Cutting Edge

by Robert W. Walker

  'That might not be a bad idea,” countered Lucas. “We'll run it by our superiors.”

  “Father Aguilar, we know about your association with at least two other victims of the crossbow killers,” said Meredyth.

  “Killers? Did you say killers? Are there more than one? Dear God.”

  “We know you had some dealings with Wesley Palmer and Timothy Kenneth Little. Now that kind of coincidence involving murder doesn't just go away, Father,” continued Meredyth. “In fact, we're rather surprised that you yourself didn't report the strange coincidence and connection between these men to authorities.”

  “But I did.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You told Pardee and Amelford, you mean?”

  “Before they found me, I talked to a captain on the force, Captain... ahh, Lawrence, yes, Lawrence.”

  Meredyth and Lucas exchanged a look of biting concern. Father Aguilar dropped his gaze and suddenly threw up his hands, saying, “All right... I confess.” It was the first sign of any chink in his armor. “I now confess...”

  Lucas's eyes bored into the man and Meredyth's mouth dropped open. Could it be so easy?

  “I have been worried about my own life after these atrocities. All of us, you see, were in school together, college fraternity, actually...

  'Texas Christian,” added Meredyth. “We know.”

  “Then you must see that whoever these fiends are, they have some vendetta against us from when we were young people. Something we did; somehow we wronged someone, perhaps unknowingly...”

  Lucas wasn't sure he could buy into the priest's distraught act, but he withheld judgment.

  “Palmer, Little, Mootry, they all contributed grand sums here to keep the order going; we would have had to shut down years before now if I had not prevailed upon my richer friends for funds, don't you see?”

  “What're you saying?” asked Meredyth. “That whoever has killed these men did so because they feel a hatred toward the church?”

  “No, a hatred toward the well-to-do, the wealthy; and believing their money tainted, evil, they might easily think the same of me and my church. I have, for a long time now, watched my back.”

  “Exactly how much did Mootry leave you, your monastery, in his will?” asked Lucas.

  “He was a wise man. He left a self-perpetuating legacy.”

  “I see.” Men have killed for a hell of a lot less, Lucas thought, his eyes boring into the priest.

  “I'm sorry that I am such a disappointment to you,” said Father Aguilar, “that I could not be of more help. But I've told you everything.”

  “Why haven't you requested police protection?” asked Lucas, still skeptical of the man beneath the robe.

  Aguilar shook his head and raised both his hands, each hand seemingly independent of the other, fluttering birdlike as if to indicate all that was around them. “No man can protect me if my God calls me to Him.”

  Meredyth asked if they could see the rest of the order, commenting on how vast it appeared from the outside. “And what is it you use the fires for?”

  “I'm sorry, but your presence here has already disrupted the life of the brothers,” he replied. “As to the kiln, we make our own pottery, filling orders all the time. It's quite popular, and it's our main source of revenue.?'

  “Aside from legacies, you mean?” asked Lucas.

  Meredyth pinched him. “How many in your order?” she asked.

  “It varies, given the time of year, but currently there are twenty-nine brothers.”

  “Really?” asked Lucas. “That many celibates left in Houston?”

  “It is a place where men can step away from the rigors, stress, temptation, and ugliness of our modem world to study, reflect, and find their true selves, to get in touch with the one true God.” He stood to indicate their time was up.

  Lucas remained tenacious, however, asking, “Can we meet some of the brothers?”

  “As I said, it would be disruptive for them. This is a holy place of meditation, worship, reflection. You... you bring only discord and disharmony. Why, it exudes from your very pores, Mr. Stonecoat.”

  “Just a few questions, Father.”

  'They are reclusive for a reason.

  “A reason like murder?”

  Such foul thoughts...”

  “Do you think a court order would make them and you less reclusive?” badgered Lucas as Meredyth tried to get him to settle down and shut up.

  Aguilar gritted his teeth, controlling himself, and seething, he added, “I know something of the law myself, Detective. You have no mitigating circumstances to warrant such a disruption in the house of the Lord. Now, if you please.”

  “Oh, you have friends in high places, in the legal system?”

  “Everyone must have friends in the legal profession to get by in today's madhouse, yes.”

  “Friends such as Judge Mootry?”

  “Yes, he was my dearest friend, and as I said, I now fear for my own life.”

  “And what about Pierce Dalton?” Lucas saw the twitch, almost imperceptible in the man's eye.

  “Dalton? I only know Dalton as Mootry's attorney.”

  “He was at Texas Christian about the time you were there.”

  “It was a large campus.”

  “What did you talk about with Mootry the night he was killed?”

  “Damn you, man! I wasn't there!” He threw open the door and called to Leonard, shouting, “Show these kind people out, Leonard.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  All the way back to the precinct house, they discussed their separate impressions of Father Frank Aguilar, each unsure as they replayed the meeting in their heads. “If he went to Lawrence with this when Mootry was killed after Palmer, then Lawrence has known all along, and he refused to listen to me anyway. What does that make him?” she asked. “Is he somehow involved?”

  “Don't jump to conclusions.”

  “But—”

  “He may just've been respecting the rights of Pardee and Amelford to conduct their investigation without interference.”

