Sacred Sins (20 page)

“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.”

“I think so. Masses run Saturday evening too.”

“I thought that was our province,” Lowenstein commented.

“Catholics are flexible.” Ben dipped his hands in his pockets. “And they like to sleep late on Sunday like everybody else. The thing is, I'm betting this guy is a traditionalist. Sunday morning is for mass, the mass should still be said in Latin, and you don't eat meat on Friday. Church rules. I think Court's got something when she says the guy's obsessed with Church rules.”

“So we cover the two churches on Sunday. In the meantime, we've got a couple of days to interview priests.” Harris looked at each of his detectives. “Lowenstein, you and Roderick take one parish,
Jackson and Paris the other. Bigsby will—where the hell is Bigsby?”

“He said he had a lead on the amices, Captain.” Roderick rose and poured a cup of ice water, knowing there was too much coffee in his system already. “Look, I don't want to throw a wrench in the works, but suppose he does show up during one of the masses on Sunday. What makes any of us think we can pick him out of the congregation? The guy isn't a freak, he isn't going to come in speaking in tongues or frothing at the mouth. Dr. Court points out that he's just like anyone else except for the fact that he's troubled.”

“It's all we've got,” Ben stated, annoyed at having his own doubts stated by someone else. “We've got to go with whatever advantage we have; at the moment it's location. We check out the men who come alone. Court also thinks he's a loner, so he's not going to come in with the wife and kids. Logan takes it one step further and sees him as devout. A lot of people come to mass and nod off or at least space out. He wouldn't do either.”

“Spending the day in church gives us the opportunity to try something else.” Ed finished a note then looked up. “Pray.”

“It couldn't hurt,” Lowenstein said under her breath as Bigsby swung into the room.

“I've got something.” He held a yellow pad in his hand, and his red and watery eyes were bulging. He'd been spending his nights with Nyquil and a hot-water bottle. “One dozen white silk amices, invoice number 52346-A, ordered on June fifteenth from O'Donnely's Religious Suppliers, Boston, Massachusetts. Delivery July thirty-first, Reverend Francis Moore. The address is a post office in Georgetown.”

“How'd he pay for it?” Harris's voice was calm as he worked through the next steps.

“Money order.”

“Track it down. I want a copy of the invoice.”

“It's on its way.”

“Lowenstein, get to the post office.” He checked his watch and nearly swore in frustration. “Be there when it opens in the morning. Find out if he still has the box. Get a description.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to know if there's a priest in the city whose name is Francis Moore.”

“There'd be a list of all the priests in the Archdiocese. We should be able to get it from their main office.”

Harris nodded at Ben. “Check it out. Then check out the rest of the Francis Moores.”

He couldn't argue with basic police work, but Ben's instincts told him to concentrate on the area of the murders. He was there. Ben was sure of it. And now maybe they had his name.

Back in the squad room the detectives hit the phones.

An hour later Ben hung up and looked at Ed over the rubble on top of his desk. “We got one Father Francis Moore in the Archdiocese. Been here two-and-a-half years. He's thirty-seven.”

“And?”

“He's black.” Ben reached for his cigarettes and found the pack empty. “We check him out anyway. What have you got?”

“I've got seven.” Ed looked down at his neatly detailed list. Someone sneezed behind him and he winced. The flu was going through the station like brushfire. “A high school teacher, a lawyer, a clerk at Sears, a currently unemployed, a bartender, a flight attendant, and a maintenance worker. He's an ex-con. Attempted rape.”

Ben checked his watch. He'd been on duty just over ten hours. “Let's go.”

T
HE
rectory made him uncomfortable. The scent of fresh flowers competed with the scent of polished wood. They waited in a parlor with an old, comfortable sofa, two wing chairs, and a statue of a blue-robed Jesus with one hand raised in benediction. There were two copies of
Catholic Digest
on the coffee table.

“Makes me feel like I should've polished my shoes,” Ed murmured.

Both men were conscious of the guns under their jackets, and didn't sit. From somewhere down the hall a door opened long enough to let out a few strains of Strauss. The door closed again and the waltz was replaced by footsteps. The detectives looked over as Reverend Francis Moore walked in.

