A Necessary Evil

CHAPTER 14

Platte City, Nebraska

Nick Morrelli washed down his mother’s potato salad with iced tea, wishing the tea was something stronger. Not a good sign before noon. He couldn’t believe he had taken off the entire week, handed over his role as lead prosecutor on the Carlucci drug case and even given up Red Sox tickets. Okay, maybe the Red Sox tickets weren’t such a big deal, but still, all for what? To come back to Nebraska, stay at his sister’s house and attend events like this for a whole week?

“Why are you hiding over here?”

His older sister, Christine, startled Nick, suddenly appearing behind him, invading his corner of the backyard. He wasn’t hiding. The old rattan chair happened to be quite comfortable despite needing a new cushion and a fresh coat of spray paint.

“I’m not hiding. Someone needs to keep old Ralphie quiet.” He patted the dog’s shaggy head, keeping his paper plate up and out of Ralphie’s reach, even though the old dog was fast asleep.

“Yeah, he looks like he’s enjoying your company.” Christine sat down in an accompanying rattan chair, wincing when it wobbled a bit.

“You know Mom says guys never came to these things in the good ole days.” He looked around their parents’ large backyard, crowded with people, only a few he recognized.

“The good ole days? I think you mean back in the Dark Ages,” his sister told him. “I thought this was all a part of that new leaf you were turning over. You remember, your attempt at becoming a mature responsible adult.”

She offered him a zebra brownie, pristine, untouched and unlike when they were kids and her goodie offerings came with a bite removed. So how could he refuse? He broke a piece off and stuffed it into his mouth.

“I don’t think being a mature responsible adult is all that much fun,” he said with a mouthful as if to emphasize his point that perhaps he wasn’t adult material. “There’s hardly anyone here I know.” But now he realized he sounded a bit pathetic. He expected his sister to say, “When has that stopped you before?” Instead, she decided to stoop to his level.

“Mom and I wanted to limit the guest list only to those…shall we say, friends who you haven’t slept with. You know, out of respect for Jill. Sorry, if that left only Hal, Timmy and Father Tony.”

“Ouch,” he said, faking his best imitation of being sucker punched. And yet, he knew he probably deserved that. He had spent much of his bachelorhood perfecting the art of one-night stands, so perhaps he deserved a reminder now and then.

“Seriously, Nick. I don’t get it.” This time she waited for his eyes, and he knew the horseplay was over. “You claim this is what you want. That Jill Campbell is the best thing that’s happened to you. And yet, here you are at your own engagement party hiding out in the corner of the yard with an old, sleeping dog.”

He didn’t know what to tell her. Of course this was what he wanted. His eyes left hers to find Jill, making the rounds from one group of guests to another. She almost glided instead of walked, her yellow dress making her look like a model instead of an attorney. She wore her blond hair loose today, letting it brush her shoulders. In court she usually pulled it back or wore it up, attempting to add years and authority to her smooth, youthful face.

He told her time and again that she had saved him from himself, never really explaining, presuming that she already knew that there had been someone else he was trying to forget. But instead of pressing him for details, she seemed to take it upon herself to be the one who would finally replace the other woman she had never met.

“There you go again,” he heard Christine say and immediately he knew he had missed something. Before he could respond, she added, “You’ve been doing that a lot, Nicky. You never seem to be where you’re at.”

He rolled his eyes at her as if that was the most ridiculous, incoherent thing he had ever heard, but he knew exactly what she meant. He hadn’t been able to focus in months. His friend and co-worker, Will Finley, claimed it all began the day he and Jill had set a date for the wedding. Or to hear Will tell it, the day he surrendered to Jill.

At the time Nick joked that of course he couldn’t focus. “After all, wasn’t that what happened when you fell in love and decided to take the plunge?”

His friend had just done the same thing, marrying Tess McGowen, the love of his life, only months before. He expected Will to understand. He expected Will, of all people, to sympathize. Instead, his friend’s reaction felt like a sting. “Plunge?” Will had laughed. “You refer to marriage as a plunge and then you wonder what your problem is?”

Nick took another gulp of the iced tea as if needing to wash away the memory. What did Will Finley know anyway? People who were happy quickly forgot what misery felt like.

Misery?

What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t miserable. Jill had saved him from his misery. Suddenly, he realized he had done it again—strayed off. He glanced at Christine, expecting to see her impatience, but she wasn’t looking at him. He followed her gaze, only now seeing the black-and-white in the driveway.

