Watch Me Die (32 page)

“Yes,” he said, nodding, “I must expel them all.”

Until then, she’ll be in the grip of the Evil One. Only you can save her.

Only he could save her. It was as it should be. Trembling, he lifted his face to heaven. “Thank you, Father. I owe you everything and I am your servant.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Thursday, August 18

7:40
A.M.

Malone wished the caffeine would kick in. He’d worked most of the night, heading home to catch a few hours of sleep and a shower, only to return with the sun. He felt like crap. He bet he looked even worse—warmed-over crap, maybe.

He leaned against the war room table and swept his gaze over the whiteboard. A large map of the metro area with pushpins marking the location each victim was found. Time line with corresponding victim photos, notes on evidence, time and cause of death.

What was he missing? Malone swore and dragged a hand through his hair. Four victims. Four different means of death. Victims unrelated except for a line of Scripture and a connection to Mira Gallier.

For about the hundredth time since Scott’s questioning the night before, he started at the beginning. Father Girod: death by blunt-force trauma. Weapon recovered, usable prints. No witnesses. Preacher: throat slit with a piece of broken glass. No usable prints. No witnesses. Anton Gallier: death by gunshot wounds to the chest. Weapon unrecovered. Prints recovered from coffee cups and take-out bag. Match prints from Sisters of Mercy homicide. Louise Latrobe: means of death unresolved. Still awaiting lab results on lipstick used to write 4 on victim’s forehead.

“Hey, partner.”

He looked over his shoulder at Bayle. She looked haggard. “Hey.”

“Been here long?”

“A few hours. Looking for answers.”

“Find any?”

“I wish.”

“Coffeed-out yet?” She held up a cup from the local PJ’s. “If not, I’ve brought a peace offering.”

He eyed it with mock suspicion. “How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

She smiled and crossed to him. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

He took the cup and sipped.

She met and held his gaze. “And I’ll trust you, Malone.”

He nodded and they both turned to the wall and its display. Bayle spoke first. “I’ve been thinking. What if the break-ins and such that’ve happened to Mira Gallier have nothing to do with this?”

He looked at her in surprise. “That’s a pretty big turnaround from yesterday.”

“I know she’s involved somehow, but I’m much less certain she had anything to do with the murders.”

He drew his eyebrows together and studied her a moment, confused. “I don’t get it. What changed for you?”

She met his eyes. “Stacy. Her statement of what she saw.”

“You seemed pretty adamant yesterday.”

“I’ve been called stubborn once or twice.”

Malone didn’t fully trust her turnaround. Not that it didn’t happen in the investigative process when new evidence emerged. It did. Often. But this shift represented a monumental change in attitude.

“And the bizarre things happening to her?” he asked.

“The manifestations of a troubled woman. Or staged by her for attention. Again, because she’s unbalanced.”

“Entirely possible. We have nothing solid to show any of it actually occurred.”

“Exactly.” Bayle made a sweeping motion, taking in the display board. “The perp is trying to communicate directly with us through his messages. Obviously, they’re extremely important to him.”

Malone nodded. “It’s something he wants us to know.”

“Badly enough to take the chance of exposing himself. Leaving those messages at the scene is a risk. They take time and planning.”

Malone went to stand in front of the photographs of the graffitied windows. “‘He will come again to judge the living and the dead.’ Our first message. What’s our UNSUB’s thought process here? Why does he want us to know this?”

“Because he believes it.”

“A religious fanatic?”

She cocked her head. “Maybe.”

“Even if Father Girod hadn’t been murdered, it’s too deliberate to have been a simple act of vandalism.”

“Who is the ‘He’ in that message?”

“The son of God. Jesus Christ.”

“Our perp thinks it’s the end of the world? He’s reminding us what comes next.”

“Judgment Day,” Malone said.

“Which just happened to be our next ‘message.’”

Malone gazed at the photographs, pieces clicking into place. “He’s not reminding us what’s coming next. He’s telling us what has come.”

“I don’t get it.”

He looked at Bayle, excited. “He is the one who’s come to judge the living and the dead.”

