by Blake Pierce
It was much harder setting up an appointment with the Cardinal’s office than Mackenzie thought. In the end, she’d had to use her bureau sway. She knew that in doing so, there was no way they could deny her—especially with Costas’s murder still in the forefront of the public’s mind. She knew that it would be wishing for the moon to get an appointment with the Cardinal on such short notice, but she did manage to bully her way into an afternoon appointment with one of the auxiliary bishops.
In a rather ironic twist of fate, the auxiliary bishop she was meeting with, a man by the name of Barry Whitter, was scheduled to be at Blessed Heart that afternoon to speak with members of the congregation for words of encouragement and worship in the face of the death of Father Costas. His secretary had given Mackenzie fifteen minutes of his time, before he was to meet with an interim priest at the church.
It felt strange to Mackenzie as she walked back up the stairs to Blessed Heart. When she opened the doors and went inside, she felt like she was walking into a tomb. The place was silent and a nearly tangible feeling of mourning filled the air.
She walked into the sanctuary, down the aisle between the rows of gorgeous pews. In front of the sanctuary, Auxiliary Bishop Whitter was sitting in the first pew, as they had scheduled. He stood to greet her and Mackenzie could tell right away that the smile on his face was an extremely fake one. Every footstep and movement seemed to make a massive noise in the large, quiet, and beautifully decorated church.
He’s not sure of my intentions, she thought. It was an expression she had seen hundreds of times. But for a man of his stature and with his schedule, he probably felt a little disrespected. Given the two stories of abuse at the hands of the church she had heard today, Mackenzie really didn’t care.
Still, she had a role to play if she wanted Whitter’s cooperation. She returned his fake smile with one of her own and extended her hand for a shake. “Thanks so much for your time,” she said, taking a seat on the pew. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll make this quick.”
“If I can help find who has been killing these men of God, I consider it time well spent,” Whitter said.
“Well, finding links between all three leaders has been tricky,” she said. “I have managed to find a few connections that didn’t quite pan out. But the last person I spoke with had a history with all three churches. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to shine any light on a suspect, either. But it did bring up an interesting question—something that I hope might be able to uncover motive or even tracks to finding the killer.”
“And what question is that?” Whitter asked.
“It’s a question that I came to while speaking with a twenty-seven-year-old named Greg Yoder,” she said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
The look on his face told her that the name absolutely did mean something to him. Whitter looked as if he had just caught a whiff of something particularly foul.
“I don’t see what that young man has to do with this,” Whitter spat. “Unless he’s a suspect in the killings.”
“Far from it,” she said. “The question I had for you is how priests with a checkered past are allowed to take such a position of authority. That is…after Yoder’s allegations eleven years ago, how was it that Costas remained in such a position?”
“Because the allegations are just that. Allegations!”
“Yes, sir…I understand that. But with all due respect, such allegations aren’t exactly rare in the Catholic Church. Also, I know that the case was dropped out of court and I’m going to assume there was some money or influence of some kind passed behind locked doors.”
“Agent White, if this is why you called me here—to berate and insult my faith—”
“Far from it, sir. I mean no disrespect or insult. I am quite literally just offering up facts. Facts that I hope you can shed some light on. My hope is that by getting to the bottom of the abuse claims, I’ll be able to establish a more direct approach to finding the killer.”
“So let me make sure I’m understanding you correctly,” Whitter said. “You’re asking if there was some sort of cover-up? That maybe Father Costas did commit those heinous acts and the Church is somehow covering it up to save his reputation?”
“That’s exactly right,” she said.
“Then with all due respect, I’m going to ask you to leave. Granted, this is not my church but I believe I hold more sway here than you do.”
“Bishop Whitter, surely you can see how sending me away in such a manner only makes the situation seem worse.”
He stood up, insinuating that he wanted her to do the same. He looked pained as he chose his next words carefully. “And surely you can see that any attempts to make the Church or its congregation look bad would harm your career. We know politicians quite well. Probably some of your superiors, too.”
“That sounds like a flimsy threat,” Mackenzie said.
“Call it what you want.”
“I just did. It was a threat. Which shows you’re being defensive. The question, of course, is why.”
“You can paint the picture however you choose,” Whitter said. “But by buying into the allegations of two wounded teenage boys, you make the church out to be the bad guy.”
Mackenzie smirked at him as she got to her feet. “Well, a correction there, sir. There’s only one of those boys left. The second killed himself less than a year after the alleged abuse.”
Mackenzie turned and walked away. Over her shoulder, she called out: “Should your faith finally lead you toward opening up on these matters and helping with my investigation, I hope you’ll call the bureau right away.”
Her voice echoed through the empty church in a way that made the final reverberation of it sound like a ghost. She hoped like hell it was a ghost that would haunt Whitter—possibly scaring him into opening up and telling the truth.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mackenzie returned home a little earlier than usual. With no further leads and Forensics handling their end of things back at headquarters, there was literally nothing she could do other than dive deep into the files that had accumulated in regards to the murders over the past few days. She tended to concentrate better while at home, not distracted by the general busyness of offices and cubicle spaces at work.
