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Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once again, many thanks to all the professionals who generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, it’s my doing and not theirs. Also special thanks to my family and friends who continue to support me despite my long absences.
My appreciation and special thanks go to:
Deborah Groh Carlin for your love and support, but also for your constant help in researching, brainstorming and making sense of the puzzle pieces along the way, not to mention putting up with my annoying “writer quirks.” You are a true friend and partner in crime.
Amy Moore-Benson, my agent and friend, for being my advocate and being there time after time no matter how small the question or how difficult the problem.
Feroze Mohammed, my editor, for challenging me to make this my best book yet.
Patricia Kava, my good Catholic mother, who allows me to tackle tough subjects in my novels, all the while lighting candles for me.
Emilie Carlin for your love and support, but also for sharing your own wonderful stories and making them such a delight to listen to.
Leigh Ann Retelsdorf, Deputy County Attorney and friend, for being my go-to person whenever I have a “killer of a question.”
Detective Sergeant Bill Jadlowski of the Omaha Police Department for inspiring the creation of Detective Tommy Pakula.
Christopher Kava, my nephew, for helping me understand teenage boys and their computer obsessions…er, I mean computer skills.
Mary Means for taking such good care of my kids while I’m on the road.
Sharon Car. Fellow writer and friend, for being there no matter how much time transpires between our lunch dates.
Marlene Haney and Sandy Rockwood for your unconditional love, support and friendship.
Patti El-Kachouti for always being there.
Patti Bremmer, fellow writer, and her husband, Martin, for your friendship and inspiration.
Patricia Sierra and her mother, Kay, for cheering up and cheering on, and always at just the right times.
Father Dave Korth for exemplifying the very best of your profession and being a constant reminder of good.
A special thank-you to my new friends and neighbors in the Florida Panhandle for showing me what true strength and perseverance looks like while we picked up the pieces after Hurricane Ivan and then did it all over again after Hurricane Dennis.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to all the librarians, bookstore owners and managers, book buyers and sellers around the country and around the world for recommending my books.
This book is dedicated to all you faithful readers who insisted on the return of Father Keller.
From San Mateo, California, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, from McCook, Nebraska, to Milan, Italy—it didn’t matter where I went or which of my five books I was promoting, readers always asked the same question. “When are you going to take care of Father Keller?”
I must confess that five years ago when I wrote A Perfect Evil, I never dreamed it would make such an impact on so many of you. And so this book, A Necessary Evil is dedicated to all of you who have patiently waited for this long-overdue sequel.
Please consider this book my thank-you for an invaluable lesson that as writers and storytellers we do have the ability to breathe life into characters—characters who otherwise live only in our imaginations. And with that ability comes, perhaps, a certain responsibility to allow those characters to continue to breathe, to speak, to grow and even to be brought to justice.
“It is necessary only for the good
to do nothing for evil to triumph.”
—Edmund Burke
CHAPTER 1
Friday, July 2
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Monsignor William O’Sullivan was certain no one had recognized him. So why was his forehead damp? He hadn’t gone through the security checkpoint yet. Instead, he had decided to wait until it got closer to his flight time. Just in case someone did recognize him. On this side, he could still pretend to be picking up a colleague rather than admit he was leaving.
He fidgeted in the plastic chair, clutching the leather portfolio closer to his chest. So close, so tight it seemed to crush his lungs, causing that pain again, a pain he may have dismissed too quickly as heartburn. But of course, it was only heartburn. He simply wasn’t used to eating such a large meal for lunch, but he knew the flight to New York and the later one to Rome would include cardboard renditions of food, causing much more damage to his overly sensitive stomach than Sophia’s leftover meat loaf and mashed potatoes did.
Yes, surely the leftovers were responsible for his discomfort, he told himself, and yet his eyes darted around the busy airport terminal, looking for a bathroom. He remained seated, not wanting to move until he examined and found an acceptable path. He shoved a thumb and index finger up under his wire-rim glasses to dig the fatigue out of his eyes, and then he began his search again.
He’d avoid the shortest route, not wanting to pass the exotic black woman handing out “reading material”—as she called it—to anyone too polite to say no. She wore colorful beads in her hair, what looked like her Sunday best dress with splashes of purple that made her hips even larger, but sensible shoes. Her smooth, deep voice almost made it a song when she asked, “Can I offer you some reading material?” And to everyone—including those who huffed their responses and rushed by—she greeted them with yet another melodic, polite stanza, “You have a most pleasant day.”
