Would they have a phone?
“I’m going to try the diner. Wanna go in with me?”
“Sure,” John said before getting out of the car.
They walked there together while Pixie pondered giving up if they didn’t have a phone. Perhaps it was just the universe telling her not to bother with the police.
But she also knew guilt would tear her apart if her gut turned out to be correct.
A bell tinkled as she pulled open the door, letting the scent of frying oil and coffee replace the remnants of what she’d smelled in the booth. Only a handful of patrons were in. All of them sitting alone, tables away from each other, as though they needed their own private areas for rummaging through their thoughts.
Pixie headed to the bar, John followed. If they had a phone, she’d best be positioned to see it from there. And spending money in the diner would most likely help her get permission to use their phone.
“Morning, dear!” a woman standing behind the bar said. Her graying hair was tied in a bun and then wrapped with a black hairnet. She placed a porcelain mug on the paper placemat in front of Pixie. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” Pixie said.
“Please,” John said.
“Decaf or regular?”
“Regular please.”
“Same.”
The woman reached out to the nearby pot, then filled their cups before handing them menus and various types of sugar packets and individual cream servings.
Pixie wasn’t hungry but seeing pancakes on the menu made her salivate a little. She and John never made pancakes at home. Why not?
“I’ll have some pancakes with real maple syrup if you have it.”
“Afraid not. Maple-flavored syrup all right?”
Pixie shrugged. What could she do? “Fine.”
“And you, sir?”
“Just coffee.”
The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, granting Pixie more room to—not so discreetly—stand and stretch her legs, her feet on the footrest of her stool so she could look at the counter across the bar from where she sat. Glasses, coffee mugs, a sink, and other kitchen things one would expect. Turning her head to the other side, she spotted a screen, which she assumed was used for keeping track of orders or printing bills.
“Watcha looking for?” the waitress asked, making Pixie’s heart skip a beat.
She was a paying patron. The worst the waitress could say was no.
“Any chance you have a phone I could use?”
“No cellphone, eh?”
Pixie shook her head, hoping her eyes didn’t give her away.
“Sure, as long as you’re not calling China.”
“No, it’s a local number,” she said, tacking one more lie to her conversation. Toll-free was as good as local in her head, and the same was most likely true for all phone companies.
“Let me get it for you.”
A few seconds later, the waitress handed Pixie a cordless phone, which relieved her beyond belief.
“If it’s all right, I’ll just go in between the entrance doors. For a little privacy.”
“Whatever. I’m not sure the signal reaches that far, but maybe.”
“Thanks!” She told the woman before addressing John. “I’ll be right back.”
Fidgeting with the piece of paper in her hand she made her way to the entrance, then dialed the number.
Several rings echoed before a woman picked up. “Detective Wang.”
The name didn’t seem like the one she’d heard on the news, but now wasn’t the time to back pedal. “Hi, I’m calling about the man killing women in Boston.”
A slight paused occurred before the detective spoke again. “What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Do you have any information for us?”
“I think so. You need to look into the murder of Mr. Eliah Thompson.”
“Pixie,” John said as he pushed the entrance door open.
She brought her index finger to her lips while widening her eyes.
“Your food’s here,” John whispered before returning into the diner.
“And how are these murders connected?”
“I think the same man killed them all.”
“And what makes you believe that?”
“I gotta go. Follow the clues. Look for a Caucasian man. Twenty-six years old.”
She pressed the button to hang up and exhaled loudly, feeling better about having given the detectives a useful tip. The ball was in their court now.
And she had not risked their hard-earned freedom. As long as they paid cash for breakfast, the police would have no way of tracking them down, even if they traced the phone call.
She headed back in, eager to bite into her pancakes.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sitting alone in conference room number two with a large cup of district coffee, Kate blinked to try to get back on task.
Had she picked the worst timing or what? She shouldn’t have wasted her downtime going through those letters. Now was not the time to stir up the past or relive painful memories. Not when their serial killer was still on the loose.
And Kate hated herself for not having caught him (or her) yet, or even having caught a break with the case.
“Time to grab a coffee?” Rosebud asked from behind her.
“Only from the lunchroom, I’m afraid. No time for fancy snacks from across the street.”
“You look like shit, Murphy,” Rosebud said.
“What everyone wants to hear first thing in the morning.”
“Come on! Isn’t there always time for a decent cup of joe that won’t pierce a hole in your stomach? I don’t know how you can drink that awful shit.”
“I’m immune to it by now, maybe.” Kate rubbed her face, trying to somehow make up for the serious deficit in her sleep.
“Didn’t you go home early last night? You were supposed to spend time with your guy, forget about the case for a few hours. We’re not machines.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“What did you do? Get run over by a Zamboni?”
“I…” Kate poked the side of her cheek with her tongue, debating whether she should share her worries with Rosebud.
