A Necessary Evil (4 page)

CHAPTER 6

Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska

D
etective Tommy Pakula hated messes. He didn't really mind the blood. After almost twenty years as a cop there wasn't much he hadn't seen. He could handle splattered brain matter or sawed-off body parts. None of that bothered him. What he absolutely hated was a contaminated crime scene.

He ran his hand over his shaved head, the bristles becoming a bit pronounced at the end of what had already been a long day. He had been home only long enough to change his shirt and socks, the latter at his wife, Clare's, insistence. They'd been married for as long as he'd been a cop, and his stinky feet still bothered her. The thought made him smile. There were a lot worse things she could complain about. He should be grateful. Things like calls interrupting dinner, forcing him to leave behind homemade lasagna and hot garlic rolls in order to take care of some dead guy in a toilet at the airport.

From the doorway he could easily see what irritated him most, at least three different sets of footprints. One set trailed blood from inside the bathroom out into the hallway, leading all the way around the cleaning cart that had been parked in front of the doorway to block the entrance. The footprint's owner had ignored the yellow plastic Out Of Order sign. From what Pakula had been told, the cart had been placed there after the stiff was found, so this set of tracks belonged to one of the sightseers. If all that wasn't bad enough, the stiff just happened to be a priest, a monsignor, according to his driver's license.

"Holy crap," Pakula said to no one in particular. "My eighty-year-old mother can't get past airport security without disrobing and being patted down, but every Tom, Dick and Harry can drop by to take a piss and see the dead guy on the bathroom floor."

"Guy who found him said he asked a janitor to pull his cart in front of the doorway while he went to get help." Pete Kasab consulted his two-by-four notebook, jotting down more chicken scratch.

Pakula tried not to roll his eyes at the wet-behind-the-ears junior detective and instead, watched the young black woman from the Douglas County Crime Lab. She hadn't reacted or responded to any of their chatter. Instead, she had already finished with the video camera and was now starting to work her grid on gloved hands and padded knees, filling specimen bags and bottles with items at the end of her forceps, items that seemed invisible from where Pakula stood. He had never worked with her before, but he knew Terese Medina by reputation. If the killer left something behind, Medina would find it. He wished he could trade Pete Kasab for Medina.

"The guy said he may have bumped into the killer," Kasab continued, reading it as if it were just another of his scribbles.

"He said what?" Pakula stopped him in midflip of his pages.

"The guy thinks he may have bumped into the perp on his way out of the bathroom."

Pakula winced at his use of the term "perp." Was this kid for real? "This guy have a name?"

"The guy he bumped into?'

"No." Pakula shook his head, biting down on the word
idiot
before it escaped his lips. "The witness. The guy who found the body."

"Oh, sure." And the pages started flipping again. "It's Scott... " Kasab squinted, trying to read his own notes. "Linquist. I've got his work phone, home phone, cell phone and home address." He tapped the page, smiling, eager to please.

"Happen to have a description?"

"Of Linquist?"

"No, damn it. Of the supposed killer."

Kasab's face looked crushed, and he flipped more pages as he mumbled, "Of course I do."

Now Pakula felt like the asshole. It was a little like stepping on a puppy. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get rid of the exhaustion and his impatience. Overdosing on caffeine only made him cranky.

"Linquist said he looked young, was shorter than him. I figured Linquist at about five-ten. He said he had on jeans and a baseball cap. Said the kid bumped into him, you know, in a hurry, on his way out of the bathroom just as Linquist came in. In fact, Linquist said he saw the body and the blood, turned around and raced back out to get help and the kid was nowhere in sight."

"How young a kid?" Pakula doubted this was the killer. Probably a kid in shock, not knowing what to do or not wanting to get involved. Maybe even afraid he'd get blamed for it.

"He couldn't say," Kasab said, but he continued to check his notes. "Oh, here it is. He said he never got a look at the kid's face."

"Then how'd he know he was a kid?"

Kasab looked up at him as if checking to see if the question was a test. "I guess by his demeanor or maybe his stature."

Great, Pakula thought. Now the rookie was guessing. Brilliant police work. Pakula wanted to groan, but instead turned and glanced back at Terese Medina who had meticulously made her way to the corpse. Pakula watched Medina pick at the back of the stiff's polo shirt with her forceps. Maybe they'd get lucky and there'd be some interesting transfer debris. Now,
that
would be brilliant police work. Just then Medina held up something at the end of her forceps.

"This is weird," she said, turning it around for a more thorough inspection. To Pakula it looked like a piece of white fuzz, no bigger than a dime.

"What is it?" Pakula came closer while she slipped it into a plastic bag and was picking another off the monsignor's polo shirt.

"I could be really off base," she said, holding it up to her nose this time, "but it looks like crumbs."

"Crumbs?"

"Yeah, bread crumbs."

Before Pakula could respond, his cell phone started tinkling, the sound of a million tiny little bells. He should never have let his daughter Angie __ the techno nerd __ program the damn thing. He had no idea how to change the tone and instead he resorted to ripping the phone off of his hip, breaking his record at two rings.

"Pakula." All he got was static. "Hold on." He turned his back and walked down the hallway, hoping for a stronger signal. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Pakula, it's Carmichael."

"Where the hell are you, Carmichael? I could use your butt down here at the airport."

"I'm still at the station."

"I've a got a sliced-up priest on the bathroom floor with idiots walking around him to take a piss and maybe even eat a sandwich over his dead body."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Well, that all sounds like a lot of fun, but I thought you might be interested in the phone call I just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese's office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O'Sullivan's body."

"You've gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID'd the padre less than an hour ago."

