Silent Killer

Chapter Eleven

Jack folded the morning newspapers-the Dunmore Daily, the Huntsville Times and the Decatur Daily-and dumped them into the wastebasket. Four days ago, after Father Brian’s charred body had been found at the park, a hotshot Huntsville Times reporter named Grant Sharpe had given the killer a particularly appropriate label, dubbing him the Fire and Brimstone Killer. The local and regional press had picked up on the title, and now even the folks at the sheriff’s department were using the phrase. So here they were, ninety-six hours after the priest’s horrific murder, without even one suspect, a fact that the press pointed out in bold headlines. Sharpe’s coverage of the case stated that the task force, comprised of members from both local and state law-enforcement agencies, had a serial killer on their hands and apparently weren’t equipped to deal with that type of case. The reporter had all but referred to the task-force members as a bunch of redneck yokels who couldn’t stick their finger up their ass with both hands.

The autopsy results weren’t in yet, but no one expected the findings to reveal anything more than the initial report had told them. Brian Myers had been doused with gasoline and set on fire. Possibly, the severe third-degree burns over most of his body hadn’t killed him. Not instantly. Shock had probably set in, and without immediate medical attention, the priest’s body had shut down. But even if he had been discovered quickly and rushed to the hospital, his odds wouldn’t have been good. After all, Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph hadn’t survived.

Jack gathered up the crime-scene photos spread out before him and opened the file folder to replace them, but when he heard someone say his name, he laid everything down on his gray, metal desk. Glancing around the open office area-his desk was located on the left, near the windows-he saw one of his fellow officers talking to a stranger and pointing his way. The tall, lanky guy, dressed in casual yet obviously expensive slacks, shirt and jacket, smiled at the officer, thanked him and walked straight toward Jack. As he approached, Jack sized him up: mid-to-late thirties; about six-two; wavy, black hair in need of cutting; intelligent dark eyes; and an easy smile that projected self-confidence.

“Jackson Perdue?” the man asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Derek Lawrence.” The former FBI profiler offered his hand.

Jack shook hands with the guy. “I didn’t expect you to show up. I thought you’d just call or e-mail.”

“That was the original plan when Maleah first asked me to come in on this case. But once I received the information and went over it, I realized that I’d never seen a situation quite like this before. Your killer fascinates me.”

Jack looked Derek right in the eye. “Does he? Why is that?”

“He-or she-has chosen unlikely victims-clergymen. And his method is not only cruel and painfully violent, it sends a message, one that our killer wants the world to hear.”

Jack nodded. “Have a seat. I want to hear your theory.” Jack hitched his thumb in the general direction of the coffeemaker. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Jack pulled up an empty chair and placed it in front of his desk. The two men settled into their seats, the desk separating them, and then Jack asked, “What message is our killer sending?”

“You’ve probably already figured it out. Our killer is saying-no, he or she is screaming, ‘I hate you. I’m punishing you, and I want you to burn for your sins, for what you did to me.’”

Jack grunted. “So we’re dealing with a person who at some point in his or her life was somehow wronged by a clergyman, and now he’s killing that minister or priest over and over again?”

“That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”

“Like you said, we figured that our killer hates preachers, but I don’t see how knowing this helps us catch the guy.”

“It doesn’t,” Derek said. “I’ve gone through ViCAP-the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data base-and come up with similar crimes, but none that are actual matches to your three Fire and Brimstone murders. Setting people on fire isn’t something new. And clergymen have been killed before. What we have to concentrate on is what makes these three crimes different and what links them together.”

“You’re the expert. You tell me.”

“Your killer doesn’t fall completely into either the organized or disorganized offender category, but that’s not unusual. An offender doesn’t always reflect all the crime-scene characteristics or personal characteristics of one or the other.”

“Look, you’re going to have to speak plain English to me,” Jack admitted. “I’m new at this. I’m an ex-soldier. My experience is limited. I’ve been with the sheriff’s department for only a few weeks.”

Derek eyed Jack speculatively. “I’m surprised the sheriff chose you to work on the task force.”

“The sheriff assigned the department’s cold cases to me, sort of a way to break me in, I guess. The Cantrell murder was one of those cases.”

“Even so, I’d have thought he’d put a more seasoned deputy on the task force. Do you feel as if you’re in over your head?”

“Maybe.” Jack shrugged. “Guess I’ll learn as I go. And I did bring in an expert to help us out, didn’t I?”

Derek chuckled. “Yes, so you did. That probably earned you a few brownie points with your boss.”

Jack grinned. “So tell me, Mr. Expert, all about how you can’t pigeonhole our killer.”

