A Perfect Evil (21 page)

B
rightly colored stained-glass figures stared down from their heavenly perch. The scent of burning incense and candle wax filled Maggie’s nostrils. Why was it that being inside of a Catholic church always made her feel as if she was twelve again? Immediately, she thought of the black bra and panties she wore—too much lace, an inappropriate color. The butt of her gun stabbed into her side. She reached inside her jacket and readjusted the shoulder strap. Should she even be carrying a gun inside a church? Of course, she was being ridiculous.

She glanced over her shoulder as if expecting to see a casket being rolled up the aisle behind them. She could still hear the
click-clack
of rollers, the soft tap of a dozen leather shoes marching in unison along with her father’s casket. When she looked up, Morrelli was watching her, waiting for her at the altar.

“Everything okay?”

He had left her hotel room at five o’clock to go home, shower, shave and change clothes. When he arrived two hours later to pick her up, she hardly recognized him. His short hair was neatly combed back. His face was clean-shaven, and the white scar on his chin—even more pronounced—added a rugged edge to his good looks. Underneath his denim jacket he wore a white shirt and black tie with crisp blue jeans and shiny black cowboy boots. It was a stretch from the customary brown uniforms the rest of his department wore, but he still looked official. Perhaps it was simply the way he carried himself, straight and tall, self-assured with long, confident strides.

“O’Dell, are you okay?” he asked again.

She looked around the church. It seemed large for a town of Platte City’s size, with rows and rows of wooden pews. She couldn’t imagine all of them being filled.

“I’m fine,” she finally answered, then regretted taking so long because he truly did look concerned. His eyes betrayed his fresh appearance, still puffy from too little sleep. She had tried to hide her own signs of fatigue with a bit of makeup.

“It seems so big,” she said, trying to explain her distraction.

“It’s relatively new. The old church was a small country parish about five miles south of town,” he told her. “Platte City’s grown, practically doubled in the last ten years. Mostly people tired of living in the city. They still commute to work either in Omaha or Lincoln. Kind of ironic, huh? People moving out here to get away from big-city crime, thinking they’ll raise their kids someplace quiet and safe.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared off over her head.

“You folks need some help?” A man appeared from a curtain behind the altar.

“We’re looking for Father Francis,” Morrelli said without offering any more explanation.

The man eyed them suspiciously. Though he carried a broom, he was dressed in dress slacks, a crisply pressed shirt, tie and long, brown cardigan. He looked young despite his dark hair peppered with gray. When he approached them, Maggie noticed he had a slight limp and wore bright white tennis shoes.

“What do you want with Father Francis?”

Morrelli glanced at Maggie as if asking how much to reveal. Before he had a chance to say anything, the man seemed to recognize Morrelli.

“Wait a minute. I know who you are.” He said it as if it were an accusation. “Didn’t you play quarterback for the Nebraska Cornhuskers? You’re Morrelli, Nick Morrelli, 1982 to 1983.”

“You’re a Cornhuskers fan?” Morrelli grinned, obviously pleased by the recognition. Maggie noticed dimples. A quarterback—why wasn’t she surprised?

“Big-time fan. My name’s Ray…Ray Howard. I just moved back here last spring. They didn’t televise very many games back East. It was horrible, just horrible. Actually, I played a bit.” His excitement rambled on in quick bursts. “In high school. At Omaha Central. Even had Dr. Tom come check me out. Then I boogered up my knee. Our final game. Against Creighton Prep, of all the sissy teams. I twisted it up pretty good. Never played again.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Nick said.

“Yeah, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. So, is this here your wife?” He finally acknowledged Maggie. She felt his eyes slide over her body, and she resisted the urge to button her jacket.

“No, we’re not married.” Morrelli seemed embarrassed.

“Your fiancée then. That’s probably what you want to see Father Francis about, huh? He’s married hundreds.”

“No, we’re not—”

“It’s an official matter,” Maggie interrupted, relieving Morrelli. The man stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Now she crossed her arms over her chest, emphasizing her authority and stifling his wandering eyes. “Is Father Francis here?”

