A Necessary Evil

by Alex Kava

  Something still nagged at him, though. Agent O’Dell agreed that James Campion could have been the killer after discovering that Father Paul Conley had raped Campion as a young altar boy. That, according to O’Dell, would explain his rage during that murder. Unfortunately with Campion gone there were some things they might never know.

  In the back of his mind he still didn’t let Father Tony Gallagher off the hook. Nor had Carmichael. She had reminded him again before he left the station that Father Tony’s past experience as a victims’ rights advocate fit O’Dell’s profile of The Sin Eater, a tragic hero killing and taking on the sins of the boys that the system may have failed to previously win justice for. Carmichael also pointed out that Father Tony would have had access to lists of victims as well as lists of the abusing priests.

  The side door opened, interrupting his analysis. The archbishop strolled in, nodding at him as he took his place behind the desk.

  “Mr. Pakula,” he said, still substituting mister for detective, “I understand you have some important information on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s case. Is it possible you already have a suspect?”

  “Possibly.” Pakula sat back. The uncomfortable chair made his back ache but he didn’t mind. He glanced at his watch. “We’re picking up one of our suspects right about now for questioning.” And he imagined Kasab and Carmichael escorting Brother Sebastian to the station.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” the archbishop said, folding his hands together on the desk’s surface and sitting forward in his ridiculously large throne. “Perhaps we can finally put all of this behind us.”

  “Well, I’m not too sure it’ll be any time soon.”

  “Of course not,” Archbishop Armstrong agreed. “I realize these things take some time with all the details and a trial. I was simply speaking rhetorically about all of us having some closure.”

  “I’m sure there’re quite a few people who’d be glad to hear that you’re anxious and willing to provide some much-needed closure.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Pakula reached down to his feet, alongside the chair leg, and brought up the leather portfolio, tossing it on top of the archbishop’s pristine desktop.

  “We finally found this,” Pakula told him and watched all the color leave the man’s face.

  “Well, my goodness. Is that—”

  “Monsignor O’Sullivan’s leather portfolio stashed full of interesting reports and memos and letters and therapists’ analyses. Quite interesting stuff. I can see why you wanted him to deliver it personally to the Vatican for safe storage. Yeah, it would be against the law to destroy all these, but since the Vatican has diplomatic immunity it would have made sense to just go ahead and store them over there. Isn’t that right, Archbishop?”

  “I have no idea what you think you found, Mr. Pakula,” he told him, sitting forward again and regaining his composure much too quickly. “I would think you should know by now that it would be better to close this case once and for all, especially now that poor Monsignor O’Sullivan isn’t here to defend himself.”

  “You’re right about that.” Pakula stood, ready to leave and the archbishop looked surprised, glancing back at the portfolio as if ready to snatch it if Pakula insisted on taking it back. “There’s not much we can do in the poor monsignor’s case. Unfortunately it won’t come to an end very soon. You’ll never guess who ended up with this old portfolio and handed it in to me.” He waited for the archbishop to squirm just a little before he said, “Of all the people to get their hands on it, wouldn’t you know it’d be a reporter.”

  And there it was—the look, the dropped jaw, the wide eyes. That was the look Pakula had been waiting for. He turned to leave, now satisfied, but stopped and glanced back.

  “Oh and by the way, I thought you might be interested to know that Creighton University called, apologizing that a huge mistake had been made regarding my daughter’s scholarship. Seems a letter went out without their approval.” He shook his head and said, “Wonder how that could have happened.”

  He didn’t need an answer nor did he expect one. He had gotten more than he had come for. He left the archbishop with the coveted leather portfolio stashed with copies of incriminating documents. All of the originals were currently on their way to the Douglas County prosecutor’s office.

  CHAPTER 91

  The Omaha World Herald

  Downtown Omaha

  Nick Morrelli watched his sister boss around the newspaper’s top photographer and the petite blonde who wrote the front-page headlines. When she headed back in his direction he caught her smiling. She was definitely in her element, or as Timmy and Gibson would say, her zone.

  “I can’t believe you don’t write your own headlines,” he said to her, feigning disgust.

  “I’ve told you that before,” she said, swatting him on the arm. “You just don’t remember anything I tell you.”

  “Maybe I’ll listen better after you win the Pulitzer.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, but he could see her smile again. She liked that idea even if she knew it was a stretch.

  “What time are we picking up the guys for lunch?”

  She checked her watch. “They get out of Explorers early today. Let me finish up one more thing, then we can leave.” She pulled several pages out of a folder and started scratching notes in the margins.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be rewarding them with things like lunch.”

  She glanced up and smiled but continued writing. She didn’t think he was serious.

  “I’m not joking,” Nick said and this time he waited for her eyes and for her full attention. “The other night scared the hell out of me. It was like four years ago all over again.”

  “But he’s okay. And I really can’t think of the what-ifs.”

  “I’ve been thinking maybe I should try to spend more time with him. You know, be there more often for him.”

  “Yeah, right.” She laughed and went back to her notes. “I don’t think Jill will appreciate you flying from Boston to Omaha all the time just to see Timmy.”

