A Perfect Evil Part 21

"We do have a couple of suspects. I'm not at liberty to say who they are. Not yet." He turned and a flood of questions a.s.saulted his back as he started up the steps.

"When will you be able to tell us?"

"Are they local men?"

"Will your father be heading the investigation now?"

"Have you tracked down a blue pickup?"

Nick spun around, almost losing his balance. "What about my father?"

Everyone stared at the man in the double-breasted suit. Nick noted the man's shiny, dark hair. It looked professionally manufactured, and his goatee was perfectly trimmed with just a hint of gray. His expensive leather shoes labeled him an outsider-his shoes and the way he c.o.c.ked his head to one side with the impatience of a man who had better things to do than repeat himself to a small-town sheriff. Nick wanted to grab him by the collar of his monogrammed shirt. Instead, he waited, teetering in snow-caked cowboy boots that were creating puddles and threatening to send him sliding down the smooth, marble steps.

"Why in the world would my father head this investigation?"

"He did did catch Ronald Jeffreys," Darcy McMa.n.u.s said into her channel's camera, and only then did Nick realize they had been filming this whole fiasco. He avoided looking into the camera and stared at the man, waiting and ignoring his expression of boredom. catch Ronald Jeffreys," Darcy McMa.n.u.s said into her channel's camera, and only then did Nick realize they had been filming this whole fiasco. He avoided looking into the camera and stared at the man, waiting and ignoring his expression of boredom.

"When your father talked to us earlier, he made it sound-"

"He's here?" Nick blurted, and immediately regretted it. His incompetence was showing once more.

"Yes, and he made it sound as though he had returned to help with the investigation. I believe his exact words were..." The man slowly and deliberately flipped through his notes. "'I've done this before. I know what to look for. You can bet this guy's not getting by this old bloodhound.' I'm not familiar with bloodhounds, but I did interpret it to mean he was here in a professional capacity."

Other reporters nodded in agreement. Nick looked from one to another while his insides churned. His collar strangled him, the jacket made him sweat. Another trickle slid down his back. They waited. Every word would be weighed, every gesture measured. He imagined tonight someone would rewind their videotaped version of the news just to see him run down the steps backward. He didn't care. He turned and ran up the staircase, taking two and three steps at a time, silently praying he didn't trip and end up back at the bottom.

He crashed through the sheriff's department doors, smacking the gla.s.s against a metal trash can and a wall. A spider crack raced through the bottom of one of the doors, but no one seemed to notice. Instead, all eyes stared at Nick, their heads turned, their attention diverted from the tall gray-haired man in the center of them.

The same group Nick couldn't get to check a lead without a groan or a question was gathered around the distinguished-looking gentleman, an aging prophet with the beginning of a paunch over his belt and the bushy eyebrows that were now raised in indignation.

"Slow down, son. You just damaged government property," Antonio Morrelli said, pointing to the crack in the gla.s.s.

Despite the rage and frustration, Nick shoved his hands into his pockets, felt his shoulders slump as his eyes found his boots. Suddenly, he found himself wondering how much it would cost to replace the gla.s.s.

CHAPTER 50.

Maggie sipped her Scotch and watched from a corner table as she tried to determine which of the airport-lounge customers were business travelers and which were vacationers. The storm had delayed flights, hers included, and had packed the small, poorly lit lounge, which consisted of an L-shaped bar, several small tables and chairs, dozens of model airplanes suspended from the ceiling and an old jukebox filled with songs like "Leaving on a Jet Plane" and "Outbound Plane."

Her green and black John Deere jacket was stretched across the chair opposite her to prevent any unwanted company. She had already checked her luggage, everything except her laptop computer, which was secure underneath the John Deere green. She thought about calling St. Margaret's again. She was beginning to think something dreadful may have happened. Otherwise, why would Father Francis have stood her up at the hospital? And why was there no one at the church rectory to answer the phone?

She wanted to call Nick, had in fact dialed the number but then hung up. He had enough things to handle without checking on her hunches. Besides, she was running out of change for the pay phone and had spent her last ten-dollar bill on this and the two previous Scotches. Not much of a dinner, but after spending the afternoon slicing Matthew Tanner's small body, weighing pieces of him and poking through his tiny organs, she had decided she deserved a dinner of Scotch.

