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Hugo had the decency to look sad if not grief-stricken. “Helene is a . . . well, she was . . . an independent spirit.”
Marianne let out a loud, disgusted breath. “A whacko, that’s what she was!” To the police, she demanded, “I want to see the body! I want to know that she is really and truly dead. It wouldn’t surprise me if the poor dead girl is some kind of body double or something, and in two or three days once the press has sensationalized the story, she waltzes back in here and swears she was just gone on some kind of life-changing journey, a walk-about in Australia or met with some great shaman in India and learned about the true meaning of life or some such bullshit.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’ll want to see the body!”
“We’ll arrange it,” Bentz said.
“Good. And if it is Helene,” Marianne said, glaring at her father, “may she never rest in peace.”
* * *
“Man oh man, she was just a kid,” Montoya said in the morgue where the stripped-down body of Helene Laroche lay on a metal table.
Hugo Laroche and Marianne had already visited, the corpse wheeled into the viewing room, a sheet pulled down from her face. Bentz and Montoya had been there, witnessed the reaction of both father and daughter.
“Yes, yes, that’s Helene,” Hugo had said, a catch in his voice, and though he’d remained dry eyed, he’d blinked rapidly.
Marianne had wended her arm through her father’s in what Bentz thought was an out-of-character display of comfort. Lips pinched, face a little more wan than earlier, she’d nodded, her messy bun jiggling. “Yeah,” she agreed, at least for the moment convinced that her father was, indeed, a widower. “It sure looks like Helene.” And then she’d frowned, her eyebrows slamming together. “I want a DNA test on the body.”
“Marianne!” Hugo had been aghast. “You can see . . .”
“Can I?” Her eyes had narrowed in suspicion. “I know it’s over the top, but we’re talking about Helene here, Dad. Anything’s possible.” Turning her gaze to Montoya, she’d said, “You’re going to do an autopsy anyway. Right? Isn’t this all kind of standard in a homicide case, you know, to separate out the victim’s DNA from that of the attacker if any was left at the scene?”
“You’ve been watching too muchCSIandLaw and Orderor whatever on TV,” her father had charged.
Montoya had held up a hand. “We’ll handle it,” he’d assured her before they’d left.
Father and daughter had shuttled quickly away, out the door of the viewing room, their footsteps echoing in the hallway before fading, and the body had been returned to the morgue where the detectives were now standing, staring down at what remained of Helene Sands Laroche. And Montoya was right. Without makeup or her wigs, the prosthetics on her nose and cheeks removed, she looked younger than her years.
“Yeah.” Bentz was staring at the corpse and shaking his head, knowing that the psycho who had killed so many was at it again. All because Bentz’s aim had been off just a fraction, but enough to allow the pathetic piece of human garbage that was the Rosary Killer to survive. If only the bullet would have found its mark on that murky night in the bayou, or if only the alligators had feasted on the wounded man. But no. Father John was back. “This is not a copycat.”
“Probably not.”
“Let’s get out of here.” The morgue was cold and sterile with tile walls and shiny, brutal-looking instruments—stainless steel saws and scales, forceps and scalpels, scissors and hammers. Tools of the trade for autopsies, but Bentz imagined them as weapons. They’d seen enough.
Though the autopsy wasn’t complete, the toxicology screen not processed, it seemed obvious that Helene Laroche had died from asphyxiation, the result of being strangled by what appeared to be, at least in Bentz’s mind, a rosary, most likely a homemade one with sharpened beads and piano wire for string.
He’d seen it before.
A long time ago.
Outside the day was gray and overcast, still warmer than usual for October, the wind steady and quick. The talk by the weather forecasters was that there was still a chance for a hurricane this year. That thought was grim; hurricanes here, despite all the recent upgrades to the city’s defenses against huge storms, were a cause of major concern and stretched city services, including the police department, to the limits of their capabilities.
They reached Montoya’s Mustang and Bentz slid into the passenger seat. “All right,” Montoya said as he started the car and the big engine roared to life. “I’m convinced. Rosary is back.” He wheeled out of the lot, gunning it to slide into a spot in heavy traffic.
This wasn’t good news, but at least Montoya and Bentz were on the same page.
“But I’m not sure he was behind the McKnight homicide.”
“No?” The truth was Bentz was on the fence about that as well.
“MO is too different.”
“What are the chances that we’ve got two whackos dressed as priests?”
“Slim. Okay, I’ll give you that.” Montoya’s head swiveled and then he cut across traffic to make a quick left turn.
“Hey!” Bentz shouted as an angry horn blared. In all the years they’d been partnered together Bentz had never gotten used to Montoya’s aggressive driving.
“Plenty of room.”
