Butterfield Institute - 01 - The Halo Effect (24 page)

“Can you elaborate on that? What could his need be about?”

“He’s taking prostitutes and dressing them as nuns. Killing women and turning them into saintly figures. There has to be some personal scenario he’s acting out.”

“You still don’t think he’s a priest?”

“No. But I think he’s religious.”

“We agree there,” Noah said. “He has all the right accoutrements and accessories. The communion wafers, the unguent, the wine. He not only knows about the sacraments, he knows how to deliver them and he knows where to get them.
One thing that has checked out is that everything he uses is authentic.”

“You mean he’s not using Necco wafers?”

Noah shook his head and got up to get more coffee. “You want more?”

“No, I’m fine.”

He sat down and jostled a pile of papers, looking for something. A photograph slipped out. A morgue shot of a woman—a hundred tiny pinpricks all over her body. I was sorry I’d seen it. I knew it would haunt me.

“Do you think the women are being offered up as sacrifices?” he asked, seeing me looking, staring, at the picture.

“Do you mean is he killing the women as some kind of offering to God?”

He nodded.

“No. I don’t think so. Do you?”

“Well, there’s nothing in the Catholic doctrine that would fit that.”

“What he’s doing is more transformative. It’s as if he’s trying to turn them into holy women.”

“Some misguided effort to save them?” Noah asked.

I shrugged. “That almost sounds right. Have you found any evidence that he has had sex with them?”

“No. Not before he’s killed them or after.”

I nodded. “The case is getting to you, isn’t it?”

“They all do. But this one is one of the worst.”

“You’d have to be made of steel for it not to.”

“I thought I was. I thought I could handle it.”

I leaned closer. He looked up. Away from the photographs. For a second neither of us said anything. His eyes were on mine and I held them. In the middle of the sad, sick pictures and proof of a man gone wild was this other man, one who was sane and caring.

“You’re a good man,” I said softly.

“Is that going to help me here?”

It was another one of those ambiguous comments. I couldn’t be sure whether he was referring to the case or to the attraction that seemed to be growing between us. But until I was sure he was feeling it, too, I wouldn’t acknowledge it. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to. What would I say? Making the first move was my style professionally, but not when it came to a man. It had been more than fourteen years since I’d had any dating experience. It wasn’t even that I was out of practice; I was unknowing.

I broke the gaze, picked up my coffee and sipped. “You know you shouldn’t drink too much of this. It’s very strong. No wonder you are not sleeping.”

“How do you know I’m not sleeping? Is that part of your psychiatric training? What did I say that gave me away?”

“Nothing. And no, it’s not my training, either. It’s the circles under your eyes.”

“I lie down, but I’m bombarded with all the unanswered questions.”

“I’ve had patients that keep me up at night, too. You keep running the facts and the suppositions and the ideas over and over in your mind, hoping that if you just keep examining them you’ll see the pattern. And that’s all you need. The beginning of one solid idea of how it all comes together.”

“Morgan, what is going to get this lunatic to stop?”

“Either he is going to find the magic he is looking for—which is unlikely—or you are going to have to stop him.”

From the expression of Noah’s face, it looked as if he thought the magic was a more likely scenario.

“I have to ask you something,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s about the Diablo Cigar Bar—”

“I am not going to talk about Cleo,” I interrupted.

“I am not going to ask you to. I want to know about you.
I want to know why you’re going there. What are you doing, Morgan?”

How did he know? It took only me a second to realize. It was how he’d known exactly when I’d arrived home the other night. “Are you having me followed?”

“For your own protection.”

“This consultation is over, Detective.” I stood up, and without saying another word, walked toward the door.

“Don’t. Don’t misinterpret it. I’m worried about you. You could be in the middle of something much more dangerous than you know if these two cases are connected. I just have someone making sure you’re okay, that’s all.”

I turned and looked back at him. “No, it’s not all. You’re smarter than that. You think there
is
a connection, don’t you? But you’re not telling me about it. You’re treating me like a novice who needs special handling.”

