Cold Blooded (31 page)

"All martyrs?"

"Yeah. That narrows the list a little. There are hundreds of Catholic saints and we don't know which ones he'll choose, but they seem to be the ones with bizarre, violent deaths."

"I assume there were a lot of those."

"Amen," Montoya muttered and fanned a list of pages he'd taken off the Internet. "We know about St. Cecilia; Stephanie Jane Keller was killed the same way--beheading with three strokes of a sword, after torture, and we know about St. Joan of Arc and the Jane Doe found at her statue around May thirtieth, the feast day for St. Joan, though we don't know where the victim was burned at the stake; Cathy Adams was different, we think she was portrayed as Mary Magdalene as she was killed on the feast day of July twenty- second."

Montoya handed a few of the pages to Jaskiel.

As she skimmed the material, her expression tightened with each page.

"This is worse than the last one."

Bentz had to agree.' ' think there might be other deaths, two for certain." "Because?" Jaskiel asked, and when Bentz hesitated, she nodded. "Oh, I get it ... because Olivia Benchet has '' "--Jaskiel made air quotes with her fingers--"the deaths."

"She's been right on so far." Montoya was still scanning the pages in his hand.

"We're checking missing persons all across the state, especially at the campuses here in town. Stephanie Jane Keller and Cathy Adams went to school part time, one at Tulane, the other at Loyola." Bentz hated the connection.

He reminded himself that the killer was stalking coeds here in New Orleans, not in Baton Rouge where Kristi was attending school. But didn't most serial killers move? Find new hunting grounds? "Olivia Benchet is in the master's program at Tulane. We've contacted the local schools, not just the college campuses but the local school districts and private schools, parochial schools, boarding schools, just to put the administrators on alert. They're advising the students to be aware, be extra careful, stay in groups, double-lock doors, stay in at night, the whole nine yards."

"Do you think that Olivia Benchet, our star witness if you can call her that, is connected to the victims because she's going to grad school?"

Jaskiel's eyebrows drew into a thin continuous line.

"Maybe, but she didn't know either of the victims," Bentz said.

Montoya nodded. "And we're checking out Oscar Cantrell, he was a stepfather, one in a long line, to Benchet. His company, Benchmark Realty, is the management company for the duplex that burned down ... he had access."

"Did he know the victim?"

"Not that we can establish."

"We still need to interview him," Bentz said and glanced at the clock.

"He was out of town for the holiday, tried to pull a disappearing act, but we got hold of him through his secretary, and rather than deal with the police in Dade County, he's elected to return for an interview."

"Any chance he'll skip out?"

"We've got a man making sure he's on the plane. I'll meet him at the airport," Bentz said.

"What about witnesses? Anyone see anything? I mean, witnesses other than

the psychic."

"Nothing that makes any sense." Bentz shook his head.

"And the last person to see Stephanie Jane Keller alive was the mechanic where she dropped off the car. He's clean, as is her boyfriend.

Townsend's got an alibi we can't break, willingly took a lie detector test, and passed with flying colors. He's not our guy. As for her car--so far no clues."

Montoya added, "I've had a picture of the one guy we can't identify who was caught on video at the scene, but even with computer enhancement, we can't place him. At least not yet. We've already checked out the whereabouts of the owners of the house that burned, the brother and sister who inherited the place. Looks like they're clean, alibis are strong. The brother is probably doing cartwheels for the insurance money. He was working late that night; got the company records and surveillance cameras to prove it. The other owner, his sister, is devastated--loved the place where she grew up. She was home with the husband and kids the night of the murder."

"Somehow the killer had access," Melinda said.

"We're still trying to track down Reggie Benchet." Bentz's thoughts were dark when it came to Olivia's father.

"He's connected to Olivia Benchet, who somehow sees the crimes; he's done time for murder, he's on the streets again, and he found religion while he was doing time."

"And probably a few more tricks of the trade. You know those guys," Montoya said. "Send ' to prison and they learn all the latest scams from the population." He snorted.

"Rehabilitation, my ass."

' ' you spoken to his parole officer?"' Melinda asked.

Bentz nodded. "So far Reggie's been minding his Ps and Qs."

