A Perfect Evil (17 page)

H
e drove around the park again, this time slowly. The game was finally over. He pulled into a parking space far from the other cars, alone in the corner of the lot. He turned off the headlights and sat watching, listening to the music and waiting for the jerky strings of Vivaldi to smooth out and silence the throbbing in his temples.

It was happening again and so soon. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. And worse, he didn’t want to. He was so tired. He tried to remember when he had last slept through an entire night, instead of pacing or wandering the streets. He rubbed his eyes, wiping at the exhaustion, then stopped suddenly. His fingers were trembling beyond his control.

“Dear God, make it stop,” he whispered as he tore at the hair at his temples. Why wouldn’t it stop? The throbbing, the pounding made his head ache.

He watched the group of boys in grass-stained uniforms. They looked so happy, fresh from their victory, arms crossing around one another, hands patting each other on the back. They touched so carelessly, so casually. Their singsong voices grew loud as they approached, drowning out Vivaldi with lyrics of gibberish.

The memory came flooding back to him, paralyzing him and pinning him to the stiff leather of the car seat. He was eleven years old and his stepfather had made him join the Little League team, bargaining with the coach to get him out of the house on Saturday mornings. He knew it was only because his stepfather wanted to fuck his mother all morning.

He had accidentally walked in on them the Saturday before, only because they were out of milk. The memory washed over him—powerful despite the years. So clear, so vivid he grabbed the steering wheel to brace himself.

He stood in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom, paralyzed by the sight of his mother’s skin, white and naked with the silver cross swinging between her big breasts. Her breasts wagged back and forth. She held herself up on her hands and knees while his stepfather rode her like a dog in heat.

It was his stepfather who saw him first. He yelled at him, panting and jerking, while his mother’s eyes grew wide in horror. She twisted out from under his stepfather, falling and tumbling off the bed, grabbing for the sheet. It was then that he turned to run. He stumbled down the hall, tripping and falling only once before he got to his room. Just as he began to slam the door, his stepfather crashed through it.

His stepfather was still naked. It was the first time he had seen a grown man’s penis, and it was horrible: huge, stiff and erect, protruding through the thick black hair. His stepfather grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face to the wall.

“You interested in watching or maybe you want some of this.” He could still hear the man’s graveled voice, out of breath and panting in his ear.

He stood perfectly still. He couldn’t breathe. His stepfather’s fingers strangled his neck with one hand while he ripped his pajama pants with the other. His mother screamed and pounded her fists against his locked door. Then he felt it. The intense pressure, the pain so stifling he thought his insides would explode. He kept quiet and still, though he wanted to scream. His cheek scraped against the rough texture of the bedroom wall. All he could do was stare at the crucifix hanging next to his face, while he waited for his stepfather to stop slamming into his small body.

A car’s horn blasted. He jumped and clutched the steering wheel even harder. His palms were sweaty, his fingers still trembling. He watched the boys getting into the cars and vans with their parents. How many of them were hiding secrets like his own? How many of them hid their bruises and scars? How many waited for some sort of relief, some sort of salvation from their misery? From their torture?

Then he saw the small boy waving to the others as he started up the sidewalk. He watched to see if anyone would join the boy tonight, or if he would walk home alone as he usually did.

It was starting to get dark. Several street lights blinked on. He listened to the gravel grind beneath the cars as they pulled out and drove off. Headlights flicked on and blinded him as they turned to leave. No one noticed him. No one took extra time to look his way. Those who recognized him smiled and waved, for there was nothing unusual about him taking in a neighborhood soccer game.

Half a block away, the boy still walked alone, tossing the soccer ball from one hand to the other. He looked thin and small in his baggy uniform, so very vulnerable. The boy practically skipped, regardless of no one showing up to watch him play. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to his loneliness.

