Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Six

  The car Malone was chasing was under a custom-fitted cover and could not have been seen in any event because it was backed into a small space behind a large utility fan in the far corner of the bottom level of parking garage. The garage was accessed from an alley off K Street, near Vermont Avenue, a short walk from the White House. The garage was a by-the-month facility whose primary customers were the well-heeled who could afford exorbitant monthly fees to see that their expensive machines were pampered while their owners slaved in the wood-paneled offices of those who bought and sold influence in Washington.

  The workers who looked after these top-tier name-plates were, for the most part, immigrants whose green cards were suspect. They were familiar with the ways of men in expensive suits, and so they were polite and deferential to the swells who dropped off their rides every morning and picked them up every evening. They were also open to the exchange of cash for off-the-books space in an out-of-the-way spot for a few days. And so the red 1959 MGA roadster was safely tucked away where a casual observer would not see it and come over to take a look at the classic British car.

  One of these men, a Colombian named Silvio Estavedo, fancied himself a car buff and spent a good portion of each day admiring the Bentleys and BMWs that were squeezed into the tiers of the parking garage. Estavedo had never seen a classic English roadster. The MG was very small by current standards and he wondered why anyone would want to drive something like that. He took the liberty of removing the cover. He admired its condition and ran his hand over the curves of the fenders, looking for flaws in the restoration. He found none. The shiny red paint was smooth, with no runs or rough spots. The wire wheels glistened. The interior smelled of quality leather. The car was better condition than it had been when it left the showroom decades ago. Estavedo was surprised to see that the car had no door handles and was accessed by a cord on the inside of the door next to the driver. He opened the door and sat in the driver’s bucket seat, gazing at the strange controls. The car had a choke and a starter button. There was no radio. He tried to imagine what it had been like to drive such a car through the countryside in the days when it was new.

  He closed his eyes and moved the steering wheel, seeing rolling green hills on a bright sunny day in the country. He dreamed that one day he would own a car that would turn heads and that those who admired his car would know that he had become a man of importance like the men who drove the machines that occupied these spaces each day. For now, alas, his days were spent moving the cars of others for a few hundred dollars a month and a bunk bed in a basement in the suburbs. He took a deep breath and opened the door of the MG. He did not see the man who was standing behind a pillar. The man had come to check on his car. It was an hour before anyone noticed that Estavedo was missing or that the small English car was gone.

  O’Neil arrived at the park an hour after the body was discovered under some bushes at the base of one of the few Elm trees still standing in Washington. The body had been found by a homeless man who lived in the bushes. The man was not of sound mind and had flagged down a patrol car to report that a burglar had broken into his home. The burglar, he stated to the officers, had no head.

  O’Neil got out of his car and saw the dome of the U.S. Capitol three blocks away. He had an odd thought that the victim may have died while he was looking at the seat of the government. He pulled his coat closed against the night cold and walked past the yellow crime scene tape that kept the curious away from the area where officers were taking pictures and looking for evidence. A uniformed officer waved O’Neil to a knot of officers who were huddled at the edge of the bushes.

  “We got a body but we ain’t got a head,” the officer said. He was a thin black man with rimless glasses and a sincere, intense expression on his face. “They’re checking the dumpsters.”

  This part of Pennsylvania Avenue was east of the Capitol and was not along the more famous section that ran west from the Capitol to the White House. This section of the avenue was residential with small storefronts of restaurants and shops. Young white professionals were competing for space with older, black residents who had lived in the area for decades and the neighborhood had a mix of bodegas, coin operated laundries, cutting edge vegan restaurants and bars.

  O’Neil looked down the block and wondered how many dumpsters and trash cans would have to be searched and whether any of them contained the head of the man in the bushes. “Yeah, okay. Where are my guys?”

  The officer pointed to three men in trench coats who were working their way through the bushes around the body, which was stomach down on some large roots at the base of the tree. The man’s hands were tied together and bound to his belt at the small of his back. O’Neil bent down and duck-walked to the body.

  “Hey, Captain! Check the hands.” The voice came from a detective named Carlisle DuBose, a fourth generation Washingtonian whose family came north when they were freed after Lee’s surrender. DuBose was a part time minister in his church and saw the hand of God in the motives of even the most craven criminals. “It is not for us to judge,” he was fond is saying, to which O’Neil would laugh and say, “Yes, it is!”

  O’Neil moved closer to the body and saw that the dead man’s hands had been pierced through the palms, most likely while they were pressed together. The man’s shirt was bloody and cut in the shape of a cross.

  “We got a mess here,” DuBose said, “I see the hand of Satan himself.”

