Cold Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  As the tape whirred and he took notes, Olivia cradled a cup of coffee and spoke in soft, calmer tones. She told him she lived out of the city, in bayou country, gave him her address and phone number along with the name of the shop where she worked—the Third Eye, just off Jackson Square. Before moving to Louisiana a few months back to care for her ailing grandmother, she’d lived in Tucson.

  With Bentz’s prodding she repeated much of what she’d already said, and as Montoya watched, Bentz scribbled notes, listening as she explained her “vision” only hours earlier, that she was certain she’d “seen” a priest who had chained a naked woman to a sink in a smoky room and that the woman had repeatedly begged for mercy.

  Olivia’s voice was a low whisper, nearly a drone, almost as if she was in some kind of trance, detached from Bentz’s small office with its piles of files, overflowing wastebasket, and dying Boston fern littering the floor with dried, curled fronds.

  “… after he was certain that the radio was playing the right song, some kind of hymn, then he used the sword,” she said, describing again that he’d swung three times. “I sensed he was in a hurry, probably because of the fire or a fear of being caught, but after he was finished, while the flames were beginning to come up from the vent, he took the time to dig into his pocket. He pulled a chain or a necklace of some kind and hung it over the shower head. The radio was playing some weird music and the smoke was so thick I could barely see, but I think he stripped off his robes and left them there.”

  “So he was naked?” Montoya interjected. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten cup of coffee in one hand. “You could see identifying marks. Like tattoos or birthmarks or moles …”

  “He wasn’t naked. He was wearing something like a wet suit or one of those tight biking suits, all black.”

  “And a ski mask that covered his entire head.”

  “And gloves?” Montoya asked.

  “Yes.” A muscle worked in her jaw and she glanced through the open window. “I think … I mean I got this eerie feeling … that somehow he knew, or he sensed, that I was watching him.”

  Chapter Four

  A nutcase. Pure and simple. He hated to think it of her because she seemed so convinced of what she’d seen, but Bentz decided Montoya was right. Intriguing as she was, Olivia Benchet was certifiable. Pretty—with her wild light brown hair and full lips—but certifiable. Sitting across from him, alternately seeming small and vulnerable, then angry and tough, always animated, she was desperate for him to buy into her story.

  So far he wasn’t.

  “This priest-slash-killer. How did he know you were watching him? Did he see you?” Reuben asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, but I swear he looked at me.”

  Montoya persisted. “How could he see you? You weren’t there, right? You were at your grandmother’s house … this was kind of like a foggy dream.”

  “There was smoke but I could see through it. I felt like I was staring through glass or clear plastic, a window, maybe …” Letting out a discouraged sigh, she set her unfinished cup of coffee on the desk, then pushed her unruly hair from her eyes. “I realize you don’t want to believe me, that it would be easier if I just disappeared, but I know this happened.” She leveled her gaze at Bentz. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  Bentz glanced down at the legal pad in front of him. He heard the sounds of phones ringing, conversations buzzing, keyboards clicking from the outer office and felt like he was wasting his time, but decided to hear her out. “Okay. So go on. You said the priest took off his clothes. What happened then? Where did he go?”

  “He left. Went out the door of the room.”

  “Didn’t you follow him?”

  “I don’t think I could have. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “What does it work like?”

  “I wish I knew. I usually just get glimpses. Pieces that I have trouble putting together. This was much more complete, but … but then … I woke up.”

  Convenient, Bentz thought, but didn’t comment, and when he did speak, tried to keep the skepticism from his voice. “Do you remember anything else? For example, was there anything distinguishing that would help us locate the house or apartment where this happened?”

  “The building was on fire,” she snapped. “I’d think that would narrow the search down a little.”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “You’re sure it was in New Orleans?”