He was tall and built like a fullback. His skin was the color of glossy mahogany and his hair was clipped close around a round face. Against the black of his priest's robe was a white sling. His right arm was in a plaster cast riddled with signatures.

“Good evening.” He smiled, apparently more curious than pleased to have visitors. “I apologize for not shaking hands.”

“Looks like you've had some trouble.” Ed could almost feel his partner's disappointment. Even if Gil Norton had been off on the description, there was no getting around that cast.

“Football a couple of weeks ago. I should have known better. Won't you sit down?”

“We need to ask you a few questions, Father.” Ben drew out his badge. “About the strangulation of four women.”

“The serial killings.” Moore bowed his head a moment, as if in prayer. “What can I do?”

“Did you place an order with O'Donnely's Religious Supplies in Boston last summer?”

“Boston?” Moore's free hand toyed with the rosary at his belt. “No. Father Jessup is in charge of supplies. He orders what we need from a firm here in Washington.”

“Do you keep a post office box, Father?”

“Why, no. All our mail is delivered to the rectory. Excuse me, Detective…”

“Paris.”

“Detective Paris. What is this all about?”

Ben hesitated a moment, then decided to push whatever buttons were available. “Your name was used to order the murder weapons.”

He saw the fingers on the rosary tighten. Moore's mouth opened then closed. He reached out and gripped the left wing of a chair. “I—you suspect me?”

“There's a possibility you know or have been in contact with the murderer.”

“I can't believe it.”

“Why don't you sit down, Father?” Ed touched him gently on the shoulder and eased him into the chair.

“My name,” Moore murmured. “It's hard to take it in.” Then he laughed shakily. “The name was given to me in a Catholic orphanage in Virginia. It's not even the one I was born with. I can't tell you that one because I don't know it.”

“Father Moore, you're not a suspect,” Ben told him. “We have a witness who says the murderer is white, and you've got your arm in a cast.”

Moore wriggled his dark fingers, which disappeared into plaster. “A couple of lucky breaks. Sorry.” He drew a breath and tried to pull himself together. “I'll be honest with you, these murders have more than once been a topic of conversation here. The press calls him a priest.”

“The police have yet to determine that,” Ed put in.

“In any case, we've all searched our souls and strained our minds trying to find some answers. I wish we had some.”

“Are you close to your parishioners, Father?”

Moore turned to Ben again. “I wish I could say yes. There are some, of course. We have a church supper once a month, then there's the youth group. Right now we're planning a Thanksgiving dance for the Teen Club. I'm afraid we don't pack them in.”

“Is there anyone who concerns you, someone you might consider emotionally unstable?”

“Detective, I'm in the business of comforting the troubled. We've had some drug and alcohol abuse, and an unfortunate case of wife beating a few months ago. Still, there's no one I would even consider capable of these murders.”

“Your name might have been pulled out of a hat, or it might have been used because the killer identified with you, as a priest.” Ben paused, knowing he was stepping onto the hard-packed unmovable ground of the sanctified. “Father, has anyone come to you in the confessional and indicated in any way that he knew something about the murders?”

“Again I can be honest and say no. Detective, are you certain it was my name?”

Ed took out his notepad and read from it. “Reverend Francis Moore.”

“Not Francis X. Moore?”

“No.”

Moore passed his hand over his eyes. “I hope relief isn't a sin. When I was given my name and was old enough to learn to write it, I always used the
X
for Xavier. I thought having a middle name that began with
X
was exotic and unique. I never got out of the habit. Detectives, every piece of identification I have uses my middle initial. Everything I sign includes it. Everyone who knows me, knows me as Reverend Francis X. Moore.”

Ed noted it down. If he'd gone with instinct, he would have said good night and gone on to the next
address on the list. Procedure was more demanding and infinitely more boring than instinct. They interviewed the three other priests in the rectory.

“Well, it only took us an hour to come up with nothing,” Ben commented as they walked back to the car.

“We gave those guys something to talk about tonight.”

“We put in yet another hour of overtime this week. Accounting's going to hit the roof.”