A Cruel Season for Dying (41 page)

Today was Thursday, less than a week since … He had no words for the black void that had swallowed up his life. Monday, he
would return to his job as a foreman. He looked forward to what could be salvaged in routine, to an escape from this house.
But he dreaded work too, for the awkwardness of every fresh encounter with his men. How long before anyone could feel free
to laugh in his presence? How long before his own laughter might not be harshly judged? By himself, if not by others?

Truth was, he could not imagine a time when he would feel anything at all through the sucking blackness. He knew he could
not feel love. Not for his wife, who lay upstairs in a haze of sedatives and grief. Not for Celia, packing in her room for
the few days’ escape to his brother’s house in Queens. He could act on the strength of the love he remembered. He could show
concern, a rough compassion that meant getting what was left of his family through the day. He could
feel
nothing. Perhaps if he could
want
to love, but that desire was gone too, ripped out by the monster who had killed his child, by a God who would allow it.

He walked to the table where he’d earlier thrown the newspaper. What was the point of anything, when the priest who heard
your confession might be the killer who murdered your baby and hung her as a decoration in his church? He had thought there
could be no more surprises, but the cover story in this morning’s
Post,
naming Father Thomas Graff as the prime suspect in the murders, had still shaken him, despite the rumors he had already heard
that the assistant pastor was under suspicion by the police. Shocking too that Agnes Tuminello, of all people, would give
such an interview.

At least his brother-in-law had been cleared. He might hate the man’s guts, might still want to smash his face, but there
had been enough tragedy in the family without his sister’s husband being named the killer. Barbara for some reason loved the
man, so perhaps it was also true that Tony had never touched the neighbor’s child. He hoped that was the case for Barbara’s
sake.

But what about Graff? Sophia had been crazy about the priest and had asked him here for dinner more than once. Could the man
really be what Agnes Tuminello had said in the paper? An abomination? A viper they had nurtured? Had he invited into his own
home the killer of his daughter? If he could still pray, he’d pray it wasn’t so.

He tore up the front page, wadding it for the trash. He wanted no chance that Celia or Sophia would see it. Not that it was
likely. Celia stayed in her room. And his wife had not watched TV or read any of the papers. Sophia expressed as little interest
in the police investigation as she did in anything else. He doubted she’d remember tomorrow’s funeral. Her condition was one
of the reasons he’d agreed to let Celia stay with her cousins through the weekend. His remaining daughter needed the company
of other people, a house that was normal. Monday, he would send her back to school.

The doorbell rang and he stiffened. Another reporter? Or perhaps it was only his brother coming to pick up Celia. But when
he looked through the glass, a young man and a black woman stood on his porch, the woman holding up a badge.

“This is Detective Talbot,” she said as he opened the door, “and I’m Adelia Johnson. We’re sorry to have to bother you, Mr.
Mancuso.”

“No. Come in, please.” He stepped back to let them pass. “You have some news?”

“We may have found something,” the black woman said. She had put the badge away and now held out a small plastic bag. Inside
was a necklace. Gold with a pendant heart. The implication was clear, they believed the thing was Lucia’s.

“Where did you find that?” he asked.

“I’d rather not say just now.” The black woman smiled. “Can you tell me if you’ve seen it before?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered honestly.

“Perhaps your wife?” the male officer suggested.

He shook his head. Celia with her packed knapsack had come into the room. “Come here, CeCe,” he said to her. Better than waking
Sophia.

His daughter moved slowly, her eyes huge in her face. Celia looked scared, which had never been her reaction to the police.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her.

“Nothing, Papa.” Her voice was nearly inaudible, her gaze locked on the plastic bag in the officer’s outstretched hand.

“Do you recognize this?” The policewoman pressed it forward.

The seconds went by. Celia didn’t answer.

“CeCe,” he prompted her, “is that your sister’s necklace?”

The policewoman’s eyes flashed a warning, but he didn’t care. He wanted this over.

“Would you like to look at the locket more closely?” She reached for Celia’s hand, placed the bag into her palm.

He watched as his daughter swallowed visibly, her fingers curling, pressing against the plastic to the tiny heart, where he
now saw the letter
M
was engraved.

“Is it Lucia’s?” He heard his voice harsh, his grief lashing out in impatience.

The policewoman sighed. There was another long moment when nothing happened. Then Celia’s head began to nod, a marionette
motion of short, sharp jerks.

“Yes, Papa”—her lips trembled over the words—“that’s Lucia’s locket.”

“Is Crime Scene still at St. Sebastian’s?” Michael Darius stood at the window of his apartment, looking out at the hard gray
evening.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Willie answered from the sofa. “The techs are going over that corner quadrant where they found
the necklace inch by inch, looking for hair, fiber, DNA evidence. Anything they can find.”

“I guess the locket has kicked things up a notch.” Darius turned to her.

“More than a notch.” She sipped on the wine he had poured.

“It sounds like a witch-hunt to me.” Darius had moved away from the window.

“That’s not fair, Michael,” she snapped. “You saw the Graff video.”

He shrugged. “Not much moved me.”

“Shit, Michael, this isn’t voodoo.” She set her glass down.

“And profiling’s a science, Dr. French?”

