“What did he say about cutting off the tail? Why did he do it?”
“Tails, plural. He was eight when he did the first one and he kept it up for years.” She rolled her lips together and looked away. “He said he wanted the squirrels to feel the way he felt. Trapped and tortured.”
“Tortured by whom?”
“The nanny most of the time, and his father, sometimes.”
“You think it was a symbolic castration?”
“I think it had more to do with how Tim felt about himself.”
A burst of laughter from two men at the next table jarred him.
He leaned closer to Dana. “I talked to a homicide detective down in Washington, D. C. Tim was a student at Georgetown University in 1990. A college coed was murdered that year. Her tongue was cut.”
“Another one, way back then?” She gazed at him, her expression somber. Her sable-brown eyes had gold flecks in them, he noticed.
“Yes, but that case was different. In the New Orleans murders the tongues were cut postmortem. In the D.C. case, the woman was still alive.”
Dana’s eyes widened in a look of horror.
“Yeah. It was bad, blood all over the place. I’m not positive it’s related, but our killer is smart. He might have learned from his mistake and revised his technique. The detective got hold of a Georgetown yearbook from 1992, the year Tim graduated. He was a member of the Newman Club. The victim went to Trinity College, and she belonged to their Newman Club.”
“What’s the Newman Club?”
“A Catholic social club, basically. According to McGuire, the Trinity girls go to Newman Club mixers at Georgetown to meet boys.”
“A possible connection. But that doesn’t mean Tim killed her.”
She doesn’t want to believe that her former patient is a killer.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said, truthfully. “My partner and I interviewed him yesterday, got nowhere, and right now I’m flat out on a teen runaway.” He grinned. “The girl’s father is in town for a movie shoot so you might see it on the news. I don’t want you to think I’m loafing.”
She tipped back her head and laughed. “Loafing? Last time we talked you were in Omaha working on a weekend. Hell, you’re a workaholic, like me. When was your last vacation?”
He shrugged. “Can’t remember.”
“Three years for me.” Her expression grew somber and she turned to look out the window. In profile her prominent nose lent character to her face. He wondered if she had come to Harry’s Bar with her husband.
“It’s hard to believe the kid I treated is a killer. He reminded me—”
She gulped some beer and wiped foam off her top lip with a cocktail napkin. “Tim was sexually abused, but he refused to acknowledge it. That’s not unusual. Many abuse victims are in denial, and as I told you, his paintings displayed generalized rage: bloody knives, black clouds and blood-red rivers. He didn’t tell me how much he hated the nanny until later.”
“The second Mrs. Krauthammer. What’s her name?”
“Ingrid. I saw it in the paper once, Ingrid Krauthammer. But Tim always called her Nanny.”
A waiter delivered a round of drinks to the men at the next table and cocked an eyebrow at Frank. Frank waved him off.
“Did you ever meet her? Talk to her?”
“No, and it’s just as well. Some of the things Tim said she did to him were horrible.”
“Could he have been lying?”
She remained silent, grooming her ponytail with long slender fingers. “Not about that. His descriptions were vivid and fluent, stream of consciousness almost. I did catch him in lies about other things, but that goes with his narcissistic personality.” Her lopsided grin appeared. “You studied psychology. You know the symptoms.”
“Tell me. Narcissistic types have a range of behavioral issues.”
“Tim was very intelligent, tops in his class, despite the speech disfluency. His IQ was Mensa-level, above one-fifty. Like most narcissists, he had an inflated sense of self-importance. He believed others envied his intelligence and academic achievements. He considered himself special, which didn’t endear him to his peers. It wasn’t just his stutter that turned people off.”
Right, and he hasn’t changed much.
“What about empathy? Did he feel compassion for others?”
“None that I saw.” She raised her arms and stretched, as if to relieve the tension. “Let’s take a walk, okay?”
She slipped off her stool and headed for the door. He followed, dug out his cellphone when he reached the sidewalk and punched in a number. Dana raised an eyebrow. He held up a finger as a woman answered.
“Hello, Sister. This is Frank Renzi. Could I speak to Father Tim?” He covered the phone and said to Dana, “Time for another talk with Tim.”
Moments later Tim’s voice said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Renzi?”
Using the civilian salutation, in case anyone should overhear and get suspicious. From the tone of voice, Tim wasn’t overjoyed to hear from him.
“I just got some new information. We need to talk.”
“Information about what?”
“Lots of things. How about squirrels?”
Silence on the other end. He wondered if Krauthammer was blinking.
“I’m too busy. Father Cronin’s away and I’ve taken over his duties.”
“How about lunch tomorrow at the Patisserie Cafe?” When that got no response, he said, “Okay, I’ll come to the rectory. We can talk there.”
“No,” Krauthammer snapped. “The cafe, one o’clock.”
There was a sharp click and the line went dead. He punched off.
“Tim wasn’t too thrilled at the prospect of talking to me again.”
No response from Dana, who turned to watch a mule clip-clop down the street, pulling a small white carriage with two couples and a tour guide. When the carriage disappeared around the corner she said, “Let’s walk down to Jax Brewery. I love watching the river at night.”
