"Mom and I wanted to limit the guest list only to those… shall we say, friends who you haven't slept with. You know, out of respect for Jill. Sorry, if that left only Hal, Timmy and Father Tony."
"Ouch," he said, faking his best imitation of being sucker punched. And yet, he knew he probably deserved that. He had spent much of his bachelorhood perfecting the art of one-night stands, so perhaps he deserved a reminder now and then.
"Seriously, Nick. I don't get it." This time she waited for his eyes, and he knew the horseplay was over. "You claim this is what you want. That Jill Campbell is the best thing that's happened to you. And yet, here you are at your own engagement party hiding out in the corner of the yard with an old, sleeping dog."
He didn't know what to tell her. Of course this was what he wanted. His eyes left hers to find Jill, making the rounds from one group of guests to another. She almost glided instead of walked, her yellow dress making her look like a model instead of an attorney. She wore her blond hair loose today, letting it brush her shoulders. In court she usually pulled it back or wore it up, attempting to add years and authority to her smooth, youthful face.
He told her time and again that she had saved him from himself, never really explaining, presuming that she already knew that there had been someone else he was trying to forget. But instead of pressing him for details, she seemed to take it upon herself to be the one who would finally replace the other woman she had never met.
"There you go again," he heard Christine say and immediately he knew he had missed something. Before he could respond, she added, "You've been doing that a lot, Nicky. You never seem to be where you're at."
He rolled his eyes at her as if that was the most ridiculous, incoherent thing he had ever heard, but he knew exactly what she meant. He hadn't been able to focus in months. His friend and co-worker, Will Finley, claimed it all began the day he and Jill had set a date for the wedding. Or to hear Will tell it, the day he surrendered to Jill.
At the time Nick joked that of course he couldn't focus,
"After all, wasn't that what happened when you fell in love and decided to take the plunge?"
His friend had just done the same thing, marrying Tess McGowen, the love of his life, only months before. He expected Will to understand. He expected Will, of all people, to sympathize. Instead, his friend's reaction felt like a sting. "Phinge?" Will had laughed. "You refer to marriage as a plunge and then you wonder what your problem is?"
Nick took another gulp of the iced tea as if needing to wash away the memory. What did Will Finley know anyway? People who were happy quickly forgot what misery felt like.
Misery?
What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't miserable. Jill had saved him from his misery. Suddenly, he realized he had done it again _ strayed off. He glanced at Christine, expecting to see her impatience, but she wasn't looking at him. He followed her gaze, only now seeing the black-and-white in the driveway.
"If this is one of those strip-o-grams, I know it was your idea, not Mom's."
But Christine wasn't smiling.
"I'm not sure what's going on."
Two uniformed officers were talking with Father Tony. Nick's first thought was that there had been a car accident or something awful that required a priest and last rites. He watched Tony's head bob in agreement then watched him swing around, looking for and finally finding Nick. Nick attempted to wave to him that it was okay for him to leave the party, but Tony made his way through the crowded backyard, guests parting for him like a sea of pastels.
"What's going on?" Christine asked, but Tony only shrugged, his eyes meeting and holding Nick's.
"Omaha police want me to come down to the station to answer some questions."
It took Nick by surprise. "To answer questions? About what?"
Tony shrugged again, and he reminded Nick of when they were boys. That same shrug came anytime they got into trouble and an adult asked for an explanation.
"Monsignor O'Sullivan was found dead in a restroom at the airport last night."
"Oh my God," Christine said. "And it wasn't just a heart attack or they wouldn't have questions."
Nick shot her a warning look. He could hear her shift into reporter gear, probably already taking notes in her head.
"I hate to take you away from your own party, Nick. But can you come with me?"
"Of course," Nick said without hesitation. He and Father Tony Gallagher had been friends since kindergarten when the two of them got deathly sick after eating almost a whole jar of paste. He thought he knew his good buddy pretty well, and unless it was his imagination, he didn't think Tony looked all that surprised about the monsignor being dead.
CHAPTER 15
Washington, D.C.,
The number-one tool for dismemberment was the hacksaw, but from what Maggie could see, this guy must have never had one handy.
