Cold Blooded (4 page)

real. I mean, I was there."
Hell, this just got better and better. She'd been asleep.
Great. "So you were dreaming."
"It was more than that."
"And all of your dreams, do they come true?"
"No. Of course not!" She threw her hands into the air.
"I already told you I know this sounds nuts, but just hear me out, okay?
And please, don't make any judgment calls.
I'm telling you these ',' if you want to call them that, are different.
I can't explain it. They're beyond real. Beyond surreal."
/'// bet. Bentz rubbed the back of his neck as he studied her. She was

so earnest. She wasn't lying. Whatever it was she was peddling here, she

believed every word of it.
"I woke up and I could still smell the smoke, feel the heat, hear her
cries for help. I mean, / was there. Not physically, but ... "

"Spiritually?" he offered.

Montoya suggested, "Mentally. Or telepathically."

"However you want to explain it," she said, starting to sound irritated.
"I can't." "I know. Neither can I," she admitted.
Because it's inexplicable.
"I know ... I mean, I understand that you're used to working with facts.
Cold, hard evidence. I don't blame you, but surely you've worked with

psychics or people who have a different level of sensitivity, or psychic prowess. I've read about police departments using psychics to help solve particularly difficult cases."

"That's when they run out of that hard evidence," he said to her,' ' they actually have a dead body or missing person and have exhausted all other conventional avenues."

"There's nothing conventional about this."
"Amen," Montoya said and she tossed a sharp look over her shoulder.
"My grandmother, she had the same gift, but not my mother." Her lips

twisted into a wry, self-deprecating smile.
"Lucky me," she said. Her smooth forehead was suddenly lined, her

eyebrows pulled together, and she leaned back in her chair as if
exhausted.
"It's genetic?"
"I don't know how it works, okay? That's just what happened in my

family. And it's not always at night, in dreams. Sometimes it can happen in the middle of the day, driving down the Interstate."

"Could be dangerous."
"That's right, it is. And it's ... a royal pain telling people about it
and trying to make them understand. To believe."

"It's a big leap for most of us mere mortals," Bentz agreed.

Behind her Montoya tried to keep his expression bland, but there was a glimmer in his dark eyes as he took a sip of coffee. He didn't say it, but / told you so was written all over him.

"I already admitted that I know it sounds crazy," she said, as if she, too, felt the skepticism in the small room.

She seemed so small and out of place in the station where, though it was barely eight in the morning, the place was a beehive of activity. The door to Bentz's office was ajar and through the opening he caught glimpses of officers and civilians, heard snatches of conversation and muffled laughter, watched as more than one suspect was dragged to a desk for a statement But this woman didn't belong here.

Whatever she was, it wasn't a cop, a criminal, or, he suspected, a valid witness.

Slumping down in the chair, she rubbed her shoulders as if she were cold to her bones though the room was stuffy, hot enough that he'd cracked the window open. The sounds of the city waking up wafted inside--pedestrians walking and talking, the tires from passing cars whining, engines rumbling, and pigeons cooing and flapping their wings from an upper ledge. She ran long fingers along her jaw. "I shouldn't have come here," she said as if to herself. "I knew you wouldn't believe me ... but I had to try."

"Detective Montoya, maybe you could scour up some coffee for Ms. Benchet?"

"I'm fine--" she protested, but Montoya was already out the door.

Oh" via leaned forward, as if now that they were alone she could confide in him. "You have to believe me, Detective Bentz. A woman was murdered early this morning. Brutally.

I saw it."

"But you weren't there."

"No, no, in my mind's eye."

"While you were sleeping," he pointed out

"It wasn't a dream!" she said emphatically, not so much angry as desperate. "I know the difference." Montoya, carrying a paper coffee cup, slipped into the room again. "The priest tortured her and--"

"Priest?" Montoya repeated as he handed her the cup.

Some of his cocksure bravado slipped. "A priest was the killer?"

"Yes. He was dressed in robes. Vestments."

