A Perfect Evil (40 page)

T
he breakfast Maggie had ordered from Wanda’s sat untouched on the small table. It had come bundled in an insulated pack, served on stoneware and encased in stainless-steel covers. Steam had risen from the plate when the desk clerk had proudly unveiled it as though he had prepared it himself.

She was becoming a regular of Wanda’s cuisine without ever stepping foot in the diner. And although the golden eggs, butter-slathered toast and glistening sausage links smelled and looked delicious, she had lost her appetite. She had left it somewhere on the bathroom floor while she fought to gain control over her panic. The only thing she touched was the frothy cappuccino. One sip, and she thanked Wanda for having the good sense to invest in a cappuccino maker.

Her laptop occupied the other side of the table, close to the wall where a recently installed phone jack allowed the hotel to advertise itself to business travelers. She paced while her computer slowly connected her to Quantico’s general database. She wasn’t able to access any classified information. The FBI remained skeptical about the confidentiality of modems, and rightly so. They were constantly a target for hackers.

She had already put in several calls to Dr. Avery. The old-fashioned desktop phone confined her to the bed, so she couldn’t do her usual pacing. She stretched out on the hard mattress. After her shower, she had put on jeans and her Packers jersey. The exhaustion was overwhelming. It had taken every last bit of her strength to pull herself together, and that frightened her. How could one simple note provoke such terror? She had received notes from killers before. They were harmless. It was only a part of the sick game. It came with the territory. If she were going to dig into a killer’s psyche, she had to be prepared for the killer to dig back.

Albert Stucky’s notes had not been harmless. God, she needed to get past Stucky. He was behind bars and would be there until they executed him. She was safe. At least this note hadn’t been accompanied by a severed finger or nipple. Besides, the note was now carefully packaged and on its way Express Mail to a lab at Quantico. Maybe the idiot had sent her his own arrest warrant by leaving his fingerprints or his saliva on the envelope’s seal.

By this evening, she would be on a plane home, and this bastard wouldn’t be able to play his sick, little game. She had done her job, more than what was asked. So why did it feel as if she was running away? Because that’s exactly what she was doing. She needed to leave Platte City, Nebraska, before this killer unraveled any more of her already frazzled psyche. She could feel the vulnerable fray already, starting when she had cowered on the cold bathroom floor.

Yes, she needed to leave, and she needed to do it quickly—today—while she still felt in control. She would tie up a few loose ends and then get the hell out. Get out while she was still in one piece. Get out before she started coming apart at the seams.

She decided to make a quick phone call while she waited for her computer to connect on the other line. She found the number in the thin directory and dialed. After several rings, a deep male voice answered, “St. Margaret’s rectory.”

“Father Francis, please.”

“May I tell him who’s calling?”

She couldn’t tell whether or not the voice belonged to Howard.

“This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. Is this Mr. Howard?”

There was a brief pause. Instead of answering her question, he said, “One moment, please.”

It took several moments. She turned to see the computer screen. Finally, the connection was completed. Quantico’s royal-blue logo blinked across the screen.

“Maggie O’Dell, what a pleasure to talk with you again.” Father Francis’ high-pitched voice was almost singsong.

“Father Francis, I wonder if I might ask you a few more questions.”

“Why, certainly.” There was a faint
click-click.

“Father Francis?”

“I’m still here.”

And so was someone else. She’d ask the questions, anyway. Make the intruder sweat.

“What can you tell me about the church’s summer camp?”

“Summer camp? That’s really Father Keller’s project. You might speak to him about it.”

“Yes, of course. I will. Did he start the project, or was it something St. Margaret’s has been doing for years?”

“Father Keller started it when he first came. I believe that was the summer of 1990. It was an instant success. Of course, he had a track record. He had been running one at his previous parish.”

“Really? Where was that?”

“Up in Maine. Let’s see, I usually have a very good memory. Wood something. Wood River. Yes, Wood River, Maine. We were quite lucky to get him.”

“Yes, I’m sure you were. I look forward to talking to him. Thanks for your help, Father.”

“Agent O’Dell,” he stopped her. “Is that all you needed to ask me?”

“Yes, but you’ve been very helpful.”

