A Perfect Evil (48 page)

A
fter making several phone calls and getting no response, Nick decided to drive over to the rectory. He couldn’t go home. Eventually, that would be where his father would go. That was the one disadvantage of living in the family home—the family moved back whenever they wanted. And although the old farmhouse was certainly large enough, Nick didn’t want to see or talk to his father for the rest of the evening.

The rectory was actually a ranch-style house connected to the church by an enclosed brick walkway. The church’s stained glass hinted at just a flicker of candlelight, but the rectory was lit up inside and outside as if for a party. Yet, Nick waited a long time before anyone answered his knock.

Father Keller opened the door, dressed in a long black robe.

“Sheriff Morrelli, sorry for the delay. I was taking a shower,” he said without surprise, as if he had been expecting him.

“I did try calling first.”

“Really? I’ve been here all evening, except I’m afraid I can’t hear the phone from my bathroom. Come in.”

A freshly fed fire roared in the huge fireplace that was the room’s center of attraction. A colorful Oriental rug and several easy chairs sat in front. Books were piled up next to one of the chairs, and at a glance Nick noticed they were art books—Degas, Monet, Renaissance painting. He felt silly expecting them to be on religious and philosophical topics. After all, priests were people. Of course, they had other interests, hobbies, passions, addictions.

“Please sit down.” Father Keller pointed to one of the chairs.

Though he knew Father Keller only from the few times he’d attended Sunday mass, it was hard not to like the guy. Besides being tall, athletic and handsome, with boyish good looks, Father Keller possessed an ease, a calm that immediately made Nick feel comfortable. He glanced at the young priest’s hands. The long fingers were clean and smooth with fingernails well manicured—not a cuticle in sight. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a man who strangled children. Maggie was way off base. There was no way this guy killed little boys. Nick should be questioning Ray Howard, instead.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Father Keller asked, sounding as if he genuinely wanted to please his guest.

“No, thanks. This won’t take long.” Nick unzipped his jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. His hand ached. The knuckles bled through his homemade bandage. He tucked it up into the sleeve of his jacket to avoid attention.

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you, Sheriff. I think he simply had a heart attack.”

“Excuse me?”

“Father Francis. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“What about Father Francis?”

“Oh dear, God. I’m sorry. I thought that was why you were here. We think he had a heart attack and fell down the basement steps sometime this morning.”

“Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, God rest his soul.” Father Keller picked at a thread on his robe and avoided Nick’s eyes.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m sure it’s a shock. It certainly was for all of us. You served mass for Father Francis, didn’t you? At the old St. Margaret’s?”

“Seems like ages ago.” Nick stared into the fire, remembering how fragile the old priest had looked when he and Maggie questioned him.

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but if you’re not here about Father Francis, what is it I can help you with?”

For a moment the reason escaped him. Then Nick remembered Maggie’s profile. Father Keller matched the physical characteristics. His bare feet even looked about a size twelve. But like his hands, his feet looked too clean, too smooth to have been out in the cold, trampling through rocks and branches.

“Sheriff Morrelli? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Actually, I just had a few questions for you about…about the summer church camp you sponsor.”

“The church camp?” Was the look one of confusion or alarm? Nick couldn’t be sure.

“Both Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner were in your church camp this past summer.”

“Really?”

“You didn’t know?”

“We had over two hundred boys last summer. I wish I could get to know them all, but there just isn’t time.”

“Do you have pictures taken with all of them?”

“Excuse me?”

“My nephew, Timmy Hamilton, has a photo of about fifteen to twenty boys with you and Mr. Howard.”

“Oh, yes.” Father Keller raked his fingers through his thick hair, and only then did Nick realize it wasn’t wet. “The canoe photos. Not all the boys qualified for the races, but, yes, we did take pictures with the ones who qualified. Mr. Howard is a volunteer counselor. I’ve tried to include Ray in as many church activities as possible ever since he left the seminary last year and came to work for us.”

Howard had been in a seminary. Nick waited for more.

“So Timmy Hamilton is your nephew? He’s a great kid.”

“Yes, yes, he is.” Did he dare ask more questions about Howard or was the distraction exactly what Father Keller wanted? There was no need to have mentioned Howard leaving the seminary.

