And still...
Not like this.
Owens drove through a massive Victorian gatehouse and then along a trail. The cemetery had certainly seen a heyday during the Victorian era; there were all manners of mausoleums, large tombs, angels, cherubs and crosses. Owens pointed out the Catholic area and the Jewish area of the cemetery. “Cary Howell was found among the Protestants,” she told them.
She parked the car. The cemetery was well tended. Flowers adorned many of the graves.
They got out of the car and headed toward a massive old mausoleum combining Greek and Gothic styles.
A large iron door guarded the entrance.
A chain with a padlock wrapped around the gate.
The family name of Boone was inscribed in large letters above the entrance.
“Obviously, the family now keeps it securely locked,” Owens told them. “Gladys Boone died six months ago. The funeral removed the marble slab to receive her coffin. That was when they found Cary Howell. I can only imagine what it was like for those in attendance the next morning. Poor family—burying Mom and finding a murder victim where she should have been gently laid for her eternal rest.”
“There are no underground crypts here?” Craig asked.
Owens frowned. “Not right here. There’s a small old family grave site not too far from here, though. I believe that they have a large underground vault. I don’t think, however, that anyone has been entombed in there since...I don’t know, maybe the early 1900s.”
“Where is Cary buried now?” Craig asked.
Owens pointed. “Close,” she said softly. She started walking. Craig was tempted to take Kieran’s hand as they walked across the grass.
He didn’t.
They arrived at Cary Howell’s family tomb. It was of a darker stone, older looking, and offered more of a Gothic appearance.
As they reached it, Craig saw that the door into the mausoleum was open.
“Janet is waiting, I believe,” Owens said. “It’s a large mausoleum. The Howell family is big, and they’ve been in the area a long time. I believe the mausoleum is from around 1820. I guess they intended to stay for a few generations.”
He stepped back to allow the two women to enter. He was glad that Detective Owens wasn’t offended. He liked her. She was sure of herself and her position, and didn’t feel that she had to assert herself or be insulted by simple courtesy.
“She is here,” Owens said very softly, pointing.
The mausoleum looked like a chapel, complete with an altar at the far end and above it a beautiful stained glass window picturing a pair of doves. The window let in a stunning array of light, illuminating four rows of short pews that allowed for a visitor to sit before the altar in reflection.
As beautiful as it was, there was still an essence of sadness.
A young woman with long dark hair, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, stood at the far end, in front of the altar. She turned as she heard them coming.
She smiled and walked around the pews to greet them, offering them her hand in a firm shake. “I’m Janet Harlow. Rebecca—Detective Owens—asked that I speak with you. About Cary.” She turned and indicated one of the tombs. “Cary is there now,” she said softly. “I know she isn’t really there but...I still like to bring flowers. Actually, I grew up with her, so I knew her whole family.” She gestured to the tombs. Then she seemed to realize she was speaking quickly and flushed. “I’m sorry. I loved Cary. And I hope this awful man is caught and gets the death penalty. It’s a federal case now, too, so he just might, right? I’m not mean and vengeful, really. It’s just that...well, you can’t imagine how wonderful Cary was.” She paused and looked from Craig to Kieran with wide eyes that seemed to pray they weren’t judging her.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Kieran said, stepping toward Janet and linking arms with her to lead her to the front pew. “I didn’t know any of the other women we believe the same man has killed. My brother did. I understand your feelings. This man has targeted people who grace the world with their smiles and actions. The people who are not just beautiful on the outside, but on the inside, too.”
“Are you a cop?” she asked.
“Psychologist,” Kieran said.
Janet seemed to withdraw from her, wary. “You think you can fix this man? You want to find him to talk to him, to get him off for being crazy?”
“No. I don’t believe I can fix anyone,” Kieran assured her. “I want to understand him, the better to apprehend him so that he can be brought to justice.”
Janet spoke cautiously. “You’re not going to go on and on about how he’s sick and needs help, right?”
“Far beyond my pay grade. I swear to you, my entire mission is to see that this man is brought to justice—and to stop him. No matter what, we can’t bring Cary back. But if she was the person I understand her to have been, she wouldn’t have wanted more women killed. Please, help me—help us. We have to get him off the streets.”
Janet studied her a minute longer and then nodded. “You’re right. Cary would do anything that she could. How can I help?”
“Just talk about her.”
Detective Owens started to move forward; Craig caught her gently by the shoulder and shook his head.
Owens nodded.
And they listened.
Janet talked about Cary, with Kieran’s encouragement. She told Kieran about their days at school, growing up, their first dates and parties.
Owens moved impatiently. Craig set a hand on her shoulder again.
“I can see how great she was,” Kieran said. “Always kind to the unpopular kids, helpful to those with any kind of a handicap, and loved because she had the determination to do things, whether others accepted her or not. She changed those around her. Janet, she was brilliant, too, right?”
“So smart—a dozen colleges had wanted her!”
“What did she really love? What did she really want to do?” Kieran asked her.
