What would he do without her? How could he refuse her?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell him.”
But not until he figured out a way to hide his true identity.
_____
At a press briefing timed for inclusion on the five o’clock news, Special Agent Burke Norris, local area leaders, and families of the victims gathered on the steps of the State Supreme Court Building in the French Quarter. Below them, reporters, camera crews, and television personalities from CNN, Fox News and the network affiliates jockeyed for space amidst a crowd of tourists and residents that spilled off the sidewalk onto Royal Street.
Standing at a podium thick with microphones, slender and handsome in a cream-colored suit that set off his dark skin, New Orleans Mayor Keith Brown concluded his remarks. “Gather in your churches and pray, but please! Do not to resort to vigilantism! My colleagues and I have requested financial assistance from the federal government that will allow us to increase the number of police patrols in New Orleans and the surrounding metro area.”
This announcement brought prolonged applause, and the assemblage of cameramen panned their lenses over the crowd to capture their enthusiasm. Then, as rays of the setting sun burnished the marble façade of the courthouse and the bronze statue of former U. S. Chief Justice Edward Douglas White, Special Agent Burke Norris claimed the microphones.
“Four days ago a vicious serial killer claimed his fifth victim. Every member of my taskforce—federal, state and local—is committed to solving these crimes. Since 1985, sixty murders of New Orleans-area women have gone unsolved.” His face was a study in outrage. “Sixty women. Murdered. We are reviewing each case to see if it can be linked to the current murders.”
His outraged expression softened. “We understand your frustration and urge you to channel your outrage into constructive action.” Affecting a folksy down-home drawl, he said, “Y’all can be our eyes and ears. We want y’all … we need y’all to help us. Anyone who has any information, please contact us.”
He recited a toll-free number and gestured at the group gathered behind him, his expression somber. “The families and friends of the victims have our deepest sympathy. We pledge to them—and to the entire New Orleans community—we will find the person who committed these horrific murders and we will prosecute that person to the full extent of the law.”
“Agent Norris,” shouted a CNN reporter, “in her column Rona Jefferson raised significant racial issues. Do you believe the killer is black?”
Norris jutted his jaw. “I have never limited our search for a suspect to a specific race. The killer could be white, Hispanic, African-American, Asian, or any combination of the above. We rule out no one. Women should be wary of any stranger who tries to enter their home.”
“Who’s the woman Jefferson wrote about? Have you talked to her?”
“I can’t comment on that.”
“Have you discussed her story with Detective Frank Renzi?”
“Yes.” The muscles in Norris’ jaw bunched. “Next?”
“Do you have any leads on the Patti Cole murder?”
“When we have a lead, you’ll be the first to know. Once again I want to thank you media folks for all of your efforts to help us find the killer.”
With that, Special Agent Norris abruptly left the podium.
_____
Frank turned away from the TV set above the Twin Oaks bar, drank from his bottle of Bud and massaged his temples. Friday nights the place was always jammed, and the noise and the cigarette smoke were giving him a headache. Or maybe it was Norris. He’d made no comment about Kitty, of course, nor would he, now that she was dead.
“Man,” Miller said, swiveling his stool to face him, “I can’t believe Norris dumped you off the taskforce. What an idiot.”
“He’s been dying to shit-can me. Kitty was the perfect excuse. What pisses me off is he told Captain Dupree to pull me off the murder case.”
“You think the killer saw Rona’s column, remembered Kitty and did her, right?”
“Right.” He picked at the label on his Budweiser bottle, thinking six things at once but most of all about Maureen. Ever since she’d called during his row with Norris they’d been playing phone tag, leaving messages. He dug out his cellphone and checked to make sure the power was on.
Miller shook out a cigarette and lit up. “Maybe the killer’s a cop.”
“Whoa! Norris has been saying that all along and you didn’t buy it. What made you change your mind?”
“Everyone on the taskforce knew the woman in Rona’s column was a prostitute. Norris put her name on the timeline.” Miller puffed his cigarette and blew smoke, irritation plain on his face. “I’ve got issues with Norris, but he’s not stupid. Why won’t he buy your theory about Kitty?”
“Because it’s my theory, not his. You think the killer might be a cop. I think he might be a priest. All the victims were Catholic. A priest would be able to bamboozle them. You trust your priest, don’t you?”
A pained look crossed Miller’s face. “I haven’t been to confession in years. My wife bugs me to go every Easter.”
“Okay, for the sake of argument, try this. If you were a young Catholic woman, who would you trust more, a cop or a priest? Which one would you let into your house at night?”
Miller let out a mirthless chuckle. “That’s easy. Certain cops in this town I wouldn’t trust to buy me a Pepsi at Burger King in broad daylight.”
“Go get ‘em, Jonathan!” screamed a female voice.
Startled, Frank looked past Miller at a group of young women in business suits clustered at the other end of the bar. They appeared to be in their twenties, gazing at the television screen as the camera zoomed in on a grim-faced young man with a stubborn set to his jaw.
He nudged Miller. “Let’s catch this. The kid’s got fans.”
