Cold Blooded

by Lisa Jackson

  “Then you wouldn’t mind coming downtown with me to make a formal statement.” Montoya’s dark gaze slid to Father James. “You, too.”

  “Gladly,” James said.

  Montoya escorted both of the priests outside. Bentz took in the scene one more time. He felt in his gut that this was the work of the same twisted brain who had slaughtered the women on the saints’ feast days. It had to be. Unless there was a copycat around, unless whoever had killed Mickey Gains had put together enough information from the press releases and the media information to come up with his own kind of sick, brutal crime, one similar enough to confuse the issue.

  It had happened before.

  Two killers involved with the Catholic Church?

  Or one?

  His eyes swept the nave, empty now, except for a few remaining police officers.

  Bentz wasn’t religious; wasn’t really sure where he stood on God. But he’d been raised by the Church and this was his parish. As irreverent as he was, he’d come to St. Luke’s on Christmas and an Easter or two, had even attended mass once in a while in between, usually with Kristi. He’d seen two fellow officers married at the very altar where Mickey Gains had been slain. Bentz had been here once for a funeral and even been invited to a christening.

  Two killers?

  Bentz didn’t buy it.

  Then who?

  Father Roy O’Hara, apparent pedophile.

  Father James McClaren, a priest who couldn’t come to terms with his vows and Bentz’s half-brother.

  Brian Thomas, the boy interested in Kristi who had once been in the seminary and had a beef with the Church and his parents?

  Olivia’s brother, whoever the hell he was? The genetic link that could maybe explain why she saw visions of the killings and through the killer’s eyes.

  A student at one of the universities who knew the victims?

  A faculty member?

  Nancois Franz?

  The clue was here at St. Luke’s … The killer had been here for a reason. But what?

  If the murderer wasn’t the priest, then why would he be in the church? To pray? To confess? To feel the presence of God in some way? Or to search out his next victim?

  Bentz craved a smoke and a drink. He needed time to sit and think, a Camel straight burning in an ashtray, a shot of Jack Daniels cooling over ice in a short glass. Nicotine and alcohol—just enough to relax him and help him concentrate … Now, as he stood in the back of the nave, his eyes narrowed at the altar and the huge sculpture of the Crucifixion rising to the cathedral ceiling. Stained glass glittered under the lights and blood stained the altar.

  There had been murder.

  In God’s house.

  In Bentz’s city.

  Why here? Why not St. Louis Cathedral? Why not some other church? There had to be a connection.

  He wondered what he’d find if he tapped the priests’ phones. Rubbing his beard shadow, Bentz considered his options. He could go to the DA and a judge, but knew he didn’t have enough evidence. However, he knew how to bug a phone himself and had some equipment stashed in a back closet. It would take only a few hours. And there was his connection down at the phone company’s investigative department. Larry would help him out; had in the past. For a six-pack.

  We ‘re going to play this one by the book, Melinda Jaskiel’s words echoed through his brain, but Bentz decided the book wasn’t helping out a whole helluva lot right now. He owed Jaskiel a lot. She’d stretched her neck pretty damned thin all so that he could land this miserable job a few years back. And he was going to pay her back by hooking up an illegal wiretap and surveillance camera, then removing the equipment, and with the information gained, force the killer’s hand. No one, except for Larry Dillis, would be the wiser. Not even Montoya. Bentz figured if he was going down, he was going down alone.

  Maybe the bug wouldn’t turn up anything.

  But maybe it would. As he started for the doors to look for Olivia, Bentz told himself that the wiretap wasn’t because he wanted to know what was going on between her and James. It wasn’t any of his damned business anyway. This was only about nailing the killer.

  Jesus, he could use a smoke.

  He walked into the night. And a madhouse. Police cars, press vans, curious neighbors, reporters with microphones, and dozens of questions were swarming in the night. Olivia wasn’t visible.

  “Detective Bentz, can you tell us more about the murder?”

  “The department will issue a statement later.”

  “Is this the latest victim of the same killer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the victim another coed?”

  “No comment.”

  “This murder took place in a church. Could it possibly be the work of the Rosary Killer?”

  Bentz paused and looked at the group of eager reporters and cameramen, none of them much over thirty, all hoping for a scoop, interested in the facts, not the victim.

  “As I said, the department will issue a statement,” he said, practicing the same old litany. “I can’t comment until it does. Thank you.” Then he strode to his Jeep and found a piece of gum in his pocket. As he did, he spotted her.

  Huddled in the passenger seat, Olivia watched him through the windshield. She looked exhausted. Drained. He didn’t blame her. He opened the door, climbed behind the wheel, and jammed his key into the ignition. “Sorry it took so long. I thought Officer Clarke was going to escort you home.”

  “She tried. I refused.” Her eyes snapped gold fire in the night. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that Father James was your brother?” she demanded, and before he could answer, added, “And don’t make any lame excuse that it just didn’t come up, okay? I told you all about him when I gave you that list of names of babys who’d been christened thirty years ago.”

  “I didn’t think it was important,” he said, twisting the ignition. The engine caught.