“I think she wanted to write—nonfiction. Oh, she loved novels. But she had a tendency to love stories that were about history. Especially about this area. Or biographies. She had dozens of them, from the Russian royal family to Abe Lincoln. And generals—she loved Robert E. Lee. And she wanted to write a good book on the whole John Brown thing in Harpers Ferry. She wanted to write a book that explained that his motives had been pure, but the man had been a cold-blooded killer. She never saw things from one side. She was so smart and so fair.”
“She sounds incredibly bright. Janet, I’m sorry, this may seem like a strange question, but was she fond of cemeteries and churchyards?” Kieran asked.
Janet’s eyes widened. “Yes! She loved them. She said that history was to be found in church records, graveyards and cemeteries. Not just facts and figures, but how people felt about life and death.”
“Do you know any of her favorite haunts?”
“Um...well, she liked to go to the old rectory.”
“The old rectory?”
Janet nodded. “Just outside the city. There was a church there once. They say it burned down when sparks flew during the Battle of the Wilderness. The rectory still stands, though. It’s locked up, of course, and the roads are bad. It belongs to the state—they keep planning to make some kind of a tourist monument out there, but funding just hasn’t come up. It’s posted ‘no trespassing,’ but—” Janet paused and looked back at Rebecca Owens apologetically “—but we ignored the signs. There are all kinds of gravestones around it. Some tombs above the ground are all overgrown with weeds. She meant to write about it one day, too.”
“Thank you, Janet,” Kieran said sincerely, her hands on Janet’s. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re going to catch him?”
Kieran smiled at her. “I believe that people like Special Agent Frasier
and Detective Owens will catch him, and everything you’ve told us will help. And when he is caught, you’ll be told immediately. I can make you that promise.”
Janet nodded and wiped at her eyes. “Thank you. I—I have to go. I have a sister still in high school. It’s my day off, so I’m supposed to be picking her up...giving her sage older sister advice.”
“You’ve been great.”
Janet stood. Kieran remained on the bench, looking at the marble plaque that covered Cary Howell’s interment.
Janet came to where Craig and Rebecca Owens were standing by the door. She hugged Rebecca, and then, impulsively, she hugged Craig. After his initial surprise, he hugged her back and watched as she hurried to her car. He turned and looked back at Kieran. She was standing by the place where Cary Howell lay, enclosed by marble.
“It would have been a great book about the old rectory, if you’d had a chance to write it. I’m sure that anything you set your mind to would have been just great,” she said softly, touching the stone. Then she turned to them.
“You made Janet feel good, Ms. Finnegan,” Owens said. “I’m grateful for that. But I’m not sure what you’ve gotten out of this.”
Kieran looked at Craig.
He nodded grimly and turned to Owens. “We need to get out to that old rectory and graveyard.”
Owens sighed. “Cary Howell spent hours in DC and loved to drive down to Richmond and head out to Hollywood Cemetery there, too. Honestly, Special Agent—”
“The rectory and graveyard. Please, Detective,” he said.
“Sure. All right. Anything for the Feds,” Owens said.
* * *
Kieran was actually surprised that some politician somewhere along the line hadn’t ordered the demolition of the rectory.
Once, it had been a fine little house, serving, she imagined, the Episcopalian ministers who had tended their flocks at Saint Mary’s in the Forest, as the little church that had burned to the ground had been called.
Walking around the piles of rubbish on the floor, Kieran imagined a time when cozy wingback chairs had sat before the fireplace and, perhaps, a reverend had sipped tea and counseled a distraught parishioner.
Kids—or perhaps the homeless—had apparently broken in to stay. Twenty-first century cigarette butts and beer cans were strewed about in abundance. An old mattress had been dragged into the living room. Tattered blankets lay about.
But it wasn’t really the house that interested Kieran.
“The graveyard is out back?” she asked.
“Yes. Out back and to the side.”
Kieran was already heading for the rear of the little house. The back door was still on its hinges, but it was broken out in many places. She opened it and looked out.
The graveyard gave new meaning to the term overgrown. Long grasses and weeds were in abundance; trees had grown through many of the gravestones.
She spun, hearing a crunch of leaves. Craig was already behind her. His eyes were intent on the ground. “Someone came through here,” he murmured.
She saw that he was already walking around a few aboveground tombs, broken stones and wingless angels. And she saw what he saw—that the long grass and weeds were bent or flattened, as if someone had dragged something along the trail.
She followed him to an aboveground tomb, dedicated to Malachi Fitzpatrick.
Craig brushed leaves off the tomb.
“Revolutionary War hero,” he murmured. And then he looked at Kieran. “And his wife—and three of their children.”
“Memorials are often to more than one person,” Owens called, coming after them.
“Yes, but they wouldn’t all fit in that stone box, would they?” Craig asked her. He looked at Kieran. “Which means there’s a vault beneath or some kind of receptacle that allowed for all those bodies.”
“Maybe, but—”
“Grab an end,” Craig said.
“Special Agent Frasier, that thing has been sealed for over a hundred years. You’re going to need men and a crowbar, and I don’t even know what other equipment,” Owens said, dismayed.
