Reasoner’s movements on the final night of her life.
At 5:05 P.M. she had left her regular beauty salon, where she’d had a trim, color touch-up, blow-dry, and manicure. She’d been in excellent spirits and had tipped her operator ten dollars. At five-fifteen she had picked up her dry cleaning. One gray suit, with vest, two linen blouses, and a pair of gabardine slacks. At approximately five- thirty she had arrived home. Her next-door neighbor had spoken to her in the hall. Anne had mentioned going to the theater that evening. She’d carried fresh flowers.
At seven-fifteen John Carroll had called her and broken their date and their relationship. They had spoken for roughly fifteen minutes.
At eight-thirty Anne Reasoner had called Suzanne Hudson. She’d been upset, tearful. They had talked for nearly an hour.
Around midnight the next-door neighbor had heard Reasoner’s television. She’d noticed it because she was coming in for the evening herself and hadn’t expected Reasoner to be home.
At 3:35 Reasoner had phoned Carroll. Two roaches of marijauna had been found beside the phone. They had talked until 3:42. None of the neighbors heard Reasoner leave the building.
Sometime between four and four-thirty A.M. Gil Norton had seen a man dressed as a priest exit the alley two blocks from Reasoner’s apartment. At 4:36 Norton attracted the attention of two patrolmen and reported the body.
“Those are the facts,” Harris said. Behind him was a map of the city with the murder sights flagged with blue pins. “From the map we can see that he’s confined himself to an area less than seven square miles. All the murders have occurred between one and five A.M. There is no sexual assault, no robbery. From the pattern Monsignor Logan established, we expect him to hit again on December eighth. Street patrols will be working double shifts from now until then.
“We know that he is a man of average or above average height, that he has dark hair and dresses as a priest. From Dr. Court’s psychiatric profile and reports, we know that he is psychopathic, possibly schizophrenic, with religious delusions. He kills only young, blond women, who apparently symbolize an actual person who is or was in his life.
“Dr. Court feels that due to the break in pattern of the murder, and the disorder of the printing on the note left on the body, that he is nearing a crisis in his psychosis. The last murder may have cost him more than he can afford.”
He dropped the file on the table, thinking it was more than any of them could afford. “It’s her opinion that he would have had a physical reaction, headaches, nausea, that would have debilitated him. If he is still able to function on a normal level for periods of time, it’s placing an enormous strain on him. She believes it would show in fatigue, loss of appetite, inattention.”
He paused a moment, to make certain everyone in the room was taking it in. The room was separated from the squad room by windows and Venetian blinds that were yellowing with age. Beyond them could be heard the steady hum of activity, phones, footsteps, voices.
There was a coffee machine in the corner and a jumbo-sized plastic cup for cops with a conscience to drop in twenty-five cents a shot. Harris walked over to it, poured a cup, and added a spoonful of the powdered cream he detested. He drank and looked at his staff.
They were restless, overworked, and frustrated. If they didn’t start cutting down to an eight-hour day, he was going to lose some of them to the flu. Lowenstein and Roderick were already popping decongestants. He couldn’t afford to have them off sick, and he couldn’t afford to pamper them. “We have in this room over sixty years of police experience. It’s time we put those sixty-odd years on the line and catch one sick religious fanatic who probably can’t keep his breakfast down in the morning anymore.”
“Ed and I talked to Logan again.” Ben pushed aside his plastic cup of coffee. “Since the guy dresses like a priest, we thought we’d start treating him like one. As a psychiatrist, Logan talks to and treats fellow priests who are having any kind of emotional problems. He’s not going to give us a list of his patients, but he’s going through his files, checking for anything-anyone who might fit. Then there’s a matter of the confessional.”
He stopped for a moment. Confession was part of the Catholic ritual that had always given him a problem. He could remember well kneeling in that dark little room with the screened panel, confessing, repenting, atoning. Go and sin no more. But, of course, he had.
“A priest has to confess to somebody, and it has to be another priest. If Dr. Court’s right, and he’s beginning to think of what he’s done as a sin, he’s going to have to confess.”
“So we start interviewing priests,” Lowenstein put in. “Look, obviously I don’t know a lot about Catholics, but isn’t there something about the sanctity of the confessional?”
“We probably wouldn’t get a priest to finger anyone who came to him in the confessional,” Ben agreed. “But maybe we’d get another location. Chances are he’d stick with his own parish. Tess- Dr. Court-said he probably attended church regularly. We might be able to find out what church. If he’s a priest, or was one, he’d probably be drawn to his own church.” He rose and went to the map. “This area,” he said, circling the blue flags, “includes two parishes. I’m betting he’s been to one or both of these churches, maybe standing on the altar.”
“You figure he’s going to show up on Sunday,” Roderick put in. He clamped his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose to relieve some pressure. “Especially if Dr. Court was right and he was too sick to make it last week. He’ll need the support of the ceremony.”
“I think so. Masses run Saturday evening too.”
“I thought that was our province,” Lowenstein commented.
“Catholics are flexible.” Ben dipped his hands in his pockets. “And they like to sleep late on Sunday like everybody else. The thing is, I’m betting this guy is a traditionalist. Sunday morning is for mass, the mass should still be said in Latin, and you don’t eat meat on Friday. Church rules. I think Court’s got something when she says the guy’s obsessed with Church rules.”
“So we cover the two churches on Sunday. In the meantime, we’ve got a couple of days to interview priests.” Harris looked at each of his detectives. “Lowenstein, you and Roderick take one parish, Jackson and Paris the other. Bigsby will-where the hell is Bigsby?”
“He said he had a lead on the amices, Captain.” Roderick rose and poured a cup of ice water, knowing there was too much coffee in his system already. “Look, I don’t want to throw a wrench in the works, but suppose he does show up during one of the masses on Sunday. What makes any of us think we can pick him out of the congregation? The guy isn’t a freak, he isn’t going to come in speaking in tongues or frothing at the mouth. Dr. Court points out that he’s just like anyone else except for the fact that he’s troubled.”
“It’s all we’ve got,” Ben stated, annoyed at having his own doubts stated by someone else. “We’ve got to go with whatever advantage we have; at the moment it’s location. We check out the men who come alone. Court also thinks he’s a loner, so he’s not going to come in with the wife and kids. Logan takes it one step further and sees him as devout. A lot of people come to mass and nod off or at least space out. He wouldn’t do either.”
“Spending the day in church gives us the opportunity to try something else.” Ed finished a note then looked up. “Pray.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Lowenstein said under her breath as Bigsby swung into the room.
“I’ve got something.” He held a yellow pad in his hand, and his red and watery eyes were bulging. He’d been spending his nights with Nyquil and a hot-water bottle. “One dozen white silk amices, invoice number 52346-A, ordered on June fifteenth from O’Donnely’s Religious Suppliers, Boston, Massachusetts. Delivery July thirty-first, Reverend Francis Moore. The address is a post office in Georgetown.”
“How’d he pay for it?” Harris’s voice was calm as he worked through the next steps.
“Money order.”
“Track it down. I want a copy of the invoice.”
“It’s on its way.”
“Lowenstein, get to the post office.” He checked his watch and nearly swore in frustration. “Be there when it opens in the morning. Find out if he still has the box. Get a description.” Yes, sir.
“I want to know if there’s a priest in the city whose name is Francis Moore.”
“There’d be a list of all the priests in the Archdiocese. We should be able to get it from their main office.”
Harris nodded at Ben. “Check it out. Then check out the rest of the Francis Moores.”
He couldn’t argue with basic police work, but Ben’s instincts told him to concentrate on the area of the murders. He was there. Ben was sure of it. And now maybe they had his name.
