ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (18 page)

He heard the rectory door open, heard Aurora call, “Sean?”

With a resigned sigh, he put the sketch in his top drawer and went to the kitchen. She set a plastic bag from Rite Aid on the counter and looked at him expectantly. “Did you show him the sketch?”

“
Yes.”

“
Good. And you told him the name of that priest?”

“
I told him everything.” He embraced her and held her close. “Now I’ve got to tell you. It all began in a little town in New Hampshire …”

_____

Miller was leaning against his unmarked Crown Vic when Frank arrived at the crime scene, a one-story cottage with green shutters and a neat lawn bordered by a white picket fence. Uniformed officers guarded both ends of the block to keep the gawkers and reporters at bay. Squad cars were scattered helter-skelter along the street, and the CSU van was still out front.

Miller dropped his cigarette in the gutter and said, “We better hurry. The coroner’s almost done, but Norris is on his way. He was in Baton Rouge when the news broke, probably barreling down the I-10 right now.”

“
Let’s get in there,” Frank said, and started up the walk. Get in and out fast before Norris showed up, playing Russian roulette, as usual.

The entry door opened onto the living room. Two men in black jackets with FBI lettered on the back turned to look when he and Miller entered the room, then resumed their low-voiced discussion. The window blinds were closed and a bare bulb in an overhead fixture cast harsh light over a blue loveseat, a maple rocker with a blue-plaid cushion, and a maple coffee table. On the opposite wall, an entertainment center held a television set, a DVD player, a stereo system with two huge speakers and shelves full of CDs.

Frank wanted to examine those CDs, wanted to check out her books and her clothes, her medicine cabinet and refrigerator, anything to get a feel for the victim, but Norris was on his way, and the most important evidence was in the bedroom. On the way past coffee table he saw copies of
TV Guide
and
Broadcast News
. Then, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see, he followed Miller down a short hall to the victim’s bedroom.

From the doorway, he studied the small square room. To his left, gray fingerprint powder smudged the half-open door of a closet. To his right, more powder marred the seat of a chair and a makeup table with a circular mirror. No message on the mirror. No blood-spatter anywhere.

Facing the door was a double bed, a four-poster with maple turnings at the head, shorter ones at the foot. The woman’s nude body was propped into a seated position against the headboard, arms dangling by her sides, head lolling to one side. Blond hair framed her face, and her mouth gaped open, revealing the ugly stump of her tongue, dotted with dried blood.

No matter how many victims Frank encountered, the first glimpse always sickened him. For some reason, this was worse. He’d seen crime scene photos of the other victims, but photographs couldn’t convey the grotesque staging, the woman’s utter vulnerability and helplessness. He clenched his jaw, infuriated by the deliberate degradation of a human being.

Dr. Albert DeMayo, the Orleans Parish coroner, stood by the bed, an older man with thinning gray hair combed over his scalp. Shoulders hunched inside a baggy suit, he aimed a camera at the victim’s face for a close-up. The camera flashed. After jotting notes in a spiral pad, DeMayo looked at them.

Frank raised a hand in greeting, and Miller said, “How you doing, Al?”

DeMayo puffed his cheeks and shook his head, regarding them with a grim frown. “Another one. I’m getting damn sick of this.”

Frank didn’t know DeMayo that well, had only talked with him a few times. Knowing he’d get more cooperation by being respectful, he said, “Don’t let us interrupt. I’ve got a couple of questions when you’re done.”

“
Give me five minutes,” DeMayo said, and turned back to the body.

He nudged Miller into the hall. “Fill me in on the victim.”

“
Melody Johnson, twenty-four, part time announcer at WCLA, the local PBS radio station. She works the Saturday and Sunday overnights.”

Keeping a watchful eye on DeMayo, Frank said, “Who found her?”

“
Station employee. Melody was on call for extra shifts. The program director needed a last minute fill-in, called her at eight this morning and left a message. When she didn’t call back by noon he paged her, got no callback and got worried. He says Melody’s very reliable, blah-blah-blah.”