Besides…her living room—hers and Ellington’s—was much more conducive to studying than her boxed-in cubicle at work.
She was scanning through her phone as she sat down on her couch and kicked her shoes off. She got excited when she saw that an email from the Forensics department had come through but then frowned when she saw the brief message within the mail: Nothing substantial. Sorry. Still, here are the data sheets.
She spent the next five minutes sticking some leftovers in the microwave and booting up her laptop. She hooked her laptop up to her printer and printed out the data sheets from Forensics. As the documents printed out and she started eating her dinner, she glanced around the apartment, smiling at the presence of her things scattered here and there. She knew that it would take a while for the place to really feel like theirs rather than his, but she was excited to make it happen.
With the Forensics files printed out, Mackenzie added them to her growing pile. She ate reheated ziti and zipped on a beer while reading about each murder. She eyed the forensics material, hoping to find some clue about what kind of blunt instrument had been used to nail the victims to the doors but found nothing substantial. Tuttle’s scene did turn up rogue hair fibers that turned out to be his wife’s hair, a stray piece that had somehow clung to Tuttle’s own hair.
She’d made it a little over halfway through her files when her phone rang. She saw Ellington’s name and face on the display, answering it right away.
“Shouldn’t you be on a plane right now?” she asked.
“That was the plan, yeah. But there’s been another lead. And before you get too excited, the case seems to be getting further and further away from your dad. There’s something going on here for sure, but I don’t know what.”
“What going on?” she asked.
“It looked like just a dead vagrant at first,” he said. “But then another one showed up, killed in the same way. By the time the third one had showed up in the course of five days, that’s when McGrath sent me out. Your buddy Kirk Peterson seems to think the staging of the bodies and the blatant headshots suggest a ritualistic sort of killing that echoes the way your dad and the more recent victim with the Barker Antiques business cards were killed. But even he says it’s a flimsy theory.”
“So where does that leave you?” she asked.
“I’m going to work with Peterson and the local PD down here to track down this one last lead. If there’s nothing at the end of it, then I’ll be back home.”
“Okay,” she said. “Be careful. In the meantime, I’m going to just walk around the apartment naked. And sleep all alone. Naked.”
He sighed on the other end of the line. “You’re evil.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she said. “Go. Get to work.”
She ended the call with a smile on her face. While she still felt a little jilted by not being asked to go to Nebraska, she knew that it was a decision that made sense. That’s why it was so easy for her to turn her attention back to the case files in front of her.
She found herself going back to Pastor Woodall’s file, mainly because it was the most recent. She could still see the early morning scene at Living Word church, the already-grieving employees huddled behind the crime scene tape. She could still clearly see Dave Wylerman, the head of the music department, struggling to keep a surge of emotion in check as she spoke with him.
As she brought Wylerman to mind, a small nugget of their conversation seemed to roll like a marble down a chute and take center stage in her brain.
“He had just gotten back from a retreat a few days ago…this little getaway he takes twice a year. It’s a really quiet little island off the coast of Florida.”
She considered this for a moment and then opened up Google. She tried a variety of terms, searching for something that might uncover a bit more information. After just a few minutes, under the search terms pastors retreat island Florida, she found what she was looking for.
She discovered that there was a small island just two miles to the south of another Florida island, Cayo Costa, that she had never heard of before. This island was called Kepper’s Cay and from what she could tell, it was privately owned by a retired priest who now lived in South Africa. The island, located on the western coast of Florida, was only two miles in length and less than a mile in width. It contained a dozen bungalows that were routinely rented out to religious leaders, specifically for retreats and conferences.
Still reading over some of the information, Mackenzie grabbed her phone. She did not have Dave Wylerman’s number, so she elected to text Eric Crouse. She sent a short message that read: Dave Wylerman said Woodall had just gotten back from a small retreat/vacation on an island in FL. Might that have been Kepper’s Cay?
While she waited for a response, she navigated to the Contact Us page on the small and somewhat vague Kepper’s Cay website. She saved the number to her cell phone and as she was inputting it, she received a response to her text from Wylerman.
Yup. Twice a year. Pretty sure there are a few big-name pastors, priests, etc that go there. Hope this helps!
I think it just might, Mackenzie thought.
She called the number she had just saved into her phone. As she expected, due to the time (it was closing in on six in the evening), no one answered the phone. However, a recorded message gave her another number to call in case of emergencies. She jotted down this number and called right away.
It was answered on the third ring by a man with a high-pitched and cheerful voice. “Hello?”
“Yes, I need to speak to someone regarding policies about obtaining information about people staying on Kepper’s Cay.”
“Um…are you currently staying on the island?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, but this is an emergency-only line and—”
“My name is Mackenzie White and I’m a special agent with the FBI,” she said. “I’m calling because a man who stayed there a week ago was murdered last night.”
“Oh my goodness,” the man said, the cheer now gone from his voice. “In that case, what can I help you with?”
