The Church of the Holy Child Read online

  Father Francis shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He’d already defied Canon Law and broken the promises he’d made at his Ordination. He’d known that when he’d walked into the police station and placed the envelope in the bin marked mail-in. A decision that would change his life forever. And now, he either had to live with the secret or take the next step and pay the consequences.

  Monsignor McCarthy stood, his face red. He turned from the fire to look Francis in the eye. “Don’t shape scripture to absolve yourself of what you know is wrong. You and I vowed to follow the laws of the Roman Catholic Church when we were ordained. The Church still regards Confession as a necessary holy sacrament. That is the only statement you need to be concerned with. Think carefully about what you’re saying and any actions you might be considering. The church is your home Francis, but it’s not above casting you out if you betray it.”

  “You mean into the real world?”

  The Monsignor walked past him, leaving the room without a response.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  At ten o’clock the next morning Griff and I were seated across from Sandra in her office at the shelter’s administrative location. She’d just finished telling us that a woman had disappeared from the shelter during the night, leaving her four-year-old son behind.

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she said, her eyes drifting from ours to something outside the window. “A lot of women have a change of heart and go home.” She turned back to us. “She’ll probably show up today hand in hand with her boyfriend and back in love. They’ll pick up Damien and go home a happy little family, until next time. It’s routine.”

  “She’s not married?”

  “Not this one. Rochelle’s only nineteen. She was living with her abusive father when she got pregnant. I don’t think even she knows who Damien’s daddy is. She got away from her father and hooked up with a younger version of him. So many of these women just can’t break the pattern.”

  Griff and I exchanged a glance.

  “What’s the boyfriend’s name?” I asked.

  “Oh God, I don’t know. Hang on.” She got up and walked to the metal filing cabinet in the corner, slid open the top drawer and came back with a file.

  “Emilio Rugez, 23 Slater Terrace. I think that’s where she’d been living when she came to us. You going to check him out?”

  “Can’t hurt,” I said and glanced at Griff.

  He nodded then turned back to Sandra. “What can you tell us about Trek and Bolitar?”

  “I can’t see Bolitar having anything to do with this. He’s heartbroken and weighed down with guilt. He doesn’t have the strength to pull off a murder. I never met Randolph Trek in person, but from what I hear he was a quiet guy. Put in his hours on the hotline and left. Didn’t make any friends, but that’s not uncommon, volunteers tend to come and go fairly quickly.”

  “What about Cassie? Did she go to day care or a babysitter before Karen came to the shelter?” I asked, shifting the conversation to the nature of our visit.

  Sandra shrugged. “I have no idea. I never asked Karen, although it didn’t sound like it. Karen was a stay at home mom. She may have had an occasional babysitter, but nothing on a regular basis I don’t think.”

  Griff looked at me. “Call John, see if he got anything from the husbands.”

  I excused myself and stepped outside while Griff finished up with Sandra.

  “No one,” John said when I got through to him. Westcott said Karen was obsessive about Cassie. Never left her alone with anyone, not even him.”

  Surprise, surprise, I thought. “There’s something else,” I told him. “Sandra said a girl went missing from the shelter last night, Rochelle Davis. She left her four-year-old son behind.”

  “Jesus,” John said.

  “It may be nothing, but do you want us to talk to the boyfriend?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  I hung up just as Griff joined me outside.

  “John says Karen never left Cassie alone and especially not with her father.”

  “Smart woman,” Griff said as he opened the car door for me.

  “He wants us to talk to Rugez.”

  “Sounds like a good idea and if Rochelle answers the door we’ll know our cell phones aren’t going to ring anytime soon.”

  “Sandra wasn’t the mother-bear I’d expected,” Griff said as we walked to the car.

  “Don’t forget she’s shouldering the blame. When women you’re responsible for start turning up dead, defensive becomes desperate pretty fast. If Rochelle’s disappearance plays out like the others, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her resign as Director.”

  “Right now she’s our best hope of finding this guy. The information we need is probably already in her head, she just doesn’t know it.”

  “Or we’re not asking the right questions.”

  Twenty-three Slater Terrace was down the street from the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in the midst of the housing project where Congress Street begins its rise to Munjoy Hill.

  “Yeah?” A young man in fatigues that were inches from slipping completely off his torso pulled open the door in response to Griff’s knock.

  “You Emilio?” Griff asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Is Rochelle here?”

  “She left.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  Griff pulled out his PI badge and held it in front of Emilio’s face.

  “What you want with Rochelle?”

  “Just making sure she’s okay,” I said. “Is she missing?”

  He looked at me for a few seconds seemingly debating on his answer then he widened the door, took a step back and said, “Yeah.” He nodded for us to step inside.

  It was dark, shades drawn. The television monitor offered the only light. An empty Budweiser bottle stood on the table and I wondered if it was last night’s or this morning’s.

  “When did you last see her?” I asked him.

