A Necessary Evil (13 page)

CHAPTER 30

Memorial Park
Omaha, Nebraska

T
ommy Pakula hated everything about these events __ the crowds, the noise and the heat, ail served up with warm beer and entertainers from the '60s, entertainers who had become parodies of themselves. Although he had to admit Frankie Avalon still looked pretty damn good for his age, if only he'd left those silly white shoes at home.

What Pakula especially hated was the hotshot public officials slapping him on the back, pretending __ when they were really hoping __ that he was one of them. He didn't know how Chief Ramsey put up with it, either. But as hometown boys __ Pakula a graduate of South High, Ramsey of Creighton Prep, but about five or six years before Pakula __ they both had to put up with it to a certain degree. The chief more so than Pakula, because he had left Omaha for almost a decade for greener pastures before finding his way back home and working through the red tape of politics and good ole boy networks. As hometown boys they knew about the hometown politics, too. And that's exactly why they were trying to discuss police procedure, or rather protocol, out here in the middle of a crowded park rather than some quiet coffee shop clear across town. They figured no one would ever suspect they'd talk about something so important on a sunny holiday weekend, in the middle of Memorial Park where the entire northwest lawn was riddled with blankets and lawn chairs, ice chests and portable umbrellas, leaving only narrow strips of grass on which to make your way through the maze.

They had left their families somewhere in the sea of red, white and blue with the simple excuse of finding something cold to drink. Vendors lined the circular drive around the monument at the top of the park, away from the blankets and almost out of reach of the half-dozen seven-foot amplifiers Frankie and crew had brought along. Pakula ordered a kraut-dog with the works and a tall, bucket-size Coke, while the chief settled on less indigestion with a plain dog and a tall bucket of his own, only Dew instead of Coke.

"Not sure why you want to waste your money on that." Pakula nodded at Chief Ramsey's pathetic hot dog swallowed by a bun and drowning in mustard while Pakula bit into his own, piled high and wide.

"Yeah, ask me that later when you're popping the antacids."

Chief Ramsey eyed a couple of teenagers on bicycles scoping the terrain below as if they might attempt to ride down into the crowd. Pakula recognized the habit and caught himself checking out a double-parked van with its back doors left swinging open but the owner nowhere in sight. It bugged Clare and she continuously accused him of not listening to her just because he wasn't looking at her. But with two cops it wasn't unusual at all to carry on a complete, detailed conversation without ever making eye contact.

"There's something you need to know, Tommy." Chief Ramsey glanced at him, but his eyes were quickly gone, now checking out something behind Pakula, off to the right. "Vice has had an eye on O'Sullivan and Our Lady of Sorrow."

"Holy crap," Pakula said under his breath, caught with a mouthful. He swiped at the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. "Why the hell didn't you tell me that yesterday?"

"Because it's nothing official, not even a single complaint filed. Just some reporter from the
Herald
who's been nosing around and hassling Sassco to do something. I know Sassco's been head of Vice for only six months, but you know the guy. It doesn't take much to get his nose all bent out of shape if it involves kids. If there was anything at all, he'd be all over it. Could just be a lot of gossip and rumor. Maybe this reporter's trying too hard to hunt up a story. Maybe she's thinking it's been happening all over the country, why not here? You know how the goddamn media works."

Pakula nodded, but this time kept quiet. The chief wasn't finished, and so he took another bite.

Chief Ramsey looked all the way around them, but no one was staying in one place long enough to seem interested in their conversation.

"I'm just saying that could be why the archbishop has his shorts all in a twist about this. He's pretending that it's no big deal, but it's got to be a big fucking deal for him to send his messenger boy to pick up the luggage before the monsignor's even had a chance to get cold."

"Maybe he knows about the other priests getting iced?" Pakula suggested.

"Could be. Either way, his reputation is to round up his yes-men and very quietly but powerfully discredit, damage and ruin whoever the fuck he perceives as his enemy. And we both know he can do a pretty damn good job of it."

"If some psycho is running around the country offing priests, why wouldn't the archbishop want to do everything in his power to stop him? What am I missing?" Pakula pushed up his sunglasses and tossed the wrapper from his kraut-dog, glancing back at the vendor booth, contemplating another. After all, he still had more than half of his extra-large Coke. The chief noticed.

"Go ahead. Hell, I'd have two or three of them if they didn't stay with me for the rest of the night."

"'No, I'd better not. Clare brought some meatball sandwiches."