Stan Wenhoff dropped several strands of the victim's hair into a bottle of solvent, giving the liquid a swirl before capping the bottle and setting it aside. While he removed hair and tissue samples, Maggie couldn't take her eyes off the decapitation area. A hacksaw usually left a fairly clean cut through the skin, joints and bone. Oftentimes there might be some bone chattering where the blade would jump and come down on a different area of the bone. For the most part a hacksaw was quite effective. Whatever tool this guy used had left a mess. Forget a little bone chattering. After Stan had cleaned the caked blood and river mud, the gaping area looked raw and shredded. There were jagged cuts, almost hacking marks in the bone and torn flesh where it looked as if he had ripped instead of cut.
She had ruled out a disorganized killer because of the planning and discipline it had taken not just to discard the heads but to complete the grisly process three times. Not to mention that he had also been able to hide or dispose of the torsos without getting caught. Dismembering a body took time and privacy. No matter where he killed his victims, he would need to take them back someplace safe, someplace where he knew he wouldn't be interrupted, where he could make a mess and have time to clean up.
And yet, something bothered Maggie. If he was, indeed, organized and had carefully planned each murder, why hadn't he gone to the trouble of buying a hacksaw or something that would have made the job much easier?
The sound of electric hair clippers interrupted her thoughts as Stan began shaving off the victim's long hair. She looked younger than Maggie had first thought. Without the tangles of hair, she noticed small diamond studs in one of the victim's earlobes. As far as she could tell, there were no other piercings in either brow, the nose, lip or chin. She made a mental note to have Stan check the woman's tongue.
"We don't have much to go on," Stan said, as if reading her thoughts.
As soon as he finished with the clippers, however, he pointed to a wound, a circular indent smashed into the top left side of the victim's skull.
"I'm guessing ball-peen hammer," he said, running a gloved index finger over the area.
"Is that how he killed her?" Racine asked, swiping a couple of maggots to the floor before coming in for a closer look.
"He smacked her pretty good," but Stan didn't look convinced. He continued his hands-on examination. "The hair samples should tell us if she was on any drugs at the time."
Maggie nodded; she knew the hair bulbs could be read almost like a drug timeline, since substances are captured and remain locked as the hair grows.
"What if he gave her something to knock her out?" Racine wanted to know. "Would that show up?"
"Oh, sure. Hair analysis can identify the heavy-duty stuff like cocaine and heroin, but we can also identify any tranquilizers or GHB. Should even be able to tell you whether she was a smoker or on Prozac. People think we can't figure out much when we have only the head," Stan continued. "There wasn't much with the other two."
"That reminds me," Racine interrupted. "I've made arrangements to take the other two up to a forensic anthropologist in Connecticut."
"Fine, fine. I can't do much more on those because of the level of decomposition. But this one has a lot to tell." And thankfully he was still anxious to share.
He tilted the head back, readjusting his vise-grip contraption so that she stared at the ceiling. More maggots slid off, hitting the stainless-steel table with tiny plops like raindrops on a tin roof.
"Despite the head wound, I doubt that was what killed her. Take a look," he said, flinging maggots off her cheeks, "at the area around her eyes "
He took a pair of forceps and, although Maggie thought Stan was a bit clumsy and slow at times, surprised her by expertly pinching and flipping up the right eyelid.
"See what I mean?"
"Petechial hemorrhages," Maggie said.
"Petechial what?" Racine asked.
"Petechial hemorrhages are capillaries that ruptured," Stan told her and his fingers moved on down the victim's face.
Racine still looked confused.
"She was strangled," Maggie said.
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes," Stan said without looking up. "Petechial hemorrhages occur when air is cut off. You see, we don't need her neck to conclude that she was, in fact, strangled."
"Wait a minute," Racine said, hands on her hips. She wasn't happy with Stan's conclusions. "You're saying he drugged her _ "
"No, I don't know that for certain, but we should be able to tell from her hair samples."
"Okay, so he may have drugged her," Racine qualified her remarks and continued. "He then hit her over the head with a ball-peen hammer. All this before he strangles her. Oh, and then just for fun he cuts off her head."
"Actually I'd say it was more like ripped," Maggie said, joining the speculations.
"Excuse me?" Racine came around the table for a better angle.
Stan turned his contraption so that Racine had a better view of the decapitation area.
"Agent O'Dell's correct," Stan confirmed.
"Jesus," Racine said. "What kind of fucking monster are we dealing with?"