ABSOLUTION (A Frank Renzi novel) (21 page)

With a mighty crescendo the organ launched into a regal hymn. The congregation arose and faced the center aisle to view the procession: monsignors first, then bishops in red hats, and finally the silver-haired Archbishop, resplendent in his white satin vestments and jewel-studded miter. With imperial pomposity, Archbishop Quinn placed a sheaf of papers on the lectern and gestured for them to be seated.

Thumping and scraping sounded as the congregation settled onto the wooden pews. If that stack of papers is any indication, Sean thought, we’re in for a long lecture. The priest beside him surreptitiously checked his watch, and Sean stifled a smile. He wasn’t the only one dreading this.

The Archbishop waited for silence, gazing out at rows of pews filled with red-capped bishops and bare-headed priests in black. Despite the air conditioning, the sanctuary was already uncomfortable from the heat of so many bodies. When the silence was complete, Archbishop Quinn cleared his throat and said, “Good afternoon, my brothers in Christ.”

“
Good afternoon, Your Grace,” thundered the congregation in a unified male voice.

No nuns present, Sean thought, just the accused, and Archbishop Quinn was about to circle the wagons.

“
My brothers, I have summoned you here today because a scurrilous allegation has been made. It has been suggested that the terrible murders that have horrified this community were committed by a priest.” He swept his audience with a laser-beam glare. “Nonsense! No man of the cloth would do such things. We know that, of course, but the media . . .” Quinn’s lip curled in disdain. “The media advances this theory with great zeal. Whenever a serious allegation arises against the Church, reporters are eager to exploit it.”

That’s why you didn’t invite them to the convocation, Sean thought. You’d rather preach to the choir. No priest wanted to believe a fellow-priest guilty of such crimes. If one stood accused, others were guilty by association. There but for the grace of God . . .

“
Let us not forget what happened during the recent troubles,” the Archbishop said. “A few priests—a very small number, mind you—behaved inappropriately. When this came to our attention, those unfortunate souls were given treatment.”

Bullshit, thought Sean. The men at the top let them continue their dirty deeds, allowing them to ruin countless young lives. The Church protected its own: Defend the clergy, screw the victims. Today’s problem would be no different. As Quinn rambled on Sean tuned him out. His gaze settled on Father Tim, sitting there with a pious expression on his face.

What would the Archbishop do if he knew you and Aurora were so intimate?

Answer: Archbishop Quinn would call him on the carpet and discharge Aurora. Allegations that priests molested children were one thing, but any hint that a priest had a female lover—never mind that some priests had sex with each other—was dealt with harshly. Sean pinched the bridge of his nose.

He couldn’t live without Aurora. A sharp pain roiled his gut. Was it the cancer or a benign indisposition? How much longer did he have? Months? Weeks? He studied Krauthammer. The priest looked too boyish to be a killer, but he was no choirboy. His threat had been unmistakable.

_____

As the Archbishop droned on about the accusations the sinner fantasized about sex. Ever since Brother Henry, sexual fantasies came to him often in church, especially at the altar rail, watching women stick out their tongues to receive the body and blood of Christ. Reciting the liturgy kept his mind focused, until he dispensed communion. At such moments his thoughts should have been reverent; instead, he fantasized about what those tongues did when the women were not in church.

Back home in Nebraska, after Brother Henry, he had vowed to be chaste. In the shower he avoided touching himself by pretending his father was watching. God knows Father watched him every chance he got, his eyes full of accusation: How dare you shame me? How dare you allow that man to touch you and slobber over you and …

The sinner’s groin throbbed. He said an Act of Contrition and focused on Archbishop Quinn, who shouted: “Nonsense! No man of the cloth would do such things.”

Excellent, a vehement denial of Jefferson’s killer priest accusation.

His thoughts returned to his sexual fantasies. In high school he had remained pure as the driven snow for three years. Until he took that slut to the movies, and she took off her clothes in the back seat of his car and made him undress and then humiliated him. The slut he’d wanted to strangle, aching to wring her neck with his hands until she was dead.

“
Whenever nasty allegations arise against the church,” Archbishop Quinn said, “reporters are eager to exploit it.”

The sinner nodded. Archbishop Quinn would put a stop to this nonsense. Quinn took a hard line, one that mirrored his own. The day after that slut mortified him he had decided to become a priest. No more Brother Henrys, no more humiliations from women. He would become a priest, remain celibate and ensure that others also remained chaste in thought, word and deed. He would warn them of the sexual temptations that pervaded the culture, tell them to reject the salacious images: half-naked sluts in movies and on television, especially the ones on MTV, singing their suggestive lyrics.

Images that had caused another descent into sin
, said the voice in his mind
.

True. While he was in college he had gone to a prostitute. Not to have sex with her. No. He just wanted to question her. But when he asked if she enjoyed tempting men, she told him to get out. What nerve! Lying there on the bed, naked, displaying her sex. When he asked if she enjoyed selling her body, she said: “Hey, stupid, you’re the one paying for it.” And then she laughed at him. It sent him into a rage. Why wouldn’t she confess? He was paying her to do what he wanted. In a blind rage, he put his hands around her neck and then he was squeezing and she was fighting back, but he wouldn’t let go and she began to gag and her face turned red and her eyes rolled up into her head. Still he squeezed that pale white throat until he was sure she would never humiliate another man again. And thus began his mission.

Rousing chords from the organ startled him. The Archbishop had left the pulpit. His neck prickled, a familiar warning recalled from his childhood. Someone was watching him.

He turned to look at the pews behind him and his gaze settled on Father Sean Daily. Some priests liked to befriend their youthful parishioners. Daily was one of the worst offenders, coddling his young charges, encouraging their sexual exploits with his permissive attitude and his own loose behavior, screwing his housekeeper.

