The Last Confession

Morgana de Guerre

Morgana de Guerre is a freelance writer who lives

in southern Louisiana with her mundane husband, a

punk daughter, a coven of cats and a psychotic

wiener dog. She has been called “twisted” by some

and “talented” by others, but prefers to think of herself

as borderline antisocial. She loves receiving

letters from her readers. You can email her at

[e-mail].

©Copyright 2001

Morgana de Guerre

Her hair was once titian, that subtle shade of red that poets

ascribe to Tiziano Vecellio, one of the greatest Italian painters in

history. I’ll take the romance out of it and call it what it looks like: a

peculiar shade of brownish-orange. Or had looked like. Now it was

streaked with vermilion and crimson where it clung to her face and

neck with clots of blood. She may once have been pretty or even

beautiful. Now she was just another corpse on the midnight to

seven shift in my precinct. I took a step back as the medical

examiner moved up to declare death. I didn’t need a medical

degree to tell that this lady had seen her last Mardi Gras.

Several streets over, sounds of party-goers in the French Quarter

rang in the night. Shouts and yells of revelry fell flat on this scene

of recent carnage. I took a roll of Tums out of my pocket and

thumbed three of them out, popping them into my mouth. The

chalky taste of the antacids mixed with the smell of blood and the

refuse of the alley we were standing in made me want to puke.

Suddenly it all seemed to be too much. Too much blood, too much

terror, too much death. The M.E. had finished his examination of the

body and they were zipping her into a black, plastic body bag;

strapping her onto a stetcher. No identification had been found near

the body; this would be entered into the system as another Jane

Doe, unless dental records or fingerprints were found to match a

name to the battered corpse being loaded into the meat wagon.

They closed the rear doors and got into the ambulance, driving off

slowly. Speed wouldn’t help their passenger and she would be

denied the last hoorah of sirens. When they got where they were

going she would still be dead and that’s all that really mattered to

her.

I turned at a touch on my coat sleeve and looked down into the

face of my present partner, Emile Boudreaux.

Emile was a short Cajun with olive skin and depthless black eyes

that could bore holes through a perpetrator and a smile that could

make the ladies swoon. He was lean but wiry enough for me not to

want to get on the wrong end of his fists. He was also the best

partner that I’ve had in almost twenty years of police work.

“We may have a witness,” Emile said.

I wouldn’t dare to hope.

The two of us walked together to the mouth of the alley where

two uniforms stood with a woman between them.

It took less than a minute to size her up. Taking out my

notebook I turned to a blank page and then looked at her, giving

the impression that I was prepared to disbelieve anything she said.

“I’m Lieutenant John Valentine, Miss . . .”

“Ellen Mitchell, sir.” She seemed shaky, which was to be expected

if she had just witnessed a murder as brutal as this one.

I wrote down her name and looked back at her, wondering what

a woman as uptown as this one was doing passing this way at two

o’clock in the morning on the eve of Mardi Gras. I would have

expected her to be prowling local artsy places looking for a

benefactor. “Do you live around here, Ms. Mitchell?”

“No sir, my car is parked over there,” she pointed to a Park-All-

Day lot up the street. “I was just passing by and heard a s-s-,” tears

welled up in her big, baby-blues and I hardened my heart further

against her. Society types. “Scream,” she finished. I nodded,

encouraging her. “I saw this man, at least I think it was a man, in

this long robe thing . . .”

Emile and I looked at each other. “A cassock?” I asked. “Like a

priest’s robe?”

Her baby-blues widened and she nodded. “Exactly like that.”

That turned out to be the gist of what she saw. When the victim

had screamed, Emily Mitchell had watched, frozen as the man or

woman in the robes had hit the victim repeatedly and then ran as

fast as she could down towards her car. Once inside that minimal

safety, she had played Good Samaritan and called 911 on her cell

phone, ready to flee if she saw anyone exit the alley where the

murder had taken place. I took down all other pertinent information

and we let Miss Baby-Blues go home for the night with the

stipulation that we would probably be calling her for a further

interview sometime soon.

Emile and I walked towards our car; a crap-brown four-door that

should have had “Undercover Police Car” stenciled on the side of it.

I slid behind the wheel and lit another cigarette. Emile rolled down

his window halfway. We had a deal. I smoked and he silently

complained about it.

“So what do you think, Val?”

“I think she should have had more dress to go with those knobby

knees. Do I think she’s telling the truth? I don’t think she’s our killer

that’s for sure. Those society babes might kill for money, but I

doubt she’d whack some other broad in an alley for kicks.” I drew

deep on my weed and looked out on the night-dark street. The

streetlights on this stretch of road were few and far between and

only the ambient light from the city reflecting off the clouds

illuminated the road. We were parked right off the narrow,

cobblestone avenue next to the dead end where the body had been

discovered. The lights from the Crime Scene Unit fell short of the

mouth of the alley. Dead-end. It had definitely been a dead end for

that poor kid, I thought.

