Mead attempted to force the car door as they turned into the police services driveway. ‘We’re there,’ Lyon said.
‘If this isn’t hell, we are not in the proper place,’ the canon said. ‘I cannot seem to open this door.’
‘Let me.’ Lyon sprinted around the hood of the car and unlocked the passenger door. Mead nearly fell to the pavement when the door swung open. Lyon helped the minister inside the building and into Rocco’s office.
The police chief was on the phone. He arched an eyebrow at their entrance. Mead sank down on the leather couch. The minister hunched over, drew up his feet to a fetal-like position, and turned toward the wall. Rocco shrugged and hung up the phone. ‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘I think that Mead wants to make a statement,’ Lyon said.
‘Oh?’ Rocco still looked puzzled, but turned his attention to the minister. ‘Did you know Ashley Towers, Canon?’
‘I fornicated with her,’ was the muffled reply.
‘He means in the biblical sense,’ Lyon said.
‘Damn it! I know what the word means. Do you know what you are saying, sir?’
‘I copulated with the harlot several times,’ the minister said as he turned to face Rocco. ‘I lay with her and paid for the use of her body. I enjoyed the pleasures of that body immensely. Do you hear me, Chief? I reveled in the sins of the flesh, and I paid her again and again. I deserve to die, for I have violated my sacred oaths.’
‘You don’t have to be celibate in the Episcopal Church, Canon,’ Rocco said kindly. ‘And even if it were required, I am afraid that breaking sacred vows is not a police matter. I cannot punish you.’
‘I broke a promise to my God, wife and self.’
‘Ashley’s list of customers was quite extensive. If you are to be punished, it might be with a social disease.’
‘I would welcome infestation by maggots.’
‘The State of Connecticut can not sentence you to maggots, Canon,’ Rocco said. ‘Not even for adultery.’
‘Isn’t Lascivious Carriage still on the books?’ Lyon asked.
‘God, Lyon, I haven’t used that one since I closed down the nude dancing at Sarge’s place back in eighty-seven. Besides, it’s only a misdemeanor. I don’t think a monetary fine is what the canon has in mind.’
‘I desire the complete mortification of my flesh.’
Rocco nodded. ‘Did you kill Ashley Towers, sir?’
‘I killed her like I killed the others.’
‘Others being the young woman in the woods and your church secretary?’
‘They are dead because of my sins.’
‘Sir, I am not going to arrest you for murder in order for you to expiate your sins.’
‘That is not for you to judge.’
‘Then let’s get more detail,’ Rocco said. He reached into his lower desk drawer and pulled out a small tape recorder. He checked the battery and cartridge before placing it on the edge of his desk. He identified the time and place. ‘Also present in my office are Lyon Wentworth and Canon Mead MacIntire. The Reverend MacIntire wishes to make a statement.’
Silence.
‘Did you kill the women?’ Rocco pressed.
‘My name is legion,’ was the reply. ‘The sins of all men rest upon me for I am the power and the glory.’
‘Are we into divine retribution here?’ Rocco asked.
Canon Mead MacIntire’s attitude changed as his lethargy became energized. He stood and threw out his arms in an expansive gesture. His deep voice rang in a sing-song cadence. ‘I am the way! I am thy savior and redeemer! My punishment is in retribution for thousands of sins. We face a millennium of purgatory and I shall lead the way.’
‘You have the right to remain silent,’ Rocco said as he pulled a small laminated Miranda card from the desk. ‘You are not required to say anything to us at any time or to answer any questions. Anything you say can be used against you in court.’
‘I would like to point out that you do not have a murder weapon,’ Lyon said. He cupped his pony of Dry Sack sherry in their booth at Sarge’s place.
Rocco threw back a shot of vodka. His glass was immediately refilled by a hovering Sarge Renfroe. ‘I take it you don’t buy thunderbolts from heaven striking them down?’
