Chapter Nine

NANCY LOSANO, SEVENTY years old, lived alone in her Westlake home. Described as a recluse by her neighbors, no one noticed anything unusual at the house until a neighbor across the street reported a “suspicious-looking African-American gentleman” peering through Mrs. Losano’s windows. The African-American gentleman turned out to be the neighborhood mailman who wondered why so much mail was accumulating in the victim’s mailbox. After questioning the postman, the police broke into Mrs. Losano’s home and found her body lying on the living room floor.

Based on the advanced state of decomposition, the medical examiner estimated Mrs. Losano had been dead at least six weeks, easily predating the murders Hannah and I were already investigating. Factors tying this homicide to the later murders included the sex of the victim and the cause of death, a jagged knife wound to the throat. The Westlake location also provided a possible link to Saint Edmund’s—the Losano home was just three miles from the church.

Hannah and I agreed to meet at my apartment to plot our strategy moving forward. While waiting for her arrival, I called Father Lawrence. The Losano murder had yet to hit the evening news, and I wanted to find out if the victim was in any way connected to Saint Edmund’s.

Father Lawrence was shaken by the news of the latest murder. From the Saint Edmund’s parishioner database, it appeared Mrs. Losano belonged to the church and was a regular contributor until five years ago. After that point, Father could find no record of her attendance, though he did note that Saint Edmund’s had a “Meals on Wheels” program that served a number of elderly whether or not they were active in the church. He promised to check with the woman who directed the program to see if Mrs. Losano was part of their route.

John was the next person I called. He’d left several messages the previous evening, hoping to come by and play Mortal Kombat.

Video game nights with John typically degenerated into a surreal if not bizarre series of simulated conflicts. After the first hour or so, we invariably ended up ignoring the stated purpose of the game to see how quickly we could kill each other. We both found the experience surprisingly relaxing, though the presence of beer likely hastened that process significantly.

I told John, quite truthfully, that I’d spent most of last evening discussing my latest case with a detective from the Cleveland Police Department. John didn’t push for details, but he asked if he could stop by. As much as I wouldn’t have minded the distraction, I told him she and I needed to meet again that night to discuss some new developments.

I knew when I said the word “she” that I’d made a grievous error. John had been trying to find me a girlfriend ever since my transition. When it came to sex, he also had the maturity of a twelve-year-old.

“Whoa, you’re actually meeting with a woman? Is she cute? How old is she?”

I had no intention of filling him in on last night’s events, at least not until I’d had time to process them myself. “I’ll give you the rundown. She’s a police detective, and she’s cute. She’s probably in her late twenties, though I didn’t ask for her birth certificate. Personality-wise, think of me in female clothing.”

“The personality thing is terrifying. Are you going to sleep with her?”

“I’m hanging up now, John.”

“Oh my God, you already have. Are you on a twice a decade schedule? Your mother and I have a bet going. She’s going to be thrilled.”

Knowing my mom, he might be telling the truth. “If only I had one friend who wasn’t an asshole,” I said.

“Given that you only have one friend, I guess you’re out of luck. I’ll leave you to your little rendezvous, but I want the details the next time we talk.”

He hung up just as Hannah arrived at my apartment. Before we started discussing the case, she insisted on a tour. Given the size of my living space, our walk-through lasted about thirty seconds.

“You have no pictures hanging,” Hannah said. “I figured I would at least see one of your mom.”

“I guess I’m not a picture person. Come to think of it, I didn’t notice any pictures of your parents at your house.”

“That’s true, but you like your mom.”

We decided to fix supper before we talked about the case. Based on our mutual lack of culinary skills, spaghetti and salad seemed the only acceptable risks. I boiled water for the spaghetti while Hannah mixed together some lettuce, tomato, and cucumber for a salad.

All things considered, the result wasn’t too bad. I could never eat much of my own cooking, but Hannah made up for my reticence as she ate her pasta with gusto. We talked in between bites.

“So we have another murder that fits within our narrative,” I said. “If you assume they’re all connected, you have to wonder why the other two killings were announced during confession while this one wasn’t.”

“If the Losano murder was his first kill,” Hannah replied, “he may have decided later he wanted to make it into a game. Even if that’s true, we’re still left with your original question—why Saint Edmund’s? The church is in Westlake, and the Losano home is only a short distance away. Does the murderer also live in Westlake, and is he connected to the parish?

