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A Perfect Evil
Alex Kava
Sheriff Nick Morrelli isn't equipped to deal with the case, so calls in one of the FBI's best criminal profilers, Maggie O'Dell. Together they start to uncover the gruesome picture of a killer. The picture of someone who has already been executed for his crimes. When another victim is found, the terrible truth begins to come clear.Sheriff Nick Morrelli isn't equipped to deal with the case, so calls in one of the FBI's best criminal profilers, Maggie O'Dell. Together they start to uncover the gruesome picture of a killer. The picture of someone who has already been executed for his crimes. When another victim is found, the terrible truth begins to come clear.
About the Author
ALEX KAVA dedicated herself to writing in 1996, having had a successful career in PR and advertising. Praised by critics and fans alike, Alex Kava’s Maggie O’Dell novels, A Perfect Evil, Split Second, The Soul Catcher and A Necessary Evil, have all been New York Times bestsellers as well as appearing on bestseller lists around the world.
Also by Alex Kava
A NECESSARY EVIL
AT THE STROKE OF MADNESS
THE SOUL CATCHER
SPLIT SECOND
A Perfect Evil
Alex Kava
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
In loving memory of
Robert (Bob) Shoemaker
(1922-1998)
whose perfect good continues to inspire.
Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction;
however, I’d like to extend my heartfelt
sympathy to any parent who has ever lost a
child to a senseless act of violence.
I owe my deepest gratitude and appreciation
to all those whose support and expertise made
this fantastic journey possible.
Special thanks to:
Philip Spitzer, my agent, who enthusiastically offered to represent this book, then made it his personal mission to see it published. Philip, you are my hero.
Patricia Sierra, fellow author, for generously sharing her wisdom, her wit and her friendship.
Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, for her tenacity, her keen insights and her ability to make the editing process painless and rewarding.
Dianne Moggy and all the professionals at MIRA
Books for their efforts and resolve to make this book a success.
Ellen Jacobs for always saying the right thing at just the right time.
Sharon Car, my writing cohort, for all those lunches spent commiserating with and encouraging me.
LaDonna Tworek, who helped me keep my perspective and encouraged me early on to hang in there.
Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, who listened over all those free, delicious dinners they fed me.
Bob Kava for patiently answering all my questions about firearms.
Mac Payne, who gave me something to prove.
My parents, Edward and Patricia Kava, especially my mum for lighting all those candles of hope.
Writing, for the most part, is a solitary act, but certainly wouldn’t be possible for me without the loving support of my family and friends. Thanks also must go to Patti El-Kachouti, Marlene Haney, Nicole Keller, Kenny and Connie Kava, Natalie Cummings, Sandy Rockwood and Margaret Shoemaker.
Finally, thanks to Bob Shoemaker. This would’t have been the type of book Bob would even have read, but that would not have stopped him from being proud of me and telling everyone he met about it.
PROLOGUE
Nebraska State Penitentiary Lincoln, Nebraska Wednesday, July 17
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” Ronald Jeffreys’ raspy monotone made the phrase a challenge rather than a confession.
Father Stephen Francis stared at Jeffreys’ hands, mesmerized by the large knuckles and stubby fingers, nails bitten to the quick. The fingers twisted—no, strangled—the corner of his blue government-issue shirt. The old priest imagined those same fingers &twisting and choking the life out of little Bobby Wilson.
“Is that how we start?”
Jeffreys’ voice startled the priest. “That’s fine,” he answered quickly.
His sweaty palms stuck to the leather Bible. His collar was suddenly too tight. The prison’s deathwatch chamber didn’t have enough air for both men. The gray concrete walls boxed them in with only one tiny window, black with night. The pungent smell of green pepper and onion nauseated the old priest. He glanced at the remnants of Jeffreys’ last supper, scattered bits of pizza crust and puddles of sticky soda. A fly buzzed over crumbs that were once cheesecake.
“What’s next?” Jeffreys asked, waiting for instructions.
Father Francis couldn’t think, not with Jeffreys’ unflinching stare. Not with the noise of the crowd outside the prison, down below in the parking lot. The chants grew louder with the approach of midnight and the full effect of alcohol. It was a raucous celebration, a morbid excuse for an outdoor frat party. “Fry, Jeffreys, fry,” over and over again, like a childhood rhyme or a pep-rally song, melodic and contagious, sick and frightening.
Jeffreys, however, appeared immune to the sound. “I’m not sure I remember how this works. What’s next?”
Yes, what came next? Father Francis’ mind was completely blank. Fifty years of hearing confessions, and his mind was blank. “Your sins,” he blurted out over the tightness in his throat. “Tell me your sins.”