"My ass," Montoya muttered again.

"The Lafayette Police have interviewed him. I thought I'd stop by today

as I'm heading up to Baton Rouge and it's not too far out of the way. Reggie Benchet has recently tried to get into contact with his daughter ... " Bentz hesitated, thought about what Olivia had confided and figured what the hell. Jaskiel deserved to know all the information.

"Olivia called me last night." He explained in detail about what she'd seen, how overwrought she'd been. "It upset her so badly she broke the mirror and cut her hand. She was certain that the killer she saw in the vision knew her name.

She somehow knew he was thinking of her and he called her St. Olivia."
"Damn it," Jaskiel muttered.
"You sure she's not making some of this up?" Montoya wasn't buying this

new wrinkle in the case.
"She was terrified. Believe me."
Frustrated, Jaskiel slapped the papers she'd been holding on the edge of

the desk. "Okay, check out the father. And see that Olivia Benchet has

someone watching her and her house round the clock."
"Already done. The FBI authorized it," Bentz said, expecting her to give
him a tongue-lashing for not going through the proper channels. Instead
she nodded.

"What about the other two killings that you think might have happened?"
Melinda asked. "The ones that Olivia Benchet has seen."
' ' night was the feast day of St. Catherine of Alexandria.
She was put on a spiked wheel, it broke, and she was beheaded."
Jaskiel's jaw hardened. "Like the last one."

"Yeah."

"The same killer?"

"We assume."

"So now you're a believer?" Melinda asked, a thin eyebrow rising over the tops of her rimless glasses.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I guess I am. She claims she saw another murder. A woman entombed and tortured, left to starve to death. Take a look at this." He handed her a page on St. Philomena, complete with the notes Olivia Benchet had taken. "Now, either she's a scholar of the martyred saints and is jerking our chains, adding extra cases to mess us up, or she's the real thing." An image of Olivia's terrorized expression as she'd Sung herself into his arms last night flashed through Bentz's mind. "I'm betting that she's for real."

"All right." Creases furrowed Jaskiel's brow as she checked her watch again. "So you're working with the task force and the FBI."

"Yeah. It's tough with the differing juristictions, but we've got to think that maybe our guy did the same thing in another state. A guy on the force is attempting to crossreference violent, unsolved cases, committed around the time of some of the saints' feasts days, but even with the FBI and their computers, it'll take time."

"Which we don't have."

"And luck," Bentz added. "So far that's been in short supply, too."

Montoya snorted. "I'm checking with the sword manufacturers.

We've got the weapon from the fire at Bayou St. John, no prints, of course, but it's not that common of a sword. My guess is that it was bought secondhand at one of those gun/ammo/weapon shows. Probably not traceable.

But we're checking with the local dealers."

"What about the priest connection?"

"This far nothing, just Olivia Benchet's word on that. We're sifting through all the evidence left at the scene, but since everything was burned, it'll take time. We don't have fiber samples. Nor anything under the victim's fingernails. I'm afraid our guy got away clean," Bentz admitted.

lines of frustration tugged at the corners of Jaskiel's mouth. Her fingernails drummed against the lip of her desk.

"He'll slipup. He's got to. When he does, we'll nail his hide. In the meantime, how do I explain that to the press?" Jaskiel asked, then answered her own question. "I don't ... Not yet, not about the connections to the saints, otherwise we'll have a copycat and every religious nut in the surrounding parishes coming up with new and innovative ways to torture women making his mark. We'll just keep the same profile. We've got a serial killer, be careful ... nothing specific."

"Maybe he'll tip his hand if we play it cool," Bentz suggested.

"Sometimes when a serial killer doesn't get enough attention, he becomes bolder. Contacts the police.

Is frustrated by the lack of attention."

Melinda straightened.' ' as long as the lack of attention doesn't push him into killing again. That would be damned hard to explain to the public."

"So what're you going to do for Thanksgiving?" Kristi asked as she sat in the commons, sipping a Coke while trying to decide if she wanted to "do it" with Brian Thomas.

God, he was hot. Dark hair, intense blue eyes, and that secretive air that she found dangerously exciting.

