Maggie didn’t say anything. She wondered if Racine actually had any good friends if she considered Maggie one. Chalk it up to the job and to the crazy schedule. After all, how many people, other than another cop, could you go out with for drinks and to shoot the breeze, sharing your day, when the day included maggot-riddled heads on the edge of the Potomac? Again, it struck Maggie that Racine wasn’t that much unlike herself. Other than Gwen, and maybe Tully, what good friends could she claim? She noticed Adam watching her.
“What? Do I have mayo on my face somewhere?”
“No, no. Your face is fine. Actually your face is quite perfect.”
It took his follow-up smile to realize he was flirting with her.
“Why do you suppose he leaves the heads?” It was better to keep it business. She wasn’t sure she remembered how the flirting thing worked anymore.
“Excuse me?”
“The killer. It’s probably more convenient and much easier to transport and display the heads, but is he making a statement? Is he telling us something by leaving only the heads?”
Adam shook his head. “Always on duty,” he said with another smile.
“It’s a habit.” But she tried not to make it sound like it was an excuse. She loved her work. Anyone who knew her accepted that. Perhaps she expected that anyone who wanted to know her would also need to accept it.
“The head’s about as personal as you can get. As for what kind of a message he’s sending, well, that’s your expertise. One thing that has been nagging at me,” he said, laying his hands flat on the top of the picnic table, “is the angle. He didn’t just cut straight across her neck.” His fingers emphasized his point, the right hand’s index finger moving along the surface in a straight line. “Instead, he cut from just below the left ear—” and he brought the same index finger to his own throat to demonstrate the angle “—went across, dipped down and back up, almost like a notch.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“I have no idea.”
“Could it just be a part of his rage, a glitch, a haphazard zigzag?”
“Possibly. But it’s exactly the same on both. The rest of the neck is jagged and ripped in sort of a maniacal style and yet here’s this very precise, squared-off notch at the base of the throat. It’s just odd. It seems out of place. You might have the M.E. check to see if the third has the same thing.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.” She let it sink in, trying to figure out what kind of symbol the killer might be leaving behind. Adam was watching her again.
“The national forensic conference is in D.C. next month. I’ll be spending over a week there for the conference and also doing a little work at the Smithsonian. How about having dinner with me?”
This time his smile wasn’t quite as self-assured. His soft brown eyes seemed a bit vulnerable, and Maggie wondered if it had taken some effort for him to get to this invitation. Was it possible the handsome, outspoken professor thought he was as inept at this flirting thing as she was? Before she answered, he added, “I promise I won’t even try to break any of your habits.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “And I promise I won’t ask a single severed-head question.”
Maggie’s cell phone started ringing.
“Excuse me a minute,” she said, flipping open the phone. “This is Maggie O’Dell.”
“O’Dell, glad I reached you. Sorry to interrupt your holiday.”
It was her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham. She could hear papers shuffling and imagined him at his desk, multitasking as he cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder. No holiday for him. She waved an apology to Bonzado as she got up from the table and wandered away for some privacy.
“Actually, I’m working today, sir. Detective Racine and I brought the first two Jane Doe heads up to Connecticut for Professor Bonzado to take a look at.”
“Is it conclusive that the three murders were done by the same killer?”
Just like Cunningham—straight to the point. She had gotten used to his abrupt, unemotional manner. There was more flipping of pages and Maggie could hear what sounded like a TV in the background. Maybe he wasn’t in his office.
“It’s too early to be positive,” she told him, but she knew he’d still want to hear her first impressions. So she continued, “All the decapitations look very similar. We’re talking rage. The guy rips and cuts in a frenzy. Bonzado thinks he uses a hatchet or machete. He’s disorganized during the killings or at least he feels safe enough to go into a rage. The decapitation must happen almost immediately after he strangles them. But then he’s able to compose himself and plan the dumps. I’m still not sure I have any idea what he does with the torsos.”
