The Church of the Holy Child Read online

  “I read about it. The woman was leaving her husband.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Come in,” she said and held the screen open for us.

  She had the kind of beauty that comes with age, gathered over the years like seeds that finally culminate and bloom.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Her eyes filled and she nodded. “It was coming. I tried to tell her.”

  We followed her into a sunlit kitchen. Through the window above the sink I could see that the backyard had been given over to what was now, in October, a garden entering hibernation. No lawn, just a maze of narrow pathways amidst dying stalks, though along the porch rail Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’ was a deep shade of pink.

  “It must be beautiful in season,” I said nodding toward the mammoth garden.

  “I’ve had enough ugliness in my life. Now I surround myself with beauty.”

  Cassie stirred in her arms and she kissed the child’s blond head.

  “Mrs.,” I hesitated realizing I didn’t know Karen’s maiden name.

  “McCleod,” she said. “Call me Kathryn.”

  I wondered if that’s where the ‘Cleo’ had come from. “Kathryn, were you aware of the abuse in your daughter’s marriage?”

  “Aware of it? I orchestrated it.” She sank into a hand painted rocking chair. Azure Morning Glories climbed the spindles. She rocked Cassie slowly as she spoke. “For most of her life, Karen watched her father beat me. I was too afraid to leave him. I had no money. He wouldn’t let me work. He barely let me out of the house. My parents died when I was young. I’d just started dating him. After the funeral he asked me to marry him. I had nothing else, no other family, no siblings. I was seventeen. I never finished high school. He said it didn’t matter because he’d take care of everything. And he did.”

  “Did your husband ever hit Karen?” I asked.

  “No, but when you grow up watching violence it’s all you know. So when Charles started hitting her, to Karen it was the norm.”

  “Is your husband still alive?” Griff asked.

  Her jaw tightened and she dropped her eyes to Cassie. I thought she hadn’t heard Griff’s question and I was about to ask it again when she looked up.

  “You can’t let something like that continue from generation to generation. The first-time Karen walked into my kitchen with a black eye I knew I’d failed her. I’d let it go on too long. I didn’t have the courage to leave her father, but in the end, he left me.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  “A widow,” she said. “He had a gun collection. Used to clean them every Saturday night. They were never loaded. He kept the bullets in a locked container. One night when he was cleaning them, one went off right in his face. He must have loaded it and forgotten.” She looked at Griff. “You know how those things can happen.”

  Griff nodded, never breaking eye contact. “I do,” he said.

  “After he died I sold the house. Didn’t want the memories that were associated with the place. I bought this. I know it’s not much to look at, but it’s mine. I come and go as I please.” She smiled. “I don’t have to answer to anyone. That’s enough.”

  “Kathryn, did you encourage Karen to leave her husband?”

  “Every day. I was thrilled when she said she’d talked to the people at the women’s shelter. She said she had a plan, but she wouldn’t tell me anything about it. I didn’t press her.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “About a month ago. She came in with Cassie. She had a suitcase in the car. I knew that might be the last time I’d see my daughter and granddaughter, but I was so proud of her for doing what I had never been able to.” She stopped talking and leaned forward, resting her head on Cassie’s, tears streamed from her eyes into the child’s hair.

  I glanced at Griff and nodded toward the door. “Mrs. McCleod, we’ll leave you alone now, but I’ll stay in touch with you and don’t hesitate to call me.” I placed my business card on the kitchen table and Griff tossed his beside mine.

  SIXTEEN

  Outside the police department vans from local television stations lined the curb.

  “This ought to be fun. Don’t give them anything,” Griff said, looking at me.

  “I’ve done this a couple of times. The courthouse steps are the media’s home away from home.”

  “Thought you might be out of practice since I coerced you into becoming a lowly PI.

  “Coerced? I remember it more like tossing me a life preserver.”

  He smiled, gripped the door handle and stepped aside letting me go first.

  Inside, the lobby was brimming with reporters. They swarmed us when we came through the door.

  “Hey, Cole, in your professional opinion is it a coincidence that two women were killed by their husbands one week apart?” It was Steve Paquet from Channel 7.

  “Were both women beaten to death?” Sally Hines, Channel 6.

  Griff’s hand pressed against the small of my back propelling me through the crowd. We took a quick right down the hallway toward the interrogation room. “Hey.”

  The voice hit our backs with enough force that we both turned before thinking.

  “The community needs some answers.” Ted Rinehardt from one of the cable news stations had followed and was standing ten feet behind us, hands on hips. “Look man,” he said staring at Griff, “People deserve to know what’s going on. Two women murdered a week apart raises some questions and somebody needs to address them. What’s the connection to the women’s shelter?”

  Ted was one of the more tolerable reporters and the sincerity in his voice hit a nerve. But up to now, no one knew about any ties to the shelter.

  “Where’d you get that idea?” I asked.

  “I do my homework. Why would Sandra Carlisle be delivering Westcott’s kid to her grandmother if there wasn’t a connection to the shelter? Why else would Carlisle be involved? Should women be leery of getting protection? Why aren’t they being told?”