Now, Jeffreys hesitated. He unraveled the hem of his shirt, wrapping the thread around his index finger, pulling it so tight that the tip bulged red. The priest stole a long glance at the man slumped in the straight-backed chair. This wasn’t the same man from the grainy newspaper photos or the quick television shots. With his head and beard shaved, Jeffreys looked exposed, almost impish and younger than his twenty-six years. He had gained bulk in his six years on death row, but he still possessed a boyishness. Suddenly, it struck Father Francis as sad that this boyish face would never wear wrinkles or laugh lines. Until Jeffreys looked up at him. Cold blue eyes held his. Ice-blue like glass—sharp glass—vacant and transparent. Yes, this was what evil looked like. The priest blinked and turned his head.
“Tell me your sins,” Father Francis repeated, this time disappointed in the tremor in his voice. He couldn’t breathe. Had Jeffreys sucked all the air out of the room on purpose? He cleared his throat, then said, “Those sins for which you are truly sorry.”
Jeffreys stared at him. Then without warning, he barked out a laugh. Father Francis jumped, and Jeffreys laughed even louder. The priest gripped his Bible with unsteady fingers while watching Jeffreys’ hands. Why had he insisted the guard remove the handcuffs? Even God couldn’t rescue the stupid. Drops of perspiration slid down the priest’s back. He thought about fleeing, escaping before Jeffreys realized one last murder would cost him nothing more. Then he remembered the door was locked from the outside.
The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Silence.
“You’re just like the rest of them.” The low guttural accusation came from somewhere deep and dead. Yet, Jeffreys smiled, revealing small, sharp teeth, the incisors longer than the rest. “You’re waiting for me to confess to something I didn’t do.” His hands ripped the bottom of his shirt, thin strips, a slow grating sound.
“I don’t understand what you mean.” Father Francis reached to loosen his collar, dismayed to find the tremor now in his hands. “I was under the impression you had asked for a priest. That you wanted to offer up your confession.”
“Yes … yes, I do.” The monotone was back. Jeffreys hesitated but only for a moment. “I killed Bobby Wilson,” he said as calmly as if ordering takeout. “I put my hands … my fingers around his throat. At first, he made a sputtering noise, a sort of gagging, and then there was no noise.” His voice was hushed and restrained, almost clinical—a well-rehearsed speech.
“He kicked just a little. A jerk, really. I think he knew he was going to die. He didn’t fight much. He didn’t even fight when I was fucking him.” He stopped, checking Father Francis’ face, looking for shock and smiling when he found it.
“I waited until he was dead before I cut him. He didn’t feel a thing. So I cut him again and again and again. Then, I fucked him one last time.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly distracted. Had he finally noticed the celebration outside?
Father Francis waited. Could it be the massive pounding of his heart that Jeffreys heard? Like something out of Poe, it banged against the old priest’s chest, betraying him just like his hands.
“I’ve already confessed once before,” Jeffreys continued. “Right after it happened, but the priest … Let’s just say he was a little surprised. Now I’m confessing to God, you understand? I’m confessing that I killed Bobby Wilson.” The ripping continued, now in quick, jerky motions. “But I didn’t kill those other two boys. Do you hear me?” His voice rose above the monotone. “I didn’t kill the Harper or the Paltrow kid.”
Silence, then Jeffreys’ lips slowly twisted into a smirk. “But then, God already knows that. Right, Father?”
“God does know the truth,” Father Francis said, trying to stare into the cold blue eyes but flinching and quickly looking away again. What if his own guilt should somehow reveal itself?
“They want to execute me because they think I’m some serial killer who murders little boys,” Jeffreys spat through clenched teeth. “I killed Bobby Wilson, and I enjoyed it. Maybe I even deserve to die for that. But God knows I didn’t kill those other boys. Somewhere out there, Father, there’s still a monster.” Another twisted smile. “And he’s even more hideous than me.”
Metal clanked against metal down the hall. Father Francis jerked, sending the Bible crashing to the floor. This time Jeffreys didn’t laugh. The old priest held Jeffreys’ stare, but neither man made an attempt to pick up the holy book. Were they coming to take Jeffreys away? It seemed too soon, although no one expected a stay of execution.
“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis whispered as if back at the confessional window in St. Margaret’s.
Yes, there were footsteps coming down the hall, coming toward them. It was time. Jeffreys sat paralyzed, listening to the click-clack of heels marching, getting closer and closer.
“Are you sorry for your sins?” Father Francis repeated, this time more insistent, almost a command. Oh, dear God, it was hard to breathe. The chants from the parking lot grew louder and louder, squeezing through the tightly sealed window.
Jeffreys stood up. Again, his eyes held Father Francis ‘. The locks grunted open, echoing against the concrete walls. Jeffreys flinched at the sound, caught himself, then stood straight with shoulders back. Was he frightened? Father Francis searched Jeffreys’ eyes, but couldn’t see beyond the steel blue.
“Are you sorry for your sins?” He tried once more, unable to offer absolution without an answer.
The door opened, sucking the remaining air from the room. Square-shouldered guards clogged the doorway.
“It’s time,” one of the men said.
