“What about Father Krauthammer? Was he there?”
“Father Tim? Yes.” Her blue eyes turned wary. “Why do you ask?”
“Did he ask Melody to be the DJ?”
“No, Jimmy Tate was in charge of the music. He’s president of the parish youth group.”
“Could I talk to him?”
“Not without his parents’ permission. Besides, Jimmy’s not in summer school. He’s very smart, a fine boy.” She gave him a conciliatory smile.
Working hard to mask his frustration, he smiled back.
A circular clock on the wall gave an audible click, a bell clanged, and boisterous voices sounded in the hall. He turned and saw students surge past the office door. But Jimmy Tate wasn’t one of them. This fishing expedition had been for nothing, and if he didn’t hurry he was going to be late for work—desk duty, assuming Norris had made good on his threat.
“Well, thanks for your time, Sister.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you catch this terrible killer, Detective Renzi. Everyone’s scared to death.” Her eyes softened. “Father Tim is in charge of the youth group. Why don’t you talk to him? He officiates at the early Mass every day. He’s probably at the rectory right now eating breakfast.”
But he didn’t want to talk to Father Tim in the rectory. He wanted to talk to the priest outside of his territory, where no one would interrupt them.
“He could tell you about Melody,” Sister Esther Emmanuel said. “I saw him chatting with her at the dance.”
Bingo! He thanked her again and left the office, adrenaline pumping as he hurried down the hall, dodging students in green-plaid uniforms. Not only did Father Timothy Krauthammer know Melody Johnson, he’d been seen talking to her at a dance two nights before she’d been murdered.
_____
Occupying one half of the oversized television screen in the parlor of St. Margaret’s rectory, the anchorwoman said, “Thank you for joining us, Ms. Jefferson.” On the other half of the screen, an unsmiling Rona Jefferson gazed into a remote camera in the Clarion-Call newsroom.
“My pleasure,” she said. “Someone has to stand up for justice.”
The sinner leaned forward in his chair and studied her ebony-skinned face: eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, thin lips clamped in a line. A loud turquoise turban covered her hair. She looked like one of those disgusting rap singers, wailing their sinful lyrics.
A resounding belch from Monsignor Goretti cut into his thoughts. The Monsignor clasped his hands over his ponderous belly, a belly that was working overtime to digest two helpings of Sister Mary Joseph’s fried catfish dinner. Seated beside the Monsignor, Father Cronin was staring at Rona Jefferson with undisguised distaste.
“Ms. Jefferson,” said the newswoman, “Shouldn’t you have waited for the taskforce to release the sketch?”
“No. Agent Norris won’t endorse it. He doesn’t want young women to know what the killer looks like, but I do.” She waved a copy of the sketch. “This man, a white man, attacked Kitty Neves, but Norris is convinced the killer is black. He’s held three brothers in custody overnight and grilled them for hours. But their alibis were airtight, so he had to release them and—”
“Excuse me,” the anchorwoman interrupted, “but how do you—”
“This isn’t the first time racial bias has obstructed justice. Not by a long shot. Back in the ‘80s they arrested a black man for those child murders in Atlanta—”
“Ms. Jefferson—”
“They sent Wayne Williams to prison on circumstantial evidence and to this day many people believe that he was wrongly convicted!”
Clearly flustered, the newswoman said, “Ms. Jefferson, you say the Tongue Killer is a priest, but it’s very difficult for our Catholic viewers to believe such a theory.”
“Exactly right!” Father Cronin exclaimed, pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. “No one in their right mind believes it.”
As if she had anticipated this sort of reaction, Jefferson said, “Well, I’m a Catholic, and I believe it. Kitty said her attacker was a priest. The Tongue Killer was afraid she’d identify him, so he killed her.”
The sinner clenched his fists. How dare this miserable reporter say he was afraid? The prostitute deserved to die, flaunting her body in that sinful red dress. She was an evil temptress, selling her body for money—
“The Tongue Killer is a priest!” Jefferson exclaimed. “A white priest, not a black one. Hundreds of priests serve the Archdiocese of New Orleans, but only a handful are African-American. Norris should tell every young woman in the area to beware of white men in priest’s collars.”
