All the Dead Fathers

by David J. Walker

  He stared at her. “What do you know about it? And what are you doing here, anyway?” Now more cop than comrade.

  “Heard about it on the radio,” she said. “And … I have friends in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah? What friends?”

  She smiled. “You.”

  She knew enough not to ask what they’d learned, and he didn’t tell her. But he did verify what she’d been afraid of. “The two dicks who caught the case didn’t do shit,” he said. “Figuring the man’s got no relatives, and it comes out pretty quick he’s a pervert and the neighbors all figure, ‘Fuck him, he got what he deserved.’”

  “And now suddenly,” she said, “the case is a heater?”

  “Christ, fucking media all over the place.” He looked at his watch. “Gotta go,” he said, “and you should, too.”

  “Right. Well, you take care.” She turned and walked back to her car.

  * * *

  She tried Wardell on her cell phone. Not available. She ended the call and immediately her phone rang.

  It was Cuffs Radovich. “The guy who runs the seminary police force just called,” he said. “Says someone told the man in charge there—the rector, he said—about him letting me watch over your babies. Says he almost lost his fucking job. This rector says me and my people gotta stay the hell away.”

  “But you’re helping them,” she said. “Is he crazy?”

  “Guy’s running a goddamn priest factory, so answer that one yourself. Anyway, this rector—I love that word—says he talked to the goddamn cardinal, for chrissake, and their excuse is it’s an insurance thing. If me or one of my guys gets hurt … or hurts somebody … whatever. What it really is? They figure I’m a thug and they got no control.”

  “Damn,” she said. Cuffs was a thug. But he was her thug.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “That other thing I been working on? I can put it on hold for a while. I’ll get rid of my people and stay on the job alone.”

  “No way. They’ll have you arrested or something.”

  “Bullshit. They won’t even see me. If they do, maybe then I’ll have to go, but they’re not gonna lock me up, for chrissake. Meanwhile, fuck them.”

  “I don’t…” But she knew pissing off authority was one of his favorite things. “Okay,” she said. “And thanks, Cuffs, I really appreciate it.”

  “Just keep sending my fucking checks, is all.”

  27.

  Friday morning Kirsten woke up and ran to the kitchen to catch Dugan before he left for his office. He was still sitting there, though, eating cold cereal, which he never did. She was pouring herself some coffee when he announced that from now on he was eating raisin bran every day, and that he wouldn’t be flying to Asheville that afternoon, after all.

  Kirsten spun around from the counter and splashed coffee down the front of the new tan “classic tee” from J. Jill she’d slept in. “Say that again?”

  “Raisin bran. I saw this article in—”

  “No, Dugan,” she said. “You are going.” It was a trial workshop and competition at a resort and conference center in the mountains near Asheville, North Carolina. She’d been wishing he didn’t have to go; she wanted him here with her. But she wasn’t about to let him not go on her account. She didn’t need taking care of.

  He got up and ran cold water on a dish towel until it was sopping wet. He dabbed with it at her shirt, but the area where he soaked the shirt was a good three or four inches to the right of the coffee spill. “What are you doing?” she said, but she knew a distraction when she felt it.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, and then tried to wet her shirt over the other breast, too, but she pushed him away and sat down, with the table between them. He sat, too.

  “You’re just kidding, right?” she said.

  “Actually, no. The fact is the workshop was Larry Candle’s idea, and I don’t really want to go.”

  She didn’t believe him. “You’re going to Asheville.” She pointed to the calendar on the wall beside the clock. “It’s right there. ‘Trial Lawyers Association mentoring workshop,’” she read. “You told me months ago that Larry signed you up for it and said it would be good for the firm’s reputation. You agreed. Plus, you said it would be a nice change of pace, a lot of fun.”

  “I must have been drinking at the time. I’m gonna call and tell them I’m not going.”

  “You’re on the faculty, for God’s sake. They’re counting on you.” She pointed at the calendar again. “Starts tonight and ends next Saturday.” That was eight whole days and she didn’t want him to go. “You’re going,” she said. She picked at her wet shirt, holding it out away from her skin and shaking it a little to dry it.

  “Damn,” Dugan said, “I like it when you—” He stopped when she gave him a dirty look. “Anyway,” he said, “if I was sick, or on trial or something I couldn’t go and they’d put my four students with—”

  “But you’re not sick, and you’re never on trial. You can’t back out now. The teams are probably all picked.”

  “But I don’t want to leave you right now. With this priest killer running around, and this … you know … this postcard—”

  “Forget that. The killer’s not running around after me. Like you said yesterday, catching him is police business, and I’ve got Cuffs to help watch over Michael and the others. And as to the other thing, I … well … let’s not overreact to what could very well be a stupid prank.” She studied Dugan as she spoke, and he looked as though he believed her. “I bet the real reason you don’t want to go is because you don’t try cases any more. It’s been years, and you think you’ll look bad compared to the other faculty members.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’ve forgotten more than most of them will ever know.”