“Be glad to. It’s simple. The killer planned these murders, chose his victims in advance and personalized the victims, all characteristics of an organized killer. But on the other hand, he probably knew his victims or at least knew who they were. He left his victims in plain view at the scene of the crime, and with the use of gasoline and the Pocket Torch lighters left at the scene, the weapon couldn’t be hidden. Those are all characteristics of a disorganized killer.”

“A killer with a split personality?”

“Our killer is what we refer to as a ‘mixed personality,’ which is actually fairly common.”

“Are you saying that in trying to come up with a profile of our killer, you’ve struck out?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Derek grinned. “How about that cup of coffee?”

“Cream? Sugar?” Jack asked.

“Black.”

Jack got up, went to the coffeemaker and poured two Styrofoam cups three-fourths full of the strong, black brew. He returned to his desk, handed Derek one of the cups and sat back down.

After taking a couple of sips, Derek said, “We assume the same person killed the two ministers and the priest. Why?”

“All three victims were clergymen. All three lived within a fifty-mile radius of one another. All three were doused with gasoline and set on fire, using a torch lighter that enabled him to lock the flame before using it. And all three murders occurred within an eighteen-month time span.”

“It’s unlikely that the similarities of the murders were coincidental. So think about it. What other similarities were there?”

“So far, all the victims have been white. All have been between thirty and fifty years old, and all have been Christians.”

“Charles Randolph had been accused of stealing from his congregation. Had the other two committed any type of crime?” Derek asked.

“No. If they had, I’d have included that information in the files I sent you.”

“Hmm…Stealing is a sin, right? So what if the other two ministers didn’t commit crimes, but did commit sins?”

“And just how would we go about trying to discover what sins these men might have committed, if they actually did?”

“Talk to people who knew them.”

Jack tapped the manila folder on his desk. “That’s been done. Family and friends were interviewed extensively after each murder. Mark Cantrell was a saint according to everyone who knew him. His only weakness seems to have been his love for golf. And so far, Father Brian is coming across as damn near perfect.”

“No one is perfect.” Derek took another sip of coffee. “All humans have numerous weaknesses, and few are true saints. Perhaps our killer either knew something no one else knew or he projected someone else’s sins onto these men. In his mind, our offender is probably killing the same person over and over again, perhaps punishing him for his sins.”

“How does this help identify our killer?”

Derek picked up his cup and took a couple of swigs of the cooling coffee.

“Using the info we have at this point, it’s likely that our killer is a young, white male with a ‘mixed’ personality who is punishing his victims for the sins of someone who possibly harmed him in some way. He’s also mobile. His victims, though living within a fifty-mile radius, did not live in the same town, which means he probably either owns a car or has access to one.”

“That certainly narrows it down,” Jack said sarcastically. He finished off his coffee, crushed the cup and tossed it into the wastebasket atop the morning’s newspapers.

“Profiling is not an exact science. It’s mostly putting puzzle pieces together and coming up with an educated guess. I hate to say this, but the more murders the offender commits, the more clues we’ll have, and that means a more thorough profile.”

Jack huffed. “I suppose I expected too much from you.”

“Sorry I can’t pinpoint your guy and hand him to you on a silver platter. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over all the files again and stick around, maybe talk to a few people.”

“Who do you want to talk to?”

“People who knew the victims. Friends and family.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you think the families have been through enough without being questioned again?”

“Even if it might help catch the killer?”

Jack looked Derek square in the eyes. “Can you promise me that it will?”

“No, of course not, but-”

“Run your request by Sheriff Birkett,” Jack said, reasonably certain that Mike would say no.

“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Derek dropped his empty coffee cup into Jack’s wastebasket, paused, eyed the newspapers and then glanced at Jack. “I’ll put my official report in writing and give it to you before I leave Dunmore.”

Elliott Floyd met Cathy in the middle of his tastefully decorated office. He glanced over her shoulder, smiled at his secretary, who closed the door, and then he reached out to take Cathy’s hand.

“Come in and sit down, Mrs. Cantrell.”

After they shook hands, he led her to one of two leather armchairs facing his large, mahogany desk. Once she’d taken a seat, she subtly studied him from the top of his thinning dark hair to his expensive Italian leather loafers. Probably in his late forties, Elliott Floyd dressed the part of a successful lawyer, his suit no doubt tailor-made to fit his trim, five-nine body.

“My friend Lorie Hammonds recommended you, Mr. Floyd,” Cathy said as she folded her hands together in her lap.

“Yes, Lorie’s a friend of my wife.”

“I had hoped not to have to do this-hire a lawyer-but I realize that I don’t actually have a choice, and, according to Lorie, you’re the best lawyer in Dunmore, possibly in the whole state.”

Elliott smiled, creating dimples in his apple-round cheeks. “I see. So, tell me why you need my services.”

