The bartender, a coffee-skinned Latina with dark eyes and a pleasant smile, meandered down the bar. Her lemon-yellow T-shirt had THE COCKPIT stenciled on it in black letters. “What’s yours?” she asked, smiling at him.
“Could I have a B-B-Bloody Mary without vodka, please?” An embarrassment of color flooded his face.
“Virgin Mary, coming right up.” The woman scooped ice into a plastic tumbler, poured thick red liquid from a plastic bottle, squeezed in a lime and added a celery stalk. Relieved that she hadn’t noticed his stammer, he studied the other men at the bar. The older man was drinking beer from a plastic cup, watching the game show. The guy in the camo shirt held a mixed drink, watching the two sluts with the painted lips as they sucked on their cigarettes.
The barmaid set his drink in front of him. “That’s three dollars, sir.”
He paid her and checked Mickey, whose white-gloved hands pointed at seven-twenty. Big black ears, laughing eyes and a wide toothy smile, a replica of the watch Father had given him on his sixth birthday. He would never forget his excitement. Father had given him the perfect gift! Father really did love him. The next day Nanny told him Father’s secretary had bought it, flashing her triumphant Nanny-smile, knowing this would hurt. It did, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing. Later, he went down to Father’s workbench in the cellar and smashed the watch with a hammer, obliterating Mickey’s happy face, an act that brought him no satisfaction. Father never even noticed, had never mentioned the watch again.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” asked a soft voice.
Startled, he turned. He hated people sneaking up on him. The girl wore a straw hat with a wide floppy brim that hid most of her face, but he could see her eyes, dark brown, like his father’s. Already, he hated her.
“You look like a nice normal kind of guy.” She gestured at Camo Shirt five stools down. “If I sit here with you that creep won’t bother me.”
He faked a smile and said, “Be my guest.”
“Thanks.” She slipped onto the adjacent stool, modestly dressed in a loose-fitting white blouse and a navy-blue skirt that fell to her ankles. It looked like a school uniform. She seemed far too young to be here by herself. He studied himself in the mirror behind the bar, trying to see what she saw: an average guy in an open-necked polo shirt. A bland ordinary face, not at all predatory-looking, dark hair neatly combed, and, of course, no ring.
“What are you drinking?” she asked, pointing to his glass.
He hesitated and said, “A Bloody Mary.”
“How is it?”
Much too spicy. After the first swallow he hadn’t touched it.
“It’s very good,” he said.
She smiled and said to the barmaid, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
The woman nodded. “Virgin Mary, coming right up.”
“What?” the girl said, but the barmaid was already mixing and pouring. The girl turned to him and said, “Virgin Mary?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. No stammering.
“A Virgin Mary,” she said tonelessly. “Perfect. A Virgin Mary for Virgin Marie.”
“That’s your name? Marie?”
She nodded, her eyes full of tears. Terrified that she might cry, he blurted, “Nice to meet you.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Nice to meet you.”
The barmaid delivered two Virgin Mary’s, though he hadn’t asked for another. He gave her a ten and said, “Keep the change.”
The barmaid smiled and as she walked away a news jingle drew his attention to the television set mounted above the bar.
“Do you live around here?” asked the girl whose name was Marie.
“Yeah, sort of,” he said, affecting teen-style speech. “Do you?”
“Yeah, sort of.” And after a pause. “Are you lonely?”
She’s a hooker, he thought. How disgusting. But then he looked into her eyes and found only sadness. Was he lonely? He thought about it.
“We’re all lonely, aren’t we?” he said.
This brought a shy smile and a nod. She turned her head to look at the man on the TV screen, an older man in a flamboyant pink shirt, his dark hair slicked into a pompadour. Deep lines etched the corners of his mouth. He appeared distraught as he stared into the camera and said, “If anyone has information about my daughter, please contact the police. I love my little girl and I miss her so much. You’re the most important thing in my life, Lisa. Please come home.”