“
How long did she work there? Did he know her well?”

“
Her last job was at an FM station in Rhode Island. She moved here three months ago for this one. The program director sent his assistant over here. Melody’s car was in the driveway. The woman rang the bell, got no response and called 911. Dispatch sent a squad car. The first officer tried to look inside, but the blinds were closed. It took him a while to locate the owner, took a while for the owner to get here.”

“
Did she live alone?”

“
She told the owner she’d be the only one living here. The place is small, only one bedroom.”

“
Yeah, but she might have a boyfriend. When was her last shift?”

“
The Sunday overnight. She got off at five-thirty this morning.”

Frank saw DeMayo pull off his gloves and drop them in his valise. He jerked his head at Miller and they stepped into the bedroom.

“
Any estimate on TOD, Doctor DeMayo?” Frank asked.

“
Judging from the lividity and the degree of rigor, I’d say she died less than twelve hours ago. The core body temp might not help much because the AC was on. My best guess? Sometime early this morning. We’ll know better after the autopsy.”

Frank edged closer to the bed. “Mind if I take a look?”

“
Not at all. I’m done.”

The stench of death—a pungent mixture of urine, feces and the faint coppery odor of blood—increased as he neared the bed. Block letters printed in Magic Marker on the victim’s stomach said: PUNISH ALL SINNERS.

Following his gaze, DeMayo said, “Punish all sinners. What a load of crap! He’s the sinner, and I can’t think of a bad enough punishment for him.”

“
Looks like she lost bladder control.” Frank pointed to a stain on the sheet below the victim’s thighs. “Can you tell if it was pre or post-mortem?”

“
Bladder control stopped when she died, of course, but it could have been before.” Realizing the implication of the question, DeMayo frowned. “From fear, you mean?”

He nodded. The maggot didn’t just kill them, he toyed with them first, got off on the panic in their eyes. Indicating the pinpoint skin hemorrhages on woman’s wrists, he said, “Looks to me like she struggled.”

“
Right,” DeMayo said. “Same thing on her ankles, but whatever he used to tie her up, CSU didn’t find it. No rope, no cord, nothing.”

Frank evaluated the woman’s build. Even in death she had the look of an athlete, well-muscled arms and calves. Other than the marks on her wrists and ankles, there were no obvious bruises on her body. No defensive wounds. He bent closer to examine her face.

“
Petechial hemorrhages in both eyes,” DeMayo said. “See the dots of blood in the conjunctivae, the pink tissues around the eyeball? If you look close there’s bruising around her nose and mouth. I’d say he smothered her. The CSU team bagged the bed pillows and took them as evidence. ”

Frank nodded. He had already assumed the COD was suffocation, like the others. That wasn’t what he wanted to ask DeMayo about.

“
What’s that on her cheek?”

“
Hemangioma, commonly known as a port wine stain.” DeMayo spread his fingers above the burgundy-colored mark, measuring it. “Almost four inches. Too bad. She had a beautiful face. Well, half of it was beautiful.”

Frank turned, anxious to leave now that the coroner had answered his question, but DeMayo touched his arm. “See her tongue? Cut post-mortem or we’d see more blood. Mouth wounds bleed profusely, but when the heart stops, blood circulation stops too, and the blood starts clotting. He used heavy shears, same as he did with the others, the frigging psycho.”

“
Show me the body,” a voice boomed from down the hall.

Norris. Frank gave Miller a look—Head him off—and Miller hustled out of the room.

“
Thanks for your help, Dr. DeMayo.” He turned toward the door, gut churning, hoping to find a rear exit he could use to avoid Norris.

No such luck. Norris barreled into the room, stopped short and scowled. “What are you doing here, Renzi?”

“
I caught the news on my scanner, came over to see if I could help out.”

