The Darker Side

  Dr. Weems, the coroner, is a middle-aged man with a precise, fastidious air about him.

  “Just under the skin, against the rib cage,” Callie answers. “You should be able to feel it if you palpate.”

  “It would be irregular to remove it here,” he muses.

  “But not illegal,” I point out, “and if you film it, you’ll have things covered from an evidentiary standpoint. Time isn’t on our side, Doctor.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t hesitate for long. “Very well. Detective Alvarez, if you can get the crime scene recorder in here, I’ll examine her and remove the cross if it exists.”

  Recording crime scenes and their processing with video cameras has become common practice in many investigations, especially the high-profile ones. It is a double-edged sword; if procedural mistakes are made, they’re caught on camera and become fodder for defense counsel. The reverse is true as well, though; if the camera says it’s so, it’s so.

  The man wielding the small camera is introduced as Jeff, a young, brown-haired man who doesn’t look old enough to be here. He’s unfazed, however; he turns the camera on Valerie’s corpse without blinking.

  Dr. Weems kneels down to examine the wound in Valerie’s side.

  “Appears to be a hole, approximately one-half inch in diameter, not ragged. The instrument used would have been pointed but very sharp. Incision marks extend out from the sides of the initial puncture. These are clean cuts, probably made by a scalpel or similar blade.” He uses his fingers to feel around the wound, gently. “I can feel a hard object underneath the skin.”

  Adrenaline rushes through me. I am excited, then ashamed by that excitement. Her death should have affected me for longer. All I can think about now is what she can give me, not what was taken from her.

  Dr. Weems looks up and into the camera. “Photographs have already been taken of the wound pattern. I’m going to try and retrieve the item.” He grabs a small satchel I hadn’t noticed before. It’s a black medical bag. It looks like a throwback to the 1950s.

  His kit, I think.

  I find this self-conscious nod to style via retro accessory a little creepy. Things that deal in the dead should have their aesthetics confined to function.

  He opens it up and hunts through it until he finds what amounts to an oversized pair of tweezers.

  “If anyone here is squeamish,” he says, bending toward the wound, “please look away or leave. We don’t need vomit contaminating the crime scene.”

  No one moves. Jeff films away, unperturbed.

  Dr. Weems sticks the tweezers into the hole without hesitation or ceremony.

  “I’m contacting a hard object,” he confirms. “I need to rotate it to pull it out without damaging the skin further. Wait a moment…there.” He pulls the tweezers out slowly.

  “Son of a bitch,” Alan breathes.

  A silver cross. It has the same approximate dimensions as the others.

  Weems deposits the cross into an evidence bag after photographs and video have been taken.

  “So it is your guy,” Alvarez says.

  “It appears that way,” I agree. “The question now is: Why her? He goes for people with big secrets. What kind of a secret could a ten-year-old girl have?”

  “I had a fair number by the time I was ten,” Callie says. “But then, I was always ahead of my time.”

  My cell phone chimes.

  “Barrett.”

  “It’s James. Three things. We’re moving well on questioning the families. So far, it’s a hundred percent on the victims as practicing Catholics.”

  Another adrenaline rush.

  “That’s excellent, James. What else?”

  “We need to consider pulling surveillance from the Bester home. I checked into his whereabouts during the Lisa Reid murder. He was on a business trip in San Francisco.”

  I frown. “We need more than that…”

  “More ties into the third thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Someone from Computer Crimes has been coordinating with the user-tube staff every half-hour or so to check for attempted new postings by the Preacher.”

  “And?”

  “They caught one. Concerning Valerie Cavanaugh.”

  “Damn it!” I rub my temples.

  “Back to Bester: this new clip wasn’t posted from his IP. Surveillance says he was at home and in bed when Valerie Cavanaugh was killed. It’s not him, Smoky.”

  I sigh. “Agreed. Pull the detail.” I lean forward a little, feeling something inside me narrow to a focus. “Now, tell me about this new clip.”

