ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (27 page)

Dana threw back her head and laughed. “Mark told you that? Ha! The nanny didn’t quit. She and Mark wanted Tim out of the house.”

“
The nanny was the home tutor?”

“
Yes. And now she’s Mrs. Krauthammer.”

“
The young buxom blond that looks like Anna Nicole Smith?”

“
Where’d you hear that?” Giving him an amused smile.

He grinned. “Mrs. Rademaker at the Wahoo Public Library.”

“
I’m sure it was a hot topic around town when they got married.” Her amused smile faded. “Tim said he caught them in a sexual situation before his father packed him off to boarding school.”

“
A primal scene scenario?”

“
You’ve had psychology courses.”

“
Right. Tell me about the primal scene.”

“
They weren’t having intercourse, but Tim woke up one night and caught them on the living room couch in a passionate embrace. He was twelve, on the cusp of puberty, and it shocked him. He said they pretended nothing was happening but he knew better. He was embarrassed.”

“
And angry?”

“
That, too.”

“
You think he’s capable of violence?”

She gazed at him with a somber expression. “We’re all capable of violence, if our demons push us to it.”

He drank some orange juice. He knew what violence people were capable of, including himself. “Even a priest?” he asked, pressing her.

She didn’t answer, frozen in a posture of shock, as if she were having an
Aha!
moment.

“
What?” he said.

“
I heard on the news, I think it was CNN, that this New Orleans killer mutilates their tongues.”

“
Right, cuts off the tip and takes it with him, probably uses it later to relive the murder. It gives him a window into his fantasy. Domination and control of women. That’s not for publication so don’t quote me.”

“
I won’t,” she said. “And don’t you quote me, either.”

“
It’s a deal.” He offered his hand, and she gripped it firmly. Her fingers were slender and strong, and warm like her sable-brown eyes. Reluctantly, he released her hand. “It seemed like you had a revelation a minute ago. What were you thinking?”

She toyed with her hair, combing it with slender fingers. “The first few months of Tim’s treatment I had him paint. It was difficult for him to talk. Not because of the stutter. He couldn’t talk about his feelings. He used red and black paint for the paintings. Most of them featured knives.”

“
Symbolic penis?”

“
Possibly. The knives were black, black knives dripping red blood.”

“
Were there any people in the paintings?”

“
No, that was the scary part. His artwork showed rage, but it was diffuse and unfocused.” An appraising look appeared in her eyes. “Where did you take your psychology courses?”

“
I got my psychology degree from Boston College, and Boston PD sent me to the FBI academy for courses in criminal psychology.”

“
Now I know how you got Mark Krauthammer to talk.”

“
What about you?” he said. “Where’d you go to school?”

“
NYU, Columbia, Harvard Med School. I did my first residency at MacLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts.”

“
Girl Interrupted
?”

“
That’s the place. Did you read the book?”

“
No, but I saw the movie. The Angelina Jolie character was pretty scary. Scary and sad.”

Dana nodded. “Most of them are sad, the young ones.”

“
When I was at BC I worked with inner city kids at a halfway house for juvenile offenders. Ninety percent of them were black, and none of them saw anything positive in their future. No hope at all. I think I helped a few, but the rest? They were lost.”

She reached over and touched his hand. “We do the best we can.”

“
Yeah, but I can still remember their faces, all that pent-up rage.”

“
I know. You feel so helpless. That’s how I felt about Tim, pent-up rage and enough self-hatred for an army. But he seemed better by the end of our therapy sessions.”

“
Enough self-hatred to displace onto others? Enough to make him a killer?”

“
I don’t know. But I wouldn’t want him angry at me. What’s your analysis of this New Orleans killer?”

“
I think he feigns empathy to snare his victims. Some of the women had physical flaws, and the others were emotionally vulnerable for various reasons. The killer may have a flaw of his own, but it might not be obvious. Lots of serial killers look ordinary and lead what appear to be normal lives.”

“
Except for their need to kill.”

“
And their sick fantasies. I think he uses a verbal script, something to do with his sexual prowess or the victim’s desire to have sex with him. He terrorizes them, gets off on their fear. Toying with them is part of his ritual. Once he gets his jollies, he kills them.” He hesitated, debating whether he should reveal a key piece of evidence. But Dana had been forthcoming with him, so why not? “We found no semen on the victims.”

“
You think he’s impotent?” she said, watching him, expressionless.

“
Either that or he uses a condom. He’s careful. Suffocation doesn’t leave much evidence, and he cuts the tongues post-mortem so there’s very little blood. Then he poses the body, spreads their legs for shock value. He enjoys degrading women.”

“
Not a pretty picture, but it gives me a feel for the case. Thank you.”

“
What’s your take on the tongue mutilations?” He smiled. “Since we’re sharing details. Got any ideas about the symbolism?”

She didn’t answer right away, combing her fingers through her hair. “A tongue is used in sexual foreplay, of course. But it could also symbolize the penis. Cutting it could reflect the killer’s feelings of sexual inadequacy.”

“
Or,” he said, offering an alternate theory, “maybe he wants to shut them up, symbolically. Maybe some woman taunted him about his sexual inadequacy and he decided to punish all women.” He grinned. “Of course, sometimes a tongue is just a tongue.”

She laughed. “And a cigar is just a cigar.” She glanced at her watch and he read the signal: She was busy, had places to go, people to meet.

She dug into her purse, took out a business card and set it on the table. “Let’s stay in touch, Frank. I’d like to know how things turn out.”

He gave her one of his cards and reached for the bill, but she waved him off. “My treat. Jeff will put it on my account.”