“Our guy has a Christ complex?”

“Yeah. Think about it. Judgment Day’s our next message. He’s telling us it’s happening. That it’s begun.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Then why ‘He cast out Seven Demons’? Why not a continuation of what he’d begun with Preacher?”

“I don’t know.” Malone moved his gaze over the wall and whiteboard, looking for the answer. “If I’m remembering my New Testament lessons, while on earth Jesus performed a number of miracles. They included casting out demons.”

“Right,” she agreed. “And seven is a significant number in the Bible: seven seals, seven deadly sins, the seventh day He rested.”

“Although only once does it refer to Seven Demons.”

“In reference to Mary Magdalene.”

“Maybe we’re being too literal. We’re assuming our whack-job perp knows that. We’re assuming he really knows the Bible.” Malone started to pace. “I skipped as many catechism classes as I slept through, but I’d heard about the casting out of demons. I didn’t know it had anything to do with Mary Magdalene. He may not have, either.”

She nodded. “Okay, let’s put ourselves in our perp’s head. He thinks he’s the reincarnated Christ, come to judge the ‘living and the dead.’ He’s getting rid of demons. The bad guys.”

“It works,” he agreed. “I only have one problem with it.”

“Mira Gallier?”

“Close. The fact she’s been restoring a Mary Magdalene window. Maybe she’s not the connection? Maybe the window is?”

It was one of those aha moments that elevated police work from a follow-the-trail-of-bread-crumbs kind of drudgery to a creative endeavor. Some of his ahas turned out to be dead ends or bullshit, but it still made the game exciting. He rubbed his hands together, going with it. “Let’s go back to the beginning, the initial scene at Sisters of Mercy. Why that church?”

“Because he’s comfortable there. He’s spent time there.”

“Exactly. Because it’s
his
church. Did we ever get a list of Sisters of Mercy parishioners?”

“Not a complete one. We focused on anyone who might’ve had a beef with the church or school.”

“Let’s get it.”

“It’s going to be big.”

“But we have a small suspect list.”

“How do you figure?” she asked, frowning.

“All the murders have a connection to Mira Gallier. Let’s see if somebody on that list does as well.”

“I’ve got this. What about you?”

“Think I’ll follow up on the Mary Magdalene angle. Find out where the window came from and how it came to be in Gallier’s workshop.”

“Sounds good.” She started off. “I’ll keep you posted.”

His cell rang. He saw it was Stacy. “Hey, babe. What’s up?”

“I have that information you were looking for. I spoke with Donna St. Cloud. She and Bayle were partners for several years, from 2003 to 2006, when Bayle moved over to ISD. She said Bayle had been having an affair with some guy. It was a big deal, she was totally gone over him.”

“What happened?”

“It didn’t end well. Bayle comes in one day distraught. Says the affair is over. That he left her.”

“What was his name?”

“Bayle would never tell her. But St. Cloud did know he was somebody important. He had big bucks and was Uptown society.”

Connor Scott.
Malone felt the realization like a kick to the gut.

“St. Cloud did some digging, thought maybe she could connect the dots and figure out who he was. But by then it was after Katrina, things were really screwed up. Including Bayle. St. Cloud said she was moody and her work became inconsistent. Said she was relieved when Bayle got the promotion to ISD and that she wasn’t surprised when she heard about her meltdown.”

“The promotion makes sense. Bayle made a name for herself early in her career. And her performance during Katrina was nothing short of heroic.”

Malone recalled the stories of acts of courage that bordered on death defying, ones that reflected little concern for Bayle’s own safety. In retrospect, it made sense. She’d been in a personal crisis and didn’t care if she lived or died.

“Nobody noticed how close to snapping she was,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. It was the end of the world. Total, freaking Armageddon.”

“How come it takes so long after Katrina for her to publicly fall apart?”

“I’m sure her therapist could tell us, but I can only guess. There were a lot of distractions after the storm. She was a hero. She became NOPD’s Katrina poster girl. She was interviewed on TV and for magazines, honored by civic organizations.”