Howard looked at Morrelli, then back at Maggie when he realized neither was willing to say more.

“I think he’s in back changing. He said mass this morning.” He made no effort to leave.

“Would you mind getting him for us, Ray?” Morrelli asked much more politely than Maggie would have.

“Oh, sure.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Who should I say wants to see him?” He looked at Maggie, waiting for an introduction.

Maggie sighed and shifted her weight impatiently. Morrelli shot her a look, then said, “Just tell him Nick Morrelli, okay?”

“Oh, sure.”

Howard disappeared behind the curtain. This time Maggie rolled her eyes at Morrelli, and he smiled. “A quarterback, huh?” she said.

“That was a long time ago. Actually, it seems like a lifetime ago.”

“Were you any good?”

“I had a chance to go on and play for the Dolphins, but my dad insisted on law school.”

“Do you always do everything your dad tells you to do?”

She meant it as a joke, but he bristled, and his eyes told her it was a touchy subject. Then he smiled, and said, “Apparently, I do.”

“Nicholas.” A small gray-haired priest glided onto the altar in his black, floor-length cassock. “Mr. Howard said you had official business to talk to me about.”

“Hello, Father Francis. Sorry I didn’t call before we dropped in on you.”

“That’s perfectly all right. You’re always welcome here.”

“Father, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. She’s with the FBI and is here to help me on the Alverez case.”

Maggie offered her hand. The old priest took it in both of his and held it tightly. Thick blue veins protruded from the thin, brown-spotted skin. A slight tremor jiggled her hand. He looked deep into her eyes, and suddenly she felt exposed, as though he could see clear into her soul. A slight shiver slid down her back as she held his gaze.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” When he let go, he grasped the nearby podium, depending on it for strength. “Christine’s son, Timmy, reminds me of you, Nicholas. He’s one of Father Keller’s altar boys.” Then to Maggie, he said, “Nicholas was an altar boy for me years ago at the old St. Margaret’s.”

“Really?” Maggie glanced at Morrelli, anxious to witness his discomfort. Something behind him caught her eye. The altar curtain moved. There was no breeze, no draft. Then she saw the toes of two white tennis shoes poking out from underneath. Instead of drawing attention to the intruder, she smiled at Morrelli, who now seemed flustered by the priest’s attention.

“Father Francis.” He was anxious to change the subject. “We wondered if you could answer a few questions.”

“Certainly. What can I do to help?” He looked at Maggie.

“I understand you heard Ronald Jeffreys’ last confession,” Nick continued.

“Yes, but I cannot share any of that with you. I hope you understand.” His voice was suddenly frail, as though the subject drained the energy from him.

Maggie wondered whether he was sick, something terminal that would explain the gray pallor to his skin. Even his breathing came in thick, short gasps when he talked. When he was silent, a soft wheeze lifted his bony shoulders in an odd rhythm.

“Of course, we understand,” she lied. The fact was, she didn’t understand, but she prevented the impatience from creeping into her tone. “However, if there is anything that would shed light on the Alverez case, I would hope you’d share it with us.”

“O’Dell, that’s Irish Catholic, yes?”

Maggie was startled and annoyed by his distraction. “Yes, it is.” Now she allowed a bit of the impatience to slip out. He didn’t seem to notice.

“And Maggie, named for our very own St. Margaret.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Father Francis, you do understand that if Ronald Jeffreys confessed anything that would lead us to Danny Alverez’s murderer, you must tell us?”

“The sanctity of confession is to be preserved even for condemned murderers, Agent O’Dell.”

Maggie sighed and glanced back at Morrelli, who also looked as though he was becoming impatient with the old priest.

“Father,” Morrelli said. “There’s something else you might be able to help us with. Who, other than a priest, can or is allowed to administer last rites?”

Father Francis looked confused by the change of subject. “The sacrament of extreme unction should be administered by a priest, but in extreme circumstances, it’s not necessary.”

