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Authors: C. E. Lawrence

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BOOK: Silent Slaughter
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C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE
M
andy Pritchard’s parents were the Wasp equivalent of the Adlers—refined, educated, well-spoken and utterly grief-stricken. Mrs. Pritchard was a striking woman with long black hair and pale skin; her husband was tall and professorial, with misty blue eyes behind square glasses and a thin, patrician nose. He was an architect, and she was a lawyer.
They stood behind the glass partition in the city morgue, unable to take their eyes off the form on the table on the other side of the glass. A crisp white sheet covered their daughter’s body; at a nod from Detective Butts, the attendant would oh-so-discreetly pull down the sheet to reveal the earthly remains of their only child, the little girl they had carried and coddled and caressed, their promise of immortality wiped away by the brutal hand of a psychopath.
Lee often wondered what it must be like, this final moment, the last time they would ever lay eyes on their beloved child. The Pritchards definitely didn’t look like open-casket people. Would they carry this sad image with them forever, seared into their brains, or would it gradually be replaced by happier memories of their daughter’s first bicycle, first puppy, first prom dress?
Mrs. Pritchard was working her mouth, compressing her lips tightly, hands clasped, knuckles locked in a kind of hopeless prayer position. Her husband had gone as pale as the sheet covering poor Mandy; his handsome face wore a stony expression of stoic grief. They were both delaying the terrible moment, as if by postponing it they could somehow prevent it. Lee knew all the tricks, all the mind games you played with yourself to get through grief and loss and its aftermath—they didn’t work, of course, but they were all you had, and desperate people often acted irrationally.
Finally Mrs. Pritchard took a deep breath and nodded to Butts, who in turn signaled the morgue attendant. When the sheet was lifted, she gave a low, throaty moan and crumpled into her husband’s arms. He didn’t appear very steady himself—if he hadn’t been forced to support his wife, Mr. Pritchard looked as if he, too, might collapse.
What the Pritchards didn’t see was the stippling on their daughter’s torso. They didn’t see the missing finger, either—but the ligature marks on her neck were all too evident. Purple and thick and ugly, they were a reminder of how she had died. Mrs. Pritchard buried her head in her husband’s chest and waved at Butts.
“No more, please,” she gasped.
Butts signaled the attendant, who dutifully covered Mandy’s face.
“All right,” said Mr. Pritchard. “What’s next?”
His attempt at being businesslike was touching. His wife was too far gone to put up any kind of front. She stood leaning against him, making no attempt to wipe her tear-smeared face.
“Well,” said Butts, “if you think you’re up to it, we’d like to talk to you about your daughter.”
Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Her husband squeezed her hand and turned to Butts. “We’re up to it,” he said. “Whatever will help you catch the monster who did this.”
They accompanied the Pritchards back to the precinct, offered them coffee and did what they could to offer comfort. Jimmy was out interviewing Mandy’s classmates, so it was just Butts and Lee back at the station house. They didn’t get anything unexpected from the interview. Mandy was a good girl, a straight-A student working on a degree in biology at Columbia; she was working while taking classes part-time.
“We could afford to pay for her education, but she didn’t want everything handed to her, so we all agreed she would work her first two years at school,” Mr. Pritchard said apologetically.
“Where did she work?” asked Lee, handing him a cup of coffee.
“For a veterinarian on the Upper East Side. She was hoping to go to grad school to become a vet.”
“Oh, God,” his wife said. “Do you suppose whoever—did this—met her there? If we had only insisted on paying for school—”
“Now, Mrs. Pritchard,” Butts responded, “you can’t start thinkin’ like that. Nobody did anything wrong—not you, not your daughter. There’s some creep out there who does terrible, evil things, and it’s our job to catch him.”
“I just keep wondering what we could have done,” she said, her eyes pleading.
“Nothing. You can’t protect your child from creeps like this, and you can’t spend the rest of your life thinkin’ you shoulda done something different.”
The door opened, and Elena Krieger entered the room. Immediately the atmosphere became more charged. The air seemed to crackle, as though electric ions had swarmed in through the door with her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, seeing the Pritchards. “I didn’t realize—”
“That’s because you didn’t bother to knock,” Butts retorted.
Krieger stiffened. “I had some information that I thought might interest you.”
