Silent Killer

by Beverly Barton

  Mike Birkett, barefoot and wearing only a pair of well-worn gray sweat pants, opened his front door, took one look at Jack and asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to you.”

  Mike stepped aside. “Come on in, but be quiet, will you? M.J. and Hannah are asleep.”

  “I’m sorry about stopping by at this time of night.”

  “Is it something to do with the new murder case?”

  “Not really,” Jack said as he followed Mike into the kitchen. “Maybe indirectly.”

  “Sit down.” Mike pointed to a kitchen chair. “I was fixing to get myself a glass of milk, but if you’d like I can put on some coffee or get you a beer.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” Jack pulled out a chair from the table and sat.

  Mike turned a chair backward, straddled the seat and rested his crossed arms over the back. “I’m listening.”

  Jack fidgeted. “I took Cathy out to dinner tonight. We went to the Catfish Shack.”

  Mike didn’t respond verbally. He just sat there staring at Jack.

  “Say something, will you.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Mike asked.

  “Chew my ass out. Tell me again to stay away from Cathy. Remind me that I’m not good for her. Just handling my own baggage is a full-time job without having to deal with hers.”

  “What did you do, go over to Lorie’s and ask Cathy out?”

  “Nope. We just happened to meet up.”

  “Is that right? How did you two just happen to meet up?”

  “I was on my way home, and I took a detour by Lorie’s,” Jack said. “I don’t know why. I didn’t plan on stopping or anything. I had Cathy on my mind and wondered how she was taking the news about the burned body found in the park this morning. And lo and behold, there Cathy was walking down the sidewalk about half a block from Lorie’s.”

  “Let me guess—you stopped, asked her for a date and she said yes.” Mike shook his head. “She never could resist you, could she?”

  “She needed to get away, to escape and not think about what happened to her husband and the possibility that he was the first victim of some lunatic running around killing clergymen.”

  Mike nodded. “I see. You were playing white knight, huh?”

  Jack shoved back the chair and shot to his feet. “Damn it, Mike, I don’t want to hurt her. I swear to God, I don’t. But I’m not sure I can keep my distance. She’ll be helping me with the house renovations, so we’ll see each other quite a bit. If something develops between us…I know I’m a screwed-up mess and not fit company for any woman. But as crazy as it sounds, I think maybe Cathy and I might be good for each other.”

  “Kind of like the blind leading the blind.”

  “I trust you, Mike. I trust you to be honest with me, to tell it like it is.”

  Mike looked up at Jack. “You can’t go back. You can’t be the two people you once were. Believe me, I know. Usually you get one grab for the brass ring, and if you miss it, that’s it. You’ve always been a pretty tough son of a bitch, but it still hurt like hell when you found out she’d married Mark Cantrell. And don’t try to tell me it didn’t.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “I think you’d be taking a big risk for yourself and for Cathy. Don’t forget that she has a son to think about. It wouldn’t be just her life you’d be messing with, but Seth’s, too.”

  “Is that the reason you won’t give Lorie a second chance—because of your kids?”

  Mike frowned. “I’m not discussing Lorie with you. But as for you and Cathy…You’re both consenting adults. I’d just hate to see either of you get hurt.”

  When Cathy came out of the bathroom, makeup removed, teeth brushed and pajamas on, she came face-to-face with Lorie.

  “I thought you’d gone to bed,” Cathy said.

  “No. I thought you might need to talk.”

  “About Jack?”

  Lorie’s mouth curved into a strained smile.

  “It just happened,” Cathy told her. “Neither of us planned it. He happened to be driving by and saw me. He stopped. We talked. I told him I wanted to run away, and he invited me to run away with him.”

  “And you did.”

  “Uh-huh. And I’ll be honest with you—it felt good to be with him. It felt good to go someplace with loud music and laughter all around us, to eat greasy, fattening food and to dance and forget about everything else.”

  “But with Jackson Perdue, of all people.”

  “Why not with Jack?”

  “Good Lord, do I have to remind you of how your first love affair with him ended?”

  “I’m not a naïve seventeen-year-old girl.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re still halfway in love with him, aren’t you?”

  She started to staunchly deny it, but the words died on her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe just a little bit. Don’t they say that you never forget your first love?”

  “I guess you know what a risk you’d be taking getting involved with him. J.B. and Mona aren’t likely to approve. And heaven help you when your mother finds out.”

  “Mother isn’t running my life anymore, and neither are my in-laws. I plan to make all my own decisions for the rest of my life. If I want to date Jack, I’ll date Jack.”

  “I’m the last person in this world to argue against rekindling an old romance,” Lorie said. “God knows, I’d like nothing better than to get a second chance with Mike. But there’s more to consider than what you want or how your mother and in-laws will react.”

  “You’re talking about Seth.”