“I’d like a list of the names of people who have stayed there within the last year,” Mackenzie said. “Would that be possible?”
“I can make that happen,” he said, “but it’s a little sketchy.”
“I understand,” she said. She gave the man her badge number, as well as McGrath’s name and contact information. When she was done with that, she added: “You’re welcome to check on any of that if you want, but time is of the essence here.”
“Well, it might be several hours before I can get you a list like that.”
“Okay, well, tell me this—in what capacity do you work on the island?”
“General Manager of Operations and Maintenance,” he said.
“Okay. Rather than a list, what about a few names? If I give you some names, do you think you’d remember them…whether or not they have been to Kepper’s Cay recently?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I make a point to establish relationships with everyone who stays here.”
“Good. How about Father Henry Costas, a priest out of DC?”
“Yes. Father Costas was here…oh, I guess it was probably about five months ago. I’m pretty sure he stayed for a week.”
“One more, if you don’t mind,” Mackenzie said. “How about Reverend Ned Tuttle?”
“Yes indeed,” the man said. “He was here with some type of leadership group for a conference we had back in March. I remember him quite clearly because he helped a few of my employees with a plumbing issue in one of the bungalows.”
That’s a pretty solid lead, she thought. All three men have been on that island. Why? And what, exactly, goes on there?
“And what about the retired priest who owns the island? Could you provide me with his name?”
“That’s Father Mitchell,” the man said.
“Is he an easy man to get on the phone?” she asked.
“No. However, your timing is pretty perfect. He’s currently on the island. If you need to speak with him, I can try to arrange it.”
“That would be helpful,” Mackenzie said. “Can you perhaps call me back at this number when you’ve set it up?”
“Of course,” the man said, although he sounded quite uncertain—maybe even a little nervous.
Mackenzie got off of the call, looking over the website for Kepper’s Cay. She thought it was a strong lead, especially if she might be able to get some time with the man who owned the place. Of course, she’d have to get McGrath’s permission, and that might be easier said than done.
Still, she had to try. Besides, the place was practically screaming that it had answers—that there were leads and clues buried in its golden sands. Even McGrath wouldn’t be able to deny such a lead.
She called him up and told him about her discovery, including the conversation she’d just had on the phone. It took less than two minutes to convince him and within ten minutes, she was booking a flight to Florida.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For just a moment, Mackenzie felt like she was a little girl. She was standing at the end of a ferry, the ocean wind in her face. Tiny plumes of water brushed against the side of the ferry, sending gentle mists into her face. She closed her eyes against it, breathed in the salt water, and relished the warm air on her face. She breathed it in and, for just a handful of seconds, was nowhere.
There was no case. No nightmares about her dead father. No hateful memories of the Scarecrow Killer. Nothing.
Then, of course, she had to open her eyes. The world came crashing back into reality around her as the ferry pushed her on, closer to Kepper’s Cay. The morning towed along behind her, and it had been a long one so far.
For a while, she nearly allowed herself to feel like she was on vacation. She had never had the opportunity to travel very much and while in Tampa Bay, even without seeing the beach, she could feel the ocean in the air. Knowing that she’d be catching a small ferry from the coast out to Kepper’s Cay made it all the more exciting.
She toyed with the idea of taking a picture of the ocean and the beach as she stepped onto the ferry. She figured it would be a nice way for Ellington to start off his day—a picture of her current location while he was toiling away in Nebraska. But for now, she thought she’d keep it to herself. Despite the exotic location and the sense of being on a mini-vacation, she had a job to do and wanted to keep every possible distraction away.
The scenery was more than enough distraction, after all.
And it only improved as the ferry got closer to the island. There were only eight other people on the ferry and as far as she knew, she was the only one who would be unloading at Kepper’s Cay. The other passengers were headed to some of the other small islands speckling the ocean nearby.
She watched as the sea unfolded before her, the morning sun bouncing playfully off the waves. Ahead of them, Kepper’s Cay came into view. She could see the entirety of the island and from a distance of about half a mile, it started to look like the outline of an island from one of those high-end vacation brochures or commercials that stole images from the Maldives or somewhere like Bora Bora.
When she stepped off of the ferry and onto the island’s single loading dock, the weight of her job started to sink in. While appreciating the view was perfectly fine, she knew that she had a potentially big meeting with a man who was usually hard to get any time with.
She’d Googled Father Mitchell earlier that morning while waiting at her gate at JFK Airport. He’d been born into quite a lot of money, as his father had worked for an undisclosed company that had paved the way for a branch of computer science that went huge in the early ’80s. His mother had also been born into money so when she died when Ronald Mitchell was only eleven, a huge sum of money had gone to him, locked away in a bank account until he turned eighteen. Mitchell had turned to God after the loss of his mother, becoming heavily involved in a Catholic church in his hometown of Albany, New York. Eventually, by the age of forty, he became a priest. He served as a priest in New York for nine years, then moved to Boston, where he had continued to serve as a priest but also became heavily involved with the community. He won just about any award and honor a priest can get, even getting an audience with the Pope in 2011.
