Sacred Sins (13 page)

On a stand rested an old Bible with a carved cover; a newer, though more well-used one was open on the desk. A rosary with fat wooden beads lay beside it.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Monsignor Logan.” Tess held out her hand in a colleague-to-colleague manner that made Ben uncomfortable. The man was a priest, tweed or not, and priests were to be revered, even feared a little, and respected. God's proxies, he remembered his mother saying. They handled the sacraments, forgave sins, and absolved the dying.

One had come to Josh after he was already dead. There had been words of comfort, sympathy, and kindness for the family, but no absolution. Suicide. The most mortal of the mortal sins.

“And you, Dr. Court.” Logan had a clear, booming voice that could easily have filled a cathedral. Yet there was an edge to it, a toughness that made Ben think of an umpire calling strike three. “I attended the lecture you gave on dementia. I wasn't able to speak to you afterward and tell you I thought you were brilliant.”

“Thank you. Monsignor, Detectives Paris and Jackson—they're heading the investigation team.”

“Detectives.”

Ben accepted the handshake and felt foolish for expecting, even for an instant, something more than flesh and blood.

“Please be comfortable.” He gestured to chairs. “I have your profile and report on my desk, Dr. Court.” He swung around it with the free, easy strides of a man on a golf course. “I read them this morning, and found them both disturbing and intuitive.”

“You agree?”

“Yes, with the information from the investigator's report, I would have drawn up a reflecting profile. The religious aspects are undeniable. Of course, religious allusions and delusions are common in schizophrenia.”

“Joan of Arc heard voices,” Ben murmured.

Logan smiled and folded his broad, capable hands. “As did any number of the saints and martyrs. Some might say fasting for forty days might have anyone hearing voices. Others might say they were chosen. In this case we can all agree we're not dealing with a saint, but a very disturbed mind.”

“No argument there,” Ed murmured, his notebook in hand. He remembered feeling a little… well, spiritual, after a three-day fast.

“As a doctor, and a priest, I look on the act of murder as a sin against God, and as an act of extreme mental aberration. However, we have to deal with the mental aberration first in order to prevent the sin from being committed again.”

Logan opened Tess's file and tapped his finger on it. “It would appear that the religious aspects, and delusions, are rooted in Catholicism. I have to concur with your opinion that the use of the amice as a murder weapon could be construed as a strike against the Church, or devotion to it.”

Tess leaned forward. “Do you think he might be a priest, or have been one? Perhaps wanted to be one?”

“I believe it's more than possible he had training.” The frown came slowly, and seemed to lodge between his eyes. “There are other articles of a priest's habit that would be as effective for strangulation. The amice is neckware, and therefore, grimly accurate.”

“And the use of white?”

“Symbolizing absolution, salvation.” Unconsciously he spread his hands, palms facing, in the age-old gesture.

Tess nodded agreement. “Absolving a sin. Against himself?”

“Perhaps. But a sin that may have resulted in the death or spiritual loss of the woman he continues to save.”

“He's putting himself in the role of Christ? As Savior?” Ben demanded. “And casting the first stone?”

Because he was a man who took his time, watched his footing, Logan leaned back and rubbed his earlobe. “He doesn't perceive himself as Christ, at least not yet. He's a laborer of God in his mind, Detective, and one who knows himself to be mortal. He takes precautions, protects himself. He would realize that society would not accept his mission, but he follows a higher authority.”

“Voices again.” Ben lit a cigarette.

“Voices, visions. To a schizophrenic they are as real, often more so, than the real world. This is not split personality, Detective, but a disease, a biological dysfunction. It's possible that he's had the illness for years.”

“The murders started in August,” Ben pointed out. “We've checked with homicide divisions all over the country. There haven't been any murders with this M.O. It started here.”

Detailed police work interested Logan but didn't sway him. “Perhaps he was in a period of recovery and some kind of stress brought the symptoms back, resulting in violence. At the moment he's torn between what is and what seems to be. He agonizes, and he prays.”

