Driving toward Headquarters his thoughts turned to the object of Mueller's ire. Andrea. Pretty, smart, and hated by half the males at Dorlynd. Their stupidity or bad luck. She didn't have that effect on him, though. Quite the opposite.
The night before had been phenomenal. He liked her. A lot. Might even be love.
Good way to screw up an investigation, too.
Chapter XVII
. . . AND FURTHER, FROM THE SEDUCTION OF
FEMALES OR MALES, BOND OR FREE. . . .
Jamison held the note in his shaking hand and slumped down on his cot. Suzanne Latham. The Sergeant wanted to talk to him, again. Did he know something? She must've complained about him. Maybe around her, his nervousness showed. After what had happened before, he couldn't survive any more questions. Any more probes into his past, his indiscretions, his failures.
The priest crumpled the note, thought better of it, opened and pressed it flat on his desk. He tore at it until tiny particles fluttered around the room. He had disgraced his collar once, would probably do so again.
He was so weak, she so beautiful. A conflict with his church. He'd taken vows, had known fornication was wrong, but maybe, somehow, God forgave him. He'd been doomed from the start. A sin, but the final one.
The cold gun barrel touched the back of his throat and he gagged. The acrid metal-taste nauseated him, but it wouldn't last long. From his days as Dorlynd Chaplain, he knew exactly where to place the gun to do the most damage, to complete the job. He wasn't going to be a mutilated vegetable, he'd seen the results too many times. All the work of a bullet meant to end suffering, brains splattered, eyes gone, faces pulverized. A bullet that would enter his brain--A bullet that would end everything. . . now--
ELEVEN-THIRTY. Gary was late. Andrea idly rifled through the papers on his desk. She wasn't in her office and had no right going through his. She stopped and glanced around self-consciously. Busy officers bustled about their business amid phones, noise, and complaining prisoners.
She drummed her fingers on the desk. Eleven forty-five. Waiting drove her crazy. She had to see that grant. She could go back to Hardwyn's office and search through his files. Time was short.
If she went now, over the lunch hour, the Dean's office would be unattended. Everyone cleared out. Even the phones there switched to a central answering service. Hardwyn would be on rounds now that he'd taken over her clinical service. She couldn't wait for Gary. There was too much on the line. It had to be now. He'd find her later. She dashed off a quick note and left it on his desk:
I was here and you weren't. We'll catch up later. Love.
KRASTOWITCZ WAS late, but it couldn't be avoided. Andrea had already left his office by the time he got there. By her cryptic note, she hadn't been too pleased. Guilt throbbed at his temples, but he had to interview these people. Answers slipped away, useless. Even his questions faded. He turned into Dorlynd's parking lot, and the radio interrupted his thoughts. "HENRY 10. . . make an investigation at Dorlynd main campus. . . Chaplain's residence hall. . . Meet Officer Rickowski at the scene."
Oh, shit. Not another one
. Couldn't be. Cold invaded his veins. But what else? They only called if there's a body.
"Already at Dorlynd." He would make it up to Andrea later. "Clear."
ANDREA ENTERED the main office, amazed at how easily she gained access to the Dean's office. Just walk in. No locks. Nothing. It was almost scary. Her gaze darted back and forth around the area. Only in a university would they leave an office unattended, vulnerable to theft and vandalism, in order to save a few dollars in personnel costs. But it worked to her advantage this time. And she'd seized the moment presented.
She slipped easily inside Hardwyn's office and her gaze searched for something, anything that might lead her to answers.
Metal file cabinets.
She tested their locks. Unlocked. Once again, university laxity worked in her favor. Hot damn! She was on a roll.
She pressed the button and pulled the drawer toward her. It contained faculty files. Freedman, Foley, Franklin, Grafton--ah, success. She grabbed it, her eye catching a name three files back. Harrisburg, Jackson. . . Pearson. Pearson? She grabbed hers as well. Grafton's file was unusually large. The grant.
Inside the file marked, "Pearson," was her faculty application and the letter she had wondered so long about. Teresa had found it after all.
It gives me great pleasure to recommend Andrea Marie Pearson, M.D. for a faculty appointment at Dorlynd University School of Medicine. I have known Dr. Pearson for approximately three years, ever since I joined Dorlynd, and have found her performance to be exemplary.
