by Kava, Alex
“I’ve been lucky. Since I left Nebraska I haven’t had to work on any other cases involving kids. So how do you happen to know so much about pedophiles?”
“I was a victims’ advocate when I was at Saint Stephen of the Martyr in Chicago,” Tony said, but he was staring out of his window now. “It was an unofficial post, since officially the archdiocese didn’t have a problem to begin with.”
“That had to be tough,” Nick said, watching him. “How could you work with those kids and know the guys who abused them were probably just being reassigned?”
“I didn’t know that. Not at the time. You have to understand, Nick—” and for this Tony met his eyes “—we were told things were being taken care of.”
“It didn’t clue you in when there were no charges brought against them?”
“That’s not the way it works,” Tony answered, but his eyes were away from Nick’s again, darting around the room, out the window and back to Nick. He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if looking for the right words. “The church didn’t look to the county or the state to handle things,” he said carefully, slowly, as if explaining it to a child, but there was nothing condescending in his tone. If Nick didn’t know better, his friend sounded almost remorseful. “Priests are to be held to a higher standard and should be judged as such. They answer to a higher authority.”
“Sure, I know,” Nick said. “You mean a higher authority as in the archbishop?”
“No. I mean a higher authority as in God.”
CHAPTER 39
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Tommy Pakula forked over five bucks for a Krispy Kreme doughnut and the grande designer coffee when he really just wanted a large, plain coffee with no cream, no sugar, no froufrou on top. Geez, for five bucks he could have gotten all the coffee he could drink plus two eggs, toast and a side of bacon down at the Radial Highway Café. Froufrou or not, it sure tasted good and he needed the blast of sugar and caffeine. Lately it seemed necessary to keep a steady injection of caffeine pumping through his system like some constant electrical charge. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see what happened if and when he got unplugged.
He glanced at the flight arrival board for the thirteenth time. The D.C. flight was still scheduled to arrive on time. That was ten minutes ago. So where the hell was it?
There had already been two streams of passengers but no FBI guy, no Special Agent M. O’Dell. Pakula could spot a feebie a mile away, the same dark suit, the same distant look that took everything in with a sweep of the eyes. He was starting to think the guy missed his flight. He planted himself by the bookstore where he wouldn’t miss anyone coming up the ramp from the gates. He leaned against the wall. He finished his doughnut in three bites and sipped the coffee.
He was watching another stream come up the ramp from the gates when a woman came out of the bookstore and stopped in front of him. She was young, attractive, dragging a black leather computer case.
“Excuse me, are you Detective Pakula?” She addressed him by name, even getting the pronunciation right. And this time he really looked at her instead of his routine brief once-over, trying to remember how she knew him.
“Yeah, I’m Pakula.”
“I’m Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.”
He almost dropped his coffee. Holy crap! He stood up straight, trying to look all nonchalant as he freed up and wiped his right hand to offer it. “Nice to meet you, Agent O’Dell. You been wandering around here long?”
“Not long.”
Now that he got a good look at her—navy blue suit, eyes drifting and catching everything around her—Pakula realized he wasn’t so far off. He just had the M wrong. Geez, Chief Ramsey would laugh his ass off. So would Clare. He wasn’t too sure O’Dell would.
“How’d you figure out who I was?” he asked her.
“I’m a profiler. It’s my job.” But before he could look impressed, she smiled and added, “I could say it was because you didn’t have any luggage. That you were off to the side and didn’t look excited to pick up whoever you were looking for, or that it was the bulge in the back of your jacket. Truth is, the doughnut and coffee was a dead giveaway.”
Pakula wanted to laugh. Here he was looking for the stereotypical FBI agent and she was doing the same thing. He pretended to look insulted. “Geez, O’Dell. You know I could be offended that you’ve already stereotyped me.”
“Then we’re even,” she said, “because you were looking for a man, weren’t you?”
He met her eyes, and there was no drifting this time. He could see that it actually didn’t bother her, that she was used to it, instead of being offended, and that she was simply jabbing back at him.
“Okay, we’re even,” he said, and he decided he liked her.
He started to fill her in on the case, giving her some background that hadn’t made it into the case file. But she seemed distracted as they headed toward the escalators.
“We have to get your bags downstairs,” he told her. “I’m parked just across in the garage.”
“Do you mind if we stop at the restroom?”
“Oh, sure. No, I don’t mind. I think there’s one downstairs you can use.”
She stopped and smiled at him. “No, I mean the restroom where you found Monsignor O’Sullivan?”
Pakula was a bit embarrassed that he’d misunderstood. Of course, she’d want to see the crime scene. “Yeah, sure. Right back here.”
He led her off to the left and down a hallway. When they got to the restroom he went in first, checking to see if therewas anyone at the urinals. They lucked out. A guy was on his way out when Pakula propped open the door and invited O’Dell in.
