ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (14 page)

Relatives and friends of the murder victims stood behind him, arms linked in solidarity, and an older woman began to sob.

As if to commiserate with her grief, Mathews nodded. “Suellen was murdered fifteen
months
ago. Since then this monster killed
three more women
. Agent Norris asks witnesses to come forward, but people are afraid, and with good reason. Not long ago, right here in New Orleans, two witnesses were murdered before they could testify at trial. The police failed to protect them. Now we find out that a woman survived an attack by this vicious killer
two years ago
! If she had felt confident that the police would protect her, she might have come forward sooner, and five women might still be alive.”

Tearful nods from the grief-stricken families behind him.

“
Families and friends of the victims have put up a fifty-thousand dollar reward, but we need to offer more. I appeal to the New Orleans community and to God-fearing people everywhere. Send whatever you can to the New Orleans Victims Fund.”

Reading from a slip of paper, he reeled off an 800-number and a website address. Then, staring grimly into the camera, he said, “Five women have been murdered. Murdered and
mutilated
. On behalf of the victims’ families, I issue this challenge to Agent Norris. Guarantee protection to witnesses so people with information feel safe to come forward! Thank you all for being here to support us. God bless you, and God Bless America.”

Frank turned to Miller. “Is that true, what he said about the witnesses?”

“
Yes, unfortunately. Four years ago a women and her six year old were gunned down a month before trial. The kid witnessed a murder. Year before that, a teenager witnessed a drive-by in the project where she lived, ID’d the shooters, got nailed a week later.”

Like Janelle Robinson in Boston, Frank thought, murder and drivebys being two of the many evils that plagued residents of urban housing projects.

“
Did NOPD offer them protection?”

“
We did, but they refused, didn’t want to leave their families.”

“
And we got sixty cold-case murders since ‘85?”

“
More. The ones Norris talked about were only the women.”

Frank finished his beer and set the bottle on the bar. “I’m going to talk to the Mathews kid, see if I can squeeze anything out of him.”

“
You’re still gonna work on the case? What about Norris?”

He gave Miller The Look. “The bastard killed those girls and then he killed Kitty. I want him off the street, and the taskforce will never catch him with Norris in charge.”

Miller held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Just asking, Frank. You want to stay on the case, Norris won’t hear about it from me. I’ll help you any way I can. Far as I’m concerned, we’re still partners.”

He slapped Miller’s arm. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”

His phone vibrated against his hip.
Maureen
, he thought. He grabbed it, and heard Rona’s voice say, “Kitty’s dead, Frank. Someone murdered her.”

“
I know. I’m the one that found her. How did you hear about it?”

Miller arched an eyebrow at him. When he mouthed
Rona,
Miller rolled his eyes and swigged some beer.

“
Her mother called me. Dammit, if Norris had paid attention to her story and given her some protection, she’d still be alive.”

He gritted his teeth. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Rona.

“
The killer read your column and killed her to keep her quiet. Her tongue wasn’t cut, but that was deliberate. He’s clever.”

“
Yeah, he’s clever and Norris is a shit. He didn’t believe her because she’s a prostitute. He doesn’t give a damn that Kitty got murdered, right?”

An accurate assessment, but he could hardly say so.

“
When’s your next column?”

“
Sunday.”

“
Well, find something to write about that doesn’t involve Kitty or the serial killer.”

“
Is Norris going to endorse the sketch?”

“
No.”

“
Why not?”

“
He doesn’t want to agitate the killer.” It sounded lame even as he said it. Hell, Norris’ biggest worry was agitated politicians.

A long silence from Rona, fireworks on the way, as he had expected. “Rona, whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it. You’ll only make things worse.”

“
What makes you think I’d do something?” she said, and clicked off.

He put away his phone. Miller looked at him, grimfaced. “What a mess.”

“
Damn right. Our killer follows the news. Kitty’s murder got buried on page ten, but if Rona writes a column saying the Tongue Killer did Kitty, the guy will know we’re onto him, be twice as careful.”

_____

Fighting tears, Melody Johnson shut off the microphone, slumped back on her folding chair and stared into space, oblivious to the couples on the gymnasium floor, snuggling close as they danced to one of her golden-oldies: Barbara Streisand’s rendition of “Memory,” from
Cats
.

Why in the world did I play that song
? she thought. It brought back memories all right, unhappy ones.

She had volunteered to play disc jockey for the dance, a fundraiser for St. Margaret’s school and a huge success judging by the attendance: a mix of current students, their parents, and older parishioners whose children had graduated. The president of the youth group had set up a microphone, two multi-disc CD players and quadraphonic speakers in one corner of the gym.

For the most part nature had been kind to Melody Johnson, lustrous honey-blond hair and a voluptuous figure, full breasts mounding beneath her white satin blouse, a slender waist nipped in by the leather belt on her skirt. Almond-shaped eyes and sensuous lips adorned her oval face. She might have been a model, but for the port wine stain that began at her right nostril and splayed over her cheek like a burgundy-red banner.

Her parents had met at a Billy Joel concert and, in a bit of whimsy, named their firstborn Melody. Music was ever present in the Johnson home. A serious child and a straight-A student, Melody idolized Leslie Stahl, whom she resembled, except for the birthmark. She wanted to be a television reporter like Stahl, but her guidance counselor discouraged her. She knew why; he thought no one would hire her because of the birthmark. She majored in Communications anyway. If she couldn’t be on television, she’d be a disk jockey. Her professors at Ithaca College said she had the voice for it—deep and sultry—displayed during her stints on the college radio station.

