In the privacy of her car, Kate rang Rosebud but got his voicemail. “Rosebud, I’m heading back into town. I think we’ve got enough for a search warrant now. I think Anderson could have killed the teacher. His sister died, then Mr. Thompson was poisoned to death. Both kids were super smart, I just found out. He learned chemistry as a kid. Maybe enough to make poison, don’t know. He could have held a grudge against the teacher. I think he could have blamed him for his sister’s debauchery that led her to suicide.” Her phone beeped but she ignored it just so she could finish her message to Rosebud. “Please get started on the paperwork for the warrant. I’m heading back now. Call me if you need more details.”
The second she hung up, just as she started her engine, her phone rang.
“Murphy. Wang tracked Big Danny,” Rosebud said. “The sketch artist worked remotely. I’m staring at Candidate Anderson.”
“Fuck! We got him! I just left you a message. Get the paperwork going for the warrant, fill Fuller in, and arrange for a SWAT team. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
For the first time in weeks, Kate smiled as an invigorating rush of adrenaline boomed through her body. Each heartbeat echoing in her head like a crowd cheering “Gotcha. Gotcha. Gotcha.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
No matter how many searches he ran in the church’s database, he didn’t find Kate Murphy. But Facebook proved a lot more useful. He found out who her partner was—out of marriage, unsurprisingly—then recognized that man for having seen him at one of the fundraisers a few weeks earlier. And his name linked him to his mother, an avid and devoted church member he quite liked.
Mrs. O’Brien was a good person. Well, he’d thought so until now.
As he added up the little details he’d overheard through his recordings of her confessions and mixed those with the facts he’d since uncovered, Marjorie O’Brien no longer seem like such a good Catholic.
She permitted two unmarried people to live in sin under her roof. To be fair, she had tried to get them to tie the knot—he remembered getting her a pamphlet for the church’s premarital course—but she’d obviously failed. He knew better than to presume the two were saving themselves. He didn’t know much about her son, Luke, except for what he’d overheard from her. But he recalled his cold behavior that day at the fundraiser. His name also didn’t appear in their database, meaning that he hadn’t signed the petition. He didn’t care about his own community. His own neighborhood. His own brotherhood of man.
He remembered Marjorie mentioning that her son’s girlfriend had been previously married—to a horrible man she’d added, as though that was reason enough for her to get a divorce. Another sin to add to the long list they’d accumulated collectively as a “family” under one roof.
But even with technology and science on his side, he wasn’t omniscient like Him. No doubt Detective Murphy had other sins to her name. And it was quite common for police officers to die at their own hands in their later years. As much as he despised her right now—for not understanding that he was his Lord’s servant and not a feeble murderer as the press had erroneously labeled him—he could be the bigger man.
He could save her now before she’d eventually commit the ultimate sin on her own.
Like his sister had done. Like many police officers ended up doing.
He shook his head in an effort to ignore his deceased sister, but as though she was screaming his name out of purgatory, he could no longer ignore her cries. As scared and helpless as she sounded, her fate was no longer in his hands.
But he could help them. That family of sinners he could save.
As the bigger man that he was, he would show them the light. He’d bless them and let them see Heaven for themselves. They’d get their place by His side, as His children, freed of their sins.
The old printer spat out Mrs. O’Brien’s address, as entered in the church’s database. The house number matched the one he’d seen in the newspaper. The location was so convenient, too. A clear sign from God.
He checked that he still had his vials in his pocket, then he slipped a handful of rosaries into his cast. He headed to the donation bin next. Fumbling through the discarded clothes, he realized that three outfits weren’t going to fit around his cast this time. One nightgown was easily concealed under the wrap that held his cast in place against his chest. But three outfits? And what would he use to cover the man’s body?
He decided to skip the outfits this time. The Lord would understand. The ceremonious garb had been more for his earthly rituals than Him, he realized.
Just as he was about to leave, he thought about the man once more. And the fact that he had three people to deal with. He’d never done a group cleansing before. Even with God on his side, he wouldn’t magically grow more limbs to handle three sinners at once.
He headed to the church’s maintenance closet to see if the janitor kept anything in there that could be useful. Perhaps some sort of rope.
But when he opened the door, he immediately spotted something much, much better: duct tape.
Chapter Seventy
“Can’t believe this killer lives just a few blocks away from me!” Murphy said as she exited the car with both the arrest and search warrants in hand.
Rosebud glanced at the building where the suspect resided—a three-story structure made out of wood that hadn’t received the care, paint, or attention it needed. The faded apartment doors were exposed to the elements behind the not-so-straight guardrails that ran the entire length of each floor.
Affordable rentals. Well, as affordable as Boston made them.
“Never know your neighbors, do you?” Rosebud said. “Hey, by the way, you still haven’t invited me over for a drink.”
“Not the time or place, Rosebud,” Murphy said, looking toward a blue Honda parked across the street. “That’s his car, right?”
“Yep. Probably home then. But wait, no. The man’s got a broken arm. But it doesn’t mean anything, unless it’s a stick shift.”
“We never followed up on his broken arm. He was probably faking it. Stupid of us.”
