Chapter
One
I’d always known
that this obsession of his was going to get him in trouble one day. After all,
how many times can one let the air out of the tires of strangers’ cars before
karma or fate or just dumb luck comes back to bite? So it was with absolutely
no ironic glee - just normal glee - that I learned of Lupa Schwartz’s
comeuppance.
I was in my room
in Schwartz’s Queen Ann style residence at the top of Murray Avenue that
Thursday in March when the police cruiser dropped Pittsburgh police detective
Trevor Johns at the stoop. Seeing the car through my window, I rose from my
seat at my writing desk, checked my hair in the mirror, adjusted the lace on my
collar, and trotted down the two flights to the great hall that I might outpace
Beverly (Schwartz’s house-keeper and cook) to the doorbell. “I’ll get it,
Beverly,” I chirped as she strode from the kitchen wiping her hands on a
dishtowel. She waved a damp finger at me and turned sharply, her blonde
ponytail bobbing its way back kitchen-ward.
“Trevor!” I said,
trying mightily to look nonchalant. “Are you here to see Mia?” Mia was
Schwartz’s onyx-haired gear-head mechanic. She lived in the Queen Ann along
with Schwartz, Beverly and myself. She and Detective Johns had been dating for
several months.
“No,” Trevor
said, tossing the lacquered strand of bangs from his eyes. He wasn’t yet used
to his new hairstyle, and his self-consciousness over it showed. It was
something Mia had talked him into. Personally, I didn‘t like it. “Actually, I’m
here to see Schwartz.” He paused and lowered his tone. “Official business.”
“Oh,” I said.
“About a case?”
He paused again,
probably considering whether I was official-ears enough to hear the answer.
Then either Trevor decided that since as his resident biographer and errand-girl
Schwartz was certainly going to include me anyway so he may as well, or he
realized that the pause itself was all the verification I’d needed regardless.
“Yes,” he said, “it’s about a case.”
“Well step right
on in then,” I said as I swung open the door and stepped across the hall to
Schwartz’s office door. After a quick knock, I pushed open the door and
announced, “Hey, mega-mind, the po-po’s here.”
***
We each took our
normal positions. I sat by the door under the hanging plants. Trevor sat in the
seat-of-honor facing the detective’s desk across from Schwartz. This allowed me
to witness the proceedings and exchange glances or signals with Schwartz out of
view of our visitor. Though if I decided I wanted to be included, I was just a
slight head turn away in Trevor’s periphery.
“Before you
begin,” Schwartz said, his feet perched on the crossbar of his computer desk to
his left, “You should know that I am not really interested in working for the
city in any capacity at this time.”
“That’s fine,”
Trevor said. “You don’t have to be interested, but you’re going to do it
anyway.”
“I beg your
pardon,” Schwartz said dropping his feet and leaning in to give Trevor his full
attention.
“Yesterday I was
at Pitt University’s library investigating the murder of Bishop Peter Shimmel.
Are you familiar with that case?”
“It was in this
morning’s paper,” Schwartz said. “He was found inside the University library
hanging by his ankles from a banister, his hands tied to the rail beneath,
outstretched.”
“That’s the
one,” Trevor acknowledged.
“If that’s the
case, then I am absolutely not interested in participating” Schwartz said
leaning back and folding his fingers together. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’d
ask after what happened the last time you and I worked a case involving the
Catholic clergy.”
I know I
remembered. Schwartz was talking about the first case he and I had worked
together. It was on that case that I met Trevor for the first time. That hadn’t
worked out well either; but now Trevor had Mia and I had Ulric, so everything
had worked out for the best.
As for Schwartz
and Trevor, that had not gone quite as well. Trevor had pressured Schwartz to
take the case of a Catholic priest who was accused of euthanasia. It had been
the desire of the city to distance itself from an investigation which might
result in the arrest of a member of the clergy on murder charges. Suffice to
say, it was professionally embarrassing for everybody involved, except for
Schwartz. Schwartz had cleaned up, which was even more embarrassing for the city;
but it had certainly strained their professional relations.
“There’s more,”
Trevor said. “Bishop Shimmel was actually the second Catholic priest murdered
in the diocese within a month.” Trevor looked over his shoulder to see if I was
listening. As if a brick through the window at that moment could have
distracted me from the conversation. Not even the uber-abundance of product in
Trevor’s mane could accomplish that. “About a week ago, a Father Joshua Ameresa
was crucified from the life-sized crucifix statue behind his parish altar. The
killer took the statue of Christ off from the wooden cross beams and reenacted
history.”