“
Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been really helpful and I appreciate it. I know you’re busy. Maybe I can buy you dinner sometime.”

Her dark eyes crinkled in a smile. “My pleasure, Frank. It’s not often I get to have breakfast with a homicide detective with a psych degree.”

They got into their respective cars and he followed her to the highway, lamenting the fact that he’d probably never see her again. Just his luck. He’d just met an attractive woman with a great figure, keen intelligence, and a down-to-earth sense of humor and she lived in Omaha.

He wondered what she’d be like in bed.

Then he remembered the ring.

But why wasn’t her husband there to watch her practice?

Then he thought: The main event is tomorrow. Mr. Swenson will be there to cheer her on, and after she wins the gold he’ll treat her to dinner, toast her with champagne and take her home to bed. End of story.

_____

New Orleans 12:10 P.M.

Uttering a fervent silent prayer, the sinner entered the Sweet Spot and scanned the room. The place was noisy and crowded, every table full. No Charlie. He went to the counter and called to a clerk spooning foamed milk over a café latte, “Excuse me. Has Officer Malone been in today?”

The clerk looked over and said, “Yeah, but he left a couple minutes ago. He got take-out sandwiches for him and his wife, said he had to pick up a prescription at Rite Aid. His kid is sick.”

The sinner left the café and jogged across the street to the Rite Aid Pharmacy. Please be here, he thought as the automatic door slid open. The pharmacy was even busier than the Sweet Spot, so busy he had to squeeze past customers with shopping carts on his way down an aisle to the pharmacy at the rear of the store. Five people stood in line at the counter.

Charlie wasn’t one of them. He began a methodical search, traversing the rear of the store, peering down each aisle, one after the other. No Charlie. His frustration mounted. Had Charlie been here and gone?

He rounded the corner of the next to last aisle and bumped into someone squatting in front of a vitamin display. The man looked up, annoyed. Charlie Malone, the young patrolman with the Irish mug.

“
Excuse me!” he said, and then, feigning surprise, “Oh, it’s you Charlie! Goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

Charlie grinned and straightened up from his squat. “No problem, Father. I guess you’re always in uniform, huh?”

What did he mean by that? Was Charlie implying that he skulked around
without
his Roman collar?

“
You look tired, Charlie. Is everything okay?”

“
Just a little tired, Father Tim. Davy kept us awake all night, upchucking. He’s running a fever so the doctor called in a prescription.”

“
I’m sorry to hear it. I’ll say an extra prayer for him. Well, I’d better be going. Father Cronin’s away so I’m busier than usual, reconciliation sessions before the two Masses this afternoon.” As if the thought had just occurred to him, he added, “Did you see that interview on TV last night?”

“
Interview?” The dull-witted cop gave him a blank stare. Then the light dawned. “Oh, yeah, the witness and that columnist?”

Yes, Charlie, that miserable good-for-nothing troublemaker, Rona Jefferson.

He didn’t trust himself to speak so he nodded. In her last column, she had called him a cowardly killer, as if she equated the absolutions he granted these sinful women with the acts of some ordinary criminal.

“
Rona Jefferson is really hot on the case,” Charlie said, “but she’s crazy if she thinks this killer’s a priest. The guy that woman saw could have been anybody. I mean, if this killer is smart enough to get away with murdering all these women, he’s smart enough to get hold of a priest’s outfit and fake it, don’t you think, Father?”

“
Absolutely, Charlie. It would be a huge waste to collect DNA samples from every priest in the diocese. Especially since the police have nothing from the crime scenes to compare it to.”

Maintaining an innocent smile, the sinner held his breath and waited.

“
Yeah, well . . .” Charlie frowned.

Come on, Charlie. Tell me what you know
.

Glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot, Charlie said in a low voice, “But they do, Father. They found bits of skin under one of the victim’s fingernails and sent it out to the lab.”

His worst fears, confirmed. “They did?”

“
Yeah, but we gotta catch the guy first, so we can match it up.” Charlie glanced at his wristwatch. “I gotta run. Nice to see you, Father Tim.”

“
Same here, Charlie. Good luck with your son.”

Ten minutes later he drove past Jefferson’s house, a small Cajun cottage sandwiched between two others on a narrow tree-lined street. The adjacent houses had fences around them, but hers didn’t. That was a plus.

He circled the block twice and saw as many black residents as whites, outside washing cars or tending their patchy lawns. Some of the younger ones wore college T-shirts. Interesting. Disguised as a student, he’d blend right in. Especially at night, when Rona Jefferson was asleep in her cozy little cottage.

_____

Baltimore, Maryland 7: 30 P. M.

“
It’s great to talk to you, Dad.” Maureen set her coffee cup in the saucer and gazed at him with a rapt expression that made his heart melt.

Why did you wait so long to call me, he wanted to say, but he smiled and reached over to touch her cheek instead. “I missed you, Mo. Let’s not wait so long between visits. We’ll do this again soon.”

After picking him up at the airport she had driven him to her favorite restaurant, and they’d been talking non-stop ever since, mostly about whether she should become a surgeon or an ob-gyn. He had hoped she would choose a less demanding specialty, but by the time they finished their Maryland crab dinners, she had convinced him she’d make a terrific orthopedic surgeon.

That’s what her supervisor thought, and how could he argue with that? There were plenty of broken bones out there: sports injuries, car accidents. People falling off horses.
No, don’t go there
.

Maureen looked like she had more to say, something heavy, judging by the somber look on her face. A knot formed in his stomach. He didn’t want to get into an argument and spoil their first heart-to-heart talk in ages.