"Said he received an anonymous phone call."

"Really?"

Pakula could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he'd trade Kasab for her, too.

"Here's the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you'll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor's personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn't be necessary to bring in the FBI."

"The FBI?" Pakula laughed. "Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it's been a long day, and I'm really not in the mood for __ "

"I'm not kidding, Tommy. That's what he said. I even wrote it down."

"Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?"

"He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it," Carmichael replied, "but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it's no big deal."

Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn't remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre's wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn't been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men's bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.

"Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?"

"Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details." '

"You sure you wanna do that?"

"The archbishop says he doesn't want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is."

CHAPTER 7

Newburgh Heights
(Just outside of Washington, D.C.)

M
aggie had just gotten home when her cell phone began to ring. She and Harvey were in the middle of their "welcome home" routine even though she had seen him several hours ago. Ever since she had rescued the beautiful white Lab, he treated each of her arrivals as if it was a pleasant surprise, those sad brown eyes so grateful she hadn't abandoned him like his previous owner. Rather than cut short his slobberfest, she sat down in the foyer and pulled out her phone.

"Maggie O'Dell," she answered, trying to convince Harvey to keep his licks confined to her other hand. Now on the floor with her face within his reach, Harvey decided it, too, was fair game.

"O'Dell, it's Racine. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Maggie wondered if Racine could hear the sloppy kisses and was referring to the sound or the time of night.

"I just got home. What's up?"

"I know it's late. You sure this isn't a bad time?"

Maggie smiled. No doubt Racine could hear the wet licks. She patted Harvey's head rather than push him away. Maybe
it
was time there were some scandalous rumors about her nonexistent sex life.

"No, this is fine. Go ahead."

"The cell phone turned out to be a dead end."

"Stolen?" Maggie guessed, continuing to rub Harvey behind the ears.

"Yup. Reagan National. Last week. At least that's the last time the owner says he saw it. He seems to be on the level. Reported it missing to Sprint. It hadn't been used until this morning."

"Any way to track where it was when the call was made?"

"Only that it was in the D.C. area. It's probably been tossed in some Dumpster by now."

Maggie wasn't sure why Racine was calling her after midnight to tell her what they both already suspected. She couldn't be expecting a profile before the autopsy. But there was something more and Racine's sudden quiet telegraphed it. Maggie waited her out.

"I talked to Chief Henderson about the other two. Both he and Stan agree that we need a forensic anthropologist to take a look."

That was it? Racine had actually taken her advice. "That will definitely help," Maggie said, but something in Racine's voice told Maggie it wasn't quite that simple.

"Stan said he could get someone late next week, but I'm headed up to my dad's on Sunday. We're supposed to go fishing. I figured I'd leave before sunrise, maybe around five. Oh, by the way, Stan said he'd do the autopsy first thing tomorrow."

Racine paused as if expecting Maggie to complain, but instead she was trying to imagine Racine keeping still and quiet long enough to fish. The image didn't fit.

"Anyway," Racine continued, "I suggested I take the other two heads up to Professor Bonzado. He and my dad have become big buds ever since... well, you know." Racine left it there and it was just as well. Maggie did know. Ever since Professor Bonzado and Luc Racine rescued her from a madman's freezer. It wasn't your ordinary male-bonding ritual, but she wasn't surprised that the two men had continued to grow close.

"Are you sure there isn't someone in the District Stan might recommend?" Maggie found herself asking, which was ridiculous because earlier she had found herself thinking she would suggest Bonzado to Racine. No sense in letting Racine think she was anxious to see him again.

"I'm sure there is, but not on a holiday weekend." Racine paused. "Look, O'Dell, I'll be honest with you. I've got reporters chomping at my ass. Now that there are three victims I need some answers and I need them quick. I already talked to Bonzado. He promised he'd take a look Sunday afternoon and since I was driving up anyway, I'll take them with me. I know it's not exactly the ideal mode of transport, but Stan didn't seem to mind a personal escort for his precious cargo. Besides, I usually drive. I can do the trip in about four hours." Now it was almost as if Racine was rambling. Why did she feel she owed Maggie any explanation?

Maggie pushed up and sat on the first step of her staircase. Harvey lay beside her and now he rested his head on her feet.

"It'd be impossible to get a flight with it being a holiday weekend," Racine kept explaining. "Besides, can you imagine dying to get two decapitated heads through airport security?" Racine's laugh had a nervous edge to it. There was something else, something more. Maggie wanted to tell her to spit it out already. Again, she waited out the silence.

"So I was wondering if you wanted to ride along."

And there it was. Racine had been working her way up to extending an invitation.

"Adam said he might have some basic information for us before we left. It'd just be for the day. I know that makes a long day." Now Maggie noticed it was Adam instead of Professor Bonzado. "I'm sure my dad would love to see you. He asks about you all the time. Well, when he remembers. He's actually been having some good periods. Though they say you can't count on those lasting long."

"It would be good to see your dad again," Maggie said, thinking she had more connections than perhaps she had bargained for in Connecticut. In fact, she had seriously considered contacting her new stepbrother, Patrick, to suggest they get together for the holiday weekend. Then she immediately chastised herself for thinking instant family meant instant holiday get-togethers. He surely had his own plans and they wouldn't include a sister he had found out about less than a year ago. No, she had decided Patrick would need some time. She'd need to let him come to her when he was ready.

Why kid herself? Patrick wasn't the only reason for her wanting to suggest a family reunion. She did want to see Adam Bonzado again. Here Racine was handing her a perfect excuse. And yet at the same time, she couldn't help thinking that four, no, eight, hours in a car with Julia Racine might be eight hours too many.