He even played with the data, coloring everything that had to do with one victim, home, employment, abduction site, murder locale in one hue, then designating another for the second victim, and so on and so forth…but no pattern jumped out at him.
He frowned and shook his head. He was going at this all wrong. He looked at the crimes themselves. The commonality of the victims was twofold. First there was the obvious yin and yang of it all, victims selected based on the fact that they were diametrically opposed to each other, with good and evil being represented. The staging of the deaths represented the “good” half of the whole destroying the “bad.” Then, of course, there was the link of each victim, however thin it was, to the old mental hospital. He still couldn’t shake that.
He was still thinking about the old hospital when his cell phone rang. “Montoya,” he answered.
“Hi. This is Maury Taylor, down at WSLJ.”
Montoya’s muscles tensed. “Yeah?”
“Well, you told me to call if I got another one of those notes. And I did. Today.”
Montoya was already reaching for his jacket. “Don’t do anything with it,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”
“I thought I’d talk to the guy on the program again. You know, draw him out—”
“No!” Holding the phone in one hand, he thrust his other hand down the sleeve of the jacket, shaking his arm a bit to get the stiff leather over his shoulder holster.
“Look, I think I have the right to—”
“You have no rights where this is concerned. Got it? Don’t touch the letter, don’t open it and—”
“I already opened it.”
The stupid little dick.
“I had to make sure it was from the same guy. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch it…well, not much.”
“Listen, Taylor, don’t do anything! You got it? Nothing!” He clicked the cell phone off and slid it into his pocket. Then he was out the door.
CHAPTER 25
The note read:
ATONE
L A W
As he stood in Eleanor Cavalier’s office with the program manager and Maury Taylor, Montoya held the single white sheet of paper in his gloved hands. He checked the postmark—not only was it New Orleans, but the two notes had been processed through the same station. In fact, they were nearly identical. Montoya read the information over and over again, then added the new note into a plastic evidence bag.
“This is all you got?” he asked and Maury nodded.
“You’re welcome to look through the rest of the mail,” Eleanor offered, “but this is the only item that looked pertinent.”
Through the plastic, Montoya read the note one last time. What was with the religious instruction? First REPENT, signed by A L. Then ATONE, signed by L A W. Was it a signature? He didn’t think so. It looked like the killer was trying to tell them something, but what?
“I think I should be able to mention on the air that the killer is contacting WSLJ,” Maury said in an obvious ploy to appeal to Eleanor’s penchant for higher and higher ratings. “It’s tantamount to a public service announcement.”
“We’ll decide that,” Montoya told him.
“But it came to this station, my show. I should get to use it to make the public aware.”
“Of what?” Montoya asked.
“Maybe someone close to the killer has seen this,” Maury suggested. “They’re unaware that their husband or best friend is the maniac.”
“He’s got a point.” Eleanor tapped a red-tipped fingernail alongside her jaw. She was leaning toward the ratings spike, too.
Montoya managed to mash down his temper. “Okay, look, here’s the deal. I’m going to take it in for analysis, have the lab and our handwriting experts and the cryptologist do their things with it. If we decide to make it public, you get first crack.”
“I’m thinking an exclusive,” Maury said, pushing his luck.
“If you can get the FBI to agree.” Montoya shrugged. He hated giving the worm anything, but it wasn’t his call.
“We have been complying with you,” Eleanor pointed out. “I could recant all those nasty things I said about you to Melinda Jaskiel.”
“Too late. Damage done.” His cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “If you get any other letters, let me know. I’ll talk to my boss and the Public Information Officer about an exclusive. They’ll speak to the feds and we’ll get back to you.”
Maury looked about to argue as the phone rang again. He thought better of it as Montoya pressed the phone to his ear and walked down the long hallway toward the front door. Melba, the receptionist, offered him a smile and a wave, obviously through being miffed at him for rushing in and nearly throttling Taylor. Montoya figured that secretly everyone at the station was glad someone had knocked the cocky son of a bitch down a peg or two.
“Montoya,” he answered on the third ring, shouldering open the door.
“Hello, Detective,” Our Lady’s Mother Superior greeted him, identifying herself. “I’ve talked with several detectives since I first called you about Sister Maria and I’ve given them all the information I had, including those personnel and patient records.”
“Good.”
“But there’s something else you should know about, and it’s personal.” She sounded unsure of herself. “I need to speak to you. In person.”
He felt it then, that little niggle in his brain that warned him when something was about to change. “You know, because of my relationship with Maria, I’ve been taken off the case.”
“What I have to say is for your ears only. It requires the utmost discretion.” Her voice brooked no argument.
He thought about the investigation and what his superiors would say about being a rogue cop, but when push came to shove, he didn’t give a good goddamned what would happen to him. If he lost his badge, so be it.
He wouldn’t do anything to compromise the investigation.
Unless it meant taking the killer out. He could do that and hang the consequences. Justice would be served and he’d save the state of Louisiana a pile of money in the process.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.
“Thank you, Pedro.”
“My name is Reuben.”
