on his pate.
They climbed the stairs, their shoes ringing on the steps as a couple other cops descended. "Brutal."
"So why do you think she's come in with bullshit before and then came through this time?"
"Dumb-ass luck? Hell if I know." Brinkman walked through the doors to a reception area surrounded by offices.
"But I have to admit, I was curious about her. She seemed so certain she was right. So I did some checkin', called around. Turns out she comes from a long line of crazies.
Her grandma claimed she was a voodoo priestess or some such shit just because she was an octoroon, and her mother's been married four or five times, and then there's the father, who's spent most of his life in the State Pen in Mississippi-
"Hang on. What's that all about?" Bentz asked as they reached the doors on the second floor.
"You didn't know? Old Reggie Benchet iced a man," Brinkman said, shovin g his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, a smile creeping across his lips as he realized he'd imparted new information. "It's all in my report. Reginald Benchet got out earlier this year."
"And?"
"Far as I know, he's kept his nose clean." Brinkman smiled. "A real
model citizen. Found God, or something'.
I'll send the info to you and then you can decide how much of Olivia Benchet's story you believe. If she knew what was happening' when the girl was offed, I'd bet she was in on it ... nah, she doesn't seem like the murderin' type. Oh, I got it" Brinkman snapped his thick fingers.
"She saw it. In a dream." "That's what she says."
"And you buy that? If so, I got some land in Florida--"
"Forget it, Brinkman. Just send me your notes," Bentz said, irritated.
He didn't buy the vision theory either, but he couldn't believe that the woman was in on the murder in any way, shape, or form. "Maybe we should
give her the benefit of the doubt."
"Oh, Christ, now you're soundin' like one of them damned bleedin' hearts." He shook his head and snorted.
"Just when I was beginning to think you might be a decent cop after all."
"Just get me the report," Bentz snapped.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." The Chosen One knelt at the altar and saw his own distorted visage in the shiny surface of the chalice. Candles burned and flickered, and through the walls of his drafty sanctuary he smelled the river. Musty. Damp. The current moved restlessly and would not be deterred. They had a lot in common, he and the Mississippi.
They both held secrets beneath their surfaces, secrets that would never be revealed.
"I am prideful, Father, and I ... " He swallowed hard, knew he had to admit his horrid sin. "I ... I've lusted after those women, and though I feel your power, Father, my ... my flesh is weak. So weak. I pray for your strength and your forgiveness ... "
He closed his eyes, listened, and through his straining ears he heard
the voice of God meting out his penance.
After whispering a nearly inaudible "Amen," and deftly making the sign of the cross, he stood and slowly walked to the closet where his albs hung ... one less today. His favorite. Left to burn. Because of the whore.
Her picture was there as well. He took it from the closet and carefully taped it on the calendar he kept on the wall, carefully covering the space for the date, November twentysecond, the Feast Day of Saint Cecilia. Ah ... she'd been so trusting ... until it had been too late.
He didn't think of that now. Couldn't. He had penance. He strode back to the closet With gentle fingers, he slid the vestments aside and turning the combination lock, opened his most private of places, the spot where he kept all that was valuable and worldly to him.
He added a long lock of golden hair to his other treasures, other bits of hair and fingernails, then sifted through the medals and chains until his fingers encountered the weapon.
Ah.
A tiny, featherlight whip with sharp stones embedded in the ribbon-like lashes, sparkling gems that cut with razorsharp slits, nice, neat little cuts
They climbed the stairs, their shoes ringing on the steps as a couple other cops descended. "Brutal."
"So why do you think she's come in with bullshit before and then came through this time?"
"Dumb-ass luck? Hell if I know." Brinkman walked through the doors to a reception area surrounded by offices.
"But I have to admit, I was curious about her. She seemed so certain she was right. So I did some checkin', called around. Turns out she comes from a long line of crazies.
Her grandma claimed she was a voodoo priestess or some such shit just because she was an octoroon, and her mother's been married four or five times, and then there's the father, who's spent most of his life in the State Pen in Mississippi-
"Hang on. What's that all about?" Bentz asked as they reached the doors on the second floor.
"You didn't know? Old Reggie Benchet iced a man," Brinkman said, shovin g his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, a smile creeping across his lips as he realized he'd imparted new information. "It's all in my report. Reginald Benchet got out earlier this year."
"And?"
"Far as I know, he's kept his nose clean." Brinkman smiled. "A real
model citizen. Found God, or something'.
I'll send the info to you and then you can decide how much of Olivia Benchet's story you believe. If she knew what was happening' when the girl was offed, I'd bet she was in on it ... nah, she doesn't seem like the murderin' type. Oh, I got it" Brinkman snapped his thick fingers.
"She saw it. In a dream." "That's what she says."
"And you buy that? If so, I got some land in Florida--"
"Forget it, Brinkman. Just send me your notes," Bentz said, irritated.
He didn't buy the vision theory either, but he couldn't believe that the woman was in on the murder in any way, shape, or form. "Maybe we should
give her the benefit of the doubt."
"Oh, Christ, now you're soundin' like one of them damned bleedin' hearts." He shook his head and snorted.
"Just when I was beginning to think you might be a decent cop after all."
"Just get me the report," Bentz snapped.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." The Chosen One knelt at the altar and saw his own distorted visage in the shiny surface of the chalice. Candles burned and flickered, and through the walls of his drafty sanctuary he smelled the river. Musty. Damp. The current moved restlessly and would not be deterred. They had a lot in common, he and the Mississippi.
They both held secrets beneath their surfaces, secrets that would never be revealed.
"I am prideful, Father, and I ... " He swallowed hard, knew he had to admit his horrid sin. "I ... I've lusted after those women, and though I feel your power, Father, my ... my flesh is weak. So weak. I pray for your strength and your forgiveness ... "
He closed his eyes, listened, and through his straining ears he heard
the voice of God meting out his penance.
After whispering a nearly inaudible "Amen," and deftly making the sign of the cross, he stood and slowly walked to the closet where his albs hung ... one less today. His favorite. Left to burn. Because of the whore.
Her picture was there as well. He took it from the closet and carefully taped it on the calendar he kept on the wall, carefully covering the space for the date, November twentysecond, the Feast Day of Saint Cecilia. Ah ... she'd been so trusting ... until it had been too late.
He didn't think of that now. Couldn't. He had penance. He strode back to the closet With gentle fingers, he slid the vestments aside and turning the combination lock, opened his most private of places, the spot where he kept all that was valuable and worldly to him.
He added a long lock of golden hair to his other treasures, other bits of hair and fingernails, then sifted through the medals and chains until his fingers encountered the weapon.
Ah.
A tiny, featherlight whip with sharp stones embedded in the ribbon-like lashes, sparkling gems that cut with razorsharp slits, nice, neat little cuts
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