Nora Roberts - Sacred Sins

“Another crumb. In her report, Dr. Court says he’s cracking, that this last murder probably left him disabled for a couple of days.”

“I read it. What the hell is this? Bark and twigs?” Ben twisted the key and pulled out from the curb.

“Raisins, almonds, some granola. You ought to call her, Ben.”

“I’ll handle my personal life, partner.” He turned the corner and went a block before he swore. “Sorry.”

“No problem. You know, I saw this special. It pointed out that in current society, men really have it made. Women have taken the pressure off them to be the sole support-the Mr. Macho who has to handle all the problems and bring home the bacon. Women are generally waiting longer to look for marriage if they look for marriage at all, which leaves men with more choices. Today’s woman isn’t looking for Prince Charming on a white charger. The funny thing is, a lot of men are still threatened by strength and independence.” He plucked out a raisin. “Pretty amazing.”

“Kiss ass.”

“Dr. Court strikes me as being pretty independent.”

“Good for her. Who wants a woman who hangs all over you?”

“Bunny didn’t hang exactly,” Ed remembered. “She sort of draped.”

“Bunny was comic relief,” Ben muttered. And Bunny had been one of his standard three-month affairs where you meet, share a few dinners, have a few laughs, bounce around in the sheets, and call it quits before anyone gets any ideas. He thought of Tess leaning back against his windowsill and laughing. “Look, when you’re in our business you need a woman who doesn’t make you think all the time. Who doesn’t make you think about her all the time.”

“You’re making a mistake.” Ed leaned back. “But I figure you’re smart enough to see it for yourself.”

Ben made the turn toward Catholic University. “Let’s hit Logan before we go back in.”

At five p.m. all the detectives assigned to the Priest homicides but Bigsby were spread out in the conference room. Harris had a copy of all the reports in front of him, but went over each point by point. They traced Anne Reasoner’s movements on the final night of her life.

At 5:05 P.M. she had left her regular beauty salon, where she’d had a trim, color touch-up, blow-dry, and manicure. She’d been in excellent spirits and had tipped her operator ten dollars. At five-fifteen she had picked up her dry cleaning. One gray suit, with vest, two linen blouses, and a pair of gabardine slacks. At approximately five-thirty she had arrived home. Her next-door neighbor had spoken to her in the hall. Anne had mentioned going to the theater that evening. She’d carried fresh flowers.

At seven-fifteen John Carroll had called her and broken their date and their relationship. They had spoken for roughly fifteen minutes.

At eight-thirty Anne Reasoner had called Suzanne Hudson. She’d been upset, tearful. They had talked for nearly an hour.

Around midnight the next-door neighbor had heard Reasoner’s television. She’d noticed it because she was coming in for the evening herself and hadn’t expected Reasoner to be home.

At 3:35 Reasoner had phoned Carroll. Two roaches of marijauna had been found beside the phone. They had talked until 3:42. None of the neighbors heard Reasoner leave the building.

Sometime between four and four-thirty A.M. Gil Norton had seen a man dressed as a priest exit the alley two blocks from Reasoner’s apartment. At 4:36 Norton attracted the attention of two patrolmen and reported the body.

“Those are the facts,” Harris said. Behind him was a map of the city with the murder sights flagged with blue pins. “From the map we can see that he’s confined himself to an area less than seven square miles. All the murders have occurred between one and five A.M. There is no sexual assault, no robbery. From the pattern Monsignor Logan established, we expect him to hit again on December eighth. Street patrols will be working double shifts from now until then.

“We know that he is a man of average or above average height, that he has dark hair and dresses as a priest. From Dr. Court’s psychiatric profile and reports, we know that he is psychopathic, possibly schizophrenic, with religious delusions. He kills only young, blond women, who apparently symbolize an actual person who is or was in his life.

“Dr. Court feels that due to the break in pattern of the murder, and the disorder of the printing on the note left on the body, that he is nearing a crisis in his psychosis. The last murder may have cost him more than he can afford.”

He dropped the file on the table, thinking it was more than any of them could afford. “It’s her opinion that he would have had a physical reaction, headaches, nausea, that would have debilitated him. If he is still able to function on a normal level for periods of time, it’s placing an enormous strain on him. She believes it would show in fatigue, loss of appetite, inattention.”

He paused a moment, to make certain everyone in the room was taking it in. The room was separated from the squad room by windows and Venetian blinds that were yellowing with age. Beyond them could be heard the steady hum of activity, phones, footsteps, voices.

There was a coffee machine in the corner and a jumbo-sized plastic cup for cops with a conscience to drop in twenty-five cents a shot. Harris walked over to it, poured a cup, and added a spoonful of the powdered cream he detested. He drank and looked at his staff.

They were restless, overworked, and frustrated. If they didn’t start cutting down to an eight-hour day, he was going to lose some of them to the flu. Lowenstein and Roderick were already popping decongestants. He couldn’t afford to have them off sick, and he couldn’t afford to pamper them. “We have in this room over sixty years of police experience. It’s time we put those sixty-odd years on the line and catch one sick religious fanatic who probably can’t keep his breakfast down in the morning anymore.”

“Ed and I talked to Logan again.” Ben pushed aside his plastic cup of coffee. “Since the guy dresses like a priest, we thought we’d start treating him like one. As a psychiatrist, Logan talks to and treats fellow priests who are having any kind of emotional problems. He’s not going to give us a list of his patients, but he’s going through his files, checking for anything-anyone who might fit. Then there’s a matter of the confessional.”

He stopped for a moment. Confession was part of the Catholic ritual that had always given him a problem. He could remember well kneeling in that dark little room with the screened panel, confessing, repenting, atoning. Go and sin no more. But, of course, he had.

“A priest has to confess to somebody, and it has to be another priest. If Dr. Court’s right, and he’s beginning to think of what he’s done as a sin, he’s going to have to confess.”

“So we start interviewing priests,” Lowenstein put in. “Look, obviously I don’t know a lot about Catholics, but isn’t there something about the sanctity of the confessional?”

“We probably wouldn’t get a priest to finger anyone who came to him in the confessional,” Ben agreed. “But maybe we’d get another location. Chances are he’d stick with his own parish. Tess- Dr. Court-said he probably attended church regularly. We might be able to find out what church. If he’s a priest, or was one, he’d probably be drawn to his own church.” He rose and went to the map. “This area,” he said, circling the blue flags, “includes two parishes. I’m betting he’s been to one or both of these churches, maybe standing on the altar.”

“You figure he’s going to show up on Sunday,” Roderick put in. He clamped his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose to relieve some pressure. “Especially if Dr. Court was right and he was too sick to make it last week. He’ll need the support of the ceremony.”