Faceless (24 page)

Her face was starting to regain its normal color, and even seemed to pale in comparison to what it had been just moments ago. I noticed she was making an effort to cover the slight, uncontrollable movement of the left side of her mouth with her hand. It obviously made her self-conscious.

“Um, sorry?” she replied.

“Tiffany, Detective Keal and I would like to sit down and talk to you in depth about Jamie and that night she was killed. It would help a great deal if we can gather as much information as we can about both of the girls. You may have knowledge that can help us find their killers, you might not even be aware of what you know.”

“I really don’t know any more than I already told you.” Her eyes darted from me to Marty and then to the now-opened door. I glanced out beyond the opening and I immediately recognized her friend Lisa was staring in our direction.

“Well, how about you tell your parents that we will be coming by later this afternoon for an interview. Would that be all right with you, Tiffany?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure, excuse me, I have to go.” She briskly walked out of the room and my eyes followed as she bee lined her way to her friend.

Father Murphy got up and made sure the door was closed tightly and then made his way back to his seat.

“What’s going on, Jean? Is something going on I should know about?”

“Father, Kimberly Weston died of an overdose of insulin.”

I saw the color drain from his face. He looked at Marty and then closed his eyes and shook his head. His hand covered his mouth in utter disbelief.

“Kim was a diabetic? I wasn’t aware.”

“No, Father, she wasn’t. Whoever killed Kimberly injected her with insulin. Intentionally. They had access to the drug.”

It took him a few seconds, but he started to put two and two together. He turned back and looked at the small appliance that was storing his medicine.

“Am I a suspect, Jean? I…” If he was acting, he was a damn good actor. He seemed to be stunned.

“Father, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Can you account for your whereabouts the night Jamie was murdered?” We still hadn’t established an exact time that Kimberly was attacked, so I intentionally left her out of the equation.

“Jean, you called me at the rectory. You have to know that I would never…” As he shook his head, a lock of thick brown hair covered his forehead. “I’m sorry, I know you’re doing your job. It’s just so bizarre. I was in bed asleep when you called. We had a budget meeting that ran rather late, and we retired about midnight. I can have you speak to Father Thomas, he can vouch for me.” He lifted the handset from the phone that sat on the desk.

“No Father, that’s not necessary right now,” I told him. “It’s just that there are a few things that are troubling.”

I picked up a gold lighter that was sitting on his desk. “Father, what kind of lighter fluid do you use for this? Do you keep it here?”

“Oh my God, Jean. The burns?” His eyes got watery and he immediately opened the bottom drawer in his desk. He furiously tossed things around before turning and looking back at me, a look of shock and alarm on his face.

“My lighter fluid—it’s gone,” he said, his hand still rummaging through the drawer.

“What brand of fluid do you use Father?” I asked. “By any chance, is it…?”

We said it at exactly the same time.

“Zippo.”

“Father, do the students have access to your office, or do you lock it when you aren’t here?”

“Oh, dear God,” was all he was able to say when he realized that whoever killed those two girls was someone that he knew, and probably knew well.

“Father,” I asked. “Is any of your medication missing?”

He shifted his chair and leaned down to open the small refrigerator. He pulled out the box that was labeled Injectable Insulin Pens, 3.0 ml (Five per Box). He lifted the thin cardboard lid. I could tell he was calculating his prior usage with the contents of the box.

It was apparent from my view that three remained, and for a moment, he looked relieved. That is, until he shifted a few more things in the small refrigerator and pulled out another box that, for all intents and purposes, looked unopened. He shook it gently and looked perplexed. He carefully lifted a curved see-through adhesive tape that sealed the box. The label on this box also indicated it should hold five pens, but when he lifted the lid, there were only three.

Father Murphy’s face drained of all color. He now knew without a doubt there was a murderer in close proximity, and the place he had always considered sacred and safe had been compromised.

Chapter Sixteen

After the priest emptied the contents of the cardboard box onto his desk, Marty stepped out to the car to retrieve some latex gloves from the trunk. Father Murphy and I sat silently as we waited for Marty to return.

It wasn’t long before Marty came back and slipped on the latex gloves. He carefully took possession of the now-empty carton. He slipped the cardboard box and remaining insulin pens into a plastic bag and sealed it by sliding the red plastic zipper across the top. I hoped that whoever had gotten into the priest’s medication was careless enough to leave behind some fingerprints.

