Silent Night (8 page)

F
ROM THE BACKSEAT
of the police cruiser, Miranda could hear Tucker talking on his radio even before she could see him step from the darkness onto the dirt road. But she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Had he seen the burn? Would he even tell her if he had? She hated putting her trust in someone she barely knew, someone in a line of work that had let her down more times than she cared to count.

But what choice did she have? This was
his
town. She didn’t have any connections here. And after what she’d just seen, keeping to herself was no longer an option. The only way she could get the details she needed was to trust Tucker with the information she’d been gathering since her return to the States.

And hope like hell that he’d be different.

Detective Langley, the lead detective in Dayton, had listened to her suspicions for all of ten seconds. Once he’d confirmed that the priest had been out of town when one of the murders had occurred, Miranda had been chastised for wasting the department’s time and money, before being dismissed. It hadn’t mattered that she’d talked to parishioners in the neighboring towns who’d confirmed that there were several hours unaccounted for. Hours that would have allowed Father Anatole to murder and pose the bodies. The detective had talked to the same people and many more.

But he’d had his man—one that would certainly make him look better to the city than arresting a man in cloth would have. So now an innocent man was sitting in prison. And then Father Anatole had disappeared. And she’d tracked him here. And now . . . it was happening again.

Tucker opened the rear door and peered down at her. “Want to explain how you knew about that burn?”

“Take me to the cottage,” she said. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“How ’bout you just tell me now, or would you prefer to wait until after I’ve booked your ass for obstruction?”

Anger lined his eyes and forehead, and she could tell that whatever he’d seen had disturbed him a good deal. She understood how he felt. She’d seen only photos of such scenes and still had nightmares consistently.

“I can’t prove to you that my story is true unless you take me to the cottage,” she said.

Fatigue shadowed the small, hollow curve above his sharp cheekbones. “You better be damned sure whatever you have to show and tell is worth me leaving my crime scene in someone else’s hands.”

She swallowed, thinking of her pitiful stack of clippings that might now become her saving grace. “It could save lives.”

He pressed the button on his mic. “Bowen?” he said, releasing a sigh that suggested she’d pressed his last button of patience. “Turn around.”

M
IRANDA PULLED HER
key from her inside jacket pocket, unlocked the door, and stepped inside her cottage. Tucker took off his hat and tossed it on the small table in the breakfast nook. It looked as though he was wearing every minute that had passed since his bedtime on his face and shoulders.

“All right. Make this good.”

Her battered backpack sat on the floor of the narrow hall’s closet. She grabbed it, dumped the contents on the sofa, and retrieved from the messy pile a worn accordion file folder that looked ready to fall apart. Praying she wasn’t making a huge mistake, she handed it to him and made her way to the kitchenette for caffeine to keep them both awake and alert while she spilled her guts.

While he pulled the contents out one by one, she tapped her fingers on the counter. The moment the percolating coffeepot stopped, she snatched the two cups out of the draining board, filled them, and took a seat by Tucker in the nook, passing him his drink.

He took a sip and looked up from the newspaper clippings. “What do the Rosary Killings in Ohio have to do with my town?”

“The Rosary Killer struck on three consecutive Sundays. Each murder held a religious aspect.” She fiddled with the chipped edges of the table, her heart racing now that she had both coffee and Tucker’s attention in hand. How much did she tell him?

She sighed. Best to start at the beginning.

“Almost two years ago,” she began, “a man was killed in Dayton—”

“Where you’re from?”

She shook her head. “I came here from Ohio, but I’m from California . . .” She carefully laid out three photographs, each portraying a brutally murdered man, the mark of the cross burned into each of their foreheads, a crucifix clutched in their hands, a long rosary chain placed somewhere on their bodies, and a Bible somewhere near or on them. Other than that, there weren’t many similarities. But the one glimpse of the Bible she’d seen at the river . . . she’d known in her soul that it was linked to Anatole. “That man at the river . . . he’s part of this. Number four. Look. Recognize anything?”