“History,”
Schwartz huffed indignantly.
“Yes,” Trevor
said. “History. Look we all know about your atheism, but the Romans actually did
crucify people. I chose my words carefully for you.”
“Point taken,”
Schwartz said. “Now let me guess, if I can, where this is going. The city
suspects that the same killer is behind both events, and they think for some
reason I might be able to piece the story together for them.”
Trevor leaned
back into his seat and crossed his left leg over his right. “Something like
that, yes.”
“I’m not a
procedural detective,” Schwartz announced. “I need suspects for what I do.
People with a personal connection to the victims.”
“Our criminal
profiler thinks that’s exactly what we’re dealing with. A priest and a bishop
in the same diocese certainly could have a similar circle of acquaintances.”
“Yes, or it
could be a random anti-Catholic nut job. Or has the significance of the
victims’ names gone completely unnoticed?” Schwartz demanded.
“Wait,” I
interjected. “What about their names?”
“Joshua or
Jeshua is the Hebrew name for Jesus,” Schwartz announced. “And the apostle
Peter became the first bishop of Rome; the Catholics consider him the first
pope. According to Catholic tradition, Peter was martyred by inverted
crucifixion - upside-down.”
“Oh my God,” I
think I said.
“This is not a
case of the type for which I am equipped,” Schwartz stipulated.
“Our profiler
begs to differ,” Trevor interjected.
“Even so,”
Schwartz said shaking his head with resignation, “I’m not interested in the
case.”
“Do you remember,
when we began this conversation, how I told you I was at the University library
yesterday morning investigating the case?”
“I do,” Schwartz
acknowledged, his eyes squinting suspiciously.
“When I first
arrived at the scene, I was in an unmarked police vehicle, and I parked
temporarily in the bus lane.” Schwartz’s face turned ashen. “I sent an officer
out to move my car, but when he got there, he found that somebody had flattened
two of my tires and left a can of Fix-a-flat and this note on my windshield.”
Trevor produced the card, which I recognized instantly. I barely managed to
stifle a chortle. I know Trevor heard me as I could see the cheeks on his face
push out from his grin. “Is this yours?” Trevor asked.
Of course he
knew that it was. Schwartz was always playing traffic vigilante this way. He’d loosen
the valve core of two tires, flattening them whenever he found a car in some
kind of arrogant violation of traffic law. Then he’d twist the cores back into
place and leave the same condescending note about how arrogant they were being
- ironically oblivious to his own arrogance - along with a single canister of
canned air and rubber foam so the offender could inflate one tire while waiting
for either the tow or the police. This time, however, it seemed he’d picked the
wrong traffic offender to suffer his indignation.
“Do you have any
idea how dangerous it is to park in the bus lane?” Schwartz asked.
“And it’s safer
if you immobilize the car?” Trevor asked.
“So I suppose
you want me to meet with your profiler?” Schwartz asked. Trevor nodded.
Schwartz sighed. “I’ll get my jacket.”
Chapter Two
Schwartz and I
decided to follow the cruiser downtown in Schwartz’s newest acquisition, a
Mia heard us
descend the stairs, and smiled her most restrained but still illuminating smile
at Trevor when she saw him. “Hi,” she said. “Is this an official visit?”
“Business,
baby,” Trevor said, and the whole conversation began to feel like a contrived
scene from a Steve McQueen movie.
“Is there gas in
the Europa?” Schwartz asked.
“Yup,” Mia said,
wiping grease from her fingers onto a rag she wore in her jumper’s belt. “About
three-quarters of a tank.” She turned her attention once again to Trevor. “New
big case, huh? We still on for the club tomorrow night?”
“I hope so,”
Trevor said. “That kind of depends on your boss now.”
“You don’t
expect me to solve this thing in one day, do you?” Schwartz asked as he took
the key from the peg board and pressed the button to open the garage door.
“I don’t know
what I expect,” Trevor said. “I never do with you. I’ve seen you solve a case
without ever leaving your chair.”
“Flattery,”
Schwartz said as he slid into his seat, “will get you what it gets you.”
