The Darker Side

  Perhaps if more priests were like him, I wouldn’t have lapsed.

  He’s a tall man, about six foot five, thin without being gangly. He wears a short-sleeve shirt with the white collar at the throat. His hands are restless. This is an energetic priest, a man of action. Working for God, to him, means working for God.

  I like him.

  “I do understand, Father. We enjoy similar victories, sometimes, and they make up for the failures. Mostly.”

  Those priest eyes fix on mine and I feel the old, familiar flush of guilt. He knows, he knows. He knows I masturbate sometimes with the help of a vibrator. He knows I take a secret pleasure at making a man come with my mouth.

  Sweet Jesus—and there’s another one, blasphemy—I thought I was past all this!

  I know, at some level, that it’s all in my head. Father Yates is no mind reader. I even recognize the phenomenon; put a civilian in an interrogation room with me, and he’ll feel exactly the same way.

  “Yes,” he replies, nodding. “I imagine there are a lot of parallels in what we do.”

  “I’ll bet,” I agree. “We both know about the dark side of people. You’ve probably heard about most of the crimes I’ve seen.”

  He waves a hand. “I’ve heard everything in confession. Pedophilia. Incest. Rape. Murder. The difference, I suppose, is in our methods.”

  “I jail them, you try and set them free.”

  It comes out sounding a little bit sarcastic. I hadn’t intended it to.

  He gives a faint, amused smile. “And which do you think is more effective?”

  I spread my hands. “They can find God in prison too, Father. But at least in prison, they can’t hurt anyone else.”

  He chuckles. “Fair enough, Agent Barrett. I won’t press the point. I believe the truth of a person can be found in their actions. It may not be the party line for the church at the moment, but I care more about how you live your life than about how often you receive Communion.” His expression becomes more grave. “I’m familiar with your story, and with some of the men you’ve put away. You’re a force for good, I think.”

  I laugh. I don’t take offense at his use of a caveat; I can tell that he’s teasing me.

  “I appreciate that, Father.”

  Alan and Atkins are sitting a few pews back. They’re keeping quiet, remaining unobtrusive. This is an interview, not an interrogation. Intimacy is all.

  “Tell me about Rosemary,” I prod.

  “I’ve been the pastor here at the Redeemer for twenty years, Agent Barrett. As I think you know, Los Angeles is a temperamental city, full of contrasts. Within the surrounding five blocks you will find upstanding, middle class families, teenage prostitutes, honor roll students, gang members—all sharing the same pavement.”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was called by God, I always knew that He would want me to be a hands-on priest. My gifts don’t lie in giving a Mass. I do the job, but I’m not a tremendous public speaker. God knew that what I had to offer was an ability to witness the evil in others without losing faith in the possibility of redemption.” He smiles a wry smile. “He knew, of course, that I was also blessed with a big mouth and a questioning mind. Don’t misunderstand, I stand behind my church with all my heart, but I lack political dexterity. If I think an ecclesiastical law should be reviewed, I’ll say so.”

  “I understand,” I reply, amused.

  It’s interesting to me to find that even within the confines of the church, there is a divide between the “suits” and the men on the ground, between the officers and the sergeants.

  “I was relegated to this tiny church because they had to put me somewhere. They knew it would be wrong to cloister me away—the church is not always blind, in spite of what some think—but they didn’t want me in the limelight either.” He grins and I can almost see him twenty years ago, vibrant, a rebel. “I was overjoyed. This was, and has always been, where I wanted to be.”

  A question occurs to me. “Father, if I can ask—what did you do before the priesthood?”

  He nods in approval. “Very germane, Agent Barrett. Before I was a priest, I was a troubled young man. I spent time in reform school for petty theft, I had careless affairs with women, I drank, and I engaged in casual violence.”

  He says it all with such ease, without the slightest hint of shame. Not proud of his past, but not apologizing for it either.

  “What changed?” I ask.