  “The radio was playing. I recognized one of the programs. So it was in the vicinity, I think, and … I can’t explain it, but it felt like he was in the city or nearby … oh, God.” She sighed and shook her head. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I’m just sorting through what you’re saying, trying to get to the facts.” Whether she intended to or not, she was bothering him, getting under his skin. So sure of what she’d seen one minute yet admitting that she knew she sounded like a loon the next. One second on the verge of tears, the next mad as hell. He had a dozen questions, but didn’t want to overwhelm her. And if she was lying, he relied on the old adage: Give her enough rope and she’d hang herself.

  “So,” Bentz said gently, “all you know is that someone was murdered, nearly beheaded, by a priest you can’t identify, in a building you can’t describe, but you somehow think it happened here. In New Orleans.”

  She looked at her hands. “Yes. I—I can’t tell you where specifically. But I do know it happened this morning.”

  “Because that’s when you were dreaming.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “No … I assume the visions occur simultaneously with the act, but I’m not certain about it. However, as I mentioned earlier, Detective, there was a radio in that damned bathroom and the host of the late-night program, Midnight Confessions, Dr. Sam, was talking about it being a significant day in history, the day President Kennedy was assassinated. That’s today, the twenty-second.”

  “Sure is,” Montoya said.

  “So is that significant?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Look,” she said, pointing a finger straight at him, those gold eyes snapping fire, “I’ve been in before. I’ve talked to Detective Brinkman and he just blows me off every time, but when I read about you two, I thought maybe you’d be different. That you might help me. That somehow you could find a way to prevent what happened last night from happening again.”

  “If something happened.”

  “It did, Detective. I swear on my grandmother’s grave.” Her face was flushed with color, conviction setting her jaw.

  “Except that maybe you just had a bad dream.”

  “No way in hell. I know the difference.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us?” he asked, and she let out a long, protracted sigh.

  “No. Not that I can think of. Not now.”

  Time to end this. He managed a smile he didn’t feel. “Look, Ms. Benchet—Olivia—there’s not much I can do. I can’t very well start a murder investigation without a body, or at least a report of a missing woman matching your girl’s description. You haven’t given me much to go with here other than you had a pretty bad nightmare.”

  “Pretty bad?” she repeated. “Pretty bad? I don’t make it a habit to run to the police station every time I have a nightmare. The least you can do is check it out. Start with the fire.”

  From his position near the file cabinet, Montoya scratched at his goatee. “There was a fire. An old house, not far from City Park, off of Esplanade, I think.”

  Bentz glared at his partner. “How do you know this already?”

  Montoya flashed his practiced grin. “Ear to the ground, eye on the sky, nose to the grindstone.”

  Head up the ass, Bentz thought. Sometimes Montoya’s practiced cool bugged the hell out of him. “Anyone inside?”

  “Don’t know. When I heard about it, they were still hosin’ down the place.”

  Bentz swung his gaze back to Olivia. “Okay.
We’ll check it out.”

  “Good.” Her gaze centered on his, but her shoulders relaxed a bit, as if she were relieved. “Look, I know you’d like to write me off as a crazy person, but don’t, okay? Please.”

  He clicked off the recorder and stood, signifying the interview was over. “Thanks for coming in. As I said, we’ll look into it and let you know if we find anything.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Reaching into her purse, she withdrew her wallet, unfolded it, and pulled out a business card that read:

  Olivia Benchet

  Owner

  The Crystal Prism

  Collectibles, New Age, Spirituals

  The phone number and Tucson, Arizona, address had been scratched out and a local number inserted. She slid the card across his desk, past the bifold picture frames where two photographs of his daughter, Kristi, smiled up at him.

  “She’s pretty,” Olivia observed, glancing at the pictures. “Yours?”

  “Yeah.” He picked up the card. “Look, I’m gonna tell you straight out, Ms. Benchet. All you’ve brought me is something that looks a helluva lot like a wild goose chase, but if I hear anything, if there’s any reports of a missing woman who matches your description, if … any bodies are found in a fire … I’ll be in contact with you.”

  She nodded, hesitated, and seemed to be struggling with something more. Montoya observed it too, because in his peripheral vision Bentz noticed his partner straighten slightly and say, “You’ve got something else on your mind?”