“Actually, I was wondering if you found the answers to your other questions. Your inquiries about Ronald Jeffreys?”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound abrupt, but she didn’t want to discuss what she knew with someone listening. “Yes, I think we did find the answers. Thanks again for your help.”

“Agent O’Dell.” He sounded concerned, the lilt no longer present in his voice. If she wasn’t mistaken, he suddenly sounded distressed. “I may have some additional information, though I’m not certain of its importance.”

“Father Francis, I can’t talk right now. I’m expecting an important phone call,” she interrupted before he revealed anything more. “Could I meet you perhaps later?”

“Yes, that would be nice. I have morning confessions and then rounds at the hospital this afternoon, so I won’t be free until after four o’clock.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ll be at the hospital this afternoon. Why don’t I meet you in the cafeteria about four-fifteen?”

“I look forward to it. Goodbye, Maggie O’Dell.”

She waited for him to hang up, then heard the second set of clicks. There was no mistake. Someone had been listening.

N
ick stormed into the sheriff’s department, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Everyone came to a halt in mid-sentence and midstride. They stared at him as though he had gone mad. He felt as if perhaps he had.

“Listen up, everybody!” He yelled over the ringing in his ear. He waited for those sauntering in from the conference room with their mugs of coffee and glazed doughnuts. “If we have another breach of confidence from this department, I personally will kick the ass of whoever is responsible and see to it that that person never works in law enforcement ever again.”

His jaw hurt like hell, especially when he clenched his teeth. The tip of his tongue found a sharp edge where a tooth had chipped. The corner of his mouth bled again, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Lloyd, I want you to get some men together and check every abandoned shack within a ten-mile radius of Old Church Road. He’s keeping these boys somewhere. Maybe it’s not here in town. Hal, find out everything you can about a Ray Howard. He’s a janitor at the church. Not just where he’s from and details about his unpleasant childhood. I want to know this guy’s shoe size and whether or not he collects baseball cards. Eddie, get over to Sophie Krichek’s.”

“Nick, you can’t be serious. The lady’s loony.”

“I’m dead serious.”

Eddie shrugged, and there was a smirk under the pencil-thin mustache that Nick wanted to knock off.

“Do it this morning, Eddie, and treat it like your job depends on getting the details right.”

He waited for any other grumbling, then continued, “Adam, call George Tillie and tell him Agent O’Dell will be assisting him this afternoon with Matthew’s autopsy. Then call Agent Weston and get the evidence his forensic team found. I want photos and reports on my desk by one this afternoon.

“Lucy, find out anything you can about a summer church camp that St. Margaret’s sponsors. Get together with Max and see if you can connect Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow to that camp.”

“What about Bobby Wilson?” She looked up from her notes.

He paused while he watched their faces, wondering whether he’d be able to pick out the Judas—that is if he was still a part of the department. Six years ago, someone had gone to the trouble of making it look as though Ronald Jeffreys had killed all three boys. Someone had taken Eric Paltrow’s underpants from the morgue and planted them in Jeffreys’ trunk with other incriminating evidence connecting Jeffreys to all three murders. It could easily have been someone in the sheriff’s department, someone who was still here. And if he was, why not make the bastard sweat?

“If I read any of this in tomorrow’s paper, I swear I’ll fire the whole lot of you. Ronald Jeffreys may have only murdered Bobby Wilson. There’s a good chance that the guy who killed Danny and Matthew also killed Eric and Aaron.” He watched their faces as it sank in, especially the group that had worked with his father and had celebrated the capture of Jeffreys.

“What are you saying, Nick?” Lloyd Benjamin had been one of them, and now his wrinkled forehead looked angry. “You saying we messed up the first time?”

“No, Lloyd, you didn’t mess up. You caught Jeffreys. You caught a murderer. But it looks like Jeffreys may not have murdered all three boys.”

“Is that what you think, Nick, or is it Agent O’Dell maybe influencing your way of thinking?” Eddie said, again with the smirk.

Nick felt the anger rising and knew he had to contain it. Now was not the time to defend his relationship with Maggie. He wasn’t even sure he could without getting tangled in his own personal feelings. And he certainly didn’t want to share any details about Jeffreys, especially since he was beginning to question the loyalty of his own department.

