Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (24 page)

C
onfronting him with the information about the staged murder scenes and the religious symbolism used in the attacks, Annabelle was able to persuade Tuxedo Park police chief Clay Vitalli to appear exclusively on
KEY to America
Monday morning. She suggested that KEY News send out a transmission truck and do the interview in Tuxedo Park, but Vitalli refused. He would come to the broadcast center in New York City.

Linus Nazareth himself went over all the questions Annabelle had prepared in advance. A video package, narrated by Eliza Blake and scheduled to run in
KTA’
s first half hour, would lead to the live interview with Vitalli.

Annabelle was called when Vitalli arrived. She went to meet him in the lobby and escort him to the
KTA
studio. As they walked to the elevator, Annabelle informed him of the plan.

“We have time to stop in hair and makeup,” she said.

“If you haven’t noticed, I have a crew cut,” Chief Vitalli said gruffly. “And I don’t want any makeup.”

A battery pack was clipped to Vitalli’s belt, and the wire, running to the microphone attached to his lapel, was hidden. He took his seat in the chair Annabelle indicated and listened while Eliza Blake, at the news desk, introduced the packaged report.

“Tuxedo Park, New York, a historic, wealthy, and exceedingly private enclave about forty miles north of Manhattan, has had more attention in the last week than it perhaps has ever had, beginning with the bizarre suicide of Innis Wheelock, husband of Valentina Wheelock, former governor of New York and United States ambassador to Italy. Wheelock killed himself by stigmata, stabbing himself in the five places where Jesus Christ’s body was pierced at the crucifixion. Two murders have followed, and on Saturday night fellow KEY News correspondent Mack McBride and I were forced off the road in Tuxedo Park, our car sent tumbling down a steep hill. Mack was seriously injured but is in stable condition.”

Vitalli watched a monitor at the side of the studio as the picture switched from Eliza at the news desk to a shot of the exterior of Zack Underwood’s office. Eliza was no longer speaking live. The story and her narration were now on tape.

“Zack Underwood, the award-winning architect of the Wheelock estate’s renovation, was strangled in his office last Wednesday evening.”

The shot changed to show the front of the Patterson home as Eliza continued speaking. “Aurelia Patterson, Underwood’s assistant, was bludgeoned to death as she walked her dog on Friday night. KEY News has learned that each murder scene was manipulated, as if the killer were leaving a message or signature.”

The police chief’s jaw clenched as he saw the surreptitiously obtained video. Next, on the screen, pretaped video appeared of Eliza in front of a blown-up aerial map of Tuxedo Park and the area immediately surrounding it. As she talked, she indicated the places where the murders had occurred.

“In the Underwood case, the body was positioned in a chair and the dead man’s hand wrapped around a long reed. Mrs. Patterson was found with a pair of dice clasped in her hand.”

Now Eliza pointed to the spot on the map where her Volvo had been forced off the road.

“When our car left the road here, it tumbled down the hillside and came to rest at the bottom, near the lake. With no cell-phone service, I had to leave Mack alone while I went for help. As I got up to the road, the vehicle that had rammed us returned. I kept out of sight of the attacker, whom I did not see. I did hear a metallic sound, but I wasn’t able to identify it. Then the attacker drove away, and I ran to summon help.”

Pictures of the badly damaged Volvo appeared on the monitor.

“In the investigation at the crash site, police officers found quarters strewn on the car’s roof and scattered on the ground around the car. Altogether, thirty quarters were counted.”

Finally a graphic appeared, showing illustrations Annabelle had found on a religious site on the Internet to illustrate the story. The first third of the screen showed an image of Jesus Christ scourged and holding a reed in his hand while being mocked by his tormentors, the middle third showed an image of Roman soldiers gambling for Christ’s garments, and the last third showed Judas Iscariot and his change purse filled with thirty pieces of silver.

Clay Vitalli observed the graphic while Eliza left the news desk and took her place in the chair across from his. He looked angry now as the last lines of narration were heard.

“The manner of each of the attacks has a clear association with the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus Christ. While Innis Wheelock’s death was suicide by stigmata, Tuxedo Park is being brought to its knees by someone inflicting violence and death of a grotesquely blasphemous sort.”

The taped piece ended. A two-shot of Eliza and Clay appeared on the screen.

“Clay Vitalli, chief of the Tuxedo Park Police Department, is with us this morning,” said Eliza. “Thank you for coming in, Chief.”

Clay nodded curtly.

“What is the latest news on the investigations, Chief Vitalli?” she asked.

“I really must say, I think the story you just showed was an irresponsible piece of work,” said Clay.

“Really?” asked Eliza. “In what way?”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your information. Those details were not released by our department.”

“Are you saying they aren’t true?” she asked.

“I’m saying that you have no right scaring the public, in particular the residents of Tuxedo Park, without official corroboration.”

“There are other channels of information, Chief Vitalli,” said Eliza. “And in fact we did get some of the information from one of your own officers.”

Clay’s eyebrows rose. “Name him,” he said.

“You know I’m not going to do that, Chief,” Eliza admonished. “But let’s move on, if we can. Do you have any suspects yet?”

“I really can’t say. It could jeopardize the investigation.”

“Well, what do you make of this seeming connection between Innis Wheelock’s suicide and the manner in which these crimes are being committed?”

“It’s too soon to know—if there even
is
a connection,” said Clay.

“Come now,” said Eliza. “This can’t be a coincidence.”

“Look,” said Clay, “I’m not even confirming that everything in your report is true.”

Eliza looked down at her notes. “At your news conference yesterday, you said you had no plans to call for help from other investigative officials. Do you think that’s wise, Chief?”

“I feel confident that our police department can handle what’s going on.”

