The Dead Detective (13 page)

Billy lowered his eyes and nodded. Harry doubted the boy would ever call, but he was certain he’d be seeing him again.

Harry was alone in the conference room going over his notes and the reports filed by the other members of the team, when the door flew open and Vicky breezed in.

“You missed one heck of an interview,” she said. “Morgan and I just finished up with Bennie Rolf, Darlene’s P.O. The man started peeing his pants so hard I thought we were gonna need a rowboat.”

She was grinning; her eyes dancing with pleasure. Harry fought back his own smile. “Sounds like you had a chance to play Wicked Witch of the West. And it looks like you enjoyed it.”

“Oh, I did indeed.”

“Did you let Morgan play good cop to your bad cop?”

Vicky took a chair opposite him. “Well, that was a little odd,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, he handled the interview just fine. But later …”

“Later, what?” Harry asked.

“Well, it was pretty clear to us that all those visits Bennie made to Darlene’s crib weren’t completely kosher. When we pushed him on it and hinted that he might have helped lose her monitor, he really freaked out. I mean the man just oozed guilt. By the time we walked out of his office we were pretty convinced that old Bennie had helped Darlene out in exchange for some very serious nookie. But his alibi for the night she died checks out. He was with his mother, if you can believe it.”

“He was visiting her?”

“No, he lives with her,” Vicky said. “The same house he grew up in. Seems old Bennie never left home and hearth.”

“And I bet he doesn’t want Mama to know about his little tryst with Darlene.”

“You bet your bippy. When I told him we’d have to confirm his alibi with her, well, like the song says, he turned a lighter shade of pale.”

Vicky paused and Harry thought she seemed suddenly reluctant to say more. “So what about Morgan?”

Vicky wished she hadn’t brought it up; she hadn’t anticipated Harry’s reaction. But it was too late to backtrack. “Well, when we got to the car I could see he was pissed off. He didn’t like the idea of Rolf giving in to her—Darlene being able to use sex to get around the restrictions the court had placed on her. What can I say, he’s a real by-the-book cop.” She smiled at Harry and added: “Just like we’re all supposed to be. I think it just ticked him off that Rolf let himself be used that way and he wanted to know if we were going to report it to anyone. He was pretty adamant that we should.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him it would be noted in my report, but that someone else would decide whether to pursue it or not. I also told him I didn’t think the chances were very good.” She paused. “That didn’t make him a happy camper, but he knows he has to live with it.” She watched Harry think that over, then quickly added, “Look, Harry, this guy’s just very intense about his job. And he’s very good. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. He’s just like most patrol cops. He doesn’t see gray. He’s a black-and-white kind of guy.”

Harry stared at her. “It still concerns me,” he said. “Not a lot yet, but it concerns me. I don’t want this investigation tainted by anyone’s preconceived notions about morality. We have to remain above that or we’ll end up going down a lot of wrong paths. So I want you to keep working with him and keep a close eye on what he does. At least for a while. What’s he doing now?”

Vicky’s jaw tightened. Her anger was directed more at herself than at Harry. She should have just kept her mouth shut. “He’s trying to find any deleted information in the department’s motor pool records. And he seems to know what he’s doing. Like I said, I’m not worried about him at all. He may be a little straight-laced, but from what I’ve seen he’s got good instincts as an investigator.” She paused, then pressed on. “Harry, I’ve got to be up front with you. If I was running this case I’d be more concerned about
your
personal hang-ups than I would be about his.”

Harry was jolted by the comment, but fought not to let it show. “Your concern’s noted. I promise you I’ll keep my hang-ups in check.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

D
r. Lola Morofsky was a seventy-year-old psychiatrist
who refused to retire. After a forty-year career as a therapist she no longer accepted private patients; now she devoted her efforts strictly to law enforcement, working exclusively with the various police agencies in Pinellas and Hillsborough counties. When Harry called seeking an appointment, she agreed to see him immediately.

“So you’ve got the big one,” she said, peering up at him from the large executive desk chair that enveloped her body like a cocoon.

She was a tiny woman, no more than five feet tall and well under one hundred pounds. She had short, kinky brown hair, obviously dyed, a long nose, and thick lips. Heavy makeup did its best to cover the sea of wrinkles on her face. She had never married, and had no children, and although she’d lived in Florida most of her adult life, she still carried with her the Brooklyn accent of her childhood.

“So you’re coming to me with Darlene Beckett?” she asked as Harry slipped into a visitor’s chair.

“I am. I need a psychological profile on the woman and, if possible, on the type of men she would attract. Plus, if you can tell me something about the killer—like his name, address, and Social Security number, it would be good.” Harry’s face broke into a grin. He had worked with her many times and both liked and respected the woman.

