Scent of a Killer

By Blaise Apoldite

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 18, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469101743

Blaise Apoldite

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CHAPTER ONE

The dreadful heat wave that badgered residents of New England had finally ceased. Three consecutive weeks of scorching temperatures hovered over Massachusetts. It was hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk. And that might have been better than cooking inside the house if homeowners didn’t have access to air-conditioning. The humidity was well off the charts. The air was so dry it hurt to breathe. And on top of that, municipalities had the impudence to cut back power on their generators. Where the hell was taxpayer money going?

Then came the unexpected drought. No rain in twenty-four days. Beautifully landscaped lawns turned into dry, decayed fragments of straw. And nothing could be done about it. Residents weren’t allowed to water their grass – or even their cars . . . for that matter. Cities went as far as charging double on water bills for those who used beyond the maximum amount.

The drought also contributed to the recurrent danger of forest fires. Barren trees, in conjunction with the intensity of heat, created a blaze that burned hundreds of acres and was on the verge of spreading quickly toward populated areas. Thankfully, it was kept under control by the use of small aircrafts that released large amounts of water over the dangerous regions threatened by the lack of rain.

A week later, the eastern part of the state was hit by a tornado. Fierce, vehement winds and torrential rains threatened many nearby communities. Bolts of lightning illuminated the dismal sky, while the resonance of boisterous thunder gradually advanced through the area. It sounded like an attack on Pearl Harbor as the noise became stronger, resembling the reverberation of military aircraft flying at low altitudes.

An insurrection was being piloted above the ground. Then all at once, it manifested its indignant face. A dark blanket of clouds enveloped the sky, stretching for over fifty miles, making it appear as though the earth had caught on fire. And in that giant aggregate of smoke lied the birth of a violent and malevolent rage.

The eye of the monstrous twister appeared to be over two football fields long. It was advancing across the sky so erratically that there wasn’t time to foretell its direction. It whirled through towns with razor-sharp gusts attaining speeds of over 130 miles per hour. It shredded everything in its sight while also flattening mobile homes into untethered pieces of cardboard. It looked like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. People were waiting to wake up from a bad dream. The whole situation just seemed so darn surreal.

Flooding was a horrid suspicion for most people, especially those living adjacent to the Wooley Dam and the Bergen River. They had witnessed the horrible aftermath of the 1996 storm surge six years earlier. Levees were constructed in order to hold back the water, but they eventually toppled over after an excessive outpouring of H2O had reduced them to superficial matter.

The cyclone created power outages from Boston to the Seacoast. Families were barely able to maneuver throughout the house without the use of candles and a few old-fashioned lanterns. Streets became rivers, and cars were piles of unrepressed motorized vessels lurking in the water and traveling downstream at a high rate of velocity.

Warnings were imparted over radio waves while local law enforcement notified concerned residents about the possibility of mandatory evacuation. Many did not take heed of the announcement and decided to remain indoors. Others were not as fortunate and watched their homes overflow with water until they caved in at the foundation. Their dwelling was now a heap of plywood coalesced with mangled furniture that floated a few hundred yards until it latched on to part of a slanted telephone pole which barely stood above the ascending water. It took weeks before the water had finally receded.

Thank God, this colossal storm wasn’t as bad as the one in 1996. But there was still a great deal of damage that had to be abated. Trees that uprooted on front lawns were encountered the next morning dangling over live telephone wires. Property damages were in excess of thirty million dollars.

The Commonwealth was looking to the federal government for an appropriation of funds. The President of the United States visited the area, and Congress relying on the commander in chief’s findings, decided to classify the region as a natural disaster. It shelled out a little more than half of the amount requested. Massachusetts would have to foot the rest. No one had predicted this storm. In fact, meteorologists forecasted clear skies and sizzling temperatures for the remainder of the week. But once again, and probably not for the last time – they got it wrong.