  “Maybe, but I'm not so sure.”

  “Frankly, I'm more interested in finding out more about Father Frank. Think about it. You see your beautiful fiancee brutally killed, and your wealth, as in Wesley Palmer's big bucks, could do nothing to ease the guilt and pain and horror, so what might you do in your grief-stricken state?”

  'Turn to my friends? And maybe the church?”

  “Exactly. And Father Aguilar happens to be in the neighborhood when Palmer gets the news, and he's Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “God, but you're a cynical cop,” she told him.

  He winced at the accusation, but replied, “It's kept me alive. Now, stay with me on this,” he continued. “You're an aging trial judge and you've seen all of man's inhumanity to man, and maybe you learn you haven't got too many more years left on this planet because your doctor tells you so. Who do you turn to if you're a lonely old man without family?”

  “Mootry turns to Aguilar and Aguilar works out a brilliant plan for his legacy to be self-perpetuating, to save his soul?”

  “After all, in his early years he was something of a Satanist, enough so that the FBI was keeping tabs on him.”

  “If this is true, then all the ancient motives apply: vengeance, passion, greed, avarice...”

  “But avarice in the name of God; a holier-than-thou avarice, which takes us directly back to Father Frank.”

  Lucas Stonecoat worked his way around to the rear of the monastery of the Jesuit-like brothers, Frank Aguilar's kingdom. He wondered how much like David Koresh Aguilar ran his operation.

  It was an overcast night, a threat of rain in the air after a sweltering Houston day that had set new record highs for heat. The sidewalks were cooling down so rapidly, a hazy fog was pushed about by Lucas's feet. The alleyway was relatively clean, making him wonder if the brothers were sent out here periodically to humbly go about picking up trash. Ther
e was a soup kitchen operated out back of the church, and a lone bulb shone in the night, indicating this was the place.

  Lucas believed it might lead to the bowels of the building, and since Father Aguilar was anxious for them not to see the inner workings of his monastic order, Lucas was doubly anxious to do so. To this end, he wore his worst rags and most dilapidated shoes.

  There were a number of homeless people waiting at the door, and as they filed in, Lucas followed. He was inside a dark room filled with the odors of chicken broth and baked bread. Maybe the pottery kiln was also used to bake bread, he told himself.

  He knew he must record every sight and sensation for later, so he could tell Meredyth about his adventure in detail. She'd be upset with him, but he could smooth that over somehow.

  His size might draw some attention, so he crouched and hung his head low. He gathered up his soup and bread and was locating a table when one of the brothers began a prayer. Someone nudged him from behind and whispered in a feminine voice, “Sit with me, brother.”

  He turned to see Meredyth's face hidden in the cowl of a monastic cloak. “What the... where did you get the disguise? And what're you doing here?”

  “Same as you, only smarter. Now sit before you draw attention to us, and I'll minister to your spiritual needs.”

  “I thought you were seeing Conrad tonight.”

  “He, well, we had a difference of opinion.”

  “A fight?”

  “A discussion.”

  “Spirited one, I imagine.”

  “I knew you would be trying to get in here, and this time,

  I meant to be along. I've got a costume for you on the bench. Come with me.”

  “Where'd you get the robes?”

  “I have a friend in the theater.”

  They got to the back table she directed him to. There she pointed out the men's room and instructed he change inside. “And then what?” he asked.

  “That door through the kitchen takes us into the monastery.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I've seen it open and close each time one of the brothers comes and goes. It must take them somewhere.”

  He nodded, waited for an opportune moment and disappeared with the robe into the men's room, where he did a quick transformation, becoming one of them. Outside, he saw that Meredyth was playing her part well, speaking soothingly to the sick and aged and decrepit who came to visit the kitchen. On the surface, it appeared that Father Aguilar was interested far more in souls than in coin, and perhaps he was.

  When Lucas returned to Meredyth, she said to him, “I can't imagine these men exchanging their robes for commando gear and black gloves to become assassins. What do we hope to find here, anyway?”

  “I don't know,” he confessed.

  'Then what do we look for?”

  “We'll know it when we see it. You didn't happen to bring Randy Oglesby along with you, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I'd sure like a look into Father Aguilar's computer files.”

  'That's called breaking and entering nowadays.”

  “So's what we're about to do. You ready?”

  She nodded, and each of them began a circuitous, lazy route toward the door behind the soup kitchen counter. The other brothers were busy dispensing food and advice, not paying them any particular attention as first Meredyth, then Lucas slipped through the door.

  They stood in a long, drab corridor which felt for all the world like an underground cavern. It went in two directions, one toward the offices, the library, and the church itself, the other likely to the dormitories and perhaps the classrooms and the kiln area.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “Let's see about that computer of his,” suggested Lucas.

  “All right, but I'm not sure how much luck we're going to have breaking any codes protected by God.”

  He led the way, despite her skepticism. “Have you considered the possibility that Father Aguilar is exactly what he purports to be?”

  “Randy gave us his name. Who do you trust, Meredyth? Aguilar or Randy?”

  “All right, lead on.”