  “They’ll only be afraid if you make them afraid by reporting something you have no basis for,” I said.

  Griff took my elbow and turned me away from Rinehardt.

  “We’re not your spokespersons,” Griff said. “These are questions for Haggerty, not us.”

  “So you’re just gonna blow me off, leave Joe Shmo, or in this case Mrs. Shmo, in the dark?”

  Griff raised his hands in the air and we began walking away. “Not my problem, Ted,” he said over his shoulder.

  “That sucked,” I said.

  “Yeah. I like Ted. He’s one of the few with some integrity. But deciding what to make public is Haggerty’s call, not ours. Ted knows that. He was just throwing out a line hoping he’d catch something.”

  We went directly to the two-way to watch John in the interrogation room. Ironically the same cop was there as last time.

  “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing,” Charles Westcott said. Two drops of spit landed on the table between them. “I’ve called my lawyer.”

  “Most husbands get upset when their wife is murdered, makes ‘em anxious to find the killer,” John said. “Thought you might want to help us out.”

  “Of course I want to know who killed her. But she’d already left me. I’ve dealt with it.”

  “How loving,” the detective said. He ran a hand over his gray military cut then shoved his hands into the pockets of his charcoal flannels and stood with his back to Westcott. John had a tough guy persona, but what most of the men in the squad room didn’t know was that up until his wife’s death he’d spent every evening that he wasn’t working at her bedside, spoon-feeding strained baby food into a woman who only recognized him on her good days, which became fewer and fewer until there were none at all.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll talk to you,” Westcott said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. What do you want to know?”

  John turned toward him. “If you weren’t angry over her leaving you, what were you doing at Barlow’s
?”

  “I want my daughter.”

  “And what did she say to you about that?”

  “I never got a chance to speak to her before those two goons threw me out.”

  “Where’d you go after that?”

  “Home.”

  “Anyone that can vouch for that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that puts you in a bit of a dilemma.”

  Westcott shifted in his seat.

  “How’d you know to go to Barlow’s?”

  “Don’t answer that.” Gerard Becker walked into the interrogation room and smiled at John. “And you’re not supposed to be talking to him, Detective. I thought you knew that or are things a little blurry?”

  “Shut the hell up, Becker,” John said.

  “I’m handling Dr. Westcott’s custody case against his ex-wife. I’ll be overseeing this matter as well. And you’re not supposed to be questioning my client.”

  “He gave his permission.”

  Becker glanced at Westcott.

  The doctor nodded.

  “Well, unless you’re going to arrest him we’re done here.”

  Westcott and Becker walked out of the room and Griff and I met John in the hallway.

  “If he’s got a custody battle going that might be some incentive to see Karen dead,” I said.

  “Might explain how he found her. Becker might have had some feelers out. Or been out scouting himself. A dive like Barlow’s is probably his favorite watering hole.”

  John smirked, but shook his head. “There just isn’t enough evidence to arrest him. Karen had already moved out and there are a lot of other people she had contact with that night.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself,” I said. “I get it.”

  “Media’s getting a little restless,” Griff said.

  “So I hear, Haggerty’s avoiding them until he has something to say.”

  “I don’t think he can hold out much longer. They’re pretty hungry.”

  John nodded. “That’s what I told him. Well, I’m calling it a day. I’ve got things to take care of at home.”

  Griff and I both knew that was code for his private happy hour and watched him walk away.

  “Should we see if he wants to get some dinner?” I asked, imagining him in the silence of his house drinking until he passed out, relieved of his memories.

  “Can’t hold his hand. He’s a big boy. Besides, he’d be pissed if I tried.” Griff checked his watch. “It’s four-thirty. Let’s go back to my place and pick up where we left off. It’s still Sunday you know.”

  Just as he finished his sentence, his cell phone rang.

  “Dad,” Allie said. “I need to go to the mall and Mom won’t take me. Will you?”

  He looked at me and shook his head. “Foiled again.”

  “What’s the crisis?” Griff asked Allie as she slid into the backseat.

  “I need a graphing calculator for Math class.”

  “And your mother couldn’t take you to get one?”

  Allie groaned. “She’s going out with Neil tonight and doesn’t have time.”

  “That doesn’t sound like her.”

  “He got tickets to some stupid Broadway play in Boston so they’re spending the night. Mom doesn’t know what time she’ll be back tomorrow. Marsha Pearlman is sleeping over.”

  Griff looked at me, “Next door neighbor,” he said and frowned.

  “I don’t know why I couldn’t have stayed with you,” Allie said.

  “What did your mom say?”

  “Nothing, Neil said she shouldn’t bother you. He said you were probably too busy taking care of dead girls to have time for a live one and then he laughed. I think that’s sick.”

  “Neil doesn’t get to make decisions in this family. Your mother should have called me.”

  “I think he freaked her out talking about the case you’re working on. He said she should shield me from hearing the facts.”

  “I agree that it’s not information you need, but it’s not like I’m going to discuss the case with you.”

  “It’s not like I want to hear about it either,” Allie said letting out a sigh only an adolescent can pull off.

  I glanced out the window and listened to Allie take Neil apart.

