God's Spy

by Juan Gomez-jurado

  “Wednesday the sixth of April: while Dante, Fowler, and myself track down leads about the victims in their residence, Detective Maurizio Pontiero is beaten to death by Victor Karosky in the crypt of Santa Maria in Traspontina.”

  “We have the murder weapon?” asked Dante.

  “Without fingerprints, but yes, we have it,” Troi responded. “Karosky made several cuts with what could be a very sharp kitchen knife and beat his victim repeatedly with a candelabra found at the scene. But I don’t have too many hopes along that line.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because it isn’t our normal procedure. Our job is to find out who the killer is. Typically, when we are sure of who he is, our work is over. But now we have to apply our knowledge to find out where the killer is. Certainty about his name has been our point of departure. For that reason, Dicanti’s contributions are more important than ever.”

  “I tip my hat to Inspettore Dicanti. That was a brilliant chronology,” said Fowler.

  “Really sharp,” Dante added, mocking all the way.

  Paola could feel the resentment in his words, but she decided that it would be better to ignore the topic, for now.

  “Nice summary, Dicanti.” Troi congratulated her. “What’s the next step? Pried into Karosky’s head yet? Anything like what you’ve seen before?”

  The profiler thought for a few seconds before she answered.

  “All sane people are alike, but every one of these bastards is crazy in his own particular way.”

  “And what does that tell us, apart from the fact that you have read Anna Karenina?” Troi asked.

  “Well, we would be committing a terrible blunder if we believed that one serial killer is exactly like another. You can try to search for rules of thumb, find equivalents, draw conclusions from similarities, but at the moment of truth every one of these pieces of shit is a very solitary mind living millions of light-years away from the rest of humanity. There’s nobody home. They aren’t human beings. They feel no empathy. Their emotions are turned off. The thing that makes them kill, that leads them to believe their ego is more important than anyone else’s, the reasons they use to excuse their insanity— none of that matters to me. I don’t try to understand them any further than is strictly necessary to catch them.”

  “Which is why we have to know what their next step is.”

  “Clearly, he is going to kill again. Most likely he’ll hunt up a new identity for himself or he’s already picked one. But there is no chance it will be as well rehearsed as that of Brother Francesco, which he worked on over several years. Maybe Padre Fowler can lend us a hand in this area.”

  The priest nodded his head, preoccupied.

  “Everything I know is in the file I gave you, Dottoressa. But there is something I want to show you.”

  A pitcher of water sat on a side table along with some glasses. Fowler filled one of them halfway up and dropped his pencil in.

  “It takes a tremendous effort for me to think like he does. Look at this glass. It’s as clear as the water, but when I put a pencil in it, a pencil that looks like it’s all in one piece now looks broken in two. In the same way, his monolithic attitude shifts at crucial moments, like a straight line that splits off and ends up in an unknown place.”

  “The point where it splits off is the key.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t envy you your work, Dicanti. Karosky is a man who revolts against iniquity one minute, only to commit greater iniquities the next. What I do know is that we have to look for him around the cardinals. He will try to kill again, and he won’t wait long. The conclave is getting closer and closer.”

  The group headed back down to Angelo’s laboratory in a somewhat confused state. The young technician was introduced to Dante, who ignored him. Paola couldn’t help but notice his rudeness. Dante was a very attractive man who was, at heart, rotten. His bitter jokes didn’t conceal a thing; they were simply the best thing about him.

  Angelo waited with the promised results. He hit the keyboard and three-dimensional images, conjured out of thin green threads on a black background, popped up on two screens.

  “How about fleshing them out?”

  “Sure. Now they’ll have skin, rudimentary, but skin.”

  The monitor on the left displayed a three-dimensional model of Karosky’s head as it was in 1995, the screen on the right the upper half of the head, as photographed at Santa Maria in Traspontina.

  “I haven’t modeled the lower half because with the beard it’s impossible. You can’t see the eyes too well either. In the photo they gave me, he’s walking with his shoulders stooped.”