“If this is one of those strip-o-grams, I know it was your idea, not Mom’s.”

But Christine wasn’t smiling.

“I’m not sure what’s going on.”

Two uniformed officers were talking with Father Tony. Nick’s first thought was that there had been a car accident or something awful that required a priest and last rites. He watched Tony’s head bob in agreement then watched him swing around, looking for and finally finding Nick. Nick attempted to wave to him that it was okay for him to leave the party, but Tony made his way through the crowded backyard, guests parting for him like a sea of pastels.

“What’s going on?” Christine asked, but Tony only shrugged, his eyes meeting and holding Nick’s.

“Omaha police want me to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

It took Nick by surprise. “To answer questions? About what?”

Tony shrugged again, and he reminded Nick of when they were boys. That same shrug came anytime they got into trouble and an adult asked for an explanation.

“Monsignor O’Sullivan was found dead in a restroom at the airport last night.”

“Oh my God,” Christine said. “And it wasn’t just a heart attack or they wouldn’t have questions.”

Nick shot her a warning look. He could hear her shift into reporter gear, probably already taking notes in her head.

“I hate to take you away from your own party, Nick. But can you come with me?”

“Of course,” Nick said without hesitation. He and Father Tony Gallagher had been friends since kindergarten when the two of them got deathly sick after eating almost a whole jar of paste. He thought he knew his good buddy pretty well, and unless it was his imagination, he didn’t think Tony looked all that surprised about the monsignor being dead.

CHAPTER 15

Washington, D.C.

The number-one tool for dismemberment was the hacksaw, but from what Maggie could see, this guy must have never had one handy.

Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim’s hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.

She had ruled out a disorganized killer because of the planning and discipline it had taken not just to discard the heads but to complete the grisly process three times. Not to mention that he had also been able to hide or dispose of the torsos without getting caught. Dismembering a body took time and privacy. No matter where he killed his victims, he would need to take them back someplace safe, someplace where he knew he wouldn’t be interrupted, where he could make a mess and have time to clean up.

And yet, something bothered Maggie. If he was, indeed, organized and had carefully planned each murder, why hadn’t he gone to the trouble of buying a hacksaw or something that would have made the job much easier?

The sound of electric hair clippers interrupted her thoughts as Stan began shaving off the victim’s long hair. She looked younger than Maggie had first thought. Without the tangles of hair, she noticed small diamond studs in one of the victim’s earlobes. As far as she could tell, there were no other piercings in either brow, the nose, lip or chin. She made a mental note to have Stan check the woman’s tongue.

“We don’t have much to go on,” Stan said, as if reading her thoughts.

As soon as he finished with the clippers, however, he pointed to a wound, a circular indent smashed into the top left side of the victim’s skull.

“I’m guessing ball-peen hammer,” he said, running a gloved index finger over the area.

“Is that how he killed her?” Racine asked, swiping a couple of maggots to the floor before coming in for a closer look.

“He smacked her pretty good,” but Stan didn’t look convinced. He continued his hands-on examination. “The hair samples should tell us if she was on any drugs at the time.”

Maggie nodded; she knew the hair bulbs could be read almost like a drug timeline, since substances are captured and remain locked as the hair grows.

“What if he gave her something to knock her out?” Racine wanted to know. “Would that show up?”

“Oh, sure. Hair analysis can identify the heavy-duty stuff like cocaine and heroin, but we can also identify any tranquilizers or GHB. Should even be able to tell you whether she was a smoker or on Prozac. People think we can’t figure out much when we have only the head,” Stan continued. “There wasn’t much with the other two.”

“That reminds me,” Racine interrupted. “I’ve made arrangements to take the other two up to a forensic anthropologist in Connecticut.”

“Fine, fine. I can’t do much more on those because of the level of decomposition. But this one has a lot to tell.” And thankfully he was still anxious to share.

He tilted the head back, readjusting his vise-grip contraption so that she stared at the ceiling. More maggots slid off, hitting the stainless-steel table with tiny plops like raindrops on a tin roof.

“Despite the head wound, I doubt that was what killed her. Take a look,” he said, flinging maggots off her cheeks, “at the area around her eyes.”

