Besides, he hated politics, and the chief’s job was mostly political.
Red Robeson had been the ideal candidate. He was from New York, had worked in a variety of police agencies, and he had connections in Washington. He was friendly, but as far as Jennings knew, wasn’t a true friend to anyone on the force. He had a penchant for telling jokes and setting minds at ease with his wide smile and easygoing nature, but it was a ruse. Robeson had a way of keeping even the closest people to him at arm’s length. He’d lost his wife to cancer nearly ten years ago and had seemed to pick himself up by his bootstraps without missing a beat.
“I wondered if you were going to look at all three of these,” Jennings said.
Robeson was chewing on his lower lip in concentration, his fingers splayed across the photos. “This really complicates things,” he said, his eyes never leaving the desktop.
“I imagine it does,” Jennings replied.
“I was talking about you, Rick. Cavanaugh tells me you’re making waves.”
For a long moment it was quiet in the room, neither man speaking. Outside rain swept against the window.
“It’s the same killer, Red.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not up to me.”
“You kept those photos for a reason.”
“Insurance.”
Jennings nodded. “The part I could never get was the big guy they were chasing. What was so important about him that a murder had to be covered up?”
“These are things no one is supposed to talk about, ever.”
“But you kept insurance.”
Robeson was now looking Jennings directly in the eye. “Don’t go there, Rick. Just do your job and find us a killer. Okay?”
“What if I do, Red? What if I find us a killer and he turns out to be the one you don’t want?”
“I’ll deal with that if and when the time comes.”
On the way out of the office Jennings tried to keep an empty place in the center of his mind and not think the thoughts he was thinking.
Chapter 39
The killer entered the apartment building through the front entrance. It was broad daylight, but it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t need to push anyone here. It was okay if they saw him. Better actually if someone did. He went upstairs to the second floor, marched down the corridor and knocked on the door to apartment number seven. When the door opened a crack the hunched elderly man on the other side stared at him with circumspect eyes.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to apologize,” said the killer.
“For what?”
“For last night.”
“You have some serious problems, young man.”
“I’m working on it. Can I come in?”
“You can apologize from out there,” said the elderly man, squinting suspiciously at him.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” said the killer, “but I have a gift for you.”
“What is it?”
“I need to show you.”
“So show me.”
“Only if you let me in.”
“Oh, all right,” said the elderly man. He was lonely and gullible and rarely did anyone offer him friendship, let alone gifts. The door closed and the killer heard the sound of a chain lock being slid along its track. In a moment the door opened and the old man stepped aside. The killer entered the apartment and closed the door behind him, staring at the old man. “Well, what it is it?” the old man asked impatiently. “Come on, get on with it.”
The killer wore blue jeans and a long-tailed chamois shirt over a baggy-fitting t-shirt. The old man squinted his eyes at the killer thinking there was something odd about the way he looked, but he could not quite grasp what it was. Something just didn’t seem right.
The killer reached behind him and extracted a knife from beneath the Chamois shirt. The old man was a Korean War veteran, and although it had been many decades since he’d been in the war, he immediately recognized the knife. It was a Ka-Bar, the standard military issue combat knife. He let out a squawk, turned and tried to make it to his bedroom door, but wasn’t nearly fast enough. The killer caught him in two lunging steps, the knife thrust forward catching the old man in the back just below the right ribcage. Carried by the killer’s forward momentum, the knife went all the way in to the hilt. The old man tried to scream but only managed a small whimper. The killer extracted the knife and plunged it in again, and again, and again, so fast that it was just a blur. By the time the old man hit the floor he was dead and he’d been stabbed seven times. Only then did blood begin to flow out of his wounds.
The killer walked slowly to the bathroom and washed the knife clean in the sink, all the while looking at himself in the mirror, admiring himself, primping, preening, marveling at how handsome he was, how extraordinarily good he looked considering the circumstances. He was thinking about all those he had killed, and all those that still deserved to die. One at a time, he thought. And anyone else who gets in the way. When the knife was clean and he was through admiring himself, he went out and carefully opened the apartment door, checking to see that the coast was clear. When he was certain it was safe, he stepped out, closed the door, making sure it was locked behind him, and as he strolled down the hallway he cheerfully sang a beautiful song inside his head.
Chapter 40
Later that afternoon Rosemary came in and dropped a sheet of paper in front of Jennings. “Thought you might like to see this,” she said.
Jennings perused the paper. It was a telex from the state police. Four nuns had been shot execution-style late last night at a convent in the small community of Peaks Mills, Maine. So far there were no suspects and the state police were trying to keep as tight a lid on it as possible. Even so, the story had already leaked to the press.
Jennings whistled. “Jesus,” he said.
“Jesus is right.”
“I think it’s a professional hit,” Rosemary said.
