Darkness, Take My Hand (22 page)

“His secretary said he was staying at the Marriott.”

“There’s a
but
here. I can feel it.”

Erdham nodded. “He never checked in there.”

“Four agents,” Bolton said. “I want
four
agents on the next plane to Cancun. And bring his secretary in, too.”

“Yes, sir.” Erdham picked up a phone as the RV turned on to the expressway.

“They’ve all gone for cover, haven’t they?” I said.

Bolton sighed. “It appears so. Jack Rouse and Kevin Hurlihy can’t be found. Diedre Rider hasn’t been seen since her daughter’s funeral.”

“What about Burns and Climstich?” Angie said.

“Both deceased. Paul Burns was a baker who stuck his head in one of his own ovens back in seventy-seven. Climstich died of a coronary in eighty-three. Neither left descendants.” He dropped the photo into his lap and stared at it. “You look just like your father, Mr. Kenzie.”

“I know,” I said.

“You said he was a bully. Was that all?”

“How do you mean?”

“I need to know what the man was capable of.”

“He was capable of anything, Agent Bolton.”

Bolton nodded, leafed through his file. “Emma Hurlihy was committed to the Della Vorstin Home in seventy-five. Before that, there was no record of metal illness in her family, nor did she evidence any disturbing behavior until late seventy-four. Diedre Rider’s first arrest for drunk and disorderly occurred in February of seventy-five. After that, she was getting picked up by police on regular basis. Jack Rouse went from being a slightly corrupt corner-store owner to the head of the Irish Mafia in five years. Reports I obtained from the Organized Crime Bureau as well as BPD’s Major Crime Unit say that Rouse’s rise to power was allegedly the bloodiest in the history of the Irish Mafia here. He attained power by killing anyone who got in his way. How did this happen? How did an extremely low-level bookie get the stones to become a made man overnight?”

He looked at us and we shook our heads.

He turned another page in the file. “District Attorney Stanley Timpson, now here’s an interesting guy. Graduated near the bottom of his class at Harvard. Reached only the middle of his law school class at Suffolk. Failed his bar twice before he finally passed. The only reason he got in the DA’s office at all was because of Diandra Warren’s father’s connections, and his early performance evaluations were low. Then, starting in seventy-five, he turns into a
tiger. He earns a reputation, in night court mind you, for refusing to cut deals. He graduates to superior court, more of the same. People begin to fear him, and the DA’s office starts throwing him felony work, and his star continues rising. By eighty-four he is considered the most feared prosecutor in New England. Again, how did this happen?”

The RV swung off the expressway in my neighborhood and headed for St. Bart’s Church, where Bolton was holding his morning debriefing.

“Your father, Mr. Kenzie, runs for city council in seventy-eight. The only thing he seems to do while in office is aquire a reputation for ruthlessness and power-craving which would have made Lyndon Johnson blush. He is, by all accounts, a negligible public servant, but a ferocious politician. Again, we have an obscure person—a fire fighter, for Christ’s sake—who rises far beyond any normal expectations one would hold for him.”

“What about Climstich?” Angie said. “Burns killed himself, but did Climstich show signs of a transformation?”

“Mr. Climstich became something of a hermit. His wife left him in the fall of seventy-five. Divorce affidavits attest that Mrs. Climstich cited irreconcilable diffeRenees after twenty-eight years of marriage. She stated that her husband had become withdrawn, morbid, and addicted to pornography. She further stated that said pornography was particularly vile in nature and that Mr. Climstich seemed obsessed with bestiality.”

“Where are you going with all this, Agent Bolton?” Angie asked.

“I’m saying something very strange happened to these people. They either became successful—rose beyond any reasonable expectation of their stations in life, or”—he ran his index finger over Emma Hurlihy and Paul Burns—“their lives fell apart and they imploded.” He looked at Angie as if she held the answer. “Something altered these people, Ms. Gennaro. Something transformed them.”

The RV pulled up behind the church and Angie looked down at the photograph and said it again:

“What did these people do?”

“I don’t know,” Bolton said and shot a wry smile my way. “But as Alec Hardiman would say, it definitely had impact.”

Angie and I
walked to a donut shop on Boston Street with Devin and Oscar following at a discreet distance.