  “I met a very tough old priest by the name of Father Montgomery. He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and set me straight. He impressed me. Here was a man of God—a profession I’d always considered for suckers—who didn’t blink at the sight of blood, or turn up his nose at a young girl who came in to pray wearing her leather mini skirt and platform shoes. He’d give her Communion even though he knew she was going to walk out the door and sell her body afterward. He had a saying: ‘Leave your knives at the door, and you’re welcome here.’”

  “Where was this?”

  “Detroit.” He shrugs. “He turned me around. I got the calling, and as I said, I knew that God wanted me to emulate Father Montgomery. Which I have tried to do.”

  “Rosemary,” I prod again.

  “Rosemary was a very troubled young woman. Her story wasn’t exactly original. A difficult teen, she ended up doing drugs and selling her body. What made Rosemary different, more complex, was the component of addiction. She truly enjoyed the combination of drug use and depraved sex. I don’t mean that she thought it was right or good. But it gave her great pleasure. She sought it out. Rosemary was not the innocent victim of a smooth-talking pimp. She had no family history of abuse.” He shakes his head, remembering something. “She told me once, she was ‘just born bad.’ I was alerted to her arrival in the ER by a nurse who is a member of my congregation. That nurse’s words, essentially: ‘This girl has hit rock bottom, Father. She will either turn around or she will die.’”

  “Had she? Hit rock bottom?”

  “Oh yes. She had been beaten nearly to death by a john while she was high on cocaine, and she had chlamydia, syphilis, and gonorrhea raging through her—along with a touch of the flu.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. She’d escaped HIV infection, thank God, and the syphilis was recent. The Holy Spirit must have been watching over Rosemary.”

  I think this is debatable, but I keep it to myself.

  “Go on, please, Father.”

  “I was there when she woke up. She couldn’t stop crying. I asked her the question I always ask: Are you ready for my help? Rosemary said that she was. I arranged a place for her to stay, members of the church helped her get clean, we prayed together.” His eyes get sad. “We prayed together a lot.” He looks at me. “This was the thing about Rosemary that you have to understand to really care about her, Agent Barrett. Not every detail of her recovery, not even every detail of her sins. But that somehow, from somewhere, this hopeless girl found inside herself a tremendous strength. It never got easier for her. She told me she still thought about drugs and sex almost every day. The longing grew more distant, but it never disappeared. Still, she held on.” He clenches his hands in frustration. “She had been living in God’s grace for five years. No drugs, no reversions to former behaviors. I hate to use the word, but it applies here—Rosemary had been saved.”

  “I see.” I am not convinced, but I’m willing to accept the possibility that Rosemary’s change had taken. Father Yates is not operating with blinders on, after all.

  “There was also the fact that…” He hesitates.

  “What?”

  “I take confession, of course. I can never tell you what she said, but I can tell you this: She trusted me with the worst parts of herself. She held nothing back.”

  I am intrigued. Way more than curious. But I know this man will never give up Rosemary’s confidence. I find an unexpected comfort in this certainty.

  The roots of the Catholic tree run deep, I muse.

  “Is there anything
else you can tell me, Father? Anything you think might help?”

  “I’m sorry, Agent Barrett. I’m afraid the only thing I can really provide is a memory of Rosemary at her worst and her best.”

  I reach into my purse, pull out my card, and give it to him.

  “Call me if you think of anything, Father.”

  “I promise.” His gaze lingers on mine for a moment. “And what do you think about prayer, Agent Barrett?”

  I stare at him, caught by surprise. “Personally, I’ve found it to be overrated and the results underwhelming.”

  The words snap out, uncensored. I regret their vehemence. I shrug in apology.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not at all. If you’re mad at God, that means you still believe He exists. I’ll take that for now.”

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I just mumble, “Thank you, Father,” like a six-year-old and head toward the front doors of the church. Alan and Atkins follow.

  Damn those priest eyes. Sometimes the holy really do annoy me.