Butts glanced at the Pritchards, who looked intimidated by Krieger. “This is Detective Krieger,” he said. “She’s helping us with the case.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Krieger formally.
“Why don’t you wait outside?” Butts told her. “We’re almost done here.”
“No, wait,” Mrs. Pritchard piped in. “I—I’d like to hear what she was going to say.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Butts said. “We don’t release every detail of our cases to the public.”
Mr. Pritchard’s face reddened. “Is that what we are—the public?”
Lee stepped in. “What Detective Butts is trying to say is that in every investigation there are details only known to the investigators. It’s important in order to help solve the case and bring your daughter’s killer to justice.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Pritchard softly. “Whatever will help you find this—this animal.”
Butts looked grateful for Lee’s intervention—sometimes he forgot to smooth feathers and feelings, especially when civilians were involved.
“Thanks for understanding,” he said. “We’ll be in touch if there are any developments.”
Mrs. Pritchard clasped his hand and held it. “Thank you, Detective. Thank you for bringing our daughter’s killer to justice.”
Butts looked extremely uncomfortable, but he just squeezed her hand and nodded. “We’ll do whatever we can—I promise you that.”
“I know,” she said, her eyes brimming over. “I know you will.”
“Come on, Anne, let’s let the detectives do their job,” Mr. Pritchard said, taking his wife gently by the shoulders and ushering her out.
When they had gone, Butts turned to Krieger. “Okay, what is it that couldn’t wait?”
She regarded him coldly. “Perhaps you aren’t so interested. I can come back another time.”
His jowly face reddened. “Oh, cut the crap, and just tell me what it is!”
Krieger gave a triumphant smile. “I have the killer’s note.”
Butts’s mouth flew open in astonishment. “He
did
write one?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find it?”
“He mailed it to me.”
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-TWO
T
he statement left Lee and Butts temporarily speechless.
 
Then the detective ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Christ, he’s a devious bastard.” He held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”
Krieger produced a single sheet of paper encased in a plastic evidence bag.
“Did you log it in yet?”
“Yes. Of course I made a copy, but I want us all to study the original first, in case we see anything useful.”
The note was typed, as before, with the same font, and looked to be from the same printer.
Dear Detective Krieger,
 
I thought it would be fun to keep you in the loop, so to speak, by sending this straight to you—after all, you’re the linguistics expert, right?
 
And a very luscious creature you are too, I must say. I do hope you’re enjoying our little game; otherwise, what’s the point? Get it? The point! As a German, I’m sure you enjoy puns.
So I hope you like the little “twist” in my design. I must say, it did take a while, and as you can imagine, my subject wasn’t very cooperative, but I’m a patient man. (Oh, yes, I’m a man, but you knew that already, didn’t you?)
 
Bye for now,
The Professor
“He thinks he’s so clever,” Butts muttered. “Just wait until I get hold of him.”
“So, any new observations?” Lee asked Krieger.
“The obvious things we already know are that he’s educated, literate, worldly—”
“And resourceful,” Lee added. “Isn’t your address unlisted?”
“Yes, but my teenage nephew could get around that,” she scoffed.
Lee tried to imagine Elena Krieger as an aunt but couldn’t quite manage it.
“He’s a smug son of a bitch,” Butts remarked.
“Yes,” Krieger agreed.
“What’s he talking about with the ‘twist’ in his design—the pattern on the girl?” asked Lee.
“I’d have to say so,” said Krieger. “He even mentions her reaction, to rub it in that he did it while she was alive, in case we had any doubt.”
“He’s gloating,” said Lee.
“He who gloats last . . .” Butts murmured.
“Those designs obviously have a meaning, but what is it?” said Lee.
“Some connection to his identity?” said Krieger.
“Right. Like he’s taunting us with a puzzle of some kind.”
Krieger studied them. “They’re very precise. Maybe he’s an architect.”
“Or a biologist. Maybe a marine biologist.” Lee reminded them that he’d discerned a chambered nautilus design in Lisa Adler’s puncture wounds.
“What about the notes?” Butts asked. “Find any connection to the designs in them?”
Krieger held up the first one. “No, but I’ve been pondering his comment that ‘one is the loneliest
number
.’ ”
“You think he might have a connection to numbers ?” Lee asked.
“Could be,” said Krieger. “But it’s such an ambiguous statement—it could mean so many things.”
