ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (13 page)

He crunched a celery stick and tuned in the Channel-9 news. Nothing about a dead prostitute, plenty about the Tongue Killer. He rather liked the name. Many of the serial killers he’d studied had special names: Son of Sam, BTK, the Green Mile Killer. He was smarter, of course. The police would never catch him, and, unlike the others, he had a vital mission.

The dark-haired anchorwoman’s expression grew somber as she said: “In her column today, Rona Jefferson repeated her assertion that the woman who foiled the Tongue Killer believed her attacker was a priest. For community reaction let’s go live to Dan Shepard. Dan?”

Damn Rona Jefferson to hell!

He shut off the TV, got down on the oval rug beside his bed and did ten push-ups. If that stupid columnist kept yapping about a killer-priest, she would ruin his mission. She didn’t understand how many evil women were out there, didn’t understand that he had to make an example of them. How could he do that if they viewed him with suspicion? If they didn’t trust him enough to let him into their homes, how could he persuade them to confess?

His need was a wild beast, throbbing with a terrible urgency, hijacking his thoughts. He went to his armoire, removed a glass jar and studied the shriveled piece of flesh floating in the alcohol. The tongues usually aroused him, but Patti’s didn’t. Patti was the worst kind of temptress, leading him on and then fighting him. But there were plenty of evil women out there.

It wouldn’t take long to find another one.

_____

Father Sean Daily doodled on his yellow legal pad as the plump young woman facing his desk rambled on about her wedding plans. These premarital counseling sessions tried his patience. Most young couples had unrealistic expectations. They had no idea of the drudgery that lay ahead, the financial concerns that came with raising children, the boredom that inevitably set in. Especially in the bedroom.

“
We’ve been looking at houses,” Kevin O’Rourke said, his eyes bright with dreams. He worked at a bank. With his pock-marked skin and pug nose, he was far from handsome, but he presented himself well in a dark suit and a red power tie. Gina Lombardi gazed at her man with adoring eyes, a pretty girl with dark curly hair framing her face, though her aqua-knit dress was rather snug around her waist and hips.

“
And the children?” he said. “You’ll bring them up in the Church?”

“
Absolutely, Father,” Gina said. “I plan to be a full-time mother.”

He tried to picture them ten years from now: Kevin comes home frazzled after his boss chewed him out; Gina’s irritable after minding a passel of kids all day, more than plump now, snacking out of boredom, yelling at the kids to stop bickering in the other room.

Gina beamed at him. “We’re so excited about the wedding plans. I come from a big family and so does Kevin.”

With difficulty, he maintained a straight face. Of course they came from big families, Italian and Irish, staunch Catholics whose only approved birth control was the so-called natural family planning method. About as reliable as saying a Hail Mary.

Half-listening, he contemplated the day’s chores. Fridays were always busy: answer his mail; begin drafting his homily; meet with the religious education teachers. His gaze went to the wall clock he’d hung on the wall opposite his desk so he could keep track of time without being obvious. Quarter to one. In five minutes he would wrap this up.

As Gina burbled about wedding invitations Kevin remained silent. What was he thinking, Sean wondered. In five years he’d be bored silly by Gina’s blather. Some sexy bank teller would catch his eye and he’d take her to lunch, then find excuses to work late so they could go to a cheap motel on Airline Drive and rent a room for an hour.

He checked the clock again—ten minutes to one—the time crawling by at a snail’s pace, unlike the evenings he spent with Aurora when hours whizzed by. His gaze shifted to the citations on the wall beside the clock, given to him by the youth groups. He loved working with teenagers. They were full of mischief, still had a sense of adventure. Beside the citations was a photograph of a lighthouse, sunlight sparkling on the blue-green sea as foamy waves crashed over jagged rocks. A memento of his previous life.

“
Father?”

Gina and Kevin were looking at him expectantly. He showed them his pastoral smile. “You’re a fine young couple. Six weeks from now, you’ll be married, but a happy marriage takes work. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

He ushered them out of the rectory and hurried down the hall to the kitchen. Aurora stood at the counter by the stove, sporting an amused smile.

“
How’s the devoted young couple?” she asked. “Starry eyed and pretending not to be horny?”

He let out a belly laugh, took her in his arms and twirled her around.

She kissed his cheek. “Don’t get too frisky. It’s time for lunch.”

“
Lunch,” he muttered. But his stomach gurgled as she ladled seafood gumbo into two bowls and brought them to the table.

“
Rona Jefferson thinks the Tongue Killer might be a priest.”

“
Is that so?” He didn’t want to hear about it, much less discuss it. He sampled the gumbo. Delicious, zesty and flavorful with Creole spices.

Aurora dipped a piece of garlic bread into her gumbo. “Sean, I think you should tell Detective Renzi about that priest.”

“
Why? It will just cause trouble.”

“
It might save another girl from being murdered.”

“
You don’t know that. If I tell Renzi about him, it might get me in trouble. What if Renzi drags me down to taskforce headquarters? What if they check up on me and find out I’m not really a priest?”

And if Renzi finds out I’m not a priest, he’ll find out I’m not the man I’ve told you I am all these years
.

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You can trust Detective Renzi. He’s a good man, I can feel it. Tell him you won’t talk to anyone else about it. Ask him to keep it in confidence.”

“
And what, pray tell, do I give as a reason?”

“
Sean Daily, I’ve known you for thirty years. You’re a good man even if you aren’t a priest. If you don’t tell him, it will be on your conscience forever.”

On his conscience? He had plenty on his conscience already.

Aurora’s eyes bored into him. “Sean, if you don’t tell him, I will.”

