Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

He studied Tony while he hoped for a response, but didn't expect one. There was a heavy sigh and Tony sat back, setting the wood creaking and the rollers squealing as he slid the chair so that they were facing each other. But then Tony crossed his arms over his chest and didn't say anything. It was almost as if he wanted to hear what Nick thought he knew. Okay, Nick could play that game.

"I have to tell you," Nick said, this time in almost a whisper. "I didn't even know Monsignor O'Sullivan was gay."

"What? Who told you that?"

"Nobody told me, but if he was messing with boys __ "

"Pedophiles are rarely homosexuals, Nick." Tony shook his head as if he couldn't believe he needed to explain this.

"But I thought that was part of the church's solution to the mess, to screen candidates better."

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time they ignored science and professional research. I guess you haven't worked on any pedophile cases in Boston, because you'd know that if you had."

"I've been lucky. Since I left Nebraska I haven't had to work on any other cases involving kids. So how do you happen to know so much about pedophiles?"

"I was a victims' advocate when I was at Saint Stephen of the Martyr in Chicago," Tony said, but he was staring out of his window now. "It was an unofficial post, since officially the archdiocese didn't have a problem to begin with."

"That had to be tough," Nick said, watching him. "How could you work with those kids and know the guys who abused them were probably just being reassigned?"

"I didn't know that. Not at the time. You have to understand, Nick __ " and for this Tony met his eyes " __ we were told things were being taken care of."

"It didn't clue you in when there were no charges brought against them?"

"That's not the way it works," Tony answered, but his eyes were away from Nick's again, darting around the room, out the window and back to Nick. He scraped a hand over his jaw, as if looking for the right words. "The church didn't look to the county or the state to handle things," he said carefully, slowly, as if explaining it to a child, but there was nothing condescending in his tone. If Nick didn't know better, his friend sounded almost remorseful. "Priests are to be held to a higher standard and should be judged as such. They answer to a higher authority."

"Sure, I know," Nick said. "You mean a higher authority as in the archbishop?"

"No. I mean a higher authority as in God."

Eppley Airport

Omaha, Nebraska

Tommy Pakula forked over five bucks for a Krispy Kreme doughnut and the grande designer coffee when he really just wanted a large, plain coffee with no cream, no sugar, no froufrou on top. Geez, for five bucks he could have gotten all the coffee he could drink plus two eggs, toast and a side of bacon down at the Radial Highway Cafe. Froufrou or not, it sure tasted good and he needed the blast of sugar and caffeine. Lately it seemed necessary to keep a steady injection of caffeine pumping through his system like some constant electrical charge. He wasn't sure he wanted to see what happened if and when he got unplugged.

He glanced at the flight arrival board for the thirteenth time. The D.C. flight was still scheduled to arrive on time. That was ten minutes ago. So where the hell was it?

There had already been two streams of passengers but no FBI guy, no Special Agent M. O'dell. Pakula could spot a feebie a mile away, the same distant look that took everything in with a sweep of the eyes. He planted himself by the bookstore where he wouldn't miss anyone coming up the ramp from the gates. He leaned against the wall. He finished his doughnut in three bites and sipped the coffee.

He was watching another stream come up the ramp from the gates when a woman came out of the bookstore and stopped in front of him. She was young, attractive, dragging a black leather computer case.

"Excuse me, are you Detective Pakula?" She addressed him by name, even getting the pronunciation right. And this time he really looked at her instead of his routine brief once-over, trying to remember how she knew him.

"Yeah, I'm Pakula."

"I'm Special Agent Maggie O'Dell."

He almost dropped his coffee. Holy Crap! He stood up straight, trying to look all nonchalant as he freed up and wiped his right hand to offer it. "Nice to meet you, Agent O'Dell. You been wandering around here long?"

"Not long."

Now that he got a good look at her _ navy blue suit, eyes drifting and catching everything around her __ Pakula realized he wasn't so far off. He just had the M wrong. Geez, Chief Ramsey would laugh his ass off. So would Clare. He wasn't too sure O'Dell would.

"How'd you figure out who I was?" he asked her.

"I'm a profiler. It's my job." But before he could look impressed she smiled and added, "I could say it was because you didn't have any luggage. That you were off to the side and didn't look excited to pick up whoever you were looking for, or that it was the bulge in the back of your jacket. Truth is, the doughnut and coffee was a dead giveaway."

Pakula wanted to laugh. Here he was looking for the stereotypical FBI agent and she was doing the same thing. He pretended to look insulted. "Geez, O'Dell. You know I could be offended that you've already stereotyped me."

"Then we are even," she said, "because you were looking for a man, weren't you?"

He met her eyes, and there was no drifting this time. He could see that it actually didn't bother her, she was used to it, instead of being offended, and that she was simply jabbing back at him.

"Okay, we're even," he said, and he decided he liked her.

He started to fill her in on the case, giving her some background that hadn't made it to the case file. But she seemed distracted as they headed toward the escalators.

"We have to get your bags downstairs," he told her. "I'm parked just across in the garage."

"Do you mind if we stop at the restroom?"

"Oh, sure. No, I don't mind. I think there's one downstairs you can use."

She stopped and smiled at him. "No I mean the restroom where you found Monsignor O'Sullivan?"

Pakula was a bit embarrassed that he'd misunderstood. Of course, she'd want to see the crime scene. "Yeah, sure. Right back here."

He led her off to the left and down a hallway. When they got to the restroom he went in first, checking to see if there was anyone at the urinals. They lucked out. A guy was on his way out when Pakula propped open the door and invited O'Dell in.

"He was over here," Pakula indicated, walking to the area in front of the last sink on the left. " The way I figure it, he was standing, washing his hands at the sink when the killer came up behind him. We found his eyeglasses on the floor. Could be why he didn't see his attacker come up behind him. Could simply be he didn't think the guy looked like anyone he needed to worry about. From the direction and the angle of the stab wound, the M.E. says the killer came in behind him. He was probably shorter. Not sure how much. But enough that he could easily reach under the monsignor's arm and shove the knife up into his heart. He pulled it out, let the monsignor drop to the floor, then stepped on the padre's glasses and simply walked out the door."

A thick middle-aged man came in the door, did a double take when he saw O'Dell and backed up to check the sign on the door.

"You can come in. We're just visiting," Pakula told him, but the man waved and angry hand at him and left, muttering something about privacy.

"One door to enter and exit," O'Dell said, looking around. "And no one saw the killer on a busy Friday afternoon?"

"These restrooms are the sort of off the beaten path. Most people would use the ones at the gate or down next to the luggage carousel. There was one guy __ he's listed in the report __ thought he bumped into a kid on his way out. Said the kid was in a hurry. The guy couldn't identify him other than a baseball cap, slight build. Didn't even see his face. By the time the guy saw the monsignor's body, realized what happened and ran out the door, he said the kid was nowhere in sight."