Vengeance Is Mine (17 page)

Henry punched in the S
TOP
P
RINT
code, but nothing happened. How did he shut this thing off? If he used up all the paper in the box, the bureaucrats in accounting would be sure to bill him. He had to do something fast.

A quick glance at the computer manual did no good whatsoever. Henry was sure it had been translated from some foreign language. It said nothing about printers running amok.

Electrical. The whole damn system was plugged in. The moment Henry thought of it, he made a dive under the desk to pull out the plug. Silence. He'd lost all his data, but this modern technology stuff hadn't worked worth a damn anyway.

Back to the drawing board. Henry took out his grid paper and his notes. There was only one way to do this, the old-fashioned, tedious way. Earlier in the day Henry had taken more than fifty precise measurements of the wounds of the four victims. From visual examination of the wounds he knew that the murder weapon consisted of two bars that crossed at a ninety-degree angle. By comparing the impression made on the skulls and brain tissue of the four victims, he was able to use the intersection of the two bars as a constant and reconstruct an overlay of the various blows. This resulted in an accurate picture of the configuration of the murder weapon, even though he had no way of knowing the actual size.

It was close to twelve-thirty when Henry was through. Both bars were two inches wide, but that didn't help much. The thing that caught his attention was the intersection of the two bars. It wasn't flat. Instead, there was a raised semi-oval surface with three sharp points near the top. He already knew the prongs were high-grade silver. He'd analyzed the one that had broken off in Les's skull.

He was just too tired to think. Henry called Steve's number again, but he still wasn't home. Perhaps a cup of decent coffee and a light breakfast would help. He could call Steve again from the hospital cafeteria.

The basement of the hospital was deserted. Henry pressed the button for the elevator and changed his mind after waiting for more than three minutes. He'd use the stairs. The exercise would take the stiffness out of his legs.

“Good morning, Dr. Corliss.”

A pretty red-haired nurse greeted him as he opened the stairwell door. She looked fresh and dewy-eyed, filled with the early-morning enthusiasm that only professional nurses seem to have. Henry smiled back, but he could see in her eyes that he looked like death warmed over. He'd been in the office since six this morning, and he'd gotten a total of twelve hours' sleep in the past three nights.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Nurses were changing shifts, and Henry stepped into the chapel to avoid a group of twittering students. He didn't feel like greeting anyone. He just wanted to show Steve his results and go home to bed.

A crucifix hung on the wall at the back of the chapel. Henry stared at it and rubbed his eyes. It had always struck him as morbid to worship a deity dying in agony on an ancient instrument of torture.

“Holy shit!”

Henry's eyes widened as he stared at the two intersecting bars of metal with the figure of Christ forming a bulky oval at the center. He moved closer and squinted at the crown of thorns on the figure's head. Sharp prongs. High-grade silver. He had to get to Steve right away.

 

 

Sister Kate gave up and turned on the light. She couldn't seem to go back to sleep even though she was tired. She might as well read for a while.

The courthouse clock chimed once as Sister Kate reached for her book. It was one o'clock in the morning, and she had to get up at six. Thinking about the day to come should be enough to make her sleepy again.

She'd had the elevator dream again. If she told Dr. Sullivan about her dreams, he'd insist they were related to sexual frustration. Dr. Sullivan was in his Freudian phase again, complete with his pointed little beard. Sister Kate had worked with the doctor for more than five years, and she'd watched him alternate between Skinnerian conditioning and Freudian psychotherapy. She preferred the Freudian. At least she didn't have to keep track of reinforcement schedules every time her patients burped. No, she wouldn't bother Dr. Sullivan with her dream. She was positive it was caused by the missing elevator key.

Cissy had helped her look today. They'd gone through Father Murphy's room, inch by inch, even though he'd insisted that he hadn't seen it. She simply had to locate that key before Father Gregory was admitted next week. The elevator ran from the attached garage to the upstairs rooms, and Father Gregory was confined to a wheelchair. She'd never get him up and down the stairs without the elevator.

Her mind was racing, and Sister Kate knew she had to relax. She got out of bed, slipped into her robe, and walked softly to the kitchen. She'd have a nice hot cup of
latte
, just the way her Italian grandmother used to make it.

Sister Kate poured milk into a saucepan and turned on the stove. She waited until the milk was steaming and added a scoop of sugar. Then she stirred it and poured it into a cup. Nonna Rosa's
latte
had always put her right to sleep.