_

It was the second week in July, in the year 2002. The Diocese of Eastonville, located on the eastern part of Massachusetts was awaiting the Vatican’s laborious decision regarding the late Archbishop, Harold McDwyer’s replacement. The town of Eastonville was almost as excited as the wistful bystanders in Saint Peter’s Square in Rome, who gathered in years past to inaugurate their future successor. The only difference here was the lack of black and white smoke and not a lot of media coverage. The Vatican had confined its list of qualified candidates in Massachusetts who would have the honor of attaining the title of His Eminence.

It came down to Bishop Kendall Lawson of Chesterboro, Bishop Andrew Finnegan of Mount Carmel, and Bishop Michael Danbury of Salem. All three were definitely capable of meeting the specific requirements imposed. They all held extraordinarily powerful, aristocratic positions in their own right, and they were more conservative than their predecessor.

Because the archdiocese expected the vacancy to be filled expeditiously, they did everything they could to get the building ready for their successor. Rooms were remodeled, walls were painted and then furniture was replaced. And new personnel was procured in order to clean, cook, and assist with any other miscellaneous chores.

To help with all of the renovations, the archdiocese asked members of its administrative staff to assist them. After hearing about the shortage of cooperation, Sister Connelly, the principal at nearby Saint Cecilia’s, volunteered her services. She was quite eager to become involved. She arrived wearing her customary wardrobe and her vivid smile. Her overall appearance, however, evinced obvious tension and apathy. She was just beginning to heal from the archbishop’s unfortunate passing. It would be a gradual process, but eventually she would learn to cope with the tragic loss and turn to God for answers. This would alleviate the suffering and thereby, strengthen her faith.

What would you like me to do? she asked one of the administrative assistants constraining herself to display great enthusiasm.

Could you clean out the archbishop’s bedroom and study located upstairs? one of the female workers apostrophized as she had begun to perspire from lack of ventilation.

How bout if I open a window in here? It’s like an oven, Sister Connelly remarked.

The woman nodded and was about to say something before she got an abrupt tickle in her throat. That would be great. I should have done that before, she said all in one breath, before wiping her forehead with a loose paper towel that was within arm’s reach. She was fine after taking a few sips of bottled water.

I guess these windows haven’t been opened in quite some time. This one seems to be stuck, Sister Connelly asserted attempting to force the window upward. The moisture from the heat made the window stick. Maybe if I just bang on it, it will loosen. She gave the window trim a swift jostling with her closed fist and that did the trick.

There – I got it, she exclaimed. She looked in the direction of the other woman and remarked Now, why are you doing all the labor? Shouldn’t a professional have been called? There are so many things around here that need to be removed, Sister reckoned.

The Archdiocese of Eastonville obviously had sufficient funds to hire a moving company to handle its affairs, but it chose instead to conduct an in-house cleaning of the premises. Anything to save a few hundred dollars in moving expenses.

Sister Connelly slowly proceeded as instructed and made her way to the top of the stairs. She arrived slightly out of breath and her left knee had started to hurt. She was closing in on seventy but her radiant facial appearance placed her ten years younger. She was able-bodied, attractive for someone her age, had a majestic personality, and an absolutely insatiable curiosity.

When she entered the archbishop’s bedroom, she immediately glanced at one of the pictures that hung on the wall. It was Archbishop McDwyer and Pope Vincenzo Carleo embracing on the steps of the Vatican inside Saint Peter’s Square. The Pope had met with the archbishop to discuss the ill-fated sex abuse scandal and the future of the Catholic Church. The archbishop had spent one month in Italy and was fortunate enough to have participated in religious ceremonials while sojourning in Rome.

Sister Connelly was immediately brought to tears as she reminisced about the man whom she had grown to love over the years. The enormity of the last few months weighed heavily on her mind. This was one of the few photos that the archbishop had ever taken and it was an unsettling reminder of his unfortunate absence.

The archbishop frowned upon photos. He had always complained the picture made his eyes red causing him to appear demonic or possessed. Getting him to emerge for his annual portrait was challenging enough. Of course, he would blame the photographer for not centering the picture if it didn’t subjectively conform to his taste or satisfaction. After being handed a copy of the invoice, the archbishop would grumble over the fact that the company charged too much for such a small event. One thing was for sure, however. He wasn’t going to refuse a camera shot with the Holy Father. That was something to be cherished. And he was more than honored to share the spotlight with the presumptively, infallible leader of the Catholic Church.