The mark on Matthew's inside thigh had indeed been human bite marks. Poor George Tillie had tried to come up with several other theories before giving in to the realization that the killer had bitten Matthew over and over again in the same spot, making it impossible to register a set of dental prints. What made matters worse and more bizarre-the bites had occurred hours after Matthew was dead.

The killer didn't return to the scene of the crime only to watch the police. He continued his absurd fascination with the victim's body. He was slipping from his carefully planned ritual. Something was causing him to degenerate, to lose control. In his recklessness, he could soon leave incriminating evidence.

Maggie had told George they should look for smudges of s.e.m.e.n; that the killer may have m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed this time, while biting the dead boy, and may have smeared some on the victim. The old coroner's face had turned scarlet as he mumbled something about doing his job in private.

She didn't blame George. It had been obvious her presence made him uncomfortable. His manner and method resembled the reverence of a priest, with his careful and deliberate touches and his hushed speech. It was almost as though he hadn't wanted to disturb the boy's soul.

Maggie, on the other hand, had cut with clinical precision and had spoken loud and clear for her voice-activated recorder. It was a dead body, void of life and warmth. Whatever had resided within the bone-and-flesh cavity had escaped hours ago. Yet, she had to admit there was something wrong, something almost sacrilegious about slicing apart a child's body. The soft, smooth and hairless skin hadn't seen nearly enough sc.r.a.pes and bruises, nor the bones enough chips and breaks to have really lived. It seemed such a waste, such an injustice. But that was what the Scotch was for-to make sense of it all or, at least, to take her to a place where she wouldn't care, even if only temporarily.

"Excuse me, ma'am." The young bartender stood over her table. "The gentleman at the end of the bar bought you another Scotch." He set the gla.s.s in front of her. "And he asked me to give you this."

Maggie recognized the envelope and the boxy handwriting before he handed it to her. Her stomach lurched, her pulse quickened. She stood up so abruptly, her chair teetered on two legs.

"Which man?" She stretched to see over the crowd. The bartender did the same, then shrugged his shoulders.

"He must have left."

"What did he look like?" She patted her side through her blazer, rea.s.sured by the feel of the b.u.t.t on her gun pressing against her just under her breast.

"I don't know...tall, dark hair, maybe twenty-eight, maybe thirty. Look, I didn't pay a whole lot of attention. Is there a problem with-"

She shoved past him and pushed through the crowd, racing out into the bright airport walkway. Frantically, she searched and scanned the pa.s.sengers coming and going. Her heart pounded against her chest. Her head throbbed, and her vision was a bit blurred from the Scotch.

The long walkway stretched straight in both directions. There was a family with three children, several businessmen carrying laptops and briefcases, an airport employee pushing a handcart, two gray-haired women and a group of black men and women in colorful robes and headdresses. But there was no tall, dark-haired man without luggage.

He couldn't possibly have gotten beyond the walkway. She ran toward the escalator at the far end, b.u.mping into pa.s.sengers and almost tripping over a deserted luggage gurney. The escalator went up and down. She chose up and twisted over the handrail to see down. Again, the array of pa.s.sengers didn't include a tall, dark-haired man. He was gone. He had slipped by her again.

She made her way back to the lounge, only now realizing she had left her jacket and laptop along with the envelope. Though the lounge was packed, no one had attempted to take over her small table. Even the envelope leaned against the fresh drink where the bartender had left it.

She eased into the hard chair and stared at the small envelope. She gulped the remainder of Scotch in her gla.s.s and set it aside. She started on the fresh drink despite the swirling inside her head. She wanted to be numb.

She took the envelope carefully by a corner. The seal broke easily, and she slipped the index card out onto the table without touching it. Even the Scotch couldn't prevent the nausea and the stab of terror the words inflicted.