We were both well beyond tired and the air danced with transparent bubbles which popped before my eyes.

We barely spoke as we sipped our coffee by the window and stared out at the gray morning. All the pieces seemed to be falling together in our puzzle, but somehow, the puzzle itself still refused to take on a recognizable image.

EEPA, I had to assume, had had some sort of encounter with either Hardiman, Rugglestone, or potentially, the third mystery killer. But what kind of encounter? Did they see something that Hardiman or the mystery killer believed compromised them? If so, what could that have been? And why not just knock off the original members of the EEPA back in the mid-seventies? Why wait twenty years to go after their descendants, or the loved ones of their descendants?

“You look beat, Patrick.”

I gave her a weary smile. “You too.”

She sipped her coffee. “After this debriefing, let’s go home to bed.”

“That didn’t sound right.”

She chuckled. “No, it didn’t. You know what I mean.”

I nodded. “Still trying to get me in the sack after all these years.”

“You wish, slick.”

“Back in seventy-four,” I said, “what possible reasons could a man have for wearing makeup?”

“You’re stuck on this point, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know, Patrick. Maybe they were very vain men. Maybe they were covering up crow’s feet.”

“With white Pan-Cake?”

“Maybe they were mimes. Or clowns. Or goth freaks.”

“Or KISS fans,” I said.

“That, too.” She hummed a bar of “Beth.”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“The connection’s there,” I said. “I can feel it.”

“You mean to the makeup?”

“Yes,” I said. “And the connection between Hardiman and EEPA. I’m certain. It’s staring us in the face and we’re too tired to see it.”

She shrugged. “Let’s go see what Bolton has to say at his debriefing. Maybe that’ll make sense of everything.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t be a pessimist,” she said.

Half Bolton’s men were working this neighborhood for information, others were staking out Angie’s place, Phil’s apartment, and mine, too, so Bolton had gotten permission from Father Drummond to gather in the church.

As it usually did in the mornings, the church bore the burnt aroma of incense and candle wax from the seven o’clock mass, a stronger scent of pine solvent and oil soap in the pews, and the sad smell of wilting chrysanthemums. Mottled dust spun in the pewter shafts of light that slanted through the east windows over the altar and disappeared in the middle rows of pews. A church, on a cold fall morning, with its smoky browns and reds, its whiskey-hued air and multicolored stained glass just warming to a frigid sun, always feels as the founders of Catholicism probably intended—like a place cleansed and purified of earthly imperfection, a place meant to hear only whispers and the rustling hush of fabric against a bending knee.

Bolton sat on the altar in the gilded red priest’s celebrant chair. He’d moved it forward a bit to prop his feet on the chancel rail while agents and several cops sat in the front
four pews, most holding pens, paper, or tape recorders at the ready.

“Glad you could make it,” Bolton said.

“Don’t do that,” Angie said, glancing at his shoes.

“What?”

“Sit on the altar in the priest’s chair with your feet on the rail.”

“Why not?”

“Some people would find it offensive.”

“Not me.” He shrugged. “I’m not Catholic.”

“I am,” she said.

He watched her to see if she was joking, but she stared back so calmly and firmly that he knew she wasn’t.

He sighed and got out of the chair, placed it back where it belonged. As we headed back for the pews, he crossed the altar and climbed into the raised pulpit.

“Better?” he called.

She shrugged, as Devin and Oscar took their places in the pew ahead of us. “It’ll do.”

“So glad I’m no longer offending your delicate sensibilities, Ms. Gennaro.”

She rolled her eyes at me as we took seats in the fifth pew and I once again felt an odd flush of admiration for my partner’s faith in a religion I had long ago abandoned. She doesn’t advertise it or announce it at every turn, and she has nothing but scorn for the patriarchal hierarchy that runs the church, but she nevertheless holds firm to a belief in the religion and ritual with a quiet intensity that can’t be shaken.

Bolton was quickly taking a liking to the pulpit. His thick hands caressed the Latin words and Roman art carved ornately in its sides and his nostrils flared slightly as he looked down on his audience.

