'Holy crap,' Pakula said under his breath, caught with a mouthful. He swiped at the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. 'Why the hell didn't you tell me that yesterday?'
'Because it's nothing official, not even a single complaint filed. Just some reporter from the
Pakula nodded, but this time kept quiet. The chief wasn't finished, and so he took another bite.
Chief Ramsey looked all the way around them, but no one was staying in one place long enough to seem interested in their conversation.
'I'm just saying that could be why the archbishop has his shorts all in a twist about this. He's pretending that it's no big deal, but it's got to be a big fucking deal for him to send his messenger boy to pick up the luggage before the monsignor's even had a chance to get cold.'
'Maybe he knows about the other priests getting iced?' Pakula suggested.
'Could be. Either way, his reputation is to round up his yes-men and very quietly but powerfully discredit, damage and ruin whoever the fuck he perceives as his enemy. And we both know he can do a pretty damn good job of it.'
'If some psycho is running around the country offing priests, why wouldn't the archbishop want to do everything in his power to stop him? What am I missing?' Pakula pushed up his sunglasses and tossed the wrapper from his kraut-dog, glancing back at the vendor booth, contemplating another. After all, he still had more than half of his extra-large Coke. The chief noticed.
'Go ahead. Hell, I'd have two or three of them if they didn't stay with me for the rest of the night.'
''No, I'd better not. Clare brought some meatball sandwiches.'
'Look at it this way,' Chief Ramsey said around a sip at his straw, 'if there was some shit going on at Our Lady of Sorrow and O'Sullivan was about to smear the entire diocese, maybe the archbishop would be grateful to have his murder chalked up to a random slice and dice. If there even was a leather portfolio full of damning evidence, it's nowhere to be found. Case closed and there's nobody digging any further. I don't believe for a second O'Sullivan's poor sister in Connecticut wants him back as soon as possible for some elaborate burial. Armstrong's probably thinking the sooner he gets buried the sooner those secrets get buried with him.'
'Sort of like O'Sullivan's murder was a mixed blessing from above?'
'Exactly.'
'So what are we gonna do about it?'
'Well, I'll tell you one thing, I'm already tired of His High and Mighty jacking us around and thinking he can tell me what I can or can't do. He doesn't even have the balls to do it himself. He sends his pasty-faced bully, Sebastian.' Chief Ramsey paused as if he needed to settle himself down. He took another sip. 'I have a buddy I met years ago, Kyle Cunningham. Long story, but he owes me one. Archbishop Armstrong thinks he's almighty, so we bring in someone he can't reach, someone who doesn't give a shit about what kind of power he thinks he has. And also someone who takes the reins and the heat if this mess ends up being some fucking serial killer offing priests. That happens and you can bet we won't just have Armstrong and the
'We're calling in the big boys and not just Weston and crew?'
'Cunningham promised me his top profiler, so not necessarily boys, but his top boy for sure. That should be enough.'
'I just want to figure this one out. Shouldn't that still be our priority?' Pakula didn't mean to sound like he was second-guessing Chief Ramsey's decision. Yet at the same time, he didn't much trust the FBI to bring any answers to the case no matter who they sent. Fact was, he didn't believe bringing a profiler in would be much help at all, despite the chief's argument. When the going got tough, he knew as lead detective it'd still be his neck on the line, not some spooky flash-in-the-pan profiler, trying to simplify everything by telling him whether the killer put on his pants any differently than the rest of them. Maybe… just maybe if they were lucky, the feds would, at least, help connect the dots with the other cases. And if there was a killer murdering priests, that could be where there were some answers.
Pakula looked squarely at the chief, waiting for his eyes to meet his, expecting some sort of reprimand for his cynicism, but instead he said, 'Me, too. I just wanted it figured out.' Chief Ramsey took a bite of his hot dog as if he finally had an appetite. 'But when we do, you'd better be prepared to watch all hell break loose.'
CHAPTER 31
He sat in front of the computer screen. He was exhausted, his vision was blurred and every muscle in his body ached. It was the same every time, as if he had been drained completely of energy. Yet he waited, watching the lines of chat appear, one after another, all mundane, inane chitchat that didn't make much sense nor did it matter. He didn't participate. He never did. Instead, he waited for the game to begin.
He had left the window open despite the hot and humid air pushing its way in, breathing down his neck. Down below he could hear the traffic, too much for this time of night. The fireworks hadn't stopped either, annoying pops and bangs at varying distances. Now and again a string of them went off with a series of hissing and snapping, sometimes with a loud blast for the finale, sometimes only a sizzle and a spit.
He hated the Fourth of July and the memories it revived. It was those memories that got him into trouble. Every single time. They could come out of nowhere, unexpected, unpredictable. Sometimes they rushed in, overwhelming him. Sometimes they were quiet, subtle… sneaky. There was no harnessing them, no matter how much he tried.
He checked the time in the lower corner of his computer screen _ fifteen more minutes. He didn't know why he bothered to wait. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest his weary body. The game always calmed him even if it wasn't enough anymore. In the beginning it had quieted the rage. His invitation to play had been a sort of godsend. It was exactly what he needed. A venue, a brotherhood where he could be safe to expose his anger and eliminate his enemy. It didn't stop the memories but it redirected them.
Now he couldn't remember when the game started to not be enough. When it had gotten to the point that he needed more of a release. How could it be enough when the subject of his anger was still free to wander the earth? How could he continue to allow that?
Suddenly he realized that his fingers, his hands were still bloody. He had smeared the keyboard and riddled his desktop with droplets. The unexpected sight of it made him jump out of his chair, holding his hands up and staring at them as though they belonged to someone else. They did belong to someone else. Someone he hardly recognized anymore. It was getting worse. It was an evil penetrating through his skin, into his veins, even down into his bones. An evil that would destroy him if he didn't soon find a way to destroy its source. And he knew the source. He just needed the courage to eliminate it.
He took several deep breaths, checked the computer clock again. He had just enough time to clean up. He turned to go to the bathroom and only gave a fleeting glance to the freshly decapitated head that sat staring at him from his living-room coffee table.
CHAPTER 32
Tommy Pakula shifted his weight, but there was no getting comfortable in the hardback chair. It sat low in front of the gaudy ornate desk. Lower, he was certain, on purpose. Probably so that when the archbishop sat behind the desk he would be looking down on his visitor. That was when the archbishop would finally