“Sounds like you’re off to a good start. I hate to pull you away from this, but I don’t have another available agent, especially with Agent Tully still on vacation. Everyone else is out of town on assignment and I have another case that needs a profiler. The body’s been autopsied already, but they could hold it for another day. Do you have enough to put together a profile for Detective Racine and Chief Henderson?”
“It’d be pretty sketchy, but yes, I could do a preliminary.”
“Good. That’ll give them a start. Hold on a minute.”
This time Maggie could hear voices in the background and Cunningham answering them, telling someone he would be there in five minutes. Was this urgent enough that he would be calling from his home? Maggie couldn’t even imagine it. For one thing, she couldn’t imagine Cunningham at home, although she knew he had a wife. There were never any photos or personal items on his well-organized desk or anywhere in his office to suggest a life outside that office. With anyone else it would seem odd. With Cunningham it seemed quite natural that after ten years she wouldn’t even know where he lived, whether he had a three-bedroom house in the suburbs or an upscale apartment in Georgetown.
“Actually I need you on a flight tomorrow morning,” he said before she realized he was back talking to her.
“Where am I going, sir?”
“Omaha, Nebraska.”
CHAPTER 30
Memorial Park
Omaha, Nebraska
Tommy Pakula hated everything about these events—the crowds, the noise and the heat, all served up with warm beer and entertainers from the ’60s, entertainers who had become parodies of themselves. Although he had to admit Frankie Avalon still looked pretty damn good for his age, if only he’d left those silly white shoes at home.
What Pakula especially hated was the hotshot public officials slapping him on the back, pretending—when they were really hoping—that he was one of them. He didn’t know how Chief Ramsey put up with it, either. But as hometown boys—Pakula a graduate of South High, Ramsey of Creighton Prep, but about five or six years before Pakula—they both had to put up with it to a certain degree. The chief more so than Pakula, because he had left Omaha for almost a decade for greener pastures before finding his way back home and working through the red tape of politics and good ole boy networks. As hometown boys they knew about the hometown politics, too. And that’s exactly why they were trying to discuss police procedure, or rather protocol, out here in the middle of a crowded park rather than some quiet coffee shop clear across town. They figured no one would ever suspect they’d talk about something so important on a sunny holiday weekend, in the middle of Memorial Park where the entire northwest lawn was riddled with blankets and lawn chairs, ice chests and portable umbrellas, leaving only narrow strips of grass on which to make your way through the maze.
They had left their families somewhere in the sea of red, white and blue with the simple excuse of finding something cold to drink. Vendors lined the circular drive around the monument at the top of the park, away from the blankets and almost out of reach of the half-dozen seven-foot amplifiers Frankie and crew had brought along. Pakula ordered a kraut-dog with the works and a tall, bucket-size Coke, while the chief settled on less indigestion with a plain dog and a tall bucket of his own, only Dew instead
of Coke.
“Not sure why you want to waste your money on that.” Pakula nodded at Chief Ramsey’s pathetic hot dog swallowed by a bun and drowning in mustard while Pakula bit into his own, piled high and wide.
“Yeah, ask me that later when you’re popping the antacids.”
Chief Ramsey eyed a couple of teenagers on bicycles scoping the terrain below as if they might attempt to ride down into the crowd. Pakula recognized the habit and caught himself checking out a double-parked van with its back doors left swinging open but the owner nowhere in sight. It bugged Clare and she continuously accused him of not listening to her just because he wasn’t looking at her. But with two cops it wasn’t unusual at all to carry on a complete, detailed conversation without ever making eye contact.
“There’s something you need to know, Tommy.” Chief Ramsey glanced at him, but his eyes were quickly gone, now checking out something behind Pakula, off to the right. “Vice has had an eye on O’Sullivan and Our Lady of Sorrow.”
“Holy crap,” Pakula said under his breath, caught with a mouthful. He swiped at the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that yesterday?”