  But in the darkness ahead, they heard heavy footsteps, more than one pair, coming directly toward them. There was no place to hide or divert to, so they were forced to return the way they had come, passing the soup kitchen doorway on their trek. The footsteps continued, thrumming toward them like a locomotive now, and voices, some raised, echoed through the chamber. It was impossible to tell what the men were saying, but the tone was one of anger.

  “Sounds like a little disharmony among the brothers,”

  Lucas suggested in a whisper.

  She spied a door and pulled it open. 'This way.”

  They found themselves in a totally black room filled with the stench of ancient fires and burning and the smell of trash.

  “It's some sort of incinerator room,” he told her as they waited in the dark. Outside, they heard footsteps go by, passing along the corridor.

  “Do you have a light?” she asked.

  He had come prepared, snatching out a small flashlight, shining the beam around the room. It was a large, dirty, smelly place with a huge incinerator at the center. It probably looked little different from the baking kilns mentioned by Father Aguilar at the time of their meeting. It was a solid, thick brick oven with a huge cast iron door in front. It sat there like a large animal, a pachyderm, against the center back wall, its mammoth face jutting toward them and the door.

  “Let's get out of here,” she complained. 'This place is so damned rank, I can hardly breathe.”

  “Hold on...” He went toward the kiln door, wondering at the odors that had been created here. Was it more than burning trash that annoyed his olfactory senses? His father had been in the white man's war to end all wars, World War II, and as with many American Indians, he was given shovel and broom duty. When the Allies arrived at Auschwitz, his father had been one of the many unfortunates ordered into the ovens used to exterminate a race, there to comb through the rubble and locate all the bones. His father had described the odor as one of scorched sweet-and-sour pork, a kind of sickly sweet odor that both horrified and fascinated at once, like the smell and sight of putrefaction. Lucas had had first-hand knowledge of the odor of burned flesh when he was trapped in the death car with Wallace Jackson, who had been burned beyond recognition beside him.

  For a moment, he felt faint, fearing he would go into another blackout, but he steeled himself instead and determined to face his fear.

  The smell of burned flesh and bone here had become part of the stonework.

  He felt an overwhelming revulsion wash over him in a wave, and then he went to his knees, unfeeling, going softly into darkness. When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his back, Meredyth fanning him with her hand and softly calling out his name and cursing him for doing this here, now.

  “Oh, damn, sorry... I'm sorry,” he confessed. “How long've I been out?”

  “Thirty, maybe forty seconds, not long, but damn, you gave me a fright. What happened?”

  “Involuntary... probably triggered by that smell.”

  “What is that smell?”

  “Charred flesh.”

  She shook her head. “Animal fat leavings from the kitchen scraps, maybe?”

  “No, more than that. Much more...”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “You've seen my neck, my face.”

  There was a moment of silence between them.

  “I've got to open that oven door.”

  She squeezed his hand Firmly. “I'm with you. Flash your light inside.”

  Lucas got to his knees and then slowly to his feet. The odor was bad, causing dizziness. He grabbed on to the furnace handle and yanked down and out, and the heavy door creaked open, revealing a mountain of ash.

  The oven needed cleaning badly.

  Lucas's flash picked up nothing but gray-blue mounds of ash. He flashed the light about the greasy
black room, saw a light switch, and he held the light on the naked, overhead bulb for a moment. Meredyth reached out, about to switch the light on, when noises again came from the hallway. Lucas yanked her hand away and shut off the flash.

  The noise of the brothers outside subsided. Lucas again ran his flash about the room, and he located a long-handled ash shovel hanging alongside the kiln on the wall. He asked Meredyth to hold the flash while he quietly dug, sifted, and turned ash inside the kiln. After several attempts, the shovel twanged metallic, as if it had hit one of the incinerator walls.

  “I've struck something,” he whispered to her.

  She stared as Lucas worked the shovel under the object and lifted a hefty supply of ash, shaking it as he brought the long-handled shovel back toward them. Under the beam, they both saw the ash fall away from the glaring, empty eye sockets of what appeared to be a human skull.

  “God bless us,” Lucas said, “we've hit pay dirt.”

  “Oh, my God,” she moaned.

  “Perhaps what's left of Charles Mootry or Little or—”

  “Keep searching. There's got to be more.”

  “More?”

  “Bones, teeth, another skull,” she insisted.

  “But we can't do a thing about this,” he informed her.

  “What?”

  “We haven't a warrant to search. It's fruit of the forbidden tree, inadmissible in a court of law, unless we can get a warrant to search, but it's a round robin—we can't get a warrant without probable cause, and this is the probable cause.”

  “What about what Randy's uncovered, about the connections among the deceased and Aguilar?”

  “It might be enough, but we have to put everything here back exactly as it was, and we can't ever tell anyone— anyone—about this discovery, you understand?”

  “Yes, yes... I do. It's got to be the missing parts.”

  “They dispose of the parts here, ritualistically, so the demons can't rise against them ever again, like Randy said, in the game, Helsinger's Pit, and this... this place is the pit, but it's not an Internet pit.”

  “It's the real thing. So, what do we do now?

  “I sure as hell would like to take that skull to a lab, see what dental records could show us, but it wouldn't be wise.”