SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) (13 page)

CHAPTER 2
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– A FLIGHT OF STAIRS

It certainly was sad. There were only one or two arrangements of flowers in the room where Aunt Betsy was laid out. Three people were sitting in the first row of chairs. She looked 10 years older than I remembered. Death is not kind to the old. I said an Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be at the casket, prayers that had been pounded into my brain during 16 years of Catholic education. It came out to about $50,000 a prayer. I chatted with the other mourners briefly. They turned out to be two neighbors and her mailman. We all laughed quietly about her sugar cookies. They said that more people were sure to come that night. That made me feel a little better.

When I got outside, I called a local florist and ordered a large flower basket for Aunt Betsy. Then I called Abby at home to let her know I was back in town.

“Damn,” she said. “I just rented out your office to a chiropractor.”

“I wish you had. I’ve been scrunched in so many airplane seats my back feels like a pretzel. And my brain and my stomach are still somewhere over Ohio.”

“Well, since you already feel shitty, it won’t hurt to give you some bad news.”

“What now?”

She told me that ‘Abby and the Interns’ came up empty.

“We found a few Frosts that fit the general criteria you set, and I managed to get all of them on the phone. That in itself was a miracle. But none of them knew what the hell I was talking about. I suppose one of them could have been lying, but I’m pretty good at sniffing out liars. My no-account brothers are world class bullshitters.”

“Your brother who works for the cable company seems like a good guy. He’s helped me out.”

“Cause he knows I’d crack him one if he didn’t. He’s a typical cable guy. You’re the only one he doesn’t lie to about when he’ll show up. Speaking of showing up, will I see you Monday?”

“Hold that thought.”

I was about to get in my car when someone said, “Hey, hotshot. Stick ‘em up!”

I turned. It was Jack Casey.

“Christ, Case,” I said, “don’t do that. I’m having a bad week.”

We’d known each other since grade school. Jack didn’t look like someone who ran a small funeral home empire on Staten Island. A tough Irishman, he looked like he provided bodies to funeral homes.

“What’s up, Alt? Who are you visiting?”

I told him. 

“Nice of you to come. She doesn’t really have anyone.”

“What did she die of, Jack. Papers just said it was a fall.”

“Broke her neck.”

“In a fall?”

“Well, she tumbled down a whole flight of stairs. Probably would have killed a young man.”

I looked at him.

“What’s wrong? You all right?”

“A flight of stairs?”

“Yeah.”

“What stairs?”

“Well, when we got there they had the poor gal laid out on the floor in the living room, but the EMS people said the cleaning lady found her at the bottom of the stairs from the second floor.” He looked at me. “What difference does it make?”

“When is the funeral?”

“Monday at 10. Then burial out at Resurrection. You going?”

“No. And I don’t think she is, either.”

“What are you talking about?”

I explained.

“Shit,” he said.

“My sentiments, exactly.”

***

An hour later Cormac Levine and I were sitting in Mike Sullivan’s kitchen drinking Miller Lites. The D.A. was wearing yard-work clothes and his knees were stained with grass and dirt. And maybe cicada juice. Initially, he seemed glad to be taking a break. I never met any man who wasn’t happy to be interrupted doing yard work. Then I told him why I was there.

“We can’t let them bury her without an autopsy, Mike.”

“Give me your reasoning again.”

“An elderly person falling, per se, isn’t suspicious, although I don’t think anyone likes a relative of a murder victim dying so close to the murder. Still, the fact that everyone assumed it was a natural death is understandable. But they didn’t know what I know. The circumstances reek. She was found at the bottom of a flight of stairs she couldn’t climb. She told me that her doctors warned her against it. There was nothing upstairs she needed. Hell, I even brought down a fan for her, the last of her things she wanted. There was no banister or railing because the chair lift hasn’t been installed yet. I damn near broke my own neck coming down the stairs with the fan. The maid was there because Aunt Betsy couldn’t get up the stairs to clean. She may have died of a broken neck, but she had help.”

Sullivan looked at Cormac.

“What do you think, Mac?”

The two of them had come a long way since Mike fired Mac when he cleaned house after winning the election for District Attorney. Rehired, Detective Levine was now the office sage.

“Makes sense, Mike. I don’t know if it’s connected to the other case, but I think somebody probably offed Aunt Betsy.”