  She knew he was dying to go. Each experienced lawyer was teamed with four top students from law schools all over the country to simulate both preparing a case for trial and then the trial itself. “I think you owe it to the program to follow through,” she said.

  “I don’t know.” He scooped up some raisin bran, then stopped the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Hey! Why don’t you come? They say the workshop’s pretty intensive, but I’m sure they leave time for splashing around in the hotel pool at night. Plus, you’ll have the days to yourself. You can swim, shop, do whatever.”

  “When you put it that way, it’s tempting.” And it was, especially when she considered that law school students weren’t all fresh out of college, and that over half of them these days were women. She pictured Dugan and his “team” holed up together day after day, then splashing around the pool at night. “Um … do you have the names of the ‘kids’ on your team?”

  “No, we don’t get those until—” He stopped, and a grin broke over his face. “You’re right,” he said. “You better come along. You never know what might go on in a charged atmosphere like that.”

  “You’re going.” She set her coffee on the table and stood up. “I’m not.” The part of her tee shirt Dugan had gotten to was still pretty well soaked. “And you know what?” With both hands she plucked the wet fabric out away from her skin and jiggled the shirt, and herself, again. “I’m not worried one bit.”

  * * *

  Since he’d be going directly from his office to the airport in the afternoon, Dugan stuck around after breakfast for about an hour, packing and saying good-bye. Packing took ten minutes.

  He had a twelve-thirty flight and it was past nine o’clock, so Dugan called his office and told Mollie he’d go straight to the airport from home. He said he had plenty of work in his briefcase to keep him busy while he waited. Kirsten was relieved that by the time he left he seemed truly convinced that she wasn’t as spooked by the idea of someone stalking her as she’d been the day before.

  In reality, though, it was more than a mere idea, and it bothered the hell out of her.

  28.

  After Dugan left, Kirsten wandered through the apartment, trying to concentrate on stalkers and
serial killers and how to uncover them, but mostly thinking about herself and Dugan. She had never once worried about him straying, and she knew he didn’t worry about her, either. She was the luckiest person in the world.

  Which is why it bothered her so much that she’d never told him about her pregnancy in Florida, and its termination. She’d never even brought it up to her doctor, and she was wondering now whether something that had gone wrong during the abortion procedure might be the reason she hadn’t gotten pregnant in the more than six months they’d been trying. She should tell Dugan the whole story when he got back from Asheville.

  Why was it so hard to talk about? Being young and stupid, having sex with someone you thought cared about you, even getting pregnant … they weren’t such shameful acts. Even the abortion wasn’t something—at least not now—that she thought was so terrible. One thing that made it so difficult was that weakness and fear had driven everything she did at the time. That was something she really felt ashamed of. Back then she’d believed abortion was an evil thing, one of the worst things she could do. Yet she went ahead and did it because she was scared. Frightened to death that she might be tied down to a baby.

  For that reason, and for God knew what other reasons she didn’t understand, over the years Florida had become her dark secret, never revealed to anyone. Most of the time she could ignore it, but the longer she kept it to herself, the heavier it weighed, like a thick blanket smothering part of her soul.

  She was restless, and she went through the motions of straightening up the apartment. The TV was on in the background, tuned to CLTV, the local cable news channel. Suddenly the word “priests” jumped out at her. It was a teaser about a press conference to be aired later that morning. The FBI and law enforcement officials from Chicago, Waukegan, and Winnebago County in Illinois, and from Crow Wing County in Minnesota, would address the recent series of killings of Catholic priests.

  * * *

  The so-called press conference started at eleven o’clock and originated from Chicago Police Headquarters. It was little more than a statement read by an FBI spokeswoman. Five or six police officers, one of them Danny Wardell, stood shoulder to shoulder behind her, but only the woman spoke. She announced that over a three-week period three men, all of them Chicago priests or former priests who’d been charged in the past with sexual misconduct with minors, had been murdered, and that now a fourth such man had apparently been abducted.

  On behalf of all the jurisdictions, the spokeswoman entertained a few questions but refused to give any but the most general and innocuous bits of information. Her main point was clearly to stress that each jurisdiction was conducting its own “very aggressive” investigation while cooperating with, and in constant communication with, the FBI and one another. All press inquiries and briefings—even regarding the Minnesota case—would be coordinated by the feds and handled through the Chicago Police Department’s Office of News Affairs. There were no suspects as yet, she said, and no physical evidence that the crimes were the work of the same person or persons. She managed to maintain a perfectly straight face as she acknowledged that “such a possibility is under consideration.”

  She ended the session in true government style. “Though we do not know whether these incidents are causally related, the obvious similarities in the victims’ personal backgrounds lead us to conclude that even if these incidents are the work of a single disturbed individual or group of individuals, members of the general public have no reason to fear for their own or their children’s safety from this source.”

  Kirsten could see that gibberish summarized in a headline in tomorrow’s Sun-Times:

  ONLY PRIEST PERVERTS IN PERIL, POLICE SAY

  More importantly, the media frenzy sure to follow, and the unified police front, meant that she would have a tougher time than ever squeezing information out of anyone.

