Chapter Ten

I SAT UP quickly in bed and managed to knock Hannah to the floor. Still groggy, she climbed back into bed and asked what the hell I was doing.

“I’m sorry. I had a really horrible dream.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear after a night of sex. What was this horrible dream?”

“Ghosts from the past, but do you mind if I ask you a question?”

She didn’t say no, so I pulled her close and continued, “Why are you here with me?”

“I thought I was here because you asked me. What the hell are you getting at?”

“You’re a smart, sexy woman who could be with virtually anyone. Why are you with me?”

“I figured we’d have this conversation at some point, but I never thought it would be at three-thirty in the morning. I’m going to tell you two things, and then you’re going to shut up and let me get some sleep.”

She fluffed her pillow and continued. “First of all, for a guy who’s pretty self-confident in most aspects of his life, you seem to think you’re always wearing a big, scarlet ‘T’ on your chest. I can’t prove this, but I would guess 80 to 90 percent of the people you pass on the street think you are a man no different than any other man. Look at yourself in the mirror sometime. Some transgender men look girlish, but you aren’t one of them. You make a pretty sexy guy, particularly with that dark, wavy hair. I’m not saying I wouldn’t dump you in a second for George Clooney, but I would at least have to spend a second thinking about it. I wouldn’t have realized you were transgender when we first met if I hadn’t been checking you out.”

“You were checking me out?”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t doing the same thing. I was just much less obvious. Even the priest noticed you staring.”

“I can’t deny that, but what’s the second thing you were going to tell me?”

Her face grew serious for a moment. “I suggested we go to dinner yesterday because you were cute and seemed intelligent. I asked you to come home with me because of what you told me about your first case and what you said afterward.

“You said you took the neighbor’s case due to boredom. While you’d never admit it, I also believe you helped that woman because you cared about her and her child. You drove to another state, for God’s sake. Who does something like that?

“What I’m trying to say is you’re a smart, sexy, private detective who clearly cares a lot about people. Given that, this shame thing you have going is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I substituted a kiss instead.

“Now if you’ll quit trying to knock me off the bed,” she said, “I really would like to get some sleep.”

I woke up the next morning still feeling somewhat conflicted. Hannah and I had a quick breakfast, and she made me run through every detail of the dream before she left for the station.

After she was gone, I prepared a report on the latest events for Father Lawrence. As I was typing, it occurred to me that at least one part of the dream still bothered me, something with a potential link to this case. It wasn’t the dream man and the stabbing—that connection was obvious. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was the whole issue of confession.

When I was in grade school, I considered confession my least favorite of the seven sacraments, a ritual whose sole purpose was to embarrass the penitent. The dream managed to bring the feeling back, and I wondered if our killer shared that same perception.

I finished my report and decided to present it to Father Lawrence in person. While I was technically going to give him an update, I thought his perspective on the dream might also be valuable. I’d told Hannah it raised ghosts from the past. I didn’t want one of those ghosts—my grade school bias against the Church—to get in the way of how I approached this case.

After begrudgingly allowing me entrance, the Saint Edmund’s church secretary greeted me with a glare. Clearly, Miss Lambert had not forgiven my tardy arrival for my first meeting with Father Lawrence. Requesting an unscheduled follow-up was another strike against me. I could only imagine what a third strike might bring, although I was sure the gates of hell would be somewhere in my future.

Father Lawrence was quite happy to meet, though I suspected that had less to do with me than the fact that he’d be missing his monthly finance committee meeting. In any case, he agreed to give me one hour of his time.

We moved to his office, and I summarized where we stood with the case to date. Father Lawrence asked several questions concerning the status of the police investigation and our desire for more information concerning Father Samuel. I still had fifteen minutes of my hour left, so I then moved to the more awkward reason for my visit.

“Father, no matter the killer’s motives, the sacrament of confession plays a key role in this case. That’s true if he’s targeting Father Samuel, the Church in general, or if he wandered into Saint Edmund’s entirely by accident.

“I know this sounds ridiculous, but I had a nightmare last night. It ended with me stabbed in the throat, but most of the dream was about shame, my shame, really. The ending was obviously tied to the murders, but the dream also made me think about the connection between shame and confession. Do you agree the connection exists? If it does, do you think it might be related to this case?”

“You may have lapsed,” Father Lawrence said, “but you went to Catholic grade school and high school. What did they teach you about confession?”

He had the Jesuitical gift for answering a question with a question.