They worked for another hour, then headed their separate ways, agreeing to be in touch first thing in the morning. Lee took the subway to the Bronx, just in time to catch Brian O’Reilly’s funeral.
St. Barnabas Catholic Church was a clunky Italianate building looming over the intersection of Martha Avenue and 241st Street, in the same Bronx neighborhood of Woodlawn where Brian O’Reilly had lived. It looked more like a courthouse than a church, with its imposing granite walls, severe columns and triangular Romanesque façade. No cozy Baroque fussiness, warm wooden carvings or welcoming garden here—the sinner who entered its stern arch doors could be assured he would be judged and found wanting. Lee could hear the mournful strains coming from the vast pipe organ as he ascended the wide front staircase.
The interior was just as forbidding—the stained-glass windows lining the side walls did little to dispel the feeling of being inside a large box. The ceilings were oddly low, with none of the sweeping grandeur of other Catholic churches. The musky aroma of incense was overpowering. He slipped into the last pew just as the priest stepped up to the altar, where a graphically lurid carving of the Crucifixion was bordered by statues of Joseph and the Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus.
He was struck by the similarity to pagan altars he had seen. The high marble table with its ornate carved figurines could double for a Druid or Aztec altar, where human sacrifices were delivered to appease pagan gods. A large corkboard holding photographs of Brian was surrounded by bouquets of lilies and roses and sat to one side of the altar. To the right of the altar was a large white casket.
The church was nearly full. Lee noticed several solid blocks of attendees in dress blues—the NYPD was well represented. The priest lifted his arms as the organ music died away. Tall and bespectacled and balding, he wore a long robe and purple vestments—the very icon of a parish priest.
“Bless us, O Lord, as we commend the spirit of our brother Brian O’Reilly into your care. ‘Seek not death in the error of your life, neither procure ye destruction by the works of your hands. For God made not death, neither hath He pleasure in the destruction of the living. ’ ”
As the priest droned on, Lee craned his neck, looking for Gemma. The dense phalanx of bodies in front of him prevented him from seeing much of anything, so he leaned back in the wooden pew and gazed at the mourners near him, wondering if Brian’s killer was among them.
“. . . ‘We shall all indeed rise again: but we shall not all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet,’ ” the priest intoned solemnly. “ ‘For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall rise again incorruptible.’ ”
A whiff of sandalwood incense wafted down the aisle, choking Lee’s airway. He was unable to stifle a hacking cough; a few people in front of him turned around to glare at him. A dark-haired woman with the sharp nose and beady eyes of a crow cleared her throat loudly in disapproval.
The ceremony was a formal, old-fashioned Catholic rite, with none of the modern indulgences of get-up-and-say-whatever-you-feel memorials he had attended in Manhattan. There were hymns and readings and biblical passages; the priest himself delivered the eulogy. Lee didn’t know who had written it, but he suspected Gemma was the author—it was full of fond personal reminiscences and memories.
“. . . ‘Death is swallowed up in victory,’ ” the priest declared. “ ‘O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?’ ”
Lee had some choice responses to that one, but he just shifted in his seat and looked around some more. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, other than Brian’s killer, but part of him thought that he (or she) would have to be pretty stupid to turn up here. On the other hand, what if his killer was someone who knew him well, and
not
showing up would look more suspicious? Both possibilities were equally viable, depending on the identity of the murderer.
“ ‘Now the sting of death is sin: and the power of sin is the law,’ ” the priest proclaimed. He was clearly enjoying himself.
Actors, lawyers, clergy
, Lee mused—all cut from the same cloth. They enjoyed performing in front of people, mesmerized by the sound of their own voices. He watched the congregation drink in his words—the crow-beaked woman in front of him nodded somberly.
He has an attentive audience, at any rate
.
The priest appeared to be lurching into the homestretch. “But thanks be to God, who hath given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast and unmovable: always abiding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” murmured the congregation. The crow-nosed woman crossed herself piously and shot a glance at Lee. He smiled at her; she scowled and looked away.
He waited around for Gemma to extract herself from the throng of well-wishers who had attached themselves to her as if she were coated in Velcro. He stood watching, waiting for some behavioral clue on anyone’s part that indicated guilt or evasion of some kind. The crow-faced woman glanced around in a way that could be interpreted as nervous, but she struck him as a busybody who just wanted to keep an eye on what everyone else was doing.
