“Call me with what you find,” I yell after her.
“Only if you promise you won’t keep me from going home afterward for a quickie with my husband-to-be,” she calls back, and then she’s out the door.
“I looked into the support group Rosemary attended,” Alan says.
“And?”
I guess he hears the hopefulness in my voice, because he shakes his head in the negative. “She went pretty regularly to a Narcotics Anonymous in the Valley. I spoke to the director there. It’s a high turnover meeting, with people from every spectrum. There’s no roll call and no application or screening. Long as you talk, you’re welcome.”
“Perfect hiding place.”
“Yeah. Anyway, he sympathized, but he wasn’t willing to give me information on anyone. Par for the course.” He shrugs, frustrated. “Guy’s smart. I’ll bet he was there.”
“And I’ll bet you could question every one of them and no one would remember anyone who stuck out. Just like the passengers on the plane.”
AD JONES ASKED ME TO brief him in person rather than on the phone. I knock on his office door.
“Come in,” he barks.
He’s seated behind his desk as I enter. He looks beat. His tie is loosened and his cuffs are rolled up. I plop down in one of the leather chairs. He cocks his head, appraising me.
“You look terrible,” he says.
“Likewise, sir. And thanks.”
The ends of his mouth curl up in the barest hint of a smile.
“Yeah. It’s been a hell of a day. It’s been all Preacher all the time up here. The media is going nuts, which means the Director is going nuts. I’ve had to field calls from the police commissioners of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vegas, Carson City, Phoenix, Salt Lake City…you get the idea. I’ve managed to get them all to agree to total cooperation. No turf wars.”
“How’d you pull off that miracle?”
He rubs his forehead. “They have families screaming for answers or blood or both, along with plenty of media coverage. Commissioners have to play politics, and they need answers quick. They recognize the best chance of that is for all of us to just get along.”
“Thank you, sir. It will help.”
“Your turn to help me. Where are we at on this?”
I brief him on the IP number lead. He makes a face.
“I agree that it has to be checked out, and I’ll authorize the surveillance, but I doubt it will be our man.”
“I agree. He’s spent a lot of time building up to this moment. It’s important to him. Too important to trip up over something so elementary.”
“Where does that take us, then?”
“I think we’re going to solve this by finding the most basic common denominator, sir.”
“Clarify.”
“It’s a logic problem. He’s smart, but he’s a creature of habit. All his victims have been women with the exception of Lisa Reid. They all had a deep, dark secret to disclose, and we can deduce that he killed them all the same way. We have to distill the pattern down to the one thing that’ll lead us to him.”
“Where do you think that’s going to lie?”
“Everything for him is about secrets and truth. The question we need to get answered: how does he know what he knows? I think if we figure that out, we’ll have him.”
“Ideas?”
“We think he’s picking his victims from AA meetings, support groups, and churches. He probably infiltrates as a fellow member.” I shrug. “I mean, he could be acting as a counselor, I guess. Or in the case of a church, as a priest.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“It’s too direct, too risky. He needs to hide in the crowd, and he needs the freedom to fade away when the time comes. He can’t do that if he’s someone people build a relationship with. Addicts and sinners trust their counselors and their priests. They notice when they go missing.”
“Right,” he says, thoughtful. “So how do we use this to find him?”
“I don’t know yet.” I can hear the frustration in my voice.
“There’s two things to do in that situation, Agent Barrett. Either you take your attention off it, or you immerse yourself in the environment.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Figure this one out soon, Smoky. From what I can tell, he wants us to catch him. Let’s give him what he wants. Get going.”
I leave his office with the words he’d spoken ringing in my mind.
Immerse yourself in the environment.
When I get back down to Death Central, I stand in front of Alan’s desk.
“Let’s go see Father Yates.”
28
IT’S ANOTHER LATE NIGHT ROAD TRIP TO THE VALLEY. THE moon is hiding now, punching through the clouds in places with silver fists.
“Never see any stars in LA,” Alan mutters.
“It’s all the city lights reflecting off the sky.” I smile. “That and the smog.”
The wheels hum on the uneven pavement as we barrel through the dark.
FATHER YATES IS DRESSED IN a pair of jeans and a pullover shirt. His hair is rumpled. His eyes are tired. He yawns once.
“Forgive me.” He smiles, shaking first my hand and then Alan’s. “I’m early to bed, early to rise, as the saying goes.”
“Don’t sweat it,” I tell him. “We’re in the same boat, except that it’s more like late to bed, early to rise.”
He gestures to the front row of pews as a place to sit.
“You said you needed my help.”
“Have you watched any of the video clips he made?”
“Just the first few where he’s laying out his argument for truth. I have no interest in watching him murder anyone.”
“And? What did you think?”
He leans back in the pew and studies the large crucifix of Jesus. It is his anchor in this place, I can see it in the way some of the worry and tiredness leaves his eyes.
“Are you at all familiar with the catechism of the Catholic Church, Agent Barrett?”
“Uh, sure. I was raised Catholic.”
