The Church of the Holy Child Page 10

  “I can’t listen to this any longer.”

  “A little frustrated, Father? Feel like you’re alone with a big secret and have nowhere to go? Now imagine how that would feel to a child.”

  “I go to God.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause He really knows what He’s doing, just look at me.”

  NINETEEN

  The door closed behind the confessor. Father Francis covered his face with his hands. Tears streamed through his fingers and dropped onto his black cassock leaving small dark circles. Another woman was dead while he adhered to the rules of the Sacramental Seal and stayed true to the church. He sat in the silence of the four by six wooden confessional wondering if he was being protected or gagged by the church’s law of secrecy. As an extension of the hand of God, his role was to listen without judgment. But it wasn’t the killer’s behavior he was judging. It was his own.

  He checked his watch. It was four-thirty, another half hour available to those seeking absolution. He didn’t think he could tolerate hearing another word, not from anyone, no matter how trivial. He just didn’t care.

  Glancing across the nave he saw that Monsignor McCarthy’s light was still on signaling that he was still hearing confessions. Francis turned off his own light and stood. Laying his hand on the doorknob he turned it, careful to avoid any sound that might alert the monsignor and feeling like a kid out past curfew. He could always tell the monsignor that he hadn’t been feeling well and that’s why he’d cut confessions short. He pushed open the door ignoring the twist in his gut at coming up with a lie, but he was done for the day. He had nothing left to give.

  The air outside was raw, made worse by a light rain on the cusp of freezing. Francis crossed the driveway between the church and the rectory, opened the side door and went straight to his room. He could hear Mrs. Clooney in the kitchen and smell the dinner she was preparing for the priests’ evening meal. Some sort of stew, he guessed. His stomach turned as he traded in the clothes he’d been wearing for sweat pants, a thermal top and windbreaker. He bent into his closet for his running shoes, hastily doing up his laces and heading for the stairs so he wouldn’t meet up with Monsignor McCarthy returning from the church. He snuck past the kitchen and Mrs. Clooney, having no energy for pleasantries.

  He slipped out the door, around the back of the rectory and out of sight of the church. Falling into a comfortable pace he forced his mind to go blank, listening only to the slap of his sneakers on the wet pavement. He hit his stride after the first mile and his mind shifted from the physical to the mental.

  He’d always wanted to be a priest. Well, that or a veterinarian. He’d wanted to help those without a voice, those who were most in need. He’d settled on the priesthood in the end because his own faith had led him in that direction. Throughout his life, God had been there when he’d needed Him and he wanted to bring that love and security to others. Up until two weeks ago he’d never second-guessed his decision. But now…. He shivered as sleet splashed past the collar of his windbreaker and onto his neck.

  But now, for the first time he was questioning the church and himself. And God? Maybe. At the second mile he took a right onto Winter Circle and continued on toward Munjoy Hill. At the top of Congress Street he slowed and looked out over a gray, white-capped ocean. “Talk to me,” he whispered picking up his pace again. “I can’t let these women continue to be killed…but I promised the church…”

  He listened for a response, looked around him at the storefronts, searched within the neon lights. You never knew where God might show a sign. He trudged on, his legs becoming heavy, his hope for an answer facing defeat.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked. “You want me to change this killer’s mind? Convince a murderer to put down a weapon and come back into the fold? It’s too late. We both know that. So, if I can’t save the killer, I have to save the victims. Is that what you’re asking? Why can’t you do it? Why can’t you find a way?”

  He shivered soaked through to the skin and slowed to a walk. The rectory was fifty yards ahead of him. Lamplight spilled through the window, a warm, golden glow welcoming him home to his shelter and his life. He stopped on the steps and looked over at the church. “Why me? Why my confessional?” he whispered.

  Within the steam of a hot shower the thought came to him. Maybe God had found a way. Maybe he was it.

  TWENTY

  It was Thursday morning. I’d gone into the office early and was at my desk going over the bank statements of a guy whose wife was sure he was cheating when my cell rang. I picked up the phone and heard Griff’s voice.

  “Another one.”

  “Battered wife?”

  “Prostitute.”

  “How is that another one?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. John left me a message to meet him so it’s a hunch.”

  “He wouldn’t have called you unless he thought it was related.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Days Inn.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  I left a note on Katie’s desk and went to the parking garage for my car. Usually, I walk to work, but November had come in cold and I wasn’t ready to brave it yet. I blasted the heat and drove toward the Maine Mall. Griff was good with hunches. He’d been right when he offered me a job three years ago, saying we’d make a good team. And he’d been right in numerous cases when he followed premonitions based solely on his gut. I tended to treat his hunches as fact.

  I entered the lobby at Days Inn expecting more media, but it was empty. I guess a murdered hooker doesn’t draw as much interest as a murdered soccer mom. A uniform directed me to the elevator. There was a cluster of blue milling around room 227. I pushed my way through and stepped inside. That’s where I found John, kneeling beside the victim’s body.

