by Alex Kava
“Not bad,” he said, referring to the food and nodding at Brenda Donovan who continued to stare at him over the mug of coffee she was sipping. Her son didn’t seem to notice that anyone else was in the room. At least he hadn’t acknowledged anyone else after the muttered hello during the intros. Now he stuffed food into his mouth without looking up.
Christine Hamilton offered the other easy chair to O’Dell, then pulled up a hardback chair to the edge of the small little circle so that she could sit between the law enforcement officials and the Donovans. Pakula had already guessed they were the victims.
He had to give Hamilton credit. She didn’t just want to make her statement, she wanted to drive it home with a tug at the heartstrings or perhaps with something she hoped would shock them. What she didn’t realize was that Pakula had seen and heard it all, the worst of the worst, from a newborn crack baby left floating in the toilet of a Gas ’n Shop to a domestic dispute where a husband had used a nail gun to crucify his wife to their living-room wall.
“Every time I’ve talked to Detective Sassco,” Hamilton began, “he’s insisted I back up the allegations I was making, despite my journalistic right to conceal my sources. Mark and his mother are very brave to be here today, but they wanted me to reiterate that this in no way implies they are willing to file an official police report.”
Pakula watched Mark the entire time. The young man hadn’t looked up from his food yet. He stopped once but only to take a sip of his Coke. Suddenly Pakula realized Hamilton was staring at him, waiting for his agreement to the terms.
“That’s fine.” He nodded at Hamilton then glanced at O’Dell, but she seemed to be somewhere else, probably trying to figure out what to do with Keller.
“Brenda,” Hamilton said, “would you like to begin?”
“When my husband first passed away…” The woman set her coffee mug down and began wringing her hands. She had been staring at Pakula since he’d walked into the room but now her eyes were everywhere but on him. “Well, when he died it was hard on Mark. They were so close the two of them. Monsignor O’Sullivan, although he was only Father O’Sullivan back then, asked if he could come over for dinner, spend some time with Mark. He said he was worried about him. I was always raised to believe that there was no better way to grace your home, your family, than for the parish priest to come to dinner. You have to understand. Well, you probably can’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.
“No, I do,” Pakula said. “I’m Catholic.”
“So am I,” O’Dell said.
The woman looked from him to O’Dell and back to him like she was seeing them for the first time. Pakula wondered if knowing they were both Catholic would help her trust them or simply strengthen her distrust.
“When Mark finally told me what Father O’Sullivan did to him whenever he volunteered to tuck Mark in bed after dinner…well, I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t believe him. He was ten. Boys make up all kinds of stories at that age.”
“But I wasn’t making it up,” Mark interrupted.
Pakula noticed that all of them jerked their heads to look at him, surprised to realize that he was even listening.
“I know, I know,” Brenda Donovan said, bobbing her head. “But that’s what Father O’Sullivan told me when I finally got up enough courage to tell him why he couldn’t come to dinner anymore. He told me that if I believed my son’s lies then I couldn’t come to his house for dinner anymore, either.” She looked up at them again, searching their faces for understanding. Evidently she saw their confusion because she tried to explain. “You know, his house being the church and dinner being Holy Communion. I was devastated. I didn’t know that a priest could punish you like that. So I went to Archbishop Armstrong.”
Pakula waited, watching Brenda Donovan shake her head as if she still couldn’t believe it. He glanced at O’Dell who was now not only paying attention but sitting forward in her chair.
“Tell us what the archbishop had to say, Brenda,” Hamilton said.
“Father O’Sullivan must have warned him that I’d be calling. The archbishop asked me why I would want to ruin a good priest’s reputation with such lies. Then he held my hands and asked me to pray along with him. He said we’d join hands and pray for him. It wasn’t until we were halfway through our prayer that I realized the ‘him’ we were praying for was not my son, but Father O’Sullivan. That was the day I left the Catholic Church. I haven’t been back since.”
There was an uncomfortable silence but Pakula sat through it. He had learned a long time ago that when people confided something gut-wrenching, they didn’t necessarily want someone telling them it’d be okay. They knew it would never be okay. They just wanted someone to listen.
“Mark wasn’t the only boy,” Hamilton finally said. “I’ve found seven others who are now thirteen to twenty-five years old. Two the archdiocese paid over a hundred thousand dollars each. One told me his father forfeited a payoff when Armstrong promised he’d send O’Sullivan away for treatment. O’Sullivan was gone for two months.”
Pakula rubbed his jaw. He wasn’t surprised. He had heard about the various scandals all over the country, but had to admit he hadn’t paid much attention. He remembered being grateful that the Omaha Archdiocese seemed to have escaped it. Once, he and Clare had gotten into an argument about it when he suggested that he didn’t understand why the boys didn’t fight back. Why they waited until years later when they were adults and the statute of limitations had long expired. At the time he couldn’t help wondering if many of the cases were simply about money. Okay, so a priest put his hand down some kid’s pants, he’s definitely a sicko, but is it traumatic enough to equal a couple million dollars? Clare had told him that he had no idea what those boys had gone through.
“I’m sorry both of you had to go through that, Mrs. Donovan,” Pakula told her. “I just wish you had gone to the police instead of the archbishop.”
