A Perfect Evil (56 page)

C
hristine squirmed to get comfortable in the swivel chair, drawing groans from the redheaded woman with the palette of makeup. As if out of punishment, the woman swabbed even more blush on Christine’s cheeks.

“We’re on in ten minutes,” said the tall man with the headset strapped to his bald head.

Christine thought he was talking to her and nodded, then realized he was talking into the mouthpiece of the headset. He bent over her to snap a tiny microphone onto her collar, and she couldn’t help noticing the reflection on his shiny head. The bright lights blinded her, their heat stifling and adding to the cockroaches in her stomach. Her palms were sweaty. Certainly it was only a matter of time before her face began to melt into pools of plum-glow blush, soft-beige foundation and lush-black mascara.

A woman sat in the chair opposite her. She ignored Christine while she riffled through the papers just handed to her. She swatted away the bald man’s hand and grabbed the microphone to pin it on herself.

“I hope you got that fucking TelePrompTer fixed, because I’m not using these.” She threw the handful of papers across the stage, and a frantic stagehand scrambled around the floor, scooping them up.

“It’s fixed,” the man patiently reassured her.

“I need water. There’s no water on the side stand.”

The same stagehand scurried over with a disposable cup.

“A real glass.” She almost knocked it out of the girl’s hand. “I need a real glass and a pitcher. For Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to ask?”

Suddenly, Christine realized the woman was Darcy McManus, the evening anchor for the station. Perhaps she wasn’t used to doing the morning news show. Perhaps she wasn’t used to mornings. In the harsh lighting, McManus’s skin looked weathered with crinkled lines at the eyes and mouth. Her usual shiny, black hair looked stiff and unnatural. The startling shade of red lipstick looked brash against her white skin until the redheaded makeup artist swabbed on a thick layer of artificial tan.

“One minute, people,” the headset man called out.

McManus dismissed the makeup woman with a wave of her hand. She stood up, smoothed out her too-short skirt, straightened her jacket, checked her face in a pocket mirror, then sat back down. Just then, Christine realized she’d been staring at the woman the entire time. The countdown brought her back to reality, out of her trance. She wondered why in the world she had agreed to do this interview.

“Three, two, one…”

“Good morning,” McManus said into the camera, her entire face transformed into a friendly smile. “We have a special guest with us today on
Good Morning Omaha.
Christine Hamilton is the reporter for the
Omaha Journal
who has been covering the Sarpy County serial killings. Good morning, Christine.” McManus acknowledged Christine for the first time.

“Good morning.” Suddenly, lights and cameras were real and all focused on her. Christine tried not to think about it. Ramsey had told her earlier that even ABC’s network news would be broadcasting the segment live. That was, no doubt, why McManus was here instead of the show’s regular host.

“I understand that this morning you’re joining us not as a reporter, but now as a concerned mother. Can you tell us about that, Christine?”

She was intrigued by McManus, the convincing concern manufactured at a moment’s notice. Christine remembered that McManus’s career began as a Miss America, which spiraled her to broadcast news, skipping the field reporting and landing top anchor positions in medium-size markets like Omaha. Christine had to admit, the woman was good. Even as she appeared to be looking at Christine with that genuine, contrived concern, her eyes actually looked just over Christine’s shoulder to the TelePrompTer. Suddenly, Christine realized McManus was waiting for her response, the impatience starting to reveal itself in the pursed lips.

“We think that my son, Timmy, may have been taken yesterday afternoon.” Despite all the distractions, her lip quivered, and Christine resisted the urge to bite down and stop it.

“Oh, how awful.” McManus leaned forward and patted Christine’s folded hands, missing on the third pat and touching her knee instead. McManus snatched her hand back, and Christine wanted to turn to see if the TelePrompTer included gestures. “And the authorities think it’s the same man who brutally murdered Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner?”

“We don’t know that for sure, but yes, there’s a good possibility.”

“You’re divorced and raising Timmy all by yourself, aren’t you, Christine?”

The question surprised her. “Yes, I am.”

“Both Laura Alverez and Michelle Tanner were single mothers, as well, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

“Do you think perhaps the killer is trying to say something by choosing boys who are being raised by their mothers?”

Christine hesitated. “I have no idea.”