“Liar,” muttered the girl.
“Pardon?” the sinner said.
“He’s a liar.” She paused for a moment. “Just like my father.”
Intrigued, he said, “Your father’s a liar?”
“They’re all liars.” Her mud-brown eyes were flat and expressionless.
His heart fluttered inside his chest, a sudden joyful surge. They’re all liars. His father certainly was, a liar and a sadist.
Be careful, cautioned the voice in his mind.
Almost as if she had read his thoughts, Marie said, “I’m feeling sort of sad today.”
His groin stirred. Sort of sad. Vulnerable. The best kind.
“Why’s that?”
She sipped her drink, sucking up red liquid through the straw. “My father . . .” She took another sip of her drink and smiled. “My father died last week, so I’m celebrating.”
He wanted to kiss her, felt a surge of empathy so powerful he couldn’t speak. His hands trembled with the effort he made not to touch her.
Don’t! said the voice. She’s too needy. You have your own problems.
True. He was in no position to help anyone. If anyone needed help right now, he did.
“Scared you, didn’t I?” she said
He glanced at her, then at his drink, feeling the walls close in. He watched the barmaid deliver drinks to the two sluts with the painted lips, gesturing at Camo Shirt to indicate they were from him. The sluts looked at each other, smiled and waved Camo Shirt over to their table.
“I’m on a mission,” Marie said. “A suicide mission.”
He stared at her, shocked. She wanted to die? He could easily oblige. But, oddly, he didn’t want to. A warm feeling flooded his chest. A long time ago he’d wanted to die, too. That was before he discovered his mission. He studied the girl as she sipped her drink. She could only be described as homely: a pug nose, chubby cheeks and a weak, receding chin. And her body was no asset, hidden as it was beneath her loose-fitting shirt.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
“Well, maybe not.” She gazed into his eyes. “You look sort of sad yourself. Maybe we’re soul mates. What’s your name?”
“Tim,” he said, and cringed. What was he thinking? He never told strange women his real name, not even when he was wearing civilian clothes.
_____
Frank was sprawled on his living room couch watching the ten o’clock news when Detective Paul McGuire called.
“Hey, Paul, you’re working late. Hope it’s not on my account.”
“Nah. Tough to sleep when you get to be my age, gotta get up every couple hours to take a piss. Sometimes I can’t get back to sleep so I bring files home. I found something, thought you ought to know about it.”
He grabbed his notepad and pen off the coffee table. “Shoot.”
“Unsolved homicide, sixth of January 1990. I was on vacation. Me and the missus went to Bermuda. Not my cup of tea, but she likes the beach. Another detective caught the case. White female, age twenty, student at Trinity College. The mutilations caused quite a stir at the time, but that died down eventually. The case is still open.”
“Her tongue was cut?” he asked, jotting notes in his notepad.
“Hell, yes, blood all over the place. Wait till you see the crime scene photographs. It was brutal.”
He tried not to get too excited. Krauthammer had been a student at Georgetown in 1990, but most colleges took semester breaks from Christmas to mid-January so he might not have been there wh
en the girl was murdered.
“Great work, Paul. Could you copy the file and Fed-Ex it to me?”
“Sure, first thing tomorrow.” McGuire chuckled and ended with a phlegmy cough. “You got my juices running. Let’s get this guy!”
“Thanks, Paul. I’ll call you after I read the file.”
He hung up, elated. While Krauthammer was a student at Georgetown a young woman had been murdered, her tongue mutilated, and he didn’t believe in coincidences.
Anyone can kill if driven to it. Dr. Dana Swenson’s response when he’d asked if she thought Tim Krauthammer could kill someone. He dug her card out of his wallet. She’d written her cellphone number on it in case he needed to reach her after office hours. He conjured up her sexy lopsided smile, her sable-brown eyes bright with intelligence, her curvy figure.