Monsignor O’Sullivan knew what her reading material was without seeing it. He supposed she was a sort of present-day missionary, in her own right. If he passed her, would she sense their connection? Both of them ministers, distributors of God’s word. One in sensible shoes, another with a portfolio stuffed with secrets.
Better to avoid her.
He checked the Krispy Kreme counter. A long line of zombies waited patiently for their afternoon dose of energy, like drug addicts getting one more shot before their flight. To his right he watched the bookstore entrance, quickly glancing away when a young man in a baseball cap looked in his direction. Had the youth recognized him, despite his street clothes? His stomach churned while his eyes studied his shoes. His cotton-knit polo—a gift from his sister—was now sticking to his wet back. Over the loudspeakers came the repetitive message, warning travelers not to leave their luggage unattended. He clutched the portfolio, only now discovering that his palms were also slick with sweat. How in the world had he believed he could just leave without being noticed? That he could just get on a plane and be free, be absolved of all his indiscretions.
But when Monsignor O’Sullivan dared to look again, the young man was gone. Passengers rushed by without a glance. Even the black woman greeting and passing out her reading material seemed totally unaware of his presence.
Paranoid. He was just being paranoid. Thirty-seven years of dedication to the church and what did he get for it? Accusations and finger-pointing when he deserved accolades of respect and gratitude. When he tried to explain his predicament to his sister, the anger had overwhelmed him, and all he had managed to tell her in their brief conversation was to have the title of the family’s estate changed to her name only. “I won’t let those bastards take our home.”
He wished he were there now. It was nothing extravagant—a two-story split-timber on three acres in the middle of Connecticut, with walking trails surrounded by trees and mountains and sky. It was the only place he felt closest to God, and the irony made him smile. The irony that beautiful cathedrals and huge congregations had led him further and further away from God.
A squawk coming from near the escalator startled him back to reality. It sounded like a tropical bird, but was instead a toddler in full temper tantrum, his mother pulling him along, unfazed, as if she couldn’t hear the screech. It grated on Monsignor O’Sullivan’s nerves, scratching them raw and resetting the tension so tight in his jaw that he feared he’d start grinding his teeth. It was enough to get him to his feet. He no longer cared about accessible paths, and he made his way to the restroom.
Thankfully, it was empty, yet he glanced under every stall to make certain. He set the portfolio at his feet, leaning it against his left leg, as if needing to maintain some contact. He removed his glasses and placed them on the corner of the sink. Then, avoiding his own blurred reflection, he waved his hands under the faucet, his frustration fueled by the lack of response. He swiped his hands back and forth, finally eliciting a short burst of water, barely wetting his fingertips. He swiped again. Another short burst. This time he closed his eyes and splashed as much as he could on his face, the cool dampness beginning to calm his nausea, beginning to quiet the sudden throbbing in his temples.
His hands groped for the paper-towel dispenser, ripping off more than he needed and gently dabbing, disgusted by the smell and harsh feel of the recycled paper. He hadn’t even heard the bathroom door open. When he glanced in the mirror, Monsignor O’Sullivan was startled to see a blurred figure standing behind him.
“I’m almost finished,” he said, thinking he might be in the way, though there were other sinks. Why did he need to use this one? He noticed a faint metallic odor. Perhaps it was a member of the cleaning crew. An impatient one at that. He reached for his glasses, accidentally knocking them to the floor. Before he could bend down to retrieve them, an arm came around his waist. All he saw was a glint of silver. Then he felt the burn, the streak of pain, shooting up through his chest.
At the same time there was a whisper in his right ear—soft and gentle. “You’re already finished, Monsignor O’Sullivan.”
CHAPTER 2
Washington, D.C.
There was no easy way to pick up a human head.
At least that’s what Special Agent Maggie O’Dell had decided. She watched the scene below and sympathized with the young crime lab technician. Maggie wondered if that was exactly what he was thinking as he squatted in the mud, looking at it from yet another angle. Even Detective Julia Racine remained quiet, standing over him, but unable to offer any of her regular advice. It was the quietest Maggie had ever seen the detective.
Stan Wenhoff, chief medical examiner for the District, yelled down an instruction or two, but stayed beside Maggie on top of the embankment, not making any attempt to find a way down. Actually Maggie was surprised to see Stan on a Friday afternoon, especially at the beginning of a holiday weekend. Normally he would have sent one of his deputies, except that he wouldn’t want to miss out on making headlines. And this case would certainly start making headlines now.