In the same boxy lettering, the note said:

SORRY TO SEE YOU LEAVE SO SOON. PERHAPS I CAN STOP BY YOUR CONDO THE NEXT TIME I'M IN THE CREST RIDGE AREA. SAY HI TO GREG FOR ME.

CHAPTER 51.

From down on the sidewalk, he could see Maggie O'Dell inside, scrambling up the escalator. He did have to admit she moved quite nicely-definitely a runner. He imagined those strong, athletic legs looked good in a pair of tight shorts, though the image didn't much interest him.

He pushed the handcart aside and removed the cap and jacket he had borrowed from the sleeping airport employee. He rolled them into a ball and shoved them into a trash can.

He had left the Lexus with the radio blaring in the loading zone. With the radio and the jets overhead, no one would ever hear Timmy, should he wake up sooner than expected. Besides, the trunk was tight, almost soundproof, meaning there was also very little air.

He got into the car just as a security guard with a pad of tickets started in his direction. He squealed away from the curb and zipped around the unloading vehicles. It would be pitch-black by the time he got Timmy settled in, but the detour had been worth seeing the look on Special Agent O'Dell's face.

The wind had picked up, creating swirls of snow and promising drifts by morning. The kerosene heater, lantern and sleeping bag in the backseat, originally packed for the camping trip, would come in handy, after all. Perhaps he would drive through McDonald's on the way. Timmy loved Big Macs, and he found himself getting hungry.

He eased into traffic, waving a thank-you to the red-haired lady in the Mazda who let him in front of her. The day had not been a waste. He gunned the engine, ignoring the slip and slide of the tires on icy pavement. He was in control again.

CHAPTER 52.

"This guy's making a f.u.c.kin' spectacle out of you," Antonio Morrelli lectured Nick while looking quite comfortable behind Nick's desk, twirling back and forth in the leather chair that was once his. It was the only piece of the elaborate furnishings Nick had kept when replacing his father as sheriff.

"You need to spend some time with those TV people," his father continued, "rea.s.sure them you know what you're doing. Last night Peter Jennings made you sound like some country hick who couldn't find his own a.s.s with a flashlight. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Nick, Peter f.u.c.king Jennings!"

Nick stared out the window, past the snow-covered streets and toward the dark horizon beyond the streetlights. A hint of an orange moon peeked from behind a veil of clouds.

"Did Mom come with you?" he asked from his window perch without looking at his father, ignoring his insults. It was the same old game they played. His father hurled insults and instructions, and Nick kept quiet and pretended to listen. Most of the time he followed the instructions. It was easier. It had come to be expected.

"She stayed with your aunt Minnie and the RV down in Houston," his father answered, but his look told Nick he wouldn't be sidetracked from the real subject. "You need to start hauling in suspects off the street. You know, the usual sc.u.mbags. Bring 'em in for questioning. Make it look like you're on top of things."

"I do have a couple of suspects," Nick said suddenly, remembering that he did, indeed.

"Great, let's haul them in. Judge Murphy could probably get a search warrant by morning. Who are your suspects?"

Nick wondered whether it had been that easy with Jeffreys: a late-night search warrant used only after the evidence had been carefully planted.

"Who are your suspects, son?" he repeated.

Perhaps he just wanted to shock his father. Common sense should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he turned from the window and said, "One of them is Father Michael Keller."

He watched his father stop rocking in the chair. The older man's face registered surprise, then he shook his head and frustration creased the leather-like forehead.

"What the f.u.c.k are you trying to pull, Nick? A f.u.c.king priest-the media will crucify you. Is this your idea, or that pretty, little FBI agent the guys told me about?"

The guys. His guys. His department. Nick could imagine them laughing and making jokes about Maggie and him.

"Father Keller fits Agent O'Dell's profile."

"Nick, how many times do I have to tell you. You can't go letting your Mr. Johnson make your decisions for you."

"I'm not." Nick's face grew hot. He turned back toward the window, pretending to stare down at the streets, but his vision was blurred by his anger.

"O'Dell makes a good point. And I'm sure she makes a good omelet for breakfast after a night of f.u.c.king. Doesn't mean you should listen to her."