“What about the official catechism?”
“I don’t think I know what you mean.”
“Hold on a second.”
He disappears into the sacristy area and returns holding a small, thick hardback book. He hands it to me. I read the title: Catechism of the Catholic Church.
“Everything you ever wanted to know about the Catholic Church but were afraid to ask.” He smiles. “There is a paragraph in here that I use to guide my actions. I went and read it again not long after I watched those video clips.” He takes the book back from me and flips to a page near the front. “Here it is. ‘The whole concern of doctrine and its teaching must be directed to the love that never ends. Whether something is proposed for belief, for hope, or for action, the love of our Lord must always be made accessible, so that anyone can see that all the works of perfect Christian virtue spring from love and have no other objective than to arrive at love.’” He closes the book. He touches the cover with affection. “I love that paragraph. It’s a piece of truth. Whatever else might occur with my church, whatever mistakes are made by overzealous or intolerant parishioners, whatever crimes might be committed by evil men masquerading as men of God, I can read this and know the problem lies with men, not with the church or with my faith. Those who fail the church are those who don’t align their actions to the purity of purpose contained in that simple paragraph, the idea that we have ‘no other objective than to arrive at love.’”
“It is a nice idea,” I allow. “Too bad it’s not put into direct practice more often.” I wince. “Sorry again, Father.”
He smiles. “I happen to agree with you. Confrontation and attack are not the way to bring someone to Christ. You don’t tell them they are stupid and hell bound; you show them Christ’s words, or set an example yourself through your actions. Or just lend a helping hand when someone needs it. Faith is an act of choice, it’s not something you can foster at g
unpoint.”
“I see where you’re going with this,” Alan rumbles. “The Preacher isn’t exactly embodying the whole love concept.”
Father Yates scowls. “Murder is never an act of love. This man is deluded at best.”
“What about his ideas?” I ask. “The things he said about truth?”
He sighs. “I will be honest. The ideas themselves are powerful. I’ve been taking confession for a long time, and I’ve seen the phenomenon he talks about. The hardest thing isn’t for people to tell the truth—it’s for them to tell the whole truth. I’m sure there are plenty who will agree with what he’s said. You can count on him having supporters.”
“Are you joking?” I’m incredulous.
“Afraid not. A lot of people in the Christian world believe in black and white and operate on a principle of ‘you get what you deserve’ when it comes to God and the Bible. If you didn’t own up in the confessional, then you were going to hell anyway. Some will see these poor victims as victims of nothing more than their unwillingness to confess to God.”
I look at the crucifix, that paint-chipped, color-faded Christ. I search for the same comfort Father Yates seems to find. I come up empty, as always. How can I believe in a church or a faith that would produce people like that?
“Don’t forget the good that’s done,” he says, breaking in on my thoughts. “The millions of children who eat every day because of Christian charities, the houses built for the homeless, the mission food lines. Not long ago a group of Christians from South Korea went to Afghanistan. They knew it was dangerous, and it was probably ill-advised, but the point is, they had no ulterior motive. They went there to help. They were taken hostage and while the majority were released, a number of them died. Religion has always and will always be a double-edged sword. It’s how you use it that makes the difference, and that always depends upon the individual.
“It’s no different than anything else. If there was no Internet, there’d be less pornography and child exploitation. But what about all the good done because the Internet exists? Commerce, free flow of information, breaking down culture barriers and xenophobia because people can talk to each other across the world? Anything can be used for good or evil. That includes the church and interpretations of the Bible.”
“Talk to me about confession, Father. Tell me what it means to you.”
His eyes find Jesus again. “In my opinion, holy confession is the most important service the church can offer. The real reason that monster’s words are going to hit home to people is not because they’re particularly revolutionary, but because the fact is, most of us walk around with secrets that eat away at us every minute of every day. I have had confessors sob with relief after confessing just a minor misdeed.”
“Most of these people did some really awful things. What about that?”
“I’ve heard some terrible things in my time, yes, it’s true. Terrible things. And there have been those who weren’t particularly repentant. But the vast majority struggle under the burden of the bad things they’ve done. Most people judge themselves much harder than you or I would. Hearing confession hasn’t jaded me, it’s had the opposite effect. I truly believe in the basic decency of humanity.”
“That’s a tough sell with me, Father,” I say.
“Amen,” Alan mutters.
He smiles. “That’s understandable. You spend your time with men and women who sin without remorse—worse, with enjoyment. I promise you, the more common example of man is the mother who has to be coaxed into forgiving herself because she got tired and raised her voice at her child. We’re flawed, not evil.”
“Do you hear about everything?” I ask.
“Most things. People hold things back sometimes. Taking confession isn’t a rote activity. It’s an art form. You have to build trust in your parishioners. They have to know you won’t treat them differently after you hear about their sexual peccadilloes or petty crimes, or worse.”
“There have to have been times you’ve heard something really bad. Murder or child molestation. How do you treat that person the same afterward?”