  Glancing from Montoya to Bentz, she said, “No doubt you’ll talk to Detective Brinkman about me. Check me out and I don’t blame you, I would, too. So here’s the deal; I’m sure the murderer’s struck before. I—I didn’t have the kind of clear vision I had last night—the visions were much more fragmented. Pieces of glass rather than a whole window. But I sensed, and I can’t explain why, that this man—this priest—has not only killed before, but that he’s on some kind of mission. A vendetta. He won’t quit until he is stopped. There have already been several victims—two, maybe three … or more. I’m not as clear as to what happened to them, but they died. Cruelly.” She bit at her lower lip, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Something’s very wrong in this city. Evil. Last night I saw the whole thing and it was hideous. This mission of his, it’s not finished yet. In fact, it’s probably just started.”

  Bingo. Bonafide lunatic. Bentz had heard enough, but Olivia Benchet glanced at the photos of his daughter again. In the first picture Kristi wasn’t quite six, grinning widely enough to show that she was missing a front tooth as she entered kindergarten. The other taken just last year was of a pretty, composed seventeen-year-old. She smiled softly, but there was just the hint of defiance in her hazel eyes, a bit of a challenge in the tilt of her chin—the promise of rebellion yet to come.

  “You’re a father, Detective Bentz, and some monster is out there killing women in this city. How would you feel if the killer zeroed in on her?” She motioned to the double-fold pictures. “That girl he killed last night is someone’s daughter, possibly someone’s sister or mother.” Those whiskey-gold eyes beseeched him again. “I hope you’ll call me when you find out I’m telling you the truth because there’s a chance that I can help.”

  He rounded the desk and pushed the door open further, signifying she should leave. “We’ll get back to you if anything comes up.”

  “I asked you not to be condescending,” she reminded him, her lips pinching at the corners. “I can’t read your mind, thank God, but I’m pretty good at seeing what’s in your eyes.” She swung out the door.

  “Ouch,” Montoya said as she walked out. More than one officer turned a head to watch her swing by in her tight hip-hugging jeans and sweatshirt. Her back was ramrod stiff, her chin held high. Bentz never took his eyes off her, but she didn’t so much as glance over her shoulder and he hated the fact that he still smelled a tinge of her perfume.

  Montoya let out a long, low whistle. “What a piece of … work.”

  “Yep.” Bentz fingered the card she’d left him and watched as she disappeared down the stairs. He gave himself a swift mental kick. He wasn’t a horny kid anymore. Not like Montoya. Sure, she was an attractive woman, but big deal. They were a dime a dozen. And not all of them were prancing around with a significant amount of screws loose. He tapped the edge of her business card against the calluses of his other palm.

  “Just another beautiful looney tune,” Montoya said thoughtfully. “We’ve got our share down here.”

  “Amen to that,” Bentz said. “But she’s been in Tucson for a while.”

  “Hey, they’re not hurtin’ in the weirdo department, either. Isn’t that where they see all the damned UFOs?”

  “Roswell, New Mexico.”

  “Close enough.” Montoya zipped up his leather jacket, then flipped the collar to cover the back of his neck. “Too much desert sun if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Montoya ignored the comment, downed the dregs of his coffee, and crushed the cup in his fist. “Their brains get baked. You’ve seen those cow skulls. The sun does that. Strips the bones bare of any flesh or gray matter.”

  “Even if they’re alive?”

  “It starts slow.” Montoya flashed his killer smile again as he tossed his empty cup into the trash.

  “What time was that fire?” Bentz asked, wishing he could just dismiss Olivia Benchet.

  “Early this morning. Three or four.”

  That jelled with Olivia’s story. Midnight Confessions, Dr. Sam’s popular talk show, had been expanded on some nights of the week. She now signed off at three on Friday mornings.

  “A priest,” Montoya muttered under his breath. “I don’t think so.”

  Neither did Bentz. Even though he had his own bone to pick with the Catholic Church and one priest in particular. The guy was a bastard, but as low as he would stoop in or out of his fancy vestments, the good father wouldn’t commit murder. Bentz was convinced of it.