Could be anybody, even you,
Daily had said.

Oblivious to the bishops in red hats marching up the aisle, the sinner clenched his teeth. Once he got Rona Jefferson and her killer-priest theory off his back, he would take care of Father Daily.

_____

Seated at her computer terminal inside her cubbyhole at the
Clarion-Call,
Rona ground out her column, fingers flying over the keyboard. After the convocation, the Archbishop had stood on the steps of the church to address a throng of reporters. His words had infuriated her.

Scurrilous accusations
.

Falsely accused priests.

Somewhere in New Orleans, she typed, a white priest is hiding behind a Roman collar, while innocent victims are forgotten. How many women must die before this cowardly killer-priest is caught?

Recalling the phone call she’d received an hour ago, she typed: A source close to the investigation has revealed that the Tongue Killer left his DNA on one of the victims. It’s high time the police collected DNA samples from every white priest in the diocese.

She scanned the words and nodded with satisfaction. Four times she had emphasized that the killer-priest was white. She hit a key to transmit the file to her editor. He wouldn’t mess with it. After all, she was a player now. The
Clarion-Call’s
circulation numbers had risen twenty percent last week.

She grabbed her purse and rode the elevator downstairs. At ten o’clock the lobby was deserted except for Sam Leroux. The heavy-set security guard in the navy-blue uniform shot her a broad smile.

“
You be workin’ overtime these days, Miz Rona.”

“
Just doing my job,” she said as she walked past the security equipment. “Now that my column’s done I’m ready for a beer.”

“’
Bout time somebody stood up for black folks ‘round here,” Sam said, his dark face set in a frown. “We get blamed for ev’ry little thing, drug deals, robberies, carjacks, murders. Not to mention the profiling and the traffic stops. Redneck state cop pulled my brother over on the I-10 just last week, said he was speeding, which he wasn’t.”

Sam picked up a narrow white box on the table beside the security station and held it out to her. “Almost forgot. This’s for you, Miz Rona, some fan sendin’ you flowers, mos’ likely.”

Rona flashed a smile, tucked the box under her arm and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Thank you, Sam. I’ll open it at home.”

CHAPTER 14

Wednesday: 6:35 AM

Frank flipped down the car’s visor to shade his eyes from the sunlight filtering through the trees behind St. Margaret’s, where, if Sister Esther Emmanuel was correct, Father Tim was officiating at the early Mass. His gut tightened in anticipation. Surprise interviews often brought first-rate results.

Would the priest look like Daily’s altered sketch, he wondered, or was Daily just trying to curry favor? Daily had seen Father Tim talking to Lynette at the mall the day before she’d been murdered, and Sister Esther Emmanuel had seen him talking to Melody Johnson two days before she died. Add in Kitty’s belief that the man who’d attacked her was a priest and the damning details began to snowball. That didn’t mean Krauthammer was the Tongue Killer, but it got his adrenaline pumping.

A stoop-shouldered old man with a cane shuffled out of the church. Frank took a last glance at the sketch and put it in his pocket as two women in flower-print dresses followed the old man. A half dozen more worshipers straggle out the door. A minute later a priest emerged and hurried toward the rectory. Five-nine or so, with a wiry build, no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he appeared to be in good shape.

Frank cut across the lawn to intercept him. “Father Tim?”

The priest turned and flashed a smile, squinting in the sun. “Yes?”

“
Hi, Father, glad I caught you. Could we talk for a minute?”

“
Of course. How can I help you?”

Father Timothy Krauthammer maintained a steady smile, but the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. Mud-brown and expressionless, they looked like the painted eyes of a cigar-store Indian. In fact, the priest’s eyes were the only remarkable feature in an otherwise ordinary face. He might be the man in Daily’s sketch, but so might a thousand others.

“
Detective Frank Renzi, NOPD,” he said, and flashed his ID. “I understand Melody Johnson attended St. Margaret’s Church.”

The priest’s expression turned sorrowful. “Yes. Everyone in the parish is devastated. From what I understand, she was a wonderful person.”

From what I understand.
Was he implying he didn’t know her?

“
Could we talk in the rectory?” But the priest’s body language said
no
. He didn’t want his colleagues to see him talking to a cop. “Or maybe you’d rather go somewhere and have breakfast.”

Krauthammer flashed a boyish grin. “Yes, let’s. I’m always hungry after Mass. Patisserie Cafe has great pastries and it’s close by. Let’s meet there.”

“
Okay. Mind if I follow you? I’m not familiar with the area.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed the priest’s face, followed by a quick smile. “Of course. Let me run inside and get my car keys.”

Frank waited in his car until a dark brown Toyota Camry came around the corner of the rectory, no dents or distinguishing marks, a fine choice if a killer wanted an inconspicuous car. He jotted down the tag number and tailed the Camry to the cafe, a rambling one-story building with a roof extending over a veranda with wrought-iron tables and chairs.

“
I love this place,” Krauthammer said, flashing an ingratiating smile as he opened the door. “The coffee’s great and the pastries are fantastic.”

Piped-in classical music was playing softly and a rich coffee aroma filled the cheery sunlit room. Half of the dozen or so tables were occupied with people reading newspapers over breakfast. Below the service counter, a glass case held trays of delicious-looking pastries. The priest ordered coffee and a chocolate croissant from a stocky college-age kid in a white apron.

“
Same for me,” Frank said, adding to Krauthammer, “It’s on me.”

“
Thanks, that’s very kind of you.” Krauthammer waved at the kid in the apron to get his attention. “Could I get a to-go cup and a paper plate?”

“
No problem, Father.” The kid looked at Frank. “And you, sir?”

“
The same.”
Why get it to go? Weren’t they going to talk here?

When their order was ready, Krauthammer took the tray, flashed another smile and said, “I’ll find us a table outside.”