'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,' I say. 'For now, we need to find out if the victims were Catholic. If they are, then we can strategize from there.'
'We could do it as a questionnaire,' Jezebel muses. 'Call the families and ask them a series of general questions, tell them we're just looking for any and all information that might help. One of the questions could address religion. It won't raise any flags that way.'
'Great idea,' I say. 'Draft it with James right now.'
'Callie, I need you to go over to the Redeemer. Father Yates is expecting us. We need to sweep the confessional for bugs.'
'That's not really my forte. Forensics, not electronics, remember?'
'Call Tommy. He's an expert in the area. He can tell you what you need.'
She raises an eyebrow. 'Are you two speaking again?'
'You could say that.'
'I thought you had that self-satisfied 'I've just been laid' aura about you,' she says.
'It's a lot more interesting than that, but I'll tell you later, not now.'
She grabs her coffee and her purse, points a finger at me. 'Don't think I'll forget.'
'Last of my worries. Oh, and, Callie?' She stops and turns. 'Call me right away with what you find.'
Because I'd like to be sure my own confession isn't sitting on a tape somewhere, I don't say out loud.
I think it's unlikely; the smart money is on them removing the bugs once they finish up, so as to avoid detection, but better safe than stupid, Mom always said.
She tips me a two-finger salute.
'What about me?' Alan asks.
The office door flies open before I can answer. AD Jones walks in. His face is pale.
'We're too late.'
*
*
*
'VALERIE CAVANAUGH, AGE TEN. FOUND dead in her bedroom this morning. Stuck in the side like the others.'
We're in the AD's office. Alan is seated. I am pacing, back and forth. I want to scream or shoot something; I'm sick with guilt.
'Do we know if she's Catholic?'
AD Jones frowns. 'What does that have to do with it?'
I haven't had time to bring him up to speed on my theory. I do so now.
'It would explain everything,' he agrees. 'How he gets his information, the religious tie-in. It all fits.'
'I want to keep it under wraps, for now.' I explain about the questionnaire.
'Good. Get them going on that and then I want you and Alan to head over to the Cavanaugh home.'
'Could be a copycat,' Alan says. 'Using it for cover.'
'The parents?' I ask.
He shrugs. 'Anything's possible.'
I have to allow that he could be right. One of the parents, or both, could have seen the news coverage about the Preacher and killed little Valerie in the same way, hoping to blame it on our serial killer. Most child victims are murdered by a parent.
But I don't think so. Not this time.
'Be discreet with that theory,' AD Jones orders. 'As I understand, they had to sedate the mom.'
'THE FORMAT IS SIMPLE,' JEZEBEL says as I read the questionnaire.
'We'll keep two people on the tip line. We've confirmed the identities of all the victims anyway. James and I will supervise the other four and we'll start calling the families. It will take us into the late afternoon, but we'll get it done.'
'This is good,' I say.
The questions are designed to fit with the cover story of collecting
'background' information on the victims. They are broad and innocuous. 'Did she ever attend college?' 'Did she have any children?'
'What social groups was she a part of ?' And, buried among them all, the question we really want answered: 'What, if any, religion did she practice?'
'The media won't alert on this,' Jezebel says, 'and the families will be eager, for the most part, to answer.'
'Do it.'
'THERE ARE NO BUGS IN this church, hallelujah,' Callie tells me on the phone. 'However, I did find a spot inside the confessional that looks to have been wood-puttied recently.'
'Prints?' I ask, hoping without really expecting.
'Sorry, no. And the wood putty, while intriguing, isn't decisive. There's no way for me to confirm how long it's been there. Could be months, could be years.'
'Not days?' I ask, thinking again of my own confession.
'No, older than that.'
'Big coincidence that it's there at all,' I say.
'What do you want me to do?'
'I want you to meet us at a crime scene.' I explain. She's silent.
'He did it? A child?'
'Looks that way.'
'Give me the address.'
32
THE CAVANAUGHS LIVE IN ONE OF THE SUBURBS OF BURBANK, in a two-story home built in the early eighties that has since been updated. It's on one of those small residential streets that are unique to Los Angeles; quiet, secluded, tree lined, but just three blocks away it's all concrete and steel and rush, rush, rush.
'Media vultures are already circling,' Alan observes.
'Young, white, middle-class, female, and dead,' I say. 'That's a lead story anywhere in the USA.'
We are let in past the cordons put up to keep the media at bay. Neighbors stand outside on their lawns, horrified at the idea that a monster came so close, thankful he didn't choose their child, and unable to look away.
'Three black and whites,' Alan points out. 'Probably crowd control. Two unmarkeds. One's a town car, probably brass come out because of the media. The other will be the detectives in charge.' He shakes his head. 'Wouldn't want to be them right now.'
I snort. 'Them? What about us?'
'It's different when you're a cop. We're the FBI. We can do our thing here and walk away. These detectives have to stay right here in the limelight.'
'I never looked at it like that.'
'How do you want to do this?'
I examine the scene. Most of the media is involved in setup shots, filming the home, the surrounds, the police presence. Helicopters circle above. News reporters clutch their microphones and practice snappy summations of what they know so far. It's not them I'm worried about right now. I continue scanning and find what I was afraid of.
'Shoot,' I mutter. 'We have some smart ones.'
I'm referring to what I consider the 'real newspeople,' the ones who spend more time looking than talking, noses to the air, sniffing for the slightest scent of the real story. The one I spotted is a woman. She's a blonde, in her mid-thirties, well dressed in a tailored jacket and matching dark slacks. She's not watching the house, but is looking right at our car. I can see her talking to her cameraman, and pointing toward us. She can't have seen who we are through the tinted windows, but somehow she knows anyway.