“Yeah, it does appear that way,” Jennings said looking thoughtfully back at the release. “But why would anyone want to assassinate nuns?”
“Don’t know, but if I were to speculate I’d say to keep them silent about something.”
Jennings looked sharply at Rosemary. “You dug something up, didn’t you?”
Rosemary tried not to smile.
Jennings waited. Rosemary had been his assistant for more than twenty years. She was an efficient and loyal friend with what seemed to be an almost supernatural intuition about the way Jennings’s mind worked.
“Two of the dead nuns, Sister Mary-Catherine Summers and Sister Agnes Beaulieu were on the staff of Saint Francis Orphanage on Apocalypse Island thirty years ago when it was destroyed by fire,” Rosemary told him.
Jennings whistled again. “How did you find that out?”
“A little bird told me.”
Jennings made a face. “Okay, any details beyond that?”
“Nope. They went from there to the convent at Peaks Mills and pretty much dropped out of sight. They’ve been living a monastic life of labor and anonymity ever since. Until last night.”
“Why now?” Jennings asked rhetorically.
“Something has changed,” Rosemary replied.
“But what?” Jennings said.
Rosemary shrugged. “You’re the detective, Rick.”
“Did this little bird happen to give you any more names?”
Rosemary handed him another sheet of paper.
Jennings quickly scanned down through the list. He saw clergy members as well as some locals. Some of the names surprised him. “What about government people?”
“Those are a little harder. All classified.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jennings said. “So who’s the little bird?”
“Your buddy over at the Examiner. Persephone Wilder. She asked me to deliver the info directly to you. Supposedly there’s something coming out in the late edition.”
“Christ, how did she...?”
“Who k
nows,” Rosemary replied. This time her smile was impish. “From what I hear she’s very congenial. Maybe she’s got a buddy in the State Police too.”
“Now wait a minute,” Jennings said. “We’re not that friendly. We just like each other is all.”
“Yeah, sure, Rick.”
“I’m serious. She’d never go for a guy like me.”
“Meaning?”
Jennings cleared his throat, as he felt a flush cover his face.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Rosemary said. “You’re not a bad looking guy.”
“No?”
“Could use a little gym time, but other than that...” Rosemary’s voice trailed off.
Jennings frowned, not sure if what he’d just heard was compliment or something else entirely. “Gee thanks.”
“Always willing to help,” Rosemary said and turned to leave. “She wants you to call her.”
“You mean Wilder?”
“Who else have we been talking about? Her cell phone number’s there on the desk pad in front of you.”
Jennings picked up the phone. “By the way, thanks for the heads up, and for keeping this just between you and me.”
Rosemary stopped and turned back around. “What’s the deal with the young female police detective from Hartford?”
“She’s an old friend.”
“I know who she is. I just don’t know why she’s here.”
“Let’s just say the world works in mysterious ways.”
Rosemary glared at him. “Your brain works in mysterious ways.”
“Glad you recognize that,” Jennings said.
“Just be careful, Rick, okay? I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jennings said. “By the way, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“That’s two of us,” Rosemary said and left the room.
Chapter 41
Persephone Wilder picked up on the first ring. “You know I can’t reveal my sources,” she said when Jennings pressed her about how she’d gotten the news of the dead nuns so quickly.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jennings said. “But you’re the one who called me, remember?”
“You got anything for me on the ‘Cross My Heart’ killings, Rick?”
Jennings sighed. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Not yet anyway. But you’ll be the first to know when I do.”
“I bet I will.”
“I’m a little confused about something,” Jennings said.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“How did you know that two of those nuns worked at St. Francis? And do you think it’s relevant?”
“It just might be.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m still working on it. That good enough?”
“Oh I get it,” Jennings said. “You’re interested in a quid pro quo.”
“I figure what I gave you is worth something.”
“Just what do you know about Apocalypse Island?” Jennings asked.
After a short moment of silence Wilder said, “Listen, Rick, I’m taking a huge risk here. The part about Apocalypse Island won’t be in the piece.”
“Why not?”
“My editor won’t allow it. He says it’s not relevant.”
“So why are we talking?”
“I’m a little nervous,” she said, her voice catching in her throat as if she was choking back emotion. “I wanted you to know. Just in case...”
“Are you okay, Ms. Wilder?”
“Call me Seph.”
“Okay...Seph. Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s just a feeling.”
“Like maybe you’re getting too close to something?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Does your editor know who your source is?”
“I told him the same thing I told you and he went ballistic.”
“Are you sure about the information?”
“As sure as I can be. When it comes to that island, truth is hard to come by.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Jennings said. “Maybe we should get together and talk face to face.”
“I’d like that,” Wilder said. “Tell you what, give me a day or so and I’ll see what else I can dig up. Maybe by then you’ll have something for me and we can do some dealing. How’s that sound?”