“We need to check with the ME’s office and find out when the

autopsy is going to be scheduled,” I continued.

“When we find out what killed this one, maybe we can put her

together with those others we found in alleys. I also think we need

to go back to St. Christopher’s.” I looked over at Emile. His face was

inscrutable in the vague city lights. I knew he was Catholic and

probably didn’t want to think that a priest or nun could have

bludgeoned these girls to death. Well, I was Catholic, too, though it

had been a while since I’d been to confession. And I had a strong

belief in Evil. Maybe I should tackle the church on my own.

There was another thing that was pointing me in the direction of

the Catholic Church nearest the scenes of the crimes. On each of

the previous three murders, a rosary had been found somewhere on

the bodies. After talking to the Medical Examiner who would

perform the autopsy, we’d know if this victim fit the same MO. We

had talked to the priest at St. Christopher’s Cathedral several times

and he had been less than helpful, but maybe we were asking the

wrong questions. Maybe another question and answer session with

Father Anthony was in order.

We drove deeper into the city, taking back streets, avoiding light.

I rolled my window down to get a cross-breeze from Emile’s

window and smelled ripe and fertile things growing. Humidity filled

each breath I took; the air coming in the window was cool off the

Mississippi. Finally we pulled up in front of the morgue offices and

parked in a slot reserved for police. I hated this place. It reduced

everything to measures and weights and the pitiful nakedness of

once living beings. We rang the bell next to the door and the night

security guard let us in. We took the well-known hall down to the

autopsy suite and asked the guard stationed there if Dr. Monroe was

inside. The guard nodded and motioned us through. Everybody

knew everybody on this end of the dead night.

“Dr. Monroe,” I said as Emile and I walked towards him. The

autopsy suite was all bright white light and hard metal angles. It

smelled like alcohol and strong disinfectant and old blood. It

smelled like death.

“Hello, Val. Emile. I guess this one is yours? I was just getting

ready to start the post mortem. I figured you’d want the results fast.”

Dr. Monroe is taller than I am and I top six feet by a couple of

inches. But where I’m a big guy with broad shoulders, big arms and

a bit of a beer gut, Dr. Monroe looks like a scarecrow that has been

magically animated. His thin ankles poked out of the too short

scrubs he wore and his neck looked like a stork’s. He was a

sensitive guy, though, sensitive to others, sensitive to the dead. And

he had a wry but gentle humor that put people at ease. I liked

working with this Assistant M.E. Some of the others with their black

humor and remarks about the dead made me want to take out my

gun and give them a few extra holes. I guess I’ve been in the

business of dead people so long that I feel like they deserve respect

as much as the next guy, maybe more. The dead can’t get up to

defend themselves.

They had transferred the dead girl’s body onto a stainless steel

autopsy table and she was covered with a white sheet. I braced

myself for it, but you never really get used to seeing a life cut short

and reduced to a slab of meat on a table. Dr. Monroe pulled the

sheet down to lie at the woman’s feet and started speaking into a

microphone that would record the autopsy. Emile was as far away

from the table as he could get. He was leaning against a counter

and trying to look like he wasn’t going to pass out. His dark olive

skin looked yellow. I looked back at the corpse on the table.

Naked, pale, dead, what we are all reduced to at the end.

The examination turned up pretty much what I expected. Massive

head trauma, the weapon a large, heavy smooth-edged object. From

the angle of the wound, Monroe deduced that the killer was

standing behind and above the victim when he (or she) hit her.

After he had done the preliminary examination, Monroe went to a

table and came back with a clear plastic baggie labeled evidence.

Inside was a green glass rosary. I studied it for a moment before

handing it back to him. This definitely linked the cases. Time to talk

to Father Anthony while Dr. Monroe got on with his wet work.

On the way to the church my pager went off loudly, startling both

Emile and myself. I thought perhaps Emile had been dozing, but I

couldn’t blame him if he had been. We’d been awake longer than

either of us had expected. I pulled to the shoulder of the road to

return the call on my cell phone. To my surprise, Father Anthony

answered the number. He was extremely agitated and I couldn’t

calm him enough to understand exactly what he wanted with us,

but I told him that we were on our way to see him and would be

there within minutes.

The church dated back to the 17th century and was one of the

oldest of those around the French Quarter. I have always admired

gothic, dark architecture and this was a perfect example of the style.

Behind the towering stone of the church, a simple stone house

stood, serving as the rectory for the priest. To the side of the church

was a wrought iron enclosed cemetery that looked to be well kept.