“Yes, yes, I know that. But I remember Sister Maria liked calling you by your confirmation name. Please come directly to my office when you get here.”
“I’ve got a stop first, but I can be there in an hour or two.”
“That’ll be fine.”
He hung up, jogged to his Mustang, climbed behind the wheel with a sense of renewed urgency. The clouds had thinned and the spires of St. Louis Cathedral shone a bright, nearly angelic white. Music greeted him, a saxophone player backed up by a guitar, and along with the bustle of pedestrians and the hum of traffic, the mule-drawn carriages rolled past. Behind the levee, the Mississippi moved steadily toward the Gulf.
All in all it was a beautiful day in New Orleans.
And yet behind every smiling face Montoya saw a killer. Whoever the son of a bitch was, he was blending in. Of all the calls that had come into the station—people who were quick to report suspicious activity of their neighbors, friends, family members, or enemies—nothing had panned out. The phone lines had been jammed with callers, the 911 operators overwhelmed, but after all was said and done, not one report of suspicious behavior could be connected to the killer.
Maybe this new note would be the break they were looking for.
He stepped on the accelerator as he blasted to the station, his mind turning back to the notes. Could LAW be in reference to the law? The criminal justice system? Was the guy making a mockery of all the law enforcement agencies trying to bring him to justice? Or was there something more? Something that was close at hand, something he could almost grasp, but couldn’t quite figure out?
There were a couple of obvious connections. LAW could be initials or the start of a name, such as Lawrence DuLoc, the caretaker at the convent. Montoya didn’t rea
lly like it. It seemed too easy, almost a setup. This guy wasn’t stupid. In fact, he was clever enough to steal weapons, abduct people, and leave the crime scenes with very little evidence for the police to work on. Still, since he was going to see the Mother Superior, he planned to ask some questions about DuLoc.
Montoya sped through a yellow light, then cut down a side alley. What if each letter was a symbol? Could the letter represent the victim?
L for Luke Gierman.
A for Asa Pomeroy.
W for…William. Montoya’s pulse jumped. The Reverend Billy Ray Furlough’s legal name was no doubt William. LAW…could that be it? Again it seemed almost too simple, but it made sense.
Dread settled in his soul. If his theory was right, it meant the preacher was already dead; otherwise the killer wouldn’t have sent the note, right? And if there was one dead body, there was bound to be another, a female to complete the whole of the yin and yang. Montoya realized that if his theory was correct, there was little doubt that his Aunt Maria had been murdered as well.
Anger surged through his veins and pounded in his pulse. Never had he felt so impotent. Though he knew better than to personalize the crimes, Montoya felt that the killer had singled him out, was taunting him.
Don’t lose your cool.
Keep a calm head.
Remain objective.
Maria may still be alive.
He sent up a prayer as he slid his car into a spot close to the station. The streets were clogged with news vans, their white exteriors emblazoned with the names of the stations they represented, satellite dishes and antennae spiking out of the roofs. Several reporters and cameramen were taking position on the front steps—the station doors a backdrop for the segments they were taping. Knots of pedestrians had slowed to rubberneck.
Montoya ducked in through the parking lot door and headed to the second floor, where he was greeted with the clicking of computer keys, the smell of stale coffee, and the buzz of conversation. Detectives were interviewing suspects, discussing cases, or at their desks shuffling paperwork or talking rapid-fire into phones jammed between their shoulders and ears.
Zaroster was at her desk. He slid the note in its plastic evidence bag across to her. “Looks like our pen pal’s back.”
Zaroster eyed the note and whistled softly. “So we have another double homicide out there somewhere?”
“Unless he writes the notes first, then offs his victims.”
She sent him a look that accused him of knowing better.
“Look, I’ve got an errand to run. Could you get this to the lab with a copy to the cryptologist.”
“How’d you end up with this? I thought you weren’t supposed to be on the investigation.”
“Maury Taylor at WSLJ called me. We’re old friends. Go way back.”
“My ass,” she muttered, but took the note and said, “I’ll get this to the lab and see how it compares to the other one.”
He rested a hip on her desk. “How’re we coming with all the evidence?”
“Oh, ‘all’ of it. Let’s see, the lab is still working on the black hair, no DNA matches yet. The bridal dress was recognized by one shop owner as looking like a ‘Nancoise’ creation, whatever that is…kind of like a cheaper version of Vera Wang, I guess. We’re looking into it, trying to get hold of Nancoise herself to see if she has any records. No epithelials or trace that means anything. The boots are regular hunting stock, made by, get this, Pomeroy Industries, their clothing division, so we’re making some headway there, although that particular tread hasn’t changed in four years, so it’s slow goin’.
“I did manage to find out something about the caretaker out at Our Lady of Virtues. Lawrence DuLoc? He’s got a record, all stuff done about twenty years ago when he was a kid.”
“What stuff?”
