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The sinner paced the television aisle inside Best Buy at five o’clock, barely able to contain his fury. On dozens of television screens, everywhere he looked, the words mocked him: TONGUE KILLER WITNESS!
Witness? Had someone seen him leave Melody’s house?
The anchorwoman stared into the camera. “Five days ago the Tongue Killer claimed his sixth victim, but now a witness has come forward! You’ll see our exclusive interview with her in a moment, but first, let’s hear what Special Agent Burke Norris said moments ago at his daily news briefing.”
The sinner watched anxiously. Norris said nothing about a witness, but his last words were ominous: “You can help us find the killer. If you notice any unusual behavior by a coworker or a spouse or a boyfriend, call our tipline.” An 800 number appeared on the crawl line below the anchorwoman.
“Now, our exclusive interview!” she said. “Clarion-Call columnist Rona Jefferson has been a relentless critic of the Tongue Killer investigation. Yesterday a witness contacted her and agreed to speak with her on camera. The woman asked that her face not be shown, and we are altering her voice.”
The picture cut to Rona Jefferson in another studio. Behind her, a formless figure was visible behind an opaque screen.
“Tell us what you saw,” Jefferson commanded.
An eerie electronically-altered voice said, “I lived on the first floor below Patti Cole. The night she was murdered I heard noises upstairs. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but later I heard footsteps on the stairs, and when I looked out I saw a priest!”
“Are you certain it was a priest?” Jefferson asked.
“Positive. I stepped out my door and called to him. He was wearing a black shirt and that white turned-around collar they wear.”
“Was he a black priest?”
“Oh, no, he wasn’t black. I couldn’t see his face, but the man I saw was white, definitely. I called out to him: Father, is something wrong? But he didn’t answer. He just kept walking.”
“Thank you. You’ve done a great service by coming forward.”
“But I can’t even live in my own apartment. I’m afraid he’ll kill me!”
Rona Jefferson motioned with her hand, and the light behind the screen went out, leaving the witness in darkness as Jefferson stared into the camera and said, “What more proof do we need? The Tongue Killer is a white priest, and every white priest in the archdiocese should be forced to give a DNA sample to the taskforce to see if it matches the DNA they found on one of the victims. Only then will we apprehend this killer. Back to you, Melissa.”
The sinner’s heart beat at his chest like a hammer. How could there be DNA evidence? He had been careful to leave no trace of himself. He remembered the woman of course. Damn her to hell! Rona Jefferson, too.
“Can I help you with something, Father?” said a male voice.
“No,” he snapped. But when he saw the hurt look on the clerk’s face, he forced a smile. “I’m sorry. That interview upset me.” He gestured at a screen where a new graphic said: SERIAL KILLER PRIEST?
The clerk, a pudgy young man with reddish hair, was instantly sympathetic. “I don’t blame you, Father. It’s outrageous to say such a thing.”
“Thank you. We priests have our cross to bear these days.”
The clerk nodded somberly. “Take care, Father. God Bless.”
Vile thoughts rampaged through his mind as he drove to the rectory. The woman had seen him leaving Patti’s apartment, but she hadn’t seen his face, which meant she couldn’t identify him. His heart settled into a calmer rhythm. The new sketch with the Roman collar didn’t seem to be a problem, either. Monsignor Goretti hadn’t even mentioned it. Father Cronin hadn’t seen it, of course. Yesterday he’d flown to Florida to visit his ailing mother.
But if the police had DNA evidence, he was in trouble.
He parked behind the rectory and went inside, feigning a sickly smile as he entered the dining room. “I hope you’ll excuse me, Monsignor, but I can’t possibly eat dinner. My stomach’s upset. I really need to lie down.”
He did feel rather queasy and the sickening smell of roast pork, mashed yams and fried okra, didn’t help. He hated okra.
Seated at the table, Monsignor Goretti lowered his head and peered over his spectacles. “You’ve been missing a lot of meals lately.”
If you notice any unusual behavior by co-workers . . .
