In Death 27 - Salvation in Death

But, it also had to be factored in that each of the victims was remarkably different, in the faith base, their public exposure. You have a confession on Jenkins?”
    “Not yet. I’m letting him stew in it. If I don’t have one within the next few hours, I’ll stir it some more. So it’s the Flores case I need to kick around.”
    Mira took one of the table crackers, which looked as unappetizing as what Eve thought of as the Catholic cookie. She broke off a microscopic corner, nibbled on it.
    “The false priest,” Mira said, “killed at the moment of ritual when he stands most emphatically as a servant of God and as his earthly representative. This is my blood—that’s what’s said. If the killer believed him to be Flores, believed him to be a true priest, this would indicate some direct attack on the church and its ritual, on the priesthood. Your investigation hasn’t found any evidence of a personal problem with the victim—as Flores. He could, of course, have heard something in confession that the penitent later regretted passing on.”
    “Which means the killer likely belonged to that church, or is, at least, Catholic.”
    “I believe whether it was simply a priest—or the individual masquerading as one—who was the target, that the killer has strong ties to the Catholic Church, and to that parish. The method was another kind of ritual, and I don’t believe choosing to execute the murder during a funeral mass was happenstance.”
    “Same page, same line,” Eve agreed.
    “Poison is a distant kind of weapon. It removes the killer from the victim, but can also afford the killer the advantage of standing back and witnessing the death. The crowd in the church would afford an excellent cover for that. The distance and the intimacy. I would say both were desired. Public execution.”
    “Why make it public if you can’t watch yourself?”
    “Yes. But for what crime? The crime had some direct effect on the killer. Exposure wasn’t enough. For a person of faith—and the ritual, the method, the time, and the place indicate that to me—the sin, the crime, had to have been deeply and desperately personal.”
    “It’s about the neighborhood, about home, the gang connection. It’s in there somewhere.”
    “Yes, the method, the place mattered. The killer’s mature enough to plan, to choose. Involved in this faith enough to know how to use it. Organized, thoughtful, and probably devout. And the intimacy and distance of poison is often a female weapon.”
    “Yeah, like no fists,” Eve commented. “Poison isn’t bloody. Takes no force, no physical contact. A hundred-pound woman can take down a two-hundred-pound man without chipping her nail.”
    Mira sat back as their salads were served. “You believe Jenkins’s killer will confess.”
    “Guilt’s going to eat him inside out.”
    “A man or woman of faith, then?”
    “Yeah, I guess. Yeah. He believes.”
    “Your two cases may not be connected by one killer, but I think they may be connected by the same type. I think he or she is also a person of faith. And if so, he or she will need to confess. Not to you. The Eternal Light doesn’t have confession, penance, and absolution by a representative of Christ.”
    “But Catholics do.”
    “Yes. The killer will confess to his priest.”

12
     
    EVE HEADED BACK TO HOMICIDE WITH THE IDEA of grabbing Peabody and taking on the priests at St. Cristóbal’s again. Confession, she thought. She believed Billy Crocker would need to unburden himself. Doing the deed—the impulse , even the restrained passion of it—would have carried him through the murder itself. But the aftermath, all the grief surrounding him would scrape and dig at him. Add in her parting shot, letting him know she recognized him, and yeah, he’d fall under the weight. She’d already seen it in his eyes.
    But the Flores killer. That was deeper, felt deeper. More personal, and more tied in with the ritual of faith. Mira put her finger on it, in Eve’s opinion. The killer would seek yet another ritual of faith.
    Maybe already had.
    Hit the priests, and some of the tattoo parlors on her list. But that was long-shot territory. Finding the tat artist who inked her particular Lino after what could be a good twenty years was a crap shoot. But if she couldn’t nail it down any other way, it was worth that shot.
    She’d started the swing to her division when she remembered Peabody wouldn’t be there. Party planning, for God’s sake.