For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Read online

  “In a sense. I mean, the note is telling us that the perpetrator let the victim know what was going to happen to him and made him realize he couldn’t escape his fate. Like the sinners in Dante’s version of Hell, he’s letting his victim realize the awful truth; I’ve got you, you’re going to suffer horribly, and you won’t leave here alive.”

  “Great, a thinking man’s sadist who hates priests, and quotes poetry.”

  I look at the body. The mutilation is methodical. I tell Will as much and ask what he thinks.

  “I think we’re looking for someone who may have known both victims. There’s a connection here.”

  “Is it possible we’re looking at a serial killer?” Giles asks.

  “This is deeply personal and it seems directed at the clergy.” I answer him gesturing towards the body. “If this guy turns out to have been a genuine Roman Catholic priest, I’d say we’re looking for someone who is going after Catholic clergy. The possibility of a serial killer can’t be ruled out, but this is too one-on-one. There’s a lot of anger present and, except for the act of sodomy, which was done violently, it seems to be controlled anger. That can change though.”

  Giles and his assistant need to get evidence from the body and then ready it for the autopsy. Will walks out first. He can only be civil to Giles for so long and, anyway, he has to get to the station to write his report. I follow him out; it’s only six-thirty and I want breakfast. . I also want to go home to wash my hair before I go to my office; it smells like morgue. When we’re almost to the door, Giles says that he’ll call me later.

  “Um, and you’ll call me about the results, right Doc?” Will says in a demanding way.

  “You’re first on my list, detective,” answers Giles smiling. He coughs and continues, “By the way, there’s a bar exam coming up in two months. My cousin Jennifer is taking it, she’s all excited. Thought maybe you two might want to study together. I can set up a study-date if you like. She’s a brain.”

  Oh dagger to the heart! This is Giles’s subtle way of hitting back at Will’s sarcasm. His cousin Jenn met Will only once and declared him a prize ass to his face.

  Will looks steadily at Giles for a long minute and mouths an obscenity at him as I steer him quickly out the door.

  Once outside I grab Will’s arm. I don’t mince words. “I want in on this case.”

  He turns to face me.

  “This isn’t a private investigation, Cate. This isn’t your case.”

  “Technically no, but I was the P.I. who found the first body last year. I did more legwork than the cops did during that investigation; they were getting evidence and reports from me. Come on Will, except for the message, this is identical to the last body found.”

  He sighs deeply and fixes me with a level stare. “The best I can do, and I’m not saying I will do it, is to keep you informed of certain developments in the case. That’s it.”

  “You can keep me informed as a private consultant. I won’t even charge you.”

  “Damn right you won’t charge me because I am not hiring you!”

  “Will, I am totally serious here.” Why the hell did you ask me to come down here if you didn’t want me involved?

  “I asked you to come down because last year you found a body murdered and mutilated in the same way. I wanted your opinion on the message. You gave it and that's it. Professional courtesy is what I expected.”

  “You are the one who asked me to consult on this case.”

  “Jeez, don’t you ever listen to what people say? You are not a consultant. If I do keep you informed it is only as a matter of my own professional courtesy. You mess too much with what the police are doing and I swear, it’ll not only cost you your license but you could end up in jail for obstruction. Listen to me for once, for God’s sake, Cate. Besides you told me you have a new case; work on that and earn some money.”

  I stare straight back at him. “I am working it. As for this priest case, I’m smart enough not to get caught. Don’t worry about me Will, I know what I’m doing. Give me a break on this. You don’t need to know what I’m doing, but if I find something, some info or lead, you’ll be the first person I tell. How’s that for a deal?”

  “God, you are something else, you know that Cate? I’ll think about it, I can’t promise you anything. Just let me think about it.”

  I smile my thanks.

  “Email me the words on the collar and the translation, along with your analysis of their meaning, when you get to your office,” is all he says to me as he walks to his unmarked car. ‘Bye Will. Thanks for getting me up at four am.

