Memorial Park
Omaha, Nebraska

Tommy Pakula hated everything about these events—the crowds, the noise and the heat, all served up with warm beer and entertainers from the ’60s, entertainers who had become parodies of themselves. Although he had to admit Frankie Avalon still looked pretty damn good for his age, if only he’d left those silly white shoes at home.

What Pakula especially hated was the hotshot public officials slapping him on the back, pretending—when they were really hoping—that he was one of them. He didn’t know how Chief Ramsey put up with it, either. But as hometown boys—Pakula a graduate of South High, Ramsey of Creighton Prep, but about five or six years before Pakula—they both had to put up with it to a certain degree. The chief more so than Pakula, because he had left Omaha for almost a decade for greener pastures before finding his way back home and working through the red tape of politics and good ole boy networks. As hometown boys they knew about the hometown politics, too. And that’s exactly why they were trying to discuss police procedure, or rather protocol, out here in the middle of a crowded park rather than some quiet coffee shop clear across town. They figured no one would ever suspect they’d talk about something so important on a sunny holiday weekend, in the middle of Memorial Park where the entire northwest lawn was riddled with blankets and lawn chairs, ice chests and portable umbrellas, leaving only narrow strips of grass on which to make your way through the maze.

They had left their families somewhere in the sea of red, white and blue with the simple excuse of finding something cold to drink. Vendors lined the circular drive around the monument at the top of the park, away from the blankets and almost out of reach of the half-dozen seven-foot amplifiers Frankie and crew had brought along. Pakula ordered a kraut-dog with the works and a tall, bucket-size Coke, while the chief settled on less indigestion with a plain dog and a tall bucket of his own, only Dew instead of Coke.

“Not sure why you want to waste your money on that.” Pakula nodded at Chief Ramsey’s pathetic hot dog swallowed by a bun and drowning in mustard while Pakula bit into his own, piled high and wide.

“Yeah, ask me that later when you’re popping the antacids.”

Chief Ramsey eyed a couple of teenagers on bicycles scoping the terrain below as if they might attempt to ride down into the crowd. Pakula recognized the habit and caught himself checking out a double-parked van with its back doors left swinging open but the owner nowhere in sight. It bugged Clare and she continuously accused him of not listening to her just because he wasn’t looking at her. But with two cops it wasn’t unusual at all to carry on a complete, detailed conversation without ever making eye contact.

“There’s something you need to know, Tommy.” Chief Ramsey glanced at him, but his eyes were quickly gone, now checking out something behind Pakula, off to the right. “Vice has had an eye on O’Sullivan and Our Lady of Sorrow.”

“Holy crap,” Pakula said under his breath, caught with a mouthful. He swiped at the corner of his lips with the back of his hand. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that yesterday?”

“Because it’s nothing official, not even a single complaint filed. Just some reporter from the Herald who’s been nosing around and hassling Sassco to do something. I know Sassco’s been head of Vice for only six months, but you know the guy. It doesn’t take much to get his nose all bent out of shape if it involves kids. If there was anything at all, he’d be all over it. Could just be a lot of gossip and rumor. Maybe this reporter’s trying too hard to hunt up a story. Maybe she’s thinking it’s been happening all over the country, why not here? You know how the goddamn media works.”

Pakula nodded, but this time kept quiet. The chief wasn’t finished, and so he took another bite.

Chief Ramsey looked all the way around them, but no one was staying in one place long enough to seem interested in their conversation.

“I’m just saying that could be why the archbishop has his shorts all in a twist about this. He’s pretending that it’s no big deal, but it’s got to be a big fucking deal for him to send his messenger boy to pick up the luggage before the monsignor’s even had a chance to get cold.”

“Maybe he knows about the other priests getting iced?” Pakula suggested.

“Could be. Either way, his reputation is to round up his yes-men and very quietly but powerfully discredit, damage and ruin whoever the fuck he perceives as his enemy. And we both know he can do a pretty damn good job of it.”

“If some psycho is running around the country offing priests, why wouldn’t the archbishop want to do everything in his power to stop him? What am I missing?” Pakula pushed up his sunglasses and tossed the wrapper from his kraut-dog, glancing back at the vendor booth, contemplating another. After all, he still had more than half of his extra-large Coke. The chief noticed.

“Go ahead. Hell, I’d have two or three of them if they didn’t stay with me for the rest of the night.”

“No, I’d better not. Clare brought some meatball sandwiches.”

“Look at it this way,” Chief Ramsey said around a sip at his straw, “if there was some shit going on at Our Lady of Sorrow and O’Sullivan was about to smear the entire diocese, maybe the archbishop would be grateful to have his murder chalked up to a random slice and dice. If there even was a leather portfolio full of damning evidence, it’s nowhere to be found. Case closed and there’s nobody digging any further. I don’t believe for a second O’Sullivan’s poor sister in Connecticut wants him back as soon as possible for some elaborate burial. Armstrong’s probably thinking the sooner he gets buried the sooner those secrets get buried with him.”

“Sort of like O’Sullivan’s murder was a mixed blessing from above?”

“Exactly.”

“So what are we gonna do about it?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, I’m already tired of His High and Mighty jacking us around and thinking he can tell me what I can or can’t do. He doesn’t even have the balls to do it himself. He sends his pasty-faced bully, Sebastian.” Chief Ramsey paused as if he needed to settle himself down. He took another sip. “I have a buddy I met years ago, Kyle Cunningham. Long story, but he owes me one. Archbishop Armstrong thinks he’s almighty, so we bring in someone he can’t reach, someone who doesn’t give a shit about what kind of power he thinks he has. And also someone who takes the reins and the heat if this mess ends up being some fucking serial killer offing priests. That happens and you can bet we won’t just have Armstrong and the Herald to worry about. Besides, these days nobody minds blaming the FBI.”

“We’re calling in the big boys and not just Weston and crew?”

“Cunningham promised me his top profiler, so not necessarily boys, but his top boy for sure. That should be enough.”

“I just want to figure this one out. Shouldn’t that still be our priority?” Pakula didn’t mean to sound like he was second-guessing Chief Ramsey’s decision. Yet at the same time, he didn’t much trust the FBI to bring any answers to the case no matter who they sent. Fact was, he didn’t believe bringing a profiler in would be much help at all, despite the chief’s argument. When the going got tough, he knew as lead detective it’d still be his neck on the line, not some spooky flash-in-the-pan profiler, trying to simplify everything by telling him whether the killer put on his pants any differently than the rest of them. Maybe…just maybe if they were lucky, the feds would, at least, help connect the dots with the other cases. And if there was a killer murdering priests, that could be where there were some answers.

Pakula looked squarely at the chief, waiting for his eyes to meet his, expecting some sort of reprimand for his cynicism, but instead he said, “Me, too. I just wanted it figured out.” Chief Ramsey took a bite of his hot dog as if he finally had an appetite. “But when we do, you’d better be prepared to watch all hell break loose.”