"Look at it this way," Chief Ramsey said around a sip at his straw, "if there was some shit going on at Our Lady of Sorrow and O'Sullivan was about to smear the entire diocese, maybe the archbishop would be grateful to have his murder chalked up to a random slice and dice. If there even was a leather portfolio full of damning evidence, it's nowhere to be found. Case closed and there's nobody digging any further. I don't believe for a second O'Sullivan's poor sister in Connecticut wants him back as soon as possible for some elaborate burial. Armstrong's probably thinking the sooner he gets buried the sooner those secrets get buried with him."

"Sort of like O'Sullivan's murder was a mixed blessing from above?"

"Exactly."

"So what are we gonna do about it?"

"Well, I'll tell you one thing, I'm already tired of His High and Mighty jacking us around and thinking he can tell me what I can or can't do. He doesn't even have the balls to do it himself. He sends his pasty-faced bully, Sebastian." Chief Ramsey paused as if he needed to settle himself down. He took another sip. "I have a buddy I met years ago, Kyle Cunningham. Long story, but he owes me one. Archbishop Armstrong thinks he's almighty, so we bring in someone he can't reach, someone who doesn't give a shit about what kind of power he thinks he has. And also someone who takes the reins and the heat if this mess ends up being some fucking serial killer offing priests. That happens and you can bet we won't just have Armstrong and the
Herald
to worry about. Besides, these days nobody minds blaming the FBI."

"We're calling in the big boys and not just Weston and crew?"

"Cunningham promised me his top profiler, so not necessarily boys, but his top boy for sure. That should be enough."

"I just want to figure this one out. Shouldn't that still be our priority?" Pakula didn't mean to sound like he was second-guessing Chief Ramsey's decision. Yet at the same time, he didn't much trust the FBI to bring any answers to the case no matter who they sent. Fact was, he didn't believe bringing a profiler in would be much help at all, despite the chief's argument. When the going got tough, he knew as lead detective it'd still be his neck on the line, not some spooky flash-in-the-pan profiler, trying to simplify everything by telling him whether the killer put on his pants any differently than the rest of them. Maybe... just maybe if they were lucky, the feds would, at least, help connect the dots with the other cases. And if there was a killer murdering priests, that could be where there were some answers.

Pakula looked squarely at the chief, waiting for his eyes to meet his, expecting some sort of reprimand for his cynicism, but instead he said, "Me, too. I just wanted it figured out." Chief Ramsey took a bite of his hot dog as if he finally had an appetite. "But when we do, you'd better be prepared to watch all hell break loose."

CHAPTER 31

H
e sat in front of the computer screen. He was exhausted, his vision was blurred and every muscle in his body ached. It was the same every time, as if he had been drained completely of energy. Yet he waited, watching the lines of chat appear, one after another, all mundane, inane chitchat that didn't make much sense nor did it matter. He didn't participate. He never did. Instead, he waited for the game to begin.

He had left the window open despite the hot and humid air pushing its way in, breathing down his neck. Down below he could hear the traffic, too much for this time of night. The fireworks hadn't stopped either, annoying pops and bangs at varying distances. Now and again a string of them went off with a series of hissing and snapping, sometimes with a loud blast for the finale, sometimes only a sizzle and a spit.

He hated the Fourth of July and the memories it revived. It was those memories that got him into trouble. Every single time. They could come out of nowhere, unexpected, unpredictable. Sometimes they rushed in, overwhelming him. Sometimes they were quiet, subtle... sneaky. There was no harnessing them, no matter how much he tried.

He checked the time in the lower corner of his computer screen __ fifteen more minutes. He didn't know why he bothered to wait. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest his weary body. The game always calmed him even if it wasn't enough anymore. In the beginning it had quieted the rage. His invitation to play had been a sort of godsend. It was exactly what he needed. A venue, a brotherhood where he could be safe to expose his anger and eliminate his enemy. It didn't stop the memories but it redirected them.

Now he couldn't remember when the game started to not be enough. When it had gotten to the point that he needed more of a release. How could it be enough when the subject of his anger was still free to wander the earth? How could he continue to allow that?

Suddenly he realized that his fingers, his hands were still bloody. He had smeared the keyboard and riddled his desktop with droplets. The unexpected sight of it made him jump out of his chair, holding his hands up and staring at them as though they belonged to someone else. They did belong to someone else. Someone he hardly recognized anymore. It was getting worse. It was an evil penetrating through his skin, into his veins, even down into his bones. An evil that would destroy him if he didn't soon find a way to destroy its source. And he knew the source. He just needed the courage to eliminate it.

He took several deep breaths, checked the computer clock again. He had just enough time to clean up. He turned to go to the bathroom and only gave a fleeting glance to the freshly decapitated head that sat staring at him from his living-room coffee table.