  “Can you copy the jaw from the first model and impose it on the new head?”

  Angelo responded with a rapid flurry of pressed keys and mouse clicks. In less than two minutes, Fowler’s request had been carried out.

  “Tell me, Angelo, to what extent do you judge this second model to be trustworthy?” the priest asked.

  The young technician was momentarily flustered.

  “Well, you see . . . without assessing whether there was adequate lighting at the place . . .”

  “That’s out, Angelo. We already covered that,” Troi interjected.

  Paola started to speak, as slowly and comfortingly as she could.

  “Listen, Angelo, nobody here is judging whether or not you’ve made a good model. We only want to know to what degree we can trust it.”

  “Well, somewhere between seventy-five and eighty-five percent. No more.”

  Fowler looked at the screen carefully. The two faces were very different. The nose was wider, the cheekbones stronger. But were they the subject’s natural features or only makeup?

  “Angelo, please, rotate both images on a horizontal plane and make a measurement of the cheekbones. Like that. That’s it. . . . That’s what I was afraid of.”

  The other four looked at him, holding their breath.

  “What is it?”

  “That isn’t the face of Victor Karosky. An amateur applying makeup could never come up with differences like the one in the size of the cheekbones. Maybe a Hollywood professional could pull it off with latex molds, but it would be completely obvious to anyone who saw him close-up. He wouldn’t be able to maintain the deception for very long.”

  “Which means?”

  “There’s only one explanation. Karosky has been treated by a surgeon and undergone a complete facial reconstruction. The man we are looking for is a ghost.”

  THE SAINT MATTHEW INSTITUTE

  Sachem Pike, Maryland May 1998

  Transcription of Interview #14 Between

  Patient No. 3643 and Doctor Anthony Fowler

  Dr. Fowler: Good afternoon, Father Karosky. May I enter?

  No. 3643: Come in, Father Fowler.

  Dr. Fowler: Did you enjoy the book I loaned you?

  No. 3643: Yes, of course. The Confessions of Saint Augustine. I’ve already finished it. A very interesting book. It’s unbelievable just how far innate optimism can take you.

  Dr. Fowler: I don’t understand.

  No. 3643: But you are the only person in this whole place who can understand me. The only person who doesn’t call me by my name, in an attempt to achieve a vulgar, unnecessary familiarity which denigrates the dignity of both parties.

  Dr. Fowler: You are speaking of Father Conroy.

  No. 3643: Yes, that man. The one who again and again maintains that I am a normal patient in need of being cured. I am a priest just as he is, and that dignity is what he constantly forgets when he insists I call him “Doctor.”

  Dr. Fowler: I believe that point was already clarified for you last week, Father Karosky. It’s for good reason that your relations with Conroy are that of doctor and patient, and nothing else. You need help in overcoming a number of pyschological problems that stem from the suffering you endured in the past.

  No. 3643: I suffered? I suffered at whose hands? Perhaps you too want to put my love for my saintly mother to the test? I beg you n
ot to follow the same route that Father Conroy took. He has even stated that I will have to listen to some recordings that will remove all doubt.

  Dr. Fowler: Some recordings.

  No. 3643: That’s what he said.

  Dr. Fowler: I don’t think you ought to hear those tapes, Father Karosky. It wouldn’t be healthy for you. I will speak to Father Conroy about it.

  No. 3643: As you see fit. But I am not at all afraid.

  Dr. Fowler: Please listen, Father. I want to make maximum use of this session, and there is something you said a little earlier that very much interests me. About Saint Augustine’s optimism in The Confessions. What were you referring to?

  No. 3643: “And even if I appear laughable in your sight, you will come back to me full of mercy.”

  Dr. Fowler: I don’t understand what strikes you as so optimistic in that passage. Is it because you don’t have confidence in the goodness and infinite mercy of God?

  No. 3643: The merciful God is an invention of the twentieth century, Father Fowler.

  Dr. Fowler: Saint Augustine lived in the fourth century.

