ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (16 page)

She typed furiously for five minutes and scanned what she’d written.

Thursday morning a woman was found dead in her home, a murder that went unnoticed by the New Orleans serial killer taskforce. Why? Because she was a prostitute. Kitty Neves foiled the Tongue Killer two years ago, but Agent Norris didn’t believe her story and offered her no protection. Now she’s dead. The Tongue Killer shut her up. This monster has now claimed six victims. Kitty was his latest, but she won’t be his last.

Why can’t the taskforce catch him? Because Agent Norris believes the killer is black. Kitty described her attacker as a young white male and worked with an artist to make a sketch [See graphic], but Norris won’t endorse it. If you recognize the man in the sketch, call the police. Don’t call Norris. His mind is made up. The killer is black. Case closed.

Well, not quite. He hasn’t caught the killer yet.

Kitty believed her attacker was a priest. I’m a Catholic and this shocked me. But is it really so farfetched? For years people denied that Catholic priests sexually molested children. We now know that many did.

Does the man in the sketch look like a priest in your parish?

Agent Norris doesn’t believe the Tongue Killer is white. Norris may not believe he’s a priest, either. But one thing is certain: Kitty Neves is dead. How many more women must die before the Tongue Killer is caught?

With a satisfied nod, she hit a key to transmit the file to her editor. That should get Special Agent Burke Norris off his sorry white ass.

_____

Alone in the WCLA studio at four-twenty in the morning, Melody Johnson adjusted a sliding knob on the state-of-the-art control panel. Satisfied with the volume level, she removed her headset, set it on the console and rose from her padded swivel chair. Towers of revolving wire racks filled much of the fifteen-by-twenty foot studio. Chock full of CDs filed alphabetically by composer, the racks stood higher than her head, and she had to stretch to reach the topmost recordings.

She wandered to a picture window on the back wall and stared out into the night. Fluorescent ceiling lights cast her ghostly reflection upon the glass. No curtains or blinds covered the window. This had made her uneasy the first time she’d done the overnight shift. She felt exposed, isolated in the first floor studio at the rear of the building. But the station manager had reassured her: a seven-foot wire-mesh fence surrounded the property. So she had dismissed her fears, attributing them to big city paranoia.

Leaning close to the glass, she peered out. Other than the blinking red lights on the fifty-foot transmission tower behind the station she saw only inky darkness. That was one reason she liked the overnight shift. Darkness was her friend, cloaking her in a protective shield. She liked being alone in the station too. The morning-drive announcer didn’t come in until five.

The station manager, an older man with a kindly smile, had been eager to hire her, apologizing that he had only the Saturday and Sunday overnight shifts to offer. When a full time job opened up, he’d promised it would be hers. Soon, she hoped. Lord knows she needed the money.

But she didn’t mind working the midnight to five-thirty shift. During the day the music alternated with news and interviews from NPR. On the overnight shift nothing interrupted her beloved classical music.

The fluorescent bulb above her head winked out.

She looked up and watched the bulb fight for its life, flickering, on-off-on-off-on-off, as if it were blinking a warning. Then, with a final sputter, the bulb blinked off and stayed off.

She wandered back to the console. At her previous job, she had chosen the music, but the WCLA program director compiled the playlist. Why did he choose such sad music? Maurice Ravel was one of her favorite composers, but
Pavane for a Dead Princess
was heartbreaking, a haunting French horn solo to begin the piece, a theme taken up by sobbing strings and winds.

The music brought a lump to her throat and, inevitably, thoughts of Dave. Even now she could conjure up the scent of his aftershave, could still feel his lips on hers and the warmth of his skin against her body. Dave had cared for her, she was certain of it, gazing at her, telling her she was beautiful, inside and out. He didn’t mind the horrible stain on her face.

Not that he had actually said this, but he’d let her know it, stroking her cheek as they lay in the dark after making love. But his parents didn’t care about inner beauty. They saw only her flaw, the horrible birthmark on her cheek. Tears filled her eyes, and she fought back a sob. If people stared at her when she was little, her parents told her God had given her a special mark to demonstrate His love.

Too bad God couldn’t convince Dave’s parents to love her.

The recapitulation of the French horn solo told her the Ravel would soon be over. The next CD was cued up and ready to go: The wedding march from Mendelssohn’s
Midsummer Night’s Dream
.

Another reminder of what might have been.

She blinked back tears, sat in her chair, adjusted the microphone and checked the large round clock on the wall facing her. Four-thirty. In an hour she would return to the small cottage she had rented. It was convenient, only three blocks away, and the rent was a lot cheaper than her apartment in Providence. That job had paid well and she’d managed to sock away some money, but if a full time job didn’t open up at WCLA soon she would need to find another source of income. Another nagging worry.

She did a station break, articulating the call letters clearly, smiling as she introduced the Mendelssohn. Smiling as you spoke was important. Listeners could hear it in your voice if you didn’t, and she didn’t want them to know that her heart was breaking. The music began and she checked the level on the VU-meter. Satisfied, she removed her headset and placed it on the console beside the executive telephone.

One of the listener-lines blinked, pulsing a soundless “beep.”

She composed her face in a smile and answered the call.

“
WCLA. Good morning, this is Melody speaking.”

“
Good morning, Melody. It’s Father Tim. We met at the dance the other night at St. Margaret’s, remember?”

“
Oh. Yes, of course I remember. You’re up early this morning.”

A soft chuckle. “I’m always up early. I officiate at the early Mass every day. That was a lovely piece you just played. Maurice Ravel is my favorite composer. And it’s always nice to hear your beautiful voice.”

She smiled, pleased at the compliment. “Thank you, Father Tim. You’re very kind.”