“Who else would know how?”

“Before Vatican II, it was taught in the Baltimore Catechism. The two of you may be too young to remember. Today, I believe, it is taught only in the seminary, although it may still be a part of some deacon training.”

“And what are the requirements for becoming a deacon?” Maggie asked, frustrated that this might add to their list of suspects.

“There are rigorous standards. Of course, one must be in good standing with the church. And unfortunately, only men can be deacons. I’m not sure I understand what any of this has to do with Ronald Jeffreys.”

“I’m afraid we can’t share that with you, Father.” Morrelli smiled. “No disrespect intended.” Morrelli glanced at Maggie, waiting to see if she had anything more. Then he said, “Thanks for your help, Father Francis.”

He motioned to her for them to leave, but she stared at Father Francis, hoping to see something in the hooded eyes that held hers. It was almost as though they were waiting for her to see what they revealed. Yet, the priest only nodded at her and smiled.

Morrelli touched her shoulder. She turned on her heels and marched out alongside him. Outside on the church steps she stopped suddenly. Morrelli was down on the sidewalk before he realized she wasn’t beside him. He looked up at her and shrugged.

“What’s wrong?”

“He knows something. There’s something about Jeffreys that he’s not telling us.”

“That he
can’t
tell us.”

She spun around and ran back up the steps.

“O’Dell, what are you doing?”

She heard Morrelli behind her as she threw open the heavy front door and walked quickly up the aisle. Father Francis was just leaving the altar, disappearing behind the thick curtains.

“Father Francis,” Maggie yelled to him. The echo instantly made her feel as though she had broken some rule, committed some sin. It did, however, stop Father Francis. He came back to the middle of the altar where he watched her hurry up the aisle. Morrelli was close behind.

“If you know something…If Jeffreys told you something that could prevent another murder…Father, isn’t saving the life of an innocent little boy worth breaking the confidence of a confessed serial killer?”

She didn’t realize until now that she was breathless. She waited, staring into those eyes that knew so much more than they were willing or able to reveal.

“What I can tell you is that Ronald Jeffreys told nothing but the truth.”

“Excuse me?” Her impatience was rapidly changing to anger.

“From the day he confessed to the crime to the day he was executed, Ronald Jeffreys told only the truth.” His eyes lingered on Maggie’s. But if there was something more they were saying, she couldn’t see it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Morrelli was at her side. They stood quietly, watching the priest disappear behind the flowing fabric of the curtains.

“Jesus,” Morrelli finally whispered. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means we need to take a look at Jeffreys’ original confession,” she said, pretending to know what she was talking about. Then she turned and walked out, this time carefully keeping her heels from clicking noisily on the marble floor.

H
e skidded out of the church parking lot. The bag of groceries tumbled across the seat and spilled onto the floor. Oranges rolled underneath his feet as he pressed down on the accelerator.

He needed to calm down. He searched the rearview mirror. No one followed. They had come to the church asking questions. Questions about Jeffreys. He was safe. They knew nothing. Even that newspaper reporter had insinuated that Danny’s murder was a copycat. Someone copycatting Jeffreys. Why hadn’t it occurred to any of them that Jeffreys was the copycat? The fact that Jeffreys had also been a cold-blooded murderer had simply made him the perfect patsy.

Within blocks of the school, parents scurried like frightened rats leading their children, huddling at intersections. They carted them to the curb. They watched them skip up the steps of the school until they were safely inside. Until now, they hardly noticed their children, left them alone for hours, pretending that “latchkey” was a term of endearment. Leaving them with bruises and scars that, if not stopped, would last a lifetime. And now those same parents were learning. He was actually doing them a favor, providing a precious service.

The wind hinted at snow, biting and whipping at jackets and skirts that would be quickly out of season. It reminded him of the blanket in the trunk. Did it still have blood on it? He tried to remember, tried to think while he watched the rats cover the sidewalks and clog the intersections. He stopped at a stop sign. Waited for the crossing guards. A stream of rats crossed. One recognized him and waved. He smiled and waved back.