Radio listeners couldn’t see the ugly stain on her cheek.

After graduation she got a job at a station in Albany. Two years later she landed her dream job at an FM station in Providence, Rhode Island: overnight announcer, playing her beloved classical music, seducing listeners with her melodious voice. Adoring fans wrote her letters. They never saw her face. Then she met Dave. On their second date, he had taken her to see a performance of
Cats
. Happy times, happy memories.

Six months ago he’d broken their engagement, saying he wasn’t ready for marriage. She knew the real reason. Dave was an up-and-coming lawyer in the District Attorney’s office. His wealthy parents expected their handsome son to be governor of Rhode Island someday, and he didn’t need a wife with a face like hers beside him at the inaugural. After Dave dumped her, she couldn’t abide living in Providence. Three months ago she had taken a part time job on WCLA, a PBS affiliate in New Orleans.

As “Memory” ground to its inevitable sad conclusion her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back and got ready to announce the next song.

_____

Leaning against the opposite wall of the gymnasium, the sinner watched her. Sometimes when he was out late on weekends he listened to her on his car radio. Her voice was striking, low-pitched, silky and smooth. Seductive. According to the CYO president, a football player with a smart-aleck smile, Melody had volunteered her services for the fundraiser. She was a member of the parish and regularly attended Mass at St. Margaret’s.

Strange. He didn’t recall seeing her and he remembered all the women he served, studying their faces as he placed the Communion wafer on their tongue, or in their hands as many preferred. If Melody had received Communion, he would have remembered her. How could he miss that horrible birthmark on her cheek? But her breasts were magnificent, large and round and full, a temptation to any man. He could almost see her nipples through her white blouse.

Hold your sweethearts close
, she’d said as she introduced the Streisand tune. It seemed as though her voice quavered when she announced the title: Memory. And moments later she had wiped tears from her eyes.

Perhaps Melody needed consoling. He watched her bring the microphone to her mouth, watched her run her tongue over her lips. His groin stirred and his pulse pounded. She announced the song but the words didn’t register. He heard nothing, saw only her lips and her tongue.

Raucous music blasted from the gigantic quadraphonic speakers, jolting him out of his trance. Seconds later teenaged couples on the dance floor began jerking to and fro with frantic energy. Almost invisible in the shadowy corner of the gym, Melody shut off her microphone.

The sinner headed for the exit nearest her, his stride purposeful, as if he were leaving, but at the last moment he turned and approached her.

“
Hi, Melody. I’m Father Tim. Thanks for helping out tonight.”

Tilting her head to keep her cheek in shadow, she smiled. “You’re welcome, Father Tim. I’m happy to do it.”

“
I listen to your show sometimes.” He beamed a smile of approval. “You’re an excellent announcer. What a marvelous voice you have, so warm and friendly.”

“
Thank you,” she said, and bowed her head, avoiding his gaze.

So I can’t see the pain in her eyes, he thought. Moments ago she’d been weeping. Even now she looked on the verge of tears.

“
I didn’t know you belonged to St. Margaret’s parish, Melody. Have I seen you at Mass?”

She raised her head but avoided his gaze, licked her lips, rolled them together, obviously ill at ease. “I usually sit near the back.”

“
But you have to come to the altar to receive Communion.”

Her hands fidgeted in her lap, fingers picking at the folds of her skirt. “I haven’t received for a while.”

His heart surged. Melody was a sinner, just as he’d thought!

Adopting a concerned expression, he leaned closer, close enough to smell her spicy scent. “Is something troubling you, Melody? Don’t be afraid. You can tell me.”

She caught her lip between her teeth, frowning, then flashed a smile. A fake smile. “I’m fine, Father. I love my job at the radio station.”

“
But somebody doesn’t love you, right?”

His shot in the dark hit home. Her eyes grew bright with tears. He murmured compliments without once looking at her cheek. That would only increase her self-consciousness. He wanted Melody to trust him, wanted her to think of him as her savior. And he was. After she confessed her sins of the flesh, he would give her Absolution.

The ache in his groin pulsed with an angry throb.

Don’t even consider it,
warned the voice.
She’s too close to home.

Until now he had taken great pains to avoid women in his parish, but the urge was mounting every day, impossible to ignore, mushrooming out of control. And Melody seemed perfect.

He smiled at her, an intense smile, maintaining eye contact, making sure the intensity and the yearning reached his eyes.

“
Let’s have coffee some morning after your show,” he said. “I’m up early to say Mass every day, and I’d love to talk to you.”

CHAPTER 10

Saturday 12:20 P.M.

“
Did you and Suellen go to the same high school?” Frank asked, more to open up a conversation than anything. He already knew the answer.

“
Yes, Catholic Memorial. It’s a great school.” Jonathan Mathews drank from a can of Coke and set it on the squeaky clean Formica tabletop.

Jonathan sold real estate and was eager to talk, but not at his office. He had asked Frank to meet him at home instead, a modest bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood. Judging by the spotless counter tops and the gleaming copper-bottomed pans above the stove, Jonathan was a neat-freak.

At the news conference he had deemed Suellen a saint, but Frank wasn’t so sure. Her high school yearbook portrait revealed a girl with worldly eyes and a Lolita smile, lips parted seductively, and blonde hair frosted with platinum highlights.

“
Suellen was a pretty girl, head cheerleader. Did she date much?”

Jonathan set his can of Coke on the table and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. “What are you getting at?”

Defensive, knee pumping up and down, powered by his foot.