A Necessary Evil (6 page)

CHAPTER 11

Omaha Police Department

D
etective Tommy Pakula took another gulp of cold coffee. Raised a Catholic, he had never doubted the existence of God, but too often he found himself not appreciating the divine creator's sense of humor. This was one of those moments. As he sat in the hardback chair listening to Special Agent Bob Weston drone on and on, Pakula decided this was God's way of punishing him. In fact, after a solid twenty minutes of the little man's lecturing and yammering, Pakula was convinced that Bob Weston was probably God's punishment for quite a few things.

"Stop for a minute or two," Pakula finally said, throwing up his hands in surrender. Weston appeared so shocked anyone would dare to interrupt him that he immediately went silent. "You've been at it for almost a half hour and I still don't see what fucking connection this Ellison guy getting knifed at an art festival in Minneapolis has with the monsignor getting stuck in a toilet at the airport?"

"Do you want me to start from the beginning?"

"No!"
Pakula and Carmichael answered in unison.

"Maybe you should just tell us the punch line." Pakula almost said
please.
It had to be the exhaustion. "Come on, what's the connection?"

Now Weston grinned like a guy who knew he was the only one with the secret answer to the puzzle. "Ordinarily, most people wouldn't see any connection. At least not on the surface. But I happen to be from Minneapolis, so I tend to pay attention. I still have a brother up there. He has a family."

Pakula groaned and rubbed his eyes. Weston noticed. The grin was replaced with a lifted eyebrow. Pakula wondered if an irritated Weston was any worse than a cocky Weston. He decided he didn't care. He sat back in his chair and stared him down.

"Come on, Weston," Carmichael finally gave up and broke in. "We know you're brilliant. Just tell us the fucking connection."

"I'm trying to tell you.
My brother and his family used to attend Saint Pat's where Daniel Ellison used to be an associate pastor for a very short time. He left the church, got married and became an advertising executive." Finished and looking pleased with himself, Weston sat down on the edge of the desk, his designer-clad butt crushing a stack of reports. He didn't seem to notice. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for his accolades.

"That's it?" Carmichael asked. "That's your secret connection? That he happened to be a priest?"

"And that he was stabbed in the chest and that it was done in a very public place. This was in the middle of the afternoon, a crowded festival." Weston was back on his feet. "Nobody saw it happen. Ellison's wife sort of remembered him bumping into someone and then suddenly slumping over and falling to the ground." He handed Pakula the folder he had brought with him. "After you get your autopsy report, just take a look at the two cases."

"What should I be looking for?"

"I don't know, but I bet there'll be some similarities."

"And if there are similarities, you think we have a priest killer on the loose?" Pakula shook his head. He wasn't convinced. "One dead monsignor and a guy who used to be a priest __ sounds more like a coincidence to me."

"Hey, you called me." It was Weston's turn to put up his hands as if in surrender. "You asked me what possible reason Archbishop Armstrong would have for not wanting the FBI involved."

Pakula saw Kasab in the doorway, waving him over. Normally, he would have yelled for him to just get his butt in here, instead, he saw an opportunity for escape.

"Be right back," he told Carmichael and nodded at Weston. Before he got to the door, he couldn't help thinking Kasab looked like a guy with his own secret. He wanted to tell him he should never play poker, but after wrangling Bob Weston, Detective Pakula was too tired for more games.

"What's going on?"

"I've got good news and bad news."

"Okay," Pakula said. It took a few beats before he realized Kasab was waiting for him to say which he wanted first. "Okay, good news first." It was easier to play.

"I was able to get the monsignor's cell-phone record. The only calls he made were one to Our Lady of Sorrow rectory that lasted about a minute and another to Father Tony Gallagher's cell phone. He's the assistant pastor at the church. That one lasted just over seven minutes. It was made about an hour before his flight."

"So he was probably the last person to talk to the monsignor."

"Most likely, yes. Outside of anyone at the airport."

"Sounds like we need to talk to Father Gallagher. Can you arrange that?"

"Oh, sure."

"So what's the bad news?"