  He pauses. A little too long, I feel. “It’s different. He didn’t film her just before killing her.”

  I’m perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I e-mailed you the clip. Watch it. It’s bad, very bad. It’s going to devastate this family.”

  The usual acerbity is absent from James’s demeanor. He sounds quiet, troubled. This, more than anything else, replaces that rush with a slight chill.

  “How bad?”

  That too-long pause again.

  “It’s a nightmare.”

  THE CAVANAUGHS HAVE A WIRELESS Internet connection and Callie has her laptop, so we find ourselves in the living room, checking my e-mail and downloading the clip James had sent me.

  I am sitting next to Callie on the couch. Alan is next to her, Alvarez stands behind us all.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod. “Go ahead.”

  She clicks to begin and the familiar black screen and white lettering goes by. We arrive at the hands and the rosary, the stark light and the spare wooden table.

  “I realize this is, now, most likely going straight to law enforcement officials,” he begins. “A temporary problem, let me assure you. There are too many ways to get the truth out. Having said that, let us discuss the relationship of truth and time, as it is apropos here. Truth is not concerned with age. A child is a child, yes, but a soul is a soul is a soul, and truth applies to all. The devil can come in many guises, and whether you are ten or eighty, confession and contrition will always be your one and only salvation. And that is the purpose of this particular part of my opus, to demonstrate two things: truth is ageless, but that truth without contrition is a lie all its own.” He rubs the rosary with a thumb. “Valerie Cavanaugh comes from a good family. She has God-fearing parents. They demand much from her, and by all appearances, she has provided. Valerie has always been a straight-A student. She practices her piano lesson one hour a day, every day. She is on a swim team, and has brought home trophies. She has been active with her parents in volunteer activities, helping those less fortunate.”

  “All true,” Alvarez notes.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” the Preacher continues. “And confession to the greatest crimes without remorse makes a lie of confession itself.”

  THE SINS

  of

  VALERIE CAVANAUGH

  33

  “LOOK AT ME, KITTY,” VALERIE SAYS.

  The cat turns toward her voice, meows once. The cat has beautiful green eyes and Valerie smiles.

  “Good kitty,” she says, and pets the cat behind the ears.

  It’s a pretty nice day. The sun is out but the heat isn’t oppressive. Daddy calls it a “California fall.” There’s a slight breeze. Valerie closes her eyes and turns her face up to the sky, letting the breeze cool her skin and ruffle her hair with its wind-fingers. She continues to rub the cat behind the ears.

  Valerie is in the backyard of her house. Mommy and Daddy are out for the day, and Emma, the babysitter, is snoozing on the couch. It’s one of the few times Valerie finds herself alone, and she cherishes the moment.

  The backyard is large. They have a patio and a pool and a lot of green green grass. Mommy spent a lot of time designing the landscaping herself and supervising the workers. (Do things halfway and you’ll end up a halfway person, Mommy always says.) Valerie is sitting behind a line of hedges that forms a barrier betwee
n the rest of the yard and one of the tall, painted cinder-block walls that divides them from the world outside.

  “Good kitty,” she murmurs again.

  The cat meows. It’s not a happy meow, and Valerie can’t really blame the poor kitty. She’s all wrapped up in a towel, after all.

  “Sorry, kitty,” she says, “but I can’t have you scratching me all up.”

  Valerie wants to wait longer, to enjoy the solitude for a few moments more, but she knows she can’t count on Emma sleeping forever. She sighs.

  “Better get to it, kitty. Do things halfway and you’ll be a halfway person.”

  She places the towel-wrapped cat on its back in her lap and puts her hands around the cat’s neck. She begins to squeeze.

  She doesn’t squeeze too hard or too fast—she doesn’t want the kitty to die too quick, after all. Part of the fun is savoring the moment.

  Valerie keeps her eyes on the cat’s eyes the entire time. She’s not sure what it is she’s looking for. Maybe that exact moment of death, when the spark of life goes out. Who knows? But it’s an endless source of fascination. Something happens in there, that’s for sure!