“The previous night’s developments include the following: One, a search of Evandro Arujo’s apartment yielded photographs discovered under a floorboard below a steel radiator. Sightings of men fitting Arujo’s description have tripled since seven o’clock this morning, when the daily papers carried two photographs of him—one with goatee, one without. Most sightings seem baseless. However, five
alleged sightings have occurred in the lower South Shore and two more recent sightings in Cape Cod, around Bourne. I have deployed agents who searched the upper South Shore last night to head for the lower edges and the Cape and Islands. Roadblocks have been installed along both sides of Routes 6, 28, and 3, as well as I-495. Two sightings put Arujo in a black Nissan Sentra, but again, the validity of any of these sightings is always suspect in the wake of sudden public hysteria.”

“The Jeep?” an agent said.

“As yet, nothing. Maybe he’s still in it, maybe he ditched it. A red Cherokee was stolen from the parking lot of the Bayside Expo Center yesterday morning, and we’re working under the assumption that this is the car Evandro was spotted in yesterday. License plate number is 299-ZSR. Wollaston police got a partial plate number yesterday off the Jeep they chased, which matches.”

“You mentioned photographs,” Angie said.

Bolton nodded. “Several photographs of Kara Rider, Jason Warren, Stimovich, and Stokes. These photos are similar to the ones sent to the victims’ loved ones. Arujo is, beyond any doubt now, the prime suspect in these killings. Other photos found are of unknown people who we must assume are intended victims. The good thing, ladies and gentlemen, is that we may be able to predict where he’ll strike next.”

Bolton coughed into his hand. “Forensic evidence,” he said, “has now unequivocally determined that there are two killers involved in the four deaths of this investigation. Bruises on Jason Warren’s wrists confirm he was held by one person while another sliced his face and chest with a straight razor. Kara Rider’s head was gripped tightly by two hands while two other hands shoved an ice pick into her larynx. Wounds to Peter Stimovich and Pamela Stokes confirm the presence of two killers.”

“Any idea where they were killed?” Oscar said.

“Not at this time, no. Jason Warren was killed in the South Boston warehouse. The rest were killed somewhere else. For whatever reason, the killers felt a need to kill Warren quickly.” He shrugged. “We have no idea why.
The other three had only minimal amounts of hydroclorophyl in their systems, which suggests they were only unconscious while the killers transported them to the site where they were killed.”

Devin said, “Stimovich was tortured for at least an hour, Stokes for twice that. They made a lot of noise.”

Bolton nodded. “We’re looking for an isolated murder site.”

“Which leaves how many sites?” Angie said.

“Countless. Tenements, abandoned buildings, environmentally protected wetlands, a half dozen small islands off the coast, closed prisons, hospitals, warehouses, you name it. If one of these killers has been lying dormant for two decades, we can assume he’s planned everything in detail. He could have easily outfitted his home with a soundproof basement or suite of rooms.”

“Has there been any further proof to suggest the killer who’s been lying dormant may have been killing children?”

“No definitive proof,” Bolton said. “But of the one thousand one hundred and sixty-two flyers you received, covering over ten years, two hundred eighty-seven children are confirmed dead. Two hundred eleven of those cases officially unsolved.”

“How many in New England?” an agent said.

“Fifty-six,” Bolton said quietly. “Forty-nine unsolved.”

“Percentage-wise,” Oscar said, “that’s an awfully high number.”

“Yes,” Bolton said wearily, “it is.”

“How many died in ways similar to the current victims?”

“In Massachusetts,” Bolton said, “none, although there were several stabbing victims, several with hand perforations, so we’re still studying those. We have two cases of violence so extreme it could bear match-up with the current victims.”

“Where?”

“One in Lubbock, Texas, in eighty-six. One outside of Miami, in unincorporated Dade County, in ninety-one.”

“Amputation?”

“Affirmative.”

“Body parts missing?”

“Again, affirmative.”

“How old were the kids?”

“Lubbock was fourteen and male. The one in unincorporated Dade was sixteen and female.” He cleared his throat and patted his chest pockets for his inhaler, but didn’t find it. “Further, as you were all apprised last night, Mr. Kenzie provided us with a possible connection between the murders of seventy-four and those of the present day. Gentlemen, it looks like our killers have an ax to grind with children of EEPA members, but we haven’t, as yet, connected the group to Alec Hardiman or Evandro Arujo. We don’t know why, but we must assume the connection is primary.”

