EQMM, Jan. 2003, page 10
“I'd like to know. After all,” she said softly, “it's part of your past ... your life, and I want to know everything about you. Not just what you've told me over the Internet ... everything. Who were they? What were their names?”
This wasn't going well, he thought. Stephanie appeared to be the possessive type and this would have ruled out any lasting relationship even if that had been what he was looking for ... which it wasn't. But he decided to give her what she wanted. She wasn't going to be around very long anyway.
“Well, there was Sally ... and then after Sally there was Jennifer...”
“Jennifer who?”
“You want their surnames?” This woman was bordering on the obsessive. The sooner he got it over with the better. “Jennifer Cranson. Why?”
Stephanie stood up. It seemed to Anthony that she had lost interest in that particular game. She crossed the room to his computer and switched it on. It awoke into life with a sleepy bleep.
“What are you doing?”
“I thought I'd check your e-mails for you. I sent you one before I left home.”
“Don't bother. I'll do it later. It's time I started on the lunch.” Eating would occupy her for a while. He could delete her latest e-mail when it was all over.
She was walking around the room, restless, examining things, picking objects off the stainless-steel shelves. She flicked the switch on Anthony's expensive hi-fi system. It was tuned to the local radio station. The midday news.
“The police say they have a new clue in the hunt for the so-called cyberspace killer who sends e-mails to the police telling them where to find his victims’ bodies. A spokesman for North Yorkshire police told our reporter that a man was seen leaving the location where the last body was found and they now have an e-fit picture of the suspect. He is described as being...”
Anthony darted over and switched the radio off. “We don't want to hear that, do we?”
“I did,” said Stephanie, flicking the switch on again. But the news had moved on to a story about a factory closure with a hundred job losses. The man being interviewed was blaming computerisation. She shrugged her shoulders and sat down in an armchair near the fireplace.
Anthony watched her, wishing that she had made herself more attractive for him, wishing that her baggy clothes gave more of a clue to the figure beneath. “I'll get the lunch on,” he said. “I've made a salad already. I've just got to cook the steaks. How do you like yours?”
“Medium.”
Stephanie sipped her mineral water as Anthony wandered into the kitchen. He felt slightly uneasy. At this stage they usually followed him, taking an interest in what he was doing. He took the knife, razor sharp, and trimmed the fat off the bleeding steaks that lay waiting on the chopping board. He slid them onto the griddle and as they started to sizzle, Stephanie appeared in the doorway.
He swung round. The knife was in his hand, sharp and dripping with blood.
“Why don't you put that thing down?” said Stephanie, walking towards him, her eyes fixed on his.
He put the knife down on the worktop where it left a red-brown stain.
“Tell me about Jennifer Cranson.”
Anthony stared at her for a few seconds. “Why?”
“What was she like? What happened between you?”
He searched his memory for a picture of Jennifer Cranson, but he could hardly recall her face. She was just one of a long procession of girls he'd contacted through the Internet and brought back to the cottage: a nondescript, mousy girl—inexperienced; frightened. It hadn't taken long to get rid of her. “I can't remember much about her. Let's forget her, eh? Let's talk about you,” he said, thinking of the small bedroom and the other things upstairs ... waiting.
“Jennifer's dead,” Stephanie said bluntly, almost revelling in the brutality of her revelation.
Anthony took a step backwards, staring at the knife. “You knew her?”
“Oh, I knew her. She was the vulnerable type, never easy with men. Then one day she took it into her head to try and meet someone through the Internet. She was lonely. She was looking for ... well, love, I suppose; or friendship at the very least, but all she found was men who used her ... and abused her. She died six months ago.”
Anthony stared at her. He'd have to finish this ... get rid of her as soon as possible. “Died?” he heard himself saying.
“She killed herself,” Stephanie said quietly. “She left a note. And a list of names. Yours was on it.”
“I don't know what you mean.” He looked into Stephanie's cool blue eyes and felt a sudden surge of anger.
He took a step forward and it was over in a second. The steel flash of the knife; the blade tearing through flesh and muscle; the startled, strangled cry as the victim crumpled to the floor.
Anthony looked up, his hand clutched to his stomach. His attacker was watching him: Stephanie ... but not Stephanie. She was holding her luxuriant blond hair in her hand. It was a man who looked down on him, a slightly built man with fine fair hair who, in the wig, had passed easily for a woman.
“Why?” Anthony managed to gasp the word even though his strength was ebbing away with his blood.
The voice when it answered was deeper, stronger. “Jennifer Cranson was my sister.”
Anthony closed his eyes. He was weaker now but he was just aware of the creature that had been Stephanie stuffing its wig into a carrier bag. Now it stood before him, a young man, watching him die.
He had lost consciousness by the time Stephen Cranson had deleted all “Stephanie's” e-mails, taken the picture of “Stephanie” out of its frame, wiped away all trace of his fingerprints, and typed his final message to the police on Anthony's computer. They would find the body soon, just as they had found the others. He hadn't liked to think of his victims’ bodies lying there for weeks and being found decomposing by some unsuspecting neighbour or postman. The e-mail would have reached the police by now and they would arrive at the cottage soon. He grabbed the keys to the Range Rover: He would drive off; head for York, and dump the car. The plan had worked before.