She pointed to the Bibles in the photos and the crucifix held in the victims’ hands. “Just like at the river, isn’t it?”

His face paled just a bit, and she knew he was seeing in these clippings another version of the horror he’d seen tonight. What the photos didn’t show, but she was sure that man’s autopsy report would, were the throats that had been garroted so deeply that only a fraction of the men’s spines had kept their heads on their shoulders. Or the gashes on their arms and legs that had kept them too weak to fight. Or the broken spine that had kept them from escaping. All things Miranda was certain he’d discover about this victim.

“After seeing that man . . . I don’t think he’s going to be the last murder you see, Tucker. This started in Dayton, and the same man who killed these men there has come here.”

His gaze remained on the clipping. “This have anything to do with why Father Anatole caught you trying to get into his office?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know . . . Never mind. Just look.” Her palms were sweating and she was pretty sure she was about fifteen seconds away from a stroke. She saw the same look of skepticism in his eyes that she’d seen in Detective Langley’s. He’d chosen not to believe her half-cocked story—as he’d called it. Was Tucker going to come to the same decision and dismiss her proof? How many more men would die before someone took her seriously?

“The one at Walt’s place? You knew he’d be burned.”

“I saw the Bible. It’s too coincidental that you’d have a killing here, with a freaking Bible . . . if . . . if you found the burn on his head . . . Tucker, please believe me. The cross burned on that man’s head was a tainted version of a blessing. A sign that holy water would have scorched him because he was uncleansed of sin. All of these victims had the same mark. He’s creating his own perverted version of the Catholic sacraments.”

His almost-black eyes narrowed and watched her until she squirmed in her seat. “Let’s say this isn’t all bullshi—”

“It’s not—”

“You’re talking about a serial killer. You’re saying his MO revolves around the Catholic sacraments . . . which he began in Dayton according to all these.” He flicked the clippings as though they were worth nothing more than discarded candy wrappers.

“He did.” Keeping the disdain out of her voice was virtually impossible. Tucker was proving to be no different than Detective Langley; looking at her like she was crazy.

“And you just assumed he’d start all over again in a new town?”

She swallowed and her dry throat burned. It was as though all the liquid in her throat had traveled to her eyes. They itched with the need to cry, because in all honesty, his question poked a very sensitive spot with her.

“No,” she whispered. Had she anticipated any such thing, she would’ve come far more prepared. But she’d assumed he wouldn’t risk being caught now that someone else had been convicted for his crimes. That was three months ago. Throughout the entire trial and investigation, the killings had stopped. If Anatole hadn’t planned to stop killing, why had he waited three months since the verdict to begin again? “I came here to see if . . . I don’t know. Maybe he would slip up, get comfortable . . . give me something to take back to Dayton as proof. I never . . . I never suspected he’d start again. At least not someplace as small as this where it’s harder to hide.”

“Just going on a whim here, but I’m guessing you’re talking about Anatole. That’s why all the pictures? The B and E? The man walks with a cane and you think he’s capable of this?”

“You make him sound like a crippled old man. He’s not. He’s a very healthy man in his late fifties, and he’s strong.”

And she’d seen with her own two eyes that he was religious about working out every morning.

“Okay, but he still depends on a cane. That’s going to hinder his movements.”

“You’d be surprised. He was Bobby’s—the convicted man’s—priest in Dayton. They were friends. They worked out together. Please don’t believe for a minute that he’s feeble.” She removed her jacket and wished like hell that she could turn the air on. No matter what the temperature outside was, she was beginning to sweat. “When I heard the lady on your radio mention religion and dead body in the same sentence, my gut knew. I had to see. But until that moment, no. I didn’t assume he was killing again.”

“You’re basically telling me you think I have a serial killer in my town,” he said. “One who kills men.”

“I know it’s strange, but it’s not unheard of.” She gestured to the clippings. “Obviously, since all these were men, too.”

As she sat back down, he held up the last article she’d clipped. The one of Bobby being carted off back to jail after the verdict had been read. Handcuffed, head down.