"I went back to the airport to pick up Monsignor O'Sullivan's luggage. Remember they told us they'd intercept it in New York and have it back in Omaha this morning?"

"Let me guess," Pakula interrupted him, "it's in Rome."

"No, it made it back to Omaha, but someone picked it up before I got there."

"You gotta be kidding. What numb nut gave it to someone without any authority?"

"Actually the desk clerk was told it had been authorized."

"Who the hell told him that?"

Kasab flipped his notebook pages, checking, wanting to be accurate. "It was a Brother Sebastian. Said he was with the Omaha Archdiocese office. And like the guy told me, who's not going to believe someone sent by the archbishop?"

CHAPTER 12

Washington, D.C.

I
t was on mornings like this that Maggie O'Dell wondered if perhaps something was wrong with her. Here it was another beautiful day, after rains had washed everything clean, the beginning of a holiday weekend and she had nothing to cancel. No plans to change. No friends or family or lover to let down. Even Harvey, who watched her leave with his head still planted on her bed pillow, let her off the hook too easily, it seemed, by allowing her to postpone their gardening and lounging in the backyard. What was worse, she actually looked forward to this autopsy. Not exactly looked forward to it in the same way someone would relish a good time. But rather, her mind had already begun plucking at the puzzle pieces, trying to place them in some order and needing more details, more pieces. So much so that she had awakened at two in the morning and pulled out the copies of the case files.

Dismemberment cases bothered even the most seasoned of veterans, and Maggie certainly wasn't immune. Dismemberment cases and ones involving dead kids usually had a way of staying with her long after the killers were arrested, tried and convicted. Sometimes she still had nightmares that included body organs stuffed in take-out containers courtesy of Albert Stucky. And then there were those with dead little boys, naked and blue-skinned, left in the mud and tall grass along the Platte River. Albert Stucky was dead and buried. She had seen to it personally. However, Father Michael Keller had gotten away scot-free, escaping to South America, and even the Catholic Church didn't seem to know where he was.

Maggie paused at the door to the autopsy suite to clear her mind and to finish her Diet Pepsi. Stan Wenhoff was known to expel anyone for as little as unwrapping a candy bar during one of his autopsies. Not a bad rule, though perhaps Stan's claim that it was out of respect for the dead might be a bit disingenuous. After all, this was the same guy who yelled things like, "Just scoop
it
up."

It felt like walking into a refrigerator. Maggie grabbed two gowns off the pile and said hello to Stan who only grunted. Julia Racine wasn't in a much better mood. She looked to be in her usual futile hunt, searching through the pile for a size smaller than the X-Large that Stan stocked for his visitors.

"Why is it so fucking cold in here?" Racine complained.

"We have a choice, Detective. We either deal with the cold or we deal with the maggots crawling all over us."

Maggie couldn't remember Stan ever using the air-conditioning before this. The basement autopsy suites had recently been renovated, but the old steel ducts had not. Turning on the heat or the A/C during an autopsy could compromise evidence by adding debris. So Stan usually had it turned off for the hour or two during the autopsy. Evidently he would rather deal with the debris and the cold than with the maggots.

Racine didn't answer. Instead, she glanced at Maggie, who was putting on the second gown on top of the first. Racine followed her lead and took another off the pile. Racine needed to wrap both gowns several times around her tall, thin body almost like a mummy. Only then did Maggie notice that the usually athletic and fit detective looked as if she had lost weight since Maggie had seen her last. She had heard that Racine had been making frequent trips between the District and Connecticut to visit her deteriorating father even before Racine's late-night invitation. Maggie had met and grown attached to Luc Racine while working a case practically in his backyard. Despite Luc's early onset of Alzheimer's, he and Maggie had exchanged favors, sort of coming to each other's rescue. Her fondness and concern for the older Racine had created a connection with the younger Racine, one Maggie didn't necessarily want. Sometimes she wondered if she and Julia Racine had met and gotten to know each other under different circumstances, circumstances that didn't include an almost botched case and an unwanted sexual advance, that maybe they would have become friends.