His heart fluttered in alarm as Monsignor’s eyes bored into him. He couldn’t afford to arouse the Monsignor’s suspicions. “It must have been the fried oysters I ate at lunch. And then I had to visit Mrs. Fontenot. Poor lady.”
Monsignor’s eyes remained cool and distant. “That columnist was just on TV with a woman who supposedly saw a priest leave one victim’s apartment. This Jefferson woman wants every priest in the archdiocese to give a DNA sample to the police. Mark my words, Father Tim. If she keeps hounding us, we might have to do it.”
Rage welled up inside him, became a fulminating fury. The dead blackbird had failed to silence Rona Jefferson and her outrageous demand that every priest give a DNA sample to the police.
Threats were useless. It was time for action.
CHAPTER 17
Saturday Omaha, Nebraska 10: 45 A.M.
The odor of baled hay, grass clippings and manure took Frank back to the Saturday mornings when he’d taken Maureen to her riding lessons. Leaning on the three-rail wood fence that enclosed the Omaha Hunt Club rink, he watched Doctor Dana Swenson urge a big bay gelding with white fetlocks toward a jump. A petite woman in forest-green jodhpurs and a matching helmet, she cantered the horse around an oval green set up with jumps of various difficulties. The gelding soared over a double-jump and came to a smooth landing, horse and rider melding as one.
She patted his neck, a reward for a job well done. Locked in a sensuous rocking rhythm, they cantered by, but Swenson ignored him, intent on the next jump. A minute later she trotted through a gate, dismounted and gave the reins to a young groom in faded jeans and a T-shirt. He handed Swenson a quartered apple, which she fed to the horse.
The groom led the horse away, and Swenson approached him, smiling warmly, a lopsided smile, one corner turned up higher than the other, a quirk that made it seem all the more genuine.
“Hi, Frank, I’m Dana Swenson. Shall we eat on the patio?”
Given her last name, he’d expected a blond blue-eyed Nordic type, but she looked more like Holly Hunter, sable-brown hair tumbling to her shoulders as she removed her helmet. Her eyes were the same color. An attractive woman. Was there a Mr. Swenson in the picture, he wondered.
“If today’s workout is any indication, you’re sure to win tomorrow.”
She laughed, a spontaneous low-throated sound. “Thanks. I always aim to win, but I’ve got stiff competition.”
Outside the clubhouse, a sprawling red-shingled one-story building, men and women in jodhpurs and riding boots were eating at redwood tables on a patio. Swenson chose a table in the shade and removed her jacket and gloves. A thin gold wedding band adorned her left hand, which left him feeling vaguely disappointed. Her turtleneck revealed a curvy, well-proportioned figure. He toted up the years it took to finish med school, do a residency and start a practice. If she’d treated Tim Krauthammer fifteen years ago, she had to be over forty. She looked years younger.
A young waiter in black pants and a white shirt took their order. “Hi, Dr. Swenson, what’ll it be this morning?”
“Hi, Jeff. I’ll have apple juice and a Morning Glory muffin.”
He cocked his head at Frank. “And you, sir?”
“Same muffin, but make mine orange juice, please.”
“And make sure it’s fresh,” she said. “Not that concentrated stuff.”
A woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it. He liked that.
She leaned back in her chair, her expression neutral. “What’s your impression of Mark Krauthammer?”
The pleasantri
es were over. Good thing. In two hours he had to catch a flight to Baltimore. But she was playing it safe. Timothy had been her patient, not Mark. “I’d say he’s got a serious problem with his son. I spent fifty minutes with him . . .” Frank grinned. “A therapist’s hour, right? And he never uttered his son’s name. Not once.”
“Good observation. That was my impression, too. He’s dissociating.” Her lopsided grin appeared. “You, on the other hand, mentioned your daughter’s name right away. Maureen, isn’t it?”
Surprised that she remembered, he said, “Yes. Maureen’s twenty-three now, but I used to take her to riding lessons. I loved watching her ride.”
“Your face lights up when you talk about her.” Dana Swenson’s alluring sable-brown eyes smiled at him.