Should he call and tell her about the D.C. murder? It would give him an excuse to talk to her, see if she’d won the gold. It had been a long time since he’d been this attracted to a woman. No, he decided. First thing tomorrow, he’d call Father Tim and ask him to come to the station for an interview. Squeeze him, see if he cracks. Study the D.C. case file. Then he’d call Dana.
_____
“You see that creep with the two girls?” Marie asked.
The sinner turned and looked. The bottle-blondes were all over Camo Shirt, leaning forward to expose their breasts, intent on seducing him. Lucky for them that Marie was here or he’d kill them both.
“He’d be hitting on me if you hadn’t let me sit here,” Marie said.
He nodded righteously. “Pretty soon he’ll be undressing them.”
Marie giggled. Embarrassed, he looked at the television, a game show, the contestants full of hope, unlike the girl beside him, who was hopeless.
“Tim,” she said.
It startled him. He’d forgotten she knew his name. He felt her eyes on him but didn’t dare look at her.
“Did you get along with your father?”
His throat closed up and he couldn’t speak. Get along with Father?
“Mine told me I was his Cross to Bear.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “Really?”
She nodded slowly, her expressionless mud-brown eyes fixed on his.
He considered this, felt a warm glow of satisfaction, and signaled the barmaid. “I think we should have a real Bloody Mary.”
The ever-cheerful barmaid arrived, smiling. “Another round?”
“Two more of the same,” he said, “with vodka this time.”
The barmaid’s cheerful smile morphed into a frown. She looked at his companion. For a moment he thought she was going to card Marie, but she didn’t. She turned away and started making their drinks.
He nudged Marie. “I thought she was going to card you.”
“So did I.” Marie giggled.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen. But I’ve got a real good fake ID that says I’m twenty-one. How old are you?”
He smiled at the barmaid, coming along the bar to deliver their Bloody Marys. He gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. After she left, he said to Marie, “What made your father say you’re his Cross to Bear?”
Marie stirred her drink with the celery stalk, pulled the end-paper off the straw and took a long pull.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Excellent. Tastes like a virgin, but it isn’t.”
He flinched at the crude remark. But maybe she didn’t mean anything by it. “Why did he call you his Cross to Bear?” he asked again.
“He’s such a hypocrite.” She sucked at her drink. “Was, I mean. When he was alive he made me go to church every Sunday. My mother was . . . she was a lapsed Catholic, but Daddy wouldn’t let me drop out.”
“Marie, you’re avoiding the question.”
She looked at him. “I am?”
“Yes. Want to know how I know?”
She nodded.
“I’m a social worker. It’s my job to talk to people with problems, so I’m used to people not answering my questions.” He watched her nod, eyes wide, eating up his story. “Tell me why you’re Daddy’s Cross to Bear.”
Her eyes glistened with tears. “It happened on Easter. When I was little I loved Easter. You know, the Easter bunny and the candy, but one year, I think I was ten, he got mad at me. I forget why. He yelled at me and said I was his Cross to Bear. That was the first time. It was April. Easter was late that year. I remember because we lived in Oregon then, and it snowed and everyone talked about the April snow storm.
“April is the cruelest month . . .” he muttered to himself.
“No,” she said. “They’re all cruel.”
“Well, yes, sometimes they are. I was quoting a poem.”
“A poem? Gee, I don’t know any poems. How does it go?”
He quoted the entire stanza:
“April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Who wrote it, Shakespeare?”
“No,” he said, amused. “T. S. Eliot. It’s from The Wasteland.”
“Wow, Tim. I’m impressed. You must be really smart.”
Smart? You bet I am. He feigned a modest smile and sipped his drink. It was almost gone and so was hers. He was feeling a bit drunk. Over at the table in the corner Camo Shirt was signaling the barmaid for another round. The two blond sluts nudged each other.
“A smart guy with a sweet smile,” Marie said. “That’s unusual.”
“Especially in bars.”
She laughed and he signaled for another round. He was enjoying himself. He hadn’t been this drunk in years. Not since Brother Henry.