Another place she went with her husband.
“Seems like you know New Orleans pretty well,” he said.
“I came here to visit my brother a few times. He lived here for a while.” Abruptly, she turned and walked away.
What’s the problem with her brother, Frank wondered.
_____
“Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou!” she exclaimed, clutching the cellphone in her sweaty hand. “I was about ready to kill myself if you didn’t call, Tim.”
It was true. She’d been waiting in her shitty little motel room since five o’clock, drinking Diet Sprite as she watched the sun go down, dust motes floating in the light slanting through the dirty window blinds. But now, after an eternity of waiting, her Knight in Shining Armor had called, a handsome older man who actually liked her, an educated man who quoted poetry and smiled at her, and, most important of all, listened to her.
“Goodness, I wouldn’t want you to kill yourself because of me.”
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He was right. She sounded desperate. Lisa the loser. No, wait. At the bar she had told him her name was Marie, thinking if she stopped being Lisa her luck might change.
She realized he was waiting for her to speak and uttered the first thing that popped into her mind. “How come you’re calling so late?”
“I had to work overtime tonight. Some of my cases are, well, to be honest, they’re at the critical stage.”
She dug her fingernails into her palm. Did that mean he wasn’t going to see her again? She wouldn’t be able to stand it. What would she do? Go back to that dump of a bar and wait for another decent-looking man to talk to her? Fat chance. The guys in the camo shirts and biker outfits scared her. She knew enough to stay away from them.
“But,” Tim said, “I was thinking we might get together tomorrow.”
Her heart soared. “We could do that. Shall we meet at the bar?”
She loved his kinky sense of humor, joking about killing some girl who’
d bitten his finger. It probably happened at work. Tim was a social worker, a serious professional, working overtime to help screwed-up people.
“No, not there. Have you still got your rental car?”
“Yes. Why?” She studied her image in the dresser mirror. Damn, what an awful haircut. The stupid woman had scalped her.
“Well, on top of everything else,” Tim said, sounding distressed, “my car’s on the fritz. I was hoping we could use yours.”
“Sure, no problem. Want me to pick you up?” She glanced at the new dress she’d bought, hanging in the alcove, a slinky red number with a V-neck.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’ll come to the motel.”
“Uhh, what would you like to do?” How about if you smother me with kisses and throw me down on the bed and rip off my clothes and—
“I thought we could have a nice dinner somewhere and talk.”
A warm glow flooded her chest. Tim was lonely, she realized. He didn’t expect to have sex with her right away. That made her feel special. No one in her whole life had ever made her feel special, not her father, and not her drug-addict mother, that’s for sure.
“That sounds perfect,” she said.
“Great. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll make a plan.”
What time will you call, she wanted to ask. She didn’t want to hang around for hours waiting like she had today. But she didn’t want to sound anxious and needy, either.
“Okay,” she said. “Talk to you tomorrow. G’night, Tim.”
CHAPTER 24
As they strolled along the Jackson Square pedestrian mall at twilight, Dana remained silent and withdrawn. Maybe it’s the gloomy sky, Frank thought, or the saxophone player in front of the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the park, pumping out a mournful blues for a handful of tourists.
After the music faded to a spatter of applause, Dana said, “Is Tim your only suspect?”
“At the moment, yes. Why?”
“He reminded me of my brother. He even looked like Josh, dark hair, dark eyes. Josh killed my father.”
He stared at her, dumbstruck.
“Not directly, but dealing with Josh took its toll. He was the problem child. I was the kid sister, the good daughter. Dad died of a stroke when I was twenty.” A tear rolled down her face, and she wiped it away.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her and comfort her. Had she come here to tell him about Tim, he wondered, or her brother? Cui bono?
He took her arm and led her into the park and sat her down on a bench.
“Tell me about Josh.”
“He stole a car when he was fifteen, but my father hired a good lawyer and he got off with probation. Josh always walked on the wild side.” She twisted her ponytail and mustered a smile more wistful than happy. “But he loved playing jazz on his trumpet, and he was good. Good enough to get a scholarship from Berklee College of Music.”
“Great place to study jazz.” He’d considered going there himself, until he went to some concerts there and figured out there were a million jazz trumpeters, most of them better than he was.
“Then Josh robbed a Store-24. The cops nailed him and tied him to a string of robberies. My parents weren’t rich, but we were comfortable. Josh didn’t need to steal.” She worked at her ponytail with her fingers, separating strands of sable-brown hair. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear this.”
He wanted to take her to the hotel and lie down with her, skin-to-skin, and make her pain go away. He settled for holding her hand.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “What happened?”
A young couple walked by and stopped ten yards away to admire the statue of Andrew Jackson on his horse, silhouetted against the blue-black sky.
Oblivious to them, Dana said, “Josh spent five years in prison. After he got out he hung around Boston, played some of the small clubs to get his chops back.” Her lips curled at the corners, not quite a smile. “See? I know the lingo. You played trumpet in a jazz band, right?”
“Right. What happened to Josh?”