The sinner bit his tongue to keep from screaming. If she kept up these accusations, every slut in New Orleans would view him with suspicion.
“The woman’s a fraud!” Monsignor Goretti shouted, waving his hands in the air. “She’s just stirring up trouble to make a name for herself.”
“Serial killer priest,” Father Cronin snorted. “No one believes that.”
“Don’t be so sure.” The Monsignor aimed a dark look at Father Cronin. “We have many enemies these days, enemies all too eager to persecute us.”
The sinner remained silent, rage boiling into his throat as he gazed at Rona Jefferson. The woman had to be stopped.
Just as a commercial flashed on the screen, an ad for Viagra, the sinner noted in disgust, the telephone rang. Monsignor looked at Father Cronin, who rose obediently, then sank back in his wingchair as footsteps sounded in the hall. The ringing ceased. Father Cronin gazed at the TV screen, rapt.
As the Viagra commercial concluded Sister Mary Joseph, a ruddy-faced woman with gray hair, came to the door. “Excuse me, Monsignor. The Archbishop’s assistant wishes to speak with you.”
Monsignor Goretti levered himself out of the recliner and left the room with a sour expression. A conversation with the Archbishop’s assistant often spelled trouble. It wasn’t long in coming.
Monsignor burst back into the room, wide-eyed and agitated. “Cancel your appointments for tomorrow afternoon! Archbishop Quinn has called a convocation, mandatory attendance for every priest in the archdiocese.”
“What time?” Father Cronin asked.
“Four o’clock. Make sure you’re on time, Father Tim.” Monsignor Goretti gave him a stern look. “We mustn’t have anyone from St. Margaret’s straggling in late.”
“I’ll be there early, Monsignor. I promise.” He flashed an obsequious smile, left the parlor, went to his room and locked the door. But visions of the insufferable columnist remained in his mind. To erase them, he focused on Melody. His groin pulsed with remembered excitement.
His latest Absolution had been perfect in every way.
“I’m sorry,” she kept saying, sorry her house was a mess, sorry the ceiling fan didn’t work, sorry her coffeemaker was broken, a litany of sorrows as long as a rosary. It rather captivated him. Later, as he zipped up his pants, his evil need satisfied, he’d seen tears on her face and felt a stab of remorse. A strange feeling, one he’d never experienced, flashing by quicker than a light pole beside a highway. And then it was time for her Absolution.
When she realized she couldn’t escape she said, “Oh Jesus,” a heartrending note of supplication, one that didn’t deter him. He smothered her with the pillow, holding it over her nose and mouth.
But not her eyes. He loved watching their eyes, watching them go wild with desperation, then calm with surrender, then blank. At first Melody’s eyes beseeched him in a silent scream for help, but soon the terror faded and acquiescence began. Finally, her struggles ceased, and her eyes clouded in a vacant stare. It almost seemed as though she had expected it, nodding when he asked if she had enjoyed having sex with her boyfriend. And with him.
Unlike Patti who’d fought him to the bitter end.
He examined his knuckles. The puncture wounds had scabbed over and the scratches on his neck had faded, too. Patti had been a nasty aberration. People were saying he was invincible and they were
right. No one could stop him, not even Rona Jefferson. He would make sure of that.
_____
Three miles from his apartment Frank rounded a corner and began the return trip, dripping sweat as he ran through the soggy early evening heat. Yesterday after his row with Norris, he’d bought a pack of cigarettes, his first in years. The first cigarette tasted awful, the second even worse. He’d thrown the rest in the trash, but his mouth still tasted like an ashtray, and he had a headache that wouldn’t quit.
Running in the heat didn’t help, nor had the bottle of beer he’d belted down while watching Rona’s performance on the news. Two murders in ten days and he was stuck on desk duty. Well, fuck Norris. Riding the desk might curtail his pursuit of the killer, but it only increased his determination. He would work the case on weekends and in the hours before and after work. He would find the killer no matter how many obstacles Norris put in his way.