The
latte
was too hot to drink. Sister Kate carried it back to her room and set it down on her night table. Then she went up the stairs to do one final check on her patients.

The major and Father Murphy both were sound asleep. Monsignor Wickes was snoring again, and Sister Kate shut his door tightly. Cissy was sleeping in a fetal position, and she whimpered as Sister Kate opened the door. There were tears on her cheeks.

Sister Kate moved quietly to the bed and smoothed back Cissy's hair. It must have been a bad dream. At the touch of her hand Cissy smiled slightly and burrowed down under the covers. That was better. Now she was sleeping like a baby.

She heard the noise the moment she opened Gustie's door. Sister Kate hurried to the bed and smiled as she realized what it was. Gustie was smacking her lips as she slept. She was probably dreaming about a twelve-course meal.

Mother Superior had kicked off her covers, and the room was ice-cold. Sister Kate tiptoed in to shut the window and tuck her covers in tightly. Mother Superior's Pope John Paul II paper doll was propped up on her dresser. She'd cut out the green chasuble and dressed him in the pontifical attire he'd worn for his visit to Washington, D.C.

Only one room remained, and Sister Kate forced herself to open the bishop's door. He was sleeping flat on his back with his arms held rigidly at his sides. There were looming shadows on the walls from the chess pieces again, and Sister Kate backed out as quickly as she could. Bishop Donahue's room always made her nervous, especially at night.

Sister Kate knew she should try to get over her prejudice toward the bishop. He'd been extremely pleasant in the last few days, but she still didn't feel comfortable around him. There was nothing concrete. It was probably just a silly notion, but Bishop Donahue's congeniality reminded her of the lull before the destructive force of a tornado.

CHAPTER 19

“Just a minute, Pete. I brought you something.”

Michele opened her purse and took out the hot dog she'd saved from this afternoon. The ketchup and mustard had leaked through the paper napkin, but Pete didn't seem to mind a bit.

Steve laughed. “You'd better put your purse up tonight. Pete might decide to chew through it to see if there's more. Oh before I forget, Michele, I had Doug stop by at the hardware store to make these for you.”

Steve reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out two keys.

“The red one opens the dead bolt, and the blue one's for the regular lock. I don't think you should go back home until this whole thing is wrapped up. My place is much more secure. Now, there's something I need to show you. I'll be back in a second.”

Michele breathed a sigh of relief. She was glad she wasn't going back to her own apartment, even though her WinterGame interview with Margaret had been canceled. That hollow front door was bothering her. She almost wished that Steve hadn't told her.

As she slipped the keys onto her key chain, Michele wondered if she was making some sort of commitment. Did the keys simply mean that she was still under official police protection? Or was there another reason that had to do with Steve's hurried “Love you, honey” in Doug's car this morning? Michele opened her mouth to ask, but the phone rang. She was beginning to hate that sound. At least it wasn't the tie line this time.

“Could you get that, honey?” Steve called from the bedroom.

“Hello? Yes, this is Steve Radke's apartment. Just a moment and I'll get him for you.”

Steve hurried back to the living room and took the phone. He was holding a gun in his hand.

“Oh, hi, Mom! No, that's all right. I wasn't sleeping.”

There was a moment of silence, and Steve laughed.

“Oh, that was my—my friend, Michele Layton. No, Mom. It's perfectly all right. You aren't disturbing us at all.”

Michele got up from the sofa and went into the bedroom. She didn't want to eavesdrop on Steve's conversation with his mother. She guessed
friend
was as good a word as any to describe their relationship, but she couldn't help feeling a little disappointed. She wished Steve had said something a little more personal.

She switched on the light by the bed and sat down gingerly. She still wasn't used to the water bed, but it had certainly cured her insomnia. What other word could Steve have used? He certainly couldn't have said
mistress
or
lover
, and
girlfriend
was a ridiculous term for a woman over twenty-five. There must be a socially acceptable word to describe her, but Michele couldn't think of a single one.

“Michele? Come here a second, will you?”

Steve was sitting on the couch when she came back to the living room.

“I told my mom we'd try to stop by on the way up to Canada. They want to meet you, and their place is right on the way. International Falls. She heard about the murders on the news, and she's been trying to reach me all night.”

Michele smiled. Steve wanted her to meet his parents. Maybe
friend
wasn't as bad as she thought.