“And he kills,” Ben said flatly.

“I don't expect compassion.” Logan, with his dark, priest's eyes and capable hands, spoke quietly. “That's my territory, and Dr. Court's, and can't be yours with your dealings in this case. None of us wants to see him kill again, Detective Paris.”

“You don't think he has a Christ delusion,” Ed interrupted as he continued to make methodical notes. “Is that just because he takes precautions? Christ was destroyed physically.”

“An excellent point.” The clear voice took on a richness. There was nothing he liked better than to have one of his students question his theories. Logan looked from one detective to the other and decided they made a good pair. “Still, I don't see him as perceiving himself as anything but a tool. Religion, the structure, the barriers, the traditions of it, loom more predominantly than theology. He kills as a priest, whether he is one or not. He absolves and forgives as God's proxy,” he continued, and saw Ben wince. “Not as the Son of God. I developed an interesting theory you missed, Dr. Court.”

She came to attention instantly. “Oh?”

He smiled again, recognizing professional pride. “Understandable enough. You're not Catholic, are you?”

“No.”

“The investigation team overlooked it as well.”

“I'm Methodist,” Ed put in, still writing. “I'm not trying for a conversion.” Taking up his pipe, he began to fill it. His fingers were blunt and wide, with the nails neatly trimmed. A few flakes of tobacco fell on
and clung to his yellow turtleneck. “The date of the first murder, August fifteenth, is a Church holy day.”

“The Assumption,” Ben murmured before he realized it.

“Yes.” Logan continued to fill his pipe and smiled. Ben was reminded of answering correctly in catechism.

“I used to be Catholic.”

“A common problem,” Logan said, and lit his pipe.

No lecture, no pontifical frown. Ben felt his shoulders relaxing. His mind started ticking. “I didn't put the dates together. You think it's significant?”

Meticulously, Logan removed tobacco from his sweater. “It could be.”

“I'm sorry, Monsignor.” Tess lifted her hands. “You'll have to explain.”

“August fifteenth is the day the Church recognizes the Virgin's assumption into heaven. The Mother of God was a mortal, but she carried the Savior in her womb. We revere her as the most blessed and pure among women.”

“Pure,” Tess murmured.

“Of itself, I might not have paid too much attention to the date,” Logan continued. “However, it jogged my imagination enough to check the Church calendar. The second murder occurred on the day we celebrate Mary's birth.”

“He's picking the days she's—excuse me—Mary's honored by the Church?” Ed stopped writing long enough to look up for an acknowledgment.

“The third murder falls on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. I've added a Church calendar to your file, Dr. Court. I don't think the odds for three out of three rate a coincidence.”

“No, I agree.” Tess rose, anxious to see for herself. She picked up the calender and studied the dates Logan
had circled. Dusk was falling. Logan switched on the light and the beam shot over the paper in her hands.

“The next one you have here isn't until December eighth.”

“The Immaculate Conception.” Logan puffed on his pipe.

“That would put eight weeks between the murders,” Ed calculated. “He's never gone more than four.”

“And we can't be sure he's emotionally capable of waiting that long,” Tess added in a murmur. “He could change his pattern. Some incident could set him off. He might pick a date personally important to him.”

“The date of birth or death of someone important to him.” Ben lit another cigarette.

“A female figure.” Tess folded the calendar. “The female figure.”

“I agree that the stress he's under is building.” Logan put his pipe down and leaned forward. “The need for release could be enough to make him strike sooner.”

“He's probably dealing with some sort of physical pain.” Tess slipped the calendar into her briefcase. “Headache, nausea. If it becomes too great for him to carry on his normal life…”

“Exactly.” Logan folded his hands again. “I wish I could be more helpful. I would like to discuss this with you again, Dr. Court.”