  “Week ago, maybe. We had a fight. She was pissed, took the kid and left.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  He shook his head. “Sometimes she goes to her grandmother, sometimes to a friend. She’ll be back when she cools off.” He looked from one of us to the other. “She’s okay, right?”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” Griff said.

  Emilio shrugged and raised his hands palms up. “I don’ know nothin’ man. She got all pissy ‘cause I had my boys over for a cold one, ya know? She didn’t like the mess we was makin’ so she took off with the kid. I don’t know where she went. Talk to her old man, he’s the one that beats her, shows up here whenever he feels like it and smacks the shit out of her then he leaves.”

  “And what do you do about that?” I asked.

  “Me? Nothin’. He don’t come when I’m here.” He swung his arm wide, gesturing to the dismal living room. “I give her a good home. She don’t always appreciate it. She’ll be back. She got nothin’ else.”

  I saw the hopelessness Rochelle lived with and promised myself that I would find her an alternative, that is if she were still alive to pursue it.

  “Take this and call me if she comes home.” Griff handed Emilio his card.

  I opened the door more than ready to breathe in something other than stale beer and cigarettes. As we stepped outside Emilio followed.

  “Hey,” he called. “If you see her, tell her to get her ass back here.”

  “Will do.” Griff gave him a wave and got in the car. “Right after I build my vacation home in Maui,” he said to me. “I’m heading to the station. You got plans?”

  “I told Beth I’d meet with her today. She wants updates.”

  “Aren’t they at her in-laws?” he asked.

  “They’re back. Husband had to work.”

  “I’ll drop you at the office. We’ll catch up later.”

  I closed my eyes and rested my head against the s
eat. How long is long enough before mundane things like jobs and laundry and grocery shopping force lives back into gear? I thought about Shirley Trudeau, her funeral had come and gone. Eventually the restraining order against her husband, Keith, would be lifted and Brooke would be returned to her father. They’d continue on, a motherless child and a single dad. Everything moves forward. Sunrise, sunset, birth, death, I reached over and took Griff’s hand and held onto it until we pulled up beneath our Cole and Co. sign.

  Beth shook her head. “No, no babysitters or daycare. If Shirley had a doctor’s appointment or something, I kept her. Why? What does this have to do with Brooke?”

  I shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

  I knew enough not to mention the note the police had received. If the media got wind of that and printed it, every nutcase in southern Maine would start sending love letters to the Portland PD.

  “We’re talking with shelter staff, a couple of maintenance men and two men on the hotline. So far we haven’t got much. One of the hotline volunteers might be worth looking into further, Randolph Trek. His landlady said he moved three weeks ago. I want to make sure that’s true.”

  “The name’s not familiar, but then Shirley didn’t discuss her shelter contacts with me. Please check him out. I don’t want any possibility ignored even if it’s a long shot.”

  “I understand. Thanks for your time, Beth,” I said turning to go. “I’ll let you know when I have something.”

  She walked me to the door and stepped outside seeming reluctant to let me leave.

  “What’s happening with the restraining order?” I asked.

  “Casey Dawes said they don’t have the evidence they need to connect Keith to Shirley’s death. His history of abuse will keep the order in place until it comes up for review. But as long as Keith follows the court’s orders of anger management classes and a group for batterers and shows good parenting skills at his supervised visits, the judge may let it drop. She said the courts want to keep kids with their parents whenever possible. I’ll never see her again,” Beth said, her eyes tearing. “He won’t let me. Not after all this.”

  “You never know,” I said. “Maybe both you and Brooke will get lucky and Daddy will screw up. It happens all the time. And let’s not get ahead of ourselves. This investigation isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  Beth tipped her head and smiled a small, sad smile. “Thanks. I guess I can hope.”

  My cell phone rang as I slipped onto the driver’s seat and closed the door. They found a young girl,” Griff said.

  “Rochelle?”

  “Sounds like it. Meet me at Deering Oaks Park.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I drove alongside Deering Oaks Park, turned into the lot for the Portland Ice Arena and followed the road behind the rink to the chain link fence that surrounded Fitzpatrick Stadium. Four cruisers and the rescue truck were already on the scene. With high school soccer over and the hockey season still two weeks away the usually packed athletic complex was eerily quiet. John and Griff were standing with a group of cops about halfway down a row of bleachers overlooking the field.

  “Rochelle Davis,” Griff said when I came up beside him. “According to her driver’s license, she’s nineteen years old and lives at Twenty-Seven Vaughn Street, apartment 2.”

  “Must be her grandmother’s address,” I said.

  “You talk to the boyfriend?” John asked.

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  I looked through the risers to the ground beneath. Rochelle’s lifeless body lay twisted amongst empty popcorn boxes and crushed soda cans.

  A cop came up beside us holding a rectangular, rust colored brick in his gloved hand. “Guy likes bricks,” he said. It was stained black with blood, strands of hair and bits of scalp clung to the rough edges. The cop dropped it into a plastic bag and sealed it. “Why doesn’t he get rid of the evidence?”

  “Doesn’t need to,” John said. “He’s careful. The only DNA on the brick will be Rochelle’s. He just wants us to know what he’s using.”