She looked at him and laughed. “Touché. But you’ll have to admit that finding Lucia’s locket does make things look worse for
the priest.”

Darius slumped next to her on the sofa.

“It would have been easy for Graff to lure her into the rectory,” she said. “Lucia passed the place going to and from the
drugstore. She knew the priest. He’d had dinner with her family. She’d feel comfortable with him.”

He shrugged, reaching for his wine.

“Graff could hardly murder her in her own bed,” she went on, “or in his rooms. The rectory basement provided the privacy he
needed—a place to hold her until he could take her into the church. The basement helps to explain
how
and
why
things happened the way they did. Transporting Lucia any great distance would have been awkward at best.”

“Now it’s convenient.” He almost laughed.

“Think,” she said, refusing to be intimidated. “If you’re a priest making angels, which setup would more likely fulfill your
fantasy—a bedroom or a church? If we accept that serials work up to speed, accept that they embroider on their fantasies,
then suspending a body in a church would have to be more gratifying. This may be where Graff was heading all along. Working
his way up to the church.”

“But why a little girl?” Darius asked her now. “Why not another homosexual?”

She looked at him, remembering how it had felt when he’d kissed her the other night. How being with him was not like anything
she’d ever experienced. Something incredible and frightening at the same time. He caught her staring. She looked away.

“I have another theory.” She hated the way that sounded.

“I’m listening.”

“Perhaps it’s not the sexual orientation of his victims that interests the killer,” she said, “but their appearance. None
of the male victims were decidedly masculine. A change of clothing and hair—”

“Lucia was a very pretty eight-year-old girl,” he interrupted.

“So were Carrera and Westlake—
pretty,
” she said. “And Jude Pinot. Kerry and Milne less so. But all of them had appearances that could be sexually ambiguous.” She
paused. Then, “Lucia hadn’t reached puberty. She was undeveloped. No breasts. Thin. Angular. Short hair. Lucia Mancuso could
easily be mistaken in the right circumstances for a very attractive young boy.”

“Is that what you think,” he asked her, “that the killer saw Lucia as a boy?”

“I think the killer saw all the victims as sexually ambiguous,” she answered. “Androgynous. Like angels.”

The look in his eyes was neutral, which was encouraging.

“Remember, the killer’s reality is his fantasy. He will think and do whatever it takes to make that fantasy work.”

“And the names of fallen angels on the walls?”

“It would have made things a hell of a lot easier if he’d written names of
good
angels,” she admitted. “I just don’t know.”

She looked at him. “One thing I do know,” she said, “since Jimmy finally managed to get the Church to cooperate, agree to
let us bring in Graff for a lineup, we just might get lucky and get a positive ID. Then I think we’ll have enough for probable
cause, enough for the D.A.’s office to make a case. And there’s that partial heel print that the killer left in the church.
It’s not much more than a smudge, but we can at least match for size, once we get Graff into custody.”

Darius shook his head, picking up the morning’s edition of the
Post
lying at the edge of the coffee table. The headline read
PARISH PRIEST
’
S PORN PHOTOS
. “I need a cigarette,” he said.

Welcome to the jungle….
Guns N’ Roses wailed inside his head.

Sakura reached for the CD player’s off switch and killed the sound, pulling away the earphones. He looked at the clock.
2:03
A
.
M
. Why was he still here, sitting alone in his office? He got up from his chair
and paced to the window that divided him from the squad room, where a few stragglers from the task force mixed with the regulars
on shift. Not much to be done now but wait for the lab results on the accumulated samples from the search. He was hoping for
the best—a hair or a fingerprint that would prove to be Lucia’s, even a fiber that could reasonably have come from the clothes
she’d been wearing that Saturday afternoon she’d disappeared. Something more substantial than that necklace’s thin gold chain,
which seemed too delicate to support alone the burden of Thomas Graff’s guilt.

A witness ID would help, and both the bartender and the waitress had agreed to attend tomorrow’s lineup. If either witness
could make the link between Graff and Geoffrey Westlake, that would connect the priest to a second of the primary victims.
Three of seven victims, counting Father Kellog.

He walked back to his desk and reached to pick up his cell phone, putting it into his pocket. His father had called this morning
seeking to confirm their meeting, suggesting they have lunch together somewhere near the airport. Of course, he hadn’t been
able to go. Too much going on with the search. His work, the perfect excuse to cancel out.

He glanced back at the clock. His father’s sudden appearance had canceled any chance he’d had to talk with Hanae last night.
Truly, he’d been too tired for anything but sleep when his father had finally left their apartment. He’d be too tired again,
if Hanae were still awake, for anything more tonight.

Just let me get through the case
had become his silent mantra.
Let me get through the case… successfully.
Wasn’t that the caveat? Defeat was the threat that tore at him, that distracted from all else. Until this case was successfully
concluded, he did not have the luxury of worrying over his father’s visit or what might have been left unsaid. No energy to
spare for confrontation with his father. Or, even tonight, with his wife.

He was not yet ready to go home. He sat back down in his chair and recited for himself the samurai creed. “I have no parents;
I make the Heavens and the Earth my parents. I have no home; I make the
Tan T’ien
my home. I have no divine power; I make honesty my Divine Power….”