  I saw right away that Griff’s hunch had been right, battered head, clean hands, nails trimmed short, missing hair on the side of her head. “Shit,” I said.

  “My summation exactly.” Griff was leaning over John’s shoulder. “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Peggy Taunton.”

  “Background?”

  “Working on it.”

  I glanced around. Gina was in the corner with the head of the crime lab unit while his team worked the room, snapping photos, measuring spatter and dusting for prints. Brains churning.

  A uniform no more than twenty years old approached John holding something in his gloved hand. “Murder weapon, sir?”

  “What’d ya got?” John looked up and took a step closer.

  The cop held a squirrel about six inches tall and four inches wide made of solid glass. “Fucking thing is heavy. Weighs more than my dog.”

  “What the hell kind of dog you got?” One of the lab guys asked, sitting back on his heels.

  “Chihuahua.”

  “That’s not a dog. That’s a windup toy.”

  Everyone in the room laughed easing the tension.

  The squirrel sat upright, its tail tucked tight against its back then curled into a question mark above its head. Its face was obscured by dried blood.

  “Bag it,” John said. “Good work.”

  The kid was obviously pleased with himself and his job well done, but I tended not to trust people who enjoyed themselves at a murder scene. I stepped away from our threesome and closer to the bed where Chief Haggerty was questioning a hotel maid not more than sixteen years old. She looked distraught and I wanted to know if it was due to the mutilated body lying at her feet or because she’d seen something else.

  “When I unlock the door this morning she was there,” she said in a heavy Somali accent.

  Thousands of Somalis had flocked to Lewiston, Maine a few years ago. Due to their work ethic, they were well respected by the locals. Now their kids were making their way to Portland for jobs and affordable housing.

  “What time was that?” Haggerty asked, blowing cigar smoke inches from the girl’s face.

 
I shook my head. You can dress him up…

  “It was eight-fifteen.”

  “You always go into a room that early?”

  “The door was partly open.”

  “Did you see anyone leave?” She shook her head.

  “You pass anyone in the hallway?”

  “No sir,” she said.

  Haggerty grunted and walked away announcing to anyone who might care, which wasn’t many, that he was heading back to the station.

  “I’m going back to John’s office,” Griff said coming up beside me. “Go over some theories. You have time?”

  “I’ll make it.” I said and followed him into the elevator. When the doors closed I slipped my hand into his. “Quickie?” I asked.

  “Are we on camera?”

  “It’d be their lucky day.”

  The elevator came to a stop and we stepped off. Chief Haggerty was standing in the lobby as though he’d been waiting for us.

  He looked at Griff. “See anything you like upstairs?”

  “Not sure yet, but my guess is it’s tied in with the other two women.

  “I know we discussed sharing information around the Trudeau murder, but it looks like we’re frying bigger fish. I’d like to make it official and have you continue the case as an adjunct with the department. We’ve done it before and John could use your help. Truth is, so could I.”

  Griff looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

  As much as I hated what I was about to say, I said it anyway. “I’ll handle Beth Jones’ case. You work with John. I’ll cut our fee in half. I don’t think she’ll mind.”

  “And all pillow talk has to be shared with the department,” Haggerty said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Wouldn’t you love that.”

  The elevator doors opened beside us and the assistant medical examiner stepped out.

  “Body processed?” Haggerty asked.

  “On its way out the service entrance.”

  Griff and I started across the lobby toward the door.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Haggerty said. “Make it a threesome.” He winked at me.

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  Haggerty made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl and fell in beside me.

  We stepped outside into the November chill and I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck.

  “Haggerty,” Griff said. “I want to make it clear that my PI business is my priority. I’m only assisting for John’s sake until he’s back on his feet.

  Haggerty stopped and looked at Griff. “You’re helping Detective Stark because he’s inches from suspension unless he can put his bottle down. You’re helping me because, face it, you love the force. You’re not fooling anyone, Cole. You should accept my offer. I don’t extend those lightly. You’re a graduate of the Academy, you worked CID for five years and were one of the best. Since then, you’ve been a stone’s throw away from the department. Hell, you might as well have a shield. Anytime you say the word, it’s a done deal.”

  Griff shook his head. “I have my reasons.”

  “We all have reasons. You learn to ignore them.”

  “Ignoring people who matter isn’t my style.”

  Haggerty looked at me and cocked his head. “What a guy.” Then he turned back to Griff. “Stay on top of it,” he said and walked to his car.

  Griff’s gaze stayed fixed on Haggerty’s back, his jaw muscles working overtime.

  “You should have told him I like the top,” I said, alleviating the tension.

  He gave me his half-smile. “You got that right.”

  As I walked to my car Haggerty pulled alongside of me and rolled down his window. “Ever miss the courtroom?” he asked.

  “I’m content where I am.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “Shopping?” I asked to change the subject and nodded toward the Panera Bread bag in the back seat.