“Because it’s nothing official, not even a single complaint filed. Just some reporter from the Herald who’s been nosing around and hassling Sassco to do something. I know Sassco’s been head of Vice for only six months, but you know the guy. It doesn’t take much to get his nose all bent out of shape if it involves kids. If there was anything at all, he’d be all over it. Could just be a lot of gossip and rumor. Maybe this reporter’s trying too hard to hunt up a story. Maybe she’s thinking it’s been happening all over the country, why not here? You know how the goddamn media works.”
Pakula nodded, but this time kept quiet. The chief wasn’t finished, and so he took another bite.
Chief Ramsey looked all the way around them, but no one was staying in one place long enough to seem interested in their conversation.
“I’m just saying that could be why the archbishop has his shorts all in a twist about this. He’s pretending that it’s no big deal, but it’s got to be a big fucking deal for him to send his messenger boy to pick up the luggage before the monsignor’s even had a chance to get cold.”
“Maybe he knows about the other priests getting iced?” Pakula suggested.
“Could be. Either way, his reputation is to round up his yes-men and very quietly but powerfully discredit, damage and ruin whoever the fuck he perceives as his enemy. And we both know he can do a pretty damn good job of it.”
“If some psycho is running around the country offing priests, why wouldn’t the archbishop want to do everything in his power to stop him? What am I missing?” Pakula pushed up his sunglasses and tossed the wrapper from his kraut-dog, glancing back at the vendor booth, contemplating another. After all, he still had more than half of his extra-large Coke. The chief noticed.
“Go ahead. Hell, I’d have two or three of them if they didn’t stay with me for the rest of the night.”
“No, I’d better not. Clare brought some meatball sandwiches.”
“Look at it this way,” Chief Ramsey said around a sip at his straw, “if there was some shit going on at Our Lady of Sorrow and O’Sullivan was about to smear the entire diocese, maybe the archbishop would be grateful to have his murder chalked up to a random slice and dice. If there even was a leather portfolio full of damning evidence, it’s nowhere to be found. Case closed and there’s nobody digging any further. I don’t believe for a second O’Sullivan’s poor sister in Connecticut wants him back as soon as possible for some elaborate burial. Armstrong’s probably thinking the sooner he gets buried the sooner those secrets get buried with him.”
“Sort of like O’Sullivan’s murder was a mixed blessing from above?”
“Exactly.”
“So what are we gonna do about it?”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, I’m already tired of His High and Mighty jacking us around and thinking he can tell me what I can or can’t do. He doesn’t even have the balls to do it himself. He sends his pasty-faced bully, Sebastian.” Chief Ramsey paused as if he needed to settle himself down. He took another sip. “I have a buddy I met years ago, Kyle Cunningham. Long story, but he owes me one. Archbishop Armstrong thinks he’s almighty, so we bring in someone he can’t reach, someone who doesn’t give a shit about what kind of power he thinks he has. And also someone who takes the reins and the heat if this mess ends up being some fucking serial killer offing priests. That happens and you can bet we won’t just have Armstrong and the Herald to worry about. Besides, these days nobody minds blaming the FBI.”
“We’re calling in the big boys and not just Weston and crew?”
“Cunningham promised me his top profiler, so not necessarily boys, but his top boy for sure. That should be enough.”
“I just want to figure this one out. Shouldn’t that still be our priority?” Pakula didn’t mean to sound like he was second-guessing Chief Ramsey’s decision. Yet at the same time, he didn’t much trust the FBI to bring any answers to the case no matter who they sent. Fact was, he didn’t believe bringing a profiler in would be much help at all, despite the chief’s argument. When the going got tough, he knew as lead detective it’d still be his neck on the line, not some spooky flash-in-the-pan profiler, trying to simplify everything by telling him whether the killer put on his pants any differently than the rest of them. Maybe…just maybe if they were lucky, the feds would, at least, help connect the dots with the other cases. And if there was a killer murdering priests, that could be where there were some answers.