“I know, I know,” she said.
“Who the fuck do you think the police would have believed?” Mark asked. This time his outburst made his mother jump.
“I’ve got to ask you something, Mark,” Pakula said. “And I don’t want you to think that I’m being insensitive to what’s happened to you, whatever it was, but why didn’t you tell him to stop it?”
“I was ten years old.” Mark’s voice was suddenly low and calm, the anger evidently pushed back somewhere. “This priest who I’ve been taught is like God comes into my bedroom and kneels at my bedside.”
He looked around the group as if making sure they were listening. Pakula noticed all of them were literally at the edge of their seats.
“He told me that God and my dad were watching us from heaven. Then he asked me to close my eyes and pray the Our Father with him, so I did. We wouldn’t get halfway through the prayer and I’d feel his hand under my covers. He’d dig into my pajama bottoms, grab hold of me and start jerking at me. Sometimes so hard it hurt. I remember once opening my eyes and that’s when I saw that he was still on his knees but I could see his fly was open and in his other hand he had hold of his own penis, too, and was jerking it just as hard as he was jerking me.”
Mark stopped and looked Pakula in the eye. When he spoke this time he sounded like a small boy, “He told me my dad and God were watching us. I kept telling myself they wouldn’t let this happen to me if it wasn’t okay.” Then as if that wasn’t enough of an explanation he added, “I was only ten years old.”
CHAPTER 61
Blessed Sacrament Church Rectory
Boston, Massachusetts
Father Paul Conley rang the small bell on his desk a second time. Where was that woman? He craned his neck, trying to see beyond the doorway without leaving his chair. He had purposely positioned his desk in the rectory’s den so that he could see into the living room with a view of the kitchen—though only a slice—if he slid his chair clear to the right. But Anna Sanchez was nowhere in sight.
He contemplated ringing for her again. The woma
n was getting too old. He had tried to tell the church council that he needed someone younger with more energy. Someone who could not only handle the housecleaning and the cooking but also make sure there was a pot of fresh coffee available in the afternoons. Was that too much to ask?
He tipped his coffee mug, an exaggerated gesture, to double-check. Yes, it was empty. He twisted in the chair again but still refused to get up. He grabbed the bell and this time gave it an angry shake. Was it too much to ask for someone who could at least hear, for heaven’s sake?
“Mrs. Sanchez?” He decided to yell in case she had chosen to ignore the bell.
Ever since he had complained to the church council about the old woman she had gotten slower and more selective in what she heard. It was probably just his imagination, still he couldn’t help wondering whether one of those loudmouthed council members had blabbed to her. Most likely it was Mrs. MacPherson. The woman couldn’t keep anything to herself even if the good Lord asked her directly.
“Mrs. Sanchez, what about some coffee?”
He let out a heavy sigh and pushed up out of his comfortable leather office chair, shoving it back with as much noise as he could muster. He grabbed the coffee mug and brought it with him, stomping out of the den. In the living room he stopped long enough to glance around. Where was that woman? He marched into the kitchen, expecting to see her at the sink or coming up from the laundry room.
Instead, he was startled, clutching his free hand to his chest.
“What in the world?”
At the small kitchen table sat a young man he didn’t know, sipping a cup of coffee.
“Hello, Father Paul,” the stranger said with a smile, then took a long slurp of coffee. “There’s plenty more.” He waved at the Mr. Coffee on the counter. “Mrs. Sanchez must have just made some. It tastes very fresh.”
“Who are you? Did Mrs. Sanchez let you in?” Again, he started looking around the room for the woman, past the doorways and out in the backyard.
“I must admit, I’m disappointed you don’t recognize me, Father Paul. Although I guess it has been over fourteen years.”
“Wait a minute, are you the gardener?” He recognized the hatchet from the garden shed left by the back door alongside a black case. “Did she forget to pay you?” He pushed up his glasses, hoping a better look at the young man would reveal who he was. He had to be one of the workers. She wouldn’t let just anyone in.
“Nope, not a gardener. Although I did help myself to a few tools from the shed in back. Sure is quiet back there.” He sipped more coffee.
“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere if you need to be paid.” The priest walked over to the doorway to the laundry room and yelled, “Mrs. Sanchez, are you down there?”
“I grew up in this neighborhood,” the young man said. “I was an altar boy. I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Father Paul.”
“Really?” Father Conley came back to study him once more, but still he couldn’t place him. Besides, the man certainly didn’t look or sound upset. “I’ve been here for twenty years,” he told him. “A lot of boys have served mass with me. Surely you can’t expect me to remember every single one of them?”
Now the stranger shoved his coffee cup aside and brought out a plastic bag, unrolling it on the table. Father Conley thought it looked like one of those large transparent bags that dry cleaners used when they returned your freshly cleaned garments. Ah, perhaps that was what he had come for. He must be the dry cleaner, picking up the vestments. But why come to the rectory and not the church? It didn’t make sense.
“I suppose it is difficult to remember everyone,” the young man said, pushing away from the table and standing up with the plastic bag now unfolded, and twisted tightly around both hands, his fingers balling up around its corners until they were fists. “But I would hope you’d remember the ones you fucked, Father Paul.”