  “Wife’s got a standing order whenever I happen to be in the neighborhood.”

  I smiled wondering what it would be like to be married to Haggerty and who in their right mind would volunteer for the job.

  He stuck his cigar in his mouth, nodded and pulled away. Haggerty drove a gray 2007 Volvo station wagon with a dog gate between the back seat and the rear compartment. Two years ago he’d lost Fred, his chocolate Labrador retriever. He still hadn’t taken down the gate.

  At the station, I sat behind John’s desk and dialed Sandra’s number at the shelter while he and Griff went to talk with the cop who was digging up preliminary facts on Peggy Taunton.

  They came back with three cups of what the station had dubbed, “coffee”. I forced a few sips, reminding myself that it’s the thought that counts. John also had the Trudeau and Westcott files and some loose papers that were the beginnings of Taunton’s.

  “From what I could gather from Sandra, Peggy Taunton had no history with the shelter,” I told them.

  “And according to police records she’s never filed abuse charges,” Stark said.

  We sat in silence staring at the pages in front of us, reading them interchangeably, waiting for something to jump out and tie them together.

  “Just ‘cause she never filed formal charges, doesn’t mean she hasn’t been beaten up. In her line of work it’s almost a given,” Griff said. “She still could have sought out advice from someone on the hotline. But even if we find nothing that connects her to the shelter, the hands are enough to tell me it’s the same guy.”

  “So we’re laying off the husbands?”

  John nodded. “I wish it were that easy, but I think we all know it’s not them.”

  “Most of the shelter staff, even the volunteers are female,” Griff said. “Only a handful of guys are associated with the place. So, if it is someone with connections to the shelter, that’s going to narrow it right down. Can’t imagine a woman beating another woman.”

  I shook my head. “Women go for a gun, the quick kill. And from what Gina said, there was a lot of force behind the blows.”

  “We need the shelter’s files on staff and volunteers,” John said.

  Griff looked at me.

  I knew he wanted to tell John that we already had them and he’d find out anyway when he sent a uniform to pick them up. I nodded.

  “We have them,” Griff said.

  “What? Where are they?”

  “My house. Sandra let me take them.”

  John looked at Griff. “Are you working with me or trying to be a hero?”

  “We haven’t gone through them all yet,” Griff said. “You’re welcome to join us. Tonight, we’ll pull the males out of the stack.”

  John stood. “I’ve got a call to make. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I nodded, half hearing him as I looked from one woman’s file to the next. “They’re all mothers.”

  “What?” Griff leaned over the pages with me.

  “They’re all mothers,” I repeated. “They each have one child under five.” I looked at him. “Does that mean anything?”

  He shook his head. “Taunton lost hers to Child Services two years ago. Kid was three at the time. A boy, the others had girls.”

  “Maybe sex doesn’t matter.”

  He looked at me. “Sex always matters.”

  I jabbed him with my elbow. “We’re working.”

  We both looked up as John came back into the room.

  “They all had one child under five,” I told him.

  “Does that matter?”

  “Everything matters,” Griff said and winked at me.

  John ran a hand over his bristly hair, his go-to gesture under stress. “I just spoke with the mayor.”

  “What does he want?” Griff asked.

  “He wants this over and done with, yesterday.”

  “Can’t say I blame him.”

  “He thinks it’s time to consider outside resources. The community isn’t happy about women turning up dead every week, regardless of their line of work. The faster this goes away the
better.”

  “Feds?” Griff asked.

  “That was his suggestion.”

  “Haggerty asked me to come on as an adjunct.” Griff told him.

  “What about Beth Jones?”

  “I can handle Beth Jones’ case,” I said. “So Griff’s all yours.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “How much longer are your guys out?”

  “Depends on how fast Internal Affairs gets off its ass. That meth operation uncovered more than anyone bargained for. It may take a while.”

  “Were cops actually in on it?” I asked.

  “Looking that way.”

  “Your guys?”

  John shrugged. “I don’t think so, but they’re out until Internal gives the okay.”

  “So now you’re stuck with us,” I said.

  John nodded toward Griff. “He’s a gift. You’re a pain in my ass.”

  I smiled at him and got one in return. It was good to see a hint of the old John inside his beaten down remains. For John, the job wasn’t about his ego. He truly wanted to protect the city and if he needed help to do it, he wasn’t too proud to accept when it was offered. That attitude had gained him his position with CID and the respect of his peers, though both were beginning to falter.

  “So what did Mayor Manns have to say?”

  “He doesn’t want national coverage if we can avoid it, but it’s beginning to look inevitable. I told him I wanted a few more days and if we still have nothing I’ll make the call.” John walked to the window, looked out over the parking lot and raked the top of his head with his hand. “The longer this goes on the worse it’s going to get. When the local media digs up the connection to the shelter they’ll run with it and we’ll have a whole new can of worms. Women are going to be afraid to get help or even to call the hotline.”