Faceless (20 page)

“It’s not good,” he told her.

Hope
immediately took her legs off Marty’s lap and planted them on the ground. He saw the look of apprehension in her face.

“No, no, I’m sorry, she’s okay, it’s just that… well, Hope, it’s a long story.” He stopped when his father walked into the room with his dinner.

The Captain held a snack tray and a beer in one hand and a plate of ribs and baked beans and utensils in another. Marty started to get up and give him a hand, but his dad brushed him off. As he had done a million times before and with ease, he set up the tray while holding the plate in one hand and maneuvering the legs of the tray with his knee. He plopped the beer down on the table.

“Thanks, Pop,” Marty told him as he picked up a rib and bit into it without hesitation. His father took a seat on the recliner opposite them.

“I overheard a part of what you were telling Hope. What’s going on?”

Marty stopped and took a good look at his father. He hadn’t noticed any change in the man’s physical appearance. The man was rapidly approaching eighty years old, but was in reasonably good health and hadn’t lost his good looks to aging. As Hope’s mother would say, “He’s a fine specimen of a man.”

Yes, he had broken his hip a few years back, due to a fall, but he had remained physically active. He could still give his son a run for his money in racketball and arm wrestling. There was nothing different about his father’s appearance leading him to believe that something was off.
Probably was nothing,
Marty thought regarding the recent episode
Maybe it was just a fluke.
After all, he silently reminded himself, how many times had Marty himself misplaced his wallet or keys?

He suddenly realized that he hadn’t answered. He turned his attention back to his father and related what was going on with Jean and Bethany.

“Bethany spent the night by the lake with this kid, Dylan. Apparently they have developed a friendship of some sort.”

His father, who had a daughter of his own, immediately wanted clarification. Hope, on the other hand, sat patiently waiting for Marty to finish the story.

“What kind of friendship? How old is this kid?” Unease and anger started to build up in the Captain’s voice.

“According to the boy, it’s just platonic, but it’s more complicated than that,” Marty told them.

Hope
, being the more pragmatic of the two, asked the next question.

“What is the complication, Marty? What does this have to do with the murder?”

Taking a moment to swallow what he had in his mouth, he put down his fork. He meticulously wiped some sauce from his bottom lip. Hope sat back patiently.

The Captain, on the other hand, was jittery. He was screwing his face up with some very weird expressions. Marty was about to warn him to stop or his face was going to freeze that way, but he decided against it. Instead, he continued with his story.

“Bethany apparently knew about Jamie’s murder before Jean did. She was on the phone with Dylan when they found the girl’s body. Instead of letting her mother know what was going on, she chose to conceal the fact that she already knew a death had occurred and the kids were misleading us.”

His hunger got the better of him, so he stopped and grabbed another rib and sucked the sauce off before gnawing into the meat. He waited until he had nothing left in his mouth before continuing.

“Jean is livid. To make matters worse, Glenn hired an attorney to represent this kid, Dylan Silver, without consulting her.”

“Is this Dylan a suspect, Marty? Do you think he could have committed murder?” Hope quizzed him, although he knew her main question was left unasked. He knew what Hope was really thinking, because he was thinking along the same lines. Was Jean’s daughter culpable of being an accessory to murder?

He shrugged his shoulders in response to her question, but gave her a verbal answer as well.

“Honestly, in my gut, I don’t think this kid did it, but I do think that Jean is not off base when she says that one of those kids may be responsible. The question is which one?”

“Couldn’t it be more than one, Marty?” Hope offered.

“Yeah, it could, but so far we haven’t got any DNA evidence implicating anyone in particular. I mean, it could be Cameron, it could be some vagrant, but I highly doubt it, considering the second victim is also acquainted with this very same group of teens. We haven’t found any connection between Kimberly Weston and Cameron Knox yet. My biggest concern right now is Jean. Maybe you should talk to her, Hope. She’s like a ticking time bomb. Between Joe taking off and Bethany acting up, she’s under a lot of stress.”

“I’ll offer, Marty, but Jean is the type of woman who needs to be the one to reach out. She’s incredibly independent, and if I make too much of an issue of it, she may think that we are underestimating her ability to perform in Joe’s absence.”

The Captain interjected. “You know Marty, Hope may have something there. I vaguely remember a time when your mom died, and I went back to work. A lot of people thought they were helping, going out of their way to make things easier for me. I thought they were implying I wasn’t ready to come back and that I wasn’t capable of doing my job. People being kind, having good intentions… well it pissed me off, more than anything.”

Marty smiled at the man. He could just picture his father trying to be polite, but just busting at the seams to pop someone in the side of the head.

Hope
stood up. “Well, I should go. Captain, thanks for dinner. I’ll cook next time.” She leaned down and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“No. Please don’t!” Both Marty and his dad spoke up simultaneously.

The Captain looked at Marty. “Go. Go with her. Give me a break and get out of here.” His hands motioned, shooing them away.

“No, Pop, I think I’ll stay here with you,” Marty replied, trying not to let his father hear the worry in his voice.