“A year ago, I had an emotional breakdown. I checked myself into Haven Home in Birmingham and underwent extensive psychiatric care. I was released as an outpatient six months ago and then given a clean bill of health last month. I have a fifteen-year-old son who has been living with my in-laws for the past year. They have legal custody of him.” She leaned forward, her hands entwined in a prayerlike gesture. “I want custody of my son.”

“I take it that his grandparents are opposed to your having custody.”

“Yes.”

“What does your son want?”

“Seth is torn between wanting to please his grandfather and not wanting to hurt me.”

“Is there any reason why your in-laws are not proper guardians for your son?”

“No. J.B. and Mona are good Christian people. They’re well liked and well respected by the community. J.B. is an elder in the church.”

“I take it that you’ve tried talking to your in-laws about this and making some type of arrangement that-”

“My father-in-law has made it perfectly clear that he believes I’m emotionally unfit and he has no intention of allowing Seth to live with me now or ever.”

“Will your psychiatrist testify to your emotional stability?”

“Yes.”

“Can you financially support your son?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything in your personal life that would make you an unfit mother?”

“Other than the entire town knowing I’ve been at Haven Home?”

Elliott nodded.

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“You’re a widow. Is that correct? Your husband was a local minister, the one murdered by the person the press is now referring to as the Fire and Brimstone Killer.”

Cathy inhaled and exhaled, then replied, “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Seth is your only child?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’d talk to me? I’d like to get a sense of what he wants and how he feels about his grandparents retaining custody.”

“And how he feels about me?”

“Yes, that, too.”

“Does this mean you’ll take my case?”

“If it comes to that, yes, I’ll represent you, Mrs. Cantrell.”

Cathy rose to her feet. “Thank you. I’ll speak to Seth, and if he agrees to talk to you, I’ll call your secretary and make an appointment.”

Elliott stood, rounded his desk and escorted Cathy out of his office. When they reached the outer door that led to the sidewalk, he patted her shoulder.

“We’ll do everything we can to settle this matter without going to court.”

She forced a smile.

When he turned around and went back inside, she stood there and looked at the renovated antebellum cottage that had been converted into Elliott Floyd’s office. In the past dozen years or so, many of Dunmore’s older downtown homes had undergone facelifts, some as simple as fresh coats of paint and new roofs, others far more extensive.

Cathy checked her watch. She had a lunchtime appointment with Jack and his contractor, Clay Yarbrough, whom she’d never met.

Lorie had offered to take over as the consultant on this job, cautioning her about what it might cost her to renew her friendship with Jackson Perdue. But she had spent a lifetime playing it safe, doing what was expected of her, fulfilling other people’s wishes. Never again.

“You can’t turn back the clock,” Lorie had told her. “Even if you and Jack reconnect, it won’t be the same.”

No, it wouldn’t be the same. She didn’t expect it to be. Actually, she didn’t expect anything in particular. But whether she worked with Jack professionally or dated him or became his lover again, the decisions were hers to make.

Seth had jumped at the chance to do Brother Hovater’s yard work. He had three very good reasons: it pleased Granddad that their minister had asked Seth; it gave him a chance to earn some money this summer to save toward buying himself a car; and, last but most important, it gave him the opportunity to be near Missy.

Being here at his old home, cutting the grass and trimming the hedges that he had once helped his dad cut, seemed odd. He halfway expected his mom to come out the back door and bring him a bottle of Gatorade. But this was no longer his home. He and his mom and dad didn’t live here anymore. Sometimes his old life seemed like little more than a dream, as if it had been some other guy’s life.

“Hey, you,” Felicity called loudly as she came up behind him. “Why don’t you take a break? Missy and I are fixing to eat lunch, and we made enough sandwiches for all of us.”

Seth turned off the Weed Eater, propped it against the fence and yanked a rag from the back pocket of his old, tattered shorts. As he swiped the perspiration off his forehead, he turned around and faced Felicity.

“Her dad’s not here, if that’s what’s worrying you. He’s gone to Decatur to set up a gospel meeting with the church over there.”

Seth glanced past Felicity. Missy, all summer-tan brown in khaki walking shorts and a sleeveless red blouse, set a tray of sandwiches and iced tea down on the patio table. His gaze met hers. She smiled, then waved and motioned him to come on over.

“You like her, don’t you?” Felicity asked.

When he didn’t reply, she socked him in the arm. “What’d you do that for?” he asked.

“She’s nearly eighteen, you know, and you’re only fifteen. She’s not going to date a guy younger than she is.”

“I’ll be sixteen soon,” Seth said. “In August.”

“You don’t even have a car,” Felicity reminded him. “Besides that, your grandparents won’t let you date.”

“What makes you think-?”

“Just how many dates have you had, not counting being Shannon Moore’s Homecoming Court escort?”

