Killing Hope (Gabe Quinn Thriller) (28 page)

I drove on. Following the Long Beach Freeway to its northerly conclusion. I thought about
The Undertaker
abducting the little girl from the park on Friday. Keeping her doped up until disposing of her early Monday morning. Thought about him watching her daily routine. Knowing the father sat on the same bench. Same time every day. Knowing he’d need to distract the father and eliminate the dog before snatching the child. Yet more examples of his military precision. But where had he kept Jenny McNamara for forty-eight hours?

I glanced at the rosary beads dangling from the rear-view mirror.

There were clues I needed to work.
The Undertaker
purposely left the same calling cards at all three crime scenes. According to Bill, they were part of his message. I jumped off the freeway a few streets south of Alhambra and headed straight to the Church of St Therese on El Molino Street.

I had always considered Father Daniel Flannigan too handsome to be a man of the cloth. The Cary Grant of the priesthood. Chiseled from hard Sardinian granite rather than soft Irish peat. I hadn’t seen Father Dan in almost a year. Not sure where I stood. With him or with God.

I parked my car in an otherwise empty lot and made my way inside. I hadn’t been in a house of God on personal business in almost a year. I wasn’t starting now.

‘Detective Gabriel,’ Father Dan began as he saw me advancing down the aisle. ‘If your intention is to take a cheap swipe at me again, I must warn you I have been taking karate lessons since last we met.’

‘Relax, Father.’ I said. ‘I’m here to pick your brains, not a fight. What’s with the sweater?’

It took a moment for my words to penetrate. Then he came out from behind the safety of the altar.

‘Do you like it?’ He said. ‘It’s a present from my dearest niece. I have never been a huge fan of Winnie the Pooh. But such is my penance for missing her Christmastime trip to Disney World.’

He gave me a
can we be friends?
smile. And I felt my own frame relax a little. Realized I must have had the look of a bulldozer about me as I’d stormed through the church.

‘I need your help.’ I said.

Father Dan made a gesture towards the confessional booths.

I shook my head. ‘Police business.’

‘God’s business trumps all.’

I slid an envelope from beneath my jacket.

‘I need your help.’ I said again. ‘A case I’m working on.’

Father Dan spread his hands. ‘Shall I be needing holy water or a stout shot of the good stuff?’

78

^{___________________________}

Stacey Kellerman had made a decision to do whatever necessary to get where she wanted. In fact, she’d made it a long time ago and every day since. It was a product of enduring an abusive father.

Even as a small child she’d learned to use whatever means necessary in order to survive. Including compliance and feigned pleasure. The beatings had molded her. The abuse had hardened her. Together they’d determined her to make something of herself other than her poppa’s little whore.

There wasn’t a person alive or dead she was unwilling to use to get what she wanted. No situation she wasn’t eager to exploit. No heads she wouldn’t roll to achieve her goal.

‘You see a chance, you take it, right?’ she said to herself as she recalled the old song lyric.

And she’d seen her chance.

Rather, the chance had called her up on the telephone. From out of the blue. Made her an offer she couldn’t pass up.

She looked at the phone sitting in its cradle on the counter in the kitchen of her duplex in Winchester and made another decision.

She would sell her soul for a stab at stardom.

If that meant leaving everything and everyone behind, then so be it. She had no family left in Nevada to speak of. No idea in which crack den her whore mother was holed up. Only sideways promotions ahead of her. She had to get out of here. Head east. Cut a deal that would see her name in lights and her face on every TV set in the land.

Stacey Kellerman had made a decision to do whatever it took to get where she wanted.

79

^{___________________________}

There was a motorcycle cop leaning against my car in the church parking lot when I got outside. Fortyish. Polished helmet in hand. Knee-high boots gleaming. Pristine images of the church reflected in his mirrored
Ray-Bans.

‘I take it the aspirin didn’t work?’ He said as I walked over.

I gave him
the
look.

‘What are you doing here, Officer Roxbury?’

‘Tim.’ He said.

I popped the locks.

‘I’m not stalking you,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you think. Just trying to be friendly. Watch your back.’