“He was over here,” Pakula indicated, walking to the area in front of the last sink on the left. “The way I figure it, he was standing, washing his hands at the sink when the killer came up behind him. We found his eyeglasses on the floor. Could be why he didn’t see his attacker come up behind him. Could simply be he didn’t think the guy looked like anyone he needed to worry about. From the direction and angle of the stab wound, the M.E. says the killer came in behind him. He was probably shorter. Not sure how much. But enough that he could easily reach under the monsignor’s arm and shove the knife up into his heart. He pulled it out, let the monsignor drop to the floor, then stepped on the padre’s glasses and simply walked out the door.”
A thick middle-aged man came in the door, did a double take when he saw O’Dell and backed up to check the sign on the door.
“You can come on in. We’re just visiting,” Pakula told him, but the man waved an angry hand at him and left, muttering something about privacy.
“One door to enter and exit,” O’Dell said, looking around. “And no one saw the killer on a busy Friday afternoon?”
“These restrooms are sort of off the beaten path. Most people would use the ones at the gate or down next to the luggage carousel. There was one guy—he’s listed in the report—thought he bumped into a kid on his way out. Said the kid was in a hurry. The guy couldn’t identify him other than a baseball cap, slight build. Didn’t even see his face. By the time the guy saw the monsignor’s body, realized what happened and ran out the door, he said the kid was nowhere in sight.”
O’Dell moved to the doorway and stood, looking out. “There’s nowhere to go except down the hallway to the terminal, right?”
“Not that I know of. Other than the women’s restroom next door, there’s a locked supply closet. We checked it that night to make sure he didn’t have access to the closet to dump a weapon, his clothes, anything else.”
“What about cameras?”
“No cameras except at the security checkpoints.”
“I saw one in the bookstore,” she told him. “It looks like it’s set up to cover the entrance. It may be a stretch, but I wonder if it catches anything beyond the entrance? If it does, it might show people turning to come down this hallway to use the restrooms.”
“Usually store cameras are pret
ty crappy, but I’ll check it out.”
“Speaking of cameras, what have you released to the media?” O’Dell asked.
“Released to the media?”
“Has anyone openly made the possible connection between the three murders? There are three that we know of, correct?”
Pakula nodded. “Yeah, three. The monsignor, an ex-priest in Minneapolis and one in Columbia, Missouri. The Minneapolis one happened over the Memorial Day weekend. The Columbia murder was about twenty-four hours after Monsignor O’Sullivan. There are similarities, but I don’t think anyone can say for certain that they’re all connected.” Pakula didn’t like where this was going. Ramsey had brought in the FBI to squelch any political rhetoric and media sensationalism. What exactly did O’Dell expect them to release?
“Whether there’s a connection or not is what you want me to figure out, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Three priests dead in a coupla months, all in the Midwest, you gotta wonder if there’s a serial killer on the loose.”
“Is there a reason why you haven’t talked about this in public?” O’Dell asked.
“You mean like a warning?”
“Yes, partly a warning.”
Pakula wondered what Ramsey had shared with his old buddy Cunningham. Evidently it hadn’t been enough to convey how sensitive the power structure in a city the size of Omaha could be. Ramsey may have beat around the bush with Cunningham. Pakula wasn’t about to beat around any bushes.
“How’s the media breathing down my neck and screwing around with my words going to solve any of these cases?” he asked, and he let her hear his contempt.
“Ah, but you see, Detective Pakula, what you do is screw with them before they screw with you. If we take a proactive role, we might just be able to get them to do our dirty work.”
She was ready to leave now, but stepped back to let two men in golf shirts come into the restroom. They stopped in midstride and midsentence when they saw her.
“Hello, gentlemen,” she said as she started around them. “Welcome to Omaha.”
Pakula smiled and followed her out. He still wasn’t happy about her wanting them to cozy up to the media.
“I’m not buying your logic on opening the door to the media. And I’m thinking Chief Ramsey’s gonna have a massive hemorrhage.”
“I’m not saying you open up the door or the case to them. But I do think if there’s something that connects these three cases, the media might be able to bring a few things to the surface that would take us months to dig up.”
“There’s no abuse scandal in the Omaha Archdiocese, if that’s where you’re headed.” He kept his voice down, pointing to the escalators and letting her go first.
“You sure about that?”
“A reporter from the Omaha World Herald’s been digging and nagging vice to nose around. Nothing so far.” After this morning’s exchange with Archbishop Armstrong, Pakula almost wished there was something to dig up.
She stepped onto the escalator, maneuvering the rolling computer case beside her. She turned her body toward him so they could still talk on the way down.
“And the other two cases?” she asked. “Anything to dig up there?”
“Not sure about those yet. But what do you think the media can get at that we’re not gonna have access to?”
“Remember when the Boston Globe blew the top off Cardinal Law and the abuse throughout his diocese? There didn’t seem to be enough evidence for law enforcement agencies to do anything for decades. I’m just saying if there’s some dirt, who better to dig it up than professional dirt diggers?”
Pakula thought about Armstrong’s smug threat. Why bother to make a threat if there wasn’t something to hide? He followed her off the escalator. “Baggage claim is down to the left here.”
They stayed off to the side when they realized her luggage wasn’t in yet. Pakula kept his eyes moving and his voice low. “From what you saw in the files, you think there’s any chance these cases might have been random?”
