ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel)

by Susan A Fleet

  “And he’s the priest you saw talking to Lynette at the mall?

  “Yes.” Daily gazed at him, his sapphire-blue eyes full of entreaty. “Please don’t make me talk to the FBI agents on the taskforce.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “If I go to prison, I’ll die there.”

  Conscious of the passing minutes and equally aware of Daily’s anguish, Frank felt conflicted. He respected the man for coming clean, and Daily had just given him the first break in the case. On the other hand, thirty years ago he had fled a murder charge, and a federal warrant never went away.

  But this was no time to make a decision, not with a sixth victim awaiting him. “Thanks for the sketch and the name, Sean. I’ll be in touch.”

  He hurried out to his car, exultant. Now he had the name and a decent likeness of a man who’d been in New Orleans when Kitty was attacked, three months before the killings began, a man seen talking to Lynette Beauregard the day before she was murdered, and that man was a priest.

  _____

  Exhausted by the encounter, Sean slumped in his chair, picturing Renzi’s stunned expression when he admitted that he was George Dillon. He hadn’t thought of himself as George Dillon in years, not even at night, alone in his darkened office with his guilty thoughts. He didn’t dare think the name lest he slip up and speak it aloud. He was Sean Daily. Father Sean Daily.

  A hacking cough wracked him. He’d smoked too many cigarettes last night. Unable to sleep, he had slipped out of bed without waking Aurora, sleeping like an angel beside him, and crept downstairs to his office to think, tormented by doubt, trying to anticipate Renzi’s reaction when he gave him the sketch and told him about Father Tim, and his own years as a fugitive.

  And now that the ordeal was over, what was the verdict? No verdict.

  Renzi had rushed off to investigate another murder, judging by his expression after taking the phone call. Did Renzi believe his declaration that he hadn’t killed Judy Lomax? Lord knows, it was true.

  But even if Renzi believed it, he was still a fugitive.

  He rubbed his bleary eyes, thinking of Mary. She was dying, and there was so much he didn’t know. So much he wanted to know. Was Ralph an easygoing charmer like his old man? Did he look like his mother or his father? Was he married? If Ralph was married, he might have children.

  A warm glow flooded his chest. Maybe he had a grandson!

  The glow faded quickly. The federal warrant was still active. What if Renzi turned him in? Needles of panic prickled his spine. Maybe he’d go to the bank right now, withdraw what little money there was, get in his car and disappear. He had done it before and he could do it again.

  Overwhelmed by the thought, he slumped back in his chair. The last time he’d fled he was twenty-seven, strong and healthy. Now he was old and weary and sick. And what about Aurora, his steadfast companion all these years? His lover and best friend. He couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. But if he told her about the Lomax case, she would make him go back and fight the charges. And if he went to prison, he’d lose her forever.

  He looked down at his yellow legal pad. As the endless arguments churned through in his mind he had filled two lines with Frank’s name and two more with Ralph’s. If he ran off again, no one would respect him. Not Frank, not Ralph, and not Aurora. He couldn’t stand that.

  And now there was another victim. That made six. Maybe his sketch would help stop these horrible murders. He took out the photocopy he’d made and studied it. He had taken an instant dislike to Krauthammer. The man was so self-righteous and sanctimonious. Over the years he’d come to realize that those who were overly pious often hid vices of their own. But he found it hard to believe that this handsome young priest was a killer.

  He heard the rectory door open, heard Aurora call, “Sean?”

  With a resigned sigh, he put the sketch in his top drawer and went to the kitchen. She set a plastic bag from Rite Aid on the counter and looked at him expectantly. “Did you show him the sketch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And you told him the name of that priest?”

  “I told him everything.” He embraced her and held her close. “Now I’ve got to tell you. It all began in a little town in New Hampshire …”

  _____

  Miller was leaning against his unmarked Crown Vic when Frank arrived at the crime scene, a one-story cottage with green shutters and a neat lawn bordered by a white picket fence. Uniformed officers guarded both ends of the block to keep the gawkers and reporters at bay. Squad cars were scattered helter-skelter along the street, and the CSU van was still out front.