Lee was beginning to tire of waiting—Gemma was still surrounded by people delivering condolences and sympathy. He had a long subway ride to his therapist’s office, so he pulled on his coat and was about to leave the church when he noticed a thin man in a camel hair overcoat. The man’s worn face was troubled, and he was fidgeting with his gloves; he seemed to be struggling with a decision of some kind. He stood just outside the circle of well-wishers and glanced furtively at Lee from time to time, as if trying catch his eye.
Lee stopped putting on his coat and gazed directly at the man. A thin, cold thread of anticipation shot through his stomach when the man held his gaze, then nodded toward the other side of the altar, near the organ keyboard. He nodded back and strolled in the direction of the organ, studying the stained-glass windows along the way, as if he was just idly wandering around the church. When he reached the other side of the organ, a hand clamped down on his elbow, and he turned to see the man in the camel hair coat clutching his arm. Without a word, he pulled Lee toward the back of the church, glancing nervously around him as he went, as if he was afraid of being followed.
He opened a door behind the altar and pulled Lee through it. Lee started to speak, but the man put a finger to his lips. Closing the door behind them, he took Lee down a set of stairs to a basement that clearly served as a combination rehearsal space and classroom. There were desks and a chalkboard and a piano in one corner. The man ducked inside the restroom, then came back out immediately.
“All right,” he said at last. “We’re alone. Dr. Campbell, is it?”
“Yes,” said Lee. “Who are y—”
“We don’t have much time,” the man said, his lined face showing intense worry. He had thick black hair with a single swath of gray in the front, and dark, deep-set eyes rimmed with pouches, as if he had missed many a night of sleep. It was impossible to guess his age—he was probably younger than he appeared. His voice was scratchy, and he cleared his throat constantly. “They’ll notice I’m gone and come looking for me,” he said.
“Who?” Lee asked.
The man waved off the question impatiently. “How much do you know?”
“About what?”
“Don’t waste time! I’m talking about Brian O’Reilly.”
“Well, I’m not sure,” Lee said—he had no idea if he could trust this guy.
His companion looked as if he were about to explode. “Brian O’Reilly did not kill himself,” he hissed. “He was murdered.”
“How do you know?”
The man cleared his throat nervously. “O’Reilly’s partner, Desmond Maguire, was also murdered—but they did a better job covering that one up. O’Reilly was about to stumble onto that fact, so they had to kill him.”
“Who are ‘they’?”
Just then they heard heavy footsteps clunking down the basement stairs. The man clamped a finger to his lips, and Lee held his breath.
“Is anyone down here?” said a man’s voice. Lee recognized it as belonging to the priest.
“Just using the bathroom, Father,” he called out.
The priest appeared at the bottom of the stairs, still wearing his robe and purple vestments.
“I am so sorry to rush you,” he said. “But we have another service after this one—happily, a wedding this time.”
“Of course, Father,” Lee’s companion said, clearing his throat again. “We were just leaving.”
“Thank you,” said the pastor, ascending the stairs. “Again, my apologies.”
“Go—I’ll follow you,” the man whispered.
Lee climbed back up the narrow staircase, emerging into the main chapel, where the crowd had thinned out considerably. Most of the guests had left, and a couple of altar boys were preparing the room for the wedding, bringing in fresh flowers for the altar. There was no sign of Gemma. Thinking he heard footsteps behind him on the stairs, Lee turned around to say something to the man in the camel hair coat, but he had vanished. Lee peered back down the staircase, but there was no sign of him. Was there another exit? Perhaps he had left through the basement somehow.
Lee hurried up the aisle and out the front door of the church. Outside, the last of the cars in the funeral procession was just pulling out to follow the cavalcade of vehicles heading for the cemetery. He ducked around to the rear of the building to see if he could spot his mysterious companion, but there was no sign of him. He looked at his watch—he was due at his therapist’s office in half an hour. Even if he left now, he was sure to be late.
He made one more circuit around the church, but there was still no sign of the strange man. He wanted to call Gemma but realized the only number he had was Brian’s landline. That was too risky—he couldn’t know who might be listening in. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and pulled his collar up as a stiff wind whipped around the side of the building. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he jogged in the direction of the A train.
BOOK: Silent Slaughter
5.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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