Lola brought her tiny hands together with pleasure. “So you need me. Even with Harry Doyle’s famous intuition, his ability to hear the whispered words of the dead, he needs an old lady to help him.” She laughed at herself, at both of them. “In any event, I’m delighted. Ever since this woman appeared on the scene, I’ve been dying to study her.” She leaned forward. “This, I think we will find, is a complex lady, Harry. Not the simple bimbo the media has made her out to be. Understanding her, understanding how her mind worked, will be a challenge.” She waved her small hands as if dismissing what she had just said. “As far as your other questions go, I can tell you right off that any heterosexual man with a living member between his legs would be attracted to her. Not every one would act on that attraction, but they would all desire her. This, Harry, was a
very
alluring woman, and one who worked hard at being so. Regarding your killer, I think I can help you. Not a name and address, of course, but at least a strong profile. But for that I’ll have to see your entire case file. Darlene’s as well, of course.”

Harry placed the two folders he had brought with him on her desk. “The top one is a copy of the entire murder file,” he said. “I really need you to look at that first, and tell me anything you can about the killer. The other folder is the child abuse case file. I just got it from the Hillsborough County state’s attorney last night and had it copied for you.”

“So it’s a copy I can keep?”

Harry nodded, and again Lola brought her tiny hands together. “A treasure, a virtual treasure trove.” She shook her head. “It will be difficult to concentrate on the murder file with this sitting here waiting for me.”

“Please,” Harry said.

Lola raised her hand like a traffic cop. “I will. I will.”

As Harry watched, Lola began poring over the murder file. The office was designed to provide a soothing, relaxed atmosphere. The lighting was subdued; the furniture—a sofa and two chairs—was oversized and covered in soft, plush fabric. Even Lola’s desk was not intimidating, a Queen Anne style, something more suited to a home than an office. There were no diplomas or certificates on the walls—those had been relegated to the reception area—only soothing pastels. It was a place designed to make frightened, insecure people feel safe. It was something that didn’t work for Harry. Instead he felt a lingering inner tension that he knew would stay with him until Darlene’s murder was solved. It was something he lived with on every complex case, something that drove him to find the answers that eluded him, or so he believed.

Lola was studying the in situ photographs of Darlene’s body. She glanced up at Harry. “Implants?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Interesting. A woman so beautiful and still she had to offer herself up to the surgeon’s knife to become even more appealing.” She opened the other file and found an earlier photograph of Darlene in a cheerleader’s costume. “Look here,” she said. “She didn’t have a flat chest as a child. She was perfectly normal, absolutely lovely.” She shook her head. “There was a deep psychological need here. I would bet my license that this woman’s psyche was severely brutalized at a very young age—something that made her obsessive about her looks and her desirability as a woman. She would also want to be desirable to other women,” she added. “I’m not saying she was a lesbian, or bisexual. This was an obsession, and the need to be wanted would not be limited to one sex.” She shook her head again. “But that’s only a guess for now. Give me time and I’ll find more. This was a complex woman, a very disturbed woman. Your case will undoubtedly be solved before I understand her completely … if I ever do.”

“Any initial sense about the killer?” Harry asked.

“Well, here we obviously have obsessive behavior of a different kind. I would guess that our killer is young. No more than late twenties, early thirties. Very religious to the point of obsession. Intelligent, but blinded by his own convictions. Not willing to question those beliefs, or be tolerant of anyone who doesn’t accept them with the fervor that he does. Without question, a true believer in every meaning of that phrase.” She raised her hands and let them fall back to the desk. “This business of carving the word
evil
on his victim’s forehead, then covering it up with a mask, is so direct it’s a bit unnerving. There is no subtlety in this man. He believes and therefore he acts. His mind is organized and yet it isn’t.” She nodded to herself. “It shows me someone who is not quite as smart as he thinks he is; someone who has convinced himself that other people are so unable to grasp what he sees that he must give them a message that is blatantly simplistic. This is someone who has no respect or tolerance for his fellow man; someone with no feeling of moral responsibility other than to himself, although he
believes
he has great moral responsibility to everyone, even to the world at large, perhaps even to the point of having a savior complex, if you will … Harry, my friend, you are dealing with a pure sociopath. And he may be very hard to spot, because he is extremely good at hiding. He has practiced that art for years. He has had to.”

“Could he have been the victim of abuse himself?” Harry asked.

“Very possibly. But if so, I think he would believe that he—himself— had sinned. He may believe that he was led into sin by someone even more evil than himself, but he would still carry great guilt for his part in it.”

“And deliver us from evil,” Harry said.

“Exactly.” Lola nodded her head emphatically. “That is exactly how he would now feel.”

“You haven’t gotten to it yet in the file, but we found a gold cross at the murder scene with that quote from the Lord’s Prayer engraved on it.”

“I would be surprised if that cross had not been torn from the killer’s neck,” she said.

“The young boy who was abused by Darlene, he and his family belonged to an evangelical church that shunned them when his family refused to let him testify. The minister also urged the parishioners to do everything they could to bring Darlene to justice.” Harry stared at her. “It was an unqualified statement, as far as I’ve been able to determine, almost an invitation for someone to take the law into his own hands.”

“An invitation our killer would not have needed, but one he would have taken very, very seriously.” She paused and stared into Harry’s eyes. “Did you get anything from the victim … anything about religion?”

“Yes.”

“It was a strong … sensation?”

“Very.”

Lola paused again, considering what Harry had said. Then she nodded to herself. “I would look at this church closely, Harry. Very closely indeed.”