  “He even bought her a new outfit to wear to the play,” Allie said.

  “What?” I asked, having only caught the tail end of what she was saying.

  “Neil bought my mom new clothes to take to Boston. I mean she was all dressed when he came to pick her up and she looked really good. He came in with a new wardrobe for the weekend.

  “What’d he get her?” I asked, intrigued.

  A navy-blue silk dress and a stupid, sequined jacket, he handed it to her and told her to put it on. Mom started to laugh. We both thought he was kidding. But then he said, “Please?” in this stupid little whine. Which made me want to gag and she went upstairs and changed.”

  Griff parked in front of Best Buy and turned to me. “I’ve never bought you clothes. Should I?”

  I held my hand up. “Please, one Red Sox tee shirt is enough.”

  He laughed and turned to the backseat. “Allie, your mother gets to decide who she dates and what she wears. You’re gonna have to live with that.” He patted her on the knee. “C’mon kiddo, let’s do this.”

  With a Texas Instrument in one hand and a pepperoni pizza in the other, Allie kissed Griff goodbye and walked up the driveway toward Eliza’s house. We watched until she was inside.

  “What do you think about Neil telling Eliza what to wear?” he asked. “Is that weird or a good thing?”

  “My first thought is that it’s a subtle step toward gaining control. But Eliza knows all that stuff from her years at the shelter. I’m sure if she didn’t like it she’d have told him.”

  Griff laughed. “You got that right.”

  “Besides, it sounds like he has good taste. She probably liked the outfit he brought better than what she was wearing.”

  Griff rolled his eyes. “Women,” he said. “Can’t you ever just put something on and leave it?”

  “Not usually.”

  On the way to Griff’s we picked up two burritos and a side of chips and guacamole. After finishing what we’d started that morning, we devoured our food and discussed the similarities between our two victims. In many ways they were the same as the thousands of women who are killed yearly by husbands and boyfriends. They’d both contacted the shelter for help. They’d both met with me for legal advice, but then again, so had lots of others who were still alive. They both had one child, but that didn’t necessarily seem relevant. Ultimately, when we turned off the lights we’d resolved that there were countless similarities and they all pointed to one common denominator, they both had abusive husbands. But there were also two facts that didn’t fit. Husbands kill out of passion. They don’t take souvenirs, which could be said for the patches of hair missing on the left side of each woman’s head. And they don’t have the presence of mind or the foresight to cover their tracks by washing away their DNA. Those two facts could be considered a signature and pointed to the word everyone was avoiding: Serial.

  SEVENTEEN

  First thing Monday morning Griff left for the M.E.’s office in Augusta. He was anxious to talk to Gina and get the details regarding Karen Westcott’s death, though after seeing her body at Barlow’s we were already pretty sure of what Gina would say.

  I was going to meet with Sandra and go over her staff bio’s, which meant I could forgo my traditional workday attire. Professionalism controlled the way I dressed. There was a presence I tried to maintain when someone was writing a sizeable check for my expertise. So on days when I doubted myself, which happened with some frequency, a silk suit from Nordstrom’s and a pair of Cole-Haan shoes, could help me pull it off. If I looked smart, then I must be. Today, having no client appointments on my calendar, I opted for the real me, a pair of washed out jeans and a sweater from Free People.

  On
the way to the Shelter’s Admin offices, I stopped at the office to check messages. It was eight-thirty when I slipped past Katie. She was on her computer shopping for a man’s leather jacket and discussing her boyfriend Travis’ birthday with someone on the other end of her cell phone.

  I sat in my chair and gazed out the window. Naked trees lined the street, their finger-like branches reaching for warmth toward an inhospitable sky. I pulled the sleeves of my sweater over my hands. The onset of winter is a reclusive time of year in the northeast. Aside from work, only the holidays draw us out. I finished my latte and was just about to check my emails when the door swung open after what I guessed was supposed to be a knock, but was more like the back of a hand brushing over the wood.

  Katie stood in the doorway.

  “So did you buy it?”

  “What?”

  “The leather jacket for Travis.”

  “Eavesdropping?”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  She smirked and sat in the wingchair on the other side of my desk. “Haven’t decided between the one online and this one.” She set a magazine on the desk. The page was opened to a wild-haired blond woman spread-eagled over a Harley. Her well-endowed, bikini clad chest made it hard to notice the leather jacket draped around her shoulders.

  I leaned forward and studied the picture. “Nice,” I said. “But don’t ask for Griff’s opinion.”

  “She laughed. “Insecure?”

  “Compared to that body, wouldn’t you be?”

  She started to pick up the magazine, but the picture on the opposite page caught my eye. “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know, some missing kid. It’s one of those morphed electronic images of what she’d look like now.”

  “She looks familiar.”

  Katie shrugged. “One of the millions.” She reached for the magazine.

  “Hang on.” I started to tear out the page.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt silicone Sally.” I folded the picture and stuffed it into my purse. Something about it made me uneasy and I wanted to look at it again when I had more time.

  “Another dead woman?” Katie asked. “I heard it on the morning news. Is this one connected to the other one?”