“The other possibility is the one you mentioned on the phone. The murderer could have a prior connection to Father Samuel, and he’s trying to torment Samuel in some way. What did you think when you spoke to him? Is Samuel telling the truth?”

In between bites of spaghetti, I said, “While I don’t like him personally, I’ve no reason to think he wasn’t truthful. Father Samuel said he didn’t recognize the voice in the confessional. He graduated from the Jesuit seminary in New Orleans, but he said nothing had occurred there that would lead him to believe he was being targeted.”

“Does Samuel speak with a Southern or French Quarter accent?”

I realized immediately where she was going, and I could have kicked myself for not thinking of it sooner. “No, he doesn’t, and no, I didn’t ask if Father Samuel was actually from that area. I can’t believe I missed that, but I’ll follow up.”

“Once you do, call me with the information. I can call the police departments in New Orleans and his home city to see if there were any similar murders when Father Samuel was there.”

“I’ll ask Father Lawrence about Samuel’s hometown. There’s also one other detail of note regarding the parish. Mrs. Losano wasn’t an active member of Saint Edmund’s, but they have a meal program that might have visited her home. Father Lawrence was looking into it, so I’ll call and check on both questions.”

Father Lawrence picked up on the first ring. After I explained we weren’t targeting Father Samuel, he gave me some background information regarding Samuel’s hometown. From his records, Samuel was born and raised in Manhattan, Kansas, a small college town home to Kansas State University. Father Samuel wasn’t prone to discussing his family background, having fallen out with both parents over his decision to join the priesthood.

Regarding my second question, Father Lawrence couldn’t find any record for Nancy Losano in the church’s Meals on Wheels client listing. He stressed this wasn’t a definitive “no” on that point. The church often received last-minute add-on requests, which weren’t entered in program records. Father Lawrence still intended to speak to the woman who ran the program once she returned from vacation.

I filled Hannah in on the details, and she promised to follow up with the police departments in Manhattan and New Orleans. With that, she was still operating under the assumption the killer’s connection was to the parish rather than to Father Samuel specifically.

“Now for the other question,” she said after we’d finished. “I left a bag of clothes in my car along with a toothbrush. Is there any chance I could stay? I’m hoping you’re not the kind of guy who’d make a girl drive home in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t know. You saw my bed. You’d pretty much have to sleep on top of me.”

“I think we can make that work.”

We made it work rather well, and I was both happy and exhausted when we finally fell asleep. That feeling lasted until the dream.

 

I was walking down a long, narrow street shrouded in the kind of fog one finds in werewolf movies set in the English moors. It was night. The street looked nothing like the Montis Avenue of my youth, but I knew it was Montis all the same.

As I continued walking, cracks appeared in the sidewalk. I started skipping over them like I did when I was a child, the old nursery rhyme seeming like the most critical task in the world right then. Avoiding the cracks was easy at first, but they soon started appearing more and more often. Eventually, I landed on one, and the sidewalk shifted, causing me to fall. Now lying on the ground, I looked up, and the three teenagers I’d encountered in my youth stood right in front of me.

I knew I must say something, but the words wouldn’t come. I remembered my gun and reached behind me only to realize I was once again a teenager, wearing nothing but a school uniform and a backpack. Sensing my impotence, the three boys laughed and began kicking me over and over. They say it’s impossible to feel pain in a dream, but my body recoiled from every contact. Eventually, the kicking stopped, and the three teenagers stood me up and started ripping at my clothing. Suddenly, I was naked, and the name-calling began. They called me fag, homo, lesbo, and a host of other names I’d heard many times before. I wondered why they hurt so much now.

Eventually, they stopped, and I noticed a tall man moving forward behind the three. The man was huge, so big I couldn’t see his face from beneath the fog. The tall man continued forward, and the others handed me to him like an offering.

Now in the man’s grip, I was almost unsurprised to feel the knife at my throat. With one quick movement of his hand, my blood began to spurt like a fountain from some demented horror movie. The man laughed, and all of my tormenters turned to walk away. With my throat cut, I was unable to cry out. I watched the group disappear as I died alone on the sidewalk.

Before perishing, I felt an emotion I’d never experienced before. For the first time in my life, I felt ashamed.