  ****

  Nine blocks from my home I pass my friend Melissa's more upscale brownstone. She is just entering her front door, coming home from a client meeting no doubt, when I honk and pull up to the curb. In her area of the city, brownstone owners have parking spaces. Melissa has a spot that she never uses. Her BMW is in a private garage.

  She waves a beautifully manicured hand in greeting, her matching yellow diamond bracelets and rings sparkling in the early morning sun.

  “All night stake-out?” she asks as I get out of the car cradling another Timothy's bag that contains a large coffee and two bagels with Taylor ham and egg. I made a quick stop on my way home.

  “Morgue,” I say. She grimaces. “Victim was found early this morning and Detective Benigni wanted my opinion on something.”

  “Ah, yes,” she smiles with perfect teeth, “The delicious Will Benigni.” She pronounces his name in perfect phonics, Bay-nee-nee. “How is he?”

  “He’s fine, I guess. Will’s, well you know how he is when he’s got a case, all business.”

  Melissa laughs and gestures towards the bag. “Want to come upstairs and have your coffee? I’m not tired yet.”

  “Sure,” I say grateful for a little girl talk. I’ve had enough testosterone for one morning.

  Melissa’s digs are as different from mine as they can get. Where I have the bare minimum in furniture and accessories, her place looks like it is ready for a photo shoot for Architectural Digest. Nothing ever seems out of place, even her refrigerator is neat and in order.

  I sit on the comfortably wide chairs by her kitchen island and take out my food. I am starving and I certainly need another caffeine jolt. Melissa puts on a pot of tea and takes eggs out of the fridge to make herself an omelet.

  For the good part of an hour she tells me about the class she took on ancient cults, which ended last week and the new class she’s taking on Peruvian archeology, an outfit she bought to wear to some gala next week, a new restaurant opening up in SoHo. I tell her about a pair of shoes I bought but can’t really afford, and ask her why, after seven years of living together my two cats still don’t get along all that well.

  I mention my missing person cold file case and she comments how horrible it must be to not know what happened to someone you love. We don’t talk about my love life with Giles or lack thereof with Will, or her clients. Finally the small talk is exhausted and she asks about my early morning sojourn down at the morgue.

  One of the many things that I really like about Melissa is she's discreet. I know I can tell her anything and she will never repeat what I say. That discretion is probably a necessity in her line of work. Anyway, I tell her about the body with the priest's collar and the message in Latin.

  “This is the second body wearing a religious collar?” she asks as she joins me at the banquette and settles back into her chair. I nod yes.

  “Did you ever ID the first body? Was the victim a real priest?”

  “The body found last year was an actual priest, a Father Martin Duquesne, seventy-six years old. Took a while to ID him. He was living in a nursing home community in upstate New York. No living relatives. He had left the priesthood years ago and was teaching at a small Catholic college for a short time. People at the college knew very little about him except that he mostly kept to himself.

  “His old diocese didn’t have a lot of info on him either. The chur
ch was in a transient community so there weren’t any parishioners who had actually known him for long. No motive was ever found for the crime. No suspects either. The police finally put it down to a violent, random killing. The case is still open, but no real leads have ever been found.”

  “Well, I hope they have more luck finding info about this one.” She shivers. “God, what a horror. Sounds like Detective Benigni has a real psycho on his hands. Someone doesn’t like priests.”

  ****

  The sign on my battered, old office door that reads Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations is in bold brass letters. I picked it out of a catalogue not realizing how much its shiny newness would contrast with the ancient wood of the door on which it is attached. Still, I think it’s me; the past mixing with the present and getting along just fine.

  My office is a mess; the domestically challenged part of my persona extends to where I work. There are semi-filled coffee containers, junk mail, and papers all over my desk and three empty cartons of Chinese take-out on the file cabinets. My windowsill is where plants come to die. I either over-water them or forget to water at all. Will once jokingly called me a plant murderer and threatened to report me to the New York Horticultural Society.