  * * *

  Back at the kitchen table Kirsten opened the folder with the information Michael had given her. Along with his notes was the the list she had drawn up:

  #1 — OUT — I-90 rest stop — shot dead, then stripped & slashed

  #2 — OUT — Minn cottage — tied up, then stripped & slashed

  #3 — OUT — Chgo apartment — slashed (tied up? stripped?)

  #4 — VSG — Waukegan hospital —?

  Only the priests living at Villa St. George were her clients, and she was doing what she could, through Cuffs, to protect them. But if she could find a pattern and figure out who would be next, whether it was a Villa St. George resident or not, there was a better chance of catching the maniac.

  She added “fingers severed (dead?)” to #4, Carl Stieboldt. She had already recognized the differences between Stieboldt and the first three cases. He was a VSG victim; he was attacked just two days, and not a week, after the preceding victim; and seizing him from a public place was a risk the killer hadn’t taken with the others.

  But there was something else, something she hadn’t considered before. The other bodies had been left at the scenes where they’d been murdered, with no attempt to announce their presence. With Stieboldt, however, his fingers had been severed and placed in a mailbox that was opened every day. Thus the killer had gone out of his way—or could it possibly be her way?—to announce that Stieboldt hadn’t simply run away, even if his body wasn’t found for a long time, or ever.

  Kirsten was convinced that if the killer were primarily concerned with finding victims who presented a low risk of capture, Stieboldt would not have been fourth. There were plenty of remaining non-VSG targets to choose from. So again, what was it about Stieboldt?

  She took her list again, and added a new column, this one for the molestation victims. They were, in order: one boy, 11; two girls, 8 and 10; ten boys, 13 to 17; and one boy, 12. That didn’t seem to lead anywhere. The murders began shortly after the publication of the Sun-Times list, but the specific charges against each priest weren’t in the paper and it seemed unlikely the killer would have that information.

  In fact, maybe there wasn’t any pattern at all, just four men the killer found to be available. Or maybe Stieboldt was killed by a different person. Jesus! She stared at the four names and wondered. She shook her head and—whether it was the movement that did it or not—she suddenly thought of something. Or, more accurate, saw something. But it wasn’t possible. It had to be a weird coincidence.

  A weird, frightening coincidence.

  She turned back to Michael’s list, the one with all eighteen names. Yes, there was a possible fifth victim who fit the impossible pattern. And only one. He was listed in the Villa St. George column, which, taken alone, made him less likely to be the next victim. So if he was next, what had jumped out at her wasn’t a coincidence at all, but a bizarre, calculated plan.

  That would also at least begin to address the troubling question of why two crazies—one out to kill abusive priests and the other out to terrorize Kirsten—had crept into her life at the same time.

  She had to contact—who?—which police department? Someone. Whoever it was, they might think she was crazy, but they couldn’t just ignore her. They would have to throw a blanket of protection over the man she identified as the next victim. And when they did, the killer would either abandon the pattern or—as Kirsten thought more likely—lie back and wait for as long as it took until they gave up and withdrew the protection.

  On the other hand, if she was right, the way to catch the killer was to have the next victim protected but apparently vulnerable, and then jump quickly when the maniac moved in. Yeah, right. Propose dangling a victim out as bait? The cops would tell her she was out of her mind. Which they’d already think she was, anyway, because by then she would have told them she could predict the next victim … and the victim after that.

  29.

  Danny Wardell was the one to talk to. Not just because he was the only one Kirsten knew who was personally involved in the investigation, but because she already had his confidence.

  She called the Chicag
o Police Department, asked for the Office of News Affairs, and was transferred.

  “Internal Affairs.” A male voice.

  “No,” she said. “News Affairs.”

  “I’ll transfer you.” She waited through silence and then a couple of rings, until a woman’s voice said, “News Affairs.”

  “I need to reach Sergeant Daniel Wardell,” she said. “He was just—”

  “Where is he assigned, ma’am?” the woman said.

  “He’s a criminal investigator with the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Office. He was just at a press—”

  “This is the Chicago Police Department, ma’am.”

  “I know that. But he just took part in a televised press conference, and I’m sure it originated there at Headquarters.”

  “Ma’am, I—”

  “It’s about the killings of those priests, and Wardell was at the press conference and I need to speak with him. He … he’s expecting my call. It’s about the murders.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to transfer you. Hold on.”

  She was transferred twice more and by the time she got to someone who knew what she was talking about, she learned that Wardell had left just minutes ago and was presumably driving back to Rockford. “Can you reach him in his car?” she asked. “Or give me his cell phone number?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, ma’am.” They were long on politeness and short on what she needed. “I suggest you try his home office in Rockford.”

  “I don’t suppose you have that number handy,” she said.

  “Actually, I do.”

  She took down the number, called Rockford, went through several transfers, and finally got someone who said Wardell would be at a meeting in downtown Chicago until about two. He said he would call Wardell and ask him to call her. She gave her cell phone number and hung up, as out of breath by that time as though the obstacle course she’d just run had been a physical one.