“I’m saying there’s a good chance. Whether it’s true or not, let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t get away with it, maybe for a second time.” He shoved past Eddie, knocking against his shoulder and dismissing the group. Lloyd caught up with him down the hall at his office door.

“Nick, wait up.” Lloyd’s short, stubby legs jogged to keep up with Nick. He was breathing hard and loosened his tie. “I didn’t mean anything back there. I’m sure Eddie didn’t, either. This thing is just taking a toll on all of us. Just like before.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lloyd.”

“About checking old shacks. Nick, there’s not much out there that we didn’t check the first time. There’s an old barn about ready to fall down on Woodson’s property. Other than a deserted lean-to or grain bin, there isn’t anything else. Except for the old church, but it’s boarded up tighter than a virgin on Sunday.”

Nick frowned at the reference.

“Sorry,” Benjamin apologized though he didn’t look sorry. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Nick. O’Dell isn’t even here.”

“Check the church again, Lloyd. Look for broken windows, footprints, any sign of entry in the last several days.”

“Hell, we’re not gonna find any footprints with this snow coming down.”

“Just check, Lloyd.”

Nick retreated to his office, already exhausted, and the morning had just begun. Within seconds there was a knock on the door. He slumped into his chair and yelled to come in.

Lucy peeked around the door, assessing his mood. He waved her in. She carried an ice pack and cup of coffee.

“What in the world happened to you, Nick?”

“Don’t even ask.”

She put aside her initial hesitation and came around the desk. She leaned against the corner and her skirt hiked up over her thighs. She saw him notice and made no effort to pull it down. Instead, she reached for his chin, cupping it in her hand and laying the ice pack against his swollen jaw. He jerked away, using the pain as an excuse to wheel out of her reach.

“Oh, poor Nick. I know it hurts,” she said, making baby talk sound sensual.

This morning she wore a rose-colored sweater pulled so tight across her breasts the knitted loops hinted at a black bra underneath. She scooted across the desk toward him, and he jumped out of his chair.

“Look, I don’t have time for ice packs. I’ll be fine. Thanks for thinking of it.”

She looked disappointed. “I’ll leave it in your little refrigerator, in case you want it later.”

She crossed the room to the small cube on the floor. She bent at the waist, purposely giving him a view of what he was missing, and put the ice pack in the small freezer space. She glanced back at him as if checking to see if he had changed his mind, smiled, then swayed out the door.

“Jesus,” he muttered, plopping down into the chair again. What kind of a department had he created? Michelle Tanner’s raging ex-husband was right. No wonder he was no closer to finding the killer.

N
ick stormed into the sheriff’s department, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Everyone came to a halt in mid-sentence and midstride. They stared at him as though he had gone mad. He felt as if perhaps he had.

“Listen up, everybody!” He yelled over the ringing in his ear. He waited for those sauntering in from the conference room with their mugs of coffee and glazed doughnuts. “If we have another breach of confidence from this department, I personally will kick the ass of whoever is responsible and see to it that that person never works in law enforcement ever again.”

His jaw hurt like hell, especially when he clenched his teeth. The tip of his tongue found a sharp edge where a tooth had chipped. The corner of his mouth bled again, and he wiped at it with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Lloyd, I want you to get some men together and check every abandoned shack within a ten-mile radius of Old Church Road. He’s keeping these boys somewhere. Maybe it’s not here in town. Hal, find out everything you can about a Ray Howard. He’s a janitor at the church. Not just where he’s from and details about his unpleasant childhood. I want to know this guy’s shoe size and whether or not he collects baseball cards. Eddie, get over to Sophie Krichek’s.”

“Nick, you can’t be serious. The lady’s loony.”

“I’m dead serious.”

Eddie shrugged, and there was a smirk under the pencil-thin mustache that Nick wanted to knock off.

“Do it this morning, Eddie, and treat it like your job depends on getting the details right.”

He waited for any other grumbling, then continued, “Adam, call George Tillie and tell him Agent O’Dell will be assisting him this afternoon with Matthew’s autopsy. Then call Agent Weston and get the evidence his forensic team found. I want photos and reports on my desk by one this afternoon.

“Lucy, find out anything you can about a summer church camp that St. Margaret’s sponsors. Get together with Max and see if you can connect Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow to that camp.”

