A slight darkness flickered through his eyes. Or had she imagined it? She met his clear gaze, watching closely for other possible tells, a repeat of the flicker.
“Not really. Other than she was kind, gentle. Devout. She had long-term plans for the future.”
“Such as?” Maddocks said.
“Travel mostly.”
“With any guy in particular, perhaps—any special male in her life that you know of?” he said.
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t—or won’t?” he said.
Father Simon studied Maddocks again for several beats, yet his posture remained benign. Benevolent, even. Still, Angie detected an undercurrent between the two men, or Maddocks was just being an ass because of his earlier altercation with her. “I do think she had a special person in her life, yes,” Father Simon said. “I don’t know who that was, though.” Calmly, he waited for them to press on with more questions, as if indulging impatient children who would learn with time. The weight of the church, the sense of its age and history, seemed suddenly to start pressing down on Angie, and claustrophobia began to circle. She cleared her throat, fighting back the sensations, worried that it might be a precursor to another hallucination.
“Is there perhaps anyone in this congregation, or someone who does building maintenance, or tends to the gardens, or does something administrative for the parish, who might have expressed an unnatural interest in Gracie Drummond?” she said.
“You think someone from this parish hurt her?”
“Whoever did hurt her, Father, is acting out a lethal sexual fantasy within a powerful religious context, and likely a Catholic-specific one.”
“Why Catholic-specific?”
She glanced at Maddocks, and he gave her a slight nod. “We believe that after sexually assaulting his female victims in a violent manner, he immerses them in water as a symbolism for baptism. Cleansing them in the name of the Lord. After which he adorns them with a sign of the cross and removes the parts of their bodies designed purely for female sexual pleasure. And in Gracie’s case, he displayed her at the feet of the Virgin Mary.” She held his eyes.
He didn’t blink. “This symbolism—the crucifix, baptism—it doesn’t mean it’s Catholic. Many Christian religions use immersion for baptism, or used to.”
Again, she glanced at Maddocks, ensuring he was on board with giving Father Simon what used to be holdback information, although just about everything of their cases had now been leaked to the press. He gave another small and tacit nod, his eyes still angry.
“He uses specific words during his attacks, and he forces his victims to make specific responses before he rapes them. These phrases and the responses are consistent with the script used in the official Catholic baptismal ceremony,” she said. “As in, the celebrant asking the parents of the infant to be baptized the following questions, among others: ‘Do you reject Satan? And all his works? Do you reject the glamour of evil and refuse to be mastered by sin? Do you reject Satan, father of sin and prince of darkness?’” She paused, watching his face. “Whereupon the godparents are supposed to answer ‘I do’ to each question before their godchild is anointed with holy water, and the priest then traces the sign of the cross on the child’s forehead. Correct?”
The priest nodded slowly, and then he said, “But it doesn’t mean he comes from this parish, does it?”
“This was Gracie’s church, Father. She spent timehere. Sanghere. Given the religious and Catholic context of the crimes, it’s conceivable she crossed pathsherewith someone of strong faith, possibly someone deeply conflicted about sin and lust.” That discomfit she’d felt in the club about her own echoes in behavior started circling again.
The priest inhaled deeply and rubbed his jaw, and his eyes seemed to have narrowed ever so slightly, the light in them not quite as vivid.
“Is there anyone you know who might fit these characteristics?” she said.
He shook his head slowly. “I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid there is nothing here that I can help you with.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “And I do have an appointment in less than ten minutes, detectives. Will this take much longer? Or can I walk you out?”
Angie got a strong sense that hedidknow something that perhaps he was not at liberty to share, or refused to, and it quickened her pulse. “Just a few more quick questions, if we might, Father. Do you perhaps know a Jon Jacques?” As she spoke, she placed on the counter two photos gleaned from online news stories—one image of Jon Jacques Senior and one of Junior.
He studied them closely. “I can’t say that I do, no.”
“What about Jayden Norton-Wells?” She placed a photo of Norton-Wells beside the others, also obtained online.
“I do know the Norton-Wells family quite well,” he said, looking at the image. “They don’t worship at this church, but they’re stalwarts in the greater Catholic community—big donors.”
“Gracie never came here with Jayden?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did she ever mention who gave her a Saint Christopher medallion?”
His brow creased slightly. “No.”
“Do you know Faith Hocking?”
