It took Mackenzie a little over an hour to reach Holy Cross Catholic School, pushing ninety the whole way. School had let out for the day by the time she arrived, and as she hurried up the stairs and was guided by the receptionist, she found she had caught the principal at a good time of day.
The principal was a rotund lady who filled just about every stereotype Mackenzie had ever had about nuns. Warm and inviting at first, Principal Ruth-Anne Costello was all business and rather curt once Mackenzie was in the woman's office and taking a seat at the front of her desk.
"We've heard rumblings about this so-called Scarecrow Killer," Principal Costello said. "Is that why you've come here?"
"It is," Mackenzie said. "How did you know that?"
Principal Costello frowned, but it was the sort of frown that held more anger than disappointment. Mackenzie thought it was a frown that could be found on most staff members at any given time of the day in a school like this one.
"Well, those poor women are strung up on wooden poles and flogged, correct? The religious symbolism is unmistakable. And whenever a killer does his work in the name of terribly misguided religious principles or a warped and misguided interpretation of religion, it is always the private religious schools that are put under a microscope."
Mackenzie could only nod. She knew that this was true; she'd seen it several times since she had started working toward her career as a freshman in college. But her silence also came from the fact that Principal Costello was right: the religious undertones to the Scarecrow Killer's actions were obvious. Mackenzie had felt it herself when they had found the first body. So why the hell had she ignored them?
Because I was afraid to voice it to Nelson and Porter out of fear of being wrong and then promptly ridiculed, she thought.
But now she had a chance to correct that ignorance and she'd be damned if she was going to let it go to waste.
"Well," Mackenzie said, "we do have a very specific profile. I was hoping that if I could speak to you or maybe someone that has been here for a long time, I could maybe find a potential suspect. And even if not a suspect, maybe someone that knows something about the killings."
"Well," Costello said, "I've been here for thirty-five years. I was a guidance counselor first and then became the principal, a position I've held for nearly twenty years."
She stood up and walked to the left side of her office where a row of ancient-looking filing cabinets lined the wall. "You know," Costello said, "you aren't the first detective to come sniffing around when a crime is committed that seems to have religious influence. Not by a long shot."
Costello pulled four folders from the cabinet and brought them back to the desk. She plopped them down on the desk with enough force to show that she was clearly irritated. Mackenzie reached out to scoop them up but Costello's hand was already pointing to them. Without looking at Mackenzie, Costello started talking again, tapping at each folder with her plump index finger.
"This one," she said, pointing to the first folder, "is Michael Abner. When he was here in the early seventies, he assaulted a girl on the playground and was caught masturbating in the girl's restroom in fifth grade. However, he died in 1984. A terrible car accident, I believe. So he's clearly not a suspect."
With that, Costello removed Michael Abner's folder from the desk. She then promptly eliminated two other folders, as one of them had died five years ago from lung cancer and another had spent his life in a wheelchair-obviously not the sort of person that could cart around wooden poles to murder scenes.
"This last one," Costello said, "belongs to Barry Henderson. While attending Holy Cross, he got into several fights, one of which sent two boys to the emergency room. When he returned from his expulsion, he began sending the teachers dirty letters, an activity which culminated in his attempted rape of the school art teacher while singing his mother's favorite hymn. This happened in 1990. I regret to inform you, though, that he cannot be your suspect either. He has been a resident of the Westhall Home for the Criminally Insane for the last twelve years."
Mackenzie made a mental note to verify that, then watched as Costello placed the folders back into her cabinet. When she closed it, she gave it a little slam that filled the office like a bomb.
"And those are the only students you've had in the last thirty-five years that would be capable of crimes like the Scarecrow Killer is committing?"
"We have no possible way of knowing that," Costello said. "With all due respect, we do not keep tabs on every student that has the potential for a life of crime. That would involve detailed reports on every child that breaks even the slightest rule. The four I just showed you were the most extreme cases, and I have had those on hand for the last several years because it saves a great deal of time when we are approached by the police, especially when they have come up with what they believe are fitting profiles. They always want to blame religion for crimes they cannot solve on their own."
"There's no blame here," Mackenzie said.
"Of course there is," Costello said. "Tell me, Detective. Have you come here to simply find the name of a suspect or what sort of religious doctrine warped them so badly that they are now committing these horrible acts?"
"I don't care how the information comes," Mackenzie snapped. "I just need to find out who is killing these women. The why is secondary at this point."
Mackenzie started to feel idiotic for coming to Holy Cross. What had she been expecting, anyway? A nice and tidy solution? An old student that matched Ellington's profile to a tee?
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Costello," she said softly. She got up and headed for the door. As her hand fell on the knob, she was stopped by Principal Costello.
"Why do you think that is, Detective White?"
"What?"
"Why does law enforcement come looking for answers from religion when they can't solve what they believe are faith-based crimes?"
"It just matches the profiles in most cases," Mackenzie said.
"Does it?" Costello asked. "Or is it because humans can't accept evil for what it really is? And because we can't accept it, we have to find something just as intangible to blame it on?"
A question rose to her lips, one that she was unable to bite back before it came out.
"What is evil, Ms. Costello? What does evil look like?"
Principal Costello grinned thinly. It was a haunting grin, an expression that hinted at some sort of dark understanding.
"Evil looks like you. It looks like me. We live in a fallen world, Detective. Evil is everywhere."
The doorknob under Mackenzie's hand suddenly felt very cold. She nodded and took her leave, not bothering to look back at Principal Costello for a goodbye.
As she made her way down the labyrinthine halls of Holy Cross, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She retrieved it and saw Nelson's name and number on the display. Her heart fell.
The killer, she thought. He showed up while I was away and Nelson is going to have my ass for it.
She answered the call with a knot of fear in her stomach. "Hey, Chief."
"White," he said. "Where are you?"
"Holy Cross Catholic School," she said. "I'm following up on Ellington's profile."
Nelson was quiet for a moment as he considered this. "We can go over why the hell you'd defy my order and waste time going there later," he said. "For now, I need you to swing by the station on your way back through."
"But what about Route 411?" she asked. "I'd like to get back out before rush hour."
"Another reason you had no business wasting time following up on Ellington's lead. Just come here now."
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
But Nelson had already ended the call, leaving Mackenzie to listen to nothing more than a dead line.