The last car left the parking lot. He silenced Vivaldi in the middle of
The Four Seasons: Autumn.
Without looking, his fingers found the small, glass vial from inside the glove compartment. Expertly, he cracked the vial and let it dampen the brilliant white handkerchief. He wished the extra precautions were not necessary, but he had been reckless with Danny. He grabbed the black ski mask and got out of the car, gently closing the door. Immediately, he noticed that his hands were no longer trembling. Yes, he was finally feeling back in control. Then he followed quietly up the sidewalk.

H
e drove around the park again, this time slowly. The game was finally over. He pulled into a parking space far from the other cars, alone in the corner of the lot. He turned off the headlights and sat watching, listening to the music and waiting for the jerky strings of Vivaldi to smooth out and silence the throbbing in his temples.

It was happening again and so soon. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t control it. And worse, he didn’t want to. He was so tired. He tried to remember when he had last slept through an entire night, instead of pacing or wandering the streets. He rubbed his eyes, wiping at the exhaustion, then stopped suddenly. His fingers were trembling beyond his control.

“Dear God, make it stop,” he whispered as he tore at the hair at his temples. Why wouldn’t it stop? The throbbing, the pounding made his head ache.

He watched the group of boys in grass-stained uniforms. They looked so happy, fresh from their victory, arms crossing around one another, hands patting each other on the back. They touched so carelessly, so casually. Their singsong voices grew loud as they approached, drowning out Vivaldi with lyrics of gibberish.

The memory came flooding back to him, paralyzing him and pinning him to the stiff leather of the car seat. He was eleven years old and his stepfather had made him join the Little League team, bargaining with the coach to get him out of the house on Saturday mornings. He knew it was only because his stepfather wanted to fuck his mother all morning.

He had accidentally walked in on them the Saturday before, only because they were out of milk. The memory washed over him—powerful despite the years. So clear, so vivid he grabbed the steering wheel to brace himself.

He stood in the doorway of his mother’s bedroom, paralyzed by the sight of his mother’s skin, white and naked with the silver cross swinging between her big breasts. Her breasts wagged back and forth. She held herself up on her hands and knees while his stepfather rode her like a dog in heat.

It was his stepfather who saw him first. He yelled at him, panting and jerking, while his mother’s eyes grew wide in horror. She twisted out from under his stepfather, falling and tumbling off the bed, grabbing for the sheet. It was then that he turned to run. He stumbled down the hall, tripping and falling only once before he got to his room. Just as he began to slam the door, his stepfather crashed through it.

His stepfather was still naked. It was the first time he had seen a grown man’s penis, and it was horrible: huge, stiff and erect, protruding through the thick black hair. His stepfather grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face to the wall.

“You interested in watching or maybe you want some of this.” He could still hear the man’s graveled voice, out of breath and panting in his ear.

He stood perfectly still. He couldn’t breathe. His stepfather’s fingers strangled his neck with one hand while he ripped his pajama pants with the other. His mother screamed and pounded her fists against his locked door. Then he felt it. The intense pressure, the pain so stifling he thought his insides would explode. He kept quiet and still, though he wanted to scream. His cheek scraped against the rough texture of the bedroom wall. All he could do was stare at the crucifix hanging next to his face, while he waited for his stepfather to stop slamming into his small body.

A car’s horn blasted. He jumped and clutched the steering wheel even harder. His palms were sweaty, his fingers still trembling. He watched the boys getting into the cars and vans with their parents. How many of them were hiding secrets like his own? How many of them hid their bruises and scars? How many waited for some sort of relief, some sort of salvation from their misery? From their torture?

Then he saw the small boy waving to the others as he started up the sidewalk. He watched to see if anyone would join the boy tonight, or if he would walk home alone as he usually did.

It was starting to get dark. Several street lights blinked on. He listened to the gravel grind beneath the cars as they pulled out and drove off. Headlights flicked on and blinded him as they turned to leave. No one noticed him. No one took extra time to look his way. Those who recognized him smiled and waved, for there was nothing unusual about him taking in a neighborhood soccer game.