“And there’s the distraction of the cleanup.”

“She melts down when it quiets down.”

Malone nodded. “Exactly. And I get all that. It’s her story and not my concern. What is my concern is whether the man she was in love with was Connor Scott. If so, her involvement in this investigation compromises it.”

For a moment, Stacy was silent. “You told me Bayle had an attitude about Gallier. That she accused you of falling for her poor-little-victim routine.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“If Scott’s the one, those comments make sense.”

“Because Scott’s in love with Gallier,” Malone said. “And has been for years. Bayle would hate her guts.”

“What are you going to do?” Stacy asked.

“I wish I knew.”

“A word of advice, my love. You’re in tricky territory, proceed with caution.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Thursday, August 18

9:20
A.M.

Malone took Stacy’s advice. He decided to pursue the information on the Magdalene window and set his questions about Bayle on the mental back burner. It was an effective technique he used often. It gave his subconscious a chance to work on one issue while he acted on another.

A call to Gallier Glassworks had provided him the information he’d needed. Gallier wasn’t in yet, but her assistant had been happy to fill him in. The Magdalene window had come from Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows Church in Chalmette, the largest city in St. Bernard Parish. The church, along with its magnificent windows, had been destroyed by Katrina. A nun named Sister Sarah Elisabeth had championed the cause of resurrecting both the church and its windows. She had found Gallier Glassworks and turned the windows over to Mira for restoration.

He contacted the sister and she agreed to meet with him. He was on his way now.

Malone called Bayle from the road. “Update,” he said when she answered. “I’m heading to Chalmette to meet with a Sister Sarah Elisabeth. She’s the one who brought the Magdalene window to Gallier.”

“Progressing on my end as well,” she said. “Father McLinn from Sisters of Mercy agreed to get us the information on parishioners.”

“How long until we have it?”

“It’ll take the rest of today, maybe even tomorrow, to get the information together. Current parishioners are easy, it’s the lapsed and nonactives that’ll take time. They lost a lot of their information in the storm and have had to piece it back together and reenter data.”

“Gotcha. How many years did you ask them to go back?”

“Ten. I thought that’d give us a reasonable data cushion.”

“Good call.” At times like these, he wondered if he wasn’t totally off base regarding Bayle’s motivations. She seemed impartial and on point; they seemed to be on the same page every step of the way.

Maybe he should just ask her? Get it out there and out of the way?

Not now. Not over the phone. He had to be able to see her expression when she responded, needed to evaluate her body language. “When will you be back to HQ?”

“Before you.”

“See you then.”

He ended the call and drove in silence. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to St. Bernard Parish. “Da Parish,” as it was called, comprised the southeastern border of the now infamous Lower Ninth Ward and held the distinction of being one hundred percent uninhabitable after Katrina.

He still had a hard time comprehending the destruction. The numbers blew him away—the once thriving community was now only a third the size of its pre-storm population. A hopeful sign was that homes were in the process of being rebuilt. The smokestacks of the Murphy Oil Refinery towered in the distance.

A sign announced the turn for Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows. A tragically ironic name, considering what had transpired. He wondered if they had considered changing it, then rejected the thought. The people of St. Bernard Parish wouldn’t stand for it. To them, it was a matter of pride and community. This was their home, for better or worse, and they wanted it to stay the way it had always been.

The church itself was smaller than he had expected. It was still unfinished, judging by the activity going on around it. The sign out front listed the times for mass.

He went on a search for the church office. He found it and identified himself to the woman at the desk.

She smiled and stood. “You’re here to see Sister Sarah Elisabeth. She told me to expect you. Follow me.”

She led him down a short hall to a kitchen area. The smell of baking bread hung in the air as several women worked.

“Sister,” she said, “the detective’s here.”

The woman who greeted him was small in stature, with a wizened face and huge protruding eyes. Like a female Yoda.

“Sister,” he said, “thanks for seeing me.”

“Of course I would, silly boy.”

Her voice was a surprise. Young and lively, it matched the expression in her eyes. He laughed. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me a boy.”