Santa Clawed

rendezvous, he supposed they could park under the football or soccer stadium, in a parking lot that was hidden. He slowly circled the university holdings on the west side of business Route 29. Didn’t see a thing except snow.
    He rounded by the law school, part of a series of buildings erected from the ’70s onward and sadly out of character with the core of the University of Virginia. Not that they were butt ugly. The shape and proportion of the Darden School and the law school might have even been welcome in many a Midwestern university, but not here, where things should have been built in Mr. Jefferson’s style. Jefferson, could he have seen the new additions, would have suffered cardiac arrest.
    Officer Doak’s heart ticked fine, but he possessed enough aesthetic sense to recognize a mistake—a quite expensive one, too—when he saw it.
    Driving out of the university, he came up behind Barracks Road Shopping Center, which was still central to economic life in Charlottesville. The windshield wipers clicked as he turned into the center. One lone snow-covered car reposed in the parking lot in front of Barnes & Noble, which was a real gathering spot during business hours.
    He drove up, got out, wiped off the license plates to be sure. It was Dr. Bryson Deeds’s Tahoe, all right. He wiped off a window. No one was inside.
    Snow fell on his nose. He pulled his cap down tighter around his head, but it offered little by way of warmth. He climbed back into the squad car, his feet already cold. He drove along the main row of buildings. Even with the overhang, the winds swept snow inward. He passed the small fountain areas and noticed a lone figure wearing a Santa Claus hat sitting on a bench. He kept the motor running, got out, and identified Bryson, throat cleanly sliced.
    Doak immediately called Rick.
    The minute the sheriff heard Doak’s voice, he was wide awake. “What?”
    “Dr. Bryson Deeds is dead. M.O. like the monks.”
    “I’ll be right there.”
    Rick arrived in fifteen minutes. He lived up the hill behind Barracks Road but drove cautiously. “Thank God no one’s around.”
    “Right,” Doak replied.
    Rick wished he’d put on more layers. “Until the coroner examines the corpse, we can’t assume it’s the same killer.”
    “Copycat?”
    “Possible. The variation in this murder is that Bryson is not a monk.”
    Officer Doak informed him of Racquel’s call and his visit to the house.
    Rick had called the ambulance squad and managed to rouse one person from the forensics team, since the rest were out of town. He checked his watch.
    “Should I go back to his wife?”
    “Not yet. You’re off duty in an hour. I’ll do it.”
    The young man blew air from his cheeks. “Thanks, Chief. I hate that.”
    “I do, too, but sometimes you can pick up useful information.”
    Officer Doak looked at Bryson’s corpse and said, “Arrogant bastard.”
    “Could be, but he was also one of the best cardiologists on the Atlantic seaboard. I expect his fan club consisted of those he’d saved and few others. Is the Tahoe unlocked?”
    “Didn’t check.”
    Rick pushed his coat sleeve back to check the time again.
    “The coroner will have to take a crowbar to pry him off the bench.”
    Neither of them could help it—they laughed a little.
    “Want me to go through the Tahoe?”
    “In a minute.”
    The young man folded his arms across his chest, stamped his feet a little. “Coop and I were talking about the murders. The killer believes he’s unassailable, which could be dangerous.”
    Rick nodded. “Anyone that arrogant, if pinned down, will try to kill again.”
    “Or hire an expensive lawyer.”
    “Maybe,” Rick said, then continued, “but I’ve been a cop long enough to know that whoever is doing this has a gargantuan ego. The offense to that ego of being outsmarted by a ‘dumb cop’ like me or you or Coop, I’m telling you, is going to make the son of a bitch snap.”

I t was a long night on top of Afton Mountain.
    After the simple Christmas Eve service infused with Gregorian chants, the brothers wished one another the compliments of the season and most retired to their cells. A few intended to enter into the spirit of the holiday. Bottles were liberated from safe places, with toasts quietly lifted to the order, to increased happiness, and, of course, to the departed.
    Brother Morris asked Brother George to share a libation with him. The two men sat on a comfortable sofa. Brother Morris could