He shrugs. It’s not a “who knows” kind of shrug. It’s a motion that says, “I have no other answer than the one you’re about to hear.” “It’s my sacred duty.”
“Must be tough sometimes.”
“There have been moments,” he allows.
“How do you deal with it when you hear about something happening right now?” Alan asks. “A father who’s molesting his kids, for example. Or a guy who confesses that he has HIV from sleeping with hookers but continues to sleep with his wife?”
“I pray, Agent Washington. I pray for strength. I pray that the act of confession itself will prevent that person from continuing to sin. Yes, it’s tough. But if I break the seal of confession because of the sins of one man or woman, I make myself unavailable to the hundreds of decent people who need me as Father Confessor. Should I make hundreds pay for the sins of one?”
“That’s it? No exceptions?”
“I am allowed to urge penitents to turn themselves in to the police if it’s a criminal matter, and I can even withhold absolution if they refuse, but I can’t break the seal of confession.”
Alan shakes his head. “I don’t envy you your job, Father, especially since I can see that you’re a thinker. Must keep you awake at nights.”
Father Yates smiles. “Some survive on the strength of faith. Some survive intellectually, their thoughts guided by scripture. I fall somewhere in between. I have crises, all priests do. Nuns for that matter. Mother Teresa struggled with personal darkness and doubts about God for most of her life.”
“Have you seen real change in people?” I ask.
“Of course. Not always, but enough to keep me happy.”
“What’s the common thread? For those who change?”
He considers my question. “Contrition. True contrition. It’s one thing to confess to a sin. True contrition, in my opinion, requires change as a basic component. If you are contrite, you change. If you are not, you won’t.”
“Was Rosemary contrite?”
“I believe so, yes.”
The glimmering in my mind is getting stronger. There’s something here, in what we’re talking about. It’s not just a flicker at the corner of my eye anymore; it’s an itch I can’t reach.
“Can I see the inside of your confessional, Father?”
He pauses for some time, studying me. I don’t feel uncomfortable or violated by his scrutiny. There’s too much kindness there.
He stands up. “Follow me.”
“I’ll wait here,” Alan calls after me. “Maybe do a little praying about getting enough sleep tonight.”
I give him a halfhearted wave as I follow Father Yates toward the confessional booth. Two things are happening at the same time here; the thing I’m trying to see is getting clearer, stronger, brighter, and the voice in my head, the one that makes my stomach do loop-de-loops, is back.
I feel a cold, greasy sweat break out on my forehead.
“Let’s give you the full experience,” Father Yates says as we approach the confessional booth. “I’ll take up my normal position and you take the place of the penitent.”
“Sure,” I say, but I can hardly hear my own voice. Too many bat wings flapping around in my head.
I open the door and enter. There’s little light here. The booth is small and sparse, made of dark, poorly stained wood. A kneeler is set on the floor below the lattice screen that divides priest and penitent. I close the door and stare down at the kneeler.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I think. I want to laugh and cry at the same time.
This time the voice speaks out loud: See me.
I kneel in an instant. For some reason, this makes the voice go silent.
Father Yates slides the window open.
“Smaller than I remember,” I say.
“I take it you were much younger the last time you confessed,” he replies, amused.
/> “Well, let’s see…bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—hmmm—about twenty-seven years since my last confession.”
“I see. Do you have anything to confess, my child?”
I freeze. I feel something rising inside me. It’s angry and ugly and bitter.
“Is that what you were thinking when you were looking at me back there, Father? That you’d get me in here and I’d spill my guts and find my faith again?”
“Just the spill your guts part,” he says, calm. “I think it’s a little too soon for the last.”
“Screw you.”
He sighs. “Agent Barrett, you are here, I am here, and inside these small walls, you’re safe. You can rage in here, you can weep in here, you can tell me anything, and it remains between you, me, and Christ. Something is troubling you, I can tell. Why not talk about it?”
“The last guy I told all my secrets to tried to kill me, Father.” I’m surprised at how cold my voice sounds.
“Yes, I read about that. I can understand your misgivings. Perhaps if you can’t extend your faith to God, you can extend it to me? I’ve never broken a confidence.”
“I believe you,” I allow.
I do. I can’t deny that with this environment comes a yearning. It’s deep and piercing and the fact of that is the cause of a lot of my anger.
See me, the voice had said. The problem was not that I couldn’t see what it was asking. The problem was that I could never stop seeing it.
The need to tell someone my secret, finally, to get it off my chest, the possibility that it would bring me some peace—God or no God—promises a relief so strong that I can feel it crawling across my skin like an army of ants.
I breathe in and out, fast. My heart is racing. My hands are clenched together, more in desperation than supplication.
“I don’t know if I believe in God anymore, Father,” I whisper. “Is it right to confess if I’m so unsure He even exists?”
“Confession, so long as you are truly contrite, can only be a good thing, Agent Barrett. I truly believe that.”
“Smoky. Call me Smoky.”
“All right. Smoky, do you have any sins to confess?”