  She can feel the cat struggling against her, trying to escape the towel.

  Sorry, kitty, but I know what I’m doing. You’ll never get free.

  She giggles, once.

  Valerie is aware of her heart beating fast in her chest. There’s a somewhat undefinable sensation running through her. A kind of excitement she can’t classify. She doesn’t try all that hard to figure it out. The doing of the thing and the feeling it gives her is enough.

  The cat’s struggles become frantic. Valerie’s heart beats and that excitement keeps pace. Another moment passes, and the cat expires. Valerie continues to squeeze, unaware that her eyes are wide and that her tongue is protruding from between her lips.

  The moment passes. The cat is seeing nothing. Valerie relaxes her grip. She’d been holding her breath; she exhales.

  “Good kitty,” she says again, and scratches the dead cat behind the ears.

  She likes that there is no meow in response now. She likes that a lot.

  Valerie gives herself a minute to relax, to luxuriate in this brief moment of being her true self.

  It’s hard acting like a normal girl all the time, she reflects. This is when I feel the most free.

  But Valerie knows, even at ten, that she has to keep her real face hidden. She’s been very careful, since she started killing the cats. She’s paced herself, and she’s made sure to bury the bodies here, behind the hedge. It’s been difficult, true, but she can wait. She’s seen the future. She’ll get older, and someday she’ll have a lot more freedom. Someday, she thinks, she’ll even be able to drive.

  Who knows what she’ll be able to start killing then?

  She’s unaware that these thoughts have brought a grin to her face. Those white teeth flash in the sun and her blonde hair flutters in the breeze, and she pets the dead cat in her lap as she dreams.

  “JESUS CHRIST,” ALAN MUTTERS.

  I’m silent, as is Callie.

  It was obvious that Valerie was unaware she was being videotaped. The video itself was black-and-white and high quality. The angle it had been shot at gives me an idea. I stand up and march to the sliding glass door leading into the backyard.

  Once outside, I stand and look. I see the pool, clean and blue. The grass is green and cut and perfect. I see the row of hedges on the right and left. They form an unbroken line going from the front of the yard to the back on either side. There’s about a one foot space between the hedges and the cinder-block walls that act as a fence.

  Not much space, but enough for a ten-year-old.

  I choose the line on the right and walk over. Short as I am, I have trouble seeing past the hedge tops, so I lean forward, placing my hands against the wall and stand on my tiptoes.

  The grass ends at the hedges, which come all the way down to the ground. Beyond the hedge line is plain dirt. I can see little patches of turned earth that had been patted flat.

  Eight or ten, I think. Probably all dead cats.

  Valerie Cavanaugh, sweet blonde Valerie of the perfect hair and teeth, had been a little psychopath.

  I close my eyes and recall the video, that angle. I open them again and turn to the right. I march along the hedge line to the end and lean forward. I see what I was looking for.

  “THERE’S A PINHOLE CAMERA PLACED near the end of the hedge line,” I say, walking back into the house. “She had no idea he was watching her.”

  “How’d he know where to put it?” Alvarez asks.

  “Not sure,” I lie.

  Callie raises a single eyebrow but says nothing. Alan studies his fingernails.

  “Let’s finish the clip,” I say, taking a seat again.

  Callie had paused it when I went into the backyard. She hits play again now.

  We watch as Valerie digs a hole with a gardening trowel. She removes the towel from around the dead cat. She holds the cat’s corpse up by the scruff of its neck, stares into its eyes for a moment, shrugs, and drops it into the hole. She fills it back in and takes care to feather the dirt and pat it flat. She folds the towel. We see her face once before she stands up to exit the hedgerow. She looks blissful and beautiful, untroubled and at peace.

  The video holds for a minute, recording the cinder-block wall, the hedges, that slightly turned earth, before cutting back to the Preacher and his ever-present rosary beads.

  “You see?” he says. “Evil can be ageless. If evil can be ageless, then so can the necessity for truth. Take note, parents. Young Valerie was an extreme example, but she serves as a warning. What are your children doing that you’d least expect?”