I have had the opportunity to observe Dr. Pearson's performance and in all areas both clinically and personally, her performance is of the highest caliber. She has been an enthusiastic teacher and clinician.
In conclusion, I am happy to propose Dr. Pearson for a faculty appointment with the confidence that she will be an asset to this University.
Milton G. Grafton, M.D.
Professor and Chairman
Department of Internal Medicine
Andrea stood catatonic with the letter fluttering in her shaking hand. What did this mean? This letter glowed with praises. Milton hadn't recommended that she have another year of fellowship, no such thing. Why did Hardwyn say those things?
She barely caught the sound of the outer office door opening.
Hardwyn!
Frantically, her gaze darted around the room for a place to hide.
There was no escape except his bathroom, and she was afraid to go in. What if--? There was no other choice. Hardwyn or another body. She ran for the bathroom.
RICKOWSKI ROPED off the priest's room. Krastowitcz figured it for a suicide. At least, that's what it appeared to be from the lividity and blanching of Jamison's remains.
"He must've knelt, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. What do you think?" Krastowitcz asked the other officer.
"Blew the back of his freakin' head off, that's for sure." Rickowski pointed to the wall behind Jamison splattered with blood and brain matter. "The force of the blast knocked him on his ass and he landed there."
Slumped on the floor next to his bed, Jamison stared at the world through bulging eyes. Eyes that seemed to plead for forgiveness. A thin trail of blood trickled from his ears. Except for the back of his head, he looked normal.
"Shit. Things are really bad when a priest kills himself," Krastowitcz said, and caught himself. A priest who committed suicide? The worst crime of all against the church? How could the brethren get into heaven if God's messenger was condemned to hell?
"I don't know, Man. God, the body count around here just keeps on growing. Dorlynd's looking like a goddamn combat zone." Rickowski said, throwing down a cigarette and stomping it.
"This time, no one touches a thing until Iverson gets here," Krastowitcz said. "You all understand? The last one was botched because he was out of town."
"You're the boss," Rickowski replied and cocked his head. "Hey, look," he pointed at the corpse. "There's something in his hand. Like a note."
Krastowitcz placed his pencil in Jamison's cuff and picked up his hand. A crumpled piece of paper showed slightly in his clenched left fist. One by one, he pried Jamison's fingers open and eased out the note, smoothing it with the pencil. The note contained only nine words.
I'm sorry. Best that I'm out of the way
. Surrounding the body lay bits of shredded paper. Krastowitcz picked up one of the larger pieces and recognized his own handwriting.
"I left this note for him. Asked him to call me. Maybe we've found our killer here." Krastowitcz let out a huge sigh. "Couldn't take the pressure of knowing what he'd done to Grafton and Suzanne. Decided to end it all."
"That's one sick sonofabitch."
"Good. Now wait for Iverson, get busy on our paperwork, and close this case. Dr. Pearson will be more than relieved when she hears this news. Rickowski turned to leave the room. "Hey," Gary called. "Get the head honcho of this place on the phone and tell him I want to talk to him, ASAP."
"You got it, Bwana," Rickowski called back.
Krastowitcz pulled the unsmoked Marlboro from his suit jacket. In light of his brilliant sleuthing and cracking the case, he deserved it. This was as good a time as any to take up smoking again. He stuck the filter-tip in his mouth. Stale tobacco still held a strong aroma and it still had the same effect. He opened a crumpled matchbook and struck the phosphorous. The flame exploded and caught the tobacco, curling the end as it glowed. His lungs filled with smoke. At first, he coughed fitfully, then the nicotine entered his blood stream making him dizzy, light-headed, and euphoric. How long had it been? Only three months? Too long. Way too long. He'd almost forgotten the forbidden pleasure of smoking. Almost, but not quite. Well, this was an occasion to celebrate.
Wrapping up this case gave him another notch on his gun handle. He smiled. And this had been a helluva big case, a long and tedious investigation, with nothing concrete. Then, like a gift, Jamison couldn't stand the guilt anymore and whacked himself. Maybe his message pushed Jamison over the edge. Whatever did the job, Krastowitcz didn't care. If Jamison committed the murders, he got what he deserved. Priest or not.