  “Yes, I am. If his reaction tonight is any indication, he’s not going to be happy about your dating anybody. And if by some miracle he gets to know and like Jack, how are you going to deal with that?” Lorie gently grasped Cathy’s shoulders. “Jack is no fool, you know. Sooner or later, he’ll figure it out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack folded the morning newspapers—the Dunmore Daily, the Huntsville Times and the Decatur Daily—and dumped them into the wastebasket. Four days ago, after Father Brian’s charred body had been found at the park, a hotshot Huntsville Times reporter named Grant Sharpe had given the killer a particularly appropriate label, dubbing him the Fire and Brimstone Killer. The local and regional press had picked up on the title, and now even the folks at the sheriff’s department were using the phrase. So here they were, ninety-six hours after the priest’s horrific murder, without even one suspect, a fact that the press pointed out in bold headlines. Sharpe’s coverage of the case stated that the task force, comprised of members from both local and state law-enforcement agencies, had a serial killer on their hands and apparently weren’t equipped to deal with that type of case. The reporter had all but referred to the task-force members as a bunch of redneck yokels who couldn’t stick their finger up their ass with both hands.

  The autopsy results weren’t in yet, but no one expected the findings to reveal anything more than the initial report had told them. Brian Myers had been doused with gasoline and set on fire. Possibly, the severe third-degree burns over most of his body hadn’t killed him. Not instantly. Shock had probably set in, and without immediate medical attention, the priest’s body had shut down. But even if he had been discovered quickly and rushed to the hospital, his odds wouldn’t have been good. After all, Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph hadn’t survived.

  Jack gathered up the crime-scene photos spread out before him and opened the file folder to replace them, but when he heard someone say his name, he laid everything down on his gray, metal desk. Glancing around the open office area—his desk was located on the left, near the windows—he saw one of his fellow officers talking to a stranger and pointing his way. The tall, lanky guy, dressed in casual yet obviously expensive slacks, shirt and jacket, smiled at the officer, thanked him and walked straight toward Jack. As he approached, Jack sized him up: mid-to-late thirties; about six-two; wavy, black hair in need of cutting;
intelligent dark eyes; and an easy smile that projected self-confidence.

  “Jackson Perdue?” the man asked.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “I’m Derek Lawrence.” The former FBI profiler offered his hand.

  Jack shook hands with the guy. “I didn’t expect you to show up. I thought you’d just call or e-mail.”

  “That was the original plan when Maleah first asked me to come in on this case. But once I received the information and went over it, I realized that I’d never seen a situation quite like this before. Your killer fascinates me.”

  Jack looked Derek right in the eye. “Does he? Why is that?”

  “He—or she—has chosen unlikely victims—clergymen. And his method is not only cruel and painfully violent, it sends a message, one that our killer wants the world to hear.”

  Jack nodded. “Have a seat. I want to hear your theory.” Jack hitched his thumb in the general direction of the coffeemaker. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  Jack pulled up an empty chair and placed it in front of his desk. The two men settled into their seats, the desk separating them, and then Jack asked, “What message is our killer sending?”

  “You’ve probably already figured it out. Our killer is saying—no, he or she is screaming, ‘I hate you. I’m punishing you, and I want you to burn for your sins, for what you did to me.’”

  Jack grunted. “So we’re dealing with a person who at some point in his or her life was somehow wronged by a clergyman, and now he’s killing that minister or priest over and over again?”

  “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

  “Like you said, we figured that our killer hates preachers, but I don’t see how knowing this helps us catch the guy.”

  “It doesn’t,” Derek said. “I’ve gone through ViCAP—the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data base—and come up with similar crimes, but none that are actual matches to your three Fire and Brimstone murders. Setting people on fire isn’t something new. And clergymen have been killed before. What we have to concentrate on is what makes these three crimes different and what links them together.”

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  “Your killer doesn’t fall completely into either the organized or disorganized offender category, but that’s not unusual. An offender doesn’t always reflect all the crime-scene characteristics or personal characteristics of one or the other.”

  “Look, you’re going to have to speak plain English to me,” Jack admitted. “I’m new at this. I’m an ex-soldier. My experience is limited. I’ve been with the sheriff’s department for only a few weeks.”

  Derek eyed Jack speculatively. “I’m surprised the sheriff chose you to work on the task force.”

  “The sheriff assigned the department’s cold cases to me, sort of a way to break me in, I guess. The Cantrell murder was one of those cases.”

  “Even so, I’d have thought he’d put a more seasoned deputy on the task force. Do you feel as if you’re in over your head?”

  “Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “Guess I’ll learn as I go. And I did bring in an expert to help us out, didn’t I?”

  Derek chuckled. “Yes, so you did. That probably earned you a few brownie points with your boss.”

  Jack grinned. “So tell me, Mr. Expert, all about how you can’t pigeonhole our killer.”

  “Be glad to. It’s simple. The killer planned these murders, chose his victims in advance and personalized the victims, all characteristics of an organized killer. But on the other hand, he probably knew his victims or at least knew who they were. He left his victims in plain view at the scene of the crime, and with the use of gasoline and the Pocket Torch lighters left at the scene, the weapon couldn’t be hidden. Those are all characteristics of a disorganized killer.”