Gazing into the camera, the young man said, “My name is Jonathan Mathews. Fifteen months ago my sister, Suellen Mathews, was murdered. Suellen was a saint. Nineteen years old. A college student with a career ahead of her.” Visibly upset, he shouted, “I love you, Suellen. I’ll never forget you. I swear to God, we’ll get the man that killed you and make him pay!”
Relatives and friends of the murder victims stood behind him, arms linked in solidarity, and an older woman began to sob.
As if to commiserate with her grief, Mathews nodded. “Suellen was murdered fifteen months ago. Since then this monster killed three more women. Agent Norris asks witnesses to come forward, but people are afraid, and with good reason. Not long ago, right here in New Orleans, two witnesses were murdered before they could testify at trial. The police failed to protect them. Now we find out that a woman survived an attack by this vicious killer two years ago! If she had felt confident that the police would protect her, she might have come forward sooner, and five women might still be alive.”
Tearful nods from the grief-stricken families behind him.
“Families and friends of the victims have put up a fifty-thousand dollar reward, but we need to offer more. I appeal to the New Orleans community and to God-fearing people everywhere. Send whatever you can to the New Orleans Victims Fund.”
Reading from a slip of paper, he reeled off an 800-number and a website address. Then, staring grimly into the camera, he said, “Five women have been murdered. Murdered and mutilated. On behalf of the victims’ families, I issue this challenge to Agent Norris. Guarantee protection to witnesses so people with information feel safe to come forward! Thank you all for being here to support us. God bless you, and God Bless America.”
Frank turned to Miller. “Is that true, what he said about the witnesses?”
“Yes, unfortunately. Four years ago a women and her six year old were gunned down a month before trial. The kid witnessed a murder. Year before that, a teenager witnessed a drive-by in the project where she lived, ID’d the shooters, got nailed a week later.”
Like Janelle Robinson in Boston, Frank thought, murder
and drivebys being two of the many evils that plagued residents of urban housing projects.
“Did NOPD offer them protection?”
“We did, but they refused, didn’t want to leave their families.”
“And we got sixty cold-case murders since ‘85?”
“More. The ones Norris talked about were only the women.”
Frank finished his beer and set the bottle on the bar. “I’m going to talk to the Mathews kid, see if I can squeeze anything out of him.”
“You’re still gonna work on the case? What about Norris?”
He gave Miller The Look. “The bastard killed those girls and then he killed Kitty. I want him off the street, and the taskforce will never catch him with Norris in charge.”
Miller held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Just asking, Frank. You want to stay on the case, Norris won’t hear about it from me. I’ll help you any way I can. Far as I’m concerned, we’re still partners.”
He slapped Miller’s arm. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”
His phone vibrated against his hip. Maureen, he thought. He grabbed it, and heard Rona’s voice say, “Kitty’s dead, Frank. Someone murdered her.”
“I know. I’m the one that found her. How did you hear about it?”
Miller arched an eyebrow at him. When he mouthed Rona, Miller rolled his eyes and swigged some beer.
“Her mother called me. Dammit, if Norris had paid attention to her story and given her some protection, she’d still be alive.”
He gritted his teeth. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Rona.
“The killer read your column and killed her to keep her quiet. Her tongue wasn’t cut, but that was deliberate. He’s clever.”
“Yeah, he’s clever and Norris is a shit. He didn’t believe her because she’s a prostitute. He doesn’t give a damn that Kitty got murdered, right?”
An accurate assessment, but he could hardly say so.
“When’s your next column?”
“Sunday.”
“Well, find something to write about that doesn’t involve Kitty or the serial killer.”
“Is Norris going to endorse the sketch?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t want to agitate the killer.” It sounded lame even as he said it. Hell, Norris’ biggest worry was agitated politicians.
A long silence from Rona, fireworks on the way, as he had expected. “Rona, whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. You’ll only make things worse.”
“What makes you think I’d do something?” she said, and clicked off.
He put away his phone. Miller looked at him, grimfaced. “What a mess.”
“Damn right. Our killer follows the news. Kitty’s murder got buried on page ten, but if Rona writes a column saying the Tongue Killer did Kitty, the guy will know we’re onto him, be twice as careful.”
_____
Fighting tears, Melody Johnson shut off the microphone, slumped back on her folding chair and stared into space, oblivious to the couples on the gymnasium floor, snuggling close as they danced to one of her golden-oldies: Barbara Streisand’s rendition of “Memory,” from Cats.
Why in the world did I play that song? she thought. It brought back memories all right, unhappy ones.
She had volunteered to play disc jockey for the dance, a fundraiser for St. Margaret’s school and a huge success judging by the attendance: a mix of current students, their parents, and older parishioners whose children had graduated. The president of the youth group had set up a microphone, two multi-disc CD players and quadraphonic speakers in one corner of the gym.
For the most part nature had been kind to Melody Johnson, lustrous honey-blond hair and a voluptuous figure, full breasts mounding beneath her white satin blouse, a slender waist nipped in by the leather belt on her skirt. Almond-shaped eyes and sensuous lips adorned her oval face. She might have been a model, but for the port wine stain that began at her right nostril and splayed over her cheek like a burgundy-red banner.