  Miller dropped his cigarette in the gutter and said, “We better hurry. The coroner’s almost done, but Norris is on his way. He was in Baton Rouge when the news broke, probably barreling down the I-10 right now.”

  “Let’s get in there,” Frank said, and started up the walk. Get in and out fast before Norris showed up, playing Russian roulette, as usual.

  The entry door opened onto the living room. Two men in black jackets with FBI lettered on the back turned to look when he and Miller entered the room, then resumed their low-voiced discussion. The window blinds were closed and a bare bulb in an overhead fixture cast harsh light over a blue loveseat, a maple rocker with a blue-plaid cushion, and a maple coffee table. On the opposite wall, an entertainment center held a television set, a DVD player, a stereo system with two huge speakers and shelves full of CDs.

  Frank wanted to examine those CDs, wanted to check out her books and her clothes, her medicine cabinet and refrigerator, anything to get a feel for the victim, but Norris was on his way, and the most important evidence was in the bedroom. On the way past coffee table he saw copies of TV Guide and Broadcast News. Then, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see, he followed Miller down a short hall to the victim’s bedroom.

  From the doorway, he studied the small square room. To his left, gray fingerprint powder smudged the half-open door of a closet. To his right, more powder marred the seat of a chair and a makeup table with a circular mirror. No message on the mirror. No blood-spatter anywhere.

  Facing the door was a double bed, a four-poster with maple turnings at the head, shorter ones at the foot. The woman’s nude body was propped into a seated position against the headboard, arms dangling by her sides, head lolling to one side. Blond hair framed her face, and her mouth gaped open, revealing the ugly stump of her tongue, dotted with dried blood.

  No matter how many victims Frank encountered, the first glimpse always sickened him. For some reason, this was worse. He’d seen crime scene photos of the other victims, but photographs couldn’t convey the grotesque staging, the woman’s utter vulnerability and helplessness. He clenched his jaw, infuriated by the deliberate degradation of a human being.

  Dr. Albert DeMayo, the Orleans Parish coroner, stood by the bed, an older man with thinning gray hair combed over his scalp. Shoulders hunched inside a baggy suit, he aimed a camera at the victim’s face for a close-up. The camera flashed. After jotting notes in a spiral pad, DeMayo looked at them.

  Frank raised a hand in greeting, and Miller said, “How you doing, Al?”

  DeMayo puffed his cheeks and shook his head, regarding them with a grim frown. “Another one. I’m getting damn sick of this.”

  Frank didn’t know DeMayo that well, had only talked with him a few times. Knowing he’d get more cooperation by being respectful, he said, “Don’t let us interrupt. I’ve got a couple of questions when you’re done.”

  “Give me five minutes,” DeMayo said, and turned back to the body.

  He nudged Miller into the hall. “Fill me in on the victim.”

  “Melody Johnson, twenty-four, part time announcer at WCLA, the local PBS radio station. She works the Saturday and Sunday overnights.”

  Keeping a watchful eye on DeMayo, Frank said, “Who found her?”

  “Station employee. Melody was on call for extra shifts. The program director needed a last minute fill-in, called her at
eight this morning and left a message. When she didn’t call back by noon he paged her, got no callback and got worried. He says Melody’s very reliable, blah-blah-blah.”

  “How long did she work there? Did he know her well?”

  “Her last job was at an FM station in Rhode Island. She moved here three months ago for this one. The program director sent his assistant over here. Melody’s car was in the driveway. The woman rang the bell, got no response and called 911. Dispatch sent a squad car. The first officer tried to look inside, but the blinds were closed. It took him a while to locate the owner, took a while for the owner to get here.”

  “Did she live alone?”

  “She told the owner she’d be the only one living here. The place is small, only one bedroom.”

  “Yeah, but she might have a boyfriend. When was her last shift?”

  “The Sunday overnight. She got off at five-thirty this morning.”

  Frank saw DeMayo pull off his gloves and drop them in his valise. He jerked his head at Miller and they stepped into the bedroom.