Pakula looked squarely at the chief, waiting for his eyes to meet his, expecting some sort of reprimand for his cynicism, but instead he said, “Me, too. I just wanted it figured out.” Chief Ramsey took a bite of his hot dog as if he finally had an appetite. “But when we do, you’d better be prepared to watch all hell break loose.”
CHAPTER 31
He sat in front of the computer screen. He was exhausted, his vision was blurred and every muscle in his body ached. It was the same every time, as if he had been drained completely of energy. Yet he waited, watching the lines of chat appear, one after another, all mundane, inane chitchat that didn’t make much sense nor did it matter. He didn’t participate. He never did. Instead, he waited for the game to begin.
He had left the window open despite the hot and humid air pushing its way in, breathing down his neck. Down below he could hear the traffic, too much for this time of night. The fireworks hadn’t stopped either, annoying pops and bangs at varying distances. Now and again a string of them went off with a series of hissing and snapping, sometimes with a loud blast for the finale, sometimes only a sizzle and a spit.
He hated the Fourth of July and the memories it revived. It was those memories that got him into trouble. Every single time. They could come out of nowhere, unexpected, unpredictable. Sometimes they rushed in, overwhelming him. Sometimes they were quiet, subtle…sneaky. There was no harnessing them, no matter how much he tried.
He checked the time in the lower corner of his computer screen—fifteen more minutes. He didn’t know why he bothered to wait. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest his weary body. The game always calmed him even if it wasn’t enough anymore. In the beginning it had quieted the rage. His invitation to play had been a sort of godsend. It was exactly what he needed. A venue, a brotherhood where he could be safe to expose his anger and eliminate his enemy. It didn’t stop the memories but it redirected them.
Now he couldn’t remember when the game started to not be enough. When it had gotten to the point that he needed more of a release. How could it be enough when the subject of his anger was still free to wander the earth? How could he continue to allow that?
Suddenly he realized that his fingers, his hands were still bloody. He had smeared the keyboard and riddled his desktop with droplets. The unexpected sight of it made him jump out of his chair, holding his hands up and staring a
t them as though they belonged to someone else. They did belong to someone else. Someone he hardly recognized anymore. It was getting worse. It was an evil penetrating through his skin, into his veins, even down into his bones. An evil that would destroy him if he didn’t soon find a way to destroy its source. And he knew the source. He just needed the courage to eliminate it.
He took several deep breaths, checked the computer clock again. He had just enough time to clean up. He turned to go to the bathroom and only gave a fleeting glance to the freshly decapitated head that sat staring at him from his living-room coffee table.
CHAPTER 32
Monday, July 5
Archdiocese of Omaha Administrative Offices
Tommy Pakula shifted his weight, but there was no getting comfortable in the hardback chair. It sat low in front of the gaudy ornate desk. Lower, he was certain, on purpose. Probably so that when the archbishop sat behind the desk he would be looking down on his visitor. That was when the archbishop would finally grace his visitor with his presence. Pakula was also certain this waiting was a part of the intimidation.
He had nothing better to do than look at the huge framed portraits on the wall behind the desk, a line of past archbishops. He recognized only Curtiss and Sheehan, and Curtiss seemed to be staring him down. He shifted in the chair again, glancing around the rest of the room. Sterile was the word that came to mind. He wanted to run an index finger over the windowsill, maybe the top of the bookshelf, just to see if any dust dared to exist in His Holiness’s presence.
He wouldn’t be here if Chief Ramsey hadn’t insisted on one last-ditch publicity attempt just to say they had made every effort before they announced they were calling in the feds. Pakula had never met Archbishop Armstrong. Chief Ramsey had acted surprised at that revelation. “But aren’t you one of those offertory collectors or some crap like that at Saint Stan’s?” the chief had asked, obviously not worried about revealing his own long-expired Catholicism.