Her parents had met at a Billy Joel concert and, in a bit of whimsy, named their firstborn Melody. Music was ever present in the Johnson home. A serious child and a straight-A student, Melody idolized Leslie Stahl, whom she resembled, except for the birthmark. She wanted to be a television reporter like Stahl, but her guidance counselor discouraged her. She knew why; he thought no one would hire her because of the birthmark. She majored in Communications anyway. If she couldn’t be on television, she’d be a disk jockey. Her professors at Ithaca College said she had the voice for it—deep and sultry—displayed during her stints on the college radio station.
Radio listeners couldn’t see the ugly stain on her cheek.
After graduation she got a job at a station in Albany. Two years later she landed her dream job at an FM station in Providence, Rhode Island: overnight announcer, playing her beloved classical music, seducing listeners with her melodious voice. Adoring fans wrote her letters. They never saw her face. Then she met Dave. On their second date, he had taken her to see a performance of Cats. Happy times, happy memories.
Six months ago he’d broken their engagement, saying he wasn’t ready for marriage. She knew the real reason. Dave was an up-and-coming lawyer in the District Attorney’s office. His wealthy parents expected their handsome son to be governor of Rhode Island someday, and he didn’t need a wife with a face like hers beside him at the inaugural. After Dave dumped her, she couldn’t abide living in Providence. Three months ago she had taken a part time job on WCLA, a PBS affiliate in New Orleans.
As “Memory” ground to its inevitable sad conclusion her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back and got ready to announce the next song.
_____
Leaning against the opposite wall of the gymnasium, the sinner watched her. Sometimes when he was out late on weekends he listened to her on his car radio. Her voice was striking, low-pitched, silky and smooth. Seductive. According to the CYO president, a football player with a smart-aleck smile, Melody had volunteered her services for the fundraiser. She was a member of the parish and regularly attended Mass at St. Margaret’s.
Strange. He didn’t recall seeing her and he remembered all the women he served, studying their faces as he placed the Communion wafer on their tongue, or in their hands as many preferred. If Melody had received Communion, he would have remembered her. How could he miss that horrible birthmark on her cheek? But her breasts were magnificent, large and round and full, a temptation to any man. He could almost see her nipples through her white blouse.
Hold your sweethearts close, she’d said as she introduced the Streisand tune. It seemed as though her voice quavered when she announced the title: Memory. And moments later she had wiped tears from her eyes.
Perhaps Melody needed consoling. He watched her bring the microphone to her mouth, watched her run her tongue over her lips. His groin stirred and his pulse pounded. She announced the song but the words didn’t register. He heard nothing, saw only her lips and her tongue.
Raucous music blasted from the gigantic quadraphonic speakers, jolting him out of his trance. Seconds later teenaged couples on the dance floor began jerking to and fro with frantic energy. Almost invisible in the shadowy corner of the gym, Melody shut off her microphone.
The sinner headed for the exit nearest her, his stride purposeful, as if he were leaving, but at the last moment he turned and approached her.
“Hi, Melody. I’m Father Tim. Thanks for helping out tonight.”
Tilting her head to keep her cheek in shadow, she smiled. “You’re welcome, Father Tim. I’m happy to do it.”
“I listen to your show sometimes.” He beamed a smile of approval. “You’re an excellent announcer. What a marvelous voice you have, so warm and friendly.”
“Thank you,” she said, and bowed her head, avoiding his gaze.
So I can’t see the pain in her eyes, he thought. Moments ago she’d been weeping. Even now she looked on the verge of tears.
She raised her head but avoided his gaze, licked her lips, rolled them together, obviously ill at ease. “I usually sit near the back.”
“But you have to come to the altar to receive Communion.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers picking at the folds of her skirt. “I haven’t received for a while.”
His heart surged. Melody was a sinner, just as he’d thought!
Adopting a concerned expression, he leaned closer, close enough to smell her spicy scent. “Is something troubling you, Melody? Don’t be afraid. You can tell me.”
She caught her lip between her teeth, frowning, then flashed a smile. A fake smile. “I’m fine, Father. I love my job at the radio station.”
“But somebody doesn’t love you, right?”
His shot in the dark hit home. Her eyes grew bright with tears. He murmured compliments without once looking at her cheek. That would only increase her self-consciousness. He wanted Melody to trust him, wanted her to think of him as her savior. And he was. After she confessed her sins of the flesh, he would give her Absolution.
The ache in his groin pulsed with an angry throb.
Don’t even consider it, warned the voice. She’s too close to home.
Until now he had taken great pains to avoid women in his parish, but the urge was mounting every day, impossible to ignore, mushrooming out of control. And Melody seemed perfect.
He smiled at her, an intense smile, maintaining eye contact, making sure the intensity and the yearning reached his eyes.
“Let’s have coffee some morning after your show,” he said. “I’m up early to say Mass every day, and I’d love to talk to you.”
CHAPTER 10
Saturday 12:20 P.M.
“Did you and Suellen go to the same high school?” Frank asked, more to open up a conversation than anything. He already knew the answer.
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 10