Half a block away, the boy still walked alone, tossing the soccer ball from one hand to the other. He looked thin and small in his baggy uniform, so very vulnerable. The boy practically skipped, regardless of no one showing up to watch him play. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to his loneliness.

The last car left the parking lot. He silenced Vivaldi in the middle of
The Four Seasons: Autumn.
Without looking, his fingers found the small, glass vial from inside the glove compartment. Expertly, he cracked the vial and let it dampen the brilliant white handkerchief. He wished the extra precautions were not necessary, but he had been reckless with Danny. He grabbed the black ski mask and got out of the car, gently closing the door. Immediately, he noticed that his hands were no longer trembling. Yes, he was finally feeling back in control. Then he followed quietly up the sidewalk.

Monday, October 27

M
aggie poured the rest of the Scotch from the small bottle to the plastic cup. The ice cubes cracked and tinkled against each other. She took a sip, closed her eyes and welcomed the lovely sting sliding down her throat. Lately, she worried that she had acquired her mother’s taste for alcohol, or worse, her addiction to the pleasant numbness promised by the sacred liquid.

She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the cheap clock radio across the room on the nightstand. It was after two in the morning, and she couldn’t sleep. The dim table lamp gave her a headache. It was probably the Scotch, but she made a note to ask the hotel clerk for a brighter light.

The small tabletop was covered with the Polaroid photos she had taken earlier. She attempted to put them in chronological order—hands tied, neck strangled then slashed, puncture wounds. This madman was methodical. He took his time. He cut, sliced and peeled back skin with frightening precision. Even the jagged X followed a specific diagonal from shoulder blade to belly button.

She scattered two file folders full of police reports and newspaper clippings. There were enough gory details to provide nightmares for a lifetime. Except it was impossible to have nightmares if you couldn’t sleep.

She pulled her bare legs up, tucking her feet underneath her in an attempt to make herself comfortable in the hard chair. Her Green Bay Packers jersey had stretched and become misshapen from too many washes. It barely covered her thighs, yet it was still the softest nightshirt she owned. It had become a sort of security blanket that made her feel at home no matter how many miles away. She refused to get rid of it despite Greg’s constant complaints.

She looked at the clock again. She should have called Greg when she had gotten back to the hotel. Now it was too late. Perhaps it was just as well. They both needed some cooling-down time.

She sifted through the scattered papers and examined her notes, several pages of details, small observations, some that would probably seem insignificant to anyone else. Eventually, she would pull them all together and create a profile of the killer. She had done it many times before. Sometimes she could describe the killer right down to height, hair color and, in one case, even his aftershave lotion. This time, though, it was more difficult. Partly because the obvious suspect had already been executed. And partly because it was always difficult to crawl inside the sick, disgusting mind of a child killer.

She picked up the silver medallion and chain from the corner of the desk. It resembled the one Danny Alverez had worn. Though this one had been given to Maggie by her father for her first Holy Communion.

“As long as you wear this, God will protect you from any harm,” her father had told her. Though his own, identical medallion had not saved him. She wondered if he had gone into the burning building that night believing it would.

Until a month ago she had worn the medallion faithfully, perhaps out of routine and remembrance of her father rather than out of any sense of spirituality. She had stopped praying the day she watched her father’s casket lowered into the cold, hard earth. At twelve, none of her catechism teachings could explain why God had needed to take her father away.

In fact, she had put aside Catholicism until she joined the forensic lab at Quantico eight years ago. Suddenly, those crude drawings in her Baltimore Catechism of demons with horns and glowing red eyes had made sense. Evil did exist. She had seen it in the eyes of killers. She had seen it in the eyes of Albert Stucky. Ironically, it was that evil that had brought her closer to believing in God again. But it was Albert Stucky who made her wonder whether God simply didn’t care anymore. The night she watched Stucky slaughter two women, Maggie had gone home and removed the medallion from around her neck. And although she couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore, she still carried it with her.

She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the medal and wondered what Danny Alverez must have felt. What must he have thought when the madman ripped away what the small boy may have seen as his last protection? Like her father, had Danny Alverez put his final breath of faith in a silly metal object?

