Omaha Police Department
Omaha, Nebraska

Maggie stared out of the conference-room window. She hadn’t slept well despite the comfy king-size bed. Maybe it was the anticipation of meeting Father Keller face-to-face again after four years. Of course, it could have been the thought of Nick Morrelli sleeping somewhere down the hall from her in the same hotel. She kept thinking she certainly would have slept much better had she given in and drunk the Chivas. But no amount of Scotch would make seeing Keller any easier. Or at least that’s what she told herself as Detective Pakula handed her yet another set of reports. These were from Santa Rosa County, Florida. They had the conference-room table filled with reports, maps, autopsy photos and evidence bags.

“There’s actually a Bagdad, Florida?” she asked, starting to scan and flip through the papers while she paced the length of the room.

“Just outside of Pensacola. It’s spelled without the ‘h’ though. This campground is on Blackwater Bay. I’ll show you the area in a minute.” Pakula was unfolding a map, making room for it on the bulletin board next to the map of the Midwest region that already had the first three murders marked with bright-colored stickpins, a red one in Omaha, blue in Columbia and yellow in Minneapolis.

“Where’s the fifth?” she asked, craning over the scattered reports. “You said there was one in Boston yesterday?”

“Carmichael will bring it in as soon as Boston PD sends it.”

“He’s escalating. Three of them in five days,” she said. She was antsy, unable to sit still. Thank goodness Pakula didn’t mind her pacing. When it got to this stage it was almost as if she could feel the killer’s frenzy or panic or whatever it was propelling him to hurry.

“You think that’s proof of escalation, wait until you see the Boston one.” He noticed her checking her watch and added, “Kasab and a uniformed officer are meeting Keller at the airport.” He checked his own watch. “They should be here in about an hour if his flight’s on time.”

An hour. In approximately one hour she would be staring into the eyes of a child killer and promising him protection from being killed.

She tried to concentrate on the new Florida case. The body had already been identified as seventy-three-year-old Father Rudolph Lawrence, known to friends and parishioners as Father Rudy. A recent photo sent along with the report showed a short, stocky, white-haired, almost elfish-looking man at a party, with a colorful banner behind him that read: Happy Retirement, Father Rudy! She placed that copy next to the one of his corpse at the crime scene. What was left of the face had bloated beyond recognition. There was a tuft of white hair—that and the white roman collar stood out in the otherwise mangled and dirty mess that looked more like a pile of rags than a body.

The medical examiner had estimated no less than a week. Other tests were needed for a more accurate time of death. Maggie remembered Adam Bonzado telling her that in a matter of a week maggots could consume a body down to the bone in a moist, hot environment. The Florida panhandle in July seemed to fit that environment, but the corpse had been partially hidden with debris and dirt thrown on top, which would have slowed down the process.

Maggie stood in front of the map Pakula had just finished tacking up. “Why try to hide him when he’s already in the middle of what looks like several acres of thick woods.”

“Wetlands,” Pakula said. “They call them wetlands and you’re right—it is thick with trees, scrub grass and some kind of vining crap, not to mention the mosquitoes and the no-see-ums.”

“You sound like a fan of the area.”

“Oh, I love it. Sugar-white beaches and emerald green water. But a lot of places inland aren’t developed. A lot of it is owned by the government. I can’t think what they call it,” Pakula said. “Oh, I know, historic preservation. It’s along the gulf coast where the early explorers landed. In fact, Pensacola would have had the oldest settlement if it hadn’t been washed away by a hurricane.”

“Do you usually learn this much about your crime scenes?” Maggie asked, smiling.

“No, I’ve got friends who live down there. I’ve already been in contact with them. Since they’re Catholics I’m hoping they might be able to dig up some dirt for me on this Father Rudolph.”

“Father Rudy,” she corrected him.

“Yeah, right.”

“The single stab wound to the chest is consistent with our guy, but this is definitely not a public area.”

“Actually, it is.” It was Pakula’s turn to correct her. “It’s part of a public campground. Friends claim the old priest lived about a mile away. He took walks down to the boat ramp, using, of course, the road that runs alongside this wetland area.”

“Okay, so it’s a public area, but why not slice him on the road and leave him in the ditch? The killer would have had to coax him into the trees and then kill him or kill him on the road and drag him into the trees. Why bother? He’s left all the other bodies out in the open. He seemed to have gone to great lengths to hide this one.”

“I don’t know. You’re the profiler, you tell me.” Pakula shrugged and smiled.

“This one feels different,” she said, stopping at the table’s edge to glance over the other reports.

“Wait until you see the Boston one.”

“You already said that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s pretty freaky,” Pakula said just as Carmichael came waltzing in.

“You’ve got to be talking about this one,” Carmichael said, dropping the copies in the middle of the table. “This guy’s either lost it or else this isn’t our guy.”

Maggie and Pakula came up on either side of Carmichael to take a look. Maggie grabbed the top page, staring at the first crime scene photo with yet another decapitated head sitting on a church altar. Maggie couldn’t believe it. This one resembled the D.C. killer more than their priest killer.

“Boston detective I talked to said the killer practically ripped the head off,” Carmichael told them

“I hate to tell both of you this,” Maggie said and Pakula and Carmichael stopped to look at her. “I think we’ve got more than one killer.”