  “Not important?” she repeated with a snort. “Oh, give me a break, Bentz. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

  “Half brother.” He twisted in his seat, backed up, then jammed the rig into drive. The Jeep bounced through the puddles and potholes as he wended it through the other vehicles parked haphazardly in the lot.

  “Oh. Half brother. Is that why you didn’t bother to mention it?”

  His frayed temper snapped. “I think that makes us even. You didn’t figure I needed to know that you were sleeping with him.”

  She stiffened, muttered something under her breath, then poked a finger at Bentz’s shoulder. “It’s not your business, Bentz. You made it perfectly clear that nothing could happen between us. What I do with my personal business is just that—my business.”

  “Even if you’re sleeping with a priest, a primary suspect in the case?”

  “What?” she demanded, outraged. “Father James? He’s not—”

  “You sleep with him and you still call him Father James?”

  “I’m not sleeping with him.”

  “But you did,” he said flatly.

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. From the corner of his eye he saw her try to rein in her anger. “I nearly did, okay? Not that I need to explain myself. The whole thing was a mistake.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I seem to be making a lot of them lately.”

  “That son of a bitch.” Bentz slowed for a stop sign, then took the corner.

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “No?” Bentz snorted.

  “No! And nothing happened … God, Bentz, get over it! And quit trying to blame someone.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, Livvie, this isn’t the first time James has had trouble keeping his vows.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this,” she said sharply, but he saw the pain in her expression and he immediately felt like a heel. “It’s none of my business.”

  He had no claim on her. She was right. What happened between James and Olivia had nothing to do with him.

  “Well, it w
as mine,” he said as he accelerated through a light just turning yellow. “I caught him in bed with my wife about nineteen years ago.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The headlines were magnificent. The Chosen One had bought copies of all the local papers and now, in his sanctuary, as he clipped them with his pinking shears, he softly sang a Christmas carol and read the bold print.

  “Hark the herald angels sing …”

  POLICE STYMIED IN CHURCH MURDER

  “Glory to the newborn King.”

  ROSARY KILLER RESURRECTED?

  “Peace on earth and mercy mild.”

  COLLEGE COED SERIAL KILLER BAFFLES NOPD

  “God and sinner, reconciled …”

  ALTAR BOY SLAIN.

  “Again …” he paused, then sang to a crescendo, “God and sinner reconciled.” He liked that line in particular.

  The Chosen One smiled at his work as he tacked the banners of his newly found fame to the calendar where his saints had been displayed. St. Joan of Arc, St. Catherine of Alexandria, beautiful little St. Philomena, St. Mary Magdalen … such lovelies.

  But the press didn’t understand him, nor did the public know of his work.

  The police, of course, were idiots even if the press was giving him his due respect. Finally. Yet there had been not one mention of God’s work, of the mission. Of course they didn’t know. The police were keeping the members of the Fourth Estate sheltered from the real truth with words like “ritualistic slayings,” or “brutal murder,” so as not to bring out the copycats or those who would claim to have done the deeds for a few minutes of fame. So the press hadn’t been allowed to understand what was his mission … unless he corrected them. A letter to a newspaper or a call to a radio station … all risky, but …. perhaps … He paused as he considered the disc jockey he would call.

  Dr. Sam on her show Midnight Confessions.

  Perfect.

  Yes … but first things first.

  He had to capture his next two victims. First St. Bibiana, then St. Lucy. Time was running short and while the police were busy trying to figure out how that miserable altar boy was connected to the other murders, it was time to make his move. He just needed a little help.

  Humming to himself, he walked down the stairs to the basement. Opening the door his nostrils were immediately burned with the foul stench of the dogs and fecal matter. The animals were quiet now, but as he opened the door and snapped on the red light they sent up a cacophony of howls. Worse yet, the bitch was in heat … and the male dog was more interested in breaking into her kennel than snarling at the terrified woman backed against the wall.

  She looked up at him as he approached and then to the weapon swinging from his cincture, the stun gun at odds with the gold-colored cord holding his alb in place. “Would you like to get out of here, my child?” he asked in soft, dulcet tones.

  She nodded wildly, her round eyes darting from him to the dogs and back to the gun.

  “Well, I think it’s time. I’ve made my point. You will be obedient, now, won’t you?”

  Again she nodded and he bent down to release her bonds, but as he did, he clipped a collar around her throat, the same collar that surrounded each mutt’s neck. The collars were the kind used in training dogs, each neck band equipped with metal prongs that pressed into the soft skin of the throat. Activated electronically by a remote control device he kept in his deep pockets the collars would sizzle with electricity, shocking the wearer. Should they be wet, from holy water or sweat, the shock was even more severe. With the press of a button The Chosen One could zap her or the dogs into submission.

  To prove his point, he withdrew a control and aimed it at her. She withered away, shrinking into the wall, shaking her head violently and making anxious cries beneath her gag. He smiled, a faint erection beginning beneath his robes. “Trust me,” he said and pushed the button. She squeezed her eyes shut and the bitch in heat squealed and yipped as a shock went through her mangy body.