Krastowitcz dragged deep on his filter tip. He couldn't wait to tell Andrea to breathe easy. He twisted his wrist and checked the time. Jeez, twelve-thirty. Hopefully she hadn't gone back to his office and waited for him, again. Using a handkerchief, he gingerly picked up the phone next to Jamison's bed and punched his office number with a pencil. According to the day-Sergeant, Andrea had been there and gone, but just once. He called her office. No answer. A thought about what she was up to skulked through his head, but he dismissed it. He'd catch up with her later. A knock on the door refocused Krastowitcz's attention.
A tall, gray-haired man waited in the hallway. "Officer Krastowitcz? I'm Michael Sullivan, president of Dorlynd." He stepped into Jamison's room, his gaze immediately snagged on the body. He fell to his knees beside him. "Oh, my God!"
Krastowitcz leaned down and grabbed the man before he could reach out.
"Don't touch anything! The medical examiner hasn't come yet."
"He should have the last rites. I must get a priest."
"Not, now, sir," Krastowitcz said. "Jamison was a suspect in Grafton's homicide. Clues are of vital importance in the closure of this case. Understand?"
"But this is a travesty. Father Jamison couldn't have killed Dr. Grafton."
He struggled against Krastowitcz's grip.
"It's more than possible."
"But how? Why?"
"Don't know. Had a suicide note clutched in his fist." Krastowitcz held fast until Sullivan relaxed.
"He had some personal problems. He tried this before. . . but. . . we thought he'd worked them out."
"Personal problems?" Krastowitcz asked. Trouble? What kind of trouble had Jamison had before?
Sullivan eyed the officers milling in and out of the room. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" He led Krastowitcz out into the main hallway. "My office is right next door. Can we go there?"
"Sure. Hang loose a minute. Rickowski?"
"Yeah?" Rickowski poked his head around the corner.
"I'm going to Mr. Sullivan's office in the building next door. Send someone for me as soon as George gets here."
"You got it."
They hurried in silence to the President's stately administrative offices.
"Please sit down, Sergeant," Sullivan offered. "Coffee?"
"Water, if you don't mind."
"Maryanne?" Sullivan said into the intercom. "Please bring me a cup of coffee and some water for Sergeant Krastowitcz. Nothing stronger?" he said, covering the phone with his hand.
"No, Thanks." Krastowitcz leaned forward. "What did you want to tell me?"
"This is somewhat difficult." Sullivan's face flushed and his gaze darted around the room. What was so embarrassing?
"I'm all ears."
"Father Jamison got into some personal trouble during his last assignment."
"Where was that?"
"Ann Arbor, Michigan. He was involved with a student there. There was a child. He took an overdose of pills. Left the same kind of note."
"What'd it say?"
"It was. . . was. . . pretty much the same as the one you've found. The church spent a lot of time and money on psychiatrists. After much deliberation, they let him stay with the order and the church assumed financial responsibility for the child. They figured he needed help. He was one of their own. They couldn't abandon him. Then he came to us as our Chaplain."
"Did he see the child?"
"No. That was a condition of staying with the order. He couldn't make any attempt to see either the child or the mother. It devastated him and he felt like a failure."
Mr. Sullivan leaned forward. "But he confessed to an almost uncontrollable attraction to young women. He'd been receiving psychiatric counseling and prayed constantly for help. Apparently, he was attracted to Miss Latham. . . I don't know. But I assure you, Sergeant, he was no killer. Frederick would sooner hurt himself than another person. And as you've seen, he did just that."
"I don't know." The uncontrollable urge to smoke swept over Krastowitcz. That familiar craving to fill his lungs with something besides air--he needed another Marlboro. "I've got to do some checking on your story. Maybe it's true, but for now he's the closest thing I've got to a suspect or solution in this case. Bear with me."
"Of course. We'll give you every assistance and be at your disposal, Sergeant." Sullivan rose to take Krastowitcz's hand.
Krastowitcz towered over the man but Sullivan's handshake was firm and steady. The president had no reason to lie. One thing nagged at him. Mr. Sullivan had said Jamison was harmless, but Krastowitcz wasn't so sure. Hadn't Suzanne told Trent the priest gave her the creeps. He might have gone to Grafton's office, found Suzanne there and tried something with her. But a priest and a scalpel? How'd he get it? Sure, it was easy--the Chaplain went wherever he wanted in the hospital and no one would ask questions. They wandered around giving the last rites, especially in the Emergency Room and there were scalpels in the surgical trays. He'd seen them, himself.