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The priest wasn’t on my list of murder victims. I hunted down his current address. I hoped talking to him would give me something to go on. Also, the dead woman had a brother named Devon, but so far, I hadn't been able to locate a current address for him. The priest had a small church located in a strip mall in Tempe, about nineteen miles away. The interstate made it an easy drive. I got there just before one o'clock and caught Father Bartholomew just finishing in the confessional. He led me into a dingy office where we could talk undisturbed. A small, nervous man of about fifty, he was already nearly bald, with just a fringe of hair above his ears. His most arresting feature was his deep blue eyes that held a lively intelligence.
I wasn't sure what I wanted him to tell me, so I said, “Father, I need to ask you a few questions. Some of them may sound a little strange, but I promise you they're important.”
He said, “I can tell you are troubled. How can I help you?”
“I'm not sure myself, so I'll just start asking and see where it leads. I understand you were witness to the choking death of a young woman in the Coffeehouse Café downtown. What can you tell me about that incident?”
His features completely changed, aging him before my eyes. He said, “I'd hoped I would never have to think about that day again.”
He paused so long I thought he wasn’t going to say anything else, but finally he continued.
“I was nearly finished eating. The restaurant was near the church where I was assisting, and I ate there often. On that day, a young woman was there. I'd noticed her earlier because she was alone, and I wondered if she worked in the area.”
“You didn't know her personally, then?”
“No, I'd never seen her. All at once she stood, coughing and choking. She was shaking and jerking like she couldn't get a breath. My first thought was that she was having a convulsion and might be epileptic. For a few seconds, no one noticed, but soon everyone was staring. I'd already started in her direction to see if I could help when someone asked if anyone knew CPR. I knew it wasn't CPR she needed, but the Heimlich maneuver might save her life if she were choking on food. When I got close, I knew immediately that wasn't the problem. There was some foam around her mouth, and I noticed a faint smell of almonds. I'd read these were symptoms of poisoning, and if my mystery stories were correct, arsenic could cause them. I turned and asked the waitress to call an ambulance, and she told me one was on the way. The woman looked as though she were about to fall, so I lowered her carefully to the floor. Several people crowded around and were going to try to clear her throat, but when I showed them her symptoms, no one ventured too close. The ambulance arrived quickly, but we knew before they pronounced her that the woman was dead.”
“Had you seen anyone close to the woman before she got sick? Did anyone talk to her?”
“No. Like I said, she was eating alone. The only one who went near the table was the waitress when she took her order and then again when she brought the food. The woman had ordered the special, which was chicken fried steak. Probably half of us present had eaten the same thing.”
“Can you tell me what happened then?”
“I can try. I was feeling horrible that we hadn't been able to do anything to help her. The policeman told us after he checked the identification in her purse that her name was Judy, Judy Cantwell. Knowing who she was made it all seem worse.”
“What policeman?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. I'm getting things out of order. Recalling it still upsets me. A policeman showed up right after she died. He was there even before the ambulance. He asked us a few questions and took down all our names and addresses. He said he was sure the coroner's report would show that the poor woman had choked to death, and he sent us all home. The next day I saw an article in the paper saying she had indeed died because she'd choked on a piece of meat. I figured I'd read too many old-time murder mysteries, and I blamed myself that we hadn't done anything to help her.”
“Was that the end of it, then? You didn't hear anything more from the police?”
“I never heard another thing from the police, but that wasn't the end of it, not by a long shot. I was still feeling awful, thinking I should have done the Heimlich after all, when two days later I had a visit from a man claiming to be the woman's brother. He was beyond grief, seemed completely demented and accused me of murdering his sister. He said we could have saved her and because we didn't try, everyone in the restaurant that day was guilty of murder and wore we would all pay.”
“What did you think? Did you feel like he personally intended to make you pay or that he was just hurt and angry?”
“At the time, I felt extremely sorry for him. I wasn't sure he could ever get over losing his sister. He was a big man, but looked haggard and haunted.”
“You say at the time. Did you change your mind?”
“I never stopped being sorry about the death, but it was hard to hold on to charitable thoughts about the man. I had no proof my tormentor was Judy's brother, but from the first day he visited me, I began getting threatening phone calls, crude, threatening letters in the mail, and packages containing things like dead cats. The police refused to consider Devon, that was the brother's name, responsible. I knew some of the other people who had been in the restaurant that day because they attended my church. Several of them told me of similar experiences without my asking, while others only admitted they were being threatened when I brought up the subject. Even with this knowledge, the police assured me it was probably an angry parishioner and was only idle threats. That didn't make sense to me, because a parishioner would have no reason to threaten the others. They said nothing ever came of that type of threat, and I should quit worrying. Since the others had only been threatened in the mail and couldn't identify anyone, I could never get the police to question the brother.”
