Chapter IV

There was an almost electric smell in the air. Rome smelled like all new places seem to: indescribably sweet and at the same time repulsive. It was getting cooler as thick grey clouds made their way across the sky.

“It smells like it’s going to rain,” Detective Abbot said as he and Commandant Ritti made their way down the airplane’s exit stairs, and across the tarmac where they had landed only minutes earlier.

As they walked, Ritti tried to explain a bit of their day-today procedures to the American so that he wouldn’t get in the way . . . too much. “I’ll introduce you to Donnie and Peter. They’re my main investigators right now. Men I can trust implicitly.” Ritti looked back over his shoulder as the Papal Nuncio, Belsito Pasquale made his way slowly down the stairs.

He turned back to Abbot and nodded towards several limousines that were waiting with a Swiss Guard escort of several men.

“Donnie and Peter,” Abbot said.

“Yes,” Ritti refocused, “they’ve been investigating all sorts of interesting angles to this thing while we’ve been retrieving the, ’ah . . .” Ritti cleared his throat.

“The Archbishop,” Abbot said softly.

Ritti nodded, “I suppose I had better get used to saying that.”

“It’s better than saying the ‘body,’ or ‘vic,’ other colorful terms of endearment used to deceased.” or any of the describe the

Ritti smiled thinly.

He still didn’t know what to think of the American.

What his ‘real’ motives were seemed to be an area

of concern.

He appeared to be genuine enough, but then . . . so did

Ted Bundy.

“You alright, Mr. Ritti?” Abbot said as he shifted his duffel bag from his left hand to his right. “I know I’m kind of in the way.”

“No, no.” Ritti said half-heartedly.

Abbot held his free hand up. “Look, I know that you were more than a little reluctant to agree to all of this. You didn’t have to bring me along, and I appreciate that. But I’m not here to make headlines or anything like that.” Abbot took a slow breath as they both neared the polished, black limousines. “At the end of the day, all I want to do here is find a bad guy. That’s all. I had three men of the cloth get popped back in my neck of the woods.” He shrugged. “I want closure. I feel like my girlfriend just broke up with me and there was never a fight. Maybe, something around here will let me put my hands on somebody . . . or something. But even if I don’t . . . well, at least I went to the ends of the world trying.”

A tall, sharp looking guard with a slightly grey short-cropped haircut took Ritti’s suitcase and opened the door to the limo. They had a quick exchange in Italian. The guard then offered to take Abbot’s duffel bag.

“No thank you,” Abbot said politely.

“I’ll just hold on to mine.”

The guard studied Abbot. He was big for an American, and certainly big when compared to Italians. The guard then turned toward Ritti.

Ritti smiled, “Mr. Abbot, the Captain, here, needs to take your bag. All bags must be searched and photographed before they enter the Vatican, or any Vatican vehicle. Digital pictures and x-ray, only. It’s more of a security concern, really. Purely procedural. We do apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Sure,” Abbot said.

Ritti shrugged slightly, “It’s a formality that even I cannot escape.”

“No problem,” Abbot remarked.

“Makes good sense. Don’t want some yahoo driving in to the Vatican . . .” he raised his voice to the guard as he handed him the bag, “with a bomb!”

The guard half smiled, unsure about this strange American. He delicately took the bag and headed to the back of the limo.

Abbot turned to Ritti and smiled.

“You know, Mr. Abbot,” Ritti giggled to himself. Ritti started as they seated themselves inside the plush grey interior. “I did a little background check on you.”

“Checking up on me? On the first date?” Abbot mused.

Ritti laughed, “I like to know who I bring into my house, so to speak.”

“Right,” Abbot said. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

Ritti studied Abbot for a moment, wondering if he could be trusted. “I don’t think you’re an enemy.”

Abbot leaned forward, “What’s on your mind, Mr. Ritti?”

Ritti’s left hand was loosely closed, resting just below his mouth, on his chin—a rather contemplative gesture. His index finger was gently tapping against his lips. “I was trying to figure out what the real story was between yourself and Mister Carnathan. You have had a past together, as investigative partners . . . an interesting one.”

Abbot leaned back, turning his head from side to side for a stretch. He stared out the tinted window and watched as the Papal Nuncio’s baggage was loaded into the rear of the other limousine. The Archbishop’s body—preserved in a refrigerated case—was being loaded into another vehicle that looked like a large station wagon . . . but with a bit more class. He then returned his gaze to Ritti and shrugged. “You probably already know everything there is to know.”

Ritti’s focus remained strong and unwavering. He was quiet, almost forcing Abbot to elucidate.

Abbot scratched his head, realizing that he would have to explain at least a little of what had occurred. It was not a subject he enjoyed talking about. He didn’t even try to think about it if he didn’t have to.

Abbot took a deep breath and began, “We were looking for this guy. A serial. And we were getting close. There were times during that investigation that I thought I could smell his aftershave. We knew what he was doing. We knew when he would kill. We just didn’t know why. That eluded us. You remember the Zodiac Killer?”

“Well documented,” Ritti said with a nod.

“Well, we never caught him, and this particular guy had many of the same signs . . . no pun intended.”