“No, you won’t,” he countered, while giving his son a stern look.

“Are you sure?” Marty asked him. He was so conflicted. As much as he felt the need to stay with his father, just in case, he wanted desperately to go home with Hope and finally get on with the task of proposing to her.

“Yes, I’m sure. Now, get the hell out and stop hovering over me.”

Marty turned to Hope, who nodded in agreement.

“Okay, Pop,” he conceded, giving his father’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Love you, Pop.”

“Yeah, I know. Now get out of here.” He took the towel in his hand, and with a sudden motion, whacked it across Marty’s buttocks. It made a loud snap as it made contact, causing Marty to jolt in complete surprise. He laughed at his father’s action and just shook his head as he made his way out the door to join Hope.

Chapter Thirteen

Sunday, late afternoon

I originally intended to go straight home, but then instead I was compelled to do something I hadn’t done in ages: I drove to St. Mary’s Church seeking to find comfort in my faith.

The youth group and mass had dispersed and the parking lot was now deserted, except for the vehicles that belonged to a few employees and clergy, like Father Murphy’s blue Lincoln.

I pulled on the brass handle of the intricately carved doors. A blast of Pine Sol cleaning fumes evaded my nasal passages as I walked into the large, empty sanctuary. Just a few hours ago, each pew had been filled with parishioners, but now an eerie quiet hung over the hallowed room.

I sat down in one of the pews and just put my forehead up against the bench in front of me. I didn’t know what to pray for, I just knew that I needed help from something bigger than myself.

I sat there, reflecting, for a few minutes when I heard a familiar voice. I was hoping I would be able to run into Father Murphy, but instead found myself in the company of the other priest who was a permanent resident in the parish, Father Thomas.

The older cleric always reminded me of a snowman, his body arranged as if three completely different round compartments connected parts of him, with his thin legs not quite fitting into the equation. His head was as round as a bowling ball and it was covered with a good deal of thick, snow-white hair. His face was pale except for the area just below his eyes and on either side of his nose, which was a constant shade of pink. His eyes were a shade of ocean blue that twinkled whenever he spoke. I loved the tone of his voice whenever he spoke, his Irish brogue as strong today as it must have been when he left Ireland and landed on American soil sixty years ago.

“May I help you?” The tone of his voice was deeper than I remembered.

It was apparent he didn’t recognize me. Well, I really couldn’t blame him. I hadn’t been a regular churchgoer since my kids were little. Time, work, and life seemed to take precedence.

“I was looking for Father Murphy—is he here?” I asked, as I stood up and made my way out of the narrow pew.

“Father Murphy wasn’t feeling very well. Is there something I can help you with, young lady?” I was flattered that he was calling me young. I definitely wasn’t feeling it at the moment.

“No, thank you. It’s a legal matter. I needed to speak to him about an ongoing investigation.”

Oh crap, I couldn’t believe I was standing here lying to a priest. I was going to hell for sure. I wanted to talk to Father Murphy about me, about Bethany about Glenn, about life, not the case.

I handed him my business card. “If you speak to him, can you ask him to call me when he’s feeling better?”

He took my business card and brought it about an inch from his face, looking it over carefully. A pair of bifocals sat atop of his head. He patted his jacket and pants, looking for them. He gave up and just nodded his head.

“Yes, I will, certainly,” he agreed.

Before I turned to walk out, I pointed to the top of his head.

He looked confused at first, and then felt around and looked embarrassed when his hand came in contact with the glasses. He broke into a broad smile exposing a large gap between his front teeth, which made him look so much more endearing.

“Oh, Father, tell Father Murphy I hope he feels better,” I added, as I pushed open the heavy door.

“Yes, I will. It’s just his blood sugar. He needs to take better care of his body. You would think a man so concerned with working out and muscle building would take more notice of his food intake. Your body is a temple, you know?” He looked through the bifocals that now sat hugging his face.

I stopped short.

“Father Murphy is a diabetic?” I felt a slight tremor go through my body.

“Oh, yes. Since he was a child. Type one. He must take insulin daily.” He took my card and placed it his pocket. “Have a blessed day,” he told me before he turned and walked away.

I got back into my car and just sat there. My head was swirling with bits and pieces of conversations that had occurred from the moment that I realized my daughter was not home. It was like I was in a movie theater and the screen was 360 degrees and I was seated in the center. I was being assaulted by images and words coming at me from all directions but in no particular order or significance. My daughter’s face and her hurtful words played over and over again in a continuous loop. I saw the horror she displayed as she held her hand to her face after I slapped her. I felt ashamed and embarrassed, not only by her behavior, but by mine, as well.

And now I was confronted with a new piece of the puzzle. Could Father Murphy be a suspect? No, I couldn’t fathom it, I had known the man for years. He was a stand-up guy. Father Murphy was a well-loved and well-respected man of the cloth. It couldn’t be, no… no, there was no way I was going to waste one ounce of energy on that prospect.

Yet Father Thomas’s words echoed in my head “He must take insulin daily.”