Maggie looked beyond the riverbank, out at the water and the city on the other side. Despite the usual terror alerts, the District was preparing for the weekend festivities, expecting sunny skies and cooler-than-average temperatures. Not that she had any big plans beyond lounging in the backyard with Harvey. She’d throw a couple of steaks on the grill, read the latest Jeffery Deaver.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear though the breeze immediately tugged another one free. Yes, it was an absolutely beautiful summer day, except for the decapitated head someone had discarded on the muddy riverbank. What level of evil did it take to slice another person’s head completely off and leave it like a piece of trash? Her friend, Gwen Patterson, accused her of having an obsession with evil. Maggie didn’t look at it so much as an obsession as an age-old quest. She had decided long ago that it was part of her job to root out evil and destroy it.
“Finish going through the surrounding surface,” Stan called down. “Then just scoop it up into a bag.”
Maggie glanced at Stan. Scoop it up? Easy for him to say from up here where his polished shoes were safe and the waft of death hadn’t yet arrived. But even from above, Maggie could see it was a daunting task. The riverbank was littered with cans and discarded take-out containers and wrappers. She knew the area—this stretch under the overpass—well enough to know there were also cigarette butts, condoms and a needle or two. The killer had taken a risk, discarding the head in such a well-trafficked area.
Ordinarily Maggie would find herself assessing that risk as the killer’s apparent disorganization. Taking risks could amount to simple panic. But since this was the third head to show up in the District in three weeks, Maggie knew this had little to do with panic and everything to do with the killer’s twisted strategy.
“You mind if I come down and take a closer look?” Maggie called down.
Racine shrugged. “Help yourself,” she said, but she came to the bottom of the embankment and offered her arm for leverage. Maggie waved her off.
She searched instead for anything—branches, rocks, roots—to hang on to. There was nothing but river mud and tall grass. She didn’t have much choice but to slip and slide. Like a skier without poles, she tried to keep her balance, managing to stay on her feet, skidding past Racine, but stopping within inches of ending up in the Potomac.
Racine shook her head, a slight smirk on her lips, but thankfully didn’t say anything. Maggie didn’t need to be reminded that perhaps she went a bit overboard when it came to Racine, not wanting to accept any favors, or worse, feel she needed to repay a debt. She and Racine had had enough challenges and obstacles in the last several years. And more importantly, they were even. That’s where Maggie wanted to leave it.
Maggie tried to clean her shoes of the clumps of mud, rubbing them against the tall grass, not wanting to bring any more foreign particles to the scene. Her leather flats would be ruined. She was careless about shoes, often forgetting her slip-on boots. Gwen constantly warned her that her treatment of shoes bordered on irreverence. It reminded Maggie of Stan’s shiny, polished ones, and she glanced back up the embankment, noticing that he had backed away from the edge. Was he worried she may have started a mud slide, or did he want to make sure no one expected him to follow her path? Either way, she knew he wouldn’t be coming down.
Julia Racine caught Maggie looking up.
“Heaven forbid he gets his shoes dirty,” Racine said under her breath as if reading Maggie’s thoughts. But her eyes and attention quickly returned to the decapitated head as she added, “It’s got to be the same killer. But we may have gotten lucky this time.”
Maggie had only recently seen pieces of the case files on the other two heads. This was her first invitation to the crime scene, now that Racine and Chief Henderson suspected they might have a serial killer on their hands.
“Why lucky?” Maggie finally asked when it became obvious that’s what Racine was waiting for. Some things never changed, like Racine demanding everyone’s attention before she announced her brilliant theories.
“Getting that tip allowed us to get here before the critters finished their snack. The other two were down to the bone. We still haven’t been able to identify them.”
Maggie swiped her shoes against the grass one last time and came closer. Then the smell hit her like a blast of hot air. The mixture of scents that accompanied death was difficult for Maggie to describe, always the same and yet always different, depending on the surroundings. There was the faint metallic smell of blood, but this time overpowered by that of rotting flesh and the muck of river mud. She hesitated, but only for a second or two, focusing instead on the grisly scene less than three feet in front of her.
From above on the embankment she had thought there was a tangle of algae and muddy grass holding the head in place. Now she could see it was actually the victim’s long hair, twisted and wrapped around the back of the head, allowing the face to stare up at the clear blue sky. A little closer still, and Maggie could see that stare was not the correct word. The eyelids seemed to flutter as dozens of milky-white maggots pushed and shoved their way into the eye sockets. Even the victim’s lips appeared to be moving as if allowing one last whisper, but it was rather the slow-moving masses of maggots. They were pouring from the woman’s nostrils too, unrelenting, determined and focused on their task of devouring their prize from the inside out.
