A Necessary Evil (7 page)

CHAPTER 13

Omaha, Nebraska

G
ibson McCutty sat in front of his computer screen, watching the clock in the lower right corner __ watching and waiting. He was exhausted and trying to find something, anything, to take his mind off last night. The game wasn't supposed to start for another twenty minutes, but some of the players checked onto the site early.

The game was by invitation only. He still remembered the day he received the e-mail. He had been depressed and angry, surfing Web sites, searching for answers, when suddenly the e-mail came through with an address he didn't recognize. He almost deleted it as spam except that the call name caught his attention: TheSinEater. It sounded like something from a game of Dungeons and Dragons, something that promised, or rather suggested, to take away his sins.

Could it be that easy? Play a game and feel better? Sorta like going to confession in cyberspace. And the message had been simple, easy, enticing:

DO YOU WANT TO PLAY A GAME?

The rules were strict, though, prohibiting players from exchanging any personal information and using only their given code names. But before each game they were allowed to chat, to discuss strategy and talk about their characters, sometimes slipping in information about themselves disguised as information about their characters.

Not everyone participated in the chats; some rambled, some threw in only a comment here and there, others just sat back and watched. Gibson was in the last category. He learned more by sitting back and watching others, taking mental notes, keeping track of what each one said outside of the game when they had their guard down.

The first time he felt like a voyeur, feeling guilty for listening in and not participating. You had to log on to participate. Actually you had to log on to have access to the chat messages as they instant-messaged back and forth. But Gibson figured out a way to watch the chat without logging on. So none of the players knew he was listening. They didn't even know he was there, until later when he really did log on to play the game.

today was no different.

He waited and watched for them to begin. Anxious to see where the conversation would go. Ready to take notes, feeling almost safe again now in the light of day and from his comfortable hiding place. That is until a knock at his bedroom door startled him.

"Gibson, what are you doing in there? It's a beautiful day outside."

His hands immediately closed the lid of his laptop, not that she could see from behind the door,

"I'm just playing a few computer games." Without the computer keyboard, his fingers were already probing his face, looking for new targets to erupt. It was a nervous habit he couldn't seem to control.

"Don't you want to go to the pool or maybe play ball with some of your friends?"

He found a new pimple on his forehead underneath his bangs. He knew his mom was trying. He had to give her credit for that. But she still treated him like he was ten or eleven instead of fifteen.
Go play ball with his friends ? And what friends?
Hadn't she noticed he didn't have any, at least, none outside his computer world? She had this perception that somehow he would be an athletic superstar just like his father. Sometimes he wondered if his parents had thought that by giving him his dad's name it would also transfer those athletic talents. How totally lame was that?

"Maybe later," he told her, throwing her the false hope she always seemed to need.

It was easier in the long haul to agree and make her believe everything was fine. If she knew the truth, she'd be spazzing out on him. He already knew that he could handle crap much better than she could. He didn't want her worrying about him.

"Okay, later. But do try. I don't like you spending so much time in your room."

"I will," he yelled back over his shoulder, though he knew he wouldn't.

He listened to her hesitate. She always did. He used to wish that she wouldn't let him off the hook so easily, that she would challenge him or even threaten to reprimand him just like his dad used to. But she never did.

He listened for her footsteps until they were down the hallway. He waited for the squeak of the staircase's telltale step. Then he wiped the blood from his fingertips onto his jeans and opened the laptop's lid.

On his computer screen in the upper left corner was another message waiting for him, staring out at him in red type. He started to shake. He wanted to erase it, but his fingers suddenly were useless. And instead, he simply sat there and stared at the words.

I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, GIBSON. AND i SAW WHAT YOU DID.

Gibson bit down on his lower lip and balled up his hands to stop the shaking, keeping them over the keyboard, trying to think, waiting for the panic to subside. Finally he took a deep breath and punched at the keys, not stopping to check his spelling and hitting Send before he could change his mind.

WHO ARE YOU?

Then he waited.

It seemed like forever. Maybe the person was already gone. Maybe he didn't expect a response. He could be bluffing. Or he didn't have the guts to __

I'M THE MASTER OF THE GAME. AND YOU BROKE THE RULES.

A shiver slid down Gibson's back. He stared at the words as if waiting and looking for more of an explanation. But he didn't need one. He knew exactly what was going on. And worse, he realized he wasn't safe even in his own home, in his own bedroom.

CHAPTER 14

Platte City, Nebraska

N
ick Morrelli washed down his mother's potato salad with iced tea, wishing the tea was something stronger. Not a good sign before noon. He couldn't believe he had taken off the entire week, handed over his role as lead prosecutor on the Carlucci drug case and even given up Red Sox tickets. Okay, maybe the Red Sox tickets weren't such a big deal, but still, all for what? To come back to Nebraska, stay at his sister's house and attend events like this for a whole week?