He turned the key in the ignition. A calm getaway, not exceeding the speed limit. By the time the police realised that the car was missing, he would be long gone.
But nothing happened. He turned the key again. Again nothing. Stephen's heart was beating faster now but he knew he must stay calm. The car had been immobilised. He searched for a switch, first systematically, then frantically.
The distant sirens were gradually getting louder, coming closer. He knelt down, thrusting his hands beneath the dashboard, feeling for switches and wires. The police were on their way and he had to get out; get away from Anthony's dead, bleeding body.
When the car door opened, Stephen Cranson saw a large policeman looking down at him.
“We got your e-mail,” the constable said with a smile of triumph. “And if you're trying to start this thing, you're out of luck. It's got an immobiliser ... all computerised. Wonderful things, computers,” he added as an afterthought.
The cyberspace killer put his head in his hands and wept.
Copyright © 2002 by Kate Ellis.
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The Hand of God by Edward D. Hoch
Father David Noone, parish priest-cum-detective, debuted in 1964 but only starred in a couple of cases before the author relegated him to the sidelines for nearly four decades. Mr. Hoch tells us that he was encouraged to write another Noone story for this issue by the good reader reaction to Noone's return to action in “One More Circus” in the May 2002 EQMM.
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When the bishop took the trouble to phone Father Noone personally at Holy Trinity rectory it usually meant there was a problem. Sometimes it was only a parishioner disturbed by the previous Sunday's sermon, or news of a visiting missionary who wished to appeal for funds at the Sunday Masses.
Bishop Xavier never gave his name when he called, but for David Noone there was no mistaking his jovial, outgoing manner. David had known him as a monsignor in another diocese, the cardinal's troubleshooter, until he was elevated to his present position the previous year. “How's the repentance rate at Holy Trinity this morning, Father?”
“Holding our own, Bishop.”
“Glad to hear it. I know you have a busy schedule but might you be able to go out to the college Friday morning and fill in for me at this conference they're having?” “The college” always meant St. Joan of Arc, the area's only Catholic institution of higher learning. It had started out as a women's college in the 1950s, but by the ‘80s it had joined the trend toward admitting male undergraduates as well. About fifteen years ago the clergy had handed over its administration to lay people, though it remained a Catholic institution.
“Which conference is that, Bishop?”
“The Church in the Twenty-first Century. It's just the morning session, from ten to noon. The professors are all laymen these days and I felt we should have a clerical presence. I was going myself but something else came up.”
“I'm no match for theologians.”
“You've got a good head on your shoulders. That's all you need. It's only two hours and they'll do most of the talking anyway.”
So it was that Father David Noone drove out to the graceful suburban campus on a cloudy Friday morning in early May. He was barely into high school when St. Joan of Arc opened its doors back in the early fifties, and remembered his disappointment when he learned it was to be a girls’ college. As it turned out, by the time he finished high school he'd decided to enter the seminary, so it hardly mattered.
The college buildings sat at the top of a low hill, reached by a gently curving road flanked by lines of juniper trees. There was a traditional quadrangle at the center of the campus, with some of the buildings connected by tunnels beneath it. As he reached the top of the hill he was surprised to see two police cars and a van from the medical examiner's office. He parked and got out as a short young woman came hurrying over from the gathering crowd of spectators. “Are you Father Noone?”
“That's me. What's been happening here?”
She held out her hand. “I'm Rachel Stowe, administrative assistant from the theology department. They sent me to meet you. We've had an unfortunate accident. One of our female students has been found dead.”
“I could administer the last rites,” David offered.
“Our chaplain has already done that.”
“Father Ritz? Is he here?”
“Over with the detectives.” She was a slender, attractive woman in her early thirties, wearing glasses with dark frames that seemed to match her swept-back brown hair. Under different circumstances he guessed she would have a ready smile and a joke, but just then her face was as somber as the leaden sky.
“What happened to your student?” he asked.
“They think she was shot. I just wanted to tell you that your ten o'clock session has been canceled because of it.”
“Shot,” he repeated. “You mean murdered?”
“It's too soon to tell. They're still searching for a weapon.”
He thanked her and made his way across the parking lot, stepping around police vehicles until one officer tried to stop him. “Sorry, Father. This is a crime scene.”
“Would you tell Father Ritz I'm here?”
But Jerry Ritz, the blond, blue-eyed chaplain who looked young enough to be a student himself, reacted to his name and recognized David at once. He hurried over to greet him. “I heard you were replacing the bishop at this morning's session. Good to see you again, David.”
“I guess that's off now. What happened here?”
“A sophomore named Darcy Clemence. A security guard found her body behind those bushes just after dawn. It appears she'd been shot in the back of the head.”
“Had she been molested or robbed?”
“She was wearing jeans and a school sweatshirt. They didn't appear to be disturbed. Girls don't carry purses around campus. She had a few dollars stuffed in the pocket of her jeans.”
“She was killed sometime before dawn?”
“Looks like it. They haven't found anyone who heard the shot.”
