A Perfect Evil (73 page)

N
ick escaped before it got mushy, before his own eyes got blurry. It was all still a little hard to believe. He turned the corner and almost ran into his father, who stepped back, as though worried the coffee he carried would spill.

“Careful there, son. You’re gonna miss quite a bit being in such a hurry.”

Nick checked his father’s eyes and immediately saw the sarcastic criticism. He was in too good of a mood to let his father spoil it. So he smiled and started to walk around him.

“It’s not Eddie, you know,” his father called after him.

“Yeah?” Nick stopped and turned. “Well, this time that’ll be up to a court of law to decide and not Antonio Morrelli.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Nick took a step closer until he was standing eye to eye with his father.

“Did you help plant evidence against Jeffreys?”

“Watch your mouth, boy. I never planted a thing.”

“Then how did you explain the discrepancies?”

“As far as I was concerned, there were no discrepancies. I did what was necessary to convict that son of a bitch.”

“You ignored evidence.”

“I knew Jeffreys killed that little Wilson boy. You didn’t
see
that boy. You didn’t see what he made that boy go through. Jeffreys deserved to die.”

“Don’t you dare make your horrors superior to mine,” Nick said, hands clenched into fists but quiet and steady at his sides. “I’ve seen enough this week to last me a lifetime. Maybe Jeffreys did deserve to die. But by pinning the other two murders on him, you let another murderer get away. You closed the investigation. You made a community feel safe again.”

“I did what I thought was necessary.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell that to Laura Alverez and Michelle Tanner. Tell them how you did what was necessary.”

Nick walked away, his knees feeling a bit spongy. There was little victory in telling Antonio Morrelli he had been wrong. Why had he expected there to be some feeling of celebration? But as his boot heels echoed down the quiet hall, he walked a bit taller.

He stopped by the nurses’ station and was startled by the unit secretary dressed in a black cape and witch’s hat. It took a minute before he noticed the orange and black crepe paper and pumpkin cutouts. Of course, today was Halloween. Even the sun had emerged, finally bright enough and warm enough to start melting some of the snow.

He waited patiently while the unit secretary recited ingredients of a recipe into the phone. Her eyes told him she’d only be a moment, but there was no urgency in her voice.

“Hi, Nick.” Sandy Kennedy came up behind him, scooted back behind the secretary and grabbed a clipboard.

“Sandy, you finally made it to the day shift.” He smiled at the shapely brunette, while thinking what a stupid thing to say. Why not “How are you” or “It’s been a long time”? Then he wondered if there was anyplace in this city he could go without running into a former lover or one-night stand.

“Sounds like Christine is doing better,” she said, ignoring his stupid comment.

He tried to remember why he had never pursued a relationship with Sandy. Just seeing her reminded him how bright and beautiful she was. But then, so were all the women he chose. However, not one of them could live up to Maggie O’Dell.

“Nick, are you okay? Can we do something for you?”

Both Sandy and the secretary stared at him.

“Can you tell me Agent O’Dell’s room number?”

“It’s 372,” the secretary said without looking it up. “At the end of the hall and to the right. Although she may be gone.”

“Gone? What do mean gone?”

“She checked out earlier and was just waiting for some clothes. Hers were pretty trashed when she came in last night,” she explained, but Nick already was halfway down the hall.

He burst through the door without knocking, startling Maggie, who turned quickly from the window, then positioned her back—and the open hospital gown—to the wall.

“Jesus, Morrelli, don’t you knock?”

“Sorry.” His heart settled down, almost to its regular rhythm. She looked wonderful. The short, dark hair was smooth and shiny again. Her creamy skin had some color. And her eyes—those luscious brown eyes—actually sparkled. “They said you might be gone.”

“I’m waiting for some clothes. One of the hospital volunteers offered to go shopping for me.” She paced, carefully using the wall to shield her back. “That was about two hours ago. I just hope she doesn’t come back with something pink.”

“The doctor said it’s okay for you to check out?” He tried to make it a simple question. Was there too much concern in his voice?

“He’s leaving it to my discretion.”

She caught him staring at her, and when their eyes met, he held her gaze. He didn’t care if she saw the concern. In fact, he wanted her to see it.

“How’s Christine?” she asked, breaking the trance.

“Surgery went well.”

“What about her leg?”

“The doctor seems certain there won’t be any permanent damage. I just took Timmy in to see her.”

For a minute she stopped pacing. Her eyes softened, though there was a faraway look in them.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe in happy endings,” she said.

Her eyes met his again, this time accompanied by a faint smile, a slight tug at the corners of her lips. Jesus, she was beautiful when she smiled. He wanted to tell her that. Opened his mouth, in fact, to do just that, then thought better of it. Did she have any idea how scared he was when he thought she’d left without so much as a goodbye? Could she even tell what effect she had on him? The hell with her husband, her marriage. He needed to take the risk, let the chips fall where they may. He needed to tell her he loved her.