  No. 3643: Saint Augustine was horrified by his own sinful past, and set out to write a string of optimistic lies.

  Dr. Fowler: Father, but that string is the basis of our faith. That God pardons us.

  No. 3643: Not always. They go to confession like someone who is going to wash his car. . . . Pah! They make me sick.

  Dr. Fowler: That is what you feel when you administer confession? You feel nauseated?

  No. 3643: I feel repugnance. Many times I vomited inside the booth, from the bile the person on the other side of the screen stirred up in me. Lies. Fornication. Adultery. Pornography. Violence. Theft. All of them, sneaking into this small space, contaminating it with their brutish-ness. They let it all spill out, until I’m drowning in it.

  Dr. Fowler: But, Father, they aren’t saying it to us. They are saying it to God. We are merely the transmitter. When we put on the priest’s stole, we are changed into Christ.

  No. 3643: Everything comes out. They arrive filthy and believe that they leave clean. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have stolen ten thousand dollars from my business partner.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I raped my younger sister.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I took photos of my son and posted them on the Internet.” “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I put lye in my husband’s food so he’ll stop bothering me about being a good wife in bed. I’m sick of the way he reeks of onions and sweat.” Just like that, day after day.

  Dr. Fowler: But confession is a marvelous thing, Father Karosky, when there is repentance and an authentic attempt to change one’s behavior.

  No. 3643: Something that never happens. They always, always pile their sins on my shoulders. They abandon me, alone before God’s impassive face. I am the only one who intervenes between their iniquities and God’s vengeance.

  Dr. Fowler: Do you really see God as a vengeful being?

  No. 3643: His heart is as firm as a stone, As hard as a piece of the nether millstone. He maketh the deep to boil like a pot, He maketh the sea like a pot of ointment. The sword that layeth at him cannot hold; The spear, the dart, nor the habergeon. He surveys all with pride, He rules over the fierce!

  Dr. Fowler: I have to tell you that your intimacy with the Bible, particularly the Old Testament, always impresses me. But the Book of Job was rendered obsolete by the truth Jesus gives us in the Scriptures.

  No. 3643: Jesus Christ is merely the Son; it is the Father who renders judgment. And the Father has a face of stone.

  Dr. Fowler: I am very sorry to see that you have climbed so high in the tower of your convictions. By necessity, the fall from such a perch is fatal. And if you listen to the tapes in Father Conroy’s possession, there is no question that that is what will happen.

  HOTEL RAPHAEL

  Largo Febo, 2 Thursday, April 7, 2005, 2:45 P.M.

  “Saint Ambrogio Residence.”

  “Good afternoon. I’d like to speak with Cardinal Robayra,” said the young journalist in her very worst Italian.

  The voice on the other end of the phone was flustered.

  “May I ask with whom I’m speaking?”

  It wasn’t much; the speaker’s tone hardly changed. But it was enough to send a signal to the journalist.

  Andrea Otero had spent four years working at El Globo. Four years in which she had blazed a trail through third-string press rooms, interviewed C-list personalities, and written stories for the back page. She was twenty-four years old when she joined Globo, and she had gotten the job through a personal connection. She started in the Culture pages, whose editor never took her seriously. She moved on to Society, whose editor never trusted her. And now she’d taken up residence in the International pages, whose editor did not consider her up to the job. But she was. It wasn’t all about fame, or the courses you had taken. There was also common sense, intuition, the journalist’s nose for a story. And if Andrea Otero had these qualities as much as even 10 percent of the extent she thought she did, she would be a journalist worthy of a Pulitzer. She didn’t lack for confidence in herself. Her height of five feet eight inches, her angelic features, her blond hair and blue eyes—behind these was a woman of resolve and intelligence. So when her coworker who was going to cover the death of the pope tripped on the stairs of her apartment building on the way out to the cab to the airport and ended up with a broken leg, Andrea never hesitated when her boss proposed that she go instead. She caught the plane at the last second, the carry-on bag slung over her shoulder her only luggage.