  “If I were to stick around here I wouldn’t need to fly.”

  “Jill’s not going to move back here, Nicky. I know your Jill Campbell. She might be having a lot of fun with her old girlfriends but that’s wedding-preparation fun. Afterward she’s going to be ready to get back to her life and her life is being a high-powered attorney in Boston at Foster, Campbell and whoever that other bigwig lawyer is.”

  “McDermont,” Nick said, filling in the blank.

  Suddenly she looked up at him as if it only now hit her. “Oh geez, are you calling off the wedding?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you’re thinking?”

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  “Is it because of Maggie?”

  “Christine, all I said—” and he put up his hands in mock surrender “—was that maybe I should spend more time with my only nephew.”

  But now she was smiling at him. No, not smiling, grinning.

  “Well, since you’ve definitely convinced me that it won’t matter one way or another whether I tell you this or not, I’m gonna go ahead and tell you.” She stood and leaned in close to him, glancing around the noisy newsroom even though no one had been paying attention to their conversation.

  And then Christine said to him as though they were back in grade school, “Maggie told me that she didn’t dump you. As a matter of fact, little brother, this whole time you’ve been mooning and feeling sorry for yourself, Maggie O’Dell has been thinking you were the one who dumped her.”

  Nick felt as if she had dropped a ton of bricks on him.

  “Not that it matters who dumped who, right?” she added.

  CHAPTER 92

  Eppley Airport

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Cunningham had told Maggie that she didn’t need to be there to see Keller off, but she insisted. If she had to keep her end of the bargain and let him go, she wanted to m
ake certain Father Michael Keller got on his plane and left for South America and this time never came back. She considered flying with him to Chicago just to make sure he made his connecting flight. There was a two-hour layover and she didn’t trust him. What would stop him, she asked her boss, from just walking away, taking a cab from O’Hare and sneaking off to blend into rural North America instead of South America?

  That wasn’t her concern, Cunningham had told her. She was to see Keller made his flight. That was it. End of her deal. End of her obligation. He made it sound so easy.

  Keller had refused to even get in the same vehicle she was in and accepted the alternative, a ride in an Omaha squad car with a police officer Pakula had assigned for the task. Keller seemed pleased with the escort. And she wished she could slap that smug look off his face. The thought of letting him go made her insides feel like liquid fire. And yet, she stood back and watched him walk down the terminal’s ramp to get in line for the security check.

  She had done her job. That was it. She didn’t need to rub her own nose in it by standing around watching. She had other things to attend to, like Gwen. When she talked to her this morning her friend sounded in good spirits but very weak and vulnerable. She seemed overly concerned about Harvey though Julia Racine appeared to be taking good care of him. Gwen said she was okay about what had happened, but Maggie knew better. She wanted to see for herself and would be leaving for home tomorrow despite the fact that not all the pieces of this case’s puzzle fit to her liking.

  She turned to leave the terminal and almost bumped into Sister Kate Rosetti.

  “Maggie, hi. Are you leaving for home?”

  “Tomorrow. Where are you off to?” Maggie almost didn’t recognize her. She wore blue jeans, another bright-colored T-shirt that read Pensacola Seafood Festival and tennis shoes. She carried a duffel bag over her shoulder and her short hair was flat today as if she hadn’t had time to style it after getting out of the shower. She had to wait for an answer. They were right under a loudspeaker and it blared out instructions about not leaving luggage unattended.

  “I have a presentation in Chicago this weekend,” Sister Kate finally said when it was all clear.

  “That’s right. You mentioned it at dinner.”

  “One more job and that’s it.”

  “You won’t miss it?” Maggie asked.

  “No, I won’t,” she said. Then, smiling and placing her hand over her heart like she was preparing for some Girl Scout pledge, she added, “On my grandfather’s honor, this is my last job.”

  “After all your trips, at least you’ve learned to travel light.”

  “I wish. I have all my samples in my checked luggage. I don’t like to chance getting asked a lot of questions going through security with a couple of thirteenth-century daggers.” She laughed and Maggie joined her.

  Again the loudspeaker interrupted them: “United flight 1270 for Denver at Gate 29 and United flight 1690 for Chicago at Gate 14 are now boarding.”

  “That’s me. I’d better go.” But she didn’t move. “It was really a pleasure meeting you, Maggie.”

  “I enjoyed it, too, and I now know more about daggers than I ever wanted to know.”

  “You take care of yourself,” Sister Kate said, her voice somber and not as jovial as just minutes before. She gave Maggie a one-armed hug to avoid knocking her with her duffel bag.

  “You, too.”

  Maggie watched her show her ID and continue down the terminal ramp to the security checkpoint which had cleared a bit and wasn’t as busy. She glanced over her shoulder one last time to wave and Maggie waved back. As Sister Kate continued down the ramp she pulled out a baseball cap from her duffel bag and slung it on. Maggie smiled. She couldn’t help thinking that in her blue jeans, T-shirt, tennis shoes and a baseball cap she looked like one of her teenage students. And then it hit Maggie that from the back Sister Kate Rosetti looked so much like a teenage boy.