Instead, he said, “We arrested Eddie Gillick this morning.”

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for more.

“We brought in Ray Howard again for questioning. This time he admitted that sometimes he loaned the old blue pickup to Eddie.”

“The day Danny disappeared?”

“Howard conveniently couldn’t remember. But there’s more—lots more. Eddie came to work for the sheriff’s department the summer before the first killings. The Omaha Police Department had given him a letter of recommendation, but there were three separate reprimands in his file, all for unnecessary force while making arrests. Two of the cases were juveniles. He even broke one kid’s arm.”

“What about the last rites?”

“Eddie’s mom—a single mom, by the way—worked two jobs just to send him to Catholic school, all the way through high school.”

“I don’t know, Nick.”

She didn’t look convinced. It didn’t surprise him. He went on with the rest.

“He would have had access to the evidence in Jeffreys’ case and could easily have framed him. He’s also had access to the morgue. In fact, he was there yesterday afternoon picking up the autopsy photos. He could have easily snatched Matthew’s body when he realized the teeth marks in the photos might ID him. Plus, it would have been easy for him to make a few phone calls, use his badge number and get information on Albert Stucky.”

There was the twitch, the slight grimace at just the mention of the bastard’s name. He wondered if she was conscious of it.

“The morgue is never locked,” Maggie countered. “Anyone could have had access. And much of what happened with Stucky was publicized in the newspapers and tabloids.”

“There’s still more.” He’d left this for last. The most incriminating evidence was the most questionable. “We found some stuff in the trunk of his car.” He let her see his skepticism. Was it Ronald Jeffreys all over again? They were both thinking the same thing.

“What kind of stuff?” Now she was interested.

“The Halloween mask, a pair of black gloves and some rope.”

“Why would he have all that in the trunk of his abandoned car if he knew we were hot on his trail? Especially if he was responsible for framing Jeffreys in the same manner? Also, how did he have time to do all this?”

It was exactly what Nick had wondered, but he wanted desperately for this to be all over.

“My dad just more or less admitted that he knew someone may have planted evidence.”

“He admitted that?”

“Let’s just say he admitted to ignoring the discrepancies.”

“Does your father think Eddie could be the killer?”

“He said he’s sure it’s not Eddie.”

“And that makes you even more convinced that it is?”

Jesus, she knew him well.

“Timmy has a lighter the guy gave him. It has the sheriff’s department emblem on it. It’s a reward type thing that my dad used. He never handed out that many of them. Eddie was one of about five.”

“Lighters get lost,” she said. She stood up and slowly made her way to the window.

This time her mind was clearly far away. She even forgot about the slit in the back of her hospital gown. Though from this angle he could only see a sliver of her back, part of her shoulder. The gown made her look small and vulnerable. He imagined wrapping his arms around her, wrapping his entire body around hers. Just lying with her for hours, touching her, running his hands along her smooth skin, his fingers through her hair. He simply wanted to get lost in her for a very long time.

Jesus, where in the world was this coming from? He dug his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, feigning exhaustion, when it was really that image he needed to dig out.

“You still think it’s Keller?” he asked, but knew the answer.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just hard for me to realize I’m losing my touch.”

Nick could certainly relate to that.

“Eddie doesn’t fit your profile?”

“The man in that cellar wasn’t some hothead who lost his temper and sliced up little boys. This was a mission for him, a well-thought-out and planned mission. Somehow, I really do think he believes he’s saving these boys.” She stared out the window and avoided looking at him.

He had never asked what had happened in the cellar before he got there. The notes, the game, the references to Albert Stucky—it all seemed so personal. Perhaps he could no longer count on Maggie to be objective.

“What does Timmy say?” She turned to him finally. “Can he identify Eddie?”

“He seemed certain last night, but that was after Eddie chased him down the ridge and grabbed him. Eddie claims he spotted Timmy in the woods and went after him to rescue him. This morning Timmy admitted he never saw the man’s face. But, it can’t all be just coincidence, can it?”

“No, it does sound like you have a case.” She shrugged.

“But do I have a killer?”

H
e stuffed his few belongings into the old suitcase. His fingers traced over the suitcase’s fabric, a cheap vinyl that cracked easily. He had lost the combination years ago. Now he simply avoided locking it. Even the handle was a mass of black tape, sticky in summer, hard and scratchy in winter. It was the only thing he had of his mother’s.

He had stolen it out from under his stepfather’s bed the night he ran away from home. Home—that was certainly a misnomer. It had never felt like his home, even less after his mother was gone. Without her, the two-story brick house had become a prison, and he had taken his punishment nightly for almost three weeks before he left.