Norris studied him silently for several seconds, and an angry flush mottled his cheeks. “Wait outside. We need to talk.”

Without a word, he left the house and joined Miller in the Crown Vic.

“
What did Norris say?” Miller asked, his expression anxious.

“
Told me to wait outside. He wants to talk to me. I told him I heard the news on the scanner in my car.”

“
Thanks, man. Last thing I need is Norris on my ass.”

“
Me, too. Maybe I’ll split, talk to him after he calms down.”

“
That won’t be anytime soon.” Miller jerked his head at the little white cottage. “This’ll cause a shitstorm.”

He massaged his temples, wishing his headache would go away, contemplating the decisions he had to make. Should he tell Norris about the priest and show him Daily’s altered sketch? Norris was already pissed about finding him at the crime scene, and at this point he had no concrete evidence to link Krauthammer to the murders. For all he knew, Daily could be lying. Daily was a fugitive. Should he turn Daily in to the feds? Would they cut the old man some slack if his tip helped them stop the killer?

And on top of everything else a new theory was forming in his mind.

“
Melody Johnson had a nasty birthmark on her cheek,” he said.

“
Yeah?” Miller puffed his cigarette. “So?”

“
Seems to me our killer picks women with physical flaws or emotional scars. Lynette talked to Father Daily a year before she was murdered. She was pregnant and too scared to tell her parents. Suellen’s brother said his parents were pissed at her because she got caught necking with a priest. He won’t admit it, but he was down on her, too.”

“
Suellen Mathews got caught with a priest? You think he—”

“
No. I checked him out. He’s been living in Seattle for the last four years. But both those girls were emotionally vulnerable. Now we got Melody Johnson with an ugly birthmark on her face. That’s three out of six. Maybe the other three had some kind of hang-up, too.”

Miller nodded slowly. “Insecure because of a physical flaw or an emotional trauma, our guy spots it and leads the little lambs to slaughter.”

“
Right. I’ll check on the others. Patti Cole, Dawn Andrews and the first victim. Jesus, I can’t even remember her … oh yeah, Cheryl Richard. I’ll call Dr. DeMayo and ask him about physical flaws. He saw all the victims.” He opened his door. “I think we should split before Norris comes out.”

“
Right.” Miller cranked the car, looked past Frank and said, “Oh fuck!”

He turned and saw Norris storming down the sidewalk. He got out of the car and Norris barreled up to him, red-faced and furious.

“
Three strikes and you’re out, Renzi. First you team up with Rona the Black-Plague Reporter and shoot off your mouth. Then you tell me about a prostitute that told you a story you think is so credible and you believed her, but when I ask you to go pick her up, she’s
dead
.”

Frank wanted to deck him, decided it would be a big mistake. He heard a car door slam, turned and saw Miller standing on the other side of the car.

“
And then,” Norris said, “after I order you not to talk to reporters, throw you off the taskforce and tell you in no uncertain terms that you are
off this case
, you show up at the latest crime scene like a bad penny.”

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist saying, “How’d it go with that black guy you questioned? Is he a solid suspect?”

“
Fuck you, Renzi! What you need is a few months of desk duty. I’ll call Captain Dupree and see that you get it.” Norris turned and stalked away.

“
Fuck you too,” he muttered. Now they had six victims. Sean Daily, a suspect in an old murder case, had given him the name and a likeness of a possible suspect, and he was about to be chained to a desk.

Miller circled the car. “Think I’ll stay out of
his
way for a while,” he said, adding with a faint smile, “I dug it when you asked about the scary black man. The guy had an iron-clad alibi, so Norris had to release him.”

Frank nodded, debating whether to tell Miller about Daily’s sketch of the priest he’d supposedly seen with Lynette Beauregard the day before she was murdered. But he’d already been burned by one tip, Rona putting his name in her front-page column for the whole world to see. No, this time he would wait and see if the tip panned out before he told anyone.

CHAPTER 12