“Be careful, Seph,” Jennings said as he hung up the phone.
Chapter 42
He couldn’t stop thinking about Seph Wilder, about the way her voice had caught in her throat when she’d told him she was nervous about the information she’d received. He tried to put it aside so that he could concentrate on the night ahead, but he wasn’t having much success.
Laura showed up at his apartment at quarter to eight. Spooky, Jennings’s elderly black cat lounged on the back of an easy chair. Laura went over and gave the cat some special attention, Spooky responding by arching her back, whipping her tail about and purring loudly. Jennings had rescued Spooky from the downtown shelter a few months after Molly’s death and he had never once regretted the decision. She’d provided company and comfort when Jennings had needed it most, in those dark days and endless nights when the despair had threatened to drag him to hell.
The wire was a simple but effective device that was easily concealed beneath Laura’s little black dress. Thank God for modern technology. Jennings put the earpiece in his ear and tested the device. It worked well. He told her how beautiful she looked, warned her to be extra cautious and sent her on her way.
He knew she was a good cop, nevertheless, he felt increasingly uneasy about asking her to do a job he didn’t trust anyone in his own department to do.
After she left she spoke to him occasionally to confirm that the device was still working. If he stopped hearing her he was supposed to call her cell phone.
Even so, Jennings was increasingly uneasy.
He spent a few moments petting Spooky while staring at his locked liquor cabinet, gazing at the bottles of booze behind the glass, knowing that keeping them there in the open was the best possible thing he could do for his addiction. More than once he’d been accused of being a sadist, the way he constantly tested his own resolve. It had been like this since his downward spiral following Molly’s death. But he’d known from day one that it was the only way. AA would never work for a guy like him. He hated the whole idea of it. They were a bunch of sorry whiners who took themselves and their silly pledges way too seriously. Most went back to the booze eventually anyway. So what the hell was the point? He’d never attended an AA meeting and he never would.
So he suffered alone. And sometimes, when things got tough, like they were now, it took everything he had to not unlock that door.
He went to his desk and sat down in front of the computer. He entered his private pass key and pulled up everything there was on the killings, including the grisly photographs of Janet Owen strapped to a cross-shaped tombstone and Amy Salinger lying in a pool of filthy water at the city landfill. He looked at autopsy photos, crime scene photos, reports from the crime lab and the coroner. He reread statements from friends, family and acquaintances, interviews with tattoo artists, club owners, bouncers and musicians. He studied everything about the victims, the symbolism, the similarities and differences, the fact that neither seemed to have been sexually assaulted, and then he studied them some more. And he thought about what he’d seen—or what he thought he’d seen—at both crime scenes.
What he came up with was the stuff he already knew, that the only known common thread was Danny Wolf, who’d had a sexual relationship with both victims. But there was absolutely no forensic evidence linking Wolf to either crime.
The thing that struck him most, above everything else, was that the murders seemed unnaturally contrived, as if the killer wanted the world to know he was out there and open for business. These weren’t crimes meant to be hidden away or buried in a deep grave never to be uncovered. Just the opposite, actually. These killings were blat
ant and open. The killer was saying “look at me. I’m smart and thorough and there’s a reason for what I’m doing. I dare you to figure out what it is. I dare you to catch me.”
Jennings groaned. Next he went back five years to the woman found on the walking trail at Falmouth Park.
The revelation that Wolf had probably known her, or at least knew who she was, had been a real shocker. But he couldn’t talk about that, could he? He couldn’t even consider it in the investigation, because officially the woman hadn’t been murdered, she’d died of a heart attack. It killed him that no one would ever face justice for murdering her.
Her death didn’t even warrant front page news, just a small mention on the obit page. Yet, he and others on the force knew beyond a doubt that she had been brutally murdered. Killed in exactly the same way as these two latest victims. Had the killer wanted that one to be put on public display as well? Jennings thought that he probably had, but some twist of fate had caused members of a clandestine government agency to intervene and bury the truth.
Why? What actually had gone down that night? And was Wolf really at the heart of this whole mess?
It was bugging the shit out of him that he didn’t know. And it was killing him that he had never been allowed to carry out a proper investigation of that woman’s death. What did Robeson know? What did Cavanaugh know? What did the local Catholic archdiocese know? Who else knew? And why were they hiding evidence that could bring a killer to justice? The implications of these questions sent chills down his spine.
And now he wasn’t sure if the murdered nuns in Peaks Mills had simplified the case or complicated it. Instinct told him that there was a connection between those murders and the murders here in the city. Somehow it all led back to Apocalypse Island. But instinct wasn’t enough, was it? He needed some solid evidence.
Apocalypse Island Page 15