  “Any estimate on TOD, Doctor DeMayo?” Frank asked.

  “Judging from the lividity and the degree of rigor, I’d say she died less than twelve hours ago. The core body temp might not help much because the AC was on. My best guess? Sometime early this morning. We’ll know better after the autopsy.”

  Frank edged closer to the bed. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Not at all. I’m done.”

  The stench of death—a pungent mixture of urine, feces and the faint coppery odor of blood—increased as he neared the bed. Block letters printed in Magic Marker on the victim’s stomach said: PUNISH ALL SINNERS.

  Following his gaze, DeMayo said, “Punish all sinners. What a load of crap! He’s the sinner, and I can’t think of a bad enough punishment for him.”

  “Looks like she lost bladder control.” Frank pointed to a stain on the sheet below the victim’s thighs. “Can you tell if it was pre or post-mortem?”

  “Bladder control stopped when she died, of course, but it could have been before.” Realizing the implication of the question, DeMayo frowned. “From fear, you mean?”

  He nodded. The maggot didn’t just kill them, he toyed with them first, got off on the panic in their eyes. Indicating the pinpoint skin hemorrhages on woman’s wrists, he said, “Looks to me like she struggled.”

  “Right,” DeMayo said. “Same thing on her ankles, but whatever he used to tie her up, CSU didn’t find it. No rope, no cord, nothing.”

  Frank evaluated the woman’s build. Even in death she had the look of an athlete, well-muscled arms and calves. Other than the marks on her wrists and ankles, there were no obvious bruises on her body. No defensive wounds. He bent closer to examine her face.

  “Petechial hemorrhages in both eyes,” DeMayo said. “See the dots of blood in the conjunctivae, the pink tissues around the eyeball? If you look close there’s bruising around her nose and mouth. I’d say he smothered her. The CSU team bagged the bed pillows and took them as evidence. ”

  Frank nodded. He had already assumed the COD was suffocation, like the others. That wasn’t what he wanted to ask DeMayo about.

  “What’s that on her cheek?”

  “Hemangioma, commonly known as a port wine stain.” DeMayo spread his fingers above the burgundy-colored mark, measuring it. “Almost four inches. Too bad. She had a beautiful face. Well, half of it was beautiful.”

  Frank turned, anxious to leave now that the coroner had answered his question, but DeMayo touched his arm. “See her tongue? Cut post-mortem or we’d see more blood. Mouth wounds bleed profusely, but when the heart stops, blood circulation stops too, and the blood starts clotting. He used heavy shears, same as he did with the others, the frigging psycho.”

  “Show me the body,” a voice boomed from down the hall.

  Norris. Frank gave Miller a look—Head him off—and Miller hustled out of the room.

  “Thanks for your help, Dr. DeMayo.” He turned toward the door, gut churning, hoping to find a rear exit he could use to avoid Norris.

  No such luck. Norris barreled into the room, stopped short and scowled. “What are you doing here, Renzi?”

  “I caught the news on my scanner, came over to see if I could help out.”

  Norris studied him silently for several seconds, and an angry flush mottled his cheeks. “Wait outside. We need to talk.”

  Without a word, he left the house and joined Miller in the Crown Vic.

  “What did Norris say?” Miller asked, his expression anxious.

  “Told me to wait outside. He wants to talk to me. I told him I heard the news on the scanner in my car.”

  “Thanks, man. Last thing I need is Norris on my ass.”

  “Me, too. Maybe I’ll split, talk to him after he calms down.”

  “That won’t be anytime soon.” Miller jerked his head at the little white cottage. “This’ll cause a shitstorm.”

  He massaged his temples, wishing his headache would go away, contemplating the decisions he had to make. Should he tell Norris about the priest and show him Daily’s altered sketch? Norris was already pissed about finding him at the crime scene, and at this point he had no concrete evidence to link Krauthammer to the murders. For all he knew, Daily could be lying. Daily was a fugitive. Should he turn Daily in to the feds? Would they cut the old man some slack if his tip helped them stop the killer?