“In the meantime, we have a pattern.” Ben crushed out his cigarette as he rose. “We concentrate on December eighth.”

“I
T'S
only a crumb,” Ben said as they stepped out into a chilled dusk. “But I'm ready to take it.”

“I didn't realize you were Catholic.” Tess buttoned
her coat against the wind that was whipping up. “Maybe that'll be an advantage.”

“Used to be Catholic. And speaking of crumbs, are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Good.” He slipped an arm around her. “Then we can outvote Ed. You're not in the mood for yogurt and alfalfa sprouts, are you?”

“Ah…”

“Ben'll want to stop and get a greasy hamburger. What the man puts in his system is revolting.”

“How about Chinese?” It was the best compromise she could come up with as she slipped into the car. “There's a great little place around the corner from my office.”

“Told you she was classy,” Ed said as he took the driver's seat. He fastened his safety belt and waited with the patience of the wise and determined for Ben to follow suit. “The Chinese have the proper respect for the digestive system.”

“Sure, they keep it stuffed with rice.” Ben glanced over his shoulder and saw Tess already spread out on the backseat, her file open. “Come on, Doc, take a break.”

“I just want to check over a couple of things.”

“Ever treated a workaholic?”

She glanced over the file, then back again. “I may decide I have a craving for yogurt after all.”

“Not Tanya Tucker!” Ben pushed the reject button before the first bar of the song was out. “You had her this afternoon.”

“I wish.”

“Degenerate. I'm putting on some—ah, shit, look at that. The liquor store.”

Ed slowed down. “Looks like a five-oh-nine in progress.”

“A what?” Tess straightened up in the back and tried to see.

“Robbery in progress.” Ben was already unhooking his belt. “Go back to work.”

“A robbery? Where?”

“Where's a black and white?” Ben muttered as he reached for the radio. “Dammit, all I want's some sweet and sour pork.”

“Pork's poison.” Ed unlatched his own belt.

Ben snapped into the radio. “Unit six-oh. We have a five-oh-nine in progress on Third and Douglas. Any available units. We have a civilian in the car. Ah, damn, he's coming out. Requesting backup. Perpetrator's heading south. White male, five-ten, a hundred eighty. Black jacket, jeans.” The radio squawked back at him. “Yeah, we're on him.”

Ed revved the engine and rounded the corner. From the backseat, Tess stared, fascinated.

She saw the husky man in the black jacket come out of the liquor store and head up the street at a jog. The minute he turned his head and saw the Mustang, he broke into a run.

“Shit, he made us.” Ben pulled out the Kojak light. “Just sit tight, Doc.”

“Making for the alley,” Ed said mildly. He brought the car to a halt, fishtailing it. Before Tess could open her mouth, both men were out of opposite sides and running.

“Stay in the car!” Ben shouted at her.

She listened to him for about ten seconds. Slamming the door behind her, she raced to the mouth of the alley herself.

Ed was bigger, but Ben was faster. As she watched, the man they were chasing reached into his jacket. She saw the gun and only had an instant to freeze before Ben caught him at the knees and sent him sprawling into a
line of garbage cans. There was a shot over the clatter of metal. She was halfway down the alley when Ben dragged the man to his feet. There was blood, and the scent of rotting food from the metal cans which were emptied regularly but rarely cleaned. The man didn't struggle, probably because he saw Ed and the police issue in his hand. He spat a stream of blood-tinged saliva.

It wasn't like television, Tess thought as she looked at the man who would have shot Ben in the face if the timing had been a little different. Nor was it like a novel. It wasn't even like the eleven o'clock news, where all the details were neatly tied up and delivered with rapid-fire detachment. Life was full of smelly alleys and spittle. Her training and work had taken her there before, but only emotionally.

She took a deep breath, relieved that she wasn't frightened, only curious. And maybe a little fascinated.

With two snaps Ben had the robber's hands cuffed behind his back. “Haven't you got more brains than to shoot at a police officer?”