“
You sound a bit melancholy today. Is something wrong?”

Had he heard the misery and grief in her voice? She would have to be more careful. She smiled harder. “Not really. It must be the hour.”

“
That’s possible, I suppose, but I think it’s something else. I pride myself on taking the emotional pulse of my parishioners, Melody, and it seems to me you’re a bit downhearted. Anything I can do to help?”

“
Well, I have been a bit down lately, but it will pass.”

“
I think you’re pining for a boyfriend. Am I right?”

Her heart pounded. She didn’t know what to say.

“
Trust me, Melody. I hear lots of sad stories. People talk to me.”

She gripped the phone. Maybe she
should
talk to someone. God knows she needed a shoulder to cry on. Her mother hadn’t grasped the depth of her feelings for Dave. “You’ll find someone else,” her mother had said. “There are lots of fine young men out there.”

As the silence lengthened she heard the priest’s breathing. He was waiting for her to speak, she realized. Say something, you dolt!

“
Six months ago my boyfriend dumped me,” she blurted.

“
I’m sorry to hear that, Melody. Would you like to talk about it?”

“
Well … there isn’t much to say, is there?”

“
Of course there is. You’ve been hurt, Melody, and you’re lonely. You have much to give and no one to receive it. You need to talk. Let’s have coffee after you get off work. I’ll be done with the early Mass by then.” He chuckled softly. “I zip through the early ones as fast as I can.”

“
Okay.” She gnawed her lip. That sounded unappreciative. Here this priest was going out of his way to help her, and she sounded indifferent. She pasted on a smile and said, “I’d love to have coffee with you, Father Tim.”

“
Excellent. Discussing personal issues in public is rather awkward. Let’s meet at your place. I make house calls you know, for my parishioners.”

She tried to recall when she’d last picked up the clutter. Oh well, she could tidy up quickly. The cottage wasn’t that big.

“
Okay. I’m renting a house three blocks from the station.”

“
A house? Goodness, all by yourself?”

She laughed. “All by myself. I had roommates in college. If I have to fight clutter, I’d rather it be my clutter, not someone else’s.”

“
I just thought you might want companionship, but maybe you’ve got a pet.” Father Tim chuckled. “You haven’t got a Great Dane, have you?”

“
I haven’t even got a hamster.”

“
Well then, why don’t I drop by after Mass?”

“
That sounds fine. I’ll make some coffee.”

She gave him the address, rang off and found herself smiling. He was right. She was lonely. After three months here, she hadn’t made any friends. Why bore people with the depressing story of her breakup with Dave, a preoccupation that filled her waking hours and invaded her dreams. Maybe God had sent Father Tim to comfort her. She tried to remember what he looked like. He was young—late twenties, maybe—and average looking, not handsome, but certainly not ugly. She vaguely recalled dark eyes and hair. And that Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist. How sweet!

He hadn’t once looked at the horrid stain on her cheek. He had complimented her voice, and his smile was one of the kindest she’d ever seen, radiating warmth and compassion and something more, an intensity that touched the core of her being. Seductive, almost.

Impossible, of course. He was a priest.

But priests could have sexual feelings, couldn’t they? They just couldn’t act on them. Which meant Father Tim was safe. She couldn’t bear to pour out her feelings to a man and then have him dump her the way Dave had. And the look in Father Tim’s eyes had made her tingle.

The thought embarrassed her. Since Dave broke their engagement she hadn’t gone on a single date. Her imagination was running away with her. Father Tim wasn’t interested in her in a sexual way. That was foolishness. That was her desperate longing for physical contact with a man. Father Tim had sensed her pain and wanted to help her. It was as simple as that.

CHAPTER 11

Sunday 2:30 P.M.

No mouthwatering aromas greeted Frank when he entered St. Catherine’s rectory this time, no sign of Aurora as he followed the priest down the hall to his office, and no welcoming smile from Sean Daily either. Strange. Daily had called earlier saying he had something to tell him.

Daily went straight to his desk, but Frank stopped by the door to study a color photograph mounted on the wall, a white lighthouse with a red roof perched on a rocky cliff above a stormy sea. It looked like the Maine coast where he and his parents used to spend their summer vacations. Odd. Daily had said he was from California. Maybe he just liked lighthouses.

He seemed nervous as Frank took a seat in the easy chair facing his desk, fiddling with a felt-tipped pen, staring into space as if riveting scenes from a movie were unfolding there.

“
What did you want to tell me, Sean? Something about Lynette?”

The priest began to doodle on a yellow legal pad, dark triangles and squares. His face was haggard, looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. After a lengthy silence he muttered, “More or less.”

More silence, more doodling. Frank let the silence build beyond anyone’s reasonable comfort zone.

“
It’s . . . complicated,” Daily said, meeting his gaze at last.

He smiled to ease the priest’s discomfort. “I think I can handle it. Life is complicated sometimes.”

“
Not like this.” A tight-lipped frown.

“
Sean, the girl was murdered. I need information and you said you had something to tell me. What’s the problem?”

“
Lynette was a troubled girl. Her parents were very strict, too strict, if you ask me. They sent her to private school, a Catholic school for girls. Lynette hated it. They wouldn’t let her grow up and have a life like a normal teenager, and the nuns didn’t cut her much slack either.”

“
What’s your point? Her parents didn’t want her dating boys?”

“
Darlene Beauregard once told me that she wanted to become a nun, back when she was in high school, but her father wouldn’t let her.”

“
You think she was pushing Lynette in that direction?”

“
I think Lynette was overprotected. I think she rebelled, had sex with the first boy that showed her some affection and got pregnant.”