Bentz scowled as he understood why she'd singled him out. He set the pen on his notepad and leaned back in his chair. "Let me guess. You read about Montoya and me solving the other case this past summer, so you thought that we'd be able to help out. Because we're kind of experts on the whole Catholic-homicide thing and you've seen a priest." He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"I hoped so," she admitted, and she looked so guileless he had the unexpected urge to believe her. But he knew better.' ', I get it," she said, and those amber eyes sparked as the light dawned. "You actually think I read about the serial killer last summer, and because I didn't have anything better to do, I just bopped down here with a wild story about a priest to try and stir things up, right? To gain some attention, my ' minutes or seconds of fame'?"

He didn't reply.

"Oh, give me a break. Who would do that? Come on!"

"Ms. Benchet--"

"Don't patronize me, okay, and it's Olivia. Let's get that straight, right now. I realize my story sounds hideous, and believe me it was, but I witnessed the murder, as surely as if I was in that tiny bathroom."

"A bathroom?" Montoya interjected again.

"That's where it happened. Where a priest, a man who was supposed to have dedicated his life to God, killed a woman he had chained to a

sink."

Montoya arched a brow. "So, Ms. Benchet--Olivia-- you'd recognize the killer?"

"No." She shook her head and bit down hard on her lip.
"He was wearing a mask--like a black ski mask that covered his entire
head."

"Now we've got a priest in a mask," Bentz repeated.
"Yes!" Her eyes flashed angrily.
"And this murder that you witnessed though you weren't there, happened

in a bathroom?" "I told you the woman was chained to the sink and--"
She shuddered. "God, it was awful. The flames were coming in through the

vent and he didn't seem to care; it was like he expected the fire
somehow, but that wasn't enough."
"Not enough?" Bentz asked, dreading what was to follow.
"No. He had a sword," she whispered, visibly shaking and squeezing her

eyes shut as if to close off the memory.
"He swung down three times at her bowed head."
"Jesus!" Montoya muttered.
Tears formed in Olivia Benchet's eyes and she blinked several times.
Either she was one hell of an actress, or she really believed her own

lies.' '--it was horrible. Horrible." Bentz glanced at Montoya as he found a box of tissues and handed it to Olivia. She pulled out a couple and looked embarrassed as she wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry." "Don't even think about it," he said. He wasn't sure what was going on, but one way or another, Olivia Benchet was at the end of her decidedly frayed rope. He decided to go by the book and take her statement formally. Just in case.

Crackpot or not, she was scared to death. "Let's start over.

I'll tape this if that's all right with you."

"Please ... fine ... whatever." She waved her fingers as if she didn't care what he did, then sipped her coffee as Bentz found his recorder, put in a fresh tape, and pressed the record button. "November twenty-second, this is an interview with Olivia Benchet. Detective Rick Bentz and Detective Reuben Montoya are with the witness." Angling the microphone so that she could speak into it easily, he said, "Now, Ms. Benchet, please spell your name for me and give me your address ... "

As the tape whirred and he took notes, Olivia cradled a cup of coffee and spoke in soft, calmer tones. She told him she lived out of the city, in bayou country, gave him her address and phone number along with the name of the shop where she worked--the Third Eye, just off Jackson Square.

Before moving to Louisiana a few months back to care for her ailing grandmother, she'd lived in Tucson.

With Bentz's prodding she repeated much of what she'd already said, and as Montoya watched, Bentz scribbled notes, listening as she explained her "vision" only hours earlier, that she was certain she'd "seen" a priest who had chained a naked woman to a sink in a smoky room and that the woman had repeatedly begged for mercy.

Olivia's voice was a low whisper, nearly a drone, almost as if she was in some kind of trance, detached from Bentz's small office with its piles of files, overflowing wastebasket, and dying Boston fern littering the floor with dried, curled fronds.

"... after he was certain that the radio was playing the right song, some kind of hymn, then he used the sword," she said, describing again that he'd swung three times. "I sensed he was in a hurry, probably because of the fire or a fear of being caught, but after he was finished, while the flames were beginning to come up from the vent, he took the time to dig into his pocket. He pulled a chain or a necklace of some kind and hung it over the shower head.

The radio was playing some weird music and the smoke was so thick I

could barely see, but I think he stripped off his robes and left them there."

