CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Friday, September 18, 12:40 P.M.
“Those murders were tragic—and a stain on this university’s otherwise excellent reputation,” Father O’Hurley said. He sat in the big, leather chair behind his desk under the sanctimonious gaze of his mother as St. Anne in the portrait. “People don’t need to be reminded about something that happened fifty years ago. We’d all just as soon forget . . .”
Sitting across from him once again in the astonishingly uncomfortable straight-back antique chair, Ellie just nodded. She’d already pointed out that she hadn’t shared her theory about a copycat killer with anyone except Detective Castino. “And that was in an effort to help him with his investigation into a student’s death,” she’d added.
But now, she just remained silent. She didn’t mention Look Homeward, Angel again or how much Diana looked like the first victim of the Immaculate Conception murders, Greta Mae Louden. She’d already told him. But he continued to chew her out over her call to Detective Castino.
Ellie guessed that a part of him was aggravated because she’d waited until this morning to return his call. It also must have unnerved him a bit that she didn’t act contrite, throw herself at his mercy, and ask to do a dozen Hail Marys and a dozen Our Fathers as penance.
The ironic thing was that, since talking with Nate Bergquist last night, she wasn’t quite as fixated on the Immaculate Conception murders as before. A part of her was almost willing to accept that Eden O’Rourke might have indeed gone off of her own volition and was perfectly fine right now. And perhaps Diana had, sadly, taken her own life. The theories she had about those events were just that—theories, speculation.
She’d been distracted and sidetracked by everything Nate had told her last night. She’d stayed at his place, talking with him until close to nine o’clock. He’d even ordered them a pizza. While they’d eaten, he’d shown her a second file, which he’d hidden—along with a revolver Frank had given him—under the floorboard of the kitchen cabinet. In the file were articles and photos from Portland newspapers about the explosion at his family cabin. Then she’d come home and read even more about the incident online, including an article debunking the story about the cabin being a crystal meth lab. The piece had several testimonials from Nate’s former patients and colleagues at the veterans hospital. Ellie came to the conclusion that Nate Bergquist was a damn nice guy. And he needed her help.
So, for at least one night, she’d lost focus on the Immaculate Conception murders and the possibility that a copycat killer was now on the loose.
She was almost grateful to Father O’Hurley for reminding her just how important that was.
“That was a terrible time in the history of this university,” he said. In the big picture window behind him, the sky was darkening over the lake. “I won’t let you dredge it up again and cause a panic at the school with all this loose, irresponsible talk about a copycat killer. Do you understand, Ms. Goodwin?”
“Completely, Father.” She got to her feet. “And I’m sorry to have taken up your time with all this. I know you’re busy.”
He seemed a bit flummoxed that she’d gotten up before he was ready to dismiss her. “Yes, well, I hope I won’t have to talk to you again about this,” he grumbled, rising from his chair.
Ellie stopped in front of his office door and turned to him. “I hope not,” she said. “But then, we’ll know for sure by Sunday, won’t we?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Jane Marie Eggert,” Ellie said. “She was last seen at a bar in Highwood on the night of September nineteenth, 1970. Her body was found under a bridge on Sycamore Way the following morning. She’d been strangled. This Sunday is the fiftieth anniversary of when they found Jane’s body.”
He glared at her.
“Have a nice weekend, Father,” Ellie said. “I truly hope it’s uneventful.”
Then she walked out of his office.