No, he had washed the blanket. There was no blood. The bleach had worked miracles. And it would be warm, should the weather turn cold.

As he drove out of town, he noticed a flock of geese overhead getting into formation like fighter pilots from the base. He rolled down his window and listened. The squawks and honks cut through the crisp morning air. Yes, this time the thick, bulging clouds would bring snow, not rain. He could feel it in his bones.

He hated the cold, hated snow. It reminded him of too many Christmases, quietly unwrapping the few presents his mother had secretly put under the tree for him. Following his mother’s instructions, he would get up early Christmas morning and unwrap his gifts by himself. Quiet enough to hear his mother keeping his stepfather preoccupied in their bedroom, just several feet away.

His stepfather never suspected a thing, grateful for his own early-morning present. Had he found out, he and his mother would have both received beatings for their frivolous waste of his stepfather’s hard-earned money. For it was that first Christmas beating that had initiated their secret tradition.

He turned onto Old Church Road and drove along the river. The riverbank was on fire with brilliant reds, oranges and yellows. Thousands of cattails waved at him, poking up out of the tall, honey-colored grass. The snow would ruin all of this. It would cover the vivid colors of life and leave its shroud of white death.

It wasn’t much farther. Suddenly, he remembered the baseball cards. In a mad panic, he patted himself down, checking all his jacket pockets while he steered with one hand. The car veered sharply to the right. The tire slammed into a deep rut before he twisted the steering wheel and gained control. Finally, he felt the bulge in the back pocket of his jeans.

He pulled off the road into a grove of plum trees. The canopy of branches and leaves hid the car. He stuffed the spilled groceries back into the sack and shoved it under his arm. He popped the trunk. The thick wool blanket was rolled neatly and tied with rope. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder. He slammed the trunk, its echo bouncing off the trees and water. It was quiet and peaceful despite the wind whispering through the branches, threatening to bring cold. It swept up the smell of river water, a wonderful musty mixture of silt, fish and decay. He stopped to watch the water rolling in ripples and waves, moving quickly and carrying with it driftwood and other debris. It was alive and dangerous with powers of destruction. It was alive and redemptive with powers of healing and cleansing.

The muddy leaves hid the wooden door so well that even he had to search for its exact location. He cleared it of all debris, then, with both hands, yanked and pulled until it creaked open. A haze of light dimly lit the steps as he descended into the earth. Immediately, the smell of wet dirt, moist with mold, filled his lungs. As soon as he reached the bottom, he put down the sack and blanket.

From his jacket pocket he pulled the rubber mask. It was better than the ski mask, less frightening and more appropriate for this time of year. Although he hated the damn thing. But even more, he hated remembering the look in Danny’s eyes, recognizing him, trusting him and then looking at him as though betrayed. If only Danny had understood. But that look and that damn cross around the boy’s neck had almost unraveled him. No, he couldn’t take any more chances. He yanked on the mask. In seconds, his face began to perspire.

Like a zombie, with hands and arms outstretched, he took small steps until he bumped into the wooden shelf. His fingers found the lantern and matches. Fur brushed against his skin. He jerked his hand away, hitting the lantern and catching it without seeing it before it slid off the shelf.

“Damn rats,” he muttered.

His fingers lifted the rusty metal. He struck the match and lit the wick on the first try. The dark came to life in the yellow glow. Pieces of dirt wall crumbled and filtered down on him. He avoided looking up at the scratchy skitters of night creatures escaping. He waited. In a few seconds they would find new darkness and all would be safe and quiet again.

He shoved his weight against the thick wooden shelf, using his shoulder to push. The heavy structure groaned, wobbled and began to move. It scraped against the floor, taking clumps of dirt with it. Sweat rolled down his back. The mask was excruciatingly hot—his face crushed by a vapor lock. Finally, the secret passage revealed itself. He crawled through the small hole, reaching back to grab the sack and drag the blanket.

He hoped Matthew enjoyed the baseball cards.