“What about Bobby Wilson?” She looked up from her notes.

He paused while he watched their faces, wondering whether he’d be able to pick out the Judas—that is if he was still a part of the department. Six years ago, someone had gone to the trouble of making it look as though Ronald Jeffreys had killed all three boys. Someone had taken Eric Paltrow’s underpants from the morgue and planted them in Jeffreys’ trunk with other incriminating evidence connecting Jeffreys to all three murders. It could easily have been someone in the sheriff’s department, someone who was still here. And if he was, why not make the bastard sweat?

“If I read any of this in tomorrow’s paper, I swear I’ll fire the whole lot of you. Ronald Jeffreys may have only murdered Bobby Wilson. There’s a good chance that the guy who killed Danny and Matthew also killed Eric and Aaron.” He watched their faces as it sank in, especially the group that had worked with his father and had celebrated the capture of Jeffreys.

“What are you saying, Nick?” Lloyd Benjamin had been one of them, and now his wrinkled forehead looked angry. “You saying we messed up the first time?”

“No, Lloyd, you didn’t mess up. You caught Jeffreys. You caught a murderer. But it looks like Jeffreys may not have murdered all three boys.”

“Is that what you think, Nick, or is it Agent O’Dell maybe influencing your way of thinking?” Eddie said, again with the smirk.

Nick felt the anger rising and knew he had to contain it. Now was not the time to defend his relationship with Maggie. He wasn’t even sure he could without getting tangled in his own personal feelings. And he certainly didn’t want to share any details about Jeffreys, especially since he was beginning to question the loyalty of his own department.

“I’m saying there’s a good chance. Whether it’s true or not, let’s make sure this bastard doesn’t get away with it, maybe for a second time.” He shoved past Eddie, knocking against his shoulder and dismissing the group. Lloyd caught up with him down the hall at his office door.

“Nick, wait up.” Lloyd’s short, stubby legs jogged to keep up with Nick. He was breathing hard and loosened his tie. “I didn’t mean anything back there. I’m sure Eddie didn’t, either. This thing is just taking a toll on all of us. Just like before.”

“Don’t worry about it, Lloyd.”

“About checking old shacks. Nick, there’s not much out there that we didn’t check the first time. There’s an old barn about ready to fall down on Woodson’s property. Other than a deserted lean-to or grain bin, there isn’t anything else. Except for the old church, but it’s boarded up tighter than a virgin on Sunday.”

Nick frowned at the reference.

“Sorry,” Benjamin apologized though he didn’t look sorry. “You’re getting awfully touchy, Nick. O’Dell isn’t even here.”

“Check the church again, Lloyd. Look for broken windows, footprints, any sign of entry in the last several days.”

“Hell, we’re not gonna find any footprints with this snow coming down.”

“Just check, Lloyd.”

Nick retreated to his office, already exhausted, and the morning had just begun. Within seconds there was a knock on the door. He slumped into his chair and yelled to come in.

Lucy peeked around the door, assessing his mood. He waved her in. She carried an ice pack and cup of coffee.

“What in the world happened to you, Nick?”

“Don’t even ask.”

She put aside her initial hesitation and came around the desk. She leaned against the corner and her skirt hiked up over her thighs. She saw him notice and made no effort to pull it down. Instead, she reached for his chin, cupping it in her hand and laying the ice pack against his swollen jaw. He jerked away, using the pain as an excuse to wheel out of her reach.

“Oh, poor Nick. I know it hurts,” she said, making baby talk sound sensual.

This morning she wore a rose-colored sweater pulled so tight across her breasts the knitted loops hinted at a black bra underneath. She scooted across the desk toward him, and he jumped out of his chair.

“Look, I don’t have time for ice packs. I’ll be fine. Thanks for thinking of it.”

She looked disappointed. “I’ll leave it in your little refrigerator, in case you want it later.”

She crossed the room to the small cube on the floor. She bent at the waist, purposely giving him a view of what he was missing, and put the ice pack in the small freezer space. She glanced back at him as if checking to see if he had changed his mind, smiled, then swayed out the door.

“Jesus,” he muttered, plopping down into the chair again. What kind of a department had he created? Michelle Tanner’s raging ex-husband was right. No wonder he was no closer to finding the killer.