He took a pair of forceps and, although Maggie thought Stan was a bit clumsy and slow at times, surprised her by expertly pinching and flipping up the right eyelid.

“See what I mean?”

“Petechial hemorrhages,” Maggie said.

“Petechial what?” Racine asked.

“Petechial hemorrhages are capillaries that ruptured,” Stan told her and his fingers moved on down the victim’s face.

Racine still looked confused.

“She was strangled,” Maggie said.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Stan said without looking up. “Petechial hemorrhages occur when air is cut off. You see, we don’t need her neck to conclude that she was, in fact, strangled.”

“Wait a minute,” Racine said, hands on her hips. She wasn’t happy with Stan’s conclusions. “You’re saying he drugged her—”

“No, I don’t know that for certain, but we should be able to tell from her hair samples.”

“Okay, so he may have drugged her,” Racine qualified her remarks and continued. “He then hit her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. All this before he strangles her. Oh, and then just for fun he cuts off her head.”

“Actually I’d say it was more like ripped,” Maggie said, joining the speculations.

“Excuse me?” Racine came around the table for a better angle.

Stan turned his contraption so that Racine had a better view of the decapitation area.

“Agent O’Dell’s correct,” Stan confirmed.

“Jesus,” Racine said. “What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?”

CHAPTER 16

Washington, D.C.

Dr. Gwen Patterson tried not to stare at Rubin Nash’s hands. He sipped from the glass of water she had offered him and set it aside, not letting it slow him down as he continued on and on about his mother’s best friend taking his virginity when he was fifteen. It was one more thing he felt a woman had taken from him. First, his mother had taken away his father, now her friend had taken away his virginity. Yet, that revelation seemed secondary to him. Instead, he wanted to share the illicit details, trying to be as graphic as possible. Perhaps he wanted to shock her, or at least get some reaction from her. There were few, if any, sexual deviances and perversions, let alone words or phrases, that could shock her. Besides he sounded too proud of his teenage prowess. The incident had certainly influenced him and shaped his attitudes about sex and women. However, would it have affected him enough to make him a murderer?

His hands were large but the fingers stubby. How much strength was needed to squeeze the life out of someone? Gwen wished she had turned off the air-conditioning in her office, forcing him to roll up his shirtsleeves. Were there scratches on his arms? Why else would he wear long sleeves on a hot July day?

Gwen studied his face. The cut on his lower jaw was probably a shaving nick. His open-collared shirt allowed a censored view of his neck. A person who was being choked or strangled would fight back. She would claw and scratch and punch. Unless he caught her off guard. Rubin had wondered what it would feel like to twist someone’s neck and hear it snap.

She would need to find out from Maggie how the victims were killed. Maybe she was way off base suspecting one of her patients as the killer.

“Isn’t that right, Dr. Patterson?” she heard Rubin ask and realized she had drifted too far.

“I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Why older women fuck young boys? It’s not just a control thing. It’s because they want to be adored. Isn’t that what they really want?”

“Did you adore her?”

He looked away before she could see the answer in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared for her to turn it around on him. Was it embarrassment or guilt he was trying to hide? The question had definitely surprised him.

“A good place for us to pick up next time,” he told her, reversing their roles with a glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll try not to be so crude next time,” he added with a smile—almost a smirk—that instead of a promise was more a revelation of how proud he was of today’s performance.

“That’s your choice,” Gwen told him, standing at the same time he did, never allowing her patients to tower over her. “Just keep that in mind, Rubin. Everything you do is ultimately your choice.”

This time his eyes met hers, dark gray eyes that reminded Gwen of a wolf’s. He held her gaze, then dropped his eyes to the front of her blouse and his smile resumed. It was a habit she was familiar with. His way of intimidating her when she dared get too close, too much on target. And to remind her that to him every woman was—what was that phrase he used—” a potential sexual conquest.”

“Until next time,” he said and turned to leave.

She waited for the door to close behind him before she began her frenzied note-taking, recording anything and everything she had observed whether or not she deemed it important at this time. There would eventually be some clue. Perhaps something Maggie discovered at the autopsy would shed new light on Gwen’s observations. She started the sixth page on her legal pad when her assistant buzzed her with her next patient.

Gwen ripped the pages from the notepad and shoved them into a file folder, but her mind was still racing. Still preoccupied with Rubin Nash when James Campion walked in.

“Hello, Dr. Patterson.”