  “Or somebody acting on his behalf,” O’Neil said, bracing himself against the tree as he stood. “What did you find?”

  “We’re still looking. No weapons or anything obvious. The guy’s got some knife wounds but there’s no way to know if they killed him or if he died when his head left his body. He appears to be a Hispanic. No ID. Hard to say how old. Not many people used the park today because it’s cold, so that might help us. We got a wagon coming to take this guy to the morgue. Maybe we’ll find his head around here. By the way, there’s a TV truck waiting for a statement from somebody and that reporter Dave Haggard is waiting to talk to you.”

  “Tell the TV people the PIO will be here to say something if they think it’s newsworthy and tell Dave to meet me at my car.”

 

  Dave was at the curb, trying to figure out how to use his phone as a recorder when O’Neil walked up. “See this thing? It can do anything a tape recorder can do and I can record an entire story on it, edit it, and file it right from here.” He held up the phone.

  “Do you know how to do that?” O’Neil looked at the phone like it was a snake.

  “No, not yet. I have two days to learn or they’ll send me to some guy who’ll work with me. That’s not why I’m here. Anything new on the priests?”

  “Nah, not yet. We think we have a few leads about this and that. I’ll let you know.”

  “This and that?”

  “Nothing hard yet. I’m working this one right now. Guy got his head cut off.”

  “Jesus! Local guy?”

  “We don’t have an ID on him yet. Wagon’s coming and the examiner will take a look at him.”

  “Got time for a cup of coffee?” Dave motioned to a chain coffee shop across the street.

  O’Neil raised his eyebrows and nodded. The two men were silent as they crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and stood in a short line for coffee. They found a small table that had not been cleaned of the previous occupants’ cups and napkins. Dave shoved them aside.

  “I’ve been talking to a couple of street reporters in Chicago about the priest killings there. Two of them, like here. Some cops there think it’s a serial killer who’s gone over the edge for some kind of Catholic nutcase group. Maybe even a church goon squad. You know anything about that?”

  “The church has goon squads?” O’Neil laughed with his mouth but not his eyes. “We’re hearing the same thing. Just between us girls, we’re looking at a group called the Warriors of Mary, some kind of fringe Catholic thing. A source at the FBI says they’ve heard t
hat something strange is going on but they don’t know what it is right now. You can’t use any of that.”

  “They’re killing priests?”

  “We don’t know if it’s them or somebody like them. Some of their members are law enforcement types who like their faith a little on the strong side and they pass things on to other cops and like that. It’s all very quiet right now. So tell me more about your friends in Chicago.”

  Dave took a sip of his coffee and wondered how much he should share with O’Neil. He decided that nothing much was on the table at the moment. “You know, street reporter stuff. They get stuff from their cops just like I get stuff from you.” He smiled.

  “And?”

  “These called me when they heard about the killings here. The Church is powerful in Chicago and it’s a bigger story there, so they’re looking for sidebars and tie-ins to their own murders. We talked back and forth and they said their dead priests are like ours, popular guys who were stabbed multiple times. One guy said they’re looking into a Rosary angle because the stab wounds match the prayers in parts of the Rosary. What a sick bastard!”

  “Are any of these theories backed by something besides somebody’s opinion in a bar?” O’Neil leaned forward and put on his cop face.

  “Just passing it along is all. You guys have any theories of your own?”

  “We’ve heard the Rosary theory. We’re hoping our friends in the Warriors of Mary can help us out with that one. Or, maybe it’s just some sicko who likes to kill priests. I gotta go. The wagon’s here to pick up the headless guy. Keep in touch.” O’Neil left and stopped traffic by waving his badge at oncoming cars on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Dave picked up his phone and pressed playback on his voice memos. There was the clear voice of Captain O’Neil. Well, it works, he thought, as he stepped into the cold night air. He walked east to a Metro stop and was moving to the escalator when a man stepped in front of his, waving a finger in his face.

  “Are you the word?” It was Peppers, wearing a ragged coat with newspapers stuffed into it.

  “Do you remember me?” Dave asked. “I was at the shelter when Father Phil was killed.”

  “Are you the word?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I heard the man say it. I heard him say Father Phil would die when he got the word. Are you the word?”

  “Who was the man?”

  “He looked like you. He wasn’t one of us. You’re not one of us, either. Are you the word?”

  “Have you talked to the police?”

  “I don’t talk to them. Police are trouble. Here.” Peppers handed a book to Dave and ran down a side street and into the dark. Dave stood and watched him disappear until all that was left was the odor of the man. He looked at the book. “The Power of the Novena.” It was hardly more than a pamphlet with an imitation leather cover. It fit into the palm of his hand. The pages were stuck together with still-gooey blood.