The Darker Side

We learn, in our line of work, that clothes don't make the man. You can kill in a T-shirt or a three-piece suit, you can be rich and kill or poor and kill. A knife is a knife is a knife. I don't trust any church completely, but I trust the gold and gilded ones the least of all. Piety, in my opinion, is an ascetic activity.

'I called ahead,' Alan says. 'He's expecting us.'

I GET TO SEE THE interior of the church with new eyes as well. And a new nose; I smell bleach. The pews are wooden and well worn. The floor is concrete, not marble. The altar at the front is small. Christ hangs in his usual position looking down on us all. Our savior needs a paint job, he's flaked in places.

His image still makes me quiver inside. I don't know if I believe in Him anymore, but I believed in Him once. Him and the Virgin Mary. I prayed to them, begged them to cure my mother's cancer. Mom died anyway. That betrayal was the end of my relationship with God. How could He forgive me for my sins when I'd never forgiven Him for His?

Father Yates sees us and comes toward us with a smile.

'Agent Barrett, Agent Washington.'

'Hello, Father,' I say. 'It's pretty empty in here. Slow day?'

I wince inside. I seem helpless to censor my own bitterness in this place. Alan looks at me strangely. Father Yates takes it in stride.

'Every day is a slow day at the Reedeemer, Agent Barrett. We're not saving souls by the bucketful here. One at a time.'

'Sorry, Father. That was uncalled for.'

He waves a hand. 'You're mad at God, I understand. If He can take it--and I think He can--then so can I. Now, I have someone I'd like you to meet. Agent Washington told me why you've come, and the woman I'm about to introduce you to is the only person I could think of. So far as I know, she was Rosemary's only friend. Rosemary had no living family. But perhaps this person will be helpful.'

'Why?'

'Because she used to be a police officer. A detective, in fact. In Ohio.'

'Really?'

'Cross my heart.' He smiles. Priest humor. 'She's waiting for you in the sacristy.'

*

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*

LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE ABOUT THIS church, the sacristy is small but clean. Simple shelving provides a place for the chalice to rest when not in use. I can see the wine and the bag containing the host wafers.

'They're made by nuns,' my mother had told me when I asked. I was not a fan of nuns at the time, but I had to admit that I liked the wafers even less. They should have been a reward for surviving the endurance test of Mass, but they tasted like Styrofoam. I see a closet with no doors, wood painted white. Father Yates's vestments hang inside.

There is no desk in this small room, just a window and three battered wooden chairs. A woman sits in one of the chairs, waiting.

'This is Andrea,' Father Yates tells us. 'Andrea, this is Agent Smoky Barrett and Agent Alan Washington.'

She nods but does not speak.

'I'll leave you alone for now,' the priest says, and takes his exit. I examine Andrea. She's not a small woman but not big either, about five-four and maybe a hundred thirty pounds. Her face would be average if not for her eyes and her hair. The hair is long and shiny and so black that it's almost blue. Her eyes are large and limpid and darker than the hair.

They are intelligent eyes. I can see the hint of cop in them. Her gaze is frank, direct, guarded, that mix of contradictions only found in law-enforcement professionals and hardened criminals. She takes in my scars without a perceptible reaction.

She's wearing a yellow T-shirt that's maybe a half size too big for her and a pair of faded blue jeans and tennis shoes. I hold out a hand.

'Pleased to meet you, Andrea,' I say.

Her grip is firm and stronger than I expected. Her palms are dry. I manage to cover my own surprise at the scars I see on her wrist and arm. Two cuts, one horizontal, one vertical. The mark of the truly dedicated suicide.

'Likewise.' Her voice is low and throaty, the voice of a phone-sex operator. 'And yeah, I tried to kill myself once.' She turns up her other wrist, and I see more scars. 'They're a matching set.'

'Been close myself,' I say, though I'm not sure why. She gives me a mild look, and nods for us to take a seat.

'Why does Rosemary's murder rate the attention of the Feds?' she asks.

Right to the point. I try out the standard answer.

'I'm not at liberty to say.'

She gives me the most mirthless smile I've ever seen, followed by a chuckle that says we're funny if we think she's going to be that easy.

'Then I'm not at liberty to help you. Put up or shut up.'

I glance at Alan. He shrugs.

'Fine,' I say. 'Rosemary is not this killer's only victim. If you need to know more, then we're done.'

'Nope, that makes sense. And I'm glad to hear it.'

'That he's killed others?'

'Of course. Multiple murders are easier to solve than single instance homicides.'

She has no concern for the bigger picture. If the death of others will help solve the murder of her friend, so be it.

'You want to tell us about it?' Alan asks.

I glance at him. He's entirely focused on Andrea. Alan is possibly the most gifted interrogator I know, so I keep my mouth shut and take a moment to study her.

It takes me longer to see it than he had, but I catch on. It's in her eyes, in her face, in everything about her. She's sad. It's not the shortterm sadness of someone having a bad day. It's not despair. This is something in between, a weariness that carries weight. Andrea is someone with a story to tell, a bad one, and you have to let her tell it before you can ask her what you really want to know. Andrea doesn't respond right away. She continues to assess me with those big, dark eyes for a few moments before turning them onto Alan.

'I used to be a cop,' she begins. 'Back in Ohio.'

Alan nods. 'Father Yates told us.'

'I was a good cop. I had the gift. I could smell the lies a mile away, and I could make connections where others couldn't. I ended up in homicide five years in.'

'Fast track,' Alan notes. 'All ability, or did you have a rabbi?'

Someone higher up who shepherded her career, he is asking.

'Both. I was good, real good. But my dad had been a cop too, so I had people looking out for me. It's the way of things there.'

'Here too,' he says. 'I was in LAPD homicide for ten years. Ability wasn't always enough.'

'Yeah. Well, I managed to juggle it all pretty good. I got promoted fast, married a great guy--not a cop--and had a baby. A beautiful boy named Jared. Life was good. Then things changed.'

She stops talking. Stares off into the distance.

'What things?' Alan prods her.

'There was this guy. He killed families. Wholesale. He'd come into a suburban neighborhood and recon until he found the right family. His requisites were: multiple children aged ten or above, preferably with some boys and girls in their teens, and at least one parent. Single moms were the best, but he always wanted a boy as a part of the equation, whether it was the dad or a son, brother, whatever.

'He'd come at them when it got dark. He'd make them all strip and then he'd spend the night doing his thing.