His cellphone vibrated against his thigh. He slowed to a walk and answered, thinking it might be Maureen, but it was a wrong number. He resumed his run, pounding past an elegant Georgian mansion with stately white columns, alert for Slasher. The first time he’d run past the property a black-and-tan Doberman had slashed across the lawn, utterly silent, and lunged at him, teeth bared, halted only by a six-foot wrought-iron fence. It had scared the hell out of him.
Today, after a half-hearted snarl, Slasher turned and trotted away.
His cellphone vibrated again.
This time it was Miller. “Yo, Frank, where y’at?”
“Out for my mental health run,” he huffed. “What’s up?”
“Sounds like you just ran a marathon, the way you’re puffing.”
He grinned, jogging in place at an intersection, waiting for a car to pass. “Beat you on a basketball court any time, easy layup, for sure.”
“In your dreams. You see Rona on TV?”
“I did indeed. Norris won’t like it.”
“Won’t like what the Mathews kid said either.”
He jogged across the street and perched on a low stone wall in front of a two-story Victorian. “Jonathan? What did he say? When was this?”
“After they finished the interview with Rona. You didn’t watch it?”
“No. After Rona’s lovely remarks, I went out for my run.”
“Should have waited. Jonathan raked Norris over the coals for not preventing Melody Johnson’s murder. He urged witnesses to come forward, and dig this.” Miller chuckled. “Mathews said if they didn’t trust the Norris they should contact Rona.”
“Whoa! Norris will shit his pants.”
“You got that right. I’m wearing a Kevlar vest to work tomorrow.”
Frank mopped sweat off his face with his sleeve. “I called DeMayo today, asked him about any physical flaws on the other victims. He said Dawn Andrews’ left leg was deformed. Her tibia was two inches shorter than the other, which would cause a limp. Even with orthopedic shoes, she’d have an odd gait, he said. And Patti Cole had a severe class-two occlusion.”
“A what?”
“A bad overbite, like buck teeth. DeMayo said he swabbed her teeth, thinking she might have bitten the guy, but he didn’t get anything.”
DeMayo had reinforced his theory that the killer chose women with a physical or emotional vulnerability. Dawn, self-conscious about her limp; Melody’s birthmark; Patti’s protruding teeth; Lynette, emotionally distraught over a pregnancy and her ultra-strict parents; Suellen traumatized by the scandal with a young priest. Priests were father-confessors, able to spot vulnerabilities. Like Father Timothy Krauthammer, maybe.
“Rona’s pushing the race issue,” Miller said, “took some swipes at Norris. But he deserves it. Only thing he had on the latest brother, Rashad’s big and black and works at a health club that two of the victims used.”
“Think he’ll file a lawsuit?”
“That kind of thing? Not worth it. Man, this case creeps me out, everybody on edge, black, white, doesn’t matter. Rona’s right about one thing, though. Not many black priests around here.”
He opened his mouth, on the verge of telling Miller about Father Timothy Krauthammer, but Miller said, “Gotta go, Frank. I gotta check the kids’ homework. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“You got it, partner.” He punched off and began to run.
_____
The sun was an orange-red ball hovering over the horizon when the sinner took the highway exit that dumped him into New Orleans East, a predominantly black area. He had to hurry. The light was fading fast. He’d told Monsignor he was visiting Mrs. Fontenot at the nursing home, which meant he had to make a pro-forma appearance there, too.
Zigzagging through side streets lined with modest bungalows, he came upon a redbrick school house with a blacktopped playground. A group of black teenagers in long-sleeved T-shirts and baggy pants shouted wildly as they clustered under a basketball hoop with a frayed net.
He drove on, anxiously gripping the wheel. Four blocks later the character of the neighborhood changed. Now there were graffiti-sprayed tenements, row upon row of them. He turned a corner, then another and came upon another basketball court. A lone black teen in baggy pants and a raggedy blue T-shirt was shooting hoops in the fading light.
The sinner parked his car and watched him. The kid was tall and muscular, Rasta-hair flapping each time he leaped for a rebound.
He left his car and wandered onto the basketball court. Thud-thud-thud went the ball as the kid dribbled toward the hoop, shot and missed, shot and missed, shot and made it.