“I saw his X-rays.”
“On his phone. Could have been someone else’s. Doesn’t count. Anyways, we’ll find out soon enough,” Murphy said as she followed the SWAT team to the suspect’s home.
Rosebud watched some of the men getting dispatched around the back to cover all emergency exits. Even though detectives weren’t allowed in until after SWAT cleared the place, the rush of excitement still flowed through his veins. Murphy had insisted on being near the building instead of waiting down the block as they normally did.
As Rosebud passed by the crime lab specialists and photographer who had also been dispatched, he spoke to them. “We’ll call you in the instant SWAT clears the place.”
Heads bobbed, so he ambled toward the building as he silently voiced a quick prayer for his colleagues, a habit he’d begun long ago and couldn’t quit, afraid the one time he didn’t do it would mark an unlucky day. Possibly someone’s last. It dawned on him that maybe he was more superstitious than religious. But a prayer had never hurt anyone.
He had joined Murphy on the main floor by the time the SWAT leader pounded three loud bangs on the suspect’s door two floors above them. “Boston Police! Open up!”
A loud crash echoed above and Rosebud knew the leader had forced the door open.
A few minutes later, when the all clear was given and SWAT officers started walking down the stairs, Rosebud sighed. While the thrill of potentially being the one to find and arrest the suspect was at times exhilarating, Rosebud preferred walking into a home without worrying about getting shot. Not that this particular suspect was likely to own a gun. They’d checked his file, and he hadn’t used guns in his crimes. His modus operandi was more peaceful, albeit just as deadly.
The thought still made his skin crawl. How could a man of God behave in such way? What could have gone horribly wrong to twist his thoughts in such perverted ways? But his excursion do
wn the rabbit hole of questions came to an end as the stream of SWAT officers ended and Murphy headed up. He followed.
Rosebud could hear his heartbeat in his head and feel his lungs still recovering from climbing the stairs as he watched Murphy go past the officer manning the door and enter Anderson’s apartment.
Looking over the guardrail, Rosebud waved to the crime scene techs down below. They acknowledged his signal, so he ambled inside, taking in the somber home. The kitchen walls were bare, save for a cheap clock that ticked the passing seconds as though they were a punishment. Several nails stuck out from the patched-up paint—possibly from the previous tenants—and a sole crucifix hung from one of them.
The kitchen counter was a different story though. It overflowed with stuff, but not the cereal boxes, spaghetti container, or tea boxes he would have expected. No. Several unidentified bags of powders and tiny pebbles. It wasn’t meth-lab quantity or paraphernalia but could easily explain the unknown drug in the vics’ systems.
And there was that box of disposable gloves and another with surgeon’s caps. Those explained the lack of DNA or fingerprints.
“We’ll have to bag all of those and get the lab to identify the concoction he made,” Murphy said, turning to look at Rosebud. “SWAT said we’ll love the bedroom. I’ll just have a quick peek in the bathroom. Why don’t you get started in the bedroom?”
The door on the right was clearly the bathroom. A one-bedroom apartment was like hitting the jackpot when it came to easy evidence gathering.
He headed toward the left door from which shone a reddish glow but stopped in his tracks when he saw the origin of the flickering lights.
Chapter Seventy-One
“Mom, you won’t believe what I just did,” Luke said on the phone as he walked out of the store.
“I don’t know, Son. Tell me?”
“I have to keep it a surprise for now, but you’re going to be very proud of me.”
“Did you get a promotion?”
“No, much, much better than that. Although I wouldn’t turn down a raise, considering how much I just spent.”
“Did you get a new car?”
“No, and no more guesses! You’ll find out in due course, but I just wanted to call and thank you for pushing me in the right direction.”
“Luke O’Brien, you can’t just tease your poor old mom like that.”
“Sorry, but I promise it’s for a good cause.”
“Okay then. I made something special for dinner tonight. I think you’ll like it.”
“What is it?” Luke asked.
“My turn to keep secrets from you.” The doorbell echoed on her end. “Someone’s at the door, but I haven’t made it in well over a decade. Give me a second.”
Luke waited, listening to the faint noise of the front lock opening, half-dreading that reporters had once again reappeared. They hadn’t been by in a few days. Then he overheard his mother and her guest. “Candidate Anderson! What a surprise!”
Suddenly his mom’s voice got louder, “See you soon, Luke. Gotta go.”
“Bye, Mom,” Luke said.
He checked the time on his watch and decided he had time to check in with Kate. He wouldn’t spoil his big surprise on the phone, but he couldn’t wait for her to come home tonight.
Chapter Seventy-Two
He climbed the front steps of the brick building and rang the doorbell, waiting quietly in front of the brightly colored door. Birds chirped around him. The sun shone brightly. A mother strolled down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller.
Luck is on my side today, he thought, careful to keep his roll of duct tape behind his back.
“Candidate Anderson! What a surprise!” Mrs. O’Brien said, making him turn back to face the door.
“Hello, Mrs. O’Brien. How are you?”
She held a phone in her hand. “See you soon, Luke. Gotta go,” she said into the receiver before hanging up. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You didn’t have to cut your call short on my behalf—”
“No, no. It was just my son. What can I do for you?”