“I am treating you like someone who might be in danger. I don’t want anything to happen to you. How could I live with that on top of everything else that’s going on?”

“Cleo is my patient. This all matters more to me than it does to anyone in the fucking NYPD. She isn’t just a statistic, not just another missing person. This is a woman I sat across a room from for hours and hours and listened while she talked—opened up to me—about her secrets and her dreams and her problems. I watched her cry, Noah. Saw her wring her hands. What I do about trying to help her boyfriend find her is not something I need to be lectured about.”

“I’m sorry. I really am.”

I didn’t say anything. The last thing I had expected from him was such a sincere apology. Hell, I hadn’t expected any apology at all. But as unexpected as it was, something about it didn’t surprise me all that much.

“Will you sit down, please?” he asked.

“Will you call off your watchdogs?”

“No. I’m protecting you, Morgan. Not spying on you.”

“Then don’t ask me about why I’ve gone to the club.”

“I won’t ask you. But you know you should tell me. I’m no shrink, but I have eyes, too. And you look as tired as I do. And just as worried. And you even look a little guilty. But we’ll put that aside for now, okay?”

I nodded, not wanting to think too much about what he’d just said, neither the insight it exhibited nor the way his concern made me feel. No, now was not a good time to think about either of those things.

“One thing you can do for me,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Cleo wore a tiny diamond cross on her neck. Normally it wouldn’t be the kind of thing that would be easy to track down. Except it was made of pink diamonds, which are extremely expensive. I’m not sure…maybe it’s a long shot…but it’s a cross, Noah. Maybe you can find out what stores sell pink-diamond crosses. Maybe you can find out who bought one. Maybe there is a connection.”

It seemed, at least for the moment, that I’d succeeded in taking his mind off me. And mine off him.

“Y
ou understand that this is a sin?” he asked the young woman whose brown eyes followed his every move, never looking away for a second.

“You understand that I am washing you of your sins?”

He did not need her answer. He knew. He could feel the silt and filth washing off her. “Can you feel your sins sloughing off like dead cells?”

Of course she was frightened, but once she got beyond her fear, he knew she would be grateful for his attention and ministrations. Once she was new again. “You don’t need to be afraid. I am not doing this to hurt you.” But despite his words, the expression in his eyes did not soften.

He leaned back, away from the tub, looking at her naked body sitting in the shallow pool of water. There was sweat on his upper lip and at his hairline. Under his arms. The backs of his knees. He was naked, too. To keep his suit from getting wet and wrinkled.

The hot, hot water had turned the marble bathroom into a steam room, but he did not temper the water coming from the tap. It had to be this hot. If there was any way to use boiling water he would have. He needed it to destroy the bacteria. To kill the living filth.

The duct tape on her mouth pulled her skin into an unnatural grimace. He hated this need to silence her, but he knew better than to trust her. Her simple mind could not rise to meet his. No matter how carefully he might explain it, she would never be able to comprehend that this was for her own good.

For her own good.

For her own goodness.

Her skin was bright red now, and there was sweat all over her face. Tiny droplets that looked like translucent pearls. She deserved to look beautiful. She was giving herself to a great cause. Her sacrifice would help other women. He whispered this to her, but it did not calm her.

Enough of trying to make her understand and appreciate what he was doing. The time was coming for the next step. Just a few more minutes of the ritual bath—the christening that was cleansing her—and then he would be ready. The adrenaline surged through him. He knew it would work this time. He’d never gotten this far before.

The water smelled of the expensive liquid soap the hotel offered to all guests. He inhaled its sweetness as he rubbed the washcloth down her neck. Down her back. Around her shoulders, under her breasts.

“We’re almost done,” he said. “You should be clean now.”

But was she? How could he really know? It wasn’t surface dirt on her skin he was after. It was deep underneath. The filth had been in her. And he was sure he had sensed it, smelled it; she had been stinking of the dirt deposited on her, inserted in her by the men she had been with.