  It came to Maggie in waves. All of it, everything in bits and pieces that by themselves didn’t mean anything but all together…The daggers went with her everywhere she traveled. She remembered Sister Kate telling them she had a presentation in Saint Louis the same weekend Father Kincaid had been killed in Columbia. She remembered Pakula’s map and the colored pins. Columbia wasn’t far from Saint Louis. How difficult would it be to stab Monsignor O’Sullivan here in the men’s bathroom at Omaha’s Eppley Airport? Then walk right next door into the women’s bathroom, clean up, change clothes and place the dagger—the murder weapon—into the luggage she would check. It sounded too simple.

  Maggie leaned against a nearby wall, getting out of the passengers’ way but needing the extra support if her knees failed to hold her up. Her mind continued to reel. Who better to be the advocate for abused boys than a woman, a nun who may have had to stand by and know about the abuse? Maybe she had even caught Monsignor O’Sullivan with one of the boys at the school.

  She remembered Sister Kate’s own story of abuse. The man was someone her parents trusted—no, she said revered. Could he have been a priest? That’s when Maggie remembered the T-shirt. Sister Kate was from Pensacola, Florida. Was it possible she was the eleven-year-old girl Father Rudy had raped? Is that why he hadn’t been on the list? It made sense now. She’d taken care of him for herself. For her own peace of mind. There was no need for him to be on the list.

  But what about James Campion? Pakula was hoping to blame him for all the priests’ murders. Maggie had never been certain that James Campion was The Sin Eater. It made more sense that Campion was simply playing the Internet game and impatient that The Sin Eater hadn’t killed his priest yet. Gwen had told her that Campion kept raging about some game and breaking the rules.

  Maggie ran her fingers through her hair. She hadn’t gotten much sleep in the last several nights. She wasn’t thinking straight. And yet it all seemed crystal clear. She remembered Sister Kate brushing her roommate’s dog hair off her blouse the other night at dinner. Monsignor O’Sullivan had dog hair on the back of his polo shirt, possibly a transfer of debris from the killer. Her other roommate just happened to be a computer whiz who had taught Sister Kate to design some of her own programs and possibly an incredible Internet game. She had probably also learned enough from her roommate to know what was necessary to make it impossible for the Omaha Police Department and the FBI to track down a simple e-mail address that belonged to The Sin Eater.

  It seemed too fantastic. But it all seemed to fit.

  The loudspeaker announced the last boarding call for United 1690 to Chicago. That’s when it suddenly occurred to Maggie. United 1690 to Chicago was the flight Father Michael Keller was taking.

  Oh, Jesus!

  Is that what Sister Kate meant by “one last job”? He was scheduled to have a two-hour layover in Chicago before his connecting flight to Venezuela. Sister Kate’s presentation was in Chicago so she’d be getting her checked luggage, the luggage with her choice of daggers.

  Maggie glanced at her watch and went searching for and found the nearest departure board. Fifteen minutes left. She had her badge and her weapon and her cell phone. She could stop the flight. It would be messy but she could do it.

  Then she stopped. She tried to calm herself. She remembered last night, how badly she wanted to pull the trigger. She reminded herself how Keller’s eyes darted off to the left when she confronted him about using past tense when he talked about Arturo. If her instincts were right, he had never stopped killing little boys, nor would he just because she’d smacked him around a little. And deep down, her gut kept telling her he had no intention of returning to South America.

  Sister Kate had told her this was her last job and Maggie thought she meant her last presentation. Now she knew the nun was talking about her last hit. But she had said this was the last. No, she had promised on her grandfather’s honor.

  Maggie glanced at her watch again. Ten minutes. She could still stop the flight. She stood there, leaning against the wall and staring down the ram
p, watching passengers come and go. Finally she pushed away from the wall. She hesitated as she looked down the terminal ramp to the boarding gates. Then Maggie O’Dell turned and walked in the other direction.

  CHAPTER 93

  Aboard United Flight 1690

  Father Michael Keller waited patiently for the elderly woman to move out of the aisle. He had decided to go to the restroom at the last minute and now was one of the last passengers to board the airplane. He worried that the digitalis might not have been strong enough and that he would suffer a relapse. He dreaded another excruciating long flight like before, although this one would be much shorter.

  He regretted coming so close to taking care of Timmy and having to abort that mission. His nose was still sore and a bit swollen, another reminder that he needed to be more careful in the future.

  Finally the elderly woman took her seat and he could move forward. He searched the seat numbers at the top: seven, eight, nine, ten…here he was in 11B, a middle seat. He kept telling himself it was just to Chicago. A short hour-long flight. And thankfully it looked as if he was between two small-framed women and not a massive buffalo of a man like on the flight here.

  He shoved his carry-on into the overhead bin.

  “Excuse me, I’m in 11B,” he told the woman on the aisle.

  “Oh sure,” she said, batting her long blond hair out of her eyes before unbuckling her seat belt. She jumped up to move out into the aisle and let him in.

  “Thank you.”

  They both sat down and he had barely buckled his seat belt when the woman on his other side turned from the window.

  “Is Chicago your final destination?” she asked.