She clutched the medallion tightly in her fist, pulled back her arm and was ready to fling the worthless charm across the room when a soft tap on the door stopped her. The knock was barely audible. Instinctively, Maggie got to her feet and slipped out her Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from its holster. She padded quietly to the door in bare feet, feeling vulnerable in only the nightshirt and underpants. She gripped the revolver, waiting for its power to remove her sense of vulnerability. Through the peephole she could see Sheriff Morrelli, and the tension slid away from her shoulders. She opened the door, but just enough to look out at him.

“What’s going on, Sheriff?”

“Sorry. I tried to call, but the night desk clerk has been on the phone for over an hour.”

He looked exhausted, his blue eyes swollen and red, his short hair sticking up out of place and his face still unshaved. His shirt was untucked, the tails hanging out over his jeans and peeking out from under his denim jacket. She noticed that several of the top buttons were missing, and his twisted collar was open, exposing wisps of dark curly hair. Immediately, she looked away, annoyed with herself for noticing this last detail.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Another boy’s missing,” he said, swallowing hard as if it was difficult to get the words out.

“That’s impossible,” she said, but knew, in fact, that it wasn’t. Albert Stucky had taken his fourth victim less than an hour after his third victim was discovered. The beautiful, blond coed had been sliced in pieces, some of which were stuffed in takeout boxes and discarded in the Dumpster behind a restaurant Stucky had eaten at earlier that evening.

“I’ve got men going door-to-door in the neighborhood and searching alleys, parks, fields.” He rubbed his hand over his exhausted face and scratched his bristled jaw. His eyes were a watery blue. “The kid was walking home from a soccer game. He only had five blocks to walk.” His eyes darted down the hall, avoiding Maggie’s gaze while pretending to make sure no one else was in the deserted hallway.

“Maybe you should come in.”

Maggie held the door open for him. He hesitated, then walked in slowly, staying in the entrance as he glanced around the room. He turned back to Maggie, and his eyes dropped to her legs. She had forgotten about the short nightshirt. He looked up quickly, met her eyes and looked away. He was embarrassed. The charming, flirtatious Morrelli was embarrassed.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?” Another glance, and this time when his eyes found hers, she felt her face grow hot. As nonchalantly as possible, she squeezed past him and went to the dresser.

“No, I was still up.”

She slid her gun back into its holster, opened one of the dresser drawers and started digging for a pair of jeans. Finally, she found a pair and pulled them on while she watched Morrelli pace the small space between the bed and table.

“Did I mention that I tried to call first?”

She looked up in the mirror and caught him watching her. Their eyes met again, this time in the mirror.

“Yes, you did. It’s okay,” she said, struggling with the zipper. “Actually, I was going over my notes.”

“I was at that game,” he said softly, quietly.

“What game?”

“The soccer game. The one the boy was walking home from. My nephew played. Jesus, Timmy probably knows this kid.” He continued to pace the room, making the space seem even smaller with his long strides.

“Are you sure the boy didn’t go home with a friend?”

“We called other parents. His friends remember seeing him start walking up the sidewalk toward home. And we found his soccer ball. It’s autographed by some famous soccer player. His mom says it’s one of his most prized possessions. She insists he wouldn’t have just left it.”

He scraped a sleeve across his face. Maggie recognized the panic in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared to handle a situation like this. She wondered what experience he had in crisis management. She sighed and raked her fingers through her tangled hair. Already she regretted that it would be up to her to keep him focused.

“Sheriff, maybe you should sit down.”

“Bob Weston suggested I compile a list of pedophiles and known sex offenders. Do I start hauling them in for questioning? Can you give me any idea who I should be looking for?” He glanced over the papers spread out on the table in one of his passes.

“Sheriff Morrelli, why don’t you sit down?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“No, I insist.” She reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders, gently shoving him into a chair behind the table. He looked as though he’d stand up again, thought better of it, then stretched out his long legs.