  Separated from my own work area by a pretty decorated screen is the desk of the woman who takes my calls and makes my appointments, Mrs. Myrtle Goldberg Tuttle, who has been on vacation with her husband Harry for two weeks. They have no children and see me as a daughter. That’s fine with me; there are times when I need pampering.

  Myrtle is isn’t in yet. She will have a fit when she sees this mess and give me an over-the-top-of-her-glasses frown. Myrtle was a schoolteacher in her previous life and a good friend of my late parents. I can’t afford to pay Myrtle a whole lot but I think she comes in more to have something to do, and for the occasional excitement she gets courtesy of my profession.

  I locate my phone, which is hidden under a few flyers and other junk mail, and check for messages. I used to have my calls automatically forwarded to my cell phone, but I stopped after having some prank calls wake me up during the early morning hours. Some idiots, I have found, have nothing better to do with their time. It’s easier for me to check office calls from my cell or have Myrtle forward business calls to my cell.

  Before I forget to do it, I turn on my laptop, which I left on a filing cabinet, and email Will the translation along with my observations of the body and what I think the message signifies.

  The file on the McElroy boy is on my desk chair. Picking it up I sit down and read the small bit of information I’ve written there. I look at the picture, a snapshot of a fifteen year old boy with sweet eyes that remind me of his sister’s, but with one major difference; his have a cat-like wariness about them. As the owner of two cats, I know that look. It’s an instinctual caution. My cats have this look whenever they think some type of danger might be present. It’s an alertness; an internal early warning system. Be aware, be cautious; stay safe. That’s the feline motto, but it’s also good for the human mammal. This kid has that look.

  So, where to start for info on Josh McElroy. The day after I met with Marie, I did a search of the shelters in her area and in the city as I had promised her I would but came up empty. Now I need something more official. I call an acquaintance who works at the police archives office. A happy-go-lucky voice answers. When he hears my voice he says,

  “Hey, Cate, how the hell are you? What can I do for you, kid?”

  He’s two years away from retirement and is happy to be settled into a job where the only real danger is getting a paper cut. He did his time on the beat, got shot once, and his reward, besides not getting killed, was a desk job. A full pension and benefits await him in twenty-four months. He's a happy guy.

  “Hi Jimmy. I’m fine. You? Oh, good, good. Listen, I need a file. It’s a cold case file, goes back ten years. A boy by the name of Joshua McElroy, that’s J-o-s-h-u-a M-c-E-l-r-o-y, went missing at the age of fifteen.” I don't tell him anything else. He doesn't want to know why I want it anyway. “If you’ve got it I can come by this afternoon.”

  I hear a chair creak as he swivels to check the data in the computer. Click, click, click; Jimmy is a slow typist and he asks me to spell McElroy again. Ten minutes go by and I listen to Jimmy talk about his fly-fishing, his wife’s arthritis, his daughter-in-law’s pregnancy, his son’s new job, his daughter’s promotion at work. Finally I hear, “Yeah kid, I have it here. Come by around two, okay?”

  “Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you one.”

  “So when you see me at The Shannon Rose you’ll buy me a beer.”

  “You’re on.” I laugh.

  Myrtle comes in just as I’m hanging up. As predicted she gives me the look she so perfected during her thirty-five years teaching eighth grade. Sighing and shaking her head, she begins to tidy up. All’s well with the world. She’s surprised when I hug her on my way out the door and I see that stern facade of hers melt. Myrtle loves me.

  It’s only eight o'clock, but I want to see Marie McElroy before I go check out the file on her brother.

  Chapter 3

  The McElroy house, where Marie has lived all her life, is on a shady tree-lined street in Bellerose, Queens. It's a small clapboard house not very different from the others tucked closely beside each other on the street. You can get lost in Queens if you don't know your way around. There's 92nd Road, 92nd Street, 92nd Avenue. My aunt lived here until recently, so I know Queens like my own brownstone. By nine-o-five I am standing on the front doorstep and ringing the bell until I realize it isn’t working, so I begin a rapid staccato on the door.