“Look, I appreciate that you believe everything you’re telling me,” Tucker said, cooler, if possible, than he’d been before. “But all you’re giving me to go on is a priest who lived where the murders occurred and is now in my town when we get our first murder in decades. The same could be said about you, showing up in town just before a man is killed.”

“We both know you don’t suspect me, Tucker. You saw what was done to that man and I’m not strong enough to do
that
.”

She could tell by the look on his face that she was right. He’d very likely already tried her in his head and found her incapable. She was counting on that, anyway. Getting herself locked up wasn’t going to do anyone any good. Especially Bobby.

“For someone who didn’t suspect anything, you sure were ready to show me all this.”

The overhead light dimmed and cast him in a shadow that made him look like someone out of the Old West. Stubble lined his sharp cheekbones as they sucked in when he sipped his coffee, and she was having a hard time thinking straight beneath those damnable eyes of his. They were so piercing, she felt exposed, emotionally stripped, and extremely vulnerable. She decided it was best to be as honest as possible without giving too much away.

“I knew there was a slight chance I’d have to explain what I was doing.”

“Did you lie about being a nurse? You really a reporter or something?”

Let him think what he would, as long as he listened. His assumption might just be her salvation, as long as she didn’t outright lie about it.

“Bobby was a lawyer who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it wasn’t a coincidence,” she said, skating right over his question. “Someone made sure he was seen in those places and turned him in when the cops got too close to the truth.”

“Which is?”

“Someone with a
calling from God
who he feels will be better served cleansing the Earth of the wicked than helping save their souls through something as simple as confession and prayer.”

He drummed his thumbs on the table and stared at a photo of Father Anatole standing outside the courthouse beside Bobby. “So, Father Anatole. Was he ever suspected?”

Miranda took a sip of her cooling coffee and shrugged. “Only because I demanded they listen to me. But he was off their radar almost before I’d finished talking to the department.”

She tried to read his face for signs that he might be even the least bit inclined to believe her. She saw only exhaustion. Terrified that he’d lose interest in her story before she’d had a chance to explain everything, she handed him one photo at a time.

She set out stacks of clippings and photos. “Baptism. Confession. Holy Communion.” She swallowed. “Those three were completed in Dayton. Confirmation. Marriage. Anointing the sick. Holy orders. Those were left undone.”

“Where do you see that? I see nothing here that specifies any sacraments being recreated.”

“The Dayton police found something that led them to believe that’s what was happening. I wasn’t privy to those files. All I know is that this murder looks a lot like those. If you want the facts, you’ll have to get them from the police files.”

She took a deep breath before continuing. “After what I saw tonight, I’m terrified he’s going to finish recreating them right here in your town, with
your
people. If he is, more men will die. The Rosary Killer struck on Sundays. The man by the lake was killed tonight . . . on a Sunday. You have the chance to stop him before he frames someone else and disappears. Again.”

She held her breath as he pulled the last stack of clippings toward him and slid one from the bottom. “Nothing you have proves this Bobby Harley guy isn’t guilty of all charges.”

“Isn’t that dead man in the woods proof enough?” She searched her mind for anything that might erase the look of doubt on his face.

“It could be a copycat.”

“It’s not.” She glared at him, fatigue making her temper and patience short.

After what seemed an eternity, he shut his eyes and sighed. “I’ll have to contact the department in Dayton, but nothing here proves that Father Anatole is anything more than a grumpy man who came here from Dayton, just as you did.” His dark eyes fluttered open and nailed her with a glare that sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine.

“I know you have no reason to believe me. I’m not a cop, and you don’t know me from Adam. I get that. But please, please keep an open mind,” she said. “If I’m right, but you ignore me, more men could die here in your town. Are you willing to risk that?”

T
HE POLICE DEPARTMENT
’
S
break room was warm enough to allow Tucker to remove his jacket as he sipped his coffee and tried to figure out what to do about the woman in his office. He could have left her at the cottage, had her come in later when they were functioning on at least a couple hours’ sleep. Instead, he’d insisted she accompany him so he could make a copy of her files for his records. Granted, he hadn’t actually insisted anything. But when she’d refused to let him take her files, she’d volunteered.