Sister Connelly took down all of the pictures on the wall and wrapped them in tissue paper before placing them inside storage boxes. Some students were selected from class earlier in the week to assist in putting boxes together so the conventional moving process could proceed more efficiently.

Once Sister Connelly removed the maudlin photos from the wall and wrapped everything up, she then proceeded to clean out all of the closets in the other room. There were over fifty suits inside. The majority of them were made in Italy and some were priced well-over five hundred dollars. The archbishop also owned nearly 100 pairs of shoes. His colleagues would often tease him about that while referring to him as the male version of Imelda Marcos. He couldn’t help it. He was addicted to fashion. The rest of the archbishop’s property such as his expensive silverware, sets of china, and his gold chalice, would be sent to his only sister, Yvette, who was living in Salerno, Italy.

Yvette had been promptly notified by the Salerno police that her brother had unexpectedly died. She couldn’t come to the United States to pay her respects because she had to care for her young nephew who was not feeling well at the time. He had just recovered from a serious bout of food poisoning which left him in the hospital for three days after suffering from severe vomiting and ongoing stomach cramps. At first glance, the emergency staff thought it might have been appendicitis, but ruled it out after conducting further tests and x-rays. Doctors concluded it was botulism caused by anaerobic bacteria found in canned foods.

Yvette had told the youthful, astute, emergency physician on duty that she had prepared spaghetti sauce from a jar earlier that evening, and the doctor informed her that the jar of sauce would likely explain her nephew’s deleterious condition. It turned out that the date on the bottom of the jar displayed a past expiration date.

It was unfortunate that Yvette was not present at her brother’s untimely funeral. She had rarely seen the archbishop especially during their early childhood years when they had ended up in separate foster care centers. Yvette would have loved to have been there to say good-bye.

Sister Connelly contemplated giving some of the archbishop’s clothes to a nearby homeless shelter and the rest to a Goodwill center located in Cartersville, Massachusetts. Cartersville was a fanciful town, much like a village, very quaint with several log cabin style homes that looked strikingly beautiful, especially during the winter months when it became a tourist attraction.

Any skilled artist with an appetite for painting would have loved to construct the sprightly landscape of Cartersville with its splendid and shapely rolling hills and soft underbrush that stood in the background. Couples who had lived nearby looking to add some spice to their relationship would come to Cartersville hoping for a vacancy.

Cartersville was a popular ski resort. But you had to book well in advance if you wanted to guarantee a rental. Some managed to take advantage of the early bird specials and made their reservations in time to get the discount. Late comers took whatever was left. And some were turned away.

_

After spending over two hours inside a 10 X 12 closet that felt like a sauna, Sister Connelly took a rest and sat on the bed to catch her breath. She peered across the room staring at a bookcase. She glanced at some of the archbishop’s favorite novels neatly arranged in alphabetical order by title.

He surely loved reading, she whispered to herself.

A few moments later, Sister Connelly walked toward the bookcase and began to remove the tightly-fitted books on the first shelf. It was difficult at first until she had managed to remove one of the books in the middle. She had actually chipped part of the well-manicured nail on her thumb while attempting to grab hold of a stack of books.

She proceeded to pull out a single book at a time placing each in a box until the box was almost full. The books would eventually be donated to the public library two miles away in order to foster the advancement of a newly-developed literacy program designed to teach thousands of children how to read.

Sister Connelly noticed one of her favorite novels, The Great Gatsby and pulled it from the shelf. She opened it to read a few lines. As she fanned the book, she noticed something had fallen to the ground. She examined it more closely and observed a photograph. She bent down to pick it up, while holding the arm of a chair in order to give her the support she needed to stand. Who are these people? she thought to herself. It was a portrait of young children. The archbishop had placed it there surreptitiously after receiving it through the mail. It was sent to him by Anna Lisa, the perpetrator of one dozen unsolved murders. The photograph was sent to the archbishop as a clue to help him ascertain the killer’s identity.