“This is a Colt thirty-eight magnum. It's fully loaded, six cylinders. I keep it on the trunk by the bed. See this little button on the side? That's the safety. Press it so the red shows, aim it, and pull the trigger. That's all there is to it. Do you think you can handle it?”

Michele reached out to take the gun and clicked the safety back on.

“I know exactly what you're going to say. ‘Aim for the chest. It's the biggest target. Extend the right arm, and steady the gun with your left. Keep both eyes open, and squeeze off your shots.' I used to go target shooting with my dad. He had a Colt just like this.”

Steve nodded.

“You're full of surprises, Michele. That's one of the things I love about you. My ex-wife almost fainted the first time I handed her a gun.”

The phone rang again, and Steve reached over to answer it.

“Hi, Henry. No, not a thing. Michele and I just got back from Perkins. Now? Sure, Henry. I'll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

Steve hung up the phone and turned to Michele.

“Henry sounded pretty excited. He wants me to meet him at the hospital right away. Do you think you'll be all right here alone?”

Michele nodded quickly. She was scared to death of staying here alone, but she couldn't keep tagging along with Steve like a scared rabbit and spoil her image by admitting her fear. Besides, she had the gun, and she
did
know how to use it. It wasn't the same as the fishing tapes.

“I'll be fine, Steve. Go ahead.”

“Pete's not very big, but he's a pretty good watchdog. If anyone comes to the door, he'll bark like crazy. Don't let anyone in, Michele. No one. Promise?”

“I promise, but you're going to look pretty silly sleeping out there on the steps.”

Steve laughed. “All right. You made your point. Don't let anyone in but me. Lock the dead bolt when I leave, okay?”

Michele kissed Steve at the door. “You can wake me up when you get back if you want to.”

“I want to.” Steve hugged her hard.

Michele snapped the dead bolt home as soon as Steve closed the door. He'd mentioned love for the second time. Two times in one day couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

 

 

It took less than ten minutes to drive to the hospital. Steve left his car in a no-parking zone near the entrance. As he rushed into the lobby a gray-haired woman in a pink smock stopped him.

“I'm sorry, but visiting hours are—”

“Police, ma'am.” Steve flashed his badge. “I'm meeting Dr. Corliss in the cafeteria.”

“Oh. Follow the green line, and turn left at the end of the corridor. It's the third door on the right.” The receptionist lowered her voice. “It's not another murder, is it?”

“No, ma'am. Just routine business.”

Steve glanced back as he reached the end of the corridor. The gray-haired woman had the phone to her ear, and she was speaking urgently to someone. Steve was willing to bet that the receptionist's friends would take an unscheduled coffee break to try to overhear his conversation with Henry.

The cafeteria was nearly deserted. A tired-looking intern sat at an orange plastic table in the back of the room, munching impassively on a vending machine sandwich. A medical text was propped open in front of him, and he didn't even look up as Steve entered.

“Steve, over here.”

Henry stood by the coffee machine. He finished the last of his coffee at a gulp and threw the plastic cup into the trash.

“Come with me, Steve. There's something you have to see.”

Four nurses rushed into the cafeteria as they were leaving. Steve thought they looked disappointed. It couldn't have been more than two minutes since he'd shown his badge to the lady in pink. The hospital grapevine was working effectively tonight.

Henry led Steve down the corridor and stopped at a door with a small bronze plaque. It was the hospital chapel.

“In here, Steve.” Henry opened the door and switched on the lights. “You're not going to believe this, but everything checks out. I went over it twice to be sure.”

Steve stepped inside. It was a miniature church with four cushioned pews.

“Take a good look at the big silver crucifix up by the altar. Your murder weapon looks exactly like that.”

 

 

Michele was afraid to take a shower. All sorts of terrible things could happen, and she wouldn't hear them over the noise of the rushing water. Judith had been taking a shower when those three men broke into her house. Then there was the horrible scene with Janet Leigh and Anthony Perkins, but she didn't want to think about that. Michele settled for a bath instead. If she kept the bathroom door open, she'd be able to hear any noise outside in the apartment.

She was sitting in the bathtub, trying to relax, when it happened. Pete came barreling into the room and jumped up on the edge of the tub. The porcelain was slippery, and he went skidding and thrashing into the water.

“Oh, my God.”

Michele pulled the little dog out. He looked like a drowned rat. It was amazing how much smaller he seemed when his hair was plastered to his body.

“Now you've done it, Pete.” Michele laughed at Pete's forlorn expression. “Do you want a bath, boy? You've certainly got a head start.”

