Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [676]
“I know the basics of this case, Detective Racine.” What was it Racine wanted from her? Did she expect her to pick up where Maggie left off in coming up with a profile? She had a profile. She had, quite possibly, the name of the killer. What more did she want?
“He’s chosen women randomly with the exception of Dena Wayne. Libby Hopper was a college student. One of the other victims was young, too, or so we think. She had a tattoo that seems to be connected to a computer game. The computer game is really popular with kids. So as far as we know, all of them were young women. Rubin Nash has a history of brutally assaulting young women.”
“Is there a question for me, Detective?” Gwen’s patience started to unravel. The emotional roller coaster of the last few days threatened to push her over the edge. “What do you want to know?”
“I need to know if Rubin Nash might move on to someone other than young women he’s picked up in nightclubs. Is Rubin Nash capable of this?”
And she tossed a color copy onto the desk in front of Gwen. It was a crime scene photo, a dark macabre set that looked like something from a horror movie, a decapitated head in the middle of a church altar with candles lit on both sides.
“That’s all that’s left of Father Paul Conley.”
CHAPTER 69
Omaha Police Department
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie stared out of the conference-room window. She hadn’t slept well despite the comfy king-size bed. Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Father Keller face-to-face again after four years. Of course, it could have been the thought of Nick Morrelli sleeping somewhere down the hall from her in the same hotel. She kept thinking she certainly would have slept much better had she given in and drunk the Chivas. But no amount of Scotch would make seeing Keller any easier. Or at least that’s what she told herself as Detective Pakula handed her yet another set of reports. These were from Santa Rosa County, Florida. They had the conference-room table filled with reports, maps, autopsy photos and evidence bags.
“There’s actually a Bagdad, Florida?” she asked, starting to scan and flip through the papers while she paced the length of the room.
“Just outside of Pensacola. It’s spelled without the ‘h’ though. This campground is on Blackwater Bay. I’ll show you the area in a minute.” Pakula was unfolding a map, making room for it on the bulletin board next to the map of the Midwest region that already had the first three murders marked with bright-colored stickpins, a red one in Omaha, blue in Columbia and yellow in Minneapolis.
“Where’s the fifth?” she asked, craning over the scattered reports. “You said there was one in Boston yesterday?”
“Carmichael will bring it in as soon as Boston PD sends it.”
“He’s escalating. Three of them in five days,” she said. She was antsy, unable to sit still. Thank goodness Pakula didn’t mind her pacing. When it got to this stage it was almost as if she could feel the killer’s frenzy or panic or whatever it was propelling him to hurry.
“You think that’s proof of escalation, wait until you see the Boston one.” He noticed her checking her watch and added, “Kasab and a uniformed officer are meeting Keller at the airport.” He checked his own watch. “They should be here in about an hour if his flight’s on time.”
An hour. In approximately one hour she would be staring into the eyes of a child killer and promising him protection from being killed.
She tried to concentrate on the new Florida case. The body had already been identified as seventy-three-year-old Father Rudolph Lawrence, known to friends and parishioners as Father Rudy. A recent photo sent along with the report showed a short, stocky, white-haired, almost elfish-looking man at a party, with a colorful banner behind him that read: Happy Retirement, Father Rudy! She placed that copy next to the one of his