“You started a similar church camp for boys at your previous parish, didn’t you, Father Keller? In Maine.” Nick pretended to look at his notepad, though it was blank. “Wood River, I believe it was.” He watched for a reaction, but there was none.

“That’s right.”

“Why did you leave Wood River?”

“I was offered an associate pastor position here. You might say it was a promotion.”

“Were you aware of a murder of a little boy in the Wood River area just before you left?”

“Vaguely. I’m not sure I understand your line of questioning, Sheriff. Are you accusing me of having some knowledge about these murders?”

Still, there was no alarm in his voice, no defensiveness, only concern.

“I’m just checking as many leads as possible.” Suddenly, Nick felt ridiculous. How could Maggie ever have led him to believe that a Catholic priest was capable of murder? Then it hit him. “Father Keller, how did you know I served mass for Father Francis at the old St. Margaret’s?”

“I’m not sure. Father Francis must have mentioned it to me.” Again the priest avoided Nick’s eyes. A sudden knock at the door interrupted them, and Father Keller quickly got up, almost too quickly, as if anxious to escape. “I’m certainly not dressed for company.” He smiled at Nick as he tucked in the lapels of his robe and tightened its cinch.

Nick took the opportunity to escape the fire’s heat. He got up and paced the large room. Huge built-in bookcases made up one wall, on the opposite were a bay window and window bench used for green plants. There were few decorations—a highly-polished, dark wooden crucifix with an unusual pointed end. It almost looked like a dagger. There were also several original paintings by an obscure artist. Quite nice, though Nick knew little about art. The swishes of bright color were hypnotic, swirling yellows and reds in a field of vibrant purple.

Then Nick saw them. Tucked away around the side of the brick fireplace that jutted out into the room was a pair of black rubber boots, still plastered with snow and sitting on an old welcome mat. Had Father Keller lied about being out this evening? Or perhaps the boots belonged to Ray Howard.

From the foyer Nick heard voices raised, a hint of frustration in Father Keller’s and accusations from a woman’s voice. Nick hurried to the entrance, where he saw Father Keller trying to remain calm and cool while Maggie O’Dell assaulted him with questions.

A
fter making several phone calls and getting no response, Nick decided to drive over to the rectory. He couldn’t go home. Eventually, that would be where his father would go. That was the one disadvantage of living in the family home—the family moved back whenever they wanted. And although the old farmhouse was certainly large enough, Nick didn’t want to see or talk to his father for the rest of the evening.

The rectory was actually a ranch-style house connected to the church by an enclosed brick walkway. The church’s stained glass hinted at just a flicker of candlelight, but the rectory was lit up inside and outside as if for a party. Yet, Nick waited a long time before anyone answered his knock.

Father Keller opened the door, dressed in a long black robe.

“Sheriff Morrelli, sorry for the delay. I was taking a shower,” he said without surprise, as if he had been expecting him.

“I did try calling first.”

“Really? I’ve been here all evening, except I’m afraid I can’t hear the phone from my bathroom. Come in.”

A freshly fed fire roared in the huge fireplace that was the room’s center of attraction. A colorful Oriental rug and several easy chairs sat in front. Books were piled up next to one of the chairs, and at a glance Nick noticed they were art books—Degas, Monet, Renaissance painting. He felt silly expecting them to be on religious and philosophical topics. After all, priests were people. Of course, they had other interests, hobbies, passions, addictions.

“Please sit down.” Father Keller pointed to one of the chairs.

Though he knew Father Keller only from the few times he’d attended Sunday mass, it was hard not to like the guy. Besides being tall, athletic and handsome, with boyish good looks, Father Keller possessed an ease, a calm that immediately made Nick feel comfortable. He glanced at the young priest’s hands. The long fingers were clean and smooth with fingernails well manicured—not a cuticle in sight. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a man who strangled children. Maggie was way off base. There was no way this guy killed little boys. Nick should be questioning Ray Howard, instead.

“Can I get you some coffee?” Father Keller asked, sounding as if he genuinely wanted to please his guest.

“No, thanks. This won’t take long.” Nick unzipped his jacket and pulled out a notepad and pen. His hand ached. The knuckles bled through his homemade bandage. He tucked it up into the sleeve of his jacket to avoid attention.

