Devious - Lisa Jackson [171]
Both women were half dressed, their red hair mussed, their eyes those of the dead, the purple scars surrounding their necks sporting the deep cuts from irregular beads—in the case of Bellechamps, a rosary.
“What gives?” he asked, taking in the two, nearly identical images.
“Father John,” Bentz spat out angrily. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I think he’s back.” Bentz tossed a sheet of paper across the desk to Montoya. “Just got the blood type back on the sperm found in Grace Blanc,” he said. “Guess what? It matches that found in the sperm left in all of Father John’s victims ten years ago.” He reached into his desk drawer, found a pack of Juicy Fruit gum, and silently offered Montoya a stick. When his partner declined, he unwrapped a piece and tossed it into his mouth. “It’s not DNA, but . . .”
“I was hoping that son of a bitch was dead.”
“You and me both, but look.” He pointed to the monitor with its grisly photos. “The crime scenes are nearly identical. I suppose they could be copied, but would the new killer have the same rare blood as John?” He was shaking his head.
“Well at least we know who he is.”
“Do we?” Bentz clicked the pen in his hand. “Probably has a whole new ID, maybe even a new goddamned face.” From the file, he withdrew a photo of the killer, one from ten years prior. “I’ve already requested computer enhancement on this. What would he look like with a beard, without, as a blond . . . Oh, crap, who knows what he looks like now? Damn it all to hell!”
Montoya studied the old photo, and his stomach soured. “So you think he could be one of the priests that we’ve been talking to?”
“Or not talking to. Father Thomas has been pretty damned shy, and Camille worked at St. Elsinore’s in the clinic. You know, I bet if we looked hard enough, we could find a pharmacist attached to St. Elsinore’s. They’ve got pharmaceuticals there.”
“Look, even if you’re right and Father John has come back and assumed some new identity, he can’t have new fingerprints and certainly not DNA . . . or blood type.”
“Yeah, well, here’s the kicker,” Bentz admitted in disgust. “That blood type?” He snorted. “It’s the same as Sister Camille’s baby’s. He’s the fu—effin’ father!”
Slade held the umbrella over Valerie’s head as they dashed across the hotel parking lot of the boutique hotel to the dinner part of the auction.
The hotel was built in the early eighteen hundreds and recently refurbished to its antebellum charm. Huge white columns supported a wide front entrance flanked by rows of paned windows over ten feet tall. Each window was framed by black shutters and gas lanterns that were blazing against the gathering storm.
Beneath a covey of umbrellas, guests of the hotel funneled through the main doors, their raincoats shedding water, their jewels and smiles flashing in equal splendor. A news team had arrived, the van parked across the street, the reporter Brenda Convoy and her cameraman nearby, filming the arrival of the guests—everyone from the mayor to local television personalities, sports figures, and businessmen and women who were a part of the Crescent City’s populace and culture. There were rumors that Trey Wembley, son of one of the city’s richest men and a current Hollywood heartthrob, would be in attendance.
Brenda Convoy, Valerie thought sourly, wouldn’t want to miss that interview.
“I hate these things,” Slade whispered, already tugging at his tie as Valerie greeted Sister Simone, who was serving as a hostess.
Tonight the nuns from St. Elsinore’s and St. Marguerite’s were wearing traditional habits, and Sister Simone was no exception. Her wimple and coif were stark white against the flowing black serge of the holy habit, a wooden rosary hanging from her belt.
“Good to see you again,” Simone said with a smile.
“You, too.”
“So here you go.” She handed Valerie a manila envelope printed with the symbol for St. Elsinore’s. “There’s a program in this packet, along with a list of the items you can bid on and a paddle with your number on it, just