A Perfect Evil (30 page)

M
aggie hated to admit that she had never watched
The X-Files.
Her lifestyle allowed little time for television or movies. Timmy, however, seemed unconcerned. Once in his room, he anxiously showed off everything, from models of the
Starship Enterprise
to his collection of fossils. One, he said with certainty, was a dinosaur tooth.

The small room was wonderfully cluttered. A baseball mitt hung on the bedpost. A
Jurassic Park
bedspread covered lumps she guessed were matching pajamas. On a corner bookshelf, an old microscope propped up copies of
King Arthur, Galaxy of the Stars
and
The Collector’s Encyclopedia of Baseball Cards.
The walls were hidden, plastered with an odd assortment of posters including
The X-Files,
the Nebraska Cornhuskers,
Star Trek, Jurassic Park
and
Batman.
She took it all in, not as an observant FBI agent, but as a twelve-year-old robbed of this part of her childhood.

Then she remembered her conversation with Greg. The tension was hard to shrug off. He had now accused her of ignoring her own mother. She reminded him that she was the one with the degree in psychology. It didn’t matter. He was still angry with her for ruining their anniversary and carried that anger like some trophy he had won that he deserved. How did they ever get to this point?

Timmy grabbed her hand again and led her to the dresser. He pointed to the empty hull of a horseshoe crab.

“My grandpa brought this home for me from Florida. He and Grandma travel a lot. You can touch it if you want.”

She ran her finger over the smooth shell. She noticed a photo behind the crab. About two dozen boys in matching T-shirts and shorts lined the inside of a canoe and the dock behind it. She recognized the boy at the front of the canoe and leaned in for a closer view. Her pulse quickened. She lifted the photo, careful not to disturb the crab. The boy was Danny Alverez.

“What’s this photo, Timmy?”

“Oh, that’s church camp. My mom made me go. I thought it’d ruin my summer, but it was fun.”

“Isn’t this boy Danny Alverez?” She pointed, and Timmy took a closer look.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“So you knew him?”

“Not really. He was down in the Red Robin cabins. I was in the Goldenrod.”

“Didn’t he go to your church?” She examined the other faces.

“No, I think he went to school and church out by the air force base. Do you want to see my baseball card collection?” He was already digging through the drawers of his nightstand.

Maggie wanted to know more about church camp. “How many boys were there at camp?”

“I don’t know. Lots.” He set a wooden box on the bed and began taking out cards. “They come from all over, different churches around the county.”

“Is it just for boys?”

“No, there’s girls, too, but their camp’s on the other side of the lake. Somewhere in here I’ve got a rookie Darryl Strawberry.” He sorted through piles he had scattered on the bed.

There were two adults in the photo. One was Ray Howard, the janitor from St. Margaret’s. The other was a tall, handsome man with dark curly hair and a boyish face. Both he and Howard wore gray T-shirts with St. Margaret’s written across the front.

“Timmy, who’s this guy in the photo?”

“Oh, that’s Father Keller. He’s really cool. I’m one of his altar boys this year. Not many boys get to be his altar boy. He’s really choosy.”

“How is he choosy?” She made sure that she sounded only interested, not alarmed.

“I don’t know. Just by making sure they’re reliable and stuff. He treats us special, sort of like our reward for being good altar boys.”

“How does he treat you special?”

“He’s taking us camping this Thursday and Friday. And sometimes he plays football with us. Oh, and he trades baseball cards. Once I traded him a Bob Gibson for a Joe DiMaggio.”

She started to put the photo back. Another face caught her eye. This time she almost dropped the frame. Her heart began to pound. Up on the dock, partially hidden behind a bigger boy, peered the small, freckled face of Matthew Tanner.

“Timmy, do you mind if I borrow this photo for a few days? I promise I’ll get it back to you.”

“Okay. Do you carry a gun?”

“Yes, I do.” She kept the frantic tone from her voice. Carefully, she tugged the photo out of its frame, noticing a slight tremor in her fingers from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

“Are you wearing one now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Can I see it?”