She watched Racine check out the reflection of her spiky blond hair in a dissection tray. Behind all the cockiness and bravado, Maggie knew there had to be a vulnerable and insecure woman, walking a fine line, trying not to screw up, hiding any hint of fear or doubt. She had seen glimpses and in those few and brief fleeting moments Maggie realized that she and Julia Racine had that in common. They were both very good at hiding who they really were.

Maggie handed Racine a pair of latex gloves and Racine raised an eyebrow at their purple color.

"I have to hand it to you, Stan," Racine said as she pulled on the exotic-colored gloves. "You always have the newest and coolest toys."

He scowled at her over his shoulder as he slid the bagged head out of the wall refrigerator and onto a tray. Maggie realized Stan had taken Racine's attempt at making light of the situation as an insinuation that he spent department funds in a frivolous manner. Hadn't he realized by now that Racine's inappropriate behavior and remarks were simply her way of masking her discomfort at autopsies? Perhaps he was too used to working with the dead to notice, or to have patience with something as simple as human emotion or inane idiosyncrasies.

"Do you need any help?" Maggie offered, rolling up the double-gown sleeves and hoping to relieve the tension in the suite. But a second scowl from Stan, this one leveled in her direction, immediately telegraphed her mistake.
Silly of her __ she knew better.
She stepped back, out of his way. Poor Stan. Maggie often wondered if he wished he could post a No Visitors sign on the door.

"Last time I had to rig up a device." He ignored her offer, and instead, pointed to a contraption on the autopsy table that looked like a clamping device made of PVC pipe and aluminum. "I didn't think I'd be using it again this soon," he said and he didn't sound happy about it.

He fumbled with the plastic bag, a miniature version of a body bag. Maggie stopped herself from reaching over to help. It would be so easy to start the zipper that was closer to her side. Her medical background allowed her to assist with autopsies, but common sense usually told her which M.E.'s or coroners would welcome her help and which would be insulted. She already knew Stan was in the latter category even before his earlier scowl, yet his fumbling and slow-motion pace constantly challenged her patience.

She glanced at Racine, expecting her to be just as impatient with Stan. Instead, Racine looked distracted, her eyes examining the shelves of specimen jars and containers. Maggie watched the young detective tighten her gown's belt and check out her shoe covers, then go back to the room's contents. Her focus seemed to be anywhere and everywhere except on the head Stan finally had unwrapped and was now propping up with his makeshift device.

The maggots had retreated deep inside, huddling to keep warm. As a result, the woman's eyes were now clear, staring straight ahead, her tangled hair plastered to one side of her head. Suddenly, a cloud of steam escaped from her opened mouth. And despite it being packed with the slow-churning worms, it looked almost as if the poor woman were taking one last breath.

"Jesus." Racine had noticed, despite her attempt not to look. "What the hell was that?"

"The little bastards' metabolism can keep them about ten to fifteen degrees higher than their surroundings " Stan explained. "It's similar to walking outside on a subzero day and seeing your own breath, the clash of warm with cold."

"Pretty freaky," Racine said.

Maggie noticed that this time Racine's eyes didn't leave the woman's face, as if she didn't dare look away for fear of missing the next "freaky" revelation. She couldn't help wondering how long it would be before Racine would be checking her shoe covers again. Would it be the removal of the eyeballs or that sucking sound when the brain is pulled out after the top of the skull is sawed off? She actually found herself feeling bad for Racine. She wanted to tell her to think about ocean waves and listen for the sound they make lapping against a white sandy shore. Something, anything tranquil that would calm her nerves and settle her stomach. It had worked for Maggie during her first autopsy, a gunshot blast that ripped away the victim's face, leaving behind what seemed like a cavernous hole of bloody cartilage and shredded tissue. The waves had been crashing in her head by the time the M.E. had finished.

"Let's get started," Stan said, grabbing a pair of forceps and a scalpel from his tray, "before these bastards start climbing up our arms and legs."

Maggie saw Julia Racine's face go white. That's when she realized what Racine's real problem was. So it seemed they had something else in common, because it wasn't the autopsy Racine was dreading. It was the maggots.