"Why are you hiding over here?"

His older sister, Christine, startled Nick, suddenly appearing behind him, invading his corner of the backyard. He wasn't hiding. The old rattan chair happened to be quite comfortable despite needing a new cushion and a fresh coat of spray paint.

"I'm not hiding. Someone needs to keep old Ralphie quiet." He patted the dog's shaggy head, keeping his paper plate up and out of Ralphie's reach, even though the old dog was fast asleep.

"Yeah, he looks like he's enjoying your company." Christine sat down in an accompanying rattan chair, wincing when it wobbled a bit.

"You know Mom says guys never came to these things in the good ole days." He looked around their parents' large backyard, crowded with people, only a few he recognized.

"The good ole days? I think you mean back in the Dark Ages," his sister told him. "I thought this was all a part of that new leaf you were turning over. You remember, your attempt at becoming a mature responsible adult"

She offered him a zebra brownie, pristine, untouched and unlike when they were kids and her goodie offerings came with a bite removed. So how could he refuse? He broke a piece off and stuffed it into his mouth.

"I don't think being a mature responsible adult is all that much fun," he said with a mouthful as if to emphasize his point that perhaps he wasn't adult material. "There's hardly anyone here I know." But now he realized he sounded a bit pathetic, He expected his sister to say, "When has that stopped you before?" Instead, she decided to stoop to his level.

"Mom and I wanted to limit the guest list only to those... shall we say, friends who you haven't slept with. You know, out of respect for Jill. Sorry, if that left only Hal, Timmy and Father Tony."

"Ouch," he said, faking his best imitation of being sucker punched. And yet, he knew he probably deserved that. He had spent much of his bachelorhood perfecting the art of one-night stands, so perhaps he deserved a reminder now and then.

"Seriously, Nick. I don't get it." This time she waited for his eyes, and he knew the horseplay was over. "You claim this is what you want. That Jill Campbell is the best thing that's happened to you. And yet, here you are at your own engagement party hiding out in the corner of the yard with an old, sleeping dog."

He didn't know what to tell her. Of course this was what he wanted. His eyes left hers to find Jill, making the rounds from one group of guests to another. She almost glided instead of walked, her yellow dress making her look like a model instead of an attorney. She wore her blond hair loose today, letting it brush her shoulders. In court she usually pulled it back or wore it up, attempting to add years and authority to her smooth, youthful face.

He told her time and again that she had saved him from himself, never really explaining, presuming that she already knew that there had been someone else he was trying to forget. But instead of pressing him for details, she seemed to take it upon herself to be the one who would finally replace the other woman she had never met.

"There you go again," he heard Christine say and immediately he knew he had missed something. Before he could respond, she added, "You've been doing that a lot, Nicky. You never seem to be where you're at."

He rolled his eyes at her as if that was the most ridiculous, incoherent thing he had ever heard, but he knew exactly what she meant. He hadn't been able to focus in months. His friend and co-worker, Will Finley, claimed it all began the day he and Jill had set a date for the wedding. Or to hear Will tell it, the day he surrendered to Jill.

At the time Nick joked that of course he couldn't focus,

"After all, wasn't that what happened when you fell in love and decided to take the plunge?"

His friend had just done the same thing, marrying Tess McGowen, the love of his life, only months before. He expected Will to understand. He expected Will, of all people, to sympathize. Instead, his friend's reaction felt like a sting. "Phinge?" Will had laughed. "You refer to marriage as a plunge and then you wonder what your problem is?"

Nick took another gulp of the iced tea as if needing to wash away the memory. What did Will Finley know anyway? People who were happy quickly forgot what misery felt like.

Misery?

What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't miserable. Jill had saved him from his misery. Suddenly, he realized he had done it again __ strayed off. He glanced at Christine, expecting to see her impatience, but she wasn't looking at him. He followed her gaze, only now seeing the black-and-white in the driveway.

"If this is one of those strip-o-grams, I know it was your idea, not Mom's."

But Christine wasn't smiling.

"I'm not sure what's going on."

Two uniformed officers were talking with Father Tony. Nick's first thought was that there had been a car accident or something awful that required a priest and last rites. He watched Tony's head bob in agreement then watched him swing around, looking for and finally finding Nick. Nick attempted to wave to him that it was okay for him to leave the party, but Tony made his way through the crowded backyard, guests parting for him like a sea of pastels.

"What's going on?" Christine asked, but Tony only shrugged, his eyes meeting and holding Nick's.

"Omaha police want me to come down to the station to answer some questions."