“Nice shot,” the sinner called, walking toward him.
The boy looked over, eyes wary, sweat glossing his unsmiling face.
“Pardon me for interrupting, but could I ask you for a favor?”
“Umh.” An unintelligible grunt.
He put on a smile. “It’s a tough job, but I’m sure you could handle it.” No reaction from Rasta-hair, so he added, “I’ll pay you twenty dollars.”
Interest flickered in the boy’s eyes and he slouched closer.
“I need you to catch a blackbird for me.”
Rasta stared at him, expressionless. “Whut you want a blackbird fo'?”
“Don’t worry about that, son. Just catch me the biggest blackbird you can find.” He took out a ten dollar bill. “Here’s half. Another ten when you deliver the bird.”
A dark-skinned hand reached out and snatched the bill. “That be it? Catch you a blackbird?”
“Right. Meet me . . .” He mentally reviewed his schedule. He had an appointment at nine tomorrow. “Meet me here tomorrow morning at eleven and I’ll give you the other ten.”
“Can’t keep the bird till then. Ain’t got no cage.”
He stifled a smile. “I don’t need a live bird.”
Understanding blossomed in Rasta’s eyes. “No problem.”
The kid walked away, bouncing the basketball, thump, thump, thump, broke into a trot and took a shot at the hoop.
“Tomorrow morning at eleven,” he called, but Rasta ignored him.
He returned to his car and drove off, pleased.
One problem solved, but he still needed a delivery system.
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday 10:15 A.M.
The sinner parked beside a vacant lot strewn with rusted car parts, bald tires and crumpled food wrappers and walked around the corner to Gentilly Florists. No window on the brick-front façade, just a scarred wooden door with a picture of a red rose thumb-tacked above a yellowed scrap of paper listing the hours of operation. He didn’t want anyone remembering a priest buying flowers so he’d worn a navy-blue open-necked polo shirt instead of his black shirt and Roman collar
A bell jingled as he stepped inside a tiny shop filled with the sickly-sweet odor of lilacs. Behind the counter a wizened black woman with kinky salt-and-pepper hair looked up and smiled, exposing yellowed teeth.
“Mornin’, suh. Help you?”
“Good morning,” he said, returning her smile. “I’d like a dozen ro
ses in a gift box, please.”
“Red ones? Yellow? White? We got all kinds.”
“Red would be good. In a nice box. They’re a gift.”
“Sho’ thing. Be right back.” The woman turned and ambled into a back room.
He waited impatiently, eyeing an old wind-up alarm clock with cracked glass on the counter. Five interminable minutes later the woman returned with long-stemmed red roses wrapped in green tissue paper. She sniffed the buds and held them out for him to do the same.
“Sho’ do smell sweet. Yo honey like these f’sure.”
“Thank you, they’re lovely. And the box?”
“Yassuh, got one right here.”
She set the roses on the counter as gently as if they were Waterford crystal and bent down behind the counter. Straightening with a grunt, she placed a piece of shiny-white cardboard on the counter. With gnarled fingers, she folded it into a long, narrow box. “Sorry it ain’t got our name on it. We out of those. New batch comin’ next week.”
Perfect. “That’s quite all right,” he said.
With infinite care, the woman lined the box with green tissue-paper. Placed the roses inside. Slid on the cover. Scratched her nose with a forefinger. “That be fifty dollars.”
The amount startled him. Earlier he had withdrawn eighty dollars from an ATM, but he needed some of it for his other errands. He couldn’t put the flowers on his credit card. Reluctantly, he took out three twenties and set them the counter. The woman rang up the order on her register and gave him his change. Now he had only thirty dollars. He hoped it would be enough.
“Do you have a ribbon to tie around the box?”
The woman chuckled, exposing her yellowed teeth. “Yo honey must be sump’n special.” She opened a drawer, took out a roll of crinkled-pink ribbon and wrapped it around the box. Scratched her nose. Tied the ribbon in a bow. Smiled at him.
“Excellent. Thank you.” He took the box and hurried to the door.
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 14