“I’ll be dating when I turn sixteen, and I’m going to get a car, too. That’s one of the reasons I’m doing yard work this summer.”

The gate that led from the back yard to the front swung open, and Charity stood there for a couple of minutes staring at Seth and Felicity.

“What are you looking at?” Felicity snapped at her sister.

“Sorry, I-I wasn’t expecting to see Seth here today,” Charity said.

“Yoo-hoo!” Missy called out and waved. “Come on, y’all, let’s eat.”

Within minutes the four of them sat around the patio table munching on ham sandwiches, chips and pickles and sipping on ice-cold sweet tea.

“Thanks for inviting us to lunch today,” Charity said. “Mom’s working at Treasures all day, and I dreaded having lunch with Grandma. I guess I shouldn’t say such a thing, but-”

“But she’s a weird old lady who scolds us all the time and reminds us to be good girls and watch out for all the evil in the world, especially evil men.” Felicity laughed.

With his gaze glued to Missy, Seth noted an odd expression cross her face. Just a flicker, there and gone in a second. Then he glanced at Felicity and couldn’t help comparing the two girls. Missy was prettier in a wholesome sort of way. She wore very little makeup and dressed in what his granddad would call a demure, ladylike manner. Of course, with her being a Church of Christ preacher’s daughter, she had been taught to walk the straight and narrow. On the other hand, Felicity, too, was a minister’s daughter, but for some reason her parents let her get away with murder. If she’d take off some of that makeup, remove her violet contact lenses and quit dying her hair jet black, Felicity would be a cute girl.

“How was your first morning at Bright Side?” Missy asked Charity. “Is it weird to be around all those people with mental handicaps?”

“I’m working in Mrs. Maxwell’s office. She’s a very nice person. I’m answering the phone and filing stuff and entering information in the computer. I won’t actually be around the students all that much. My first morning there has been great, except-” She quieted abruptly.

“Except what?” Felicity asked as she finished off her second sandwich.

“Nothing. I shouldn’t say anything about it.” Charity lifted her glass to her lips and sipped her tea.

“You have to tell us now,” Felicity said. “Whatever it is, we can keep a secret, can’t we, guys?” She looked from Missy to Seth and then back to her sister. “Come on, spill it.”

“I really shouldn’t, but…well…Mrs. Maxwell,” Charity cleared her throat. “She told me to call her Kim.”

“Good God, stop hem-hawing around.” Felicity rolled her eyes in aggravation.

“Kim’s father came by to see her this morning, and I couldn’t help overhearing part of their conversation. They were talking pretty loud,” Charity said. “Her father is a Presbyterian minister over in Decatur, and his wife is sick. From what I could make out, he doesn’t want to take care of her himself, so Kim recommended one of her students to come live with Reverend Kelley and take care of his wife.”

Felicity groaned. “Is that it? That’s boring news. I thought you knew some deep, dark secret. Maybe something scandalous.”

“It is scandalous when a man doesn’t want to take care of his sick wife, don’t you think?” Missy said. “If he really loved her…”

“The way your dad loved and took care of your mom when she was sick,” Charity said.

When Missy didn’t respond to Charity’s comment, Felicity grabbed the bag of potato chips and shook out a tall stack onto her plate. “So were they arguing, Mrs. Maxwell and her father?”

“Yes, I think so.” Charity shook her head. “I only heard bits and pieces of their conversation, but I think they were arguing about the best way to take care of Kim’s mother. My guess is that Reverend Kelley wants to put her away somewhere so he doesn’t have to be bothered with her.”

Felicity faked several yawns as she patted her hand over her mouth. “Boring stuff. Let’s talk about something more interesting.”

Frowning, Charity gave her sister a condemning glare.

To break the tension in the air, Missy asked, “Are y’all going to the youth rally Reverend Floyd is hosting tomorrow night? Just about everybody from school is going.”

“A youth rally,” Felicity whined. “Jesus, Missy, you’re as boring as Charity. You two really need to get a life.”

“I’m going,” Seth said. “To the rally. Granddad isn’t much into my visiting other churches, but since this is being held at the community center and it’s not any kind of church service, he’s okay with my going.”

Missy smiled at Seth, and suddenly everyone else disappeared. They were the only two people in the world. “I’m going, too. Would you like to ride with me? Dad’s letting me take my car.”

“Hey, if you two are going, count me in,” Felicity said. “Pick me up, too, okay?”

Seth wanted to tell Felicity that she hadn’t been invited to go with them, but he’d been taught not to be rude. Besides, before he had a chance to do more than process the fact that Felicity had just blown his big chance to be alone with Missy, Missy said, “Of course. All of you can ride with me. We’ll make a night of it. You know the youth rally lasts until eight o’clock Saturday morning.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that.” Felicity looked right at Seth. “We could slip off in the night and have some real fun.”