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It just wasn’t right, Montoya thought as he drove through the city. No matter how strong Bentz’s belief that Father John had returned and was creating his own brand of sick mayhem in the city, Montoya wasn’t completely convinced. It all didn’t fit. Yeah, the killing of the prostitutes with a rosary—that was all Father John or a damned good copycat, but Jay McKnight’s homicide and the attack and subsequent terrorizing of Kristi Bentz McKnight just didn’t fit.
He cut through the French Quarter and double-parked near Jackson Square, then jogged through the gates and past the statue of Andrew Jackson atop his rearing horse. The air was fresh, only a few people passing by, the sun rising over the city as he paused to stare up at St. Louis Cathedral, its white sides gleaming, the three black-roofed spires rising upward into the morning sky. Once out of the park, he slowed and walked crisply into the side alley where Kristi and Jay had been attacked. This was what was bothering him. Why would Father John attack here, risk being seen, take a knife to his intended victims?
Victim, he reminded himself. Jay wasn’t supposed to be here that night. Kristi was the target and still was, if the notes left in her home were to be believed. He studied the wall where there had been bloodstains, but they’d been washed away, leaving no stain, no physical evidence of the violent attack.
He’d talked to shopkeepers in the surrounding buildings, checked with the church, and the public information officer had put out requests for anyone who had been out in the storm that night, who might have witnessed the attack, or seen the assailant lying in wait or fleeing the scene to call.
So far: nothing.
Father John, the Rosary Killer from another lifetime?
Montoya didn’t think so.
He walked back to his Mustang and drove to the station where he found Bentz in their shared office. As puzzled and contemplative as Montoya was, Bentz was the opposite, obviously pumped.
He was drinking coffee from a paper cup and wiping his fingers of powdered sugar, the remains of a beignet visible in the trash can. “We’re gonna get him,” Bentz told his partner, and there was a spark in his eyes, the same glint of a hunter noticing prey. “We’re gonna get him, and this time, this time, that son of a bitch isn’t going to get away. Take a look.”
He pointed to the maps of the area that he’d taped onto a white board. The one map was of New Orleans. Marked in red were the areas where Helene Laroche and Teri Marie Gaines had been found. Both in the city. Further out was the spot where Jane Doe had been located.
“Okay. Got it. What are the yellow marks?” he asked, but in a second he knew. “Where the bodies were found the first time he was here.”
“Right,” Bentz said. “The only one out of the city is Jane Doe, but I figure he might have been spooked—had her make the call and then get out of the city. But look over here.” He pointed at the second map of the larger area. Montoya understood. He saw places he’d never forget, including Father John’s original lair, now long gone. Bentz pointed it out. “Here’s where he was, years ago, and then over here”—he drew a line to another spot—“this is Cyrus Unger’s cabin, where we caught the image of the Impala when he tried to rent a spot.” Montoya was nodding. Again, Bentz drew an imaginary line with his finger to another area, deep in the bayou. “This is where Bobby-Dean Clements and Clive Jones found Jane Doe on that dock, and this”—again his fingers slid across the map—“is the direction the attacker ran, presumably toward this road.” He tapped the small lane that cut from the larger road running through the parish.
“So you’re thinking Father John lives somewhere in the triangulated area.”
“He’s familiar with it.”
Montoya eyed the map. “Big area.”
Bentz was nodding, his eyebrows drawing together as he sipped from his cup. “Yep. But we’ll concentrate on here.” He touched the spot indicating the dock where Clive and Bobby-Dean had seen the attack on Jane Doe. “Start searching there and fan out. I’ve got a team on it.”
“In the swamp. Already?”
Bentz nodded. “Yeah.” He met Montoya’s eyes. “It’s time to nail the sick son of a bitch.” Bentz chewed on the edge of his cup.
“You heading out there?”
“We both are. But first, we need to head to the hospital and talk to his latest victim. She’s awake, and surprisingly,” he said, scooping up his phone and keys, “other than the knock on her head and her throat bruised and cut, she’s okay. Might be released today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. So let’s go.” Bentz was already heading for the door. “Let’s see what Jane has to say.”
CHAPTER 30
With a knot twisting in her gut, Kristi watched the first segment ofBonjour, New Orleans!from her spot in the green room while Dana Metcalf prattled on about cats. Tom Bigelow had poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter, downed it, then poured a second. He was cradling the cup in his lap, and the shot of caffeine from his first swallows didn’t seem to be working. He sat on his corner of the couch, long legs propped on a coffee table. He kept nodding off, then jerking awake, and trying vainly to stay awake only to doze again.
Dana caught Kristi’s attention, pointed to the listing cup, and mouthed, “He’s going to spill that,” as if she, unable to move because of Mr. Precious, wanted Kristi to pluck the cup from Bigelow’s slack hands.
Kristi ignored the cat woman and read the closed captions of the program in progress. As expected Reggie fielded most of the questions, which centered around the reason for the couple being guests. Reggie Cooke and her ex-husband, Aldo Lucerno, were on the board of St. Ada’s Hospital, neither having resigned despite their divorce, and there was a fund-raising effort coming up, a benefit with a Halloween theme for the season. Reggie enthusiastically invited the public to buy tickets, attend, and most of all, she added with a wink, bring their checkbooks and credit cards!
Of course during that time, Hamilton Cooke was brought into the conversation that included a discussion of his attempt to have his medical license restored. Though Hamilton retained his ever-stoic expression and sat stiffly, almost awkwardly, Reggie’s face lit up at the prospect of the restoration. Hands folded in her lap, she leaned forward, as if warming up to Renee-Claire, and smiled.
“. . . just a matter of time. Hamilton is an excellent surgeon and he’s been fully exonerated in the unfortunate death of Bethany.” She grew sober. “The tragedy has taken a huge toll on the family, not only for Hamilton but for his, our, daughter now, Lindsay, who by the way, is in college and planning a career in medicine herself.” Reggie visibly brightened again.
Hamilton did not. He even sent what appeared to be a warning glance at the mention of his daughter’s name, but Reggie ignored it.