Pete didn't seem to mind getting into the tub again, after Michele let out most of the water. She found an old soft brush under the bathroom sink and scrubbed him down.

“All done, Pete.” Michele finished rinsing him off and wrapped a fluffy towel around him. Then she carried him into the bedroom and gave him a Milk-Bone while she rubbed him dry.

“Now that wasn't so bad, was it?” Michele set him down on the bed and hung up the towel to dry. When she came back, Pete was shaking, so she pulled back the spread and covered him up. The heated water bed would warm him up in no time.

Pete followed her with his eyes as she got into one of Steve's white T-shirts as a nightgown and the robe she'd brought from her apartment. There were three books on Steve's side of the bed.
An Introduction to Criminalistics, Medicolegal Investigation of Gunshot Wounds
, and
Fishing Canada.
Michele settled for the fishing book—at least there were pictures—and stretched out on the bed to read. In less than five minutes Pete had crawled over to cuddle against Michele's side and both of them were sound asleep.

 

 

It was past one-thirty, but there were lights on at the archbishopric. Steve turned on Third Avenue South and pulled into the driveway. The archbishop's invitation to call on him again probably didn't extend to the wee hours of the morning, but it couldn't be helped. If Archbishop Ciminski was still awake, Steve had to ask him some questions.

“Mr. Radke?” Joe, the young priest whom Steve had met on his last visit, opened the door.

“I'm sorry to come so late, Joe, but I have to talk to the archbishop if he's still awake. It should take only a minute.”

Joe nodded and hung Steve's parka in the closet.

“Right this way, Mr. Radke. His Excellency is in the den. He just finished a late meeting.”

“Ah, Steve.” Archbishop Ciminski got up from his chair to shake Steve's hand. “I'm sorry I couldn't locate your bishop.”

“I appreciate all those calls you made, sir.”

The archbishop was wearing street clothes again. Even though he was prepared this time, Steve still had trouble believing that the tall, smiling man wearing corduroy pants and a red crewneck sweater was really the head of a powerful archdiocese.

Archbishop Ciminski gestured toward a group of wing chairs near the window.

“Have a seat, Steve. Is it too late to offer coffee?”

“It's never too late.” Steve grinned. “Your coffee is much better than Perkins's.”

Joe tapped at the door and came in with their coffee before the archbishop had even reached for his buzzer. He must have prepared it right after he'd answered the door. Steve waited until the young priest had left before he turned to the archbishop.

“I've got some unpleasant news, sir. The city medical examiner identified the murder weapon. It was a crucifix.”

“A crucifix?” Archbishop Ciminski was clearly shocked.

“Yes, sir. Now it's even more important to find that bishop. He may be the killer.”

Archbishop Ciminski looked sick. “Oh, that
can't
be. No member of the clergy would ever—No, it's simply impossible.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but Dr. Corliss is positive. Of course, the killer might not be a real bishop. That's one of the reasons I needed to talk to you right away. Do you know of any place a layperson could buy or rent a bishop's vestments?”

“Let me think a moment.”

The archbishop sighed deeply and took a sip of his coffee. His hands were trembling.

“Certainly not through regular church channels. I'm sure of that. How about a costume shop? I've heard they carry almost everything.”

“Good.” Steve pulled out his notebook and wrote down the suggestion.

“The vestments could be stolen, I suppose. I'll check with the bishops in the state and see if any of their things are missing.”

“How about a dry cleaning store? Are vestments cleaned at commercial places?”

The archbishop nodded. “That's a possibility.”

“Thank you, sir. That gives me a place to start. Now, how about the crucifix? Dr. Corliss took measurements. I won't go into the details, but he's sure it's twenty-four inches tall and made of high-grade silver.”

“That sounds fairly standard. Just a moment, Steve.” The archbishop pressed his buzzer, and Joe appeared. “Will you bring in the crucifix from our chapel, Joe? And we'll need a tape measure.”

Steve watched the archbishop as they waited for Joe to come back. He still looked distressed. The news that a venerated religious object had been used as a murder weapon must be a terrible shock to a man in Archbishop Ciminski's position.

Joe came back carrying the crucifix. He laid it reverently on the table and gave the tape measure to the archbishop.

“Yes.” Archbishop Ciminski nodded as he measured carefully. “Twenty-four inches exactly. This particular crucifix is widely used in the church.”

“Where could someone buy or steal a crucifix like this?”