Alex Kava - A Necessary Evil

"I can't tell you why he's seeing me," Gwen offered calmly, slowly. "However, if you were to ask my professional opinion as to whether I believe he had perhaps a resentment toward women I could tell you, yes, I believe he does."

This time Racine looked at her, tilting her head as if studying Gwen. She could almost see the sarcastic wiseass fade into the background while the puzzle-solver came to the surface.

"Okay, so in your opinion," Racine said carefully, like someone testing the rules of a new game, "this type of… resentment, would it become such a problem that it might extend to others?"

"Others? You mean like people he knows _ friends or family members?" Gwen was growing impatient even with her own game. "Dena wasn't someone he had randomly chosen. I don't mean to be rude, Detective Racine, but why am I here? These are things we've already gone over and your questions certainly could have been answered on the phone." If Racine was going to file charges against her, Gwen would rather she just do it and not beat around the bush.

"I invited you here because I've been waiting on some new information." Racine glanced over her shoulder then above Gwen's head, looking for someone.

"New information? Oh, Jesus! Has there been another one?"

"Not sure. This one might not be connected, although there are similarities. It was in the Boston area and it was __ oh, here it comes," she interrupted herself, standing to meet the uniformed officer who came from behind Gwen to give Racine a set of papers. "Here it is, or at least what details they have so far."

Racine shuffled the pages. Without looking up, she said, "O'Dell told me you've done consultation with the FBI to help them come up with criminal profiles."

"That's right, although it's been a few years since I've worked a case."

"We have a killer," Racine continued, glancing at Gwen then back to the papers, flipping and scanning, "who seems to kill and dismember in an uncontrollable rage. But he has the intelligence and wherewithal to compose himself after the murder enough not only to clean up, but to dispose of the body and strategically place the victim's head."

* "I know the basics of this case, Detective Racine." What was it Racine wanted from her? Did she expect her to pick up where Maggie left off in coming up with a profile? She had a profile. She had, quite possibly, the name of the killer. What more did she want?

"He's chosen women randomly with the exception of Dena Wayne. Libby Hopper was a college student. One of the other victims was young, too, or so we think. She had a tattoo that seems to be connected to a computer game. The computer game is really popular with kids. So as far as we know, all of them were young women. Rubin Nash has a history of brutally assaulting young women."

"Is there a question for me, Detective?" Gwen's patience started to unravel. The emotional roller coaster of the last few days threatened to push her over the edge. "What do you want to know?"

"I need to know if Rubin Nash might move on to someone other than young women he's picked up in nightclubs. Is Rubin Nash capable of this?"

And she tossed a color copy onto the desk in front of Gwen. It was a crime scene photo, a dark macabre set that looked like something from a horror movie, a decapitated head in the middle of a church altar with candles lit on both sides.

'That's all that's left of Father Paul Conley."

Omaha Police Department

Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie stared out of the conference-room window. She hadn't slept well despite the comfy king-size bed. Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Father Keller face-to-face again after four years. Of course, it could have been the thought of Nick Morrelli sleeping somewhere down the hall from her in the same hotel. She kept thinking she certainly would have slept much better had she given in and drunk the Chivas. But no amount* of Scotch would make seeing Keller any easier. Or at least that's what she told herself as Detective Pakula handed her yet another set of reports. These were from Santa Rosa County, Florida. They had the conference-room table filled with reports, maps, autopsy photos and evidence bags.

'There's actually a Bagdad, Florida?" she asked, starting to scan and flip through the papers while she paced the length of the room.

"Just outside of Pensacola. It's spelled without the 'h' though. This campground is on Blackwater Bay. I'll show you the area in a minute." Pakula was unfolding a map, making room for it on the bulletin board next to the map of the Midwest region that already had the first three murders marked with bright-colored stickpins, a red one in Omaha, blue in Columbia and yellow in Minneapolis.

"Where's the fifth?" she asked, craning over the scattered reports. "You said there was one in Boston yesterday?"

"Carmichael will bring it in as soon as Boston PD sends it."

"He's escalating. Three of them in five days," she said. She was antsy, unable to sit still. Thank goodness Pakula didn't mind her pacing. When it got to this stage it was almost as if she could feel the killer's frenzy or panic or whatever it was propelling him to hurry.

"You think that's proof of escalation, wait until you see the Boston one." He noticed her checking her watch and added, "Kasab and a uniformed officer are meeting Keller at the airport." He checked his own watch. "They should be here in about an hour if his flight's on time."

An hour. In approximately one hour she would be staring into the eyes of a child killer and promising him protection from being killed.

She tried to concentrate on the new Florida case. The body had already been identified as seventy-three-year-old Father Rudolph Lawrence, known to friends and parishioners as Father Rudy. A recent photo sent along with the report showed a short, stocky, white-haired, almost elfish-looking man at a party, with a colorful banner behind him that read: Happy Retirement, Father Rudy! She placed that copy next to the one of his corpse at the crime scene. What was left of the face had bloated beyond recognition. There was a tuft of white hair _ that and the white roman collar stood out in the otherwise mangled and dirty mess that looked more like a pile of rags than a body.

The medical examiner had estimated no less than a week. Other tests were needed for a more accurate time of death. Maggie remembered Adam Bonzado telling her that in a matter of a week maggots could consume a body down to the bone in a moist, hot environment. The Florida panhandle in July seemed to fit that environment, but the corpse had been partially hidden with debris and dirt thrown on top, which would have slowed down the process.

Maggie stood in front of the map Pakula had just finished tacking up. "Why try to hide him when he's already in the middle of what looks like several acres of thick woods."

"Wetlands," Pakula said. "They call them wetlands and you're right __ it is thick with trees, scrub grass and some kind of vining crap, not to mention the mosquitoes and the no-see-ums."

"You sound like a fan of the area."

"Oh, I love it. Sugar-white beaches and emerald green water. But a lot of places inland aren't developed. A lot of it is owned by the government. I can't think what they call it," Pakula said. "Oh, I know, historic preservation. It's along the gulf coast where the early explorers landed. In fact, Pensacola would have had the oldest settlement if it hadn't been washed away by a hurricane."

"Do you usually learn this much about your crime scenes?" Maggie asked, smiling.

"No, I've got friends who live down there. I've already been in contact with them. Since they're Catholics I'm hoping, they might be able to dig up some dirt for me on this Father Rudolph."