  13

  IT’S AFTER EIGHT-THIRTY. ALAN, ATKINS, AND I ARE SEATED in a booth at the back of a Denny’s. It’s a slow night and our waitress is tired. She manages a halfhearted smile as she tops off our coffee cups but doesn’t try to chat us up. I guess she’s used to serving cops.

  Vinyl and formica as far as the eye can see, I muse. Is there anything more American?

  Atkins has given us a copy of the case file, replete with crime scene photos. Now that our waitress is at a safe distance, I open it up and examine the photographs.

  “Ugly,” I observe.

  “But neat,” Atkins replies.

  It’s an insightful comment. He’s right. I’m looking at a photograph of Rosemary. She had been a pretty woman. In the photograph she is nude, lying on her back on her bed. Her legs are closed. Her arms rest on her chest. Her head is thrown back and her eyes are opened wide. A line of dried blood runs from her right nostril at an angle, following her cheek to her jawline. It’s a terrible image, but not as terrible as it could be. There’s no evidence of sexual abuse. Other than the blood from her nose and the puncture and bruise on her right side, Rosemary’s body is almost pristine.

  “No rage here,” Alan says.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  Sexual psychopathy is not an act of simple anger. It is an act of violent, mind-bending rage. Penetration is not enough; it’s destruction that is required. I don’t see any of that in these photographs. Sex doesn’t seem to be the motive. I close the file and take a sip from my coffee cup.

  “The Crime Scene Unit found nada,” Atkins says.

  “I’m not surprised,” I tell him. “This perp is very organized and very experienced. He had a job to do and he did it, no muss no fuss. He got in and got out. You always see less transference in those circumstances.”

  “Then how do you catch him?”

  Sometimes you don’t, the cicadas buzz.

  “By figuring out why he does what he does. And by hoping, as time goes on, that he’ll slip up and leave us a clue.”

  “That’s not real comforting.”

  I give him my bleakest smile. “We don’t do comforting in this line of work, Atkins. You know that.”

  He returns the smile, just as bleak, and raises his coffee cup in agreement.

  ALAN AND I ARE ON the highway again, headed home. Alan is driving. We had left Atkins with promises, but not much reassurance.

  “You want me to take you by my place to get Bonnie?” he asks.

  I look at my watch. It’s almost ten-thirty.

  “No. Drop me off at home. I’ll come get her tomorrow.”

  I consider dialing Callie and James, but realize it’s after 1:00 A.M. where they are. If they are asleep—and I hope they are—I don’t want to wake them.

  “Been a pretty crazy few days,” Alan says.

  “Sure has.”

  He glances at me. “Any insight to offer yet?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. I need to get some sleep and let it percolate. There are things that bother me a lot about this one, though.”

  “Like?”

  “Like I think this perp has been killing for a long time, and I think he’s gotten pretty good at it. I think he’s methodical and organized and that he’s not going to slip up any time soon.”

  “He’s already slipped up. He let us know he’s there.”

  “True, but that was purposeful. We’re still playing catch-up.”

  Alan smiles a faint smile. “You always start out cynical on a case. We still end up getting our guy when it’s all over.”

  “Then, by that logic, let me stay pessimistic for now.”

  He laughs. My cell phone rings. My heart lifts a little when I see who it is.

  Tommy Aguilera has been my boyfriend for a little over two years. Tommy is an ex–Secret Service agent who now does private security and investigation work. I had met him when he was still in the Service. He’d been assigned to guard someone who turned out to be a serial killer. Tommy had found it necessary to shoot the young man at one point and in the ensuing firestorm, my testimony kept him from being hung out to dry. He’d been very grateful and had told me to let him know if I ever needed anything.

  He left the Service a few years later. I still don’t know why. He would probably tell me if I asked, but I have never asked, and he has never offered. It’s not that Tommy’s cold, he’s just laconic in extremis.

  I had taken him up on his offer of help during a case. He’d come over to my home to sweep for bugs (which he found, along with a GPS tracker on my car). It wasn’t planned, but I ended up kissing him, and he’d surprised me by kissing me back.