Even the night of his escape, he had waited until after his stepfather had finished and then collapsed from exhaustion. He had stolen his mother’s suitcase and packed while blood trickled down the insides of his legs. Unlike his mother, he had refused to grow accustomed to his stepfather’s deep, violent thrusts, the fresh tears and old ones not allowed to heal. That night, he had barely been able to walk, but still he had managed somehow to make it the six miles to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church where Father Daniel had offered refuge.

A similar price had been paid for his room and board, but at least Father Daniel had been kind and gentle and small. There had been no more rips and tears, only the humiliation, which he had accepted as part of his punishment. He was, after all, a murderer. That horrible look still haunted his sleep. That look of utter surprise in his mother’s dead eyes as she lay sprawled on the basement floor, her body twisted and broken.

He slammed the suitcase shut, hoping to slam out the image.

His second murder had been much easier, a stray tomcat Father Daniel had taken in. Unlike himself, the cat had received room and board with no price to pay. Perhaps that alone had been reason enough to kill it. He remembered its warm blood had splattered his hands and face when he slashed its throat.

From then on, each murder had become a spiritual revelation, a sacrificial slaughter. It wasn’t until his second year of seminary that he murdered his first boy, an unsuspecting delivery boy with sad eyes and freckles. The boy had reminded him of himself. So, of course, he needed to kill him, to get the boy out of his misery, to save him, to save himself.

He checked his watch and knew he had plenty of time. He carefully placed the old suitcase by the door, next to the gray and black duffel bag he had packed earlier. Then he glanced at the newspaper folded neatly on his bed, the headline garnering yet another smile: Sheriff’s Deputy Suspected in Boys’ Murders.

How wonderfully easy it had been. He knew the minute he had found Eddie Gillick’s lighter on the floor of the old blue pickup that the slick and arrogant bully would make the perfect patsy. Almost as perfect as Jeffreys had been.

All those evenings of excruciating small talk, playing cards with the egomaniac, had finally paid off. He had pretended to be interested in Gillick’s latest sexual conquest, only to offer forgiveness and absolution when the good deputy finally sobered up. He had pretended to be Gillick’s friend when, in fact, the conceited know-it-all turned his stomach. Gillick’s bragging had also revealed a short temper, mostly targeted at “punk kids” and “cock-teasing sluts” who, according to Gillick, “had it coming.” In many ways, Eddie Gillick reminded him of his stepfather, which would make Gillick’s conviction even sweeter.

And why wouldn’t Gillick be convicted, with his self-destructive behavior and all that damning evidence tucked neatly inside the trunk of the deputy’s very own smashed Chevy? What luck, stumbling across it in the woods like that, making it so easy to stash the fatal evidence. Just like Jeffreys.

He remembered how Ronald Jeffreys had come to him, confessing to Bobby Wilson’s murder. When Jeffreys asked for forgiveness there hadn’t been a shred of remorse in his voice. Jeffreys deserved what had happened to him. And it had been so simple, too. One anonymous phone call to the sheriff’s department and some incriminating evidence was all it had taken.

Yes, Ronald Jeffreys had been the perfect patsy just like Daryl Clemmons. The young seminarian had shared his homosexual fears with him, unknowingly setting himself up for the murder of that poor, defenseless paperboy. That poor boy whose body was found near the river that ran along the seminary. Then there was Randy Maiser, an unfortunate transient, who had come to St. Mary’s Catholic Church seeking refuge. The people of Wood River had been quick to convict the ragged stranger when one of their little boys ended up dead.

Ronald Jeffreys, Daryl Clemmons and Randy Maiser—all of them such perfect patsies. And now, Eddie Gillick could be added to that list.

He glanced at the newspaper again, and his eyes rested on Timmy’s photo. Disappointment clouded his good mood. Though Timmy’s escape had brought a surprising amount of relief, it was that very escape that required his own sudden exodus. How could he continue his day-to-day routine knowing he had failed the boy? And, eventually, Timmy would recognize his eyes, his walk, his guilt. Guilt because he hadn’t been able to save Timmy Hamilton. Unless…

He grabbed the newspaper and flipped to the inside story of Timmy’s escape and his mother, Christine’s, accident. He scanned the article using his index finger until he noticed the ragged fingernail, bitten to the quick. He tucked his fingers into a fist, ashamed of their appearance. Then he found the paragraph, almost at the end. Yes, Timmy’s estranged father, Bruce, was back in town.

He glanced at his watch again. Poor Timmy and all those bruises. Perhaps somehow, some way, Timmy deserved a second chance at salvation. Surely he could make time for something that important.