“It’s show time, Father.” Jeffreys’ lips curled over gritted teeth. The blue eyes were sharp and clear, but vacant. Jeffreys turned to the three uniformed men and offered his wrists.
Father Francis winced as the shackles snapped. Then he listened to the boot heels clicking, accompanied by the pathetic shuffle-clank, shuffle-clank all the way down the long hall.
A stale breeze seeped in through the open door. It cooled his wet, clammy skin and sent a shiver down his back. He gulped greedily at the air, limited to short, asthmatic gasps. Finally, the thunder in his chest eased, leaving behind a tight-fisted ache.
“God help Ronald Jeffreys,” Father Francis whispered to no one.
At least Jeffreys had told the truth. He had not killed all three boys. And Father Francis knew this, not because Jeffreys had said so. He knew, because three days ago the faceless monster who had murdered Aaron Harper and Eric Paltrow had confessed to him through the black, wire-mesh confessional at St. Margaret’s. And because of his holy vows, he wasn’t able to tell a single soul.
Not even Ronald Jeffreys.
CHAPTER 1
Five miles outside Platte City, Nebraska Friday, October 24
Nick Morrelli wished the woman beneath him wore less makeup. He knew it was ridiculous. He listened to her soft moans—purrs really. Like a cat, she slithered against him, rubbing her silky thighs up and down the sides of his torso. She was more than ready for him. And yet, all he could think about was the blue powder smeared on her eyelids. Even with the lights out, it remained etched in his mind like fluorescent, glow-in-the-dark paint.
“Oh, baby, your body is so hard,” she purred in his ear as she ran her long fingernails up his arms and over his back.
He slid off her before she discovered that not all of his body was hard. What was wrong with him? He needed to concentrate. He licked her earlobe and nuzzled her neck, then moved down to where he really wanted to be. Instinctively, his mouth found one of her breasts. He ravished it with soft, wet kisses. She moaned even before his tongue flicked at her nipple. He loved those sounds a woman made—the short little gasp, then the low moan. He waited for them, then wrapped his tongue around her nipple and sucked it into his mouth. Her back arched, and she quivered. He leaned into her, absorbing the shiver, her soft, smooth flesh trembling against him. Normally, that reaction alone would immediately give him an erection. Tonight, nothing.
Jesus, was he losing his touch? No, he was too young to be having this problem. After all, he was four years away from forty.
When in the world had he started keeping track of his age by its distance from forty?
“Oooh, lover, don’t stop!”
He didn’t even realize he had stopped. She groaned impatiently and began moving her hips up and down, slowly, with a sensuous rhythm. Yes, she was definitely ready for him. And he was definitely not ready. Just once he wished women would use his name instead of baby, lover, stud muffin, whatever. Did women worry about yelling out the wrong name, too?
Her fingers twisted into his short, thick hair. She yanked hard, the streak of pain surprising him. Then she pulled his face back to her breasts. In the dim light, he noticed that the triangle of tanned skin was crooked. The point overlapped onto the underside of her breast. What was wrong with him? A beautiful blonde wanted him. Why didn’t her breathless anticipation arouse him? He needed to focus. It all felt too mechanical, too routine. Nevertheless, he would compensate again using his fingers and tongue. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.
He began the descent down her body, devouring her with kisses and nibbles. Her body squirmed beneath his touch. She was writhing and gasping for breath even before his teeth tugged at her lace panties. He kissed his way to the inside of her thighs. Suddenly, a sound stopped him. He strained to hear from under the bedcovers.
“No, please don’t stop,” she groaned, pulling him back into her.
There it was again. Pounding. Someone was at the front door.
“I’ll be right back.” Nick gently pushed her hands away and stumbled out of bed, disentangling himself from the sheets and almost tripping. He pulled on jeans as he checked the clock on the nightstand—10:36.
Even in the dark, he knew every creak in the staircase by heart. Out of habit, he found himself tiptoeing, though his parents hadn’t slept in the old farmhouse for over five years.
The knock was louder and more insistent now.
“Hold on a minute,” he called out impatiently, yet relieved by the interruption.
When he opened the door, Nick recognized Hank Ashford’s son, though he couldn’t recall his name. The boy was sixteen or seventeen, a linebacker on the football team and built like he could move two or three players at a time off the line of scrimmage. Yet, tonight, as he stood on Nick’s front porch, the kid slouched with his hands stashed in his pockets, eyes wild and face pale. He shivered despite the sweaty forehead.
“Sheriff Morrelli, you have to come … on Old Church Road … please, you have to …”
“Is someone hurt?” The crisp night air stung Nick’s bare skin. It felt good.
“No, it’s not … he’s not hurt … Oh, God, Sheriff, it’s awful.” The boy looked back toward his car. It was only then that Nick saw the girl in the front seat. Even looking into the headlights, he could see she was crying.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, sending the boy into a speechless, arm-crossing dance, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