“What about Stimovich and Stokes?” an agent asked. “Where’s their connection?”

“We believe there is none. We believe they are two of the ‘guiltless’ victims the killer spoke of in his letter.”

“What letter?” Angie said.

Bolton looked down at us. “The one found in your apartment, Mr. Kenzie. Under Stimovich’s eyes.”

“The one you wouldn’t let me read.”

He nodded, glanced down at his notes, adjusted his glasses. “During a search of Jason Warren’s dormitory room, a diary belonging to Mr. Warren was discovered in a locked desk drawer. Copies will be provided to agents upon request, but for the moment, I read from an entry dated October 17, the date Mr. Kenzie and Ms. Gennaro observed Warren with Arujo.” He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable assuming a voice that wasn’t his own. “’E. was in town again. For a little over an hour. He has no idea of his power, has no idea how attractive his fear of self is. He wants to make love to me, but he can’t completely face his own bisexuality yet. I understand, I told him. It took me forever. Freedom is painful. He touched me for the first time, and then he left. Back to New York. And his wife. But I’ll see him again. I know it. I’m drawing him in.”

Bolton was actually blushing when he finished.

“Evandro’s the lure,” I said.

“Apparently,” Bolton said. “Arujo leads them in and his mystery partner snares them. All accounts of Arujo—from fellow prisoners to other entries in this diary to Kara Rider’s roommate to people in the bar the night he picked up Pamela Stokes—mention the same thing over and over: The man possesses a powerful sexuality. If he’s smart enough—and I know he is—to erect hurdles around it for prospective victims to jump, then they ultimately agree to his terms of secrecy and meetings in out-of-the-way places. Hence, the alleged wife he told Jason Warren about. God only knows what he told the others, but I think he sucked them in by pretending to be sucked in by them.”

“A male Helen of Troy,” Devin said.

“Harry of Troy,” Oscar said and a few agents chuckled.

“Further investigation of crime scene evidence has yielded the following: One—both killers weigh between one hundred sixty and one hundred eighty pounds. Two—since Evandro Arujo’s shoe size is a match for the size nine and a half we found at the Rider murder scene, his partner is the one with the size eight. Three—the second killer has brown hair and is quite strong. Stimovich was an extremely powerful man and someone subdued him before administering toxins; Arujo is not particularly powerful, so we must assume that the partner is.

“Fourth—reinterviewing of all who had tangential contact with these victims had yielded the following: All but Professor Eric Gault and Gerald Glynn have airtight alibis for all four murders. Both Gault and Glynn are currently being interrogated at JFK and Gault has failed a polygraph. Both men are strong, and both are small enough to wear a size eight shoe, though both claim to wear size nines. Any questions?”

“Are they suspects?” I said.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Gault recommended me to Diandra Warren and Gerry Glynn provided me with crucial information.”

Bolton nodded. “Which only confirms our suspicion of the mystery killer’s pathology.”

“Which is?” Angie said.

“Doctor Elias Rottenheim from the Behavioral Sciences division has posited this theory concerning the mystery, dormant killer. Also refer to transcripts of this morning’s conversation with Doctor Dolquist. I’m quoting here from Doctor Rottenheim: ‘Subject conforms to all criteria prevalent among those suffering the dual affliction of narcissistic personality disorder combined with a shared psychotic disorder in which subject is the inducer or primary case.”

“English would be nice,” Devin said.

“The gist of Doctor Rottenheim’s report is that a sufferer of narcissistic personality disorder, in this case our dormant killer, is under the impression that his acts exist at a level of grandiosity. He deserves love and admiration simply for
existing
. He evidences all the hallmarks of the sociopath, is obsessed with his own sense of entitlement and believes himself to be special or even godlike. The killer who suffers the shared psychotic disorder is able to convince others that his disorder is perfectly logical and natural. Hence the word
shared
. He’s the primary case, the inducer of
others
’ delusions.”

“He’s convinced Evandro Arujo or Alec Hardiman,” Angie said, “or both, that killing is good.”