  And on top of everything else a new theory was forming in his mind.

  “Melody Johnson had a nasty birthmark on her cheek,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Miller puffed his cigarette. “So?”

  “Seems to me our killer picks women with physical flaws or emotional scars. Lynette talked to Father Daily a year before she was murdered. She was pregnant and too scared to tell her parents. Suellen’s brother said his parents were pissed at her because she got caught necking with a priest. He won’t admit it, but he was down on her, too.”

  “Suellen Mathews got caught with a priest? You think he—”

  “No. I checked him out. He’s been living in Seattle for the last four years. But both those girls were emotionally vulnerable. Now we got Melody Johnson with an ugly birthmark on her face. That’s three out of six. Maybe the other three had some kind of hang-up, too.”

  Miller nodded slowly. “Insecure because of a physical flaw or an emotional trauma, our guy spots it and leads the little lambs to slaughter.”

  “Right. I’ll check on the others. Patti Cole, Dawn Andrews and the first victim. Jesus, I can’t even remember her … oh yeah, Cheryl Richard. I’ll call Dr. DeMayo and ask him about physical flaws. He saw all the victims.” He opened his door. “I think we should split before Norris comes out.”

  “Right.” Miller cranked the car, looked past Frank and said, “Oh fuck!”

  He turned and saw Norris storming down the sidewalk. He got out of the car and Norris barreled up to him, red-faced and furious.

  “Three strikes and you’re out, Renzi. First you team up with Rona the Black-Plague Reporter and shoot off your mouth. Then you tell me about a prostitute that told you a story you think is so credible and you believed her, but when I ask you to go pick her up, she’s dead.”

  Frank wanted to deck him, decided it would be a big mistake. He heard a car door slam, turned and saw Miller standing on the other side of the car.

  “And then,” Norris said, “after I order you not to talk to reporters, throw you off the taskforce and tell you in no uncertain terms that you are off this case, you show up at the latest crime scene like a bad penny.”

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist saying, “How’d it go with that black guy you questioned? Is he a solid suspect?”

  “Fuck you, Renzi! What you need is a few months of desk duty. I’ll call Captain Dupree and see that you get it.” Norris turned and stalked away.

  “Fuck you too,” he muttered. Now they had six victims. Sean Daily, a suspect in an old murder case, had given him the name an
d a likeness of a possible suspect, and he was about to be chained to a desk.

  Miller circled the car. “Think I’ll stay out of his way for a while,” he said, adding with a faint smile, “I dug it when you asked about the scary black man. The guy had an iron-clad alibi, so Norris had to release him.”

  Frank nodded, debating whether to tell Miller about Daily’s sketch of the priest he’d supposedly seen with Lynette Beauregard the day before she was murdered. But he’d already been burned by one tip, Rona putting his name in her front-page column for the whole world to see. No, this time he would wait and see if the tip panned out before he told anyone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Monday 7:20 A.M.

  When Frank arrived at St. Margaret’s Church, gray drizzle shrouded the block-long collection of white stucco buildings. Yellow school buses stood empty in the parking lot, having delivered their load of summer school students. The church itself was circular, with magnificent stained-glass windows. The rectory was across the street, a stately two-story building with Georgian columns, flanked by manicured shrubbery and colorful flowerbeds.

  But church officials were leery of police inquiries these days, so Frank avoided the rectory and went to the school. Inside an office bright with fluorescent lights, an older woman with short, snow-white hair stood behind a waist-high counter, six feet tall and rail-thin, bony wrists visible below the sleeves of her black habit. Her nametag said Sister Esther Emmanuel.

  He flashed his photo-ID, introduced himself and said, “I understand Melody Johnson was a member of this parish.”

  The nun’s expression turned mournful. “Indeed she was, Lord help us, a lovely girl. I still can’t believe it. Just last Friday she was here at the school, playing DJ for the fundraiser dance.”

  “Were you at the dance?”

  With a faint smile, Sister Esther Emmanuel said, “Yes. I don’t dance, but I was there. Melody did a fine job. She had a beautiful voice.”