  Happily the streets around her hotel in the Piazza Navona were full of little stores selling the most basic necessities. And so Andrea Otero purchased several pairs of serviceable outfits and underclothes, along with a mobile phone, all of them naturally charged to the newspaper. The last item was the one she was using to call the Saint Ambrogio Residence in order to set up an interview with candidate Cardinal Robayra.

  “This is Andrea Otero, of El Globo. The cardinal promised me an interview for today, Thursday. But, sadly, he isn’t answering his mobile. Would you be so kind as to put me through to his room, please.”

  “Signorina Otero, I’m sorry to say we cannot put you through to his room because the cardinal has not arrived.”

  “And when will he arrive?”

  “He isn’t coming.”

  “He hasn’t arrived, or he isn’t coming?”

  “He hasn’t arrived because he isn’t coming.”

  “Is he staying somewhere else?”

  “I don’t think so. What I meant to say was, I guess he will.”

  “And with whom am I speaking?”

  “I have to go.”

  The dial tone told her two things: the conversation was over and the person on the other end was exceptionally nervous. And so she had lied. Andrea was sure of that much. She was too good a liar herself not to recognize someone in her class.

  There was no time to lose. In less than ten minutes she came up with the telephone number of the cardinal’s office in Buenos Aires. It was almost ten in the morning over there, a prudent hour to make a call. She laughed at the bill the newspaper was going to get for her mobile. They were paying her little more than the minimum, so at least she had screwed them on expenses.

  The telephone rang for a minute and then the line went dead. Strange that no one was there. She tried the line again.

  Nada.

  She tried the number of the main office. A woman’s voice answered immediately.

  “Archbishop’s office, good morning.”

  “May I speak with Cardinal Robayra, please.”

  “Ah, señorita, he’s already left.”

  “Left for where?”

  “To the conclave, señorita. To Rome.”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “No, señorita. I’ll connect you to Padre Serafín, his secretary.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Beatl
es played while she was on hold. How appropriate. Andrea decided to lie a bit just to keep things interesting. The cardinal had family in Spain. She wanted to see if she could pull it off.

  “Aló?”

  “Hi, I’d like to speak with the cardinal. It’s his niece Asunción. The one from Spain.”

  “Asunción, how nice to hear from you. This is Father Serafín, the cardinal’s secretary. The Eminence never told me about you. Are you Angustia’s daughter, or Remedios’s?”

  She sensed a trap. Andrea crossed her fingers. A 50 percent chance of making a false move. Andrea was an expert in false moves too: she had a long history of putting her foot in her mouth.

  “Remedios’s.”

  “Of course, how stupid of me. I remember now. Angustia doesn’t have any children. Unfortunately, the cardinal isn’t here.”

  “When can I speak with him?”

  Silence. The curate’s voice became a touch cautious. Andrea could almost imagine him on the other end of the line, squeezing the receiver and twisting the cord with his index finger.

  “What did you want to speak to him about?”

  “Well, I have lived in Rome for years, and he promised me that the next time he was here he would visit me.”

  The voice on the other end became even more suspicious. He was speaking slowly, as if he were afraid of making a mistake.

  “He left for Cordoba to take care of pressing matters in the diocese. He won’t be able to attend the conclave.”

  “But at the main office they told me the cardinal had already left for Rome.”

  “Ah, yes, there’s a new girl at the archbishop’s office, and she’s still unacquainted with how things work,” Serafín fired back. He had obviously made that one up on the spot. “Please forgive me.”

  “You are forgiven. Will you tell my uncle that I called?”

  “Of course. Could you give me your telephone number, Asunción? I want to put it on the cardinal’s calendar. We might have to get in touch with you.”

  “He already has it. I’m sorry but my husband is on the line. Goodbye.”

  She hung up on the secretary just when he had something on the tip of his tongue. Now she was sure something wasn’t right. But she had to confirm it. Lucky for her, there was an Internet connection in the hotel. It took her all of six minutes to find the phone number for the three main Argentine airline companies. She struck gold on the first try.