Ritti smiled.

“There were things that were very similar about the two. He was a near perfect copycat. Too perfect, really.”

“You thought it was him?”

Abbot cocked his head to the side, his eyes wandering off into space somewhere above them. “No, no . . . I thought, at first anyway, that somebody had leaked case notes and victim’s files. But the more and more we looked, the more his style came through. You know the demon is in the details. Carnathan, my partner at the Bureau, was leaning more towards our guy being the Zodiac. His theory was that the guy had found something in his life that challenged him enough to keep him from killing for a few years. He figured that whatever special ‘something’ had been keeping him out of killing mode had faded or expired . . . like a girlfriend perhaps . . . and that he was crashing again. So he just picks up the knife again and goes back to doing what makes him feel good. Obviously it was more complex than I’m explaining, but I’m just giving you the nuts and bolts.”

“No, this is very interesting. Your behavioral science units intrigue me,” Ritti added.

“But I was just never sold on the whole ‘resurfacing after all this time thing.’ It just felt forced. My gut feeling was that this was a cop, or somebody in civil service.”

Ritti’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward, “Excuse me?”

“I . . . it . . .” Abbot was working things out in his mind. Slowly, and very clearly he said, “It felt like what a cop would do if he was trying to act like a serial killer. You know, following all the rules set forth in the case files, but staying just ahead of us. That’s cheating. You can be a good guy, or you can be a bad guy . . . but you can’t be both. That’s just being goddamn greedy.”

Abbot looked over at Ritti, “Sorry about the language.”

“I work at the Vatican, but I’m no priest.” Ritti thought for a moment. “Did you explain your theory to Carnathan?”

“Oh yeah. We talked . . . and he disagreed.”

“About everything?”

“No, no . . . he agreed with me when I laid it all out. But when we were working the case he kept our ideas quiet. We’d play things out amongst each other. In a sufficient bureaucracy like the FBI, you have to play your cards close to your chest. If you start penning theories and they don’t pan out . . . people think you’re a publicity hound, or an ass kisser, or just a damn idiot. Either way, we just kept things to ourselves, and if it looked like we were on the right track we’d let people in. I didn’t want anyone else knowing about this theory because if we were right, then it might tip off the killer. But our manager was getting pressed by the Attorney General . . . big tall bitch that she was. He was pressing the unit, and Carnathan was getting to hear about it at every meeting.”

“The crap rolls down hill,” Ritti observed.

“Right onto our heads. I still didn’t want the brass knowing about our theory. So the politics of Bureau cutbacks, headlines, and Janet Reno all mixed for a sour pill, which we all had to take. They needed headlines.”

“And Mr. Carnathan gave then what then wished for,” Ritti supposed.

“Viola,” Abbot said as he lifted his arms out and his hands up in surrender.

“But they wouldn’t go public with such information,” Ritti said matter-of-factly. “That would jeopardize the investigation, no? Certainly those senior officials would understand that.”

Abbot held a finger up, “No. You’re right. No investigator in his right mind would be so foolish. But these men were not investigators . . . they were politicians. They now had a full-fledged witch-hunt on their hands. You see, they didn’t see serial killers or mad men . . . they only saw negative publicity and damaging headlines. Our theory was now being used against us. People were lining up to discredit us.”

“So . . . just as my Swiss Guard is a bureaucracy, so is your FBI.”

“You understand.”

“But then, what was the problem between your partner and you? You stuck together, but he passed up your theory along the chain of command. It seems as if you were of the same accord, no?”

Abbot nodded slowly and almost seemed to be pondering something that had just come to his attention. “We . . . I think we got close to the guy—the killer. We had no forensic evidence that would give us a face. Then we had a break. A guy that we’d been looking at in the very beginning turned up at one of the crime scenes. Tracked him back to a hardware store. Somebody snapped a picture of the same guy on the scene of three of the murders. He turned out to be a freelance reporter. Did some stuff for the Post.”

“A reporter could get all kinds of details about the other killings. He would understand how to work in a crime scene, and the necessity for discretion and discipline. Perhaps he had been very close to some other agency officials during his reporting. Seems like a perfect fit,” Ritti surmised.

“All valid points. Same one’s, in fact, that Carnathan pounded me with.” Abbot turned his head from side to side, not convinced. “Too perfect. Right in the middle of a secret witch-hunt this guy suddenly pops up on the radar. I thought it was timed way too conveniently. It saves the Bureau’s rep, gets the AG off of our asses, and makes for good headlines, ’Reporter gets so close to serial killers that he becomes one.′ Voyeurism gone awry, or something like that. I didn’t like the reporter for it, but who knows?”

Abbot yawned, continuing, “But everybody liked that much better than the alternative . . . that one of our own was a predator.”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Abbot? Don’t we all have to become that thing that we hunt? Transform ourselves into that predatory beast so that we may understand his mind in order to track him.” Ritti steepled his hands over his lap. “This is the way one learns how to hunt. Perhaps the reporter did it. Perhaps not. But we all have to walk in the shoes of our enemies if we are to understand their motives. God even asks his flock to do such things.”