  The phone jangled and he moved back to the desk, grabbing the receiver. “Bentz.”

  “Yeah, Rick. It’s Stan Pagliano.”

  The hairs on the back of Bentz’s neck rose. He played cards with Stan every six months or so. Stan was a single dad, too, with a daughter Kristi’s age. And he was with the New Orleans Fire Department. “What’s up?” He rounded his desk, stretching the cord tight.

  “I’ve been workin’ half the night. We had ourselves a bad one not far from Bayou St. John. Small house. By the time the first call came in, it was too late.”

  “Someone inside?”

  “Yeah. What’s left of her … Well, we think it’s a woman. Hard to tell. Not much left. The ME and the crime scene team are here, but I thought you might want to poke around. The deal is this, Rick, this isn’t someone who fell asleep in bed while smokin’ a damned cigarette. Looks like arson and there was a woman trapped inside; she was chained to the sink, man. Her hands and feet were chained there. She had something around her neck, too, and the body’s burned bad, but it’s—it’s—her head.” He let out a breath and Bentz knew what was coming. “It was nearly severed. Sick stuff.”

  Bentz’s skin crawled. He glanced at the door, wishing he could call Olivia Benchet back into the room.

  “There are some other things, too. The crime scene team will get it all, but it might not hurt for you to take a look before everything’s bagged and tagged.”

  “I’m on my way,” Bentz said. His gut clenched tight as Stan rattled off the address. He hung up and was reaching for his jacket when his eyes met Montoya’ s. “There was someone killed in the fire over by Esplanade. Probably a woman. Burned beyond recognition, her hands and feet chained to the sink, her head nearly severed.”

  “Holy shit,” Montoya muttered, sucking in his breath.

  Bentz stuffed his Glock into his shoulder holster. “Precisely.”

  Chapter Five

  Kristi Bentz dragged her body from the Olympic-sized pool. Two miles. T
he longest she’d swum in six months and it felt good. She grabbed her towel from the hook over the benches against the wall and breathed deeply. Her nose was filled with chlorine, her ears plugged though she heard the echo of voices of the few other swimmers out this early. Ms. Carter, a masculine-looking swim coach wearing sweats and a whistle, was patrolling the area, padding in plastic slip-ons along the concrete siding, picking up kick boards and a pair of goggles that had been left.

  Mist covered the windows, but through the foggy glass, Kristi noticed that students were hurrying to their classes, cutting across the quad by the athletic facility. She glanced at the clock.

  Shit. It was seven forty-five. If she didn’t hustle, she’d be late to her first class. Dripping, she reached for a towel and noticed something out of place in her peripheral vision, something dark through the windows. She turned, got a glimpse of a figure through the foggy glass—a man abou six feet tall, peering inside. So why didn’t he just walk through the door?

  And what did she care? So what if the guy was looking? He was probably some guy getting his jollies out of watching girls in swimsuits. A lame nerd who didn’t have the guts to ask a girl out.

  Pathetic pervert.

  She wrapped the towel around her, hurried into the locker room and took a quick, hot shower. The voyeur pushed out of her mind, she changed into jeans and a sweater. Quickly she snapped her hair back in a ponytail, slapped on some lipstick and mascara, then hauling her backpack, jogged across campus. Most of the kids who were awake at this hour had already disappeared into the lecture halls. Only a few were hurrying along the concrete paths crisscrossing the lawns between the ancient brick buildings. She glanced past the library to Adam’s Hall where she had English with Dr. Northrup back to back with Psychology with Dr. Sutter, both of whom were odd ducks in her estimation. They were so … intense. Northrup thought Shakespeare was a God, for Christ’s sake, and Sutter gave out tons of homework. Tons! If only she’d registered early and gotten into classes by some of the easier professors, but, as usual, she’d signed up late and ended up with Northrup, Sutter, and Dr. Franz, another gem of a professor. Talk about a nutcase!