The priest had forced his hand with that stupid confession rule, and the only way to get around it had been to break the rule himself by letting the police have a copy of the tape. Always thinking ahead, that was the ticket. One quick trip to Super Sid’s Warehouse to pick up a three-pack of blank cassettes, a couple of manila envelopes, and he had taken care of the problem.
He would not allow anyone or anything to interfere with his schedule, which was why he always had an alternative plan of action in mind. Anticipate and respond. That was the key.
He let out a loud yawn. There was so much to do in preparation, and because he was meticulous to a fault in everything he did, he needed every single minute of the next couple of weeks to get ready for his own special Fourth of July celebration.
It promised to be… explosive.
Now he was on his way to St. Louis, thanks to his helpful friend, the Internet. What a wondrous invention that was. The perfect accomplice. It never whined, complained, cried, or demanded. And he didn’t have to waste precious time training it. It was like a well-paid whore, giving him what he wanted, when he wanted it. No questions asked.
Who would have imagined it would be so easy to learn how to make your own bombs in simple one-two-three steps a child of average intelligence could follow, with colorful illustrations to help the slow-witted along? If you had the money-which he did-you could order more sophisticated triggering devices-which he had-and lovely "enhancing" kits that turned little ear-tingling pops into ear-bleeding booms guaranteed to take out a city block, or your money back. He didn’t have any desire to find nuclear ingredients, but he had a feeling that if he searched the subterranean rooms long enough and got real friendly with those stupidly dedicated anarchists, he would find everything but the plutonium. Weapons weren’t a problem either, as long as you knew where to click on. And he did, of course. Yes, he did.
Although he had ordered lots of interesting little gadgets through the Internet, he hadn’t ordered the explosives because he knew the mules could be monitoring the sight. Still, he’d gotten the connection he’d needed from one of his buddies who had hooked him up with an illegal dealer operating out of the Midwest, which was why he was now breezing down I-70 with his shopping list in his pocket.
He spotted a roadside rest area ahead and thought about stopping so he could get his copy of the tape out of the back of the van. He wanted to listen to the priest’s voice again, but then he saw the police car parked there and he immediately changed his mind.
The mules were probably replaying the tape now while they made copious notes. It wasn’t going to do them any good though. They weren’t smart like he was. They wouldn’t get anything from his voice except maybe the region he came from, and who cared about that? They would never figure out his game until it was over and he had won.
He knew what the mules were calling him. The unsub. He liked the sound of it and decided that Unknown Subject was about the best nickname he’d ever acquired. The simplicity of it appealed to him, he supposed. By using the word unknown, the mules-his nickname for the FBI agents-were admitting how inept and incompetent they were, and there was something honest and pure about their stupidity and their ignorance. The mules actually knew they were mules. How delightful.
"Are we having fun yet?" he shouted as he sped down the highway. And then he laughed again. "Oh, yes, we are," he added with another chuckle. "Yes, sirree."
Chapter 8
Two detectives from the Kansas City Police Department, Maria Rodrigues and Frances McCann, arrived at the rectory a little past two. As the interview got under way, Nick, silent and watchful, remained by Laurant’s side. He let the detectives run the show and didn’t interfere in the questioning or volunteer any opinions or suggestions. When he got up to leave the room, Laurant had to force herself not to grab hold of him to keep him there. She wanted him close by, even if only to offer moral support, but he’d gotten a phone call from a man named George Walker, a profiler assigned to the case.
Tommy joined them, and the first couple of minutes with him were very predictable. Like most women who met her brother for the first time, the detectives seemed captivated and had trouble taking their eyes off him.
"Are you a full-fledged priest?" Detective McCann asked. "I mean, have you been ordained and everything?"
Tommy gave her one of his grins, completely unaware of the heart flutters they caused in most women, and responded, "I’m full-fledged."
"Maybe we should stick to the investigation," Rodrigues suggested to her partner.
McCann flipped open her notepad and looked at Laurant. "Did your brother tell you how we got hold of the tape?" She didn’t wait for an answer but continued. "The son of a bitch just strolled inside the police station sometime last night, dropped his little package, and then strolled right back out. I mean, it was the perfect time ‘cause it was a zoo in there. Two big drug busts had just gone down and they were dragging their drugged-out asses in for over an hour. The watch said he didn’t notice the package until things had calmed down. Anyway, we figure he must have been dressed in blues, like a street cop, or maybe he was pretending to be a lawyer, come to bail his client out. No one remembers seeing anyone with a manila envelope," she added. "That’s what the tape was in, and to be honest, it was such a hectic time, I doubt anyone would have noticed the envelope if the son of a bitch hadn’t called."
"He called 911 from a pay phone in City Center Square," Rodrigues interjected. "That isn’t too far from here."
"The guy’s got steel balls, I’ll give him that," McCann remarked. She colored then and blurted, "Sorry about the language, Father. I’ve been hanging around Rodrigues too long."
"So what can you tell us?" Rodrigues asked Laurant.
Laurant raised her hands in a gesture of futility. She didn’t have the faintest idea how to help them-she couldn’t even come up with a viable theory as to why she had been targeted.
The detectives didn’t have any leads yet, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. They had already canvassed the neighborhood, searching for witnesses who might have noticed a stranger or a car in the vicinity late Saturday afternoon. No one had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, which hadn’t surprised the detectives.
"People around here are suspicious of the police," Rodrigues explained. "We’re hoping that if anyone saw anything peculiar, he’ll confide in Monsignor or maybe even Father Tom here. The parishioners trust their priests."
Neither Rodrigues nor McCann were optimistic about catching the unsub quickly. They would have to wait and see what developed.
Maybe the letter the man had told Tommy he’d mailed would shed some insight. Then again, maybe not.
"Aside from assaulting Father Tom here, no other crime has been committed," McCann said. "At least not yet anyway."
"Do you mean to tell me that if I’m murdered, then you’ll look into it?" Laurant asked a little more sharply than she intended.
McCann, the more blunt of the two, responded. "Do you want me to sugarcoat it or be honest?"
"Be honest."
"Okay," she replied. "We’re pretty territorial, kinda like big cats, and it would depend on where he dumped the body. If it’s our city, we take the case."
"A crime has already been committed," Tommy reminded them.
"Yes," Rodrigues agreed. "You were assaulted, but-"
Tommy interrupted. "I didn’t mean that. He confessed to killing another woman."
"Yeah, well, he says he killed her," Rodrigues countered. "He could have been lying about that."
McCann volunteered her opinion that the incident in the confessional was just a sick prank by an irate man who maybe had a grudge against Father Tom and wanted to get back at him. That was why, she explained, they had spent so much time on their first call questioning him about possible enemies.