CHAPTER 32

Monday, July 5
Archdiocese of Omaha Administrative Offices

T
ommy Pakula shifted his weight, but there was no getting comfortable in the hardback chair. It sat low in front of the gaudy ornate desk. Lower, he was certain, on purpose. Probably so that when the archbishop sat behind the desk he would be looking down on his visitor. That was when the archbishop would finally grace his visitor with his presence. Pakula was also certain this waiting was a part of the intimidation.

He had nothing better to do than look at the huge framed portraits on the wall behind the desk, a line of past archbishops. He recognized only Curtiss and Sheehan, and Curtiss seemed to be staring him down. He shifted in the chair again, glancing around the rest of the room.
Sterile
was the word that came to mind. He wanted to run an index finger over the windowsill, maybe the top of the bookshelf, just to see if any dust dared to exist in His Holiness's presence.

He wouldn't be here if Chief Ramsey hadn't insisted on one last-ditch publicity attempt just to say they had made every effort before they announced they were calling in the feds. Pakula had never met Archbishop Armstrong. Chief Ramsey had acted surprised at that revelation. "But aren't you one of those offertory collectors or some crap like that at Saint Stan's?" the chief had asked, obviously not worried about revealing his own long-expired Catholicism.

Truth was, being a part of the church meant more to Clare than it did to him. But he had given in, wanting his daughters to grow up knowing enough of what was available to reject or accept. Clare had even pointed out to him that they must have done something right because their oldest, Angie, had decided on her own to stay in Omaha and go to Clare's alma mater, Creighton University. And she had been serious enough about it to work hard all through her final years of high school to land a soccer scholarship that would thankfully help pay for the expensive but prestige college.

He already ribbed Angie that if she wasn't leaving Omaha to go to college he wouldn't be able to bring his punching bag and all his weights in from the garage and take over her bedroom just yet. But he had to admit, he was proud of her. And he liked keeping her close, being able to watch over her for at least a few more years. Of course, he also looked forward to going to the games and watching her play on the Creighton soccer team this fall. She had bragged that they have VIP seats for all the parents. He stopped himself from telling her bleachers were still bleachers to his butt.

A door opened, startling him, and he caught himself sitting up straight almost as if he was in church and had fallen asleep during the sermon. He twisted around in the chair, not sure what was appropriate. Should he stand? Why the hell stand?

"Mr. Pakula." Archbishop Armstrong said it like an announcement, only getting the pronunciation wrong, so that it ended up being PAYkoola instead of Pakoola.

"It's Pakula and it's detective," he said, correcting the archbishop. Getting it wrong was just another way he thought he could intimidate Pakula, make him feel he needed to explain himself. He noticed the archbishop stayed standing alongside the desk, hesitating. Was he waiting for Pakula to stand? Chief Ramsey had assured him he needed to be polite, but no sucking up was required. Pakula remained seated.

"Czech?"

"Polish."

"Ah, yes, of course," Armstrong said and glided to his chair behind his desk, finally taking his place, as if the ancestry of Pakula's name was something they needed to get out of the way, as if that might help him understand Pakula.

The chair seemed to swallow the archbishop's tall, lean body. Evidently he was aware of its effect because immediately he sat forward on the edge of the seat with his hands in front of him on the desk, clasped almost reverently as if in constant prayer mode. They were the smallest hands Pakula had seen on a man, smooth, not a callus or cuticle in sight with buffed, pearly white-tipped nails. Definitely a professional manicure. So much for that vow of poverty.

"What can I do to help you, Mr. Pakula?" he asked with a tilt of his head to show concern, but already purposely exchanging "detective" for "mister." Pakula recognized it for another maneuver or strategy in the archbishop's game of control. The detective decided to ignore it for now.

"You offered your assistance through Brother Sebastian. I wondered if you might have some thoughts, some insights... you know, on who could have killed Monsignor O'Sullivan?" No sense in beating around the bush, be it burning or camouflaged.

"Who, indeed?" Archbishop Armstrong said in a deep voice as if it were the beginning of a sermon.

He opened his clasped hands, holding them palms up before bringing them to the desk again, this time softly and slowing tapping all ten fingertips on the desk's polished surface. The gesture reminded Pakula of some ritual right before a blessing, although he doubted that it was a blessing the archbishop had in mind for him at the moment.

"Perhaps it was a drug addict? Some poor soul only looking to find money for his next fix?"

Pakula restrained himself from laughing. The archbishop was serious. His youthful face creased with concern. The fingertips continued to tap out some secret code as he added, "It was a random act of violence. Was it not?"