"So he was naked?" Montoya interjected. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, his forgotten cup of coffee in one hand. ' ' could see identifying marks. Like tattoos or birthmarks or moles ... "

"He wasn't naked. He was wearing something like a wet suit or one of those tight hiking suits, all black."

"And a ski mask that covered his entire head."

"And gloves?" Montoya asked.

"Yes." A muscle worked in her jaw and she glanced through the open window. "I think ... I mean I got this eerie feeling ... that somehow he knew, or he sensed, that I was watching him."

Chapter Four.

A nutcase. Pure and simple. He hated to think it of her because she seemed so convinced of what she'd seen, but Bentz decided Montoya was right. Intriguing as she was, Olivia Benchet was certifiable.

Pretty--with her wild light brown hair and full lips--but certifiable.

Sitting across from him, alternately seeming small and vulnerable, then angry and tough, always animated, she was desperate for him to buy into her story.

So far he wasn't.

"This priest-slash-killer. How did he know you were watching him? Did he see you?" Reuben asked.

"I don't know. I can't explain it, but I swear he looked at me."

Montoya persisted. "How could he see you? You weren't there, right? You were at your grandmother's house ... this was kind of like a foggy dream."

"There was smoke but I could see through it I felt like I was staring through glass or clear plastic, a window, maybe ... "

Letting out a discouraged sigh, she set her unfinished cup of coffee on the desk, then pushed her unruly hair from her eyes. "I realize you don't want to believe me, that it would be easier if I just disappeared, but I know this happened."

She leveled her gaze at Bentz. "I'd bet my life on it."

Bentz glanced down at the legal pad in front of him. He heard the sounds of phones ringing, conversations buzzing, keyboards clicking from the outer office and felt like he was wasting his time, but decided to hear her out. "Okay. So go on. You said the priest took off his clothes. What happened then? Where did he go?"

"He left. Went out the door of the room."

"Didn't you follow him?"

"I don't think I could have. It doesn't work like that."

"What does it work like?"

"I wish I knew. I usually just get glimpses. Pieces that I have trouble putting together. This was much more complete, but ... but then ... I woke up." Convenient, Bentz thought, but didn't comment, and when he did

speak, tried to keep the skepticism from his voice.

"Do you remember anything else? For example, was there anything distinguishing that would help us locate the house or apartment where this happened?"

"The building was on fire," she snapped. "I'd think that would narrow the search down a little."

He didn't rise to the bait. "You're sure it was in New Orleans?"

"The radio was playing. I recognized one of the programs.

So it was in the vicinity, I think, and ... I can't explain it, but it felt like he was in the city or nearby ... oh, God." She sighed and shook her head. "You still don't believe me, do you?"

"I'm just sorting through what you're saying, trying to get to the facts." Whether she intended to or not, she was bothering him, getting under his skin. So sure of what she'd seen one minute yet admitting that she knew she sounded like a loon the next. One second on the verge of tears, the next mad as hell. He had a dozen questions, but didn't want to overwhelm her. And if she was lying, he relied on the old adage: Give her enough rope and she'd hang herself.

"So," Bentz said gently, "all you know is that someone was murdered, nearly beheaded, by a priest you can't identify, in a building you can't describe, but you somehow think it happened here. In New Orleans."

She looked at her hands. "Yes. I--I can't tell you where specifically.

But I do know it happened this morning."

"Because that's when you were dreaming."

Her cheeks flushed. "No ... I assume the visions occur simultaneously with the act, but I'm not certain about it.

However, as I mentioned earlier, Detective, there was a radio in that damned bathroom and the host of the late-night program, Midnight Confessions, Dr. Sam, was talking about it being a significant day in history, the day President Kennedy was assassinated. That's today, the twenty-second." "Sure is," Montoya said.

"So is that significant?"

"I don't know!" "Look," she said, pointing a finger straight at him, those gold eyes snapping fire, "I've been in before. I've talked to Detective Brinkman and he just blows me off every time, but when I read about you two, I thought maybe you'd be different. That you might help me. That somehow you could find a way to prevent what happened last night from happening again."