Suddenly Father Conley found himself caught in a veil of plastic, stretched over his face, cutting off his breath. He fought, clawing at the hands that continued to wrap the plastic taut around his entire head, until he could feel the knot at the base of his neck. Desperate for air, he struggled, kicking and flaying his arms, trying to dig the plastic out of his face, but the layers were many and the fight was quickly being strangled out of him.
Still, he twisted and turned, thrashing about, banging into counters and knocking pots and pans to the floor, only they seemed to no longer make a sound. He slipped to his knees but still continued to pluck at the plastic, now much of it inhaled, sticking in his mouth and down his throat as he gasped like a fish out of water.
There was no more air, no more fight left in him. He fell to the floor and the last thing Father Paul Conley saw was Mrs. Sanchez’s dead eyes staring out at him from under the butcher-block table in the far corner.
CHAPTER 62
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie was completely exhausted by the time she got back to her hotel. She and Pakula barely said a word to each other on the drive from the Saint Francis Center to the Embassy Suites. Pakula told her he’d talk to Chief Ramsey about Father Michael Keller and that the chief and Assistant Director Cunningham could discuss how to handle it. Maggie felt relieved until she remembered that she’d still have to be the one to meet with Keller. He had told her he wouldn’t relinquish any information to anyone but her.
She knew he didn’t mean it as a favor or a professional courtesy. He had to know she had been tracking him, asking questions, creating suspicion, making it impossible for him to stay in one place for long. This was his way to mock her, to put her in her place.
While listening to Mark Donovan it had suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t all that different from this priest killer. Keller had committed horrendous crimes. No one could look at those dead little boys and not agree. And yet, he had eluded justice and it gnawed at her. Evil against children was the most difficult to stomach, the most difficult to stand back and watch the evil perpetrator escape and possibly continue. It wasn’t only unlawful, it was immoral to allow that evil to continue, to go unchecked, unpunished. At times, she found herself not just wanting Keller to pay for his crimes, she wanted him gone forever so he could never hurt another innocent boy. Wasn’t that exactly what this killer was doing? Carrying out a type of justice for those priests who had managed to escape punishment, stopping them before they had a chance to hurt another boy. The only difference between the two of them was that Maggie had a badge.
The comparison didn’t sit well with her. What law enforcement official enjoyed thinking of herself as a hired killer? She had even lingered in the hotel lobby, considering a stop at the lounge. It wasn’t that long ago that exhaustion would never have won out over her urge for Scotch. There used to be nothing better than two or three Scotches to ease the challenges of her profession.
However, as soon as she walked into her hotel room she flipped open her cell phone. She no longer bothered to check for messages. She knew Gwen wouldn’t call. Instead, she simply dialed and was surprised when Gwen answered on the third ring.
“Gwen, are you okay?” Maggie asked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Well, excuse me, but I haven’t been able to ask you that because you haven’t bothered to return any of my phone calls. I’ve been worried sick about you.”
Silence. Maggie berated herself. Here she finally gets in touch with her friend and does the exact thing Gwen wanted to avoid by not returning her calls.
“I’m sorry, Gwen. I’ve just been really worried.”
“I think Racine may be trying to figure out whether or not to arrest me.”
“Arrest you? What in the world for?”
“You haven’t talked to her today?”
“Early this morning,” Maggie said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”
“It’s complicated.” Gwen sounded so tired.
“Tell me anyway.”
Maggie listened without interrupting
as Gwen told her about Rubin Nash and how she suspected that he might be the D.C. killer, but wasn’t sure. She told her about the notes, a map, some earrings, even a cell phone that the killer had left for her, always at her office building. That was why she believed it had to be one of her patients, someone who could come and go and not be noticed. Gwen even admitted that when Racine called in Maggie to profile the case, Gwen thought she might be able to guide Maggie to the killer without endangering anyone close to her.
Maggie listened and wished she was there offering something more, something warmer than an “okay” or “go on.” Gwen stopped and Maggie thought she was finished until Gwen said so softly she could barely hear her, “I should have told you. I should have told you from the very beginning.”
“You thought you were doing the right thing,” Maggie told her. “How many times have I done that?”
“But you’ve never gotten anyone killed in the process.”
“That’s not true. How could you forget Albert Stucky?” Maggie still cringed at the sound of his name. Stucky had been pure evil. He had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with her that included killing women Maggie came in contact with. By the time he was finished, he had killed four women—four ordinary innocent women whose only mistake was meeting Maggie.
Gwen promised to call in the morning, thanking Maggie. She flipped her phone shut and set it onto the nightstand. It felt a little strange. Usually Gwen was the one comforting her, getting her out of hot water and calming her down. They had started out with Gwen as her mentor, her teacher, and went on to become best friends. This time Gwen had hoped Maggie could save her.
Maggie kicked off her shoes, took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the desk chair. She unbuckled her shoulder holster and laid it next to her cell phone. It was the only reason she continued to wear a jacket in the July heat. People talked differently to a woman with a gun strapped to her side. Sometimes it was advantageous, but most of the time it was annoying.