  He released the button and the woman opened her eyes in terror. Tears rained from her face and she looked beyond him to the kennels where the female dog, tail between her legs looked confused and whimpered.

  “Now, will you do as I say?” he asked her and there was no hesitation. He saw complete compliance in her eyes. “Good. Come along then, I have a job for you.” He released the shackles on her feet, but kept her hands restrained and helping her to her feet, urged her up the stairs. “If you do anything I don’t like, anything at all, I’ll be forced to activate the collar, and … yes, the stun gun. Remember that? You didn’t like that, did you?

  She shook her head vigorously as if she remembered all too vividly how he’d approached her just after she’d returned her rental car and before she could make her way to the airport terminal.

  Dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and jacket, he’d blended in, then taken out the gun and zapped her, catching her before she hit the ground and half dragging her into the car he’d stolen at the campus … just like before. It had been raining furiously and he’d used an umbrella to shield them not only from the weather but prying eyes as well. She’d only made one cry—the stun gun and his knife had convinced her to remain quiet as she’d roused. Then he’d gagged and cuffed her and brought her here.

  She was a fine specimen, could probably be offered as a sacrifice. He watched the muscles of her rump—tight and rounded, as she walked up the steps. Again the pleasantly painful erection … yes, spilling her blood would be a pleasure. He stopped her in the upper hallway before she reached the entrance. No one was allowed into his sanctuary. Just God.

  “Here we go.” He stood her against a curtained wall and took several pictures with his Polaroid. “Now, if you’re good … very, very good, next time I’ll let you out; I’ll have a more difficult task for you,” he said, thinking of her cell phone. “For now, though, you must go back downstairs.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s only for a little while,” he assured her as the tears ran again. “And then, I’ll get you out of the basement for good. But you have to promise that you’ll help me.” She didn’t hesitate, but nodded violently. Her hands were on his sleeves, clutching at his alb, reaching for his chasuble, trying to wind her fingers into its satiny folds. “I understand,” he said. “I know this is difficult, but nothing worthwhile comes easily. There must be pain and suffering and sacrifice involved. Now … off with you.” When she started to shake her head he reached into his pocket and brought out his remote control. “Be a good girl,” he warned and she turned quickly and on dirty bare feet scrambled down the stairs. He wanted to give her one little shock, to hustle her along, but resisted.

  Sarah needed to fully comprehend the difference between reward and punishment.

  “… Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …”

  James felt his knees turn to water. It had been over a week since the last time he’d heard this raspy confession. “What is it, my son?” he said, forgetting all the rules, sitting on the edge of the desk in his apartment. His spine was stiff, his heart pounding with dread.

  “It has been a week since my last confession and these are my sins.”

  James braced himself.

  “I have taken the Lord’s name in vain and I have lusted in my heart.”

  So far, so good.

  “For your penance say ten Hail Marys and five Our Fathers.” James’s throat was dry and his lungs so tight he couldn’t breathe. Surely the penitent had not killed again … and then he knew.

  “And I broke the commandment again. I took a life.”

  James’s blood was thundering in his ears. “Another one?” Father O’Hara had been interrogated, but set free as he could prove his whereabouts. The scandal had been horrible of course and he was being scrutinized by the press and the parishioners and the clergy… O’Hara’s name would forever be associated with the killing though he was innocent of the murder. However, there were other charges that Mickey’s parents’ attorney was making, cl
aims of improper touching, sodomy and rape … and now this …

  “Oh, yes … I found the sinner in the house of God.”

  “The sinner?” James felt sick inside.

  “The altar boy who desecrated the church,” the voice thundered. “The hooligan who stole wine and had the audacity to drink from the chalice, all in the guise of piety. Yes, I spilled his blood, gladly. Let it be a lesson to all those who defy God, who do not revere His house, who commit sins.”

  The man was mad. He had it all twisted around.

  “Listen, my son,” James begged, though he wanted to somehow strangle the man. Give me strength, Lord, please, let me find a way to stop him. “I, too, have sought God’s counsel. He has told me that the killings must stop, that it is not His will. No more lives be taken.”

  “You?” A haughty sneer was evident in the voice. “You have talked to God?”

  “Yes, many times.”

  “And you heard Him speak?”

  “I know what He wants and this violence is not His will.”

  There was a snort. “The world is a violent place, Father. Haven’t you noticed? And the atrocities committed in the name of religion have been around since the beginning of time.”

  “Then commit no more. Sin no more.”

  “But I, I have actually spoken to God and heard His voice and my mission is clear. I am to make a sacrifice to Him. For the martyred saints. To reaffirm their martyrdom.”

  “What?” James said, his gut clenching. Bentz had been right.

  “You don’t understand, do you? I knew you had not spoken to the Father.” And then he went on and on about his mission, about how he would find the perfect person to sacrifice on the feast days, just as Rick Bentz had surmised. He hardly paused for a breath, as if he were glad for a chance to explain himself. His speech pattern was that of a lecturer … as if he were used to people listening to him, an orator. A priest? A politician? A CEO? A teacher … the coeds taken from the local campuses … a scholar?

  “Have I a penance?” he finally asked.