‘Thanks. But it doesn’t need watching.’

‘You phoned her yet?’

‘Who?’

‘Stevie.’

‘No.’

‘You should.’

‘She’s half my age.’

‘She’s thirty-five. What are you, fifty?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Why, because she runs a gay nightclub or because she’s bi-sexual?’

‘Because she has a boyfriend.’ I sighed. ‘Why the hell am I explaining it to you anyway?’

I got in the car and closed the door.

Tim tapped gloved knuckles on the driver’s window.

‘What?’

He made a
roll down the window
motion.

I did – but only halfway.

‘Out of curiosity,’ he said. ‘That file. Is it the case you’re working on? The one involving Jeff? Anything I can help you with?’

‘Goodbye, Office Roxbury.’

I went to wind the window up. He hooked gloved fingers over the glass rim.

‘Come on, give me a break. Let me help. I’ve put in for my detective exam.’

I was surprised. And worried.

He saw it in my face.

‘Hey, I have an unblemished work record.’ He said. ‘Citations coming out my ears. It’s impeachable.’

‘You mean impeccable.’

‘Exactly. All I’m asking is a chance.’

I wound up the window. He kept his fingers curled over the glass till the very last second, then pulled them quickly away as the window snapped shut.

I took out my phone and pretended to check messages.

Out of the corner of one eye I saw the motorcycle cop hang around for a few seconds more, then wander back to his bike. Heard him rev the engine, hard, then peel across the parking lot. There was a woman with a stroller taking a short cut through the church grounds. A couple of youths racing down the sidewalk on skateboards. A big black guy in a hoodie crossing the street. I waited until Tim was out of sight before opening up the file on my lap.

There was a sheet of handwritten dictations inside. Notes taken during my conversation with Father Dan. I put on readers and read them through:

In Christianity, the rose symbolizes the union between Jesus Christ and his Church. The word rosary also comes from the word rose. In early Christendom, the rose was a symbol of the Christian faith. In particular, the red rose stood for the blood of the martyrs …

I wondered if the killer saw his victims as martyrs.

In the Middle Ages, worshippers of Christ wore bracelets of beads made from rose petals. They formed a ring of rose petals around the sinner’s flesh …

I wondered if the killer saw his victims as sinners.

In the Old Testament, ashes were used as a sign of humility and mortality – as a sign of sorrow and repentance for sin. The Christian use of ashes on Ash Wednesday is taken directly from this Old Testament custom. Receiving ashes on the forehead is a reminder of our own mortality and a sign of our sorrow for sin …

I wondered if the killer was using the ash to mark out his victims. But why? For atonement? The thought surprised me.

I looked through the stack of glossies one by one. Looked at the rings of rose petals surrounding each victim. Looked at the ash crosses smeared on their brows. Looked at the hands clasped across the chest in the customary pose of interment. Everything fit in with a religious connection perfectly. But there was no mention of any mouths glued shut in the Bible.

I closed my eyes and thought some more.

Then I stuffed the photos back in the file and turned over the engine. Put the gearstick in Drive. Went to pull away. But something stopped me dead in my tracks. Made me stamp on the brakes.

Some things do that.

The sight of a screaming nun running across the parking lot with her hands and habit soaked in blood is one of them.

80

^{___________________________}

When somebody mentions the fight or flight reflex we all know what they mean. It’s that hot burst of adrenaline which either compels us to action or sends us fleeing for the hills. As a policeman, I’d had the chicken trained out of me.

I leapt out of the car and grabbed the nun before she could race past.

‘Let me go!’ she screamed.

She struggled against my grasp. I caught her flailing hands and held her fast.

‘Sister Bethany,’ – I recognized her from a time I’d been here every Sunday without fail – ‘it’s me, Gabriel.’

She looked up with terror-stricken eyes. ‘He’s dead!’ she screamed. ‘Slaughtered!’

There was bright crimson blood splashed across her white coif. And something like insane fear trying to claw its way out of her face.

‘Who?’ I shouted. ‘Who’s dead?’

‘It was the Devil.’ She cried. ‘He was here. In the church. God help us! The Devil killed Father Flannigan!’