As we walked out of the office, Marty and I noticed that neither Tiffany Bennett nor Lisa Padilla were anywhere in sight. Marty started to walk toward the parking lot when he must have realized that I was headed in another direction.

“Hey!” he hollered out, as he turned and increased his pace to catch up with me. “Where are we going?”

“I want to have a chat with Father Thomas and make sure that Father Murphy was exactly where he said he was the night Jamie Camp was murdered.” I pulled open the heavy wooden door and headed down a wide hallway that led to the older cleric’s office.

“You don’t actually think he would lie to you, Jean, he’s a priest, for heaven’s sake. They don’t lie.”

His naiveté astonished me.

“Tell that to all those boys that sued the church because they were molested,” I retorted.

“We are talking about Father Murphy, Jean. I have known him most of my life. You have known him for years. He has never been accused of any inappropriate behavior, much less homicide,” Marty insisted. “I think you’re reaching here.”

“Maybe. I just want to rule him out,” I maintained. “Can’t hurt to cross him off my suspect list, Marty. Believe me, I don’t like even the slightest thought of him being responsible for this, but we need to be sure.”

We reached Father Thomas’s office and I was about to knock when the door opened and the elderly priest walked out. He looked up, startled at his visitors.

Suddenly a bell rang, announcing a change of classes, and the building rocked with noise as a herd of adolescents emptied into the hallway. As if he had done it a million times before, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to the wall, preventing me from getting trampled by the students.

Taking off his spectacles, the priest wiped the lens with a folded cloth as he apologized for the near accident.

“They get out of hand sometimes,” he said. “I wish we had more of a warning device for visitors.”

I gave him a brief smile.

“What can I do for you, detective?” he asked as he put his glasses back on, returning the cloth to his pocket. “I think I’ve seen you more in the last few days than I have in the past ten years. You need to come visit more often, preferably under different circumstances.”

“Yes, I know, Father,” I replied. “I was just hoping you would be able to clear up something for me.”

“Sure, if I can, what is it?” he inquired.

I was at least five inches taller than the man, but his presence made me feel like a child again. That started to make me feel a tad guilty about what I was about to ask him.

As fast as the halls filled with the students, they emptied out again. I waited till the last of the kids entered a nearby classroom and the noise dissipated before I asked my question.

“Father Murphy said that he attended a budget meeting on Wednesday night, and that it ran late. Can you verify that?”

He looked up at me suspiciously, but I could tell he was formulating a timeline in his mind. I wondered if I was the only one who thought he looked like a snowman.

“Yes, Wednesday evening we had a budget meeting with the board. We had quite a disagreement going on over the monies being allocated to the school band. They want the best, but they certainly don’t seem to want to pay for it. It’s such a shame that the children suffer because the adults can’t seem to agree on anything. Yes, it ran rather late… um… I don’t think I got to retire for the night until one a.m.”

“Was Father Murphy there for the entire meeting, Father?” Marty asked. The aging priest nodded his head. A wisp of gray hair poked out from his black plastic eyeglass frames on either side. “Yes.” He turned to me as if he was being deliberate. “I can guarantee that he was there. I can assure you, detective, that if Father Murphy said he was somewhere, you can take that to the bank.”

He sounded as if he was lecturing us, especially me.

I could feel the “I told you so” that Marty was dying to say.

“Just making sure, Father—thank you for your time,” I said, trying to let him know he wasn’t intimidating me, even if he was.

I turned and headed for the door. Marty said goodbye to the priest and followed immediately after me. He didn’t say another word until we were in the car and headed out of the parking lot.

“Where to?” he asked me.

I cleared my throat. It felt like I had been sucking on cotton balls.

“First, let’s drop off this package at the lab, to see if they can pull up some prints or DNA. I think I want to have a little chat with Cameron Knox before we talk to the girls again. I know Frank said he wanted to do it, but I want to go over his story one more time to see if he left anything out, like whether there was one other person at this party of theirs.”

I popped a mint into my mouth, hoping it would help with the dryness. I offered him one, but he declined.

“Are you thinking that Kimberly Weston was there? Don’t you think one of them would have mentioned that when we first interviewed them?” He kept his eyes on the road, but his head turned slightly toward me as he asked.

I made a slight sucking sound as I inhaled the first taste of mint before I answered.