“Aggravated assault charge—that was dropped. Then later a domestic violence incident, again charges dropped.” She shrugged. “Not much, but something. He’s tall and wears a size eleven and half shoe, but he’s got alibis for the times of the murders. Brinkman’s checking them out.” She sighed and shook her head. “I talked to DuLoc. He just doesn’t seem to have the smarts to pull off this kind of thing.” She frowned. “You think he could be our guy?”
“Doesn’t sound like it. Our psycho wants to outsmart us and then shove it in our face. Hard for him to pretend he’s no Rhodes Scholar. He wants us to know how brilliant he is.”
“So…?”
Montoya was already heading for the stairs. “So, we keep DuLoc on the list and push forward.”
“You’re not on the case,” she yelled after him.
Montoya kept moving.
The pain was an irritation.
His hands clamped around the steering wheel and he felt sweat soaking into his neoprene suit. The first hint of exhaustion was pulling at him. Though he’d rested for a few hours, he could feel his body’s need for sleep.
It would have to wait.
Until after.
His plans were set in motion, and he knew that soon he would feel that unique buzz that kept him going, that rush of adrenalin through his bloodstream that would carry him through and lift him up.
The damned wound bothered him. It hindered him more than he’d expected. Things weren’t going as well as he’d planned, not as smoothly as they had been. Ever since he’d underestimated Billy Ray Furlough, and the bastard had plunged that stupid tool into his chest.
He gritted his teeth.
Carefully, he drove the white Lexus out of the city and into the wilderness. The vehicle handled well but stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Which was a problem. He glanced into the backseat, where his latest victim was shaking like a leaf, eyes blinking rapidly, mewling behind his gag, already pissing himself and causing the car to reek with urine.
You should be scared, you lazy little bastard…just you wait.
If the mewling got any worse, he’d use the ether or another shot with the stun gun.
He’d attended Gierman’s service earlier today even though he’d known the police would be watching, monitoring all of the bereaved.
Imbeciles!
They were so easily outsmarted.
He’d walked directly past the cop taking pictures on the sly. Snap, snap, snap.
What a joke.
Pedro, the picture-taking detective. The defiler who had slept in Abby Chastain’s bed.
Thinking of them rutting, he lost control for an instant, the Lexus wandering over the center line. No! He could not bring attention to himself. Fortunately there was little traffic on this back road. To calm himself, he flipped on the radio, heard some classical crap, then managed to find WSLJ. But Gierman’s Groaners wasn’t on the air at the moment.
Another aggravation.
Hadn’t that stupid radio jock discovered the second letter? Why wasn’t he on the air crowing about it? He checked his watch. It was early yet, darkness a few hours away, which made his job all the more difficult.
He’d drive this car to the spot where he’d ditched his truck. But first he needed to unload the shackled man in the backseat. The pisser.
The radio was playing some smooth jazz that caused him only more irritation. He snapped it off, warned himself to be patient. He’d waited twenty years. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt.
His lips twisted at that thought. Just a few more hours and then the culmination…five of the seven would be disposed of—the most precious already dealt with. The other two couples were not in the area, and would have to wait…but he would need a cooling-off period anyway.
After tonight.
The pain in his chest eased a bit as anticipation sang through his veins. Soon he would feel that intense, incredible rush. He thought of the daughter, so much like the mother…only a few more hours…
The Mother Superior looked tired. Beneath her wimple furrows lined her brow and below her half-glasses were dark smudges. “This is difficult for me,” she admitted, pointing to a manila envelope in the
middle of her wide desk. “Those are the records you requested. Sister Madeline, bless her heart, knew where they’d been stored up in the attic and had Mr. DuLoc bring them down.” She motioned to the boxes that had been pushed to the corners of her room. “I’m keeping them here, just in case you need anything else, but I think everything you want is in here.” She tapped the large envelope with one unpolished nail, then slid it across the desk to Montoya. “There was a time when confidences were kept, where faith was not only essential but embraced, when there was more…order. But now…oh, well.” She offered up the ghost of a smile. “I’ve thought long and hard and prayed for God’s blessing and intuition, that He would help me understand the path I should take,” she said. “In the end, He’s left me with a difficult choice.”
Pushing herself to her feet, she seemed to totter a bit as she walked to the window. She stared outside where a hummingbird was flitting through the hanging pots, seeking sustenance from the dying blooms. “I suppose I should have told you earlier. Your aunt confided in me that she had a son out of wedlock. She came here after the boy was adopted out.”
Montoya watched the old nun finger her rosary. “I know.”
She nodded, still staring out the window. “That boy grew up and became a local celebrity, an athlete, a scholar, and eventually a man of God.”
“Billy Ray Furlough?” Montoya asked, stunned.
“So she told me.”
Furlough was the right age, and if he thought about it, there was a bit of a resemblance between the flamboyant preacher and the Montoya family—the dark hair, burnished skin, and natural athleticism.
“When I heard that both Mr. Furlough was missing as well as Sister Maria, most likely abducted on the same day, I thought I should contact you. And I didn’t want to tell the other officers, not when I knew that Sister Maria would prefer you to know.” She turned to face him, her back to the window. “You’re her favorite, you know. Of all her nieces and nephews.”