It took Nick by surprise. "To answer questions? About what?"

Tony shrugged again, and he reminded Nick of when they were boys. That same shrug came anytime they got into trouble and an adult asked for an explanation.

"Monsignor O'Sullivan was found dead in a restroom at the airport last night."

"Oh my God," Christine said. "And it wasn't just a heart attack or they wouldn't have questions."

Nick shot her a warning look. He could hear her shift into reporter gear, probably already taking notes in her head.

"I hate to take you away from your own party, Nick. But can you come with me?"

"Of course," Nick said without hesitation. He and Father Tony Gallagher had been friends since kindergarten when the two of them got deathly sick after eating almost a whole jar of paste. He thought he knew his good buddy pretty well, and unless it was his imagination, he didn't think Tony looked all that surprised about the monsignor being dead.

CHAPTER 15

Washington, D.C.,

T
he number-one tool for dismemberment was the hacksaw, but from what Maggie could see, this guy must have never had one handy.

Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim's hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn't take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.

She had ruled out a disorganized killer because of the planning and discipline it had taken not just to discard the heads but to complete the grisly process three times. Not to mention that he had also been able to hide or dispose of the torsos without getting caught. Dismembering a body took time and privacy. No matter where he killed his victims, he would need to take them back someplace safe, someplace where he knew he wouldn't be interrupted, where he could make a mess and have time to clean up.

And yet, something bothered Maggie. If he was, indeed, organized and had carefully planned each murder, why hadn't he gone to the trouble of buying a hacksaw or something that would have made the job much easier?

The sound of electric hair clippers interrupted her thoughts as Stan began shaving off the victim's long hair. She looked younger than Maggie had first thought. Without the tangles of hair, she noticed small diamond studs in one of the victim's earlobes. As far as she could tell, there were no other piercings in either brow, the nose, lip or chin. She made a mental note to have Stan check the woman's tongue.

"We don't have much to go on," Stan said, as if reading her thoughts.

As soon as he finished with the clippers, however, he pointed to a wound, a circular indent smashed into the top left side of the victim's skull.

"I'm guessing ball-peen hammer," he said, running a gloved index finger over the area.

"Is that how he killed her?" Racine asked, swiping a couple of maggots to the floor before coming in for a closer look.

"He smacked her pretty good," but Stan didn't look convinced. He continued his hands-on examination. "The hair samples should tell us if she was on any drugs at the time."

Maggie nodded; she knew the hair bulbs could be read almost like a drug timeline, since substances are captured and remain locked as the hair grows.

"What if he gave her something to knock her out?" Racine wanted to know. "Would that show up?"

"Oh, sure. Hair analysis can identify the heavy-duty stuff like cocaine and heroin, but we can also identify any tranquilizers or GHB. Should even be able to tell you whether she was a smoker or on Prozac. People think we can't figure out much when we have only the head," Stan continued. "There wasn't much with the other two."

"That reminds me," Racine interrupted. "I've made arrangements to take the other two up to a forensic anthropologist in Connecticut."

"Fine, fine. I can't do much more on those because of the level of decomposition. But this one has a lot to tell." And thankfully he was still anxious to share.

He tilted the head back, readjusting his vise-grip contraption so that she stared at the ceiling. More maggots slid off, hitting the stainless-steel table with tiny plops like raindrops on a tin roof.

"Despite the head wound, I doubt that was what killed her. Take a look," he said, flinging maggots off her cheeks, "at the area around her eyes "

He took a pair of forceps and, although Maggie thought Stan was a bit clumsy and slow at times, surprised her by expertly pinching and flipping up the right eyelid.

"See what I mean?"

"Petechial hemorrhages," Maggie said.

"Petechial what?" Racine asked.

"Petechial hemorrhages are capillaries that ruptured," Stan told her and his fingers moved on down the victim's face.

Racine still looked confused.

"She was strangled," Maggie said.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes," Stan said without looking up. "Petechial hemorrhages occur when air is cut off. You see, we don't need her neck to conclude that she was, in fact, strangled."

"Wait a minute," Racine said, hands on her hips. She wasn't happy with Stan's conclusions. "You're saying he drugged her __ "

"No, I don't know that for certain, but we should be able to tell from her hair samples."

"Okay, so he
may
have drugged her," Racine qualified her remarks and continued. "He then hit her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. All this before he strangles her. Oh, and then just for fun he cuts off her head."

"Actually I'd say it was more like ripped," Maggie said, joining the speculations.

"Excuse me?" Racine came around the table for a better angle.

Stan turned his contraption so that Racine had a better view of the decapitation area.

"Agent O'Dell's correct," Stan confirmed.

"Jesus," Racine said. "What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?"