“I know the basics,” I answered. “Confession is one of the seven sacraments, and its key elements include contrition, confession, satisfaction, and absolution. I also know the power to absolve sins was first given to the apostles by Christ.”

“You sound like you’re reading from a church catechism. Tell me what you think that all means.”

“I honestly don’t know, Father. That’s why I asked you in the first place.”

“Then try coming at it from a different angle. The Church teaches we’re all made in God’s image, correct? If that’s true, would God create a sacrament designed to shame the men and women He created to be like himself? Confession is meant to be an uplifting sacrament, not a shaming one. It was designed to take what’s good in us and make it even better.”

His fingers tapping his desk, Father continued, “My answer to your first question would be no, I don’t think there is a link between confession and shame. That doesn’t mean, however, there isn’t a link between confession and this case. You’re far from the only Catholic with a negative perception of the sacrament. Some priests have used confession to shame the penitent. Far worse, some clergy involved in the church sexual abuse scandals used confession to recruit young children. While I believe we’ve improved significantly in that area, there’s no doubt many people still carry a well-deserved grudge against the sacrament and the Church.”

It was interesting he mentioned the child abuse angle, though I couldn’t figure out how that would lead someone to commit this particular set of murders. In any case, I’d run over my allotted hour, and Father was due at a meeting regarding a parishioner dispute. I thanked him again for his time.

As I was driving home, I remembered one other aspect of the dream that still bothered me. After the unknown man stabbed me in the throat, I couldn’t scream or make a sound. Was that the purpose behind the killer’s MO—to keep people from talking? Psychologically, did that also support the whole confession framework I kept trying to construct around this case? I arrived at my apartment more unsure than ever.

As I walked in, I received a call from Hannah. While still waiting for word from Kansas, she’d obtained some interesting information from her counterparts in New Orleans.

“I asked them if they had any unsolved, multiple stabbing cases going back the last couple of years. I told them we were looking for a possible link to a series of murders in Cleveland.

“It turns out they had two sets of cases fitting what I described. The first involved three murders, all prostitutes, killed about eighteen months ago. While unsolved, these cases are likely unrelated to ours. The New Orleans cops believe they stemmed from a territory dispute between two rival gangs. The second set, however, might be worth checking out.

“At first, those cases didn’t appear to be related. The victims included a fifty-five-year-old man, a thirty-two-year-old woman, and two college students. The first student was a nineteen-year-old male engineering major at Tulane. The second was a twenty-six-year-old female nursing student at Louisiana State. All of them were single except for the fifty-five-year-old man. All of the victims lived within a ten-mile radius.”

“Other than the fact that they were stabbed,” I said. “Why would you think these are connected to our case? Why do the cops even think they’re related?”

“I’m coming to the good part. The police didn’t see the relationship until they looked further into the victims’ backgrounds. It turns out all four were seeing the same psychiatrist, a Dr. Michael Grieve.”

“I am assuming the police spoke to Dr. Grieve?”

“It gets better. Dr. Grieve is nowhere to be found. The police obtained a judge’s order releasing Grieve’s current patient files. Beyond the four murdered patients, two others appear to be missing.”

“So, we have a set of murders related to a priest, and they have four related to a therapist. That is something, but New Orleans is a big town. Do we have anything to tie this to Father Samuel?”

“Nothing definitive, but you told me Samuel took his vows in the Jesuit Church of Saint Francis. I looked at a map, and the church is about one mile from the psychiatrist’s office. If our killer was Catholic, he could easily have attended Saint Francis. Father Samuel would likely have no idea who or what he was.”

“One other question,” I said. “Going back to the psychiatrist, how did the police have any idea the victims were all seeing Dr. Grieve? Did a family member volunteer the information?”

“I wondered that too. It turns out the wife of our fifty-five-year-old man mentioned he was seeing a therapist for anxiety and depression. The same thing came up in an interview with the parents of one of the college students. The police checked further, and they found the psychiatrist in both cases was Dr. Grieve. Based on concern for patient safety, a judge then issued a court order allowing the cops to review patient records from the time the murders started. That’s how they realized the other two murder victims were also patients of Dr. Grieve and that two more of Grieve’s patients were missing.”

Hannah paused a brief second before she continued. “There’s one other thing I should mention. The first murder, the male college student, occurred one year ago. The last, the fifty-five-year-old man, happened in February. You mentioned Father Samuel came to Saint Edmund’s last December. If this is our guy, he killed at least one more person in New Orleans before following Samuel here.”