Yes, she needed this. This cleansing. She would thank him.

If only he knew how clean was clean enough.

After he’d been at it for another ten minutes, he pulled her out of the tub and lay her down on the bathroom floor, then stared at her naked body. At the long neck and full breasts and nipples the color of faded roses.

She was so beautiful, she had been given so much and yet she had abused and defiled her body. She had taken this body that God had given her and she had given it away and ruined herself.

He began to shave her. Carefully. He didn’t mind blood. But blood in the right way at the right time.

And that time hadn’t come yet.

Her frightened eyes went to the erection between his legs.

“It’s only a temporary aberration,” he whispered in a reassuring tone. “I won’t abuse you. My job is not to violate you further, but to restrain myself and do my job.”

That was his sacrifice to make. Just as she would make hers.

He blew on her pubis, and the short, curly hair flew away, leaving the three-dimensional tattoo. It was the best one yet. A perfect cross. Jesus died for our sins. But he left behind so many sinners.

So far he hadn’t accomplished his goal. He hadn’t found the formula. But he was not searching for some mythological alchemy. He was certain this transformation was possible. He knew what had gone wrong. Until tonight he had not cleansed the women properly.

He had forgotten how Jesus had washed the feet of the sinners. How could he have forgotten that? It was the most basic of Catholic rituals. The first one. Spilling the water on the baby and anointing its forehead, the baptism.

With an innocent baby all that was needed was a slim
trickle of water. But with a woman who had laid open her legs for hundreds of men, who had taken them in her mouth, her hands, her vagina, he had to clean her very well, indeed.

That was what he had missed. The one step he should have remembered. The one part of all this that he had forgotten. He lost his erection, thinking of his failure. How many nights had he wasted? How much money had he lost? All because he’d forgotten this one step.

No. He would not berate himself. Not now. Not when he was so close.

The steam in the bathroom was dissipating and condensation was dripping down the mirror and onto the tiles. The lights were still slightly diffused. This was like a heaven on earth.

Yes. He would do it tonight. Learn the lessons. Know the secret. And then put it to use on the one who deserved it the most.

Now that she is clean, you can prepare her for the rest
.

In his mind, he was not hearing his own voice talking him through the steps. It was a holy voice, deep, professorial. The voice of the Holy Father. He could close his eyes and see his savior, halo around his head, hands outstretched.

If she is cleaned, if you have rid her of the stain on her soul, then she will not die, she will be saved
.

He knew that this one would be the first of them to survive the trauma. Her salvation would lead to the salvation of others. He was sure of it. And it excited him.

He saw himself in the mirror. A naked man, dripping with sweat, his hair curled from the heat, his arms held high, a bright and shining gold object high above his head. It gleamed like the sun on a perfect day. He lowered the chalice. Precisely, carefully. But quickly with all his strength.

Her eyes went even wider. And in them he saw himself and the golden chalice reflected back. Shining. He was shining in her eyes. He was going to save her.

I
didn’t really have enough of the right kind of clothes for all the evenings I had to spend at the Diablo Cigar Bar. For my third excursion into the dark and smoky lounge, I scrounged through my closet before I went to work and tried to put together an outfit.

I could repeat the short black skirt and the Jimmy Choo pumps that showed more toe cleavage than any other shoes I had ever owned. But I’d already worn the off-the-shoulder Donna Karan black top twice. The fact that this was the best I could do would have been funny if it weren’t such a sad statement about how little sexy dressing up I did.

I pushed all the hangers to the right, the way you do when you go to a department store and see a rack of sale clothes, not wanting to miss anything. Taking inventory at the same time, I went through a dozen white, light blue, bone and black tailored silk shirts—the staples that I wore almost every day with gabardine, linen or wool slacks in black, gray or
khaki. No emerald shantung bustiers, no cobalt-blue dresses with plunging necklines. No golden, almost see-through silk blouses.