Nick rubbed a hand across his jaw and mouth to prevent the rage that formed its own words. He swallowed hard, waited, then turned to face his father again.

"This is my investigation, my decision, and I'm bringing in Father Keller for questioning."

"Fine." His father held up his hands in surrender. "Make a f.u.c.king a.s.shole of yourself." He got up and started for the door. "In the meantime, I'll see if Gillick and Benjamin can round up some real suspects."

He waited until his father was out the door and down the hall. Then Nick turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The rough texture ripped open his knuckles and pain shot up his arm. He tried to control his breathing, waiting for the rage to settle, for the frustration and humiliation to be overwhelmed by the pain. Then, without thinking, he wiped at the blood running down the wall using his white shirtsleeve. He already had to pay for a broken gla.s.s door; he couldn't afford to have his office repainted, too.

CHAPTER 53.

The house was dark when Christine pulled into the driveway. She loaded the warm pizza box on top of her laptop computer and realized she'd probably be eating the pizza herself if Timmy was still at one of his friends' houses. He'd come home with storybook descriptions of something they called meatloaf and mashed potatoes-food that didn't come from a can, a box or a carton. Surely he remembered the days when she had actually fixed real dinners and had them on the table at the same time every night. She wondered if he missed their life as a family. What had she cost him for the price of her own self-respect?

She fumbled through the dark foyer until she found the light switch. For some reason the quiet sent a chill down her spine. Perhaps it was only the wind. She kicked the front door closed and made her way to the kitchen, stopping by the answering machine. No blinking red light, no messages. How many times did she have to tell Timmy to call and leave a message? There was no excuse, especially now that she had a cellular phone, although even she hadn't memorized that number yet.

She threw her coat over a kitchen chair and piled her computer and handbag onto its seat. The pizza's aroma reminded her how hungry she was. After Eddie Gillick's visit at Wanda's, she had lost her appet.i.te and left most of her lunch unfinished.

She poured herself a gla.s.s of wine, tucked a folded newspaper under her arm and scooped up a piece of pizza, using only a napkin as a plate. Hands filled, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the living room, finding refuge on the soft sofa. No food was allowed in the living room, especially on the sofa. She expected Timmy to come in at any moment and catch her in the act.

She set her dinner on the gla.s.s coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. This evening's paper carried the same headline from the morning: Second Body Found. Only underneath, she had now confirmed that the body was Matthew Tanner's. Tonight's article also included a quote from George Tillie. She found the paragraph and reread her handiwork, letting George confirm that the murders were the work of a serial killer, since Nick wouldn't.

She had closed the article with a quote she had gotten from Mich.e.l.le Tanner on Monday, a melodramatic plea for her son's return. Christine followed the quote with, "A mother's desperate plea has, once again, fallen on deaf ears." Now, seeing it in print, it seemed a tad too much; however, Corby had loved it.

She flipped through the rest of the paper and scanned the readers'-comment column to see whether her name was mentioned. Suddenly, she remembered the time, frantically searched for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping to Channel Five.

As usual, Darcy McMa.n.u.s looked impeccable in a deep purple suit and crimson red blouse. Christine examined McMa.n.u.s's silky black hair, large brown eyes, darkened even more by the eyeliner and smudge of highlight on the eyelids. The lipstick was bold, a red to match her blouse. Christine couldn't imagine herself in McMa.n.u.s's place. She'd need a whole new wardrobe, but then she'd be able to afford one with what Ramsey was offering to pay her.

She had to admit the idea of being on TV did excite her. The Omaha ABC affiliate claimed a viewership of almost a million people throughout eastern Nebraska. She'd be a celebrity and maybe even cover national events. Though she had told Ramsey she needed time to decide, she knew her mind was already made up. She couldn't justify turning down the money. Not with bills stacking up and the remote possibility of losing their home. No, she had no room for principles. She would accept the position in the morning, but only after talking to Corby.

She finished her wine. Another piece of pizza sounded good, but suddenly she was too exhausted to move. She decided to lay her head down for just ten or fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and thought of all the things she and Timmy would spend her new salary on. In minutes, she was fast asleep.

CHAPTER 54.