Trevor said his
goodbyes to Mia and exited the garage for his waiting car which the patrolman motorist
had backed into the drive in his absence. A little too late, I began to wonder
if we should have asked Beverly to pack us a lunch as we headed out onto the
streets of Squirrel Hill.
***
As we followed
the cruiser into town, I decided to get some background for the story I’d be
writing on this investigation. That’s actually how I make my living. I’m a
writer for Gamut Magazine. After the
success of the first two collaborations Schwartz and I had worked on - he
investigating and solving crimes, and I journaling it and publicizing his
successes - we had come to a mutually agreeable accommodation wherein I live in
his house and run errands in exchange for exclusive access to publishing the
tales.
“So why the
animosity toward investigating this particular pair of murders?” I asked.
“I’m a cultural
Jew and a religious atheist,” he answered. “I have certain responsibilities not
to make my camps look bad.”
“How does
working this case make either of them look bad?” I asked. “And since when do
you care about how you come off?”
“Taking the
second question first,” he said taking a sharp corner, “I don’t care how I come
off. I care about how the sub-groups I named imagine my playing lap-dog to the
Catholics makes them look by association. In this country, when people hear the
words Jew and atheist they immediately stop thinking about individuals and
their out-group bias kicks in instantly.”
“Okay,” I said,
“but how does this case affect that differently than any other?”
Schwartz sighed
and pushed out an answer. “If it turns out that the theory Detective Johns
advanced is correct, then when I make the accusation it will be as though I’m
indicting all of Christianity. Not to everyone, but to a significant segment of
the religious right. I’d just as soon avoid that kind of drama right now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“What’s the significance of right now?”
He didn’t
answer. The rest of the ride was very tense. Sometimes I think he thinks too
highly of himself. Sometimes I wish somebody could bring him down a peg.
***
“Lupa Schwartz,”
Trevor said as we entered the office of the PPD’s newest psychologist and
profiler, “this is Dr. Vartan Geschenkgeber.”
“Is that spelled
like it sounds?” I asked. Trevor made a face.
The man we were
introduced to was tall, young, gaunt, and pale. His eyes set deeply in his
skull giving him an appearance that was at once ghostly and ephemerally pretty.
Geschenkgeber extended one hand to shake and offered a business card with the
other. “Call me Dr. G.”
Schwartz took
his hand and his card. “I will. Call me Mr. Schwartz.”
Geschenkgeber
smiled warmly. “I will.”
Schwartz stepped
aside allowing me to approach. “This is my associate, Cattleya Hoskin.”
“Call me Cat,” I
said, taking the doctor’s hand.
“I will,” the
profiler said again, smiling welcomingly. “I assume Detective Johns has briefed
you on the case,” he added, turning to address Schwartz.
“Yes, he has,”
Schwartz acknowledged, “and I explained that this is not a case I am - shall we
say - equipped to take. This case ...”
“The killer
lives in the diocese,” Geschenkgeber said interrupting as if he’d anticipated
Schwartz’s objection.
Schwartz shook
his head. “We don’t know ...”
“The killer is
probably a male, he’s profoundly spiritual, he was known to both victims, and
he’s close-by watching to see our progress in the case.”
Schwartz
stripped off his jacket and draped it over the chair of Geschenkgeber’s desk as
if he was claiming the seat as his own. “There’s not nearly enough evidence to
suggest ...”
“The nature of
the killings is specific to Catholic dogma and history.” Geschenkgeber strode
past his desk and insinuated himself between Schwartz and everyone else in the
room. It had become a pissing contest of body language and significant
gestures.
“Agreed, but ...”
“There’s no sign
of a struggle, which is why I believe the killer was known by his victims,”
Geschenkgeber insisted, not allowing Schwartz to finish his thought. Point Dr.
G.
“They were
Catholic priests. Trusting strangers is not exactly unusual for priests.”
Schwartz pulled out the desk chair, turned it, and sat straddling which showed
indifference and disdain but set Geschenkgeber up for his next gambit.
Geschenkgeber
stepped closer forcing Schwartz to arch his neck and look up to maintain eye
contact. “Exactly, which is why I believe the killer is either a former
Catholic or a non-Catholic Christian who either worked for the diocese or
attended parochial school as a child.”