‘The guy is overwhelmed with guilt,’ Lyon said. ‘At this point in his life he’d confess to active participation in the crucifixion.’
‘I’ve got a confession from him. In fact, I have several confessions from him. Some are written, some are on audio, and a particularly effective one is on video tape. I have four signed Mirandas. Everything has been done by the book and the guy still insists he killed three women.’
‘And no murder weapon. Not a single eye witness. You have arrested an emotionally distraught clergyman with no prior record, not even a traffic ticket.’
‘He’ll probably never go to trial,’ Rocco said. ‘In his present mental state no judge would rule him competent.’
‘That’s true,’ Lyon admitted.
‘Then again, look at what I do have. Our murdering canon feels surrounded by sin. He knows of a young woman having an affair with a married man while she carries another’s baby. He’s bird-watching in the state forest and comes across her stretched out naked on a blanket. He misjudges her naturally flirtatious nature as a real come-on. We know he’s recently become filled with the raptures of the flesh, as he calls it, from Ashley’s doings. He touches Boots intimately. She laughs or screams. Whichever way it came down it’s enough to set him off and she gets herself shot.’
‘Barbara Styles, the church secretary, is punished for stealing.’
‘Appropriating the Lord’s tithe was her death warrant,’ Rocco said.
‘Killing Ashley was a way to permanently remove her unspeakable pleasures of the flesh.’
‘She was the instrument of his fall and therefore had to go. He could not live with his guilt.’
‘Where did the good canon say he stashed the murder weapon?’ Lyon asked.
Rocco sighed. ‘He doesn’t remember.’
Bea parked her Ford in front of Sarge’s place. For the hundredth time she surveyed the bar’s exterior. It hadn’t changed. It was still a dump. It was a hard drinker’s spa run by a man who had long ago fallen off the cusp of daily drinking into complete alcoholism. Last winter she had finally persuaded the two men to change their movable feast to the Murphysville Inn. She had permanently reserved a table near the large fireplace. It had been a comfortable place that was atmospheric, clean, and nearly quaint. All had gone well until Rocco tilted his chair too far back and had nearly fallen into the open hearth. Without consulting her, they had returned their moveable feast to Sarge’s.
She had her hand on the bar’s front door when the feeling struck with overwhelming force. The power of the vivid memories was breathtaking. A montage of bright impressions clicked by so rapidly that they excluded the present-day world. She saw her daughter’s wobbly progress on the birthday bike that carried her toward the deadly street. Time reversed, and she watched a child’s first unaided steps punctuated with a triumphant smile. This was followed by the pure innocence of a sleeping one-year-old that she kissed and covered up. Then she saw herself standing before their full-length mirror. She watched her belly in amazement as the first bird-wing flutters of life awoke within her.
Bea placed both palms against the wall of the building and leaned forward as she fought to regain her breath.
Sarge Renfroe was at her side. ‘You all right, ma’am?’ He grasped her arm. ‘I saw you through the door. Want me to get Mr. Wentworth?’
‘No,’ she managed to say. ‘It’s passing and I’ll be OK.’
Sarge was gone. Lyon was by her side with wide eyes of concern. ‘I’ll take you to the emergency room.’
‘No.’ She straightened and pushed away from the wall. The visions fled as quickly as they had arrived. ‘I’m all right. Perhaps some coffee will set me right.’
‘What happened?’
Arm in arm they entered the building. Further comment was not necessary. They had both suffered from these vivid flashbacks of their daughter’s life and death. In the beginning the pain had been nearly unbearable, but as years passed the visions had become less frequent. Today’s episode had caught her by surprise.
‘You look pale,’ Rocco said as they sat at the booth.
‘What’s happening with you guys?’ Bea asked with forced joviality.
‘Rocco has arrested Canon Mead MacIntire as our serial killer,’ Lyon said.
Bea was appalled. ‘That man walks around ants on the sidewalk. He nurses sick birds with broken wings. He is completely dominated by his wife and secretary.’