“What happened to your knuckle?” Marie asked.
Startled, he looked at his hand. A small scab remained on one knuckle. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “A girl bit me.”
“Jesus! Did you hit her?”
“It was an accident, really.”
“Still. Weren’t you angry?”
“Very,” he said truthfully, and smiled. “I killed her.”
Marie laughed, as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Well, there you go. I guess she’s sorry now.”
Their drinks arrived, obviating the necessity of a reply.
He raised his glass and said, “To Nanny. Every mean thing I’ve ever done, I learned from Nanny.” And Father.
Marie touched her glass to his. “How come you had a nanny?”
He sucked up half of his drink. “Mother died when I was two and my daddy hated me, so he hired Nanny to torment me.” He thought a moment and recited: “A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast, but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.”
Marie looked puzzled, brows knit in a frown. “Does that mean you were his Cross to Bear?”
“Without a doubt.”
“That’s so sad,” Marie said. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Tears stung his eyes. No, he didn’t deserve it, but that’s the way life was. He looked at the television. The ten-o’clock news was on, the anchor-couple, a black man and a blond white woman, staring into the camera with grim seriousness above a graphic: NO LEADS IN FIREBOMBING.
Live footage appeared on the screen: Rona Jefferson’s burned-out cottage surrounded by police cruisers. Seeing it gave him a weird sort of thrill, recalling his utter panic as the man chased him. But in the end he had escaped. The live shot cut to policemen entering the house next door, then to a crowd of people on the sidewalk, neighbors lamenting the destruction of that insufferable woman’s house, the sinner supposed.
A large black man and a much smaller woman got out of an unmarked car and approached Jefferson’s burned out cottage. The black man was very tall and muscular, with a shaved head. The woman was short and chunky with long brown hair. Both wore white shirts and dark trousers, and a look of outrage on their faces. Why were t
hey wasting their sympathy on Rona Jefferson? The woman didn’t deserve to live.
“I’ve got to go,” he said to Marie.
“So soon?” she said in a whiny voice.
“It’s late.” He swung off his stool, felt obligated to say, “Can I give you a ride someplace?”
She gazed at him, sad-eyed. “You don’t like me.”
“No, no, it’s not that. You were great fun.”
“You were, too.” She licked her lips. “I’d love to see you again.”
He hesitated, tempted, and shook his head. “It’s best that we don’t.”
“But—”
“No, really. You’re a very sweet girl. Too decent for the likes of me.”
“A sweet loser.” Marie attempted a smile and failed.
Over in the corner, one of the harlots giggled as she lit Camo Shirt’s cigarette, leaning forward, breasts bulging out of her halter top. Indecent. Not a shred of modesty. He should go over there and get her away from Camo Shirt, take her out to his car and drive her home. She would be so satisfying to punish.
He turned back to Marie. “Don’t think of yourself as a loser. Think of this as the magical night you escaped . . . a dead-end relationship.”
Before she could speak he walked away, amazed that he was leaving her. Amazed that he hadn’t asked where she lived. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d met some poor pathetic girl without punishing her for her sins.
Maybe he really could stop after all.
CHAPTER 21
Tuesday 7:20 A.M.
COLUMNIST SAFE! screamed the banner headline on the Clarion-Call.
Frank sat in his car outside the Eighth District station and read Rona’s column, which filled the tabloid’s front page. After railing at Norris for his refusal to rule out black-male suspects, Rona took dead aim at the killer.
You have tortured and murdered six innocent women to satisfy your sick needs. You killed Kitty Neves to make sure she couldn’t identify you. When I exposed you as a man most vile, a white priest who preys on women, you sent me a dead bird and a threatening note. Then you tried to kill me by firebombing my house, a craven act by a cowardly killer. You are the epitome of evil, a white man hiding behind a Roman collar. You know who you are, and so will we, as soon as the police collect DNA samples from every white priest in the archdiocese.
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 23