Kieran met Craig’s gaze and smiled. He’d understood exactly what she’d heard when Janet had talked and talked.
And now, she understood him.
The killer might have lured Cary Howell here, knowing how she loved the place.
And if this had been his killing ground, they wouldn’t need any equipment. The top slab of stone would easily slide off the tomb.
“Oh, God! Do you think there’s another body?” Owens asked.
“Not another body,” Craig said. He shifted almost too hard. His end of the tomb slid to the left and Kieran barely maintained her hold on it, but she did so enough to keep it from hitting the ground hard.
She and Craig stood back, looking down at steps into the tomb. Something brown and crusty covered them along with the leaves and infiltration of dirt.
“I think we found the place where our killer met Cary Howell,” Craig said. He hunkered down, touching one of the dried brown spots. He glanced at Kieran and then turned back to Owens. “We need a forensic unit out here. I believe you’ll find these spots to be blood. And once we head down those steps, we’ll find more blood. Maybe a receiving table for the coffins before final interment. I believe it’s where the killer drugged Cary, where he killed her, where he cleaned her and dressed her. It’s where he gave in to his particular brand of depravity—before he brought her to the tomb.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
SOMEHOW, KIERAN REALIZED, they’d gone the entire day and into half the night without thinking about a meal.
Now they were finally about to eat.
Maybe, not thinking about food had been a normal human reaction to the strangeness of the day. Kieran knew that Victorian cemeteries had been planned so that loved ones might actually come and visit—and picnic.
Didn’t work for her. So, she hadn’t been hungry during the day.
Now, though, it was late.
Rebecca Owens had called in the discovery at the graveyard. A forensic team and other detectives had arrived. With gloves and booties, they’d headed down to the scene themselves. There had been a receiving table—a place for a coffin to lie while its final interment was prepared. The stone table had borne remnants of blood. And, Kieran suspected, the pile of bloodied clothing they’d found stashed in a corner had belonged to Cary Howell.
And one intrepid forensic worker had made quite a find. Caught between a piece of stone and earth was a bit of fabric. It was a clothing label. It hadn’t come off the clothing in the corner. From its white threads, they reasoned it had come from the white gown Cary had been dressed in.
The label was ripped. Only a bit of the end of it remained, and all they could read was a curlicue “elli.”
While Craig had left Rebecca Owens and the state of Virginia to secure the site and handle the evidence, Kieran had taken picture after picture with her phone.
Afterward, Owens had driven them to their hotel; they’d showered and changed quickly to find that the diner was open with home-style food after ten, and so there they were.
“Hmm. Something that ends with ‘elli,’” Kieran said, studying the picture of the label on her phone.
“You sent those photos to the office, right?” Craig asked.
She looked up at him. “Colleague,” she said lightly, “when have I ever failed in my professional duties?”
“You haven’t,” he told her, studying her. “I mean, for a civilian I met during a diamond heist, you’re pretty darned astute.”
“Ah, but I was already working with Dr. Fuller and Dr. Miro,” she reminded him.
“Yep.” Craig took a long swallow of the draft beer he was drinking, his eyes on her. “And they took on the criminal i
nvestigation part of the work.”
“Hey, you’re the first one who ever sent me out to Rikers Island,” she reminded.
“You weren’t quite so into getting down in the fray back then. My God. I created a—”
“Monster?” she asked.
He smiled and shook his head, and then his expression became serious. “You were right on today, Kieran. A lot of guys—and women—in the Bureau believe in high tech and pounding the pavement. You have a people touch. A great people touch. You had her talking—of course, what she said had to do a lot with your graveyard obsession of late.”
“It’s not my obsession!” Kieran protested. “It’s his obsession.”
“You’re right. Owens didn’t find the killing ground, neither did the Jersey cops or us in New York City. You have been dogged on visiting this cemetery and that churchyard—and you’ve been right on. But we never would have gotten there if you hadn’t talked to Janet. And Sadie owes her life to you.”
Kieran flushed, uncomfortable with such high praise.
“Sadie really owes her life to Daniel and our patient—and to you. You’re the one who started digging.”
“I wouldn’t have known where to dig if it weren’t for you.”
“We’ve got to hand that one to Danny,” she said.
He nodded, still solemn and thoughtful as he looked over at her. “Danny knows the city,” he agreed.
“I keep thinking, Craig. Roger Gleason. He owns the club. He set the camera. He set the alarm. He knew Jeannette.”
He hesitated and then told her, “He’s been watched since Jeannette Gilbert was found. Egan has had surveillance on him since Saturday.”
“Saturday. Jeannette Gilbert was found on Friday—and Sadie Miller was taken Friday night. And we found her still alive. Can’t they bring him in and hold him for twenty-four hours or whatever it is that the law says? He’s...”
“Slimy?” Craig suggested.
She counted off on her fingers. “He knew the venue, better than anyone else. He owns the venue. Someone did get in and out of that crypt, not on any cameras, and the alarm didn’t go off. Jeannette had been to the club. He could have lured her there easily. She might have even believed that he was part of a publicity campaign if Oswald Martin hadn’t really explained it to her.”