  “A killer with a split personality?”

  “Our killer is what we refer to as a ‘mixed personality,’ which is actually fairly common.”

  “Are you saying that in trying to come up with a profile of our killer, you’ve struck out?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that.” Derek grinned. “How about that cup of coffee?”

  “Cream? Sugar?” Jack asked.

  “Black.”

  Jack got up, went to the coffeemaker and poured two Styrofoam cups three-fourths full of the strong, black brew. He returned to his desk, handed Derek one of the cups and sat back down.

  After taking a couple of sips, Derek said, “We assume the same person killed the two ministers and the priest. Why?”

  “All three victims were clergymen. All three lived within a fifty-mile radius of one another. All three were doused with gasoline and set on fire, using a torch lighter that enabled him to lock the flame before using it. And all three murders occurred within an eighteen-month time span.”

  “It’s unlikely that the similarities of the murders were coincidental. So think about it. What other similarities were there?”

  “So far, all the victims have been white. All have been between thirty and fifty years old, and all have been Christians.”

  “Charles Randolph had been accused of stealing from his congregation. Had the other two committed any type of crime?” Derek asked.

  “No. If they had, I’d have included that information in the files I sent you.”

  “Hmm…Stealing is a sin, right? So what if the other two ministers didn’t commit crimes, but did commit sins?”

  “And just how would we go about trying to discover what sins these men might have committed, if they actually did?”

  “Talk to people who knew them.”

  Jack tapped the manila folder on his desk. “That’s been done. Family and friends were interviewed extensively after each murder. Mark Cantrell was a saint according to everyone who knew him. His only weakness seems to have been his love for golf. And so far, Father Brian is coming across as damn near perfect.”

  “No one is perfect.” Derek took another sip of coffee. “All humans have numerous weaknesses, and few are true saints. Perhaps our killer either knew something no one else knew or he projected someone else’s sins onto these men. In his mind, our offender is probably killing the same person over and over again, perhaps punishing him for his sins.”

  “How does this help identify our killer?”

  Derek picked up his cup and took a couple of swigs of the cooling coffee.

  “Using the info we have at this point, it’s likely that our killer is a young, white male with a ‘mixed’ personality who is punishing his victims for the sins of someone who possibly harmed him in some way. He’s also mobile. His victims, though living within a fifty-mile radius, did not live in the same town, which means he probably either owns a car or has access to one.”

  “That certainly narrows it down,” Jack said sarcastically. He finished off his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket atop the morning’s newspapers.

  “Profiling is not an exact science. It’s mostly putting puzzle pieces together and coming up with an educated guess. I hate to say this, but the more murders the offender commits, the more clues we’ll have, and that means a more thorough profile.”

  Jack huffed. “I suppose I expected too much from you.”

  “Sorry I can’t pinpoint your guy and hand him to you on a silver platter. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over all the files again and stick around, maybe talk to a few people.”

  “Who do you want to talk to?”

  “People who knew the victims. Friends and family.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you think the families have been through enough without being questioned again?”

  “Even if it might help catch the killer?”

  Jack looked Derek square in the eyes. “Can you promise me that it will?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “Run your request by Sheriff Birkett,” Jack said
, reasonably certain that Mike would say no.

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.” Derek dropped his empty coffee cup into Jack’s wastebasket, paused, eyed the newspapers and then glanced at Jack. “I’ll put my official report in writing and give it to you before I leave Dunmore.”

  Elliott Floyd met Cathy in the middle of his tastefully decorated office. He glanced over her shoulder, smiled at his secretary, who closed the door, and then he reached out to take Cathy’s hand.

  “Come in and sit down, Mrs. Cantrell.”

  After they shook hands, he led her to one of two leather armchairs facing his large, mahogany desk. Once she’d taken a seat, she subtly studied him from the top of his thinning dark hair to his expensive Italian leather loafers. Probably in his late forties, Elliott Floyd dressed the part of a successful lawyer, his suit no doubt tailor-made to fit his trim, five-nine body.

  “My friend Lorie Hammonds recommended you, Mr. Floyd,” Cathy said as she folded her hands together in her lap.

  “Yes, Lorie’s a friend of my wife.”

  “I had hoped not to have to do this—hire a lawyer—but I realize that I don’t actually have a choice, and, according to Lorie, you’re the best lawyer in Dunmore, possibly in the whole state.”

  Elliott smiled, creating dimples in his apple-round cheeks. “I see. So, tell me why you need my services.”

  “A year ago, I had an emotional breakdown. I checked myself into Haven Home in Birmingham and underwent extensive psychiatric care. I was released as an outpatient six months ago and then given a clean bill of health last month. I have a fifteen-year-old son who has been living with my in-laws for the past year. They have legal custody of him.” She leaned forward, her hands entwined in a prayerlike gesture. “I want custody of my son.”

  “I take it that his grandparents are opposed to your having custody.”

  “Yes.”

  “What does your son want?”

  “Seth is torn between wanting to please his grandfather and not wanting to hurt me.”