtle threat. The first one reminded her of something you’d find in a fortune cookie: DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OR SOMEONE YOU LOVE WILL SUFFER. It wasn’t until this third note that she decided the killer had to be someone she knew. But how could she be certain? The warning simply read: IF YOU LOVE YOUR FATHER YOU WON’T SAY A WORD.
Gwen wondered if perhaps even this warning could still be seen as ambiguous and empty. Anyone could easily find out who her father was, and when they discovered that he also was a leading psychologist, might presume that the two of them were very close. Besides, Dr. John Patterson was over five hundred miles away in New York City, living in a high-security apartment complex and working at a research facility that required government clearance. In fact, if she were to tell him later about the threat, he would laugh and shrug it off, quick to excuse it as his little girl being overly cautious.
“His little girl.” Just the phrase still infuriated her. All of her accomplishments, all of her prestigious degrees and certificates, a bestselling book and dozens of published articles in respected journals and he still didn’t take her seriously. He thought she was wasting her brilliant mind and her time with what he referred to as her fascination and obsession with criminal behavior.
She picked up one of the articles she had clipped from the Washington Post, although she knew she wouldn’t find anything new. She had read it so many times she could recite the twelve paragraphs by heart. The article was worthless with only the basic information. Gwen tossed the clipping aside. Now she grabbed the stack of patient file folders she had brought home with her. It didn’t take long for her to choose one. She started flipping through her notes. Could there be something here? Something she may have noticed or written down from one of her sessions with Rubin Nash?
Ordinarily she kept her notes brief, jotting down single words and abbreviations, her own archaic form of shorthand. It was best to keep it brief or else the patient became anxious, too focused on what she was writing. Gwen had learned to do it in such a nonchalant manner that even scratching out things like “ERRATIC,” “11” and “DAD GONE” attracted neither attention nor alarm. To anyone else the notes might be meaningless, but one look and Gwen remembered that Rubin Nash’s behavior became erratic whenever he talked about the summer of his eleventh birthday when his mother told his father to leave and he did.
This set of notes included disturbing words and phrases her patient had used during their fifty-minute session. She didn’t need to rely on her awful handwriting. She remembered him explaining, or rather telling—there was too much confidence for him to feel he needed to explain—how he had the urge to strangle someone, a woman, any woman. It didn’t matter whether or not he knew her. A total stranger would do. Women had taken so much away from him that he wanted to make them pay. It would be a symbolic gesture, he had said later, laughing, when he calmed himself. And yet at the same time he added, and this she had written down word for word, that he wondered what it would “feel like to twist someone’s neck and hear it snap.”
Gwen reminded herself that just because he said it it didn’t mean Rubin Nash was capable of doing it. She had heard plenty of strange rantings from patients. Most of the time, the threats were simply a part of the process, a verbal exercise to blow off steam. It wasn’t necessarily a sign of destructive or dangerous behavior when patients shared their darkest secrets, urges, or even their desire for vengeance. More often it was a sign that they felt comfortable enough and trusted her enough that they could share such things. However, Gwen had spent too many years profiling and assessing the criminal mind to let the violent comments, especially those delivered as calmly as Rubin Nash had delivered his, to go unnoticed. And perhaps out of habit, she had already started listening and watching Nash a bit closer even though he was a patient and not a suspected killer the FBI had asked her to psychoanalyze.
Maybe her father was right. Maybe it had been an obsession. At one time she had spent so much time at Quantico, consulting with the Behavioral Science Unit, Assistant Director Cunningham joked that she should have her own office. But in recent years when her District practice finally took off, she was surprised to find herself relieved, almost anxious to trade in the analyzing of rapists and murderers for listening to frustrated wives of senators and the nervous ramblings of overambitious members of congress. In fact, she had recently bragged to Maggie that she hadn’t been in the same room as a killer since two years ago in Boston when survivalist Eric Pratt had threatened to shove a sharp lead pencil into her throat.
What a thing to brag about, her father would tease her. If he only knew. But she had always been careful not to tell him or her mother about the dangers her so-called obsession had often put her in the middle of. Would he take her seriously if he knew or would he consider her reckless?
Of course, it didn’t matter now. It was no accident the FBI called on her expertise less frequently, respecting her wishes. These days she preferred to write books and articles about criminal behavior. She liked it that way. It wouldn’t have bothered her in the least to never have to sit across from a killer again, coaxing and prodding his psyche to get him to trust and confide in her. And yet, despite her best efforts, she found herself being dragged into another killer’s world. The bastard had decided to coax and prod her into being his accomplice. Only it wasn’t a knife or pencil shoved against her throat or a gun pointed at her head. She would have almost preferred any one of those rather than the threat he had chosen. And he had chosen wisely. She couldn’t risk telling the police and she wouldn’t dare tell her father. That’s why she was certain she must know him. She wondered if it could possibly be someone who sat across from her every week, examining and studying her all the while he paid to be examined and studied by her.