“I disagree with
every point you’ve made so far,” Schwartz interjected, his finger raised to halt
the exchange. He stood and turned his back, and paced the room. “But assuming
even some of your points, why do you need me?”
“Good question,”
Geschenkgeber said indicating the plush leather seats arranged in a semi-circle
in the center of his office. As we sat - the war-of-wills finally at an end -
he continued. “We’ve isolated a few possible suspects based on the profile I’ve
composited. We want you to interview them as you would in any other case, and
try to determine which - if any - is the most likely suspect; and if possible,
to get him to implicate himself in the killings. I’ve read some of your
case-files. You have a remarkable knack for doing exactly that kind of thing.”
Geschenkgeber was clearly an expert in psychology; at least in the psychology
of egomania and how to use it to one’s advantage.
“I appreciate
the vote of confidence,” Schwartz said smiling in self-satisfaction, “but I
choose my cases based on my personal conviction that the suspects are being
appropriately - well - suspected. That’s just not the case here.”
“So you have a
different theory?” Geschenkgeber said finally allowing Schwartz the opportunity
to shine.
Schwartz
shrugged. “Yes and no. It’s not that I think your ideas have absolutely no
merit. In fact, you might be exactly right. But you might be exactly wrong
too.”
“Of course I
might,” Geschenkgeber said.
“I beg your
pardon,” Schwartz said.
“Profiling is
hardly an exacting science. It’s based on psychology and the way things usually
are. Serial killers are usually men, except when they’re women. Serial killers
are usually Caucasian, except when they’re black or Hispanic or whatever.
Serial killers are usually approaching middle age, except when they’re in their
twenties or younger or recently retired.”
“So you think we
could be dealing with a serial killer?” Schwartz asked hopefully.
“No, but we
could be. If we are, then I agree that it’s not your kind of case. You can’t
interview everyone in America, and you don’t have the necessary background in
psychology to be of any assistance.”
“Fine,” Schwartz
said, “Well here are a few things you may not have considered.”
“I’m listening,”
Geschenkgeber said.
“The killer -
and I do agree that it’s the same person in both killings - could easily be a
woman, which would explain why the priests demonstrated so much trust. She may
even have feigned distress to gain access. Furthermore, if it is a woman, the
fact that she is targeting clergy makes it seem far more likely that she’s not
especially spiritual. Additionally, the fact that the two priest killings are
so close geographically could be an intentional red-herring designed to keep
the story from going national prematurely. She could be killing Catholic clergy
in Pittsburgh, Lutheran clergy in Cleveland, Baptist clergy in Georgia and Episcopal
clergy in Virginia. Have you looked into that possibility?”
“We did.”
“And ...”
“And there
haven’t been any other ritualized clergy murders anywhere in the country. It’s
an isolated case. That’s why we’re convinced the killer is local and specifically
targeting Catholics.”
“Maybe she’s
just getting started.”
“Maybe, but for
the time being, we have to go with what we’ve got, and that’s two isolated
Catholic priests in the same diocese.”
“Another
possibility,” Schwartz began, “is that the killer had a specific grudge against
one of the priests and killed the other to make it look as if the killings were
about the faith.”
“That’s possible
too,” Dr. G. agreed, “but unlikely since the second killing was so specific in
its historicity and the first was so emotionally significant for anyone who had
a personal reason to kill. Anyone emotionally driven enough to commit one of
the killings for personal reasons would not have the lack of emotion necessary
to commit the second simply to avert suspicion.”
“OK,” Schwartz
said, “round up your suspects and I’ll interview them on Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
Geschenkgeber said. “Why not tomorrow?
“Because
tomorrow I have plans,” Schwartz said. “I’ll see you here on Saturday.” With
that, he picked up his jacket and we left without another word.
***
As we drove back
up the hill toward home, I couldn’t help but egg Lupa on a bit. I kept stealing
sidewise glances and smiling coyly. Then just when it had Schwartz at the brink
of asking what I thought was so funny, I dropped the bomb. “You know he played
you, right?”
Schwartz never
took his eyes from the road. He merely grinned and nodded. “Like a violin,” he
said.
“Do you think
maybe Dr. G. gave Trevor some pointers on how to get you to come to his
office?”
“I’m certain of
it,” Schwartz muttered.
I broke open in a wide smile. “Like a violin,” I
agreed.
End of excerpt
No comments:
Post a Comment