A Cruel Season for Dying (34 page)

“Mr. Paladino,” said Talbot, “we have to ask the question.”

“Well, I didn’t kill Lucia. I loved Lucia. Like my own. I … I wished it would have been me instead of her.” He dropped his
head into his
hands, his thick fingers spread over his face like a mask, trying to muffle his sobs.

Sakura watched Willie chew on her pencil as she checked the scrawl of notes on her legal pad.

She looked up. “Don’t give me that damn inscrutable stare, Sakura.”

“Was I?”

She laughed, standing now, walking toward the one-way window through which she’d witnessed the interrogations. She ran her
fingers on the ledge, examining the fine layer of dust she’d picked up. She turned. “Okay, let’s take them one by one.”

“Graff first,” he said.

“Looks real good on paper. Fits the profile. A priest. That certainly jibes with the religious elements. And the last two
murders take place in his own backyard.”

“I hear a
but.
”

“These pictures …” She looked down at the spread of Graff’s photographs that had just come in under warrant. “I don’t think
that the man who took these photos is the same one who posed those murder victims in their beds.”

Sakura raised his brows. “Why?”

She shrugged. “These photographs are so depersonalized. There are no head shots. Just body parts. And the genitals, they’re
exploited in Graff’s photographs. At the crime scenes the killer hides the sex of the victims.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s an incompleteness in the photos. An unfinished aspect.” She picked up one of the shots. “They’re fragmented as though
he’s not done. But in the crime scenes there’s a kind of wholeness. As if the killer had finally achieved resolution.”

He removed his jacket, placed it over the back of a chair. “Maybe the photographs are the first stage in the evolution of
Graff’s fantasy.”

“Okay …” She waited.

“Graff starts small, takes photographs, pornographic fodder for his fantasy. Then he graduates to the stage where he’s actually
killing,” he said.

“But there’s a problem.” She was chewing on the pencil again. “The dates on these photographs. There are too many pictures
taken after the Carrera murder. I can’t see a serial going back.”

“Unless we can match any of these body parts to a victim, the best we can do with these pictures is circumstantial evidence
against Graff.”

“You witnessed the autopsies, Jimmy. Any one of the victims have six toes?” She dropped the photograph she’d been holding.
The blond pubic hair was startling against the dusky flesh of phallus and testicles. “Every one of the subjects in these shots
has some kind of deformity. None of the victims had any kind of anomaly. Not even a noticeable birthmark among them.”

“Milne had arthritis.”

She shook her head. “That’s different. That happened after years of living. These subjects came into the world …
Damaged
is what I think Graff thinks they are.”

“And our killer …?”

“
Resurrected
… his victims are resurrected. To a higher plane. Perfected. That’s why we get angel wings.”

“Wings of
fallen
angels.”

“Shit, do we have to keep coming back to that.” She bit into the pencil. “Forget that for a moment. If it is Graff, and he
is so hell-bent on photographing everything, where are the pictures of winged bodies on beds? Serials like trophies.”

“I suppose Graff could have hidden them. We’re still searching his rooms, and we’ll extend the warrant to the whole rectory
if necessary,” he said. “I wish we could find a grappling hook and some LSD. Or work boots to match those prints Michael found
in the warehouse.”

“How about some child pornography?”

“That would be nice.”

“Because the eight-year-old girl is where we lose Graff,” she said, “and pick up Shelton and Paladino.”

“Shelton gets high marks, except he’s out of shape.”

“A bisexual pedophile,” she said. “That certainly covers all the bases.”

“But …?”

“I don’t see Shelton placing wings on bodies,” she said. “It’s too metaphorical. His mind isn’t that elegant.”

“We could disqualify Paladino on the same grounds,” he said.

“Maybe. But he did take those wonderful Halloween photographs of Lucia. I think there’s more to Tony Paladino than meets the
eye.”

“Both men have a similar scenario with a woman,” he said.

“In Shelton’s case I think Sheila Davis is telling the truth about her daughter. In Paladino’s case I’m not so sure.”

“I keep remembering that Lucia was sedated,” he said. “Linsky said she’d be conscious but compliant. Was she treated differently
from the other victims because she was a child? Or because of a more personal relationship with the killer…. But what were
you saying about there being more to Paladino?”

She pulled back her wavy hair, fastened it with a band. “I think Tony Paladino is searching for the Holy Grail. The perfect
woman. Hence, the screwing around. But he always falls short. Even his wife, whom I believe he loves, doesn’t measure up.
But Lucia did. I think he was able to project his ideal onto Lucia.”