Abbot rolled his eyes, “Semantics aside, I thought we were getting ourselves into a cover-up. I was objective about every detail of that case Problem was that I was alone. Even Carnathan liked the reporter for the killer. They practically told us to make it him. Force the facts to fit the guy. That is not how an investigation is supposed to work.”

“So,” Ritti said with far-off stare, “your Salem witch hunt begets you a witch. McCarthy would have been quite pleased.”

“See the real problem was that we had enough circumstantial evidence, what with the fear factor playing in the public’s eye, to indict this guy. And the AG probably could have sicked a bloodhound prosecutor on it and gotten a conviction.”

“Society has an insatiable need for vengeance . . .”

“Yeah,” Abbot snorted, “even at the expense of an innocent man.”

“So Carnathan went after the reporter?” Ritti said.

“Him and everyone else. He sold me out. You see, his word was strong enough to have kept our theory alive, but he went with the system.” Abbot made little quote marks with his fingers.

“And you were sure that the reporter was the guy?” Ritti asked again, almost insinuating that Abbot might have become stubborn and overly prideful in his assumptions.

“I was sure. Still am. See, when they brought in the reporter . . . the killings stopped.”

Ritti had a confused look on his face.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Abbot said. “You’re thinking that the killer was now in custody, and he could no longer carry on his murderous rage.”

“Yes,” Ritti answered, “something like that.”

“Fair enough. And I was even starting to bend a bit . . . until I got the letter.” He let the words settle in for a moment.

“Letter?”

“I got a letter, first sent to my sister . . . then forwarded to me. It basically instructed me to keep my mouth shut, keep my ideas to myself, or my family would be in danger.”

“Surely your police could have protected them, no.”

“Protected them from who? I didn’t know who to trust. I told nobody.”

“Not even Carnathan?”

“Especially not him.”

Ritti lowered his voice, “Certainly you didn’t suspect—”

“No, no, no. That wasn’t it at all. I just didn’t know where to turn. The last secret we had, Carnathan had gone up the ladder with it. We couldn’t take that chance. I couldn’t. So I resigned. Got myself a small time job in San Antonio so that I could keep up with my family. Murders in Texas are pretty normal. If you see a dead body, you’ll probably find a note or a gun with prints on it. It always turns out to be a boyfriend, wife, or partner. There’s no sinister undertone to it.”

“But here you are,” Ritti pointed out.

Abbot leaned back again, closing his eyes. “Yep . . . here I am.”

“It seems you have a tough time dealing with puzzles that you cannot solve.” Ritti realized that Abbot was a good man. He was smart and dedicated . . . but had been burnt. He was looking for closure.

Ritti still had a question for Abbot. Did the reporter turn out to be the killer?”

“Mr. Ritti, in America over ninety percent of the homicides go unsolved. Of those that make it into a courtroom, perhaps on ten percent are ever convicted. And that’s the only time we ever really know, for sure, who the guy is. But we didn’t get the fairy tale on this one.”

Abbot held up two fingers, “Normally you’ve got about two days to get all your evidence in a homicide. After forty eight hours, you can close the file because the case will probably never be solved unless somebody snitches on another case.”

The reporter was released. The whole case went on the back burner after the Oklahoma City bombing. America went into Terrorist mode and serial killers were a distant second. But then, I can’t really comment because I was already out by then. It was their bag of worms.”

“You know, you and I are not so different,” Ritti said. “I ran into the same roadblocks and hurdles with the Estermann investigation. I got nowhere. Nothing. Not an inch. Still, to this day, I believe that somebody within my own force is aware of the true facts surrounding The late commandant and his wife’s murder. But what can I do? Like you I decided to facilitate the greatest common good. I chose to build the future as opposed to living in the past.”

Ritti lowered his shoulders as if they had a thousand pounds pressing down on them. “That is all that we can really hope to achieve.”

Abbot shrugged, “Well, we can’t investigate anything if we’re dead, can we?”

“No,” Ritti said. “We certainly cannot.”

Abbot turned back towards the window.

Ritti didn’t seem to have the tension and physical pressure of his job and stature weighing down on him. He had never shown his worry or frustration.

He was either an incredible soldier, or he was hiding so many things that to show even the tiniest inkling of stress would rip apart the floodgates. He was a man in control of his environment . . . or a man walking an unsteady tightrope. He’d know more after he had thoroughly reviewed the ‘prints.’

It had crossed his mind that perhaps Ritti already knew about the prints.

He might have been stringing Abbot along just to keep the American government pleased, or to keep his enemies close. He would make contact with Carnathan in a couple of hours and they would try to put some of this craziness together. As far as the Prints went, the British scientists had alluded to the microdots having religious images and text. Whatever that meant. But then, they were driving towards the Roman-Catholic epicenter of the entire world, weren’t they. Surreal, he thought, ancient religious script implanted on tiny, high-tech film prints.

What a strange coupling of history and technology:

Two of the most consistent adversaries of our time. And they so want to be disentangled.

He watched, as the clouds seemed to loom overhead. They took on an almost menacing tone, as if something wicked was on its way into town. You can learn a lot from a cloud.