His gaze shifted across the hall to his window. Miranda sat board straight, the worn file folder on her lap, her hands folded over the top as if he might rush in there and take it from her. She had nothing to worry about. He’d already called Dayton. Detective Langley hadn’t been in, but Tucker had been assured his call would be returned as soon as possible and that files would be forwarded with Langley’s consent.

Until Tucker heard differently, he would work off the assumption that some psychopath had likely read about the Rosary Murders and had made the mistake of trying to recreate the crimes here, in Tucker’s town.

Big, big mistake
.

However, Miranda’s question gnawed at his gut. Was he willing to risk another death just to save himself the pains of the possibility of an active serial killer in his town? He only had one scene and one victim. That was hardly the makings of anything serial . . .

He thought about Ricky Schneider and his stomach twisted. No. Ricky was a kid. This guy worked with adult men.

But if it was a copycat, there was no rule saying he couldn’t have screwed up his first re-creation with someone easier to kill than a heavy adult male.

The Rosary Killer struck on three consecutive Sundays . . .

Miranda’s words played in his mind. Ricky Schneider had disappeared on a Sunday.

Tucker refused to think about that possibility. Michael Levi had been left where he’d be easily and quickly found. There was no reason to jump to conclusions until Tucker had a reason to connect the two cases. Until then, Ricky remained a runaway. At least on paper. In his mind, he wasn’t so sure.

Lisa reached around him and grabbed a mug off the shelf above the tiny sink and filled it with fresh coffee. Even though she should have clocked out at midnight, she was still around, determined as always not to leave until Tucker did. Despite her young age of, what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? She was as professional as they came, a single mom hell-bent on joining the force herself one day—something Tucker was constantly trying to talk her out of.

Taking a couple packets of sugar from the bowls beside the coffeemaker, she pointed to the hall. “Who’s that?”

“Anatole’s B and E.”

Andy strode into the break room and gently nudged Lisa out of his path to the coffee. Like Tucker, the lieutenant looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He poured a cup and leaned against the counter before yawning wide enough to catch a hippo.

Tucker felt for him. “Body on its way to Knoxville?”

Andy nodded. “And I gathered all the samples from the scene you asked for. We found a car on the other side of the river. Had it towed in for forensics, but on first glance it looked clean. Made sure the entire half acre is taped off and took more pictures of anything I thought you’d want on the chance it could be the primary crime scene. Some of the stones around the fire pit looked disturbed so I bagged ’em. Saw something on them that might have been blood but couldn’t really tell.” He yawned again. “Knoxville will e-mail a copy of all the photos and notes from the autopsy when they’re done, too. Doc won’t be able to tell us anything until the DNA results come back from the state lab and she can tell if any of it belongs to our perp, but she asked for a rush on them.”

“Thanks,” he muttered. “You did good. Now go home. Get some sleep. And Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for taking over the scene.”

Andy nodded toward Miranda. “She tell you anything useful?”

“Maybe.”
Maybe not
.

“Think she has anything to do with this?”

“That little thing?” Lisa laughed. “Is that what you brought her in for? She’s like five-foot-two and small enough to break in half with a strong cup of coffee. Besides, women like guns and poison. The pictures I saw . . . It would take one hell of a monstrous woman to do that.”

“Can’t rule anything out.” Andy took off his hat and used it to wave farewell. “I’m out. See you in the morning.”

Lisa dumped out her coffee and rinsed the cup. “That go for me, too? I’m beat.”

Tucker nodded. “Thanks for staying. Hope your sitter didn’t mind.”

“She’ll be happy for the extra money.”

“I’ll talk to Shannon, see if she can hold your seat till you come in in the morning.”

The early morning dispatcher wouldn’t have a problem picking up a couple of extra hours to help Lisa out. That’s the way they were here. A small family. Watching each other’s backs. The whole town worked that way. It was only one reason he had difficulty thinking of Father Anatole as a possible murderer. The priest might be the new, cranky old uncle to their family, but he was part of it now just the same.