“Timmy,” Christine interrupted them. “It’s time for dinner. You need to wash up.” She held the door open and swatted him with a kitchen towel on his way out.

Maggie slipped the photo into her jacket pocket without Christine noticing.

M
aggie hated to admit that she had never watched
The X-Files.
Her lifestyle allowed little time for television or movies. Timmy, however, seemed unconcerned. Once in his room, he anxiously showed off everything, from models of the
Starship Enterprise
to his collection of fossils. One, he said with certainty, was a dinosaur tooth.

The small room was wonderfully cluttered. A baseball mitt hung on the bedpost. A
Jurassic Park
bedspread covered lumps she guessed were matching pajamas. On a corner bookshelf, an old microscope propped up copies of
King Arthur, Galaxy of the Stars
and
The Collector’s Encyclopedia of Baseball Cards.
The walls were hidden, plastered with an odd assortment of posters including
The X-Files,
the Nebraska Cornhuskers,
Star Trek, Jurassic Park
and
Batman.
She took it all in, not as an observant FBI agent, but as a twelve-year-old robbed of this part of her childhood.

Then she remembered her conversation with Greg. The tension was hard to shrug off. He had now accused her of ignoring her own mother. She reminded him that she was the one with the degree in psychology. It didn’t matter. He was still angry with her for ruining their anniversary and carried that anger like some trophy he had won that he deserved. How did they ever get to this point?

Timmy grabbed her hand again and led her to the dresser. He pointed to the empty hull of a horseshoe crab.

“My grandpa brought this home for me from Florida. He and Grandma travel a lot. You can touch it if you want.”

She ran her finger over the smooth shell. She noticed a photo behind the crab. About two dozen boys in matching T-shirts and shorts lined the inside of a canoe and the dock behind it. She recognized the boy at the front of the canoe and leaned in for a closer view. Her pulse quickened. She lifted the photo, careful not to disturb the crab. The boy was Danny Alverez.

“What’s this photo, Timmy?”

“Oh, that’s church camp. My mom made me go. I thought it’d ruin my summer, but it was fun.”

“Isn’t this boy Danny Alverez?” She pointed, and Timmy took a closer look.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“So you knew him?”

“Not really. He was down in the Red Robin cabins. I was in the Goldenrod.”

“Didn’t he go to your church?” She examined the other faces.

“No, I think he went to school and church out by the air force base. Do you want to see my baseball card collection?” He was already digging through the drawers of his nightstand.

Maggie wanted to know more about church camp. “How many boys were there at camp?”

“I don’t know. Lots.” He set a wooden box on the bed and began taking out cards. “They come from all over, different churches around the county.”

“Is it just for boys?”

“No, there’s girls, too, but their camp’s on the other side of the lake. Somewhere in here I’ve got a rookie Darryl Strawberry.” He sorted through piles he had scattered on the bed.

There were two adults in the photo. One was Ray Howard, the janitor from St. Margaret’s. The other was a tall, handsome man with dark curly hair and a boyish face. Both he and Howard wore gray T-shirts with St. Margaret’s written across the front.

“Timmy, who’s this guy in the photo?”

“Oh, that’s Father Keller. He’s really cool. I’m one of his altar boys this year. Not many boys get to be his altar boy. He’s really choosy.”

“How is he choosy?” She made sure that she sounded only interested, not alarmed.

“I don’t know. Just by making sure they’re reliable and stuff. He treats us special, sort of like our reward for being good altar boys.”

“How does he treat you special?”

“He’s taking us camping this Thursday and Friday. And sometimes he plays football with us. Oh, and he trades baseball cards. Once I traded him a Bob Gibson for a Joe DiMaggio.”

She started to put the photo back. Another face caught her eye. This time she almost dropped the frame. Her heart began to pound. Up on the dock, partially hidden behind a bigger boy, peered the small, freckled face of Matthew Tanner.

“Timmy, do you mind if I borrow this photo for a few days? I promise I’ll get it back to you.”

“Okay. Do you carry a gun?”