“James.” She pointed for him to take a seat, but already knew he’d wait until she sat, ever the polite gentleman, a stunning contrast to Nash. He told her early on that the nuns at Blessed Sacrament had done an excellent job of drilling into him good manners and respect despite their failing him in other ways.

Gwen sat, nodding for him to do the same. His long legs stretched out and then crossed at the ankles. It was the most he allowed himself in an attempt to relax.

Today more than ever—probably because she had been focused on Nash’s physical traits—Gwen noticed the sharp contrast between the two men. Also she had never seen the two patients in back-to-back sessions until today, accommodating Rubin’s new travel schedule. For as cocky and boisterous as Rubin Nash was, James Campion was the direct opposite, introverted and self-conscious. Even James’s long-sleeved shirt could easily be explained away as an embarrassed attempt at hiding the hesitation marks on his wrists. She had noticed them during their very first session, long before he had confessed that sometimes he thought about suicide.

And instead of bragging about his sexual escapades or rather dysfunctions, or when discussing the sexual mistreatments of his childhood, James seemed almost shy and remorseful, especially when talking about the abuses he had suffered at the hands of a Catholic priest he had admired and trusted. Both Nash and Campion had been two teenage boys taken advantage of by adults they had trusted. But that’s where the similarities ended.

Gwen sat back, feeling her shoulders relax, only now realizing how close to the edge Rubin Nash was able to put her. She watched James cross his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits before deciding to uncross them again and leave his hands in his lap. His handsome, boyish face seemed almost soulful, his eyes attentive but patient as if waiting for her permission to begin.

No matter how long it took, Gwen felt certain she could help James Campion. Rubin Nash, she wasn’t sure about.

CHAPTER 17

Downtown Police Station

Omaha, Nebraska

“This is ridiculous,” Nick Morrelli told the detectives who introduced themselves as Detectives Carmichael and Pakula. They were an odd pair, a short, chubby Asian woman and a middle-aged linebacker with a shaved head. Hardly Hollywood’s version of the good cop/bad cop. “You’re treating him like he’s a suspect.”

“Who exactly did you say you are?” Carmichael asked.

“His friend, Nick Morrelli.”

“Who happens to be an attorney,” Tony added.

Nick could see it wouldn’t matter. Detective Carmichael already had that I-don’t-give-a-shit look that he recognized. He had even used it himself a time or two as a deputy prosecutor when he had to convince some lowlife that the deal he was offering was final.

“Morrelli?” Pakula was scratching his shaved head. “Do I know you?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Nick was growing impatient. Carmichael may have noticed. She uncrossed her arms, but that was all.

“My apologies if the officers may have given you the impression that you’re a suspect,” she told Tony. “And that they dragged you all the way down here. We only want to ask you a few questions. Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want to answer our questions?” Her voice was a little softer suddenly. Nick wondered if she wasn’t used to playing the role of bad cop. Or was she simply changing her route of manipulation?

Tony looked to Nick as if he expected Nick to answer for him again. Nick gave him a nod that it was okay, but at the same time, he didn’t like how nervous Tony seemed. Did he have something to hide?

“Go ahead,” Tony told the detective. “Of course I don’t mind answering your questions.”

“We understand that the monsignor called you from the airport,” Detective Pakula said as he started pacing the length of the room. Carmichael remained sitting, but Nick noticed her foot tapping out her nervous energy under the table.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You may have been the last person to talk to him. That he knew, that is. You mind sharing the contents of that conversation?”

“We had spoken earlier in the day about the schedule. I was going to fill in for him while he was gone. He couldn’t remember if he had told me about the church board meeting and where he kept his notes.” Tony crossed his legs, his right ankle rested on his left knee. To Nick he looked perfectly calm and natural. Almost too much so.

“Where were you when you got the call?”

“In the rectory,” Tony said without skipping a beat and Nick thought this should be easy. No big deal.

“Really?” Pakula asked.

Nick recognized that look. He had used it himself, a look that wobbled between surprise and sarcasm, but Tony didn’t flinch.

“You sure you were at the rectory?”

“Yes, of course. I usually do paperwork on Fridays.”

“Uh-huh. So Monsignor O’Sullivan would know this, right?” Pakula kept up his pacing, nodding.

“Of course.”

“Why do you suppose he called you on your cell phone instead of the phone at the rectory?”