“Is your husband involved in raising Timmy?”

“Not very much, no.” She restricted the impatience to her hands wringing in her lap.

“Isn’t it true that you and Timmy haven’t seen your husband since he left you for another woman?”

“He didn’t leave me. We got a divorce.” The impatience bordered on anger. How would any of this help find Timmy?

“Is it possible your husband may have taken Timmy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so, but there may be a possibility, isn’t there?”

“It’s unlikely.” The lights seemed brighter, scorching hot. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back.

“Has the sheriff’s department contacted your ex-husband?”

“Of course we would contact him if we knew how or where to… Look, don’t you think I would much rather believe that Timmy is with his father than with some madman who carves up little boys?”

“You’re upset. Perhaps we should take a few minutes.” McManus leaned forward again, her brow creased with concern, but this time her hands reached over and poured a glass of water. “We all understand how difficult this must be for you, Christine.” She handed her the glass.

“No, you don’t.” Christine ignored the offer, and McManus became flustered.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t possibly understand. Even I didn’t understand. I just wanted the story, like you.”

McManus looked around for the stage director, trying to appear casual while frustration clouded her cool exterior. The thin painted lips were pursed tightly over white, even teeth.

“I’m sure you’re under a lot of stress, Christine. And this must also be stressful. Let’s take a commercial break and give you a chance to pull yourself together.”

McManus kept the smile until the camera lights dimmed and the stage director motioned to her. Then the anger erupted on her face with a scowl that cut new lines in her makeup. But the anger was directed at the tall, bald man and not Christine. In fact, Christine became invisible again.

“Where the hell are we going with this? I need something I can work with.”

“Do I have time to go to the restroom?” Christine asked the stage director, and he nodded. She unsnapped the microphone and laid it next to the rejected glass of water.

McManus looked up at her and manufactured a curt smile.

“Don’t take too long, honey. This isn’t like your newspaper. We can’t just stop the presses. We’re live.” She reached for the glass and drank in delicate sips so as not to mess up her lipstick.

Christine wondered if McManus even knew Timmy’s name without the help of the TelePrompTer. The high-priced anchor didn’t care about Timmy or Danny or Matthew. Dear God, how close had she come to being just like Darcy McManus?

Christine made her way backstage, carefully avoiding and stepping over all the cables and cords. As soon as she was out of the bright lights, her body felt a rush of cool air. She could breathe again. She marched down the narrow hallway, dodging stagehands and finding her way past the dressing rooms, past the restrooms and, finally, escaping out the gray metal door marked Exit.

“A
m I under arrest?” Ray Howard wanted to know while fidgeting in the hard-backed chair.

Maggie stared at him. His pasty complexion made his eyes bulge out—eyes a dull, watery gray with red veins telegraphing his exhaustion. She rubbed her own exhaustion from the back of her neck. A tight knot pinched the muscles between her shoulders. She tried to remember when she had slept last.

The small conference room hummed with the percolating of fresh coffee, filling the room with its aroma. A stream of orange sunset seeped in through the dusted blinds. She and Nick had been here for hours, asking the same questions and getting the same answers. Even though she’d insisted they bring Howard in for questioning, she still believed he wasn’t the killer. Nothing had changed, but she hoped he might know something, anything, and break under pressure. Nick, however, persisted, convinced Howard was their man.

“No, Ray. You’re not under arrest,” Nick finally answered.

“You can only hold me here for a certain number of hours.”

“And how do you know that, Ray?”

“Hey, I watch
Homicide
and
NYPD Blue.
I know my rights. And I have a friend who’s a cop.”

“Really? You have a friend?”

“Nick,” Maggie cautioned.

Nick rolled his eyes and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt. She noticed his clenched fists, his impatience boiling close to the surface.

“Ray, would you like some of this fresh coffee?” she asked politely. The well-dressed janitor hesitated, then nodded.

“I use cream and two teaspoons of sugar. Real cream. If you have it. And I prefer not using those little sugar cubes.”

“How about something to eat. I know we kept you over lunch, and it’s almost dinnertime. Nick, perhaps you could order all of us something from Wanda’s.”

Nick scowled at her from across the room, but Howard sat up, delighted.

“I love Wanda’s chicken-fried steak.”