David thought about it. “Shooting someone in the back of the head doesn't fit with an attempted assault or robbery.”
“Unless she was trying to run away,” Father Ritz suggested.
“Yes, there's that, too.”
The young woman from Theology had reappeared at David's side. “Pardon me, Father, but the other speakers from our department thought they might meet with you briefly, so long as you're here. They're trying to reschedule the event.”
“Certainly. Lead the way, Miss Stowe. Or is it Mrs.?”
She gave a hint of a smile. “It's still Miss, but you can call me Rachel. We're quite informal in Theology.”
“I'll see you later,” he told Father Ritz, and fell into step with Rachel Stowe. “I know Professor Bentley,” he told her. “How many others are in your department?”
“There are five professors including Dean Bentley. He's the head of the department, but he wasn't scheduled for your session. You'll be meeting Professors Marlowe, Yang, Godfrey, and Kappawitz.”
“That's a large department.”
“They teach only one or two courses each. The dean and I are the only full-time people.”
“I would think the theology department would be a bit dull for a young woman,” he said as they walked toward Becket Hall.
“Not at all! The professors are a lively bunch, and Dean Bentley is like God. But I do keep busy with campus activities. I handle props for the drama club and conduct an exercise class for faculty wives twice a week. It keeps me fit as well as them.”
The theology department occupied a portion of the top floor in Becket Hall. Rachel Stowe's desk was located in a large square cubicle with low sides, allowing her to greet anyone entering the department. They had come in through a door in one wall of the room, and the professors’ individual offices were arranged in a row along the back wall. All the doors were open at the moment, but the four men were grouped in the office at the far right.
Rachel ushered David in and introduced them. “Professors, this is Father David Noone. Matt Kappawitz, Jack Yang, Mark Marlowe, and Luke Godfrey.”
David shook their hands and couldn't help commenting, “The four evangelists—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
“It's not the first time we've heard that,” Jack Yang said with a bit of a smile. He was slender and boyish, certainly part Chinese.
“Nor the last,” Mark Marlowe agreed. “We're used to it by now. We're the four evangelists and Dean Bentley is God. Anyway, pleased to meet you, Father.” He was a bulky ex-football player type, gruff but likable.
“Same here. I'm sorry our event had to be postponed. Did any of you know the young woman who was killed?”
“What's her name?” Luke Godfrey asked.
It was Rachel who answered. “Darcy Clemence, a sophomore. Father Ritz knows her, and I think she's in our basic theology class.”
“A sophomore, you say?” Godfrey frowned, perhaps trying to place the name.
The fourth man, Kappawitz, bald and wearing small half-glasses, nodded. “She's in my class. Smart student.”
“Was she assaulted?” Yang asked.
“They don't know yet,” Rachel answered. “She seemed to be fully dressed.”
They were in Matt Kappawitz's office and he walked over to the window. It presented a clear view of the area where the body had been found. “They're removing her now. There's quite a crowd around.” David and the others joined him and saw the tall body being placed on a stretcher and covered with a sheet.
Kappawitz suddenly had a thought. “I wonder if Dean Bentley knows what's happened.”
“He's not usually in this early on Fridays. He has no classes till afternoon,” Rachel reminded them.
“But his car is in its parking place against the wall,” Yang pointed out. “See it down there?”
Luke Godfrey grunted. He was the tallest of the four men and the only one with a beard. David thought he could easily have passed for one of the original evangelists. “I'll go and try his office door.”
“I'll come with you,” David said. “We met at a banquet and I should say hello if he's there. When I come back we can talk about rescheduling the symposium.”
He had to walk fast to keep up with the long-legged Godfrey. The frosted glass door at the end of the hall read simply: Dean Bentley, and when Professor Godfrey tried the door it was unlocked. He knocked as he pushed it open. “Dean Bentley?”
The blinds were down and the office was lit by a desk lamp. David Noone recognized Bentley's snow-white head at once, lying on the desktop as if in slumber. But the trickle of blood from his left temple left no doubt of the truth. A snub-nosed.38-caliber revolver was still clutched in his left hand.
“My God!” Luke Godfrey exclaimed, hurrying to the desk.
David had just an instant to shout a warning. “Don't touch anything! Get the others and send someone downstairs for the police. I'll stay here.”
“Did he shoot himself?”
“Perhaps. Go for help.”
Though the body was already cold, Father Noone prayed for a moment, giving conditional absolution, and was making the sign of the cross when the others arrived.
“Is he dead?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. Did somebody go for the police?”
“Mark did.”
Matt Kappawitz moved a step closer to the body. “I can't believe he'd kill himself.”
David peered at the dead man's blank computer screen. He tapped the space bar and after a moment the screen came to life. The message on it read: I'm sorry. I didn't mean to kill her. She hurt my fingers. I'm sorry.
* * *
A few minutes later a detective named Spears followed Mark Marlowe into the office. Father Ritz was right behind them. “Did you administer the last rites?” the chaplain asked David.
“Yes. But he's been dead quite awhile.”
“Has anyone notified his wife?” the chaplain asked.
“She's visiting their son in London,” Jack Yang volunteered.