He smiled at her, his most genuine facade. “I was just following up on the petition you signed a few weeks ago. Mind if I come in?”
She cleared the doorway, and, with a swing of her hand, let him into her home. “Please do. I’ll make us coffee.”
“Sounds great.” He watched her close and lock the door.
“Do you mind taking off your shoes, please?” she asked with a large smile before continuing her way into another part of her home.
Her request took him a bit by surprise, but he needed to keep her happy for a few more minutes, so he obeyed. He took off his shoes, nearly exposing his tape and spilling the items he held in his cast in the process. He couldn’t wait to take his prop off and get on with his program.
But everything was good. It had been so easy to be invited into her home. Now he wondered how easily she’d recognize her own sins and the sins of those she kept under her roof.
“What a delightful aroma,” he said.
“That reminds me. I need to take my bird out of the oven, so it doesn’t dry out!”
Chapter Seventy-Three
With his gloved hand, Rosebud flicked the light switch, but nothing happened.
“It doesn’t work,” a straggling member of SWAT said. “Weird fucking shit, though. Have fun!”
He walked out, leaving Rosebud alone in the room for now. In the semi-darkness, he could make out a single bed—neatly made—pushed against the wall. The standard-size room seemed immense without proper furniture. He pulled his flashlight out and turned it on, scanning the room. There wasn’t even a window in here. Isn’t that against code?
He confirmed it was just the bed, nothing underneath it. Nothing on the wall except one image of the Virgin Mary taped above the head of the bed. Well, nothing else except the large, homemade shrine that had surprised him a minute earlier.
Expecting it to hold the sick obsession of the person they were here to arrest, Rosebud approached the altar. He’d seen a few of those over the years. Enough to know that some folks were messed up. Really messed up.
On top of a small table that would normally be used in a living room as a side table, a handful of tall votive candles had been lit, the red holders coloring their light, their wax altering the scent of the room. Resting against the base of the votive and leaning against the wall was a cheap corkboard decorated with a sick man’s obsession: photos, one lock of blonde hair tied with a tiny ribbon, dried flowers, newspaper clippings.
A prime fire hazard and a priceless piece of evidence.
Rosebud shone his light onto the top item on the left: a picture of two blond kids, beaming. The glare of the photo made him believe it had been printed on real photo paper.
A tiny lock of hair tied with a pink ribbon had been taped to the corner of it. The next photo his beam illuminated could have been pulled from a case file. But it wasn’t one he was familiar with. A young woman in her twenties lay on her bed, one hand clutching the crucifix hanging from her neck, the other arm held an orange pill container. Her hair was tied in a braid, its tip resting over her shoulder.
Rosebud yelled out. “Murphy! Get your ass in here. Now!”
Chapter Seventy-Four
Kate left the bathroom and ran into the bedroom after hearing Rosebud call out to her.
“What’s going on? Why didn’t you turn on the lights?”
“Don’t work. Have a look,” he said, shining his flashlight on a photo of a man with two teenagers. The boy was most likely Anderson. The hairline, the nose, the lips, the dimples in his cheeks. Sure, he was more than a decade younger on that photo, but it was him. No doubt about it. The chubby grown man’s eyes had been crossed off with large Xs drawn in permanent marker.
“That has to be the sister, Penelope, and Mr. Thompson,” Kate said. “Scorfosi! Come in here ASAP,” she said.
He appeared next to her with his camera. “Take photos of t
his right now. I need to look at the back of those, but I want to keep a record of the board as we found it.”
Kate and Rosebud both shone their lights as the man recorded the evidence.
“Talk about nailing without a reasonable doubt! Who is the woman?” Kate asked.
“All yours,” the photographer said.
With her gloved hand, Kate unpinned the unknown photo and flipped it. On the back, an inscription read Pixie, June 1, 2017. “What the fuck?”
She flipped the next photo, the one with the man with his eyes crossed off. The back showed Mr. Thompson, Anderson, and Pixie, Dec 2005.
“Pixie must be Penelope, his twin sister,” Kate said.
“Never heard that nickname before, but it adds up. Did he kill her?” Rosebud asked, his eyes glued on a hand-written letter that had been pinned underneath the photo.
Kate stayed quiet, still absorbing the new information.
“This letter must have accompanied the photo,” Rosebud said. “It’s from someone named John. ‘I know your sister’s suicide must be difficult to accept for you. So I included a photo of how I found her—’”
“Who does that?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s see what the letter says. ‘But it’s wrapped in a blank sheet, so you don’t have to look at it if you don’t want to. As per her wishes, her body will be cremated, and no ceremony will be held. I’ve attempted to contact your parents, but I’ve yet to succeed. Last I heard, they were in the middle of a jungle somewhere. With the passing of your sister, this is where our paths diverge. Boston has become too difficult for me to live in, so I’m leaving. I don’t know where I’ll go but I’m cutting ties with you forever. Consider this my goodbye letter. I hope you find it in your heart to understand my need to escape from everyone that reminds me of her. I loved your sister too much. Getting over her death will be incredibly difficult.’”
The Last Amen Page 24