Maggie waved at the lingering blowflies and squatted opposite the crime lab tech to get an almost eye-level view. Beyond the buzzing flies, this close she could hear the squishing sound as the maggots pushed and shoved at each other to squeeze inside the various orifices. There was a sort of sucking sound, too.
God, she hated maggots.
During her early days as an FBI newbie when she had no fear and much to prove, at the request—or rather the dare—of a medical examiner, she had put her hand into a corpse’s maggot-filled mouth to retrieve the victim’s driver’s license. It had been the killer’s trademark and not an unusual one, allowing his victims their identities even though he stuffed them down their throats. Ever since then it was still difficult for her, whenever she saw maggots up close and personal, to not feel that sticky trail of slime they had left all over her hands and up her arms as they quickly grasped at self-preservation and began sucking at her own flesh.
But now, sitting back on muddy heels, she knew what Racine meant about getting lucky this time. Despite all the movement, Maggie could see clumps of yellow-white eggs stuffed in the victim’s ears and at the corners of her lips and eyes. Not all of the maggots had hatched yet and those that had were in their first stage, which meant the head couldn’t have been here more than a day or two.
In the July heat, Maggie knew the process moved quickly. As disgusted by them as she was, she had learned to also have a healthy respect. She knew adult blowflies could sense blood from up to three miles away. They would have arrived in a matter of hours of death. As disgusting as flies on a corpse look, the flies eat very little. They’re more interested in laying their eggs in the dark, moist areas of the corpse, reducing what was once a warm, living, breathing human being to a warm, moist host.
The eggs hatch within a day or two and immediately the baby maggots start to devour everything down to the bone. While working a case in Connecticut, Professor Adam Bonzado had told her that three flies could lay enough eggs and produce enough maggots to devour a body as quickly as a full-grown lion. Amazing, Maggie thought, how efficient and organized the creatures of nature were.
Yes, Racine was right. This time they had lucked out. There would be enough tissue left for DNA samples. But more importantly, there might be telltale signs embedded or bruised or hidden in the flesh, the last remains of this poor woman to tell them what had happened to her in her final hours.
Unfortunately, though, for the crime scene tech, his greatest challenge would be to contain the head and maggots. It’d be so much easier to brush them off, rinse, spray, fumigate the head and be rid of the pesky things, but cleaning away the maggots could mean washing away evidence.
Maggie looked around for footprints, tracks of any kind.
“How do you think she got here?” she asked, remembering to personalize the victim instead of falling into Stan’s habit of using “it,” something that could simply be “scooped up.” But she knew it wasn’t irreverence as much as it was a coping mechanism.
The crime scene tech followed Stan’s lead. “It wasn’t tossed—not from the overpass, not from the ledge of the embankment. I can’t see any impact marks or skids in the mud. It looks like he simply placed it here.”
“So, the killer brought her down here himself?” She glanced back at the steep embankment, but saw only her own skid marks.
“From what I can tell.” The tech stood, stretched his legs and looked grateful for the distraction. “There are some footprints. I’ll make a plaster cast.”
“Oh, yeah, the footprints,” Racine said. “You’ve got to see this.” She stepped carefully, pointing out the remnants of the impressions in the mud.
Maggie stood up and looked to where Racine pointed, except it was almost fifteen feet from the victim’s head.
“How can you be sure they’re the killer’s?”
“We haven’t found any others,” the tech replied, shrugging. “It rained pretty hard two nights ago. He had to have been out here after that.”
“The prints come out of nowhere,” Racine said. “And get this—they seem to lead right into the river.”
“Maybe a boat?” Maggie suggested.
“Out here? And not be noticed? I don’t think so.”
“You said you had a tip?” Maggie examined the oversize prints. The tread marks were pronounced, but there was no recognizable logo.
“Yup,” Racine said, crossing her arms as if finally feeling more in control. “An anonymous call. A woman actually. Called 911. I have no idea how the hell she found out. Maybe the killer told her. Maybe he got tired of us being so slow in finding the other two.”
“Or maybe he wanted us to know the identity of this one,” Maggie said.
Racine nodded, instead of coming up with a competing theory.
“So what do you suppose he does with the rest of the body?” the tech asked both women.
“I don’t know.” Racine shrugged and began to walk away. “Maybe our anonymous woman caller can tell us. They should have her number tracked down by the time we get back.”