He felt like she’d just given him a gold star, had to force himself back to the business at hand. “How long did you treat Timothy?”
“Three years, twice a week the first year, once a week after that. Tim was a challenge.”
“How old was he when he was sexually abused?”
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “You know about the abuse?”
“His father told me.”
“You must be a persuasive talker.”
“I’m a detective. Interviewing people is half the gig.”
“Still, Mark is no pushover. I’m amazed that he told you.”
“I made up a story, told him I was a friend of Tim’s, and one thing led to another. How old was Tim when you first saw him?”
“Fourteen. I treated him all through high school. Then he left town and I never heard from him again.”
“Did you know he’s a priest?”
She didn’t gasp, but her mouth fell open. She started to speak but stopped as Jeff delivered their breakfast, which he served with practiced efficiency and left. Frank tried the orange juice: sweet, tangy and fresh squeezed, as ordered.
Swenson tore off a piece of muffin. “Tim went into the priesthood?”
“Yes. Tell me about Brother Henry.”
“Well, since you already have the information . . . I won’t get into specifics, but Tim said he’d been having sex with a teacher at a Catholic boarding school. He didn’t consider it abusive. Tim said he loved Brother Henry. He wanted to stay at the school, but his father wouldn’t let him.”
“Mark said Tim told him Brother Henry loved him more than he did. Doesn’t say much for the father-son relationship, does it?”
“I doubt Tim got much affection in his formative years. He barely remembered his mother. She died when he was two, and his father seems rather cold. It’s my impression that Brother Henry was the first person who showed him any kind of physical affection.”
“After Tim’s mother died, who took care of him? His father must have been working.”
“Mark hired a nanny. Tim hated her. He said if anyone abused him, she did. He blamed her for the stuttering. Did you know he stuttered?”
“Yes. I gather he overcame it, but he’s still got the facial tick.”
“The eye blinking?”
“That, and sometimes he freezes under stress. Mark said he paid for speech therapy while Tim was at college. Any idea who it was?”
“Not a clue.” She tore off another chunk of muffin, but didn’t eat it. “The speech disfluency was pretty bad when I treated him.”
Frank sampled his muffin. It was delicious, raisins, nuts and bits of carrot. He gestured at her plate. “Better eat up, Dana, or you’ll wilt when it counts tomorrow.” Testing the first name to see how she’d react.
She smiled and popped a chunk of muffin in her mouth. Her eyes crinkled up when she smiled.
Cut it out, Renzi. She’s wearing a wedding ring. She’s married.
But flirting was harmless, wasn’t it? Not with him it wasn’t.
“What happened with the home tutor? Mark said she quit. That’s why he sent Tim to boarding school.”
Dana threw back her head and laughed. “Mark told you that? Ha! The nanny didn’t quit. She and Mark wanted Tim out of the house.”
“The nanny was the home tutor?”
“Yes. And now she’s Mrs. Krauthammer.”
“The young buxom blond that looks like Anna Nicole Smith?”
“Where’d you hear that?” Giving him an amused smile.
He grinned. “Mrs. Rademaker at the Wahoo Public Library.”
“I’m sure it was a hot topic around town when they got married.” Her amused smile faded. “Tim said he caught them in a sexual situation before his father packed him off to boarding school.”
“A primal scene scenario?”
“You’ve had psychology courses.”
“Right. Tell me about the primal scene.”
“They weren’t having intercourse, but Tim woke up one night and caught them on the living room couch in a passionate embrace. He was twelve, on the cusp of puberty, and it shocked him. He said they pretended nothing was happening but he knew better. He was embarrassed.”
“And angry?”
“That, too.”
“You think he’s capable of violence?”
She gazed at him with a somber expression. “We’re all capable of violence, if our demons push us to it.”
He drank some orange juice. He knew what violence people were capable of, including himself. “Even a priest?” he asked, pressing her.
She didn’t answer, frozen in a posture of shock, as if she were having an Aha! moment.
“What?” he said.
“I heard on the news, I think it was CNN, that this New Orleans killer mutilates their tongues.”