“Did you and the others believe the police, or did you think you were in danger?”
“I don't know what the others thought. I was not convinced we were safe, but after a few weeks passed and nothing else happened, I decided maybe I had overreacted. Then Elsie Boatwright was run down in the street, and I suspected Judy's brother was making good on his threats.”
“Elsie was the waitress from the restaurant, wasn't she?”
“Yes, she was a member of my church. We'd talked about the poor girl's death many times. It wasn't long after Elsie was killed that the opportunity came up for me to take over for the priest at this church, and I jumped at the chance. I haven't been sorry. I like working with young people, so being near the university is great. I advised the others, the ones I knew personally, to move if they could.”
“I think you were wise to make that decision, Father Bartholomew. I'm really sorry to be the one to tell you, but several more of the people who were in the restaurant have been murdered. I am hoping you can give me more of the names of the people that were there that day. I need to talk to them and, if nothing else, at least warn them of danger. I believe the murders won't stop until everyone that was there is dead or he is caught. You need to do whatever you can to protect yourself. If at all possible, now would be a good time to leave town for a while.”
“Once again, I feel like I'm being looked after. Just yesterday, I got an offer to fill in for two months at a church in Tucson. I wasn't sure if I should accept, but this changes things. I can start down there right away, and I'll make sure the people here don't tell anyone how to find me.”
I gave him one of the untraceable email addresses I used for informants and asked him to email me a phone number so I could keep him updated. I left him in the front of the church with his head in his hands. I was pretty sure he was praying, and I hoped he would also take some action on his own. It would be a shame if he became a victim.
Back in my car, I played his story over in my mind. He remembered the incident clearly, and I trusted his account. It bothered me how the police had shown up so quickly, since no one had suspected foul play and only an ambulance had been requested. Why had the policeman arrived moments after Judy's death?
Of the names he gave me, only Bud Leonard wasn’t on John’s list. I looked up the address for the Collins Packing Plant where the priest had said Bud worked. It was located in the area between Phoenix and Glendale. On my way, I have to admit I wasn't thinking about John or serial killers. I couldn't get the thought out of my head that someone had tried to murder me. I knew I'd have to do some serious digging, and I'd have to do it soon. My first priority had to be finding John, but in the meantime, I needed to watch my back.
Close to my destination, the two towns become so mixed together that I can never tell which one I'm in. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I found the plant easily, but it took me another thirty minutes to find the man I wanted to talk to. When I did locate him, Bud Leonard agreed to take a short break. We walked outside to a table in the parking lot where employees can go to smoke. No one was there. Bud immediately lit a cigarette and said, “I don't know you and I haven't the slightest idea what you want, but I never pass up the opportunity to talk to a pretty girl or grab a smoke. If you're trying to collect money, I might as well tell you right now that I'm tapped out.”
He was about to continue with this speech, but I jumped in and said, “Mr. Leonard, I'm not here to cause you any grief. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
I asked him most of the same questions I'd asked the priest. He obviously didn't feel the same charity toward the brother of the deceased, and I got quite an earful on what he'd like to do to the man in question. It's a good thing there aren't any words I haven't heard before or I might have been shocked. Bud's story closely resembled the one Father Bartholomew had told me, even though his language was a lot more colorful. Between the names he gave me of people he knew that were there and the ones the priest had given me, all nine of the names from John’s list had been there. Like the priest, he also remembered the early arrival of the policeman. When I told him about the other deaths and that I believed he might be the next target, he turned white and swayed on his feet. “Shit, now I have to move again. It's good I ain't got no wife or kids. They would make it hard to get outta here quickly and believe me, I'm gone tonight. My ex-brother-in-law lives in New Mexico. Maybe I'll see if he can find me a job over there.”
I didn't try to change his mind because I thought his best chance to stay alive was to disappear. I wasn't sure he'd always have email available, so I gave him a card with a name and a phone number where I would receive information but couldn't be traced back to me. I asked him to leave a message if he thought of anything else useful or if anything unusual happened. I also told him to leave a message with his new contact information so I could notify him when the threat was over.
Most of what the two men had told me was straightforward, but I was confused by their account of Judy's death, because they had both seen the foam around her mouth and smelled the strange smell surrounding her. If two people who just happened to be there noticed those things, why hadn't the cops picked up on it? How could the coroner have missed it? Something was off, and I was wondering if the fact that this woman had been poisoned had been covered up. I knew of no reason why this should be so, but I decided to do some additional research. I'd been so busy finding out about the nine murder victims, I'd neglected to gather information about Judy and her brother. Who were they? Could there be any reason why the authorities would not want it known she had been poisoned? If she were, I could only think of three explanations. Either she had been murdered, she had committed suicide, or it was accidental.