“Come on. You don’t have to. But I’m here. We’ve got”—he stretched his arm to look at his watch—“ten minutes before Wang gets here to brief us.”
What harm could come of it? She was too tired to come up with an excuse for keeping a secret from her partner. “Promise to keep it between you and me?”
“Sure.” Rosebud pulled a chair and turned it around, straddling the back of the chair as he sat.
Summarizing the discoveries she’d first made through hypnotherapy and then the unopened letters in a way that would make CliffNotes feel inadequate, Kate explained why she hadn’t managed to sleep a single minute the previous night. “As though our serial killer wasn’t enough. Now I’m haunted by new revelations about my family’s murders. I think I should get sleeping—”
“Morning!” Wang said as she entered the room, coffee in one hand and her notepad in the other. Her hair was disheveled but she otherwise looked fine. She’d had a better night than Kate.
“Anything interesting happen last night?” Kate asked as she forced her eyes to open wide.
“Toxicology report is still not ready, but we just got an interesting tip,” Wang chimed in, notebook in the air, as though ready to share.
“Please make it good,” Kate said, lifting her cup of coffee to her lips.
“We’ve gotten loads of anonymous tips. Want them all or just this latest one?”
“We’re all exhausted. Just share the helpful stuff.”
“Anonymous woman. Said our killer may be related to an unsolved case for the murder of Mr. Eliah Thompson. Also said the killer was male, Caucasian, and twenty-six years old.”
“Very specific,” Rosebud said, echoing what Kate was thinking.
“Who knows if it’s a good lead or not,
but I tracked down and retrieved the case file number. Eliah Thompson died nine months ago, in New Bedford. They never found the killer. But we can revisit their case and see if there were any twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old males involved, possibly as a witness or suspect who got eliminated.”
“Isn’t Father Matthews around that age? Check the records for his DOB and talk to whoever was on that New Bedford case. Drive over there if you need to. Shit, you’re off.” Kate turned to Rosebud. “You wanna drive there, or should I? I’ve got Father Matthews coming in shortly.”
“No! Let’s talk to Fuller. Tell him that we may finally be onto something. He’ll call in Chainey. I don’t want you to interview Matthews alone. Not today.”
“Fine,” Kate said before he got a chance to expand and tell Wang stuff that was only meant for his ears. “We’ll do that, but we’ll send Chainey with photos of all our male suspects, especially Father Matthews.”
“Wang, before you go home and get some rest, anything else about the call or things that happened last night?”
“The call… I don’t know why she didn’t call the anonymous tip line, but as soon as she said she was calling about the case, I tapped the record button on my phone. Want to hear it word for word, in case it makes a difference?”
“You did! That’s freaking awesome! Can you put it on speakerphone?”
Wang placed the device in the center of their group, hit Play followed by the speakerphone icon.
Kate sat with her eyes closed, doing her best to absorb all of it. The recording was put on loop and everyone listened in about half a dozen times.
“Is it me, or is a man talking to her in the background?”
Rosebud shook his head. “I didn’t hear. But let me get my earbuds,” he said before digging into the breast pocket of his jacket.
“You carry this with you at all times?” Kate asked.
“Two minutes of guided meditation can be squeezed in any time.”
“What?” Wang said.
“Ignore him,” Kate said before donning the earbuds and tapping play. The now familiar lines began again. “Trixie! Listen for it, near the end. The noises change in the background. I think a man says ‘Trixie.’ That has to be her name. Rosebud, listen to it.” Kate offered the earbuds. “See what you make of it.”
Rosebud got ready and tapped the play button. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Maybe. But how does that help?”
“We could track down that number from our phone records, look for a Trixie. Then maybe she could provide more information. It sounds to me like this woman knows the killer. She could be someone who got away from him. Why didn’t she give us her name?”
With Chainey freshly recalled and dispatched to New Bedford, Kate sat next to Rosebud in the interview room, across the table from Father Matthews, who’d agreed to answer their questions as long as he could return to his duties within the hour. The father had even agreed to provide his prints and DNA after acknowledging that he didn’t have an alibi for either murder.
“Lord is on my side. I have nothing to hide,” he said, as smug as the Pope. The way he sat, his perfect posture, the dimples in his clean-shaven cheeks, and his clerical collar made Kate want to slap the smile off of his face. Her gut was telling her—no, it was screaming—that the handsome priest had something to do with the murders.
DNA will eventually be his downfall, she thought as she glanced at the list of questions she had prepared for him. She skipped the wine-related questions for now. “Jessica had an oily cross drawn on her forehead,” Kate said.
Father Matthews raised his brows as he shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Do you have a question? I have things to take care of. As I said before, I’m a busy man.”
“You’d have access to such oils at church, wouldn’t you?” Rosebud asked.
“We have holy oils, of course, but their usage is reserved for priests and deacons under very specific circumstances.”
“Enlighten us,” Kate said, straightening her back and matching the posture of the father in front of her.