“Right, cuts off the tip and takes it with him, probably uses it later to relive the murder. It gives him a window into his fantasy. Domination and control of women. That’s not for publication so don’t quote me.”
“I won’t,” she said. “And don’t you quote me, either.”
“It’s a deal.” He offered his hand, and she gripped it firmly. Her fingers were slender and strong, and warm like her sable-brown eyes. Reluctantly, he released her hand. “It seemed like you had a revelation a minute ago. What were you thinking?”
She toyed with her hair, combing it with slender fingers. “The first few months of Tim’s treatment I had him paint. It was difficult for him to talk. Not because of the stutter. He couldn’t talk about his feelings. He used red and black paint for the paintings. Most of them featured knives.”
“Symbolic penis?”
“Possibly. The knives were black, black knives dripping red blood.”
“Were there any people in the paintings?”
“No, that was the scary part. His artwork showed rage, but it was diffuse and unfocused.” An appraising look appeared in her eyes. “Where did you take your psychology courses?”
“I got my psychology degree from Boston College, and Boston PD sent me to the FBI academy for courses in criminal psychology.”
“Now I know how you got Mark Krauthammer to talk.”
“What about you?” he said. “Where’d you go to school?”
“NYU, Columbia, Harvard Med School. I did my first residency at MacLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts.”
“Girl Interrupted?”
“That’s the place. Did you read the book?”
“No, but I saw the movie. The Angelina Jolie character was pretty scary. Scary and sad.”
Dana nodded. “Most of them are sad, the young ones.”
“When I was at BC I worked with inner city kids at a halfway house for juvenile offenders. Ninety percent of them were black, and none of them saw anything positive in their future. No hope at all. I think I helped a few, but the rest? They were lost.”
She reached over and touched his hand. “We do the best we can.”
“Yeah, but I can still remember their faces, all that pent-up rage.”
“I know. You feel so helpless. That’s how I felt about Tim, pent-up rage and enough self-hatred for an army. But he seemed better by the end of our therapy sessions.�
��
“Enough self-hatred to displace onto others? Enough to make him a killer?”
“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t want him angry at me. What’s your analysis of this New Orleans killer?”
“I think he feigns empathy to snare his victims. Some of the women had physical flaws, and the others were emotionally vulnerable for various reasons. The killer may have a flaw of his own, but it might not be obvious. Lots of serial killers look ordinary and lead what appear to be normal lives.”
“Except for their need to kill.”
“And their sick fantasies. I think he uses a verbal script, something to do with his sexual prowess or the victim’s desire to have sex with him. He terrorizes them, gets off on their fear. Toying with them is part of his ritual. Once he gets his jollies, he kills them.” He hesitated, debating whether he should reveal a key piece of evidence. But Dana had been forthcoming with him, so why not? “We found no semen on the victims.”
“You think he’s impotent?” she said, watching him, expressionless.
“Either that or he uses a condom. He’s careful. Suffocation doesn’t leave much evidence, and he cuts the tongues post-mortem so there’s very little blood. Then he poses the body, spreads their legs for shock value. He enjoys degrading women.”
“Not a pretty picture, but it gives me a feel for the case. Thank you.”
“What’s your take on the tongue mutilations?” He smiled. “Since we’re sharing details. Got any ideas about the symbolism?”
She didn’t answer right away, combing her fingers through her hair. “A tongue is used in sexual foreplay, of course. But it could also symbolize the penis. Cutting it could reflect the killer’s feelings of sexual inadequacy.”
“Or,” he said, offering an alternate theory, “maybe he wants to shut them up, symbolically. Maybe some woman taunted him about his sexual inadequacy and he decided to punish all women.” He grinned. “Of course, sometimes a tongue is just a tongue.”
She laughed. “And a cigar is just a cigar.” She glanced at her watch and he read the signal: She was busy, had places to go, people to meet.
She dug into her purse, took out a business card and set it on the table. “Let’s stay in touch, Frank. I’d like to know how things turn out.”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 19