  “Why?”

  “His way of proving that he’s smarter than we are. He leaves the weapon behind to taunt us.”

  “Arrogant prick,” the cop said.

  John nodded. “They usually are.”

  “You can get underneath from over there,” the cop said pointing toward the end of the row of bleachers.

  I followed his outstretched arm and saw Gina Wellington’s car pulling in. “M.E.’s here,” I said. Behind her, three news crew vans skidded to a stop, each trying to be the first to put a microphone in her face.

  “Here they come,” I said. “It’s all gonna hit the fan now.”

  John pursed his lips and nodded. “Let the games begin.”

  I watched the crews pull electronics from their vans, set up lights and cables. Ted Rinehardt lifted his head and looked up over the bleachers to where we stood. It was too far to meet his gaze, but I knew what he was thinking. We hadn’t confirmed what he’d already known after Karen Westcott’s death, but we’d have to now. I felt sorry for the hundreds of women within our community that this would influence. Elevating the fear they already lived with.

  Griff crouched and slid between the bleacher seats holding onto the plank above him like a chin up bar. He dropped to the ground beside Rochelle. Kneeling beside her, he leaned in close inspecting her hand.

  “Clean?” I asked.

  Beside me, John nodded his head as though the weight of it was too much for him. “Same signature.”

  Gina approached from under the bleachers. “Hey Griff, wish we were getting together under better circumstances. What have we got?”

  “Another one.”

  Gina knelt beside Rochelle, slipped on latex gloves and brushed a tangle of hair from the left side of the girl’s face with maternal gentleness revealing the signature bare patch beneath. “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen,” Griff said.

  “Sometimes this job really sucks.” She opened the coroner’s kit beside her and went to work.” Time of death is approximately six to eight hours ago. Head trauma looks like the cause.” She glanced up at John. “I’ll confirm it once I get her back to the lab.” She picked up Rochelle’s hand and inspected it the same way Griff had. “No visible signs of self-defense.” She looked back up through the bleachers at John. “What’s going on?”

  “Wish the hell I knew,” he said.

  Gina turned to the assistant that had followed her onto the scene. “Let’s pack her up. I’ll call you as soon as I finish,” she said to the detective.

  Griff and Gina walked beneath the bleachers back toward the parking lot. Uniformed cops did the best they could to keep the reporters from descending upon them when they reached Gina’s car. She was gracious enough to answer a few of their questions, but reiterated as we had, that this was Haggerty’s party not hers. They’d have to go to him although as of late, Haggerty had been as elusive as a snake in the grass.

  “How’s Beth Jones holding up,” Griff asked as we walked toward our cars.

  “Okay, she’s worried about what will happen with the restraining order and wants me to follow up on Randolph Trek. Where you headed?”

  “I told John I’d go talk to Sandra. See what she can tell me about Rochelle.”

  “Care if I tag along?”

  The secretary at the administrative offices told us that Sandra had received a call from police and immediately left for the shelter. We got back in the car and followed. Because of the case Sandra had given us the address of the shelter’s confidential location. We drove through Portland’s west end suburbs and pulled to the curb out front.

  Sandra met us at the door and stepped outside. According to protocol no one that isn’t staff was ever allowed inside the shelter to protect the identity of the women seeking refuge. I imagined that number was dwindling fast. Even the name, women’s shelter, had become an oxymoron. Sandra shook her head without speaking and motioned us to a bench in the yard. She
and I sat while Griff paced the grass in front of us.

  “She didn’t even have a plan,” Sandra said, “not like the others. She and Damien had only just arrived.”

  “Did she share a room with someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to talk to her roommate,” Griff said.

  “No,” Sandra was adamant. “These women are scared to death. I won’t have them interrogated. Whoever is here now will be protected one hundred percent.”

  “The police can force you to allow the women to be questioned,” Griff said.

  “Sandra,” I said, putting an arm around her shoulder, hoping to keep the conversation from becoming an altercation, “These women and especially Rochelle’s roommate need to be questioned. They may have heard or seen something that can keep another one of them from being killed.”

  She shook her head. “If the court orders it, then I’ll have no choice. But right now, I do and it’s not happening.”

  My hand slid down her arm. Mother bear was back. I didn’t blame her for refusing. Someone was getting through to them. Revealing the identity of the women inside the house would further risk their safety.

  “Sandra can act as the go-between,” I said to Griff. “Let her get the information we need from them.”

  “I’ve already asked them to tell me what they know,” she said.

  “And?” Griff raised his eyebrows.

  Rochelle told her roommate that she and her son were going to relax and figure things out. She’d contacted the hotline, but hadn’t met with an in-house counselor yet. Nothing was in motion for her to leave. She must have set something up by herself that nobody here knew about.”

  “Don’t they have to sign out or something? Aren’t there rules against their leaving?”

  “This isn’t a prison, it’s a shelter. They come when they need us and they leave when they’re ready. These women make their own choices. We just try to help them make good ones.”