"You mean besides giving thanks?" He shoved his tray aside and leaned his elbows on the scarred table. His class ring glinted under the overhead lights.

"Yeah, besides that."

He was teasing, she saw it in his eyes.

"I think I'll really celebrate by grading papers."

Kristi groaned. "Doesn't sound like much fun."

"No? You wouldn't get turned on by essays discussing the philosophical
and political implications of the Catholic Church in Rome during the--"

"Oh, save me," she said, rolling her eyes. "No, that wouldn't turn me
on."

"Then what would?" He reached across the table and grabbed her wrist,
his fingertips grazing the inside of her
arm. He robbed gently and Kristi's heart jolted. "Why don't we find
out?"

"Now?"

"He shook his head.' "ve got class in half an hour, but later ...
I've gotabottle of wine. It'scheap, but effective.

Or we could head over to The Dive." Kristi sighed. "I think I'll have to
take a rain check. I've got to meet my dad later. He's picking me up
after my last class."

His smile was wicked. "Can't you call and tell him to postpone it a day?

Make up some excuse, like you have to study."

"He knows me better than that," she said as he slowly let go of her
wrist and the warmth that had invaded her blood and tingled deep between
her legs subsided a bit. She chewed on the red and white straw. "He lived
with me for eighteen years, remember."

"Maybe you've turned over a new leaf."

"He wouldn't believe it. He's a cop. A detective," she admitted,
something she was loath to do. Most boys who heard her dad was on the
force, split. Without a second glance. They didn't want to get involved
with the daughter of a cop and risk that kind of trouble. It didn't
matter if they were into booze, dope, or shoplifting, any little thing
and they found a way to leave Kristi behind.

Brian, however, didn't so much as flinch. "Your dad doesn't trust you."
' ' doesn't trust anyone, and it's only going to get worse now. I read

in the papers that they think there's another serial killer in New
Orleans. Dad's gonna freak. Just watch.
He'll want me to move home, or install a security system in my room, or

carry a gallon drum of mace around."

Brian laughed, though his smile didn't quite touch his eyes. "He's
paranoid."
"Yeah, he is. He sees all the bad stuff on the streets and it makes him

crazy." She mashed the straw between her teeth. "Lucky me, huh? What
about your mom and dad?
You never talk about them."
His smile seeped away. "Not much to say."
"You're not going home for Thanksgiving."

"No home to go to."
"Oh, come on," she said, thinking he was teasing before she noticed the
tightening in the cords at the back of his neck.

"Are your folks divorced?"
A muscle worked in his jaw. "Just from me."
"What do you mean?"
"They cut me off when I was eighteen. I got into some ... trouble and

they couldn't deal with it." "What kind of trouble?" she asked warily. The noise from the kitchen, the rattling of trays and flatwear, and the hum of conversation from nearby tables seemed to be suddenly muffled and

distant. Brian glanced down at the table, his fingers, anywhere but her eyes.

"Come on, give. I told you about Dad."

"This is different."

"All I have to do is call my dad and he can do a research number on you
like you wouldn't believe."
He tensed. Blue eyes flashed and narrowed on her. "He'd do that?"
"Nah ... but I could. Come on," she said and reached across the table to

link her fingers with him. "What happened?"
"It was a long time ago," he admitted. "Ancient history."
"I won't hold it against you."
One of his eyebrows lifted in disbelief.' ' don't know that." ' ' it

that bad?" she asked and the look in his eyes made her catch her breath.

"You tell me. A girl ... a girl I dated for six months accused me of
rape."
"What?" She wished she'd never asked. Her heart sank.
Rape? Jesus! She drew back her hand and his lips twisted as if he'd

expected her to recoil.
' ' rape," he clarified.' ' still rape. I was eighteen, she wasn't quite
sixteen. It was bullshit and the charges were dropped. I was completely
exonerated, completely, but my parents never believed in me or trusted

me again. We had one too many fights about it and they threw me out of
the house."
"Just like that?"
"Why bother with me? They had five more to deal with.
I was the proverbial black sheep. My old man and I never got along. Not

even when I was a kid." He rattled his glass and threw back what little