‘That’s it right there,’ Rocco said. ‘I believe he’s gone through his own personal revolution.’
‘He was a professional client of Ashley’s,’ Lyon said.
‘In the biblical sense?’ Bea asked.
‘Old and new testament,’ Rocco added.
‘Hey, guys, wait a cotton-picking minute,’ Bea said. ‘What about the used-car salesman’s wife, Mildred the shark and her young lover? I can see those two coming up with some weird murderous agenda, but the canon? It’s like charging Mother Theresa with lascivious carriage.’
‘Don’t hardly get to charge anyone with that these days,’ Rocco said sadly. ‘The good canon has confessed. In fact, he keeps on confessing. We have our killer, all right.’
‘What about your army friend in the tree house?’ Bea asked.
‘I think that is a possibility that should be considered,’ Lyon said. ‘Spook is certainly delusional. Perhaps he perceived the women as Viet Cong agents who had to be killed for his own survival.’
‘The medical examiner tells me that all three women were shot in the umbilicus,’ Rocco said. ‘Lars says you could cover the shot pattern with a quarter. If Spook took to shooting people at close range, he might hit them somewhere in the body, but not with shot patterns covered by a coin, no matter what its denomination. Norby buys the case against the canon and has released Spook.’
‘Phone for you, Senator,’ Sarge said laconically from the bar. He extended the phone as far as its cord would reach as Bea picked it up. ‘Says she’s the governor,’ Sarge snorted.
‘Yes, Margaret,’ Bea said without hesitation.
The governor’s voice was nearly a whisper. ‘I knew you would retaliate, Beatrice. I never dreamed you would sink to these depths.’
‘What are you talking about, Governor?’
‘Your having Bill’s body exhumed is despicable. You knew that would raise all sorts of questions in people’s minds.’
‘I had nothing to do with any exhumation. That is a police matter.’
‘Everyone in the state knows how tight your husband and that Murphysville police chief are. It was easy enough for you to arrange. What are you up to, Senator? Trying to see if he still has an erection?’ The connection clicked dead.
‘Oh, boy,’ Bea said.
Canon Mead MacIntire kneeled on the rough concrete of the holding cell. He had been in that position for some hours now. The duty officer checked on him every fifteen minutes and always asked, ‘You OK, sir?’
‘Yes,’ he always answered in a soft voice.
They would leave him alone then, and close the outer door when they left. He slid his knees along the rough concrete and felt the flesh abrade. Blood seeped through his trousers from the scrape wounds. It hurt. He delighted in the pain.
He had planned to terminate his life immediately as he did not deserve to live. They had removed his belt and shoe laces. The rough blanket on the metal bunk was hemmed with a closely stitched heavy thread that made it impossible to unravel a strip for a proper hanging.
There must be a way to reach purgatory. Perhaps God would reveal the way. He pressed his eyes shut and then it came to him. The way was led by prayer.
Canon MacIntire grasped the cell-door bars and pulled himself painfully erect. His violated knees were painful, but he was able to back to the bunk and sit with both hands clasped between his knees. He would wait patiently until the next personal check.
Patrolman Jamie Martin stood outside the cell and looked at the minister with concern. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
The canon looked at the young officer with bleary eyes. ‘Are you a parishioner of mine, my son?’
‘No, sir. Me and my family go to Saint Anne’s.’
‘Then you know Father Magrusky?’
‘Yes, sir. I was an altar boy when I was a kid.’
‘Were you now?’ Canon MacIntire unconsciously straightened his posture. He looked at the patrolman with renewed interest. ‘That is excellent.’
‘For three years,’ Jamie added.
‘Then you know of the importance of the mass and the eucharist?’
‘Sure.’
‘You are aware that we of the Anglican Church are very close to the Romans in our service?’
‘I’ve heard that you guys are half-assed Catholics.’ Jamie reddened. ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.’