It was also the reason another ulcer was eating its way through Tucker’s stomach. The town was going to riot when they found out one of their own had been killed. He trusted Andy and Walt to keep the news from leaking, but in a town like this, there were ears everywhere. He’d be lucky if he had a day before he’d have to prepare a statement for the local paper.

He waited for Lisa and Andy to disappear before forcing his body to move in the direction of the office. When he stopped in the doorway, Miranda looked up at him, her dark eyes glazed and watery.

“You’re free to go. But not far—”

“Trust me. I won’t be leaving until that bastard is behind bars.” She stood and draped her purse across her body, holding the files close to her chest. “Good night, Tucker.”

“You need a ride back?”

“No offense, but I think I’d prefer a walk.”

As she passed Shannon at the reception desk, Tucker’s gaze drifted south to the tired swagger of her derrière. He was exhausted. That was the only explanation for where his mind was beginning to wander now. Hell, he didn’t even know if she’d ever really been interested in him. For all he knew, she’d used him for his badge.

He slid behind the wheel of the cruiser, watching her. Her parka hood covered her head, and the farther away she got, the smaller and more fragile she appeared. He felt all kinds of wrong taking pleasure in the way her body moved as she jogged. She was definitely trouble, with her sad eyes and Snow White visage.

Dark hair, pale skin, rosy lips and cheeks. Trouble indeed.

He’d met a lot of young reporters over the years chasing their breakout story and they’d all shared one thing—excitement. In Miranda, however, that telltale hunger seemed to be hidden behind a sheen of desperation—
if
it existed at all. Maybe she really was a nurse. If so, then what would she gain from trying to nail Anatole?

He was so tired his brain wasn’t finding answers to any of his questions. There was still so much work to do, but it would wait. Right now someone could walk up to him and confess to crucifying Jesus and he’d likely tell them they were free to go if it meant he was, too. The cold crept inside the car, forcing him to crank up the heat. He pulled out of the parking lot and turned south toward his bed, slowing only once when he passed Miranda to ask again if she wanted a ride. She waved him off and kept walking.

His body might be a few hours past exhausted, but he couldn’t shut off Miranda’s voice in his head detailing each of the murders and her certainty that Father Anatole was the man responsible. A lead lump sat in his stomach at the realization that he had a family in his town who had no idea their son had been killed just hours ago.

The image of Michael Levi’s body slumped against the tree churned that lead lump in his gut. He checked the clock. It was nearly midnight. No matter how tired he was, he wasn’t going to be able to sleep. Not with Michael’s face clogging every damned brain cell he owned.

Passing his property, he continued toward the outskirts of town. Andy had said that Michael had once attended St. Catherine’s with his family. There might be a way to question the priest without coming right out and accusing him of anything.

Just before he reached the town limit sign, he turned onto Anatole’s drive and followed it a short distance through the trees to the tiny house the parish provided for the priest. A soft light shone from the front porch and flickered yellow against the pristine snow piling up around the weathered guardrail. Tucker killed the engine and stepped out.

Before he could make it the short distance to the porch, the door opened and Father Anatole greeted him. “A little late for a visit, Chief Ambrose. Everything all right?”

Tucker took off his hat out of respect, even though his ears and scalp immediately felt the sting of cold. “A man was killed tonight and Lieutenant Bowen thinks he might be a member of your congregation. His family is, anyway. I thought you might go with me to notify them.”

The priest crossed himself. “That’s horrible. Who was it?”

“Michael Levi.”

The priest frowned. “Related to Mayor Levi?”

Tucker nodded. “His son.”

Father Anatole’s face fell. He stepped aside, allowing Tucker to enter, and closed the door behind him. “Of course. I’d be happy to accompany you. Just give me a moment to dress.”

Tucker dusted some snow off the shoulder of his coat and followed the priest into the small kitchen. He watched Anatole disappear down the hall, leaning heavily on his cane, the limp even more pronounced tonight, and tried to picture him brutally murdering a man. The image just wouldn’t come.