“Yes, I do.” She kept the frantic tone from her voice. Carefully, she tugged the photo out of its frame, noticing a slight tremor in her fingers from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

“Are you wearing one now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Can I see it?”

“Timmy,” Christine interrupted them. “It’s time for dinner. You need to wash up.” She held the door open and swatted him with a kitchen towel on his way out.

Maggie slipped the photo into her jacket pocket without Christine noticing.

A
fter dinner Nick insisted he and Timmy do the dishes. Christine knew it was all for Maggie’s benefit, but she decided to take advantage of her little brother’s temporary generosity.

The two women retreated to the living room where they heard only the muffled discussion of Nebraska football. Christine set the coffee cups and saucers on the glass tabletop and wished Maggie would sit down and relax. Stop being Agent O’Dell for a few minutes. She’d seemed restless throughout dinner and was now pacing. Her body seemed wired with energy, though she looked exhausted. The puffy eyes were poorly concealed with makeup. She was easily distracted.

“Come, sit,” Christine finally said, patting the spot on the sofa next to her. “I thought I couldn’t keep still, but I think you’ve got me beaten.”

“Sorry. Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with killers and dead bodies. My manners seem to have disappeared.”

“Nonsense. You’ve just been spending too much time with Nicky.”

Maggie smiled. “Dinner was delicious. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”

“Thanks, but I’ve had lots of practice. I was a stay-at-home mom until my husband decided he liked twenty-three-year-old receptionists.” Immediately, Christine realized she had revealed too much and made Maggie uncomfortable. She certainly hadn’t intended for this to be some sort of tit-for-tat girl talk.

When Maggie crossed the room to sit down, she chose the recliner instead of sitting next to her. Christine wanted to tell Maggie she knew it wasn’t a lack of manners as much as an avoidance of intimacy on any level. It was easy to recognize. Christine did it herself. Since Bruce’s departure, she had kept plenty of distance from everyone, with the exception of her son.

“How long will you stay in Platte City?”

“For as long as necessary.”

No wonder her marriage was in trouble. As if reading Christine’s mind, Maggie explained, “Developing a killer’s profile, unfortunately, is something that takes time. It helps to be in his surroundings, his environment.”

“I did some research on you. I hope you don’t mind. You have an impressive background—a B.S. in criminal psychology and premed, with a master’s in behavioral psychology, a forensic fellowship at Quantico. Eight short years with the FBI and already you’re one of their top profilers of serial killers. If I calculated right, you’re only thirty-two. That’s got to feel good—to have accomplished so much.”

She expected Maggie might be a bit flustered with the attention. Instead, her vacant stare seemed haunted. From her research, Christine also knew about some of the psychos Maggie had helped put away. Perhaps her success had come with a hefty price tag.

“I suppose it should feel good,” Maggie finally said.

Christine waited for more, then realized there would be no more. “Nicky will never admit it, but I know he’s grateful to have you here. This is all pretty new to him. I’m certain he didn’t expect something like this when my dad talked him into running for sheriff.”

“Your father talked him into it?”

“Dad was getting ready to retire. He’d been sheriff for so long, I think he couldn’t stand to not have a Morrelli take his place.”

“But what about Nick?”

“Oh, he was teaching in the law school down at the university. I think he actually liked it.” Christine stopped herself. She wasn’t quite sure she understood the complexities of her father and Nick’s relationship, let alone explain them to an outsider.

“Your father must be a remarkable man,” Maggie said quite simply, without surprise or accusation.

“Why do you say that?” Christine eyed her suspiciously, wondering what Nick may have told her.

“For one thing, he practically captured Ronald Jeffreys single-handedly.”

“Yes, he was quite a hero.”

“Also, he seems to have a lot of influence over Nick’s decisions.”

She did know something more. Now Christine was uncomfortable. She poured herself more coffee, taking time with the cream.

“I think our dad just wants Nicky to have all the opportunities he never had. You know, do the things he didn’t have a chance to do.”

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn’t he want those same opportunities, those same things for you?”