  He shifts his hands again, laying them flat on the table.

  “To the second part of this particular lesson—the fact that lack of contrition can make confession itself a lie.”

  A still image appears. It’s from the video of Valerie strangling the cat. He’s plucked this image from the instant where her mask slipped the most. We see the wide eyes, the dark joy, the tip of her pink tongue in the corner of her mouth. It’s a moment of ecstasy.

  The Preacher continues talking as a voice-over, keeping this image of Valerie on the screen. “Imagine this child confessing to this crime. Imagine her weeping crocodile tears as she sobbed about the dark thing inside her, about her battles against the temptations Satan had thrown her way. Can you see that? Now, look again at this picture, and ask yourself: Could the monster you see here ever be truly contrite?”

  No, I think. She would have used her youth, those white teeth, that angelic face, would have used them to manipulate and hide. But she wouldn’t have felt sorry, not ever.

  “Remember: truth alone is not enough, because truth is still a lie unless it is accompanied by regret and the desire to right the wrong.”

  The clip ends abruptly.

  “Jesus.” Alvarez whistles. “No pun intended. This is going to kill her parents. You ever seen anything like that? Like Valerie?”

  “It happens,” I say. “Some psychopaths become what they are because of environment, while others appear to be born that way. They grow up in good homes, with no abuse, lots of love and opportunity, but still end up twisted. We don’t know why.”

  “Gives me the creeps.”

  I stand up and examine the downstairs area. The couch is a dark brown, the beige carpet and white walls continue. It’s all very clean, all unremarkable. Not the home of a child-monster. My eyes roam the walls until they find what I was looking for: a wooden crucifix.

  There you are, I think. She hid behind you and all this beige. Catholicism, confession, this is the answer.

  “We need to go,” I tell Alvarez.

  “That’s it?” he asks, surprised.

  “We know who killed her,” I say. “Now we need to find him.”

  WE WALK THE GAUNTLET. CAMERAS flash and newsmen and-women shout my name. I’ve been recognized; they smell blood.
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  “You’re a regular celebrity, honey-love,” Callie says.

  We climb in the car and shut the door.

  “Why’d you hold back on the Catholic angle with Alvarez?” Alan asks.

  “Because it’s unconfirmed and it’s a bomb waiting to go off.”

  “True,” Callie muses. “I suppose a lot of people will be upset to find that they’ve been on candid camera during their private confession.”

  “Would she have gone to confession so young?” Alan asks.

  “I did,” I reply. “It’s all about the ‘age of discretion.’ The point where the child starts to struggle with and consider right and wrong, good and evil. It’s a contentious issue. Some people feel that pushing a child into confession too early is tantamount to stealing their childhood; others feel that if you wait too long, you run the risk of letting them settle into bad moral habits. Seven or eight is generally considered an acceptable median age.”

  Alan shakes his head. “Thank God I was raised Baptist. You Catholics have too many rules for me.”

  I scowl at him. “‘You Catholics’? Bite your tongue. Let’s get back to the offices. James and Jezebel should be done questioning the victims’ families soon. If I’m right, and I’m almost certain I am now, we need to plan out just how to let the shit hit the fan.”

  ALAN DRIVES. CALLIE FOLLOWS US in her own car.

  “Weird, isn’t it?” Alan asks.

  “What?”

  “We came to the Cavanaughs’ all ready to feel messed up about a little girl getting killed. Now? After what we saw her doing, I don’t know what to feel.”

  I think about an older Valerie, beautiful, breathtaking and formidable, wrapping those fingers around a human throat, white teeth flashing as she peered into her victim’s eyes and grinned and grinned and grinned.

  Good kitty, she might whisper. What a good, good kitty you are.

  34

  “WE’RE MISSING CONFIRMATION ON TWENTY-ONE,” JEZEBEL says. “Either because we can’t reach the families, or there are no families to reach. Of those we have questioned, it’s confirmed. All practicing Catholics.”