Sullivan sighed.

“I’ll call the M.E., Mac. You call Jack Casey.”

He looked at me.

“It’s never easy with you, is it? How did two nice Holy Cross boys end up in this racket?”

I’d forgotten Mike went there, a year or so ahead of me. His campaign material always emphasized his Harvard degree.

“We are just humble soldiers of God,” I said, “serving our faith through the promotion of justice.”

Holy Cross was a Jesuit school. All incoming freshman got that spiel at orientation.

“Right,” Mike said, rolling his eyes.

“I knew it,” Mac said, “I’m a Jew in a papist cabal.”

I went home. When I pulled my car around the back of my house on St. Austin’s Place in West Brighton, the lawn looked like it was alive, Hundreds, maybe thousands, of cicadas moved about, chirping their love songs. After living underground for 17 years as nymphs, they had emerged to molt, mate and die, all within a few weeks. A miracle of nature. I know some unhappily married guys who would have traded life cycles with a male cicada. The yard was also thick with birds gorging themselves on the red-eyed bugs. I’m not a birder, but I easily identified starlings, crows, sparrows, bluebirds and robins. I even spotted a seagull. The cicada buffet was risky business, at least in my yard. I spotted three small piles of feathers and bones near the deck, where Scar had apparently set up his ambushes. The killer himself was stretched out on my deck looking plumper than I’d ever seen him. Near him there was a bowl full of tuna, untouched, drawing flies.

I took out my cell phone and called Wayne Miller. I told him he didn’t have to feed Scar anymore. He was doing just fine practicing the law of the jungle. I picked up the bowl of tuna. Scar raised his head and gave me the feline equivalent of an “it’s about time you cleaned up this mess” look and then went back to sleep. I dumped the tuna in the trash and went into the kitchen and looked down the hallway to the front door. My mailman and neighbors, who are used to my frequent absences, had pushed mail and newspapers through the slot. My foyer reminded me of one of the rooms in a “hoarder” reality show.

I spent the rest of the day catching up on the mail and domestic chores.    

***

By the next morning we knew that Aunt Betsy’s broken neck wasn’t caused by a fall. The fracture wasn’t clean. Someone had twisted her head until the spinal column separated. There was also damage to her trachea that wasn’t consistent with an accident.

The police were embarrassed, but they weren’t convinced her murder was connected to her niece’s. I was, and I told Cormac that.

“Is there any way to tell if the killer was left-handed?”

“I’m way ahead of you,” he said. “I just knew this was where you are going. But the coroner says that can’t be determined. The neck break is consistent with a left-handed killer facing her, grabbing her head and twisting it to his left. But it’s also consistent with a right-handed person standing behind her and twisting the head to his right.”

“What does your gut tell you?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry. What else?”

“I think the killings are connected. But as one of the architects of the serial-killer scenario, I’m glad it’s you that has to tell half the cops in the United States that they may be chasing their tails.”

It was true. I had traipsed all across the country selling the serial killer theory to anyone who would listen. But the more I thought about it, that theory made less sense. Salazar, LeFebvre, Variale and Ronnie were as different from each other as they could be. Yes, they were all Catholic clergy, but that was the only thing they had in common. A serial killer with a gripe against, say, a priest or brother who had sexually abused them could be expected to target priests or brothers. It was hard to imagine someone who was homicidal about a nun in their past, but even that would presumably let the male clergy off the hook. I was now convinced that all four were killed because they were clergy, but not because the killer was religiously motivated.

As for Aunt Betsy, somebody thought she knew something. That meant that Ronnie was the target all along. The other clergy were probably killed to cover that fact up. Since Salazar was murdered just over a year before she was, it was likely that something happened around his murder that sealed her fate. I couldn’t imagine what it was, but the only avenue of investigation was back in Worcester. I had cut short my activities there because the serial killer scenario was so promising. And obvious, which was probably the killer’s intention all along.

I could hardly wait to tell Broderson and Huntley that I’d sent us all on a wild goose chase.

I called Abby to tell her I was going back to Massachusetts and didn’t know when I’d be back.

“You know, boss, if anyone is trying to follow you, I think you probably lost them.”

CHAPTER 21 - SQUARE ONE

“It’s not impossible,” Huntley said. “I presume people get murdered all the time in New York. It could have been a home invasion or burglary.”

It was Monday and I was back in Worcester, at square one, sitting at Broderson’s desk. Huntley had rolled over a chair.

“Staten Island isn’t really New York. We have the lowest homicide rate in the city. And New York isn’t like New York anymore. The city is down to about 500 murders a year.”

“Whoopee!”

“You mock. It was almost 2,500 not that long ago.”

“Still, they happen.”

“Nothing was taken. It was staged as an accident. The guy slipped up. He should have killed her and broken up some stuff, grabbed some jewelry or a TV. He was being cute. He didn’t know that she couldn’t fall down stairs she couldn’t climb.”

“But he didn’t use an ice pick,” Broderson noted.

“That would have connected him to the other murders. He wanted to hide that. But, like I said, he made a mistake.”

“Why the old lady?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll find out. He made a mistake.”

“If you’re right,” Huntley said, “it blows the whole serial killer thing up.”

“If it’s the same guy,” Broderson said.

“It’s the same guy,” I said. “But I still think he killed the others, too. He wanted to establish a pattern”

“I’m not following you,” Huntley said.

“I get it” Broderson said. “You think Sister Veronica was the real target, but to cover that up he killed the others so we’d all start chasing some mythical serial killer.”

“You have to be shitting me,” Huntley said. “That makes no sense. Why the cross-country killing spree? Why not just find people to kill locally.”

“Too dangerous,” I said. “You’d have connected the dots a lot quicker if a bunch of clergy started getting murdered in Worcester. Or even New England. Besides, I don’t think the killer is local. I think he started out west and for some reason worked his way east. But she was the ultimate target.”

“You’re talking about one screwed-up mother,” Huntley said. “If he exists.”

“Or a very calculating one,” Broderson mused. “Which means he has a motive we don’t see.”

“I’m not buying all this, Rhode,” Huntley said. “No offense. But the only thing you seemed to have accomplished is to rack up frequent flier miles and convince everyone that there is a deranged serial killer with a grudge against clergy. Now you say it’s not a real serial killer, only some nut case who travels around the country killing clergy to cover up the victim he was always after. We have no motive, no murder weapon, no suspects. We’re back to square one. Me, I still think it has something to do with the gay thing at the school.”

“We already ran that down six ways from Sunday, Dick,” Broderson said. “There is nothing there.”

‘What gay thing,” I asked.

“Oh, God, don’t tell him, Ted. He’ll work his magic and bring the whole diocese down on us.”

“What gay thing?”   

***

Nancy Baker was assistant principal at Ave Maria when Ronnie was murdered. She was now the acting principal and I met her in Ronnie’s old office. Her desk was almost bare, as were the walls and windowsills. I commented on the lack of decoration.

“Sister Veronica didn’t have much stuff to begin with,” Baker explained, “and I suppose we stored it somewhere. And I’m not going to be here much longer. I didn’t see much sense in filling up the place with crap I’d only have to move when the new principal arrives.”

Baker was a 40ish woman of medium height. Her hair was light brown, as were her eyes. Her arms, face and what I could see of her legs when she came around her desk to greet me showed the healthy tan of someone who spent time outdoors. She had fine, strong features and in a few years she would be described as “a handsome woman.” But she still had enough sparkle in those eyes to be called pretty. She was dressed conservatively and I saw no jewelry but small onyx stud earrings and a gold wedding band.

“Aren’t you applying for the job?”

She smiled.

“That’s right. You’re not from around here, are you?”

“New York.”

“Then you don’t know my story?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well, it’s no secret. I’m gay, and I was fired last year. It was in all the local papers.”

“What happened?”

“I live with a woman. Monica is my life partner. We’ve been together almost 20 years. Her mother died last year. We were very close. She was almost like a mother to me. Anyway, Monica’s family thought it only proper to list me in the obituary as Monica’s companion.”

I wondered where this was going. 

“Someone saw the obit,” she continued, “and wrote a letter to the diocese, saying I wasn’t fit to teach the girls at Ave Maria because of my lifestyle. I was let go. Moral turpitude. After 15 years with a spotless record.”

I could tell by the glistening of her eyes that the wound was still raw.

“I’m sorry. I guess you fought the dismissal.”

“No. I had no case. The Catholic Church was legally within its rights. They can dismiss anyone they want on religious grounds. If it wasn’t for Sister Veronica, that would have been the end of it. She went to bat for me. Took the fight right to the bishop. Threatened to resign unless I was reinstated. She pointed out that I’m not even Catholic. She wanted to know why I was being singled out when the Church in Massachusetts didn’t fire pedophile priests who had repeatedly abused children. She was fearless, even when some people started a whisper campaign that she was a lesbian herself.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I said, smiling.

Baker gave me a high five.

“Right on,” she said. “But just for the record, Sister Veronica was straighter than a plumb bob. Took real courage to go out on a limb for me the way she did.”

“With her gone, are you in jeopardy again?”

“No. Once the diocese hired me back, they boxed themselves in, especially when Sister Veronica made me assistant principal. Too many local politicians jumped on my bandwagon. After the fact, of course. But there’s no way I’ll be principal. I’m still a hot potato. Especially since Monica and I decided to make honest women out of each other. We were married in January.” She held up her finger. “Sister Veronica came to the wedding.”

“Congratulations. Now, I know you’ve probably been asked this by the police, but can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Sister Veronica?”

“You mean because of what she did for me?”

“That, or anything else.”

“Well, there are a lot of crazies out there. But I can’t imagine someone would go after her because of her stand. I mean, why not go after me? And I had other supporters. Doesn’t make much sense to me.”

Or to me, I had to admit. I suspected that Broderson and Huntley had run a little scam. Sent me off on a wild goose chase to get me out of their hair. I wouldn’t have blamed them. I was becoming a bit of a pain in the ass. I thanked Baker and was about to leave. But I grasped at another straw. 

“Were there any girls with whom Sister Veronica was particularly close?”

Nancy Baker thought about it.

“All the kids loved her. We had to bring in grief counselors.” She paused, thinking. “I know Carole MacQuaid took her death very hard.”

“Why?”

“Well, Carole was one of those kids who liked to push the envelope and Sister Veronica somehow allowed her to get away with just enough so that she didn’t rebel. I think they had a special bond. Her grades improved and she really blossomed.”

“Do you think I could talk to her?”

“Why? She’s only a kid.”

“No particular reason. I’m just trying to get a handle on things. If they had a special bond, maybe Sister Veronica told her something in confidence, as a way of establishing trust.”

“I wouldn’t want you to upset Carole. This is an important time for our seniors. The prom. Graduation. I want them to have good memories. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course I do. I’ll be careful. I know it’s a long shot. But Sister Veronica might have mentioned something that could help me.”

“I’ll ask Carole. But if she says no, I won’t force her to speak to you.”

“I understand.”

I hoped the kid would agree, but I was prepared to get to her no matter what. Baker shouldn’t have told me her name. I gave her my cell number and then went to get something to eat. I was halfway through a decent Reuben sandwich in a nearby Perkins when she called me.

“Carole said she will speak to you. She has soccer practice after school at Johnson Smith Soccer Stadium at Holy Cross. The college lets us use it after their classes end. She can meet you there around 4.”

She wanted to give me directions, but I told her I knew where it was. I finished my lunch and headed over there. I was early, but that gave me the chance to spend some time at my old school, which I’d been meaning to do.

Holy Cross is a small college, with about 3,000 students. The beautiful 170-acre campus was intimate, without being crowded. After parking in an outer lot, I walked to my old residence hall, Wheeler, which like many of the older buildings, was ivy covered. I went to Kimball, the main dining hall, which had been the center of campus life. I passed several new facilities that hadn’t been there in my day, including a science building with a glass atrium. There weren’t many people about; school was out. I was glad. The sight of hundreds of excited, eager students bustling on the way to their future would have been depressing to me, an old alumnus delving into his past. I went to St. Joseph Memorial Chapel and sat in the back. I’d never spent much time there as a student, but I wanted to say a prayer for Ronnie.  I’m not religious, and my last prayers were probably made under mortar fire, but I didn’t feel the least bit hypocritical or silly. It seemed the right thing to do. I even lit a candle.

On the way to the soccer stadium I passed Fitton Baseball Field, where years earlier I learned I couldn’t hit a curve ball, and Fitton Football Stadium, where I once sat and watched football games and learned that cheap vodka and warm hot dogs sometimes don’t mix.