  “Coming!” Marie McElroy opens the door, dressed in black pants, a grey T-shirt, and flats. She told me when she was at my office that she's a hairdresser for a small shop in Queens. “Ms. Harlow!” I know she has a brief moment of hope that I am bringing her information about her brother, I can see it in her eyes, but it quickly subsides. I’m good at what I do but not that good. She only hired me a few days ago. Besides, I need more info.

  “Hi Marie. Please call me Cate, okay? Do you have a minute? I’m going to go read the case file on your brother at the police archives this afternoon and before I do I wanted to ask you some more questions. I know it’s early but your input to this is a vital part of my job. Got some time for me?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Ms., um … Cate. Anything you need. I don’t have to be at work until around eleven really. We're kinda slow this week. I just go in early to set up because it keeps me busy. Come on in.”

  The furniture is old-fashioned and worn, but the house is immaculate. I see religious pictures hanging on the walls and one prominent picture of a sad-faced Jesus on the wall in the stairwell. She asks me if I want coffee or orange juice. Having had two more cups of coffee during my girl talk with Melissa earlier this morning, coupled with the super-large one from Timothy’s, I’m all “coffeed” out so I opt for juice. I really don’t want the juice but in my business I have found that people are much more receptive to giving out information if you make it seem as if you're being sociable. They’re off their guard in that type of scene and will answer questions easily.

  I watch her go down the hall to the kitchen. As I said, it’s a small house. Marie comes back with a tray. She hands me the glass of orange juice and a paper napkin. I shake my head at the proffered cookies. My gut is still in the process of digesting those delicious Timothy’s bagels.

  “I would have come to your office. You didn’t have to drive all the way out here,” she says sitting back and taking the mug of coffee.

  “That's okay. I’ve been up since four and the drive helped me clear my head.”

  I politely sip my drink and look around the living room. Pictures of the McElroy family abound, especially ones of Marie and her brother, Joshua. I see baby pictures in which they’re both smiling or mugging for the camera lens. Pictures of the two of them around three or four laughing and hugging each other; they looked as if they had a happy family li
fe as children. I see a couple of black and white photos in the sea of colored ones and it’s a nice touch; the modern pictures take on a dated look. Somebody must have been an amateur photographer.

  There’s even a picture of them in communion outfits. Both are dressed all in white down to their shoes, Marie in a lace dress with that little veil hanging down to her shoulders, and Joshua in a little suit and tie. They’re posed by a statue of some saint, both trying to look serious for the occasion but those dimpled smiles keep peeking through. There’s one large picture with Happy 8th Birthday Marie written on a huge cake. The camera caught Joshua with a devilish grin sticking his finger in the icing. He had to be just nine years old.

  For some reason, the smiling pictures of Joshua seem to stop a little while after the birthday picture. Marie is always smiling at the camera but Joshua doesn’t even look at it; his eyes are gazing off in the distance, wary, a little scared. In another picture he looks angry. What happened after his ninth year that caused this change in his face? What made him stop smiling?

  Marie sees me staring at the pictures and looks at me questioningly. I take a final sip of juice and put the glass back on the tray.

  “Marie, some questions are hard to answer but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask them.” She nods.

  “Those family pictures of you and Joshua make me believe that you had a happy childhood.” She smiles and begins to say something about how her childhood was almost perfect.

  “Up to a point that is,” I say forestalling her. “In the earlier ones, Joshua is always smiling. But after your eighth birthday picture, he looks sad and angry. Were there any family problems that suddenly occurred when you were around that age?”

  She wrinkles her brow but immediately shakes her head no.

  “Family problems such as a parent losing a job, parental fights, alcohol or drug abuse, even prescription drugs; anything you can remember,” I prompt.

  “If you mean my parents, God no. We were lucky; our parents really were good, decent people. One or two beers at a barbecue maybe, they hardly ever had a disagreement. My dad had a good job as a construction foreman and my mom worked part-time as a lunchroom lady. She liked being home for us when we got out of school. It is true when I tell you that we had a pleasant childhood.