  My husband had only been dead for six months, my body was scarred, I felt ugly inside and out, and I hurt. Tommy took me in his arms and made me feel desirable again. This was satisfying on levels both spiritual and venal. Tommy is a lovely man; he’s also a hunk and a half.

  He’s Latin, with the requisite dark hair, tan skin, and brooding eyes. He is not a pretty boy; he has a scar at his left temple and a strong jawline. He has the rough hands of a construction worker and the body of a dancer. Tommy is a delicious sight when his clothes are off, and sex with him can be rough or gentle or languorous; he’s a sweaty joy beneath the sheets.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hey,” he replies. “You still out of town?”

  “Nope. I’m heading home right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “Want company?”

  “Yes, please. Are you up for giving me a foot massage? I need to unwind a little.”

  “Sure. See you soon.”

  I hang up and find myself humming a little. I stop, mortified, and sneak a glance at Alan. It looks like he has all his attention on the road, but then he speaks.

  “That guy seems to make you happy.”

  “He’s okay,” I say.

  “Hm.”

  I look at my friend. “What, ‘hm’?”

  “It’s not my business, Smoky, but you might want to consider taking the qualification off that. You deserve to be happy, and he probably deserves to know that he makes you feel that way.”

  I am surprised at the sudden surge of annoyance running through me. I feel a retort ready to trip off my tongue, but I manage to choke it back.

  “I’ll take it under advisement,” I mumble.

  “Hey.” It’s a soft rebuke, like a friendly hand under the chin lifting my reluctant gaze to his. “I’m just talking here. I like seeing you smile over a guy again, that’s all.”

  The annoyance vanishes. I sigh.

  “Me too, I think.”

  14

  I TURN THE KNOB AND OPEN THE DOOR AND FIND WHAT I’D expected: the stillness and quiet of an empty house.

  This is the home that Matt and I bought together. It is the home where I learned about being a wife, a mother, and where all of that was lost to me. This is the home where I was destroyed and where I rebuilt myself again.

  Three
years have passed since my Matt and my Alexa died. I no longer wake up screaming, I no longer stare at my gun in the middle of the night wondering if it would hurt when the bullet took the top of my head off, I no longer walk through my life with my soul in a deep freeze. I have Bonnie now, and Tommy, and of course I have my team. I have learned to start enjoying life again. The cynic in me hesitates to say that life is good, but I am allowed to say that life is better.

  Even so…loss can come at oblique angles. It is the contrasts that still have power.

  Matt was a perfect fit for me, for us, for the way our life was. It wasn’t unusual for me to arrive home at nine o’clock in the evening, soul-tired and smelling of the dead. I’d hesitate before opening the door then too. I’d stop, key in the lock, and I’d try to shake off the dark stuff, to make sure I didn’t drag it into the light and love of my home. It didn’t always work, but I always tried.

  I’d open the door and all the lights would be on because Matt liked light. He’d usually have the TV going or maybe the stereo because he was comforted by the background noise. The smell of something yummy would be in the air. Matt was a fabulous cook. If there was a cookbook for it, he could make it happen.

  He’d always come to greet me when I got home. This is something that never changed, not after years and years and years of marriage. It didn’t matter if we were fighting or loving each other.

  Welcome back, traveler, he’d always say. That was our phrase, as necessary and natural as the sun or the rain.

  In the days before Alexa was born, he’d feed me some good food and maybe a small glass of wine and he’d listen to me bitch and moan about my day and then I’d listen to him bitch and moan about his and we might watch some TV together. We’d usually end up having sex before falling asleep. We had a lot of sex in those early times. Good sex, okay sex, even some bad sex (though, as Matt pointed out, there was really no such thing as a bad orgasm).

  As the marriage progressed, the frequency of the sex changed, but the great thing about being married to Matt was that the marriage progressed, it never wore on. We stopped being novelties to each other, but we never really lost our wonder.