Anna Lisa knew that once the archbishop had discovered her evil accomplishments, he could not disclose them without violating the seal of confession. Only the archbishop knew that she was responsible for killing members of the clergy. He discovered this after a brief face to face encounter with her inside the confession booth. Anna Lisa was about ten at the time the photograph was taken.

Sister Connelly took the photograph and placed it inside her purse for safekeeping. She was startled by another woman who had entered the bedroom unannounced.

How is everything going in here, Sister? the woman inquired checking to see whether any progress had been made.

Just fine, thank you. I was just about to finish removing all of the books, the cordial nun replied.

Great. I can phone to have these boxes sent out, the woman assured her. Sister Connelly pondered a moment before asking, Do you know where the clothes will be sent?

I think we’re just going to give everything away, the woman answered.

Good. I think that would be the best thing to do. I’m sure the archbishop would have wanted that, Sister Connelly replied while still pondering about the picture. Just then, Felix, the archbishop’s furry companion, ran into the room and jumped on the bed lying on his back. He wanted his belly rubbed. He was hungry.

Oh Felix, get down from there, Sister Connelly instructed. He failed to listen to her commands and remained there until the other woman showed him some attention. He had been lonely ever since the archbishop had passed away. Felix was accustomed to long strolls in the city park and looked forward to enjoyable afternoon snacks upon his return. He had to get acclimated to his new living conditions, which at first, he voluntarily dismissed.

For awhile, Felix had stopped eating and had become more introverted and reclusive. Most of his time was spent sleeping on the archbishop’s bed. He would wait there hoping that eventually his master would return to his castle. But he soon realized that wasn’t going to happen.

Sister Connelly finished taking everything down and packed up all the items before leaving to return home. When she arrived back at the convent, she placed her keys back inside her purse. Then she took hold of the photo and stared at it. She examined it thoroughly trying to figure out who those five children could have been.

She flipped over the picture and observed a phrase in Latin. Sister Connelly wasn’t proficient in Latin and only understood certain prayers or songs that she had memorized when she entered the religious order over forty years ago. She did, however, have a Latin/English dictionary nearby on a reading table located inside the small chapel which she latched onto and thereby proceeded to look up each word individually.

After a few minutes, she deciphered the translation – You have blood on your hands. A chill went down her spine. She was scared out of her wits. Then, in one short, brief moment, her brain went numb. The threatening message had left her temporarily immobilized. She believed that she had encountered incriminating evidence especially from the fact that she had her doubts about how the archbishop died in the first place.

Law enforcement originally believed his death was the result of suicide. Some folks were outraged over this and demanded that the police provide a more thorough investigation. They didn’t want to believe for a minute that their patriarch caused his own demise. So after pressure from local residents, the medical examiner decided to conduct an autopsy. The results were conclusive. No evidence of foul play. Death by suicide was labeled a possible cause in the examiner’s final report. But, there wasn’t a murder like most people had thought.

When Sister Connelly had found the apparent cause of death, she immediately telephoned the authorities. She had been quite persistent arguing with detectives for over two months attempting to convince them that the archbishop wouldn’t have been foolish enough to take his own life.

This was a man of God, she would repeat to members of the police department. "Do you really think he would disobey his Heavenly Father by taking his own life?" she pleaded hoping the police would change their course of investigation.

And – it apparently worked. Her consistent, daily ritual comprised of pestering phone calls made to law enforcement officials, got the police to relinquish the suicide claim. But it had no effect on persuading them to agree with Sister Connelly, who wanted them to open a criminal investigation. The police were satisfied that no foul play was involved.

Unbeknownst to Sister Connelly, however, the archbishop died from natural causes unrelated to the murders of sex offender priests. Nonetheless, the archbishop’s astounding death had become sort of a cold case for those looking for answers.

CHAPTER TWO

On Wednesday of that same week, Albert Mackey, a popular, well-respected editor and writer at The Eastonville Times, the