“First off, I don’t know whether any of them can be trusted to tell us the truth. They had several hours to concoct a story and make it sound viable. Do we know where Kimberly was Wednesday night? How long was it before her parents called in a missing child report? Had Kimberly spent more than one night out of her house? Maybe Kimberly’s parents were totally clueless about the teenager’s whereabouts!” I told him.

Then I added, under my breath, “Like the rest of us.”

Marty broke in. “Look, Jean, you need to give yourself a break,” he told me. “Bethany has entered that mysterious black hole known as adolescence. She is a teenager, and a very bright one at that. Sometimes kids do stupid things, no matter what their IQ. If you add a good-looking, popular teenage boy to the equation, you have what the Captain calls ‘scrambled judgment on hormones.’”

I let out a deep sigh. I knew he was right, but I wasn’t easily convinced.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I responded. “Damn, I wish I still smoked. I want a cigarette so bad right now. Why the hell did I stop, anyway?” I popped another mint into my mouth.

“Maybe because it’s a nasty habit and it makes you smell bad and it costs way too much?” he offered. I knew he was about to break out in a smile because a large crevice appeared on his right cheek.

I again mumbled something under my breath.

We made a quick stop at the crime lab and Marty ran out to drop off the evidence bag. We were back on the road within minutes.

The rest of the drive was made in virtual silence until we arrived at the Forester mansion. The driveway was covered with grass cuttings and the smell of freshly cut lawn caused my nostrils to itch.

We could hear the sound of the lawn mower get louder as we got closer to the cottage where Cameron Knox was living. He was shirtless as he sat upon a small John Deere tractor that was pulling a finish mower, a set of headphones covering his ears. I could see his lips moving. It was as if he was singing along with whatever music he was listening to.

Marty stopped the car, got out, walked over to the passenger side, and joined me as I leaned against the door. Cameron seemed to be oblivious to his visitors as he continued singing and mowing. Getting impatient, I leaned into the vehicle, pressed down on the horn, and hit the siren. It took another four or five seconds, but it got his attention. He looked over and lifted the headphones off his head. He nodded and turned off the engine, climbed down and walked towards us.

As much as I had developed an immediate dislike of the man, I couldn’t deny the fact that he was a sexy son of a gun. Sweat glistened on his chest, which was slick and hairless, looking like it had been waxed. His jeans were tight and hugged his lower body as if they were sewn on him. I wondered if the esteemed mayor ever had a DNA test run on this offspring. There was absolutely nothing about this man that resembled the short and stocky Paul Knox.

“Detectives, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you pull up.” He wiped the sweat on his brow and around the back of his neck with what once had been a white handkerchief. Now it was gray with grime.

“What can I do you for?” he asked.

Marty pulled out a photograph of Kimberly Weston, obtained from her family.

“You know this girl, Cameron?”

Cameron
man took the picture from Marty and held it up between his thumb and other fingers.

“Come on, Marty, give me a break here. I already told your buddy, the only time I have seen that girl is when I saw her picture on TV.”

He turned and flashed me a smile. I noticed one of his front teeth slightly overlapped the other one. If the man hadn’t been such an idiot, I would have thought it charming.

Cameron
waited for Marty to say something. When he didn’t, he continued to talk.

“No, I didn’t kill her, either. I never met that one. Pretty, though,” he added. He touched the bottom quarter of the photograph as if he was studying it.

“You know, if you’re lying, Cameron, we’re going to find out,” Marty advised him.

“Look Marty, I may be a lot of things, but I am not some psycho serial killer. As far as I’m concerned, whoever is doing this deserves to be boiled in hot oil. There aren’t enough beautiful women in this world, and this jerk is eliminating them from the population.” He turned and looked directly at me.

“Beautiful women are to be kept on a pedestal and admired and loved, not mutilated,” he said. He glanced at his own reflection in the mirror, and seemed to admire what he saw. I was getting nauseated.

“Can you account for your whereabouts Wed, Thursday and Friday evenings, Cameron?” Marty asked him trying to cut through the bullshit...

“As a matter of fact, I can’t. Thanks to all this, I have suddenly have become some sort of pariah. My girl isn’t allowed to come near me.”

“You mean your stepsister?” I asked him, my mouth spitting out sarcasm.

“We’re not blood, and she isn’t jail bait. No laws being broken.” He turned and walked toward the tractor.

Before he started the engine, I yelled out. “Are you missing any of your empty honey jars, Cameron?”