‘I understand. You are aware of how important it is for my everlasting soul that I, as a minister of God, serve a personal mass.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That it is the only way to salvation.’
‘Got it.’
Mead’s voice assumed a sing-song quality. ‘That my soul has deep needs.’
‘Yes.’
‘That God must be served.’
‘Yes.’
‘I must perform my ministry and I need my vestments in order to do this.’
‘You mean your costume? The stuff you wear at the altar?’
‘That is correct. Would you get them for me? The church is only two blocks from here. The front door is unlocked, and the vestments are in the vestry. That’s the small room behind the altar.’
‘I can find it.’
‘Would you do this for me, my son?’
‘Yes, sir. What do you need?’
‘I must have the dark vestments for a requiem.’
‘Tell me what I should get, Father. I have a break coming up in five minutes and can be back in fifteen.’
‘Here is what I must have …’
It was twenty minutes before Jamie returned to the holding cell. He carried a bulging gym bag. ‘I think I have everything you requested, Father.’
‘Thank you, my son.’
Jamie unlocked the cell door and handed the canon the gym bag. ‘Anything else I can get you, sir?’
‘No, my son. Now, leave me alone so I can make peace with my God.’
After Jamie Martin left the holding cell, MacIntire unzipped the gym bag and ceremoniously removed the garments. He unfolded them with great care, taking pains to kiss each item as he laid it neatly in a row on the bunk. When the vestments were in proper order, he began slowly to put them on.
The silk and linen vestments were not the vivid and joyous colors of an Easter celebration, but were the muted black required of a requiem. He did not have a cassock in the gym bag, but he donned the vestments in proper order as if he did wear one. First was the alb, a full-length vestment with long sleeves. The chasuble, a sleeveless outer vestment, was next. He reverently kissed the black silken stole, or maniple, before he placed it around his neck. The girdle, a rope of hemp with tassels used to confine the alb, was placed temporarily aside.
He fell to his knees before the bunk and clasped the rope-like girdle in his fingers. He prayed with the garment as if it were a holy relic.
When his prayer was complete, Canon Mead MacIntire looped one end of the girdle around his neck in a slip knot. Then he tied the other end to the top bar of the cell door and hanged himself.
Twelve
Skee Rumford admired Lori Wappinger’s body as she led the way into the state forest. She carried a small wicker picnic basket stuffed with egg salad and chicken sand
wiches. He toted the blanket and a cold six pack of Sam Adams beer.
Lori had good moves when she walked. She had a firm body that really turned him on. She didn’t have the sophisticated expertise of the mature Mildred Rashish, but what young woman could match the Shark’s extensive sexual background? He had discovered that Lori was a quick learner who took to his tutoring with an enthusiastic zest.
Skee had realized when he was fifteen years old that he was blessed with remarkable attributes that satisfied certain women. He wasn’t quite sure where these talents originated—certainly not from his old man, who was a world-class klutz scared to death of Skee’s mom. From time to time he had attempted to understand this ability, but he had quickly become confused. He had given up any attempt to understand, and just enjoyed the fact that many women seemed to admire his body and ability to bring them satisfaction. Hey, don’t knock it, he thought without further insight.
‘Not much further?’ he called to Lori.
She turned to smile without stopping. ‘Soon now, lover boy.’
A few minutes more and maybe a double header, his body sang. He walked behind her and let his hand run across her round rump.
She stopped and dropped the picnic basket. ‘Hey, man,’ she said. ‘Come here.’ She opened her arms. He carefully put the beer down before stepping into her arms. He felt her shiver as they clung together. ‘Hey, I’m really turned on. Spread the blanket.’
‘I know a better spot.’ He retrieved the beer and blanket. ‘It’s a clearing just ahead. Come on!’ He jogged between two granite boulders that led into a small clearing. He heard her lilting laugh behind him as he quickly spread the blanket and skimmed off his tee shirt.
‘This is about the same as the other place,’ she said as he nuzzled her neck. ‘What’s so special?’
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