“You obviously don’t think they are or you wouldn’t have called in a profiler.” She waited for his eyes to meet hers and confirm it before she added, “However, I’m not convinced they’re the work of a serial killer.”
“Excuse me?”
“All three of these…” She stopped short of using the word murders now that they were surrounded by more people. “All of them have been done in very public places with people coming and going. This guy either gets a kick from the huge risk factor or he’s meticulous in his planning. I’m guessing it’s the latter. But from what I know about the three, they look more like cold, calculated executions.”
“Executions of priests,” Pakula said in almost a whisper. He had already thought about that. It wasn’t one of those ideas he necessarily liked having validated.
“You may have an assassin on your hands. Either way, it doesn’t much matter, we need to find out the similarities and figure out who might be next. The media may actually be able to help us with that.”
“Maybe it was just these three and that’s it.”
“That would be great if it was. But I’m guessing there’s a list and the killer’s going down it, one by one.”
CHAPTER 40
Washington, D.C.
Gwen slowed the car, braking enough to send Harvey’s front paws slipping and readjusting on the passenger seat next to her.
“This is crazy,” she told him as she started searching the brownstones, keeping the address on the dashboard, now rewritten on a Post-it; the original index card was back at her office in a plastic bag.
Her heart pounded in her ears. It hadn’t stopped since she opened the box. She was trying to stay calm, trying to think instead of run on emotion, but all she had to do was look at Harvey’s brown eyes watching her to know she wasn’t very successful. The dog could sense the panic. He could probably smell it on her. Every once in a while he licked her hand or arm as if that was his way of comforting her.
“We make a good team, Harvey, but just between you and me I certainly wish Maggie was here, too.” Even as she said it, she wondered if she would have finally given in and told Maggie if she was still here. Would she have confessed it all? She was running low on logic and professional ethics. Right now the panic and fear of what she may have allowed to happen closed in around her. The calm and logical psychologist in her was having a difficult time hearing over the screaming woman who seemed to be much closer to the surface.
“There it is,” she said, braking again, only this time Harvey was prepared.
She waited for a delivery truck to leave and squeezed her car into the last parking space on the street. Then she sat there, looking up at the brownstone. She double-checked the numbers again, but she knew this was it. Earlier in the day, when she hadn’t been able to reach Dena by phone, she’d pulled her file, jotting down her home address on a Post-it note just in case she decided to drop by and check on her. Why hadn’t she recognized that first lone earring as Dena’s when he left it for her on Saturday? Would she have been able to stop him? Could she have saved Dena? Jesus! Was he the new man in Dena’s life? Had he gone that far? Maybe this was all some elaborate hoax. It was so different from the others. Could he simply be warning her, playing with her? Back at the office when she recognized the address she had actually pinched herself, hoping it was all a nightmare.
She stuck her hand in her jacket pocket and wrapped her fist around the key he had left at the bottom of the box. Of course he was Dena’s new man. How else would he have a key to her apartment?
She stared at the door, then glanced around the other brownstones, across the street and down the block. Was he here someplace, watching? This was ridiculous. She should have called the police. She should have at least asked them to meet her here. Her cell phone was also in her pocket. She could still do it. She could still call.
And what would she tell them?
She took a deep breath, clutched the key and grabbed Harvey’s leash. The
big dog came reluctantly, almost as if he was letting her know this wasn’t such a good idea. His instinct was definitely better than hers.
She rang the doorbell and waited, still glancing around, hoping to maybe rouse a neighbor. The neighborhood was quiet. She unlocked the door and it pushed open with ease.
“Hello? Dena?”
She stayed in the entrance, watching Harvey’s reaction while she held tight to his leash. She watched his eyes, the pitch of his ears and tilt of his head as he listened and sniffed the air. So far there wasn’t anything that made him jerk or whine like he had when they found the skull half buried in the park. Almost like a trained bloodhound, he had been able to sense the rotting flesh, or what was left. His instinct had been to show her, then get the hell away from it. He had tugged so hard she’d thought he’d break her hand. But there was none of that now. A good sign. Yes, a very good sign, and she closed the door behind them.
“Dena?”
Was it possible that he had simply left her tied up or drugged? Something to prove to her how close he could get? He had done it with her father, showing that he could get him exactly where he wanted by simply leaving a message that his daughter wanted to meet him for breakfast. Was that what he was doing with Dena? Showing her again that he could get at anyone close to her? It made sense. Maybe that’s all it was. Something to scare her, just to let her know he could.
Dena’s place looked lived in, but there certainly had not been a struggle. There were too many knickknacks on dusty shelves. Had one been misplaced or even knocked down, it would have been obvious. Dust doesn’t lie.
Gwen tried to take in as much as possible with each slow step, all the while listening and watching Harvey. Her eyes skimmed the highest shelves, the mantel and even inside the fireplace, under chairs and the far corners. Suddenly Harvey stopped and started scratching at a cabinet door to what looked like an entertainment armoire. Immediately her heart began pounding again, and she had to force herself to breathe, to keep from holding her breath.