“The Church typically uses three types of holy oils: the oil of the sick, the oil of the catechumens, and the holy chrism oil.”
“What’s the difference?” Kate asked, writing down those names before they escaped her short-term memory.
“The first is used according to its name. Priests can anoint sick people either during a mass or privately through a sacrament that involves laying hands on the sick, saying a special prayer, and tracing a cross with the oil on the sick person’s forehead and hands.”
“And hands?” Kate made a note to ask the medical examiner if he’d spotted such oil residue on either victim.
“Yes,” Father Matthews stated in a flat tone. He smiled, but Kate recognized it for the facade that it was. Genuine smiles involved the eyes. His smile was purely for show; his eyes shot icy stares her way. A perfect picture of practiced charisma.
Kate met his glance. “And what ingredients would be used in the oil of the sick?”
He didn’t blink before answering, his eyes daring Kate to a staring contest of sorts. “Olive oil.”
“That’s it?” she asked, incredulous and doing her best not to blink, but her bodily instincts were too strong.
“And the blessings of our bishop.”
Kate resisted the urge to roll her eyes, realizing that the placebo effect could very well extend beyond medicine and work its magic with religious oils, if people’s faith or belief were strong enough. “Tell me about the second oil you mentioned, cate…” Kate glanced at her pad.
“Catechumens,” Rosebud finished. “It means people who haven’t been baptized yet,” he added, for Kate’s benefit, obviously.
“Priests or deacons can anoint catechumens as they pray for God to instill in them the strength and wisdom necessary to discern and avoid evil, in preparation of their future life with Christ, our Lord. They use the oil to draw a cross on their forehead before blessing the child with the waters of baptism.”
“And what’s in that catechumen oil?”
“Same as the other.”
Kate wanted to ask why they categorized the two differently if the oil was one and the same but kept her question to herself. She was exhausted and had already displayed too much ignorance in front of Rosebud and the smug priest. And she didn’t want Father Matthews to think he could outwit her with his good looks, charming smile, and snappy answers.
“And the third oil?” she asked but then changed her mind. “No. Tell you what. Just tell me if any of your oils would have frankincense and sage mixed into them.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a chance.”
“What’s in the third oil?”
“Olive oil, balsam, and the bishop consecrates it.”
“Balsam,” Kate repeated. “Is that hard to come by?” she asked Rosebud who held his phone in his hand.
“I’ll look into it,” he said as his finger touched his screen.
“We don’t purchase the ingredients. The bishop blesses the oils on Holy Thursday each year, just before Easter, then each parish receives enough to last them throughout the year.”
“Readily available online. Cheap as well,” Rosebud said.
“Do Frankincense and sage have any meanings to you?” Kate asked the priest.
“Not as an oil, but Frankincense is an important ingredient in the incense we burn during certain ceremonies.”
Kate flipped to a new page on her notepad. “Meaning of those ceremonies?”
“They’re normally part of a ritual having to do with cleansing and purifying.”
Rosebud chimed in next, reading from his phone. “Google mentions antiseptic and disinfectant properties.”
“And what about sage? Is it used at all in any ritual?”
Father Matthews shook his head. “No. In fact, we recommend against it. Centuries ago, sage was used to bless homes as part of an ancient pagan tradition. Catholics are strongly urged to
part ways with any sort of superstition or non-Christian traditions.”
Kate thought about the oil and the potential meaning for using a different blend.
“Would it be hard for someone to gain access to the holy oils? Are they left unattended anywhere in the church?”
“They are kept in an ambry, near the baptismal font.”
Kate stared at the father, but he didn’t clarify. “In plain English?”
“In a recess near the receptacle we use for baptisms.”
“So anyone could go and steal those oils if they wanted?”
The father’s nostrils flared as a darker shade of red reached his cheeks. “I don’t know what you have against me or my church, but our parishioners are not thieves who’d steal the holy oils!”
“All yours, Rosebud,” Kate said as she decided to step out of the interview room.
Her exhaustion was affecting her work. No way she’d be able to make friends and work her magic with Father Matthews. But maybe Rosebud could play good cop and build rapport for a change.
She headed into the small observation room that oversaw the interrogation she’d just exited and hoped he could get something out of the man.
“Father Matthews, please accept my apologies for my partner. She’s obviously not religious.”
A groan escaped the father’s lips as he readjusted in his chair.
“You know why I became a cop?” Rosebud asked as he closed his notepad.
“I have no idea.” Father Matthews leaned against the back of his chair, crossing his arms on his chest.
He’s closing off… Come on, Rosebud. Work your magic.
“My dad. My granddad. It’s a family tradition. I’m just following in their footsteps.”
“Okay.”
A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed.
The priest glanced at his watch. “Do you have more questions for me? I really have to get back.”
“Why did you become a priest?”
“It’s my calling. I heard Him tell me loud and clear.”
The Last Amen Page 18