My attention was drawn to the double front doors of the church

where a dim slash of light escaped to chase the shadows away from

the stairs. Father Anthony stood at the right-hand door, holding it

open for our entry. We stepped into the vestibule and Father

Anthony locked the double doors behind us. Light from the bloodred

novena candles flickered and flared, painting the Holy Virgin’s

face with droplets of blood. The priest led us towards the altar and

finally stopped beside a marble stand with a beautifully ornate

golden candleholder set atop it. He looked at us as if we knew

already what he was upset about. We looked back at him blankly.

“But surely you see . . .” he waited for a few beats before

continuing, “the blood.”

I took another step forward and saw that the red coloring on the

candleholder hadn’t been cast by the novena candles as I had first

thought. There were splatters and splotches on the golden-hued

metal. “Emile, radio for the crime lab,” I said. “Father, has anyone

touched this recently?”

“This shouldn’t even have been moved. I don’t understand how

the blood could have gotten there. This is desecration.” He made

the sign of the cross.

I helped the old man to the first pew and sat down beside him.

He was trembling. He looked like exactly what he was. A kindly

parish priest close to retiring to wherever it was that parish priests

retired to. I gentled him and started asking questions, the same

questions I had asked him before. He gave the same answers. Then,

“All of these murders occurred on Thursday nights, Father, does that

mean anything to you?”

Looking at me for the first time he said, “Well, I offer confession

on Thursday evenings for those who can’t make the daytime hours

during the week.” His look turned almost beseeching, “You don’t

think confession has anything to do with these murders?”

“I’m afraid we can’t rule anything out at this time. We’re just

trying to follow up on any leads we may get.” But my heart was

beating a lot faster and my blood was racing in my veins. “Father,

do you know of anyone who is usually around at the time you offer

confession on Thursday nights?”

“Only the cleaning people,” he replied.

Just then there was the rattling of keys and the outer doors

opened. A tall, husky woman filled the doorway and turned to lock

the door behind her. Her white hair was pulled back into a stern

bun and her eyes blazed with something that might have been

religious fervor. I looked at my watch. A little past four a.m. I

looked at Father Anthony as he watched the woman come down

the center aisle.

His face looked pale and gaunt. I got the feeling that the cleaning

people didn’t usually come to work at this time of the morning. I

felt the priest draw breath to say something and lay my hand gently

on his shoulder, warning him not to speak. We watched in silence

as the woman walked straight to the bloody candleholder and reach

to pick it up. I stood up, drawing my gun.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, ma’am,” I said, moving towards

her. “Very slowly, now, put your hands on the railing behind you.”

Even though I stood a head taller than she and was aiming a gun

at her, even though she had been caught red-handed about to get

rid of evidence, even though she had to know she’d been caught...

she ran. I cursed under my breath, hoping at the last second that

the priest or God or whoever was hanging out in this church would

forgive my blasphemy, and took off after her. She ran through the

altar and chancel and through a hallway that led to the back of the

church, to the alley connecting it to the rectory. She was fast. I was

faster.

I brought her down cursing and screaming blue murder and

cuffed her hands behind her back. I Mirandized her and Emile

appeared at my side with the news that the lab boys were driving

up. I told him to watch our suspect and went back into the church

to see if I could aid the priest in any way. Father Anthony was

looking paler than he had earlier. I asked him if he needed medical

attention and he said he just thought he needed his bed. That was

something I could definitely agree with.

Sitting at my desk in the precinct house, drinking coffee and

smoking a cigarette, thinking about all that had happened because a

pious cleaning lady had overheard some confessions she hadn’t

liked. The night before, when we brought Miss Ida Smith into the

station to be booked for suspicion of murder, she had decided that

keeping her mouth closed hadn’t been in her best interests. She

declined legal representation and went on to make her own

confession, though not for a priest. Emile and I heard her

confession, but we weren’t able to absolve her sins. That was

between her and a jury of her peers.

I looked up from the paperwork on my desk to lock eyes with a

pair of baby blues that I had last seen about 12 hours earlier. I

dredged up a smile. I’m not the best of company when I’m rested,

but when I haven’t slept in over 24 hours I can be a bear.

“I thought I’d stop by to see if you needed anything more from

me,” she said.

Today she was dressed in jeans and a white summer sweater.

Nice. “Not at the moment, Ms. Mitchell. I believe we’ve got this case

wrapped up nicely, though you may be called to testify.”

“Oh,” she said. Just that little word let me see and understand all

of her disappointment. “Well. I guess I’d better let you get back to

work.”

I pondered for a moment. What the hell. “Ms. Mitchell, wait.

Actually, I was just about to take a break, go down for a sandwich

and coffee. Care to join me?”

Her smile was all the answer I needed.