A monstrous feeling of dread engulfed him. Aurora thought Renzi was a nice guy. He knew better. Renzi was a detective. If Renzi found out he was wanted for murder, he could wind up in jail. But when Aurora set her mind on something, it was impossible to dissuade her. Marveling at her chiseled beauty, he studied her face, her pliant lips and her warm brown eyes.

What would he do without her? How could he refuse her?

“
All right,” he said. “I’ll tell him.”

But not until he figured out a way to hide his true identity.

_____

At a press briefing timed for inclusion on the five o’clock news, Special Agent Burke Norris, local area leaders, and families of the victims gathered on the steps of the State Supreme Court Building in the French Quarter. Below them, reporters, camera crews, and television personalities from CNN, Fox News and the network affiliates jockeyed for space amidst a crowd of tourists and residents that spilled off the sidewalk onto Royal Street.

Standing at a podium thick with microphones, slender and handsome in a cream-colored suit that set off his dark skin, New Orleans Mayor Keith Brown concluded his remarks. “Gather in your churches and pray, but please! Do not to resort to vigilantism! My colleagues and I have requested financial assistance from the federal government that will allow us to increase the number of police patrols in New Orleans and the surrounding metro area.”

This announcement brought prolonged applause, and the assemblage of cameramen panned their lenses over the crowd to capture their enthusiasm. Then, as rays of the setting sun burnished the marble façade of the courthouse and the bronze statue of former U. S. Chief Justice Edward Douglas White, Special Agent Burke Norris claimed the microphones.

“
Four days ago a vicious serial killer claimed his fifth victim. Every member of my taskforce—federal, state and local—is committed to solving these crimes. Since 1985, sixty murders of New Orleans-area women have gone unsolved.” His face was a study in outrage. “Sixty women. Murdered. We are reviewing each case to see if it can be linked to the current murders.”

His outraged expression softened. “We understand your frustration and urge you to channel your outrage into constructive action.” Affecting a folksy down-home drawl, he said, “Y’all can be our eyes and ears. We want y’all … we
need
y’all to help us. Anyone who has any information,
please
contact us.”

He recited a toll-free number and gestured at the group gathered behind him, his expression somber. “The families and friends of the victims have our deepest sympathy. We pledge to them—and to the entire New Orleans community—we
will
find the person who committed these horrific murders and we will prosecute that person to the full extent of the law.”

“
Agent Norris,” shouted a CNN reporter, “in her column Rona Jefferson raised significant racial issues. Do you believe the killer is black?”

Norris jutted his jaw. “I have
never
limited our search for a suspect to a specific race. The killer could be white, Hispanic, African-American, Asian, or any combination of the above. We rule out
no one
. Women should be wary of
any
stranger who tries to enter their home.”

“
Who’s the woman Jefferson wrote about? Have you talked to her?”

“
I can’t comment on that.”

“
Have you discussed her story with Detective Frank Renzi?”

“
Yes.” The muscles in Norris’ jaw bunched. “Next?”

“
Do you have any leads on the Patti Cole murder?”

“
When we have a lead, you’ll be the first to know. Once again I want to thank you media folks for all of your efforts to help us find the killer.”

With that, Special Agent Norris abruptly left the podium.

_____

Frank turned away from the TV set above the Twin Oaks bar, drank from his bottle of Bud and massaged his temples. Friday nights the place was always jammed, and the noise and the cigarette smoke were giving him a headache. Or maybe it was Norris. He’d made no comment about Kitty, of course, nor would he, now that she was dead.

“
Man,” Miller said, swiveling his stool to face him, “I can’t believe Norris dumped you off the taskforce. What an idiot.”

“
He’s been dying to shit-can me. Kitty was the perfect excuse. What pisses me off is he told Captain Dupree to pull me off the murder case.”

“
You think the killer saw Rona’s column, remembered Kitty and did her, right?”

“
Right.” He picked at the label on his Budweiser bottle, thinking six things at once but most of all about Maureen. Ever since she’d called during his row with Norris they’d been playing phone tag, leaving messages. He dug out his cellphone and checked to make sure the power was on.

Miller shook out a cigarette and lit up. “Maybe the killer’s a cop.”

“
Whoa! Norris has been saying that all along and you didn’t buy it. What made you change your mind?”

“
Everyone on the taskforce knew the woman in Rona’s column was a prostitute. Norris put her name on the timeline.” Miller puffed his cigarette and blew smoke, irritation plain on his face. “I’ve got issues with Norris, but he’s not stupid. Why won’t he buy your theory about Kitty?”

“
Because it’s my theory, not his. You think the killer might be a cop. I think he might be a priest. All the victims were Catholic. A priest would be able to bamboozle them. You trust your priest, don’t you?”

A pained look crossed Miller’s face. “I haven’t been to confession in years. My wife bugs me to go every Easter.”

“
Okay, for the sake of argument, try this. If you were a young Catholic woman, who would you trust more, a cop or a priest? Which one would you let into your house at night?”

Miller let out a mirthless chuckle. “That’s easy. Certain cops in this town I wouldn’t trust to buy me a Pepsi at Burger King in broad daylight.”

“
Go get ‘em, Jonathan!” screamed a female voice.

Startled, Frank looked past Miller at a group of young women in business suits clustered at the other end of the bar. They appeared to be in their twenties, gazing at the television screen as the camera zoomed in on a grim-faced young man with a stubborn set to his jaw.

He nudged Miller. “Let’s catch this. The kid’s got fans.”

Gazing into the camera, the young man said, “My name is Jonathan Mathews. Fifteen months ago my sister, Suellen Mathews, was murdered. Suellen was a saint. Nineteen years old. A college student with a career ahead of her.” Visibly upset, he shouted, “I love you, Suellen. I’ll never forget you. I swear to God, we’ll
get
the man that killed you and make him pay!”