chopped up while alive, and maybe . . . half consumed. Perhaps—it did seem that large chunks of blood, flesh, and bone might be missing in the jigsaw of the body parts. She hadn’t been dead more than an hour or so before the students had stumbled upon her.
Maybe they had a sick modern-day Jack the Ripper on their hands, this time a killer who kept fleshy body parts and bone and later mailed them to the head of a vigilance committee.
He had a feeling kids wouldn’t be playing around in cemeteries after dark anymore.
The girl’s trunk, head, and body parts had been laid out on one of the main central paths between the tombs, almost as if they were part of a guide map to different gravel trails and interments.
Her head had lain in the center of a path. Eyes still open. She had been decapitated, and then her arms and legs had been severed from the body. The whole of the body had been loosely brought back together so that the pieces were there—minus chunks, DeFeo was certain!—gathered back together again so that just a foot or so lay between her torso, her head, and each limb. The crime scene unit was still busy, but he and others had searched, and there had been no sign of a murder implement—or the tools that would have been necessary for hacking up a human body. The killer had taken them with him. Along with pieces of the body.
“What caused the jagged look on the flesh, Petey?” DeFeo asked the medical pathologist from the coroner’s office.
“I don’t know. Looks like she was ripped apart—blood slurped up and flesh eaten. This is bad, really bad,” Dr. Pete Long said.
“DeFeo!”
He stopped and looked back. Lieutenant Anderson, who had left his desk to come out for the gruesome murder sure to bring the city to the point of screeching hysteria, was coming after him. Anderson called his officers and coworkers by their surnames; he had never seemed to realize that DeFeo was his given name, and Montville was his last.
“They’ve already tried that Satanist’s mansion in the Garden District. They pulled in some of his followers, though they believe some had already hiked it out. Cramer wasn’t there.”
“I’ll find him,” DeFeo said.
Lieutenant Anderson, a good guy who was gruff at times, shook his head.
“You need help on this one, DeFeo,” he said. “This killer is an animal—you shouldn’t be out there alone.”
“I work best alone. That’s why I’m a PI. You know that, Lieutenant.”
Before Anderson could argue, DeFeo shut his car door, turned on the ignition, and put the pedal to the metal after he eased out into the traffic.
DeFeo knew where he was going.
He left his car two blocks from the cemetery. He didn’t use the gate, but bounded the wall and walked straight to the Montville tomb.
He found Austin Cramer there just as he had expected—studiously scrubbing blood off the wall of the tomb. DeFeo shook his head; he’d scrubbed the damned tomb already. Austin Cramer had apparently been busy that night with another initiation. And now he was trying to clean it all up. Interesting. Didn’t look like the work of a rabid murderer.
Austin Cramer didn’t hear him at first. He was too busy inspecting the tomb and scrubbing.
Standing just a few feet behind him, DeFeo said, “Well, this is a new twist.”
Austin nearly leaped atop the tomb, he was so startled by the sound of DeFeo’s voice. He backed against it. He didn’t look like a great cult leader, but a young man of about twenty-two, terrified.
Austin shook his head, unable to find speech at first.
“I already did that tonight,” DeFeo said, his voice harsh. “Thanks to you, I spend half my life trying to take care of that tomb.”
Austin worked his mouth for a few minutes. “I’m sorry, hey, it’s not like it’s your home or anything—it’s your old family tomb.”
“It’s way more than just a home; it deserves more reverence than a home,” DeFeo said, his tone just as harsh. “And you spend your life making sure that it constantly needs domestic repair!”
“I’m sorry; I swear to God I’m sorry.”
“You need to be sorry to that poor girl you ripped to shreds,” DeFeo said. “I’m taking you to the station where you’ll be arrested—not for vandalism. For murder.”
“No, no—that’s why I’m here, and you have to know it! I didn’t do it. I swear to God, I didn’t do it! Look—you can see. I was here tonight! I was here, with a girl. I couldn’t have done it. Please, I swear to you. You have to help me.”
“Why would I want to help you?” DeFeo demanded.
“Because you’re a decent guy—and you know I didn’t do it!”
DeFeo looked at Austin Cramer and, for the first time, realized that the little prick was actually intelligent. He was staring at him with a strange certainty and pride, as if he knew the facts of the situation and believed that DeFeo saw them clearly as well. He was also terrified, cleaning off the blood because he knew that his vandalism was like a bone stuck in DeFeo’s throat. It had been a game of cat and mouse with the two of them, DeFeo always furious and longing to pounce, and Austin Cramer always happy he could get away with it. He was careful not to leave prints or evidence, and he almost always picked nights when DeFeo was working. They both knew the cops didn’t have the time to sit on the cemetery nightly, and they hadn’t a whit of proof or evidence against him.
Austin had to be absolutely scared silly about what DeFeo just might do to him—after all, the two of them were alone in a dark cemetery. DeFeo could beat him to hell—and claim that he’d swung first. He could probably get away with shooting him, and the law and the people of the city would look at the situation with blind eyes— good riddance to the devil incarnate.
But he was here, and he was facing DeFeo, shaking, but desperate and determined.
“You didn’t do it?” DeFeo asked quietly.
“I swear to you! As God is my witness—”
“God?” DeFeo interrupted.
“Oh, please, you know that my thing is an act! Hell, I finally got the bullies to quit picking on me! The Harley dealer
“You keep wrecking my house!” DeFeo told him.
“It’s a tomb, man, it’s a tomb. Okay, so it’s a tomb that’s nearly two hundred years old, but come on, it’s a tomb! But, I swear, I’ll never do it again. I swear, I’ll paint it once a year. I’ll keep flowers around it, I’ll rip out the weeds, I swear I’ll keep it in pristine condition. I’ll do anything—please; you’ve got to help me.”
“Really? And how do you propose that I help you? You’re definitely at the top of the suspect list as far as the police are concerned. Maybe things will change; the autopsy is going to be done
“I didn’t do it, and that’s it—the killer is out there somewhere tonight. Maybe he doesn’t intend to strike again tonight, but, dear God, Jesus, Lord! We have to find him.”
“Do you know how many crimes go unsolved—forever? Do you know how much desk work, forensic work, and legwork usually go into apprehending a killer? But you think that
“Where would you start looking in a normal investigation? Say she’d just been strangled and left in the cemetery?” Austin asked him.
“I’d look closest at her associates—oh, that would be you!” DeFeo told him.
“Me—and the rest of my group.”
“They’ve brought in most of your group already,” DeFeo said. “And guess what? I’ll bet your loyal followers will be pointing the finger at you!”
The Father—who now looked so pathetically like a little kid—shook his head fervently. “I didn’t do it!” he repeated. He stared at the ground blankly, and then he looked at DeFeo. “Who didn’t they get? Who didn’t they