“Two murders in less than a week and what was certainly a murder attempt on Mack McBride and me would seem to be too much for such a small police force,” said Eliza. “Why not call in help from outside?”

“Because we don’t need it,” said Clay as he reached for his microphone. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to get back to.”

E
ver since the maintenance man retired some four years earlier, seventy-two-year-old Mary Meehan had volunteered to open the church for the morning weekday Mass. Driving into the empty Mount Carmel parking lot, she chose the space closest to the sacristy.

As she walked the few steps from her car to the sacristy door, Mary realized that she practically lived in the church these days. It had been only twelve hours since she’d finished praying the rosary. She loved everything she did at her beloved Mount Carmel, and she felt especially privileged to open the church each morning.

There was no need to rush, as she had a full hour to fill the cruets with water and wine, select the chalice and fresh linens, move the ribbons in the sacred books, and set out the celebrant’s alb, chasuble, and stole before Father Gehry would come shuffling in to vest. He always said, “Thank you, Mary,” just before he rang the bell to signal the start of Mass, and Mary couldn’t imagine a nicer start to the day.

The liturgical calendar indicated that it was a simple Monday in Ordinary Time, but the civil calendar marked today as Columbus Day. Mary wondered what that would mean: Would there be more people at the eight
A.M
. Mass or fewer? She counted out twenty Communion wafers and placed them on the paten, along with the priest’s host, hoping there wouldn’t be an unexpected crowd.

Mary walked to the light panel on the sacristy wall and flipped the “Daily Mass” switches, illuminating the nave, side aisles, and sanctuary with “just enough” light, as Father Gehry always said—not too much and not too little, but “just enough” for all the worshippers to see what they needed to see, walk where they needed to walk, and read what they needed to read.

She had to get to the front doors of the church and unlock them for her fellow parishioners. Walking down the side aisle, she stopped at the first candle stand. She wanted to light one for her husband, who had gone to God over ten years earlier. Though she was certain that George would ultimately make it to heaven, she thought the candle each day, and the prayer she said when lighting it, was a good insurance policy.

Aware of a fragrance she hadn’t noticed last night, Mary made the sign of the cross as she finished her prayer, and as she turned around, her gaze fell upon the pew in front of her.

The church keys jangled obscenely as they fell to the floor, and, frozen where she stood, Mary let out a tiny scream when she saw Father Gehry’s body.

W
ith minutes to go before the broadcast concluded, the story crossed the AP wire. Father Michael Gehry had been killed.

Eliza could hear the voice of Linus Nazareth in her earpiece, reciting the basic information in the wire story and instructing her to ad-lib.

“We’ve just received word that the priest who presided over a Catholic church in Tuxedo, New York, has been murdered. Father Michael Gehry’s body was found this morning by a female parishioner of Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church. Father Gehry, the priest who presided at Innis Wheelock’s funeral Mass last Wednesday, had been stabbed.

“This makes the third murder in the Tuxedo Park area in the last week. Of course, we’ll be following this story. More news tonight on the
KEY Evening Headlines
and, tomorrow morning, here on
KTA.
”

As soon as the stage manager signaled they were off the air, Eliza quickly got up from the news desk.

“I want to go out there with Annabelle and B.J.,” she told Linus as he emerged from the control room.

“Great,” said Linus. “And I’m going to spring for a helicopter to get aerials. We’ll get a bird’s-eye view of that walled-in utopia coming apart at the seams.”

V
alentina knocked softly on the door of her son’s room. Hearing no response from within, she knocked harder.

“Rusty,” she called. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

A low groan came from behind the door. “It’s Columbus Day, and I don’t have classes. Let me sleep.”

She turned the doorknob anyway and entered the darkened room.

“Rusty, the most terrible thing has happened,” said Valentina as she walked to the side of the bed.

Russell’s eyes snapped open, and he felt his body tense. “Listen, Mother, don’t pay attention to anything Clay Vitalli tells you,” he said. “I can explain.”

“Explain what?” asked Valentina. “I’m not talking about Clay.”

He breathed out with relief.

“I’m talking about Father Gehry, Rusty. He’s been murdered.”

Wearing a T-shirt stretched over his muscular frame, Russell sat upright. “What?”

“I just heard it on the news. Father Gehry was stabbed to death. His body was found in the church this morning.”

“My God,” said Russell. “That’s awful.” He got out of the bed, drew back the curtains, and opened the window.

“It feels like everyone attached to us is doomed,” said Valentina.

“Hold on a minute, Mother,” Russell said as he turned from the window. “This is a terrible thing, but don’t be melodramatic.”

“The very priest who just said your father’s funeral Mass, the architect and his assistant who worked on this house,” said Valentina. “They’re all linked to us in some way. And I still have a feeling that Eunice’s death was no accident. We’re all living in some kind of nightmare.”

“Stop it, Mother,” he said, walking toward her. “Father Gehry knew hundreds of people around here. So did Zack Underwood and Aurelia Patterson. We’re not the only people they were connected to.” Russell put both his hands on his mother’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “I tell you what. Let’s go down and have some breakfast.”

As Russell pulled on his robe, Valentina leaned forward to get a closer look at his face.

“What are those scratches?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re nothing,” Russell said dismissively.

“How did you get them?”

“Playing basketball the other night.”

“Really?” asked Valentina. “Tell me the truth. Did you get in trouble with another girl?”

“Nothing happened, Mother.”

She studied her son, wondering if she should push it further with him but not having the energy or heart to do so. That had been Innis’s department. With Russell’s father gone, she supposed she should step up, but not now.

“All right,” she said finally. “Let’s go have breakfast. When we’re finished, I have to run over to the travel agency and pick up some documents.”

“Good,” said Russell. “And I’ll be able to go back to bed.”