Not that Father Anatole was old. But he was a man of God. There was something too pure in that to accuse without damned good cause
and
proof. Of course, Tucker still planned to ask him what he knew about the murders in Dayton, but that would wait until Tucker had read every word of the files being sent to him.

He took a moment to look over the photos hanging on the fridge. Most people hung pictures of loved ones, but Tucker couldn’t see a single one that didn’t spotlight the priest. They were of Father Anatole and his deacons, Father Anatole preaching at the pulpit, Father Anatole baptizing a child. The good father seemed to like looking at himself a good deal.

“All right then, we can go.”

The father had dressed in record time. Bible in hand, he led the way back through the house, pausing to grab his keys from the hook by the door before stepping outside. He shivered, pulling his coat closed at the throat.

“Winter here is difficult to manage when you’re not used to it,” Tucker said. “But after living in Chicago all my life, it’s not so bad, really. Where are you from, again?”

Father Anatole looked at him from over his shoulder. “Ohio. Gets a bit cold there, too, but we didn’t get tourists this time of year like Christmas does. I don’t understand the willingness to come and spend the season here, if I’m honest.” He carefully made his way down the snow-covered porch steps. “Why not head to Florida or somewhere else that offers relief from the cold?”

“Guess it takes all kinds,” Tucker muttered. “Thank you for coming with me.” Tucker waited while the priest climbed into the front seat before making his way to his. “I’m sure the family will appreciate having you there.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

He studied the priest for a moment. He rubbed his Bible, his lips moving in what Tucker guessed was silent prayer. He scanned the cover of the leather-bound Bible, searching for similarities between it and the one found on Michael Levi’s body. Both looked like standard-issue Bibles found in churches everywhere. Nothing remarkable.

He sighed and started the engine. Thanks to Miranda, he was looking for suspicious behavior where none existed. Of course the priest would be upset about visiting a family who’d just lost their only child. It would make him a monster if this didn’t disturb him.

He didn’t try to pull the priest into conversation as he drove up the mountain toward the secluded Levi family estate. The huge mansion, sitting on a peak overlooking the town, had been built by the Levi family not long after Christmas had been founded.

He pressed the call button on a panel centered on the large ornate security gate decorated with lit wreaths and gaudy garlands of gold and green. Within minutes, a tired, slow-moving guard made his way out of a small gatehouse hidden behind a nest of tress. He bent to peer into the car, waving at the priest before turning his gaze to Tucker. “Can I help you, Chief?”

“Hi, Fred. We need to see Mayor Levi.”

Fred glanced at his watch. “After midnight?”

“If it could wait, do you really think I’d be here now?”

The guard punched in a code, then turned back to Tucker. “Do you wish to see the whole family?”

“Just the mayor.”

“Follow the drive to the left until the end, round behind the main house. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

“This place is like stepping into another country.” Father Anatole glanced at Tucker.

Tucker remained silent. It really did seem more European here than in any other part of Tennessee he’d seen. Huge groves of oaks and elms overhung the long, winding driveway, shielding it from most of the snow. There were three houses on the hundred acres plus the house where Ethel Levi’s mayoral son resided with his family. The mayor’s was the last and most distant from the main house, and by the time Tucker pulled up to the porch, the front door was opening and the mayor himself was making his way outside, tying the sash of his robe as he walked.

“Chief,” he said, the minute Tucker stepped out of the car. “What brings you . . .” His gaze shifted to Father Anatole. Fear clouded the man’s eyes. His voice quivered when he asked, “What’s happened?”

“Can we come in?”

“Steven? Is everything okay?”

At the sound of Tilly Levi’s voice, Tucker’s gut sank. He’d hoped to tell the mayor and allow the man to tell his wife in private. From his experience, Tilly was as nice as they came. Always bringing refreshments to the town meetings, greeting citizens and tourists alike with warm embraces. Things never went well when he had to tell a mother her baby wasn’t coming home again—and this was the first time he’d ever had to do so with someone he knew and liked.