“Is there anything in Dr. Grieve’s record indicating he might be the killer? Are the police concentrating on him or a patient?”

“There’s nothing unusual in his record, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t our killer. He is, I’m told, a well-respected physician, forty-two-years-old, who’s had his own practice for the last twelve years. His patients speak well of him, and he occasionally taught classes at Tulane.

“The truth is, I don’t think the Louisiana cops have any idea who they’re looking for. Once they realized the connection between the murders, they devoted significant resources to solving these cases.

“That’s as good a lead as any to my last point. When I told them about the cases up here, they asked if I’d be willing to come down to New Orleans to help with the investigation. I ran it past my captain, and he said yes. When I mentioned to New Orleans I was working with a private investigator hired by the church, they said they’d be happy if you came along, assuming you—and I quote—‘promise to get your ass out of the way whenever we tell you to.’ I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. You’ll have to decide pretty quickly if you want to come.”

“I’d love to come, but I’m going to have to speak with Father Lawrence. I’m not sure the church can afford to cover the cost of a plane ticket and a hotel room.”

“If you’re willing, it could just be the cost of the plane ticket. The department is covering my ticket and the hotel room. If you’re game, I know a way we could save some money.”

“I feel like a kept man. How old are you anyway?”

“I’m twenty-eight, about to turn twenty-nine. Why the hell would you ask me that?”

“I don’t turn twenty-eight until August. That makes you a cougar. I always wanted to date a cougar.”

“Remember, cougars have claws.”

After Hannah hung up, I called Saint Edmund’s and managed to get in touch with Father Lawrence. I filled him in on the information from New Orleans and asked him to hold off on telling Father Samuel. I also told him about the invitation Detective Page had received from the New Orleans PD and their willingness to have me tag along. When I asked if the church would reimburse the cost of a plane ticket, I didn’t get the reaction I expected.

“You know,” he said, “the church isn’t paying your bill.”

Sensing the reason for my pause, Father added, “Relax, we don’t stiff people. Saint Edmund’s isn’t paying your bill; the funding is coming from the Midwest Jesuit Province. My superior is as anxious to get this solved as anyone. You can go to New Orleans, but keep me informed. If there’s even a hint that Father Samuel interacted with this person, I want to know right away.”

I called Hannah and had her text me the flight information. Fortunately, her flight was direct, and there were still some seats available. I then called my mom to let her know I’d be going to New Orleans for an indeterminate length of time. She made me promise to send her pictures via Snapchat. My mother, the smartphone queen.

“Mom, since when are you on Snapchat? You can’t even open your e-mail half the time.”

“A lot of my friends are on it. You were busy, so I called John yesterday, and he talked me through using the app. By the way, he also said you’re dating a police detective. How come I heard that from him and not you?”

Like most mothers, she had the whole guilt-trip thing down pat. I made a mental note to kill John when I got back to the city. It would be a long, slow death.

“Mom, I’m not dating anyone. The detective and I are working together on a case. You know these things are confidential.”

“You can’t give me details, but you can give them to John?”

“John only found out when I canceled on him to meet with the detective. Otherwise, he wouldn’t know any more than you do.”

I was finally able to get her off the phone after I promised to text and snapchat frequently. I wasn’t even on Snapchat, but I’d worry about that later. Thinking more about my mother, I decided to call John.

“You are a dead man,” I said as John answered on the first ring.

“You are probably the only person in the world,” John replied calmly, “who begins conversations that way.”

“I just spent thirty minutes talking to my mother about an app I’ve never used and a woman who likely thinks I’m crazy for throwing her out of bed last night.”

“I hope you didn’t tell your mom about the bed part. Regarding you being crazy, I wouldn’t worry. I’ve never tried throwing a woman out of the sack, but foreplay is different for every couple. I could tell you some stories.”

“I’m sure you could, but I don’t want to hear any of them. I called to let you know I’m going to be out of town for a while. I need to fly to New Orleans for the case I’m working on.”

He paused a few seconds before responding. “In all seriousness, buddy, be careful on this one. If this case has you working directly with the Cleveland PD, it sounds like something that could be trouble. Keep your head down. There aren’t too many people I can crush so easily on the Xbox. I need you around, if only for my ego.”

“We’ll pretend you can actually beat me. And about the case, there’s no need to worry—it’s just starting to get interesting.”