As Harry began to rise from his chair, Lola leaned forward and studied him closely. “What’s new with you, Harry? You seem very tense. Any personal problems you’d like to talk about?”

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. He had talked to Lola in the past about his mother, and whenever they met she inquired without specifically asking about her.

“Nothing?” Lola persisted.

“My mother’s coming up for parole,” Harry finally conceded. “But I don’t need to talk about it.” She smiled up at him. “You probably do. But I won’t press the matter. I
will
ask you to consider one thing: consider that this case may not be right for you; that perhaps someone else should investigate this woman’s murder.” She waved off any objection before it came and continued, “I don’t mean you won’t be able to do a good job. You’re probably the best homicide detective in the state. I mean this case may not be right for
you.
”

“I can’t let it go,” he said.

“I know you can’t.” Lola gave him a long look. “What does your intuition tell you about the killer, Harry? I can sense that you feel something.”

Harry shook his head. “Very little, except that at times he feels very close. Sometimes it’s almost as though he’s standing right next to me. I’ve never felt that before.”

“Maybe it’s your past that’s standing next to you, Harry,” Lola said. “Think about that possibility, Harry. Think about it very seriously.”

The First Assembly of Jesus Christ the Lord was located on Keystone Road, close to the Pinellas-Hillsborough county line. That also placed it only a few miles from the Brooker Creek Preserve. The church was a sprawling complex that included the church itself, an elementary school, a gymnasium, and several smaller buildings, including one clearly marked as a teen center. All the buildings were connected by a covered outdoor walkway. There was also a sizable parking lot, attesting to a large congregation. As a young deputy Harry had occasionally been assigned to Sunday traffic control at various large churches throughout the county. The congestion created by those churches prior to and at the conclusion of services rivaled that of weekday rush hours. Harry called ahead but was told the Reverend John Waldo was in the sacristy “preparing” Sunday’s service. He decided to come early and catch the reverend when those preparations ended.

Harry climbed a wide cement stairway that led to a series of glass doors opening into a reception area. Across a twenty-foot expanse were another set of doors that opened into the church proper. Beyond those interior doors Harry found himself standing beneath an enormous arch that ran the entire length of the sacristy. But the focal point of the church was a vast stage that took up one entire end and faced out to rows of pews that would hold well over five hundred parishioners. There were lights suspended above the stage, and only the pews and the arched ceiling and a large golden cross that hung on the rear wall made him feel he had entered a church. Without them he would have felt he’d just walked into a large theater.

A man stood center stage his body fixed in a spotlight. Above him, to his right and left, his image was projected on two massive television screens, as the words he spoke ran in a scroll beneath. To his left, well off to the side, a group of musicians listened respectfully. Harry noted the instruments—organ, piano, three guitars, a drum set, a conga drum, two saxophones, two trumpets, and a flute. To the man’s right stood a choir of twelve men and women, each appearing equally intent on hearing every word the man spoke. At the front of the church, high above the pews, Harry could see a director’s booth hidden behind darkened glass. He assumed that the projection screens and all the stage lighting were run from there, an assumption that was confirmed when the man standing center stage interrupted his sermon at several points and spoke directly to the booth, asking that the cameras be brought in tight for close-ups at those specific points. As far as church services went, it was beyond anything Harry had ever envisioned, and he realized he was watching a rehearsal worthy of a professional theater.

The man at the crux of that rehearsal, who Harry assumed was Reverend Waldo, was railing against a gay pride parade that would be held in St. Petersburg the following Sunday, terming it a “celebration of sodomy” and urging his flock to join protestors throughout the county to speak out against “this public glorification of sin.”

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, the pressure light but distinct. He turned and found a man, perhaps in his late twenties, standing behind him. He had blond hair of an unnatural color that fell almost to his shoulders. He was tall and slender, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that bore the logo
Jesus Now and Always
. He had a square face and a flattened nose that looked as if it had been hit more than once; his eyes were cobalt-blue and despite a wide smile were clearly unfriendly.

“Can I help you?” he said, his tone holding no offer of help in it.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m looking for Reverend John Waldo. Are you him?”

The smile faded. “Who are
you?
”

Harry took out his credential case and held it up.

“A cop,” the man said.

“Good reading,” Harry responded. “Now who are
you
?”

“Bobby Joe Waldo,” the man said with a smirk. “I’m Reverend Waldo’s son and one of the associate ministers here. Reverend Waldo’s the man up on the stage.”

“How long before Reverend Waldo will be finished with his rehearsal?” Harry asked.

“We don’t call it a rehearsal.”

“What do you call it?”

“We call it preparing the way.”

Harry nodded, as if digesting a heavy bit of information. “Well, when do you suppose he’ll be through preparing the way?” Now it was his turn to smirk.

The younger Waldo glanced at his watch. Harry’s tone had turned his face into a sneer. “About ten minutes. Right now I have some stuff to do up on the stage. If you want, you can stay here and I’ll let him know you’re waiting on him. But don’t start wandering around. It distracts him, and he doesn’t like it when that happens.” He hesitated, offering as hard a look as he could muster. A bit of face saving, Harry thought. “He’ll wanna know what it’s about,” the man added for effect.