She checked the clock on her mantel. She had a couple more hours before she needed to get to the office for her Saturday-morning sessions; the first one had been rearranged to accommodate Nash’s new travel schedule. Suddenly Gwen remembered what Maggie had said about the torsos of the three Jane Does being dumped somewhere else, perhaps somewhere outside the District. She couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t a coincidence that Rubin Nash had suddenly started to do more traveling for his business.
Her cell phone interrupted her thoughts. She had to pull
it out of her briefcase.
“This is Dr. Patterson.”
“Hi, sweetie, it’s Dad.”
A chill came so suddenly she bolted to her feet, then realized almost as quickly how silly she was being. He sounded fine, cheerful even. It was a holiday weekend. He always called on holiday weekends.
“How are you and Mom?”
“Fine. Excellent. Your mom’s playing bridge. But, sweetie, where are you? I’ve been waiting here at Regis for almost a half hour.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your note said to meet you at eight for breakfast at Regis. Why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were going to be in the city today?”
Gwen found the edge of the sofa and eased herself down. So the killer knew her well enough to know that she would have misgivings. This had to be his way of telling her how easy it would be to carry out his threat.
CHAPTER 11
Omaha Police Department
Detective Tommy Pakula took another gulp of cold coffee. Raised a Catholic, he had never doubted the existence of God, but too often he found himself not appreciating the divine creator’s sense of humor. This was one of those moments. As he sat in the hardback chair listening to Special Agent Bob Weston drone on and on, Pakula decided this was God’s way of punishing him. In fact, after a solid twenty minutes of the little man’s lecturing and yammering, Pakula was convinced that Bob Weston was probably God’s punishment for quite a few things.
“Stop for a minute or two,” Pakula finally said, throwing up his hands in surrender. Weston appeared so shocked anyone would dare to interrupt him that he immediately went silent. “You’ve been at it for almost a half hour and I still don’t see what fucking connection this Ellison guy getting knifed at an art festival in Minneapolis has with the monsignor getting stuck in a toilet at the airport?”
“Do you want me to start from the beginning?”
“No!” Pakula and Carmichael answered in unison. “Maybe you should just tell us the punch line.” Pakula almost said please. It had to be the exhaustion. “Come on, what’s the connection?”
Now Weston grinned like a guy who knew he was the only one with the secret answer to the puzzle. “Ordinarily, most people wouldn’t see any connection. At least not on the surface. But I happen to be from Minneapolis, so I tend to pay attention. I still have a brother up there. He has a family.”
Pakula groaned and rubbed his eyes. Weston noticed. The grin was replaced with a lifted eyebrow. Pakula wondered if an irritated Weston was any worse than a cocky Weston. He decided he didn’t care. He sat back in his chair and stared him down.
“Come on, Weston,” Carmichael finally gave up and broke in. “We know you’re brilliant. Just tell us the fucking connection.”
“I’m trying to tell you. My brother and his family used to attend Saint Pat’s where Daniel Ellison used to be an associate pastor for a very short time. He left the church, got married and became an advertising executive.” Finished and looking pleased with himself, Weston sat down on the edge of the desk, his designer-clad butt crushing a stack of reports. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for his accolades.
“That’s it?” Carmichael asked. “That’s your secret connection? That he happened to be a priest?”
“And that he was stabbed in the chest and that it was done in a very public place. This was in the middle of the afternoon, a crowded festival.” Weston was back on his feet. “Nobody saw it happen. Ellison’s wife sort of remembered him bumping into someone and then suddenly slumping over and falling to the ground.” He handed Pakula the folder he had brought with him. “After you get your autopsy report, just take a look at the two cases.”
“What should I be looking for?”
“I don’t know, but I bet there’ll be some similarities.”
“And if there are similarities, you think we have a priest killer on the loose?” Pakula shook his head. He wasn’t convinced. “One dead monsignor and a guy who used to be a priest—sounds more like a coincidence to me.”
“Hey, you called me.” It was Weston’s turn to put up his hands as if in surrender. “You asked me what possible reason Archbishop Armstrong would have for not wanting the FBI involved.”
Pakula saw Kasab in the doorway, waving him over. Normally, he would have yelled for him to just get his butt in here, instead, he saw an opportunity for escape.
“Be right back,” he told Carmichael and nodded at Weston. Before he got to the door, he couldn’t help thinking Kasab looked like a guy with his own secret. He wanted to tell him he should never play poker, but after wrangling Bob Weston, Detective Pakula was too tired for more games.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Okay,” Pakula said. It took a few beats before he realized Kasab was waiting for him to say which he wanted first. “Okay, good news first.” It was easier to play.