“He moved to New Orleans the year I entered med school. One night I got a call from Charity Hospital. The EMTs found my phone number in his wallet. He’d been selling guns on the street. A deal went bad and someone stabbed him.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, looking tough and vulnerable at the same time. Frank ached for her.
“Where’s Josh now?” he asked, fearing the worst.
“He died seven years ago. Another prisoner shanked him.”
“That’s a shame, Dana, but you did what you could.” And Josh didn’t go to jail for killing someone. He didn’t torture and kill women like Tim Krauthammer.
She pulled her hand away and stretched her arms over her head. “Listen to me, bearing my soul, as if you were my shrink.”
“Being a good listener is part of my gig.” And his gig wasn’t done. He still had to watch the Cockpit security videos to see if Lisa was on them.
“Want to know the real reason I came to New Orleans?”
“Yes,” he said, gazing into her eyes, all other issues forgotten.
“I wanted to see if I could have a good time here for once.”
What about when you were here with your husband?
“Come on,” he said. “You need a glass of wine.”
_____
The Wal-Mart Superstore was open 24-7 to serve the community’s needs, but not their craving for guns as it turned out. The sinner strode into the store, head down, avoiding other shoppers. At a book rack he stopped to select a copy of the Holy Bible and continued to the sporting goods section in the back of the store. An older man behind the counter told him Wal-Mart no longer sold handguns, but, like a good Wal-Mart worker, he added, “Try Academy Sports. They sell all kinds of guns.”
He paid for the Bible and drove to Academy Sports, where a young man with greasy hair and an eager smile was thrilled at the prospect of selling him a Glock 9 millimeter, demonstrating how to cock it, how to check the action, how to insert the ammunition clip. Brushing greasy hair away from his face, the clerk told him the magazine held eight bullets.
He couldn’t imagine using more than one or two.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
The clerk checked his driver’s license to make sure he was a Louisiana resident and told him to fill out a form for a background check.
“It’s just routine, sir. I call NCIC and they check to see if you’ve got a criminal record, that sort of thing.”
No problem there. Timothy Krauthammer had no criminal record.
He filled out the form, and the clerk took it into a back room. Five minutes later he came back smiling. “You’re all set, sir.”
He paid cash for everything, went out to the parking lot and got in his car, his mission half-accomplished. At his five o’clock press briefing, Special Agent Norris had urged Archbishop Quinn to make every priest in the diocese submit a DNA sample to the serial killer taskforce. He doubted the Archbishop would do this, but if Detective Frank Renzi gathered enough circumstantial evidence, Renzi might get some sort of legal order to compel him to give them a DNA sample.
Murderous thoughts rampaged through his mind. That’s why Renzi was hounding him, coercing him into another interview. If Renzi kept digging, he might unearth certain facts best left undiscovered. Daily and Renzi were in cahoots. Charlie Malone had as much as told him so.
Rage burned inside him like a furious beast. Oddly, this made him feel good. The gun made him feel even better, strong and powerful. He touched the shopping bag with the Glock-9 and the 8-round clip and the box of ammunition. Owning a gun put the power of life and death in your hand.
Guns were proof of your manliness.
That’s what Father thought. Seated in front of a blazing fire, drinking martinis after he’d been out hunting in the woods, Father loved bragging to Nanny about how many rabbits he’d shot with his trusty Winchester 22.
Father
didn’t know about the squirrels.
He started the car and drove out of the parking lot. If he told Father how many squirrels’ tails he’d hacked off, would Father think he was manly?
If he told Father about firebombing Rona Jefferson’s house, would Father admire his spunk? What would Father think if he knew about his Absolutions? And his current plans. Would Father be proud?
No, Father would turn him in to the cops.
_____
“How come you still wear the ring?” Frank asked.
Dana batted her eyelashes and drawled, “Why, to keep the mashers away when I go to jazz clubs by myself, of course.”
They were sitting on a bench on the patio outside Jax Brewery. The joint was jumping, customers two deep at the bar, not an empty table in sight, so Frank had put his name on the waiting list for a table.
“You go by yourself?” he said.
“Why sit home just because I don’t have a date?”
“Why, indeed?” A feisty woman. He liked that. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, emotions running the gamut from heartbreak to joy plain for all to see. He knew something was going to happen between them, not tonight maybe, but soon. Another risky move. If Krauthammer was the Tongue Killer, Dr. Dana Swenson might be called to testify at the trial.
“It took us ten years to figure out we weren’t that compatible,” she said. “Bob’s a trial attorney and I was busy with my practice. But we’re still friends.” She gave him one of her whimsical smiles. “Okay, your turn.”
“Evelyn and I weren’t that compatible, either, and it didn’t take me ten years to figure it out. But by then we had a kid.”
Off in the distance a tugboat on the river sounded a mournful toot.
“One day I met Janine and sparks went off. Lots of married people pretend to be happy when they’re not, find happiness where they can. We were happy for ten years, happier than a lot of married couples I know. The end was painful, one of the most painful things in my life.”
“You loved her.”
He rubbed the scar on his chin, remembering. “Yeah, I loved her.”
ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) Page 27