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can tell you, Sheriff. I think he simply had a heart attack.”

“Excuse me?”

“Father Francis. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“What about Father Francis?”

“Oh dear, God. I’m sorry. I thought that was why you were here. We think he had a heart attack and fell down the basement steps sometime this morning.”

“Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, God rest his soul.” Father Keller picked at a thread on his robe and avoided Nick’s eyes.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m sure it’s a shock. It certainly was for all of us. You served mass for Father Francis, didn’t you? At the old St. Margaret’s?”

“Seems like ages ago.” Nick stared into the fire, remembering how fragile the old priest had looked when he and Maggie questioned him.

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but if you’re not here about Father Francis, what is it I can help you with?”

For a moment the reason escaped him. Then Nick remembered Maggie’s profile. Father Keller matched the physical characteristics. His bare feet even looked about a size twelve. But like his hands, his feet looked too clean, too smooth to have been out in the cold, trampling through rocks and branches.

“Sheriff Morrelli? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Actually, I just had a few questions for you about…about the summer church camp you sponsor.”

“The church camp?” Was the look one of confusion or alarm? Nick couldn’t be sure.

“Both Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner were in your church camp this past summer.”

“Really?”

“You didn’t know?”

“We had over two hundred boys last summer. I wish I could get to know them all, but there just isn’t time.”

“Do you have pictures taken with all of them?”

“Excuse me?”

“My nephew, Timmy Hamilton, has a photo of about fifteen to twenty boys with you and Mr. Howard.”

“Oh, yes.” Father Keller raked his fingers through his thick hair, and only then did Nick realize it wasn’t wet. “The canoe photos. Not all the boys qualified for the races, but, yes, we did take pictures with the ones who qualified. Mr. Howard is a volunteer counselor. I’ve tried to include Ray in as many church activities as possible ever since he left the seminary last year and came to work for us.”

Howard had been in a seminary. Nick waited for more.

“So Timmy Hamilton is your nephew? He’s a great kid.”

“Yes, yes, he is.” Did he dare ask more questions about Howard or was the distraction exactly what Father Keller wanted? There was no need to have mentioned Howard leaving the seminary.

“You started a similar church camp for boys at your previous parish, didn’t you, Father Keller? In Maine.” Nick pretended to look at his notepad, though it was blank. “Wood River, I believe it was.” He watched for a reaction, but there was none.

“That’s right.”

“Why did you leave Wood River?”

“I was offered an associate pastor position here. You might say it was a promotion.”

“Were you aware of a murder of a little boy in the Wood River area just before you left?”

“Vaguely. I’m not sure I understand your line of questioning, Sheriff. Are you accusing me of having some knowledge about these murders?”

Still, there was no alarm in his voice, no defensiveness, only concern.

“I’m just checking as many leads as possible.” Suddenly, Nick felt ridiculous. How could Maggie ever have led him to believe that a Catholic priest was capable of murder? Then it hit him. “Father Keller, how did you know I served mass for Father Francis at the old St. Margaret’s?”

“I’m not sure. Father Francis must have mentioned it to me.” Again the priest avoided Nick’s eyes. A sudden knock at the door interrupted them, and Father Keller quickly got up, almost too quickly, as if anxious to escape. “I’m certainly not dressed for company.” He smiled at Nick as he tucked in the lapels of his robe and tightened its cinch.

Nick took the opportunity to escape the fire’s heat. He got up and paced the large room. Huge built-in bookcases made up one wall, on the opposite were a bay window and window bench used for green plants. There were few decorations—a highly-polished, dark wooden crucifix with an unusual pointed end. It almost looked like a dagger. There were also several original paintings by an obscure artist. Quite nice, though Nick knew little about art. The swishes of bright color were hypnotic, swirling yellows and reds in a field of vibrant purple.

Then Nick saw them. Tucked away around the side of the brick fireplace that jutted out into the room was a pair of black rubber boots, still plastered with snow and sitting on an old welcome mat. Had Father Keller lied about being out this evening? Or perhaps the boots belonged to Ray Howard.

From the foyer Nick heard voices raised, a hint of frustration in Father Keller’s and accusations from a woman’s voice. Nick hurried to the entrance, where he saw Father Keller trying to remain calm and cool while Maggie O’Dell assaulted him with questions.