“Lucia was eight years old.”

“I know. But Lucia was less than real to him, more a symbol of what could be. In the meantime he played the doting uncle.
I don’t think he ever touched her. That would have ruined it for him. His sexualization of Lucia was unconscious and specific
to her. Besides, I think even if we could convince ourselves that he could have killed Lucia, there’s no way he murdered the
men.”

He stared at her, nodding, wishing more of the puzzle pieces fit.

For a reporter who’d just scored big time, Zoe Kahn was not in a very good mood. Ordinarily, she would have killed to get
inside Sakura’s office, but her mind kept wandering to the possibility of running into Johnny—the anticipated confrontation
vying with her memories of the crime scene in the church, impressions much more indelible than the never developed film.

And hadn’t that been a piece of monumental stupidity, or something much worse? She hadn’t guessed she had such impulses in
her. And that was scary, not knowing herself half as well as she’d believed. Thankfully, Garvey had taken it in stride, a
minor fuckup compared to the overall jazz of an exclusive.
NO ONE SAFE
! The page-wide banner screaming from the front page.
GAYS TO LITTLE GIRLS
! Complete with tableau of the winged child suspended over the crèche.

Garvey had called in the artist, who’d mocked-up the whole scene from her description. And that had been good. Talking about
it in precise and objective detail had actually helped a little.

But where the hell was Sakura? Was this some cop trick to make her nervous? Well, he could forget it. One thing she knew,
she wasn’t scared of cops. She was here because she wanted to be, not because the great Sakura had summoned her. She was here
because she hoped to get something out of him, especially with rumblings in the pipeline that they’d finally come up with
some suspects.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Kahn.” He appeared at the door and walked to his seat behind the desk. “Thank you for coming.”

He looked awful. Worse than she felt. She nodded, letting him go on.

“I assume you know why I asked you here.”

“My story?”

“Yes. And though I understand the argument against a reporter revealing her source, there is one thing I have to know.”

“And that is?”

“Are you in any contact with the killer?”

She controlled her expression. It was not the question she’d expected him to ask. Shit, she could only wish the killer would
get in touch, like Berkowitz writing to Breslin.

“No, Lieutenant,” she said finally.

“I see.”

There was a wealth of information in those two words. He knew the leak was close. The question about the killer had been his
last hope against part of what was eating him from inside.

“Your source … ,” he began.

“Don’t go there.” A command that had sounded like a plea. She said nothing else, and waited.

He waited too.

“Why the little girl, Lieutenant?”

He seemed to sense that this was her question, not the
Post
’s. “I don’t know, Ms. Kahn. I don’t know why he killed any of them.” He used the words against himself, like a knife.

Sakura stood inside the
genkan,
reaching out to trace the pattern of gold thread slipping through the heavy white silk of Hanae’s wedding kimono. It had
been a joint decision that it was to be this garment that would hold the honored place in the small entrance hall. The kimono
defined what was most essential in life—their bond to each other.

“Jimmy?” Hanae’s voice from the living room.

“I am here, Hanae.”

She had drawn up the
sudare
and stood in profile against the naked window, one of her hands resting on the ledge, the other near her throat. The floral-patterned
kimono she wore looked bright against the canvas of black sky.

“You must be very tired,” she said quietly when he’d kissed her.

“Yes.”

“Then I shall be the good wife and give you a bath.”

He undressed while Hanae made her preparations. He was spoiled by
hinoki
tubs. Cold porcelain was a poor substitute for the fragrant cypress, but Hanae at least had the soap he favored. In Japan
he would have soaped and rinsed before soaking.

“Not too hot,” he said, walking into the bathroom through gathering clouds of steam.

“Stop telling me how to draw a bath.”

He stepped into the tub and sank into the water. Releasing a long breath, he closed his eyes, letting Hanae knead the muscles
of his neck.

She lifted her hands. “You wish to be alone?”

He reached for her. “No, stay with me.”

She rose from her knees and felt for the small stool behind her.

“She was only eight years old,” he said after a moment, glancing over at her. Her eyes closed as he spoke, and he knew she
had begun focusing inward, creating from his words her own images. “With the
white wings,” he continued, “she did look like an angel. Except she was dead.”

“What does this mean, Jimmy?” she asked, opening her eyes. “Before he was not taking the lives of children. What is there
that is the same between a small girl and the men who died?”

“You have asked the right question.”

“And do you know the answer?”

“No, Hanae, I do not.”