Christine had to admit, the woman was good. Maggie O’Dell sat in Christine’s recliner, sipping coffee and very coolly and calmly probing her.

“I love my dad, knowing full well that he’s a bit of a male chauvinist. No, whatever I did was fine with him. I was a girl. Anything out of the ordinary that I did impressed him. Nicky, on the other hand, had it tougher. It’s a little more…complex. Nick’s constantly had to prove himself, whether he wanted to or not. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why he gets so pissed at me.”

“No, usually it’s because of your big mouth.” Nick startled them from the doorway. Timmy stood beside his uncle, smiling as though he was about to get in on something Christine would normally censor.

The phone rang, saving her from a lecture. Christine jumped up, almost knocking her coffee cup off its saucer. She crossed the room and picked up the phone before its third ring.

“Hello?”

“Christine, it’s Hal. Sorry to bother you. Is Nick still there?” His voice crackled. She heard humming, an engine. He was in his car.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, you may have just saved my day.” She glanced back at Nick and stuck out her tongue, making Timmy giggle and Nick fume.

“That would be nice—to save someone’s day.” The crackle couldn’t hide the distress in his voice.

“Hal, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Could I just talk to Nick, please?”

Before she could say anything more, Nick was at her side, reaching for the phone. She surrendered it and loitered by the desk until Nick shot her a look.

“Hal, what is it?” He turned his back to them and listened. “Don’t let anyone touch anything.” The panic in his voice exploded, laced with urgency.

Maggie responded, immediately getting to her feet. Christine gently grabbed Timmy by the shoulders.

“Timmy, go get ready for bed.”

“Ah, Mom, it’s early.”

“Timmy, now.” Her brother’s panic was contagious. The boy grudgingly headed upstairs.

“I mean it, Hal.” Now there was anger to camouflage the panic. It didn’t fool her. Christine knew her brother all too well. “Secure the area, but don’t let anyone touch a thing. O’Dell’s here with me. We’ll be there in about fifteen to twenty minutes.” When he turned, his eyes immediately sought out Maggie’s as he hung up the phone.

“My God. They found Matthew’s body, didn’t they?” Christine said what only seemed obvious.

“Christine, I swear, if you print a word.” The angry panic threatened to turn into fury.

“People have the right to know.”

“Not before his mother. Will you, at least, please have the decency to wait—for her sake?”

“On one condition…”

“Jesus, Christine, listen to yourself!” he spat out in such anger it forced her to take a step backward.

“Just promise you’ll call me when it’s okay to go ahead. Is that too much to ask?”

He shook his head in disgust. She looked to Maggie, who waited by the door, no longer willing to come between brother and sister. Then, she looked back at Nick. “Come on, Nicky. You don’t want me camped out on Michelle Tanner’s front porch, do you?” She smiled, just enough to let him know she wasn’t serious.

“Don’t you dare talk to anyone or print a damn thing until you hear from me. And stay the hell away from Michelle Tanner.” He wagged an angry finger in her face, then stomped out.

Christine waited until the Jeep’s taillights turned the corner at the end of the street. She grabbed the phone and punched
*
69. It rang only once.

“Deputy Langston.”

“Hal, hi, it’s Christine.” Before he could ask any questions she hurried on. “Nicky and Maggie just left. Nicky asked me to keep trying George Tillie. You know, ol’ George, he could sleep through World War III.”

“Yeah?” The one word was filled with suspicion.

“I can’t remember the exact location, you know to tell George.”

Silence. Damn, he was onto her.

She took a stab. “It’s off Old Church Road…”

“Right.” He sounded relieved. “Tell George to go a mile past the state-park marker. He can leave his car in Ron Woodson’s pasture, up on top of the hill. He’ll see the spotlights down in the woods. We’ll be close to the river.”

“Thanks, Hal. I know it probably sounds insensitive and unlikely, but I keep hoping it’s some runaway and not Matthew, for Michelle’s sake.”

“I know what you mean. But there’s no doubt. It’s Matthew. I gotta go. Tell George to be careful walking down here.”

She waited for the click, then dialed Taylor Corby’s home number.