“I was able to get the monsignor’s cell-phone record. The only calls he made were one to Our Lady of Sorrow rectory that lasted about a minute and another to Father Tony Gallagher’s cell phone. He’s the assistant pastor at the church. That one lasted just over seven minutes. It was made about an hour before his flight.”
“So he was probably the last person to talk to the monsignor.”
“Most likely, yes. Outside of anyone at the airport.”
“Sounds like we need to talk to Father Gallagher. Can you arrange that?”
“Oh, sure.”
“So what’s the bad news?”
“I went back to the airport to pick up Monsignor O’Sullivan’s luggage. Remember they told us they’d intercept it in New York and have it back in Omaha this morning?”
“Let me guess,” Pakula interrupted him, “it’s in Rome.”
“No, it made it back to Omaha, but someone picked it up before I got there.”
“You gotta be kidding. What numb nut gave it to someone without any authority?”
“Actually the desk clerk was told it had been authorized.”
“Who the hell told him that?”
Kasab flipped his notebook pages, checking, wanting to be accurate. “It was a Brother Sebastian. Said he was with the Omaha Archdiocese office. And like the guy told me, who’s not going to believe someone sent by the archbishop?”
CHAPTER 12
Washington, D.C.
It was on mornings like this that Maggie O’Dell wondered if perhaps something was wrong with her. Here it was another beautiful day, after rains had washed everything clean, the beginning of a holiday weekend and she had nothing to cancel. No plans to change. No friends or family or lover to let down. Even Harvey, who watched her leave with his head still planted on her bed pillow, let her off the hook too easily, it seemed, by allowing her to postpone their gardening and lounging in the backyard. What was worse, she actually looked forward to this autopsy. Not exactly looked forward to it in the same way someone would relish a good time. But rather, her mind had already begun plucking at the puzzle pieces, trying to place them in some order and needing more details, more pieces. So much so that she had awakened at two in the morning and pulled out the copies of the case files.
Dismemberment cases bothered even the most seasoned of veterans, and Maggie certainly wasn’t immune. Dismemberment cases and ones involving dead kids usually had a way of staying with her long after the killers were arrested, tried and convicted. Sometimes she still had nightmares that included body organs stuffed in take-out containers courtesy of Albert Stucky. And then there were those with dead little boys, naked and blue-skinned, left in the mud and tall grass along the Platte River. Albert Stucky was dead and buried. She had seen to it personally. However, Father Michael Keller had gotten away scot-free, escaping to South America, and even the Catholic Church didn’t seem to know where he was.
Maggie paused at the door to the autopsy suite to clear her mind and to finish her Diet Pepsi. Stan Wenhoff was known to expel anyone for as little as unwrappin
g a candy bar during one of his autopsies. Not a bad rule, though perhaps Stan’s claim that it was out of respect for the dead might be a bit disingenuous. After all, this was the same guy who yelled things like, “Just scoop it up.”
It felt like walking into a refrigerator. Maggie grabbed two gowns off the pile and said hello to Stan who only grunted. Julia Racine wasn’t in a much better mood. She looked to be in her usual futile hunt, searching through the pile for a size smaller than the X-large that Stan stocked for his visitors.
“Why is it so fucking cold in here?” Racine complained.
“We have a choice, Detective. We either deal with the cold or we deal with the maggots crawling all over us.”
Maggie couldn’t remember Stan ever using the air-conditioning before this. The basement autopsy suites had recently been renovated, but the old steel ducts had not. Turning on the heat or the A/C during an autopsy could compromise evidence by adding debris. So Stan usually had it turned off for the hour or two during the autopsy. Evidently he would rather deal with the debris and the cold than with the maggots.
Racine didn’t answer. Instead, she glanced at Maggie, who was putting on the second gown on top of the first. Racine followed her lead and took another off the pile. Racine needed to wrap both gowns several times around her tall, thin body almost like a mummy. Only then did Maggie notice that the usually athletic and fit detective looked as if she had lost weight since Maggie had seen her last. She had heard that Racine had been making frequent trips between the District and Connecticut to visit her deteriorating father even before Racine’s late-night invitation. Maggie had met and grown attached to Luc Racine while working a case practically in his backyard. Despite Luc’s early onset of Alzheimer’s, he and Maggie had exchanged favors, sort of coming to each other’s rescue. Her fondness and concern for the older Racine had created a connection with the younger Racine, one Maggie didn’t necessarily want. Sometimes she wondered if she and Julia Racine had met and gotten to know each other under different circumstances, circumstances that didn’t include an almost botched case and an unwanted sexual advance, that maybe they would have become friends.
