A Perfect Obsession

“I had a back-burner situation going on here,” he’d told them. “We’d been given information, but the local police down in Fredericksburg, Virginia, were handling the case. A girl—a perfect-looking girl, an artist’s model—disappeared about six months ago. A few weeks later, her body was found in a historic cemetery outside Fredericksburg, in a mausoleum. She’d been stabbed in the heart, then cleaned up, dressed up and laid out in a family mausoleum. She was discovered when the family’s matriarch died, since she’d been put in the matriarch’s space. As I said, it seemed to be a local matter, and the Fredericksburg PD and Virginia State Police had the murder. We were informed because of the unusual aspects.”

Egan had paused, running his hands through his hair. Then he’d resumed speaking. “We’re all aware of the high-profile disappearance of Jeannette Gilbert.”

Mike had nodded. “Yeah, we were briefed with the cops about her disappearance when she went missing. We weren’t really in on it, as you know. But we were on the lookout.”

“Ms. Gilbert’s been found. An archaeological dig at old Saint Augustine’s.”

“You mean—” Mike began.

But Egan had cut him off. Yeah, he meant the new nightclub. Egan wasn’t a fan. He’d gone on and ranted for a full minute about the destruction of old historic places. In his opinion, that suggested New York City had no real respect for the past.

Craig knew Mike hadn’t been asking his question because of the club; he’d been trying to ascertain if she’d been found dead.

Mike had glanced over at Craig, who shrugged.

They’d both just let Egan rant, figuring it was obvious. The poor girl was dead.

Egan had ended by saying, “Yes, she’s dead. And it is bizarre—as bizarre as that Fredericksburg case, maybe even more so. Because in this case, the perp had to know she’d be found quickly. He placed her in a historical site where anthropologists and archaeologists were expected to arrive imminently. Later, you can go over the info on the Virginia case, do some comparisons. We’re part of the task force on this, but we’re taking the lead, and you two are up for our division. Because, gentlemen, I believe we have a serial killer on our hands.”

They’d asked about the security tapes at the club.

Techs were going over those now, Egan had said.

“That’s a bitch!” Egan had exclaimed. “Try looking for something out of the ordinary when every damned customer in the place looks like an escapee from a B Goth flick or worse! Not to mention that the club closed down when the crypt was discovered. There’s no club security overnight other than the cameras, but cops have been patrolling the place since the historic folks stepped in.”

From the office, he and Mike had gone straight to the church. The ME on duty was Anthony Andrews, a fine and detail-oriented doctor, but he hadn’t really started his examination of the body yet.

Photographers were still taking pictures, trying to maintain the scene just as it had been after Professor Shaw had opened the first coffin and seen Jeannette Gilbert.

A half-dozen members of a forensic team were moving around, but Dr. Andrews delicately stopped the photo session to show Craig and Mike what he’d discovered. