Face Off (10 page)

Suzanne rushed to Jessie, kneeling beside her on the floor. “What is it, Jessie? What's happening?” But she knew without the girl telling her. “Take my hand, Jessie. Let me experience it, too.”

Jessie extended a shaky hand and Suzanne clasped it firmly in her own. Suzanne tried to empty her mind, to enable Jessie's visions to become her own. Almost immediately the scenes began emerging. She saw Clark walking down a sidewalk and heard his thoughts about Amy.
Kill the whore! The bitch! Make her suffer!

As the images became clearer, Jessie let out a high-pitched scream, then collapsed in Suzanne's arms. “He's horrible! He wants to cut her! Make her bleed!” The child buried her head in Suzanne's lap. “No! No! Oh, no!”

Suzanne could do nothing but hold Jessie as the wretched images slammed into her brain. She shuddered, knowing Jessie was living the nightmare—watching as Clark thought about torturing and taunting Amy.

Finally, as the scenes faded and stopped, Suzanne shook Jessie gently. “It's only what he
wants
to do, sweetie. That is what you are seeing. He's in jail. He can't hurt Amy.”

Jessie's tear-stained face raised from the comfort of Suzanne's lap. “No. I saw him outdoors, on a sidewalk, with the sun shining on him.” Her next words were spoken in a flat, dead voice which caused Suzanne to shiver. “He's free. I know it.”

Gently, Suzanne placed her arms around Jessie, holding her tight against her body. “I'll call, sweetie. I'll call the police station and find out for certain. Would you like that?”

Jessie nodded, pushing away from Suzanne. “Please. Do it now. I have to know.”

Chapter Ten

Harry couldn't believe he was back at square one. There wasn't a solid lead in his files, except those pointing to Randal Clark. It was Clark who the witnesses placed at the school from which the fifth victim had disappeared. It was Clark's Dumpster where Amy Matthews's purse had been found. And it was Clark's apartment that had yielded what appeared to be parts of perhaps eight different bodies. They wouldn't know for certain until the completed FBI report was back. And what
roommate?
There had been nothing in Clark's apartment to indicate it was occupied by two men.

He could still hear Andrew Nordyke's cold words ringing in his ears. “I'll tell you what happened,
Detective
McDermott. Your boys found two pimple-faced teenage hoods who swore they saw Clark hanging around the school, and the next thing you know, there is enough evidence to
hang
my client! Pretty damned convenient, I'd say!”

Harry hated attorneys. He hoped in another life he came back as a judge—just so he could hold them all in contempt and levy enormous fines at them.
And you, Mr. Nordyke, are fined fifty thousand dollars for assholery!
It was a nice thought.

This hadn't been his day. He had gotten chewed out by his boss, lost his prime suspect in a serial murder case, and his office couldn't even hold the hell on to a fake nun. And God only knew what her angle was. To top it all off, Monica, from whom he had been divorced exactly thirteen years, had called and wanted to see about getting back together. Of course that wasn't anything new. Monica called every few years, in between her marriages, pledging everlasting love and fidelity to him, her “one and only.” What husband was it she had just discarded? Harry had lost track after five. Thank God their brief union had not resulted in children.
But, Harry, darling, do you have any idea what children would do to my modeling career? I could just kiss it good-bye now, I really could!

But Harry had to hand it to her. Monica had always known what she wanted and set out to get just that. Even now, at thirty-eight, he still ran across her picture now and then in some of the magazines. And her assortment of husbands read like a roster from
Who's Who.
Except for him, of course. He had the dubious distinction of being husband number one—prior to her breaking into the big time.

Before their two-year marriage had ended, Harry was lying awake nights agonizing over how to ask Monica for a divorce. He could hardly stand the sight of her in bed beside him, but he knew her fragile ego would have a hard time dealing with the idea that any man would reject her—especially a lowly cop. And Harry was too much of a gentleman to want to hurt her.

Then, wonder of wonders, he had come home from work one night and there she stood, bags packed.
Now, darling, don't be upset with me, but I have taken this absolutely wonderful modeling assignment in New York. It was just
too
good to pass up.
Then, almost offhandedly,
And please forgive me, Harry, but I want a divorce!

Harry could have turned cartwheels across their living room, yelling yahoo at the top of his lungs. He could have smiled broadly and explained that he, too, badly wanted a divorce. He could have told his wife of two years that she had made him the happiest man on the face of the earth that day. Instead, he put his arms around her and asked her if she was certain that was what she wanted. He told her she was a fine woman, and wished her well with her life. Her last words to him, as she went out the front door, were, “You are such a good man, Harry! I suppose someday I'm going to regret this.”

Harry had never regretted letting Monica leave with her pride intact. To this day, she still thought she had hurt him deeply by her going. And over the years, they had become friends—the kind of friends who could touch base once every few years, talk for hours, then go their separate ways until the next time.

Harry sat brooding, wondering why his reminiscing about his failed marriage kept forcing to his mind the fresh-scrubbed face of the young woman posing as a nun. He guessed it was those enormous brown eyes she had turned on him—haunting eyes, that seemed too wise for her years.

He pressed down on the intercom. “Jena, I'd like to listen to the tape you made of that woman talking to Clark. Could you bring it in? And do you have the transcription?”

Officer Karnitz entered Chief Caswell's office, smiling to herself at the manner in which Harry McDermott always seemed to take over the chief's room. Harry despised doing business at his allotted desk in the general room, so whenever possible, he made himself at home in Caswell's office. Caswell didn't seem to mind. He had been trying to get more offices for his detectives for years, but space was tight. Until then, he didn't mind sharing his quarters.

Jena wondered if Harry would say yes if she invited him out for drinks. Their shifts ended in thirty minutes, and so far, Harry had failed to respond to any of her signals. Maybe she should just try the direct approach. “There wasn't much to transcribe, Harry. The nun, or whoever she was, only said a couple of things. She said, ‘Bless you, my child,' and later said, ‘Will you receive the blessing, my son?' Then, later it sounds like maybe she whispered something to Clark, but the mike didn't pick it up.”

Harry quickly read through the transcription. Most of what was said was coming from Clark.

Sister Mary Elizabeth:
Bless you, my child.

Randal Clark:
So, Sister. What do you want with me? (Clark laughs) Are you here to save my soul?

(Silence for about a minute and a half)

Randal Clark:
Hey, what's the matter with you, Sister? You some kind of nut, or what?

Randal Clark:
You trying to break my arm, Sister?

(Sister Mary Elizabeth stands and puts her thumb on Clark's forehead)

Sister Mary Elizabeth:
Will you receive the blessing, my son?

(Sound of whispering)

Randal Clark:
(Screaming) Get her away from me! What are you guys trying to pull on me, anyway?

Harry looked up. “That's it? That's all that was said?”

Jena nodded. “I tried to get Clark to tell me what he was talking about, but he clammed up. He seemed spooked, somehow, by her visit. And the nun, or whoever, was definitely shook up. Her face was white and she was trembling like she had just had a bad scare or something.”

“Weren't you watching them? Did you see anything at all that the nun was doing to make Clark react like that?”

Jena shook her head. “All the nun did was put her hand on his arm, then later her thumb on his forehead. But whatever she whispered, it sure got a reaction out of Clark.”

“All right. Let's listen to it, and I want you to tell me everything you can remember about what was happening. Okay?”

Officer Karnitz was only too happy to oblige. “Sure, Harry.”

They ran through the short tape three times, without any further enlightenment as to what had really transpired between Clark and the woman.

“Damn, I wish we hadn't lost her,” Harry said in frustration. “It's obvious she knows something about this case.”

“I'm sorry, Harry. She really looked sick to me. And I had no reason to think she would run. After all, she didn't know we were going to hold her.”

“I know, Jena. I'm not blaming you.” Harry sat tapping a letter opener against the chief's desk. “Tell you what. Why don't you take this tape to the lab and see if the boys can enhance that whisper? If we even knew what she said to set Clark off, that would be a help.”

“Do you want me to wait for the results? I don't mi—”

Harry interrupted. “No, no. You're off duty shortly. I'm going to be around here for another two or three hours, anyway.”

Jena left quickly with the tape. If she hurried, she might still be able to catch Patrolman Taylor. She had seen him writing his day's report just before she went in to see Harry. With a little luck, he hadn't finished yet. She was
not
going to eat supper alone tonight!

*   *   *

By his own dictate, any questions coming into the station concerning Clark were to be referred to Harry or his partner, Jim. So it was no surprise to Harry when he was stopped on his way to the lab.

Officer Downing had spotted him and waved, motioning toward the phone. “It's someone with a question about Clark. They want to know if he has been released.”

Harry picked up the extension phone. “Yes? This is Detective McDermott. How can I help you?”

He recognized the woman's voice instantly. “This is, uh, Beverly Smith from, uh, the
Kansas City Star.
I'm just doing an article on Randal Clark and I was wondering. He is still in jail, isn't he?”

Harry signaled to Officer Downing, mouthing, “Get a trace.” Officer Downing jumped into action.

“You know, I'm not certain,” Harry lied. “I just came on duty. Let me go see what I can find out. Can you hang on?”

Across town, Suzanne answered, “Certainly.”

After what seemed an eternity to Suzanne, but was in reality only three minutes, she heard the rustle of the phone as it was being picked back up.

“Yeah. Are you still there, miss?” Harry tried to keep his voice casual.

“Yes.”

“Randal Clark was dismissed about an hour ago.” Harry couldn't miss the loud gasp from the other end of the line. “Is anything wrong, miss? Can I help you in any way?”

Suzanne was finally able to speak. “Why? For God's sake
why
was this madman released?”

“Chief Caswell has scheduled a press conference for seven o'clock this evening. Didn't the
Star
get notification?”

“I … uh … maybe. I don't know.” Suzanne slammed the phone down, breaking the connection.

Harry looked at the name and address on the paper in front of him. Suzanne Richards. Yeah. That sounded better. The tall woman with the lovely brown eyes looked more like a Suzanne than a Sister Mary Elizabeth!

Sterling Heights, Michigan

The old nun sat in her wheelchair by the west window of the Holy Cross Retirement Home, warming her upturned face on late afternoon rays of sun which streamed through the window. Her gnarled hands constantly worked across the beads of her rosary, counting, as she whispered her prayers.

It was taking her longer to die than she had counted on. She had been ready now for over a year, as her sight failed and she could no longer stand without help. But God had not called her home. Once in a while she groused at Him a little for letting her stay here, suffering. She wanted it over. She was ready to meet the Maker she had devoted her life to serving.

Sometimes she worried that maybe God was forcing her to stay—sort of a penance for sins of the past. For she had surely sinned. There was no denying that. She had lied. She had falsified records. And she had taken it upon herself to personally orchestrate a little girl's life.

At the time it had seemed such a tiny sin—a sin which wouldn't hurt anyone, and would only bring happiness to two people she loved. But the lie kept escalating until she had found herself lying to the bishop himself.

No. That had happened years ago. Surely God had forgiven her by now. Still, it worried her that perhaps He wanted her to atone for her sins. Perhaps He felt the girl had a right to know about her past. Could that be what was holding up God's calling her home?

Sister Mary Elizabeth's sightless eyes closed as tears started forming rivulets down the deep furrows of her wrinkled cheeks. “Sweet Jesus, I never meant any harm,” she whispered.

Chapter Eleven

Slowly, Amy regained consciousness. She was aware of a hot, bitter taste in her mouth, and a tingling in her limbs. She had to have water soon. She tried to swallow but her swollen throat wouldn't cooperate. She sucked on her cheeks and ran her tongue around her mouth to try to generate enough saliva to swallow.

She wasn't going to make it. She was going to die in this cement prison, and no one would ever know what had happened to her. Not for years and years. Not until some farmer stumbled across this horrid room, or an earthquake broke it open, and her bones tumbled out.