Could it be possible? I tried to rack my brain for a motive. Why on earth would Father Murphy want to harm either of these young girls? It just didn’t hold any water for me. Or, could it be that there was some sort of perversion underneath that sweet and caring surface? Could he have an agenda that was irrational?” No, I refused to believe it.

I was so conflicted. I needed to go home and confront my family, and I needed to knock on Father Murphy’s residence and ask him outright if he was a serial killer and responsible for the death of one girl and the mutilation of the other.

I chose the former. I turned the key in the ignition and was about to pull out of my parking spot when my cell rang. I immediately recognized the number that displayed on the screen.

It was my missing partner Joe. Finally.

I was just about to blast him. I had every intention of screaming and hollering and giving him a piece of my mind, but the moment I heard his voice, I broke down in hysterics.

He waited patiently until I was able to get my emotions in check.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I got your messages, but I’ve been so wrapped up and busy…” he apologized.

“Forget it,” I told him, anger still lurking in my voice.

“I spoke to Glenn, he told me that Bethany was safe. Jean, I’ll be home in a couple of days. Look, we need to talk.” He sounded calm and less tense then he had been in a long time.

I could hear crackling on the line. I didn’t know if it was coming from my phone or his. I repositioned myself to see if I could get better reception.

“How’s Annie?” I wiped my tears and took a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror. I looked like crap. My mascara had run, giving me a resemblance to a raccoon on a bender. “Is she going to be all right?”

“I think so, Jean, it’s been a rough ride, but I think she’s doing better. I’ll fill you in when I get home. Can you fill me in on what’s going on with this case? I have access to a fax machine. Send me what you have and I’ll take a look at it. Maybe I can give you a fresh perspective.”

I sat there for fifteen minutes, giving him a rundown of everything we had so far. It felt good when he would throw a question at me, like old times. I would wait until he got all the words out and I would let them resonate in my mind, turning them over like pancakes on a skillet before I answered.

Joe
had a way of making me think. He pushed my mind to the brink, like I was a contestant on a game show. I missed that. I realized that I needed to do that to Marty. I needed to push him, to challenge him.

I was exhausted and my voice was tiring by the time we hung up. I knew that I had to get myself together before I went home. I needed to approach my family in a constructive way. I felt better after I spoke to Joe, but there was one more person’s voice I needed to hear before I headed for home. I went into the contact list on my phone and tapped my son’s name.

The sound of his voice lifted my spirits more than I could have conceived.

“Hey Mom, what’s up?” Loud music and a jumble of voices played in the background. As he talked, I could tell that he was walking around, attempting to find a quieter place to carry on the conversation.

“Nothing, baby, I just wanted to hear your voice.” I heard someone calling his name. It was unmistakably female.

“Are you sure? You sound down. Mom, are you okay?” The last word became muffled, like he put his hand over the phone to mute something out.

“Yes, Cliff, I’m good. What’s going on? Sounds like a party.” I suddenly felt like an intruder in my own son’s life.

“Yeah, it’s my roommate’s birthday. We’re just throwing him a little pizza party.” He stopped and yelled out to someone in the distance. “I’ll be right there.” He turned his attention back to me.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Is everything all right up there? Dad okay?” He must have found a quieter spot, because his voice sounded clear and sharp.

“Yes, Honey, he’s fine. Look, go back to your friends. I just wanted to say hi, hear your voice. I miss my baby.” I looked at the mirror again. Where had all the years gone?

He laughed at the expression. He was six foot two—hardly a baby.

“Okay, I’ll call you during the week. Tell Dad and Bethany I love them.”

“I will, Cliff. Behave yourself. I love you,” I told him, glad that I was perceptive enough not to Skype him. If he actually saw what I looked like, I know he would be upset and wouldn’t be willing to say goodbye so easily.

“Love you too, Mom,” I heard him say just before I hit the disconnect button.

I leaned back in the seat and took a deep breath. I was ready to go home to try and repair the damage. I just prayed one more time that I could find the right tools to mend the broken pieces.

***

Marty was pretty quiet on the ride to Hope’s house. He knew Hope well enough to know that she was waiting for him to gather his thoughts before she interjected her own. He knew her silence was her way of sitting back, patiently waiting for him to start the conversation, even though being quiet was not one of her strongest virtues.

Marty was a nurturer. It was the one thing about him that Hope told him that she loved and respected, even if it drove her crazy at times. Hope admired the fact that he wanted to take care of everyone, but sometimes he acted like a mother hen, which was hard for her to accept. She often remarked that she had spent her entire lifetime fighting off her mother’s constant micromanaging and her ex-husband’s control issues.

Hope
was intellectually aware of the fact that, in Marty’s case, it wasn’t a control issue, but his deep compassion, strong attachment and honest attempt to want to protect those he loved. He knew that is where her own insecurities caused her so much trouble. Hope was not easily accepting of the fact that anyone, much less Marty, could care so much about her. So when Marty blurted out what he did, he knew he caught her off guard.

She wasn’t quite sure she’d heard right.