A Perfect Evil (10 page)

Sunday, October 26

A
nd so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.

The front-page headline belonged on the
National Enquirer
and not a newspaper as respectable as the
Omaha Journal.
From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy’s Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday’s headline, but, of course, today’s large Sunday edition would attract more readers.

The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the “Living Today” section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?

Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy’s sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy’s mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.

He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.

The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.

The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.

He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English muffin. The stupid toaster hadn’t worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others. At least here in his room he could have the solitude of breakfast and the morning paper without the burden of making polite conversation.

The room was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. The small twin-size bed barely accommodated his six-foot frame. Some nights he found his feet dangling over the end. He had added the small Formica-topped table and two chairs, though he allowed no one to join him. The utility cart in the corner housed the secondhand toaster, a gift from one of the parishioners. There was also a hot plate and kettle that he used for his tea.

On the nightstand stood the most elaborate of his furnishings, an ornate lamp, the base a detailed relief of cherubs and nymphs tastefully arranged. It was one of the few things he had splurged on and purchased for himself with his meager paycheck. That and the three paintings. Of course, he could only afford framed reproductions. They hung on the wall opposite his bed so he could look at them while he drifted off to sleep, though sleep didn’t come easy these days. It never did when the throbbing began, invading his otherwise quiet life, crashing in with all those foul memories. Even though his room was simple and plain, it brought short periods of comfort, control and solitude to a life that was no longer his own.

He checked his watch and ran his hand over his jaw. He wouldn’t need to shave today, his boyish face still smooth from yesterday’s shave. He had time to finish reading, though he refused to so much as look at the ridiculous articles about Ronald Jeffreys. Jeffreys had never deserved the attention he had garnered, and here he was, still in the limelight even after death.

He finished his breakfast and meticulously cleaned the table, no crumb escaping his quick swipes with the damp rag. From his small, brown-stained bathroom sink he removed the pair of Nikes, now scrubbed clean, not a hint of mud left. Still, he wished he had taken them off sooner. He patted them dry and set them aside to wash the one plate he called his own, a fragile, hand-painted Noritake he had borrowed long ago from the community china cabinet. His matching teacup and saucer, also borrowed, he filled to the brim with more scalding-hot water. Delicately, he dunked the once-used tea bag, waiting for the water to turn the appropriate amber color, then quickly removed and strangled the tea bag as if making it surrender every last drop.

His morning ritual complete, he got down on his hands and knees and pulled a wooden box from under the bed. He laid the box on the small table and ran his fingers over the lid’s intricate carving. Carefully, he cut out the newspaper articles, bypassing those on Ronald Jeffreys. He opened the box and put the folded articles inside on top of the other newspaper clippings, some of which were just beginning to yellow. He checked the other contents: a bright white linen cloth, two candles and a small container of oil. Then he licked the remnants of jelly off the fillet knife and returned it to the box, laying it gently on the soft cotton of a pair of boy’s underpants.

T
immy Hamilton pushed his mom’s fingers away from his face as the two of them hesitated on the steps of St. Margaret’s. It was bad enough that he was late. He didn’t need his mom fussing over him in front of his friends.

“Come on, Mom. Everybody can see.”

“Is this a new bruise?” She held his chin and gently tilted his head.

“I ran into Chad at soccer practice. It’s no big deal.” He put his hand on his hip as if to conceal the even bigger bruise hidden there.

“You need to be more careful, Timmy. You bruise so easily. I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to let you play.”

She opened her handbag and began digging.

“I’m gonna be late. Church starts in fifteen minutes.”

“I thought I had your registration form and check for the camp out.”

“Mom, I’m late already.”

“Okay, okay.” She snapped the bag shut. “Just tell Father Keller I’ll put it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you don’t want to check the tags on my underwear or something?”

“Smart-ass.” She laughed and swatted him on the butt.

He liked it when she laughed, something she didn’t do much of since his dad had left. When she laughed, the lines in her face softened, denting her cheeks with dimples. She became the most beautiful woman he knew, especially now with her new silky, blond hair. She was almost prettier than Miss Roberts, his fourth-grade teacher. But Miss Roberts was last year. This year was Mr. Stedman and, though it was only October, Timmy hated the fifth grade. He lived for soccer practice—soccer practice and serving mass with Father Keller.

In July, when his mom had interrupted his summer and sent him to church camp, he had been furious with her. But Father Keller had made camp fun. It ended up being a great summer, and he’d hardly missed his dad. Then, to top it off, Father Keller had asked him to be one of his altar boys. Though he and his mom had been members of St. Margaret’s since spring, Timmy knew Father Keller’s altar boys were an elite group, handpicked and given special rewards. Rewards like the upcoming camping trip.

Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a cassock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller’s dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy’s jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.

Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair’s arm.

“Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?” He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.

“Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late.”

“No problem. We have plenty of time.” He tousled Timmy’s hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy’s dad used to do.

At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn’t admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed—never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller’s life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the mass stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.

No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Saturdays, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories—the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after mass, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.

Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Father,” he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.

Timmy couldn’t help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest’s long, black cassock.

T
immy Hamilton pushed his mom’s fingers away from his face as the two of them hesitated on the steps of St. Margaret’s. It was bad enough that he was late. He didn’t need his mom fussing over him in front of his friends.

“Come on, Mom. Everybody can see.”

“Is this a new bruise?” She held his chin and gently tilted his head.

“I ran into Chad at soccer practice. It’s no big deal.” He put his hand on his hip as if to conceal the even bigger bruise hidden there.

“You need to be more careful, Timmy. You bruise so easily. I must have been out of my mind when I agreed to let you play.”

She opened her handbag and began digging.

“I’m gonna be late. Church starts in fifteen minutes.”

“I thought I had your registration form and check for the camp out.”

“Mom, I’m late already.”

“Okay, okay.” She snapped the bag shut. “Just tell Father Keller I’ll put it in the mail tomorrow.”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes.”

“You sure you don’t want to check the tags on my underwear or something?”

“Smart-ass.” She laughed and swatted him on the butt.

He liked it when she laughed, something she didn’t do much of since his dad had left. When she laughed, the lines in her face softened, denting her cheeks with dimples. She became the most beautiful woman he knew, especially now with her new silky, blond hair. She was almost prettier than Miss Roberts, his fourth-grade teacher. But Miss Roberts was last year. This year was Mr. Stedman and, though it was only October, Timmy hated the fifth grade. He lived for soccer practice—soccer practice and serving mass with Father Keller.

In July, when his mom had interrupted his summer and sent him to church camp, he had been furious with her. But Father Keller had made camp fun. It ended up being a great summer, and he’d hardly missed his dad. Then, to top it off, Father Keller had asked him to be one of his altar boys. Though he and his mom had been members of St. Margaret’s since spring, Timmy knew Father Keller’s altar boys were an elite group, handpicked and given special rewards. Rewards like the upcoming camping trip.

Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a cassock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller’s dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy’s jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.

Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair’s arm.

“Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?” He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.

“Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late.”

“No problem. We have plenty of time.” He tousled Timmy’s hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy’s dad used to do.

At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn’t admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed—never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller’s life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the mass stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.

No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Saturdays, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories—the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after mass, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.

Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Father,” he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.

Timmy couldn’t help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest’s long, black cassock.