"It's still too early to answer that."

"So you have no suspects?"

"Not at the moment." Pakula watched to see if the archbishop looked disappointed or relieved. He couldn't tell.

"Was the monsignor having any problems at the school?" Pakula asked.

"Problems?"

"He was the principal of Our Lady of Sorrow, correct?"

"Yes, he was, and he did a fine job."

Interesting, Pakula noted. He hadn't asked what kind of a job the monsignor had done, only if there had been any problems.

"Did he voice any concerns recently?" He'd try again. "Any trouble with other instructors. Maybe a student?" He continued to watch closely, more interested in reaction than verbal responses, although this could be fun if the archbishop continued to throw in things Pakula didn't ask about.

"Students," he said, but it wasn't a question. Instead, it seemed an idea he hadn't thought of before. "He never mentioned any threats."

Pakula wanted to smile. He had asked about trouble. The archbishop had converted it to threats. What the hell was he hiding?

"We had Father Tony Gallagher down at the station on Saturday." Pakula waited to see what that did to the archbishop although he certainly already knew this. Pakula wondered if it was a sin to bluff an archbishop. He'd do it anyway. "Why did you ask the monsignor to go to Rome? Was he delivering something to the Vatican for you?"

"Is that what Father Tony told you?" He shook his head, disappointed and hesitant about confessing what he was about to say, opening his hands again as if necessary to forgive his priest, "I'm afraid there may have been a bit of jealousy. You may find that's true with Sister Kate as well. Both of them have projects that require funds __ funds that we just don't have available right now." He shrugged and looked at Pakula as though surely he could understand.

"Sister Kate?"

"Sister Katherine Rosetti. She teaches history, takes the teenagers on field trips to museums and such. She gives little conferences and seminars in various places. For the most part her speaking fees cover her own travel expenses, but she seems to think such travel experiences should be available to her students. We simply can't afford the expense nor the liability. I'm afraid she can be a bit vocal when she's not pleased, and we've had to cut back on her budget recently."

"So she's not pleased right now."

"No, I imagine not. I wouldn't be surprised if she mentioned something."

"Perhaps she will. I haven't met her yet, but I'm sure we'll be talking with her soon," Pakula said, wondering if Sister Kate had been a bit vocal about the archbishop cutting her budget or if the archbishop had cut her budget because the good sister had been a bit vocal. It didn't matter. What did matter was that there had been no denial about the monsignor's mission to Rome. The archbishop's only concern appeared to be about a couple of disloyal shepherds in his flock.

"Was there something in the missing portfolio? Anything that perhaps you asked Monsignor O'Sullivan to deliver to the Vatican?"

"There seems to be no portfolio." The fingers stopped tapping and the hands clasped again.

"No, you're right. There doesn't seem to have been a portfolio with the monsignor. Of course, I have no way of knowing that it wasn't with his checked luggage since Brother Sebastian picked it up from the airport." He waited a beat, and added, "Illegally."

"I've instructed him to have all of it ready for you to take back this morning."

Never mind that it had already been ransacked, Pakula wanted to say, but let a smile at the corner of his lips do it for him.

"Hopefully, we'll be able to put all of this behind us soon," Archbishop Armstrong said with a sweep of his hands, now standing and putting an end to their meeting. "I trust you'll keep me informed."

Now Pakula couldn't resist. Chief Ramsey would be pissed, but what the hell, the archbishop would find out anyway. Certainly it would be in the news by tonight. He stood and said, "I appreciate your taking time to talk to me. I'm sure we'll have more questions especially after the FBI get here."

"The FBI?"

Pakula nodded as he turned to leave. , "Does Mayor Franklin really think that's necessary?"

Pakula stopped at the door. So Ramsey was right. Archbishop Armstrong was prepared to round up the yes-men. The power play was on and Armstrong was announcing his first move.

"Actually, it's not Mayor Franklin's decision. I'm sure you understand in a case as sensitive as this mat it's simply procedure to call in other experts."

"Of course," the archbishop said and waved at him as if he understood completely. This time he turned to leave out the side door, but stopped in the doorway so that now the two of them were each in an exit, like gunslingers ready to hurl the last word at each other rather than the last bullet.

"Of course I understand. We, too, have procedures that we need to follow. Procedures, for instance, with our college scholarship allocations. I'm sure you understand. Good day, Mr. Pakula."

And he left without letting Pakula get a shot at him. It didn't matter. He wasn't sure he would have been able to hurl anything with the knot that suddenly formed in the center of his chest.