“Did you have any suspects at all when the Alverez boy was taken?” Maggie asked.

“Just one. His father. His parents are divorced. The father was refused custody and visitation because of his drinking and abusiveness. We were never able to track him down. Hell, the air force can’t even find him. He was a major at the base, but went AWOL two months ago. He ran off with a sixteen-year-old girl he met over the Internet.”

She found herself pacing as she listened. Perhaps it had been a mistake to make him sit. Now that he gave her his full attention it dismantled her thought process. She rubbed her eyes, realizing how exhausted she was. How long could a person function without sufficient sleep?

“Have you made any progress in tracking him down?”

“We stopped.”

“What do you mean you stopped?”

“After we found Danny’s body, Weston said it couldn’t be the father. That a father wouldn’t be able to do that to his own son.”

“I’ve seen what fathers can do to their sons. I remember a case three, no, four years ago where a father buried his six-year-old son in a box. He dug a hole in the backyard and left just a small airhole with a piece of rubber hose. It was punishment for something stupid. I can’t even remember now what the kid had done. After several days of rain, he couldn’t find the airhole. Instead of digging up his entire backyard, he tried to make it look like a kidnapping. The wife went along with his crazy scheme. She probably didn’t want to end up in a box of her own. Maybe you should continue searching for Mr. Alverez. Didn’t you say he was abusive?”

“Yeah, the guy’s a real asshole. Beat up regularly on his wife and Danny, even after the divorce. She’s had a half-dozen restraining orders out on him. But what possible connection could there be with this boy? I don’t think Matthew Tanner even knew Danny Alverez.”

“There may not be a connection. We don’t know for sure that this boy was taken. He could still show up at a friend’s house. Or he may have run away.”

“Okay.” He sighed, not looking convinced. He slid down farther in the chair to rest his head against the back. “But you don’t really believe he ran away, do you?”

Her eyes searched his. Despite his confusion and panic, he wanted the truth. She decided to level with him.

“No. Probably not,” she said. “I knew the killer would strike again. I just didn’t think it would be
this
soon.”

“So tell me where to begin. Have you had time to figure out anything about this guy?”

She came around the table and stared at the montage of photos, notes and reports.

“He’s meticulous, in control. He takes his time, not only with the murder, but in cleaning up after himself. Though the cleaning isn’t to hide evidence—it’s part of his ritual. I think he may have done this before.” She fingered through her notes. “He’s definitely not young and immature,” she continued. “There was no sign of struggle at the site, so the victim was tied beforehand. That means he has to be strong enough to carry a seventy-to-eighty-pound boy at least three hundred to five hundred yards. I’m guessing he’s in his thirties, about six feet tall, two hundred pounds. He’s white. He’s educated and he’s intelligent.”

At some point during her description, Morrelli sat up, suddenly alert and interested in the mess she poked through.

“Remember at the hospital after I examined the Alverez boy, I told you he may have given the boy last rites? That would mean the killer’s Catholic, maybe not practicing, but his Catholic guilt is still strong. Strong enough that he’s bothered by a medallion in the shape of a cross, so he rips it off. He performs extreme unction, perhaps to atone for his sin. You might check to see whether this boy, Matthew Tanner,” she said, looking at Nick to make certain she had the name right. When he nodded, she continued, “if he belonged to the same church as the Alverez boy.”

“Right offhand, I’d say it’s unlikely,” Nick said. “Danny went to school and church out by the base. The Tanner house is only a few blocks from St. Margaret’s, unless the Tanners aren’t Catholic.”

“Chances are, the killer doesn’t even know the boys.” Maggie started pacing again. “It could be he simply looks for easy targets, boys out alone, with no one else around. I do think he may still be connected somehow to a Catholic church, and quite possibly in this area. Odd as it might seem, these guys don’t often stray too far from their own familiar territory.”

“He sounds like a real sicko. You said he may have done this before. Is it possible he may have a record? Maybe child abuse or sexual molestation? Maybe even beating up a gay lover?”