Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [3]
“Really?” Butt’s voice conveyed his disapproval and disdain.
“This was not a personal crime—this was a ritualistic murder.”
Butts cocked his head, letting the cigar dangle from his thick lips. “How do you figure that?”
“Look at the positioning of the body—he wants to shock us. And then there’s the carving.”
“Well, yeah, I can see that,” the detective said irritably. “I’m not saying this perp isn’t a creep. You should see some of the things I seen these guys do to their girlfriends.”
“And leave her in a church?”
Butts sniffed at the body like a bird dog. “She wasn’t killed here—she was brought here.”
“Exactly my point.”
“These days you got a lotta weirdos out there. You never know what they’ll do.”
“Who ID’d the body?”
“Chapel priest. Same one who discovered her. Said he came in for early prayers and found her here.” The detective lowered his voice as though he was afraid someone might overhear. “You know, I had a guy once who killed his mother, then dressed her up for church.”
“Someone who kills like this is displacing his rage onto a stranger. This is a ritualistic display of the body—it’s impersonal.”
Butts plucked the cigar from his mouth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Okay, Doc—you’re the one with the degree.” He turned to the forensics team. “You boys ’bout done there? I’m gettin’ hungry.” He turned back to Lee. “Wanna go for some eggs? I know a great little place on Arthur Avenue.”
Lee did his best not to be irritated at this homely little detective for his casual attitude toward death. “Thanks—another time, maybe.”
The detective didn’t appear to take the rejection personally. He shuffled across the smooth floor toward the side exit, scratching his chin. “Okay, Doc, catch you later.”
“I’ll be out in a minute,” Lee called after him. It was only then he noticed the young priest huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped around his body, a mournful expression on his face.
He walked over to the man, who looked even younger close up, with his smooth pink skin and sleek black hair. There was no stubble on his face—he looked almost too young to have any.
“You knew the victim, Father…?” Lee asked.
The priest’s eyes were dark and pleading, like a puppy’s. “Michael. Father Michael Flaherty.”
“You were able to ID the body?”
“As I told him, I knew her because she was one of my—”
“Flock?”
“One of my comparative religion students.” His voice was thin and ragged; he looked away, perhaps suppressing tears.
“I see.”
“As I told the detective, she wasn’t a regular in church. She attends another one, I believe.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Ralph is going to be so devastated when he hears about this.”
“Ralph?”
“Her boyfriend. Nice kid, a science major.” Father Flaherty let his hands fall to his sides, a gesture of surrender. “I, uh…I just came in to pray and tidy up the altar.” He glanced at the vases of drooping and withered lilies to one side of the altar. A CSI worker was bent over them, dusting for fingerprints.
The priest swallowed hard. “And…there she was.” He gave Lee a searching look. It was clear he was studying Lee to see how his explanation was being received. The priest was obviously concerned about establishing his own innocence, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had anything to hide. Lee knew that even innocent people are often nervous in the presence of the police.
“Okay, thank you, Father Michael,” he said, handing him a business card. “Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”
The priest looked at the card. “The detective already gave me one of his. Aren’t you working together?”
“Yes, we are, except that—well, we sometimes work on cases from…different angles.” He hoped that was enough to satisfy the priest. He had no wish to discuss the tension between criminal profilers and traditional law enforcement.
The priest fished a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it a swipe across his nose. “All right. He already asked me the usual questions—could I think of anyone who would want to