“Great. Nick, would you please order Mr. Howard a chicken-fried steak?”

“With mashed potatoes and brown gravy, not the white. And I like creamy Italian dressing for my salad. But on the side.”

“Anything else?” Nick didn’t bother to hide his impatience or his sarcasm. Howard shrunk back into the chair.

“No, nothing else.”

“And what for you, Agent O’Dell?” He shot her a look of contempt clouded with frustration.

“A ham and cheese sandwich. I believe you know how I like it.” She smiled at him, pleased when his dark bristled jaw relaxed and his eyes softened.

“Yes, I do.” It was obvious the memory immediately replaced the sarcasm and frustration. “I’ll be right back.”

She set a steaming mug of coffee in front of Howard, then paced the length of the room, waiting for him to relax. She flipped on the overhead lights. The fluorescents flooded the room, making him blink. He reminded her of a lizard with slow deliberate blinks while he tested the hot coffee with a long pointed tongue. He was listening to the noises of the sheriff’s department. Though the walls muffled the activity, it was easy to hear footsteps scurrying, phones ringing and an occasional voice raised above the hum.

Just when she knew he had forgotten her presence, she stood behind him and said, “You know where Timmy Hamilton is, don’t you, Ray?”

He stopped slurping. His back straightened, ready to defend himself again.

“No, I don’t. And I don’t know how that phone got in my drawer. I’ve never seen it before.”

She came around the table and sat down directly across from him. The blinking lizard eyes tried to avoid hers and finally settled on her chin. There was a glance to her breasts. Quickly he looked back up, but not quick enough to stop the red from crawling up his otherwise white neck.

“Sheriff Morrelli thinks you killed Danny Alverez and Matthew Tanner.”

“I didn’t kill nobody,” he blurted.

“See, I believe you, Ray.”

He looked surprised and checked her eyes to see if it was a trick. “You do?”

“I don’t think you killed those boys.”

“Good, 'cause I didn’t.”

“But I think you know more than you’re telling us. I think you know where Timmy is.”

He didn’t protest, but his eyes darted around the room—the lizard looking for an escape. He held the hot mug with both hands, and Maggie noticed the short, stubby fingers with chewed-off nails, some down to the quick. They certainly didn’t look like the hands of a man obsessed with cleanliness.

“If you tell us, we can help you, Ray. But if we find out you knew and didn’t tell us, well, you could end up going to jail for a long time, even if you didn’t kill those boys.”

His head cocked to one side. He was listening again to the activity on the other side of the door, perhaps listening for Nick’s return or maybe for someone to rescue him.

“Where’s Timmy, Ray?”

He brought a hand in front of his face, inspected the fingers then began biting and peeling what was left of his fingernails.

“Ray?”

“I don’t know where any kid is!” he yelled, holding the anger behind clenched, yellow teeth. “And just because I drive the pickup sometimes to cut wood doesn’t mean nothing.”

Maggie dragged her fingers through her hair. The lack of sleep and food made her light-headed. Had they just wasted an afternoon? Keller could easily have hidden the cellular phone in Howard’s room. Yet, Maggie couldn’t imagine anything happening at the rectory without Howard making it his business to know.

“Where do you go to cut wood, Ray?”

He stared at her, still sucking on his fingertips. He was trying to figure out why she wanted to know.

“I’ve seen the fireplace in the rectory,” she continued. “It looks like it would take a ton of wood over the winter, especially starting this early.”

“Yeah, it does. And Father Francis likes…” He stopped and looked down at the floor. “God rest his soul,” he muttered to his feet, then looked up again. “He liked it really warm in that room.”

“So where do you go?”

“Out by the river. The church still owns a piece of property. Out where the old St. Margaret’s is. It was a beautiful little church. It’s falling apart now. I get lots of dried-out elm and walnut. Some oak. There’s tons of river maples. The walnut burns the best.” He stopped and stared out the window.

Maggie followed his empty gaze. The sun sank behind the snow-covered horizon, blood-red against the white. Cutting wood had reminded him of something, but what?

Yes, Ray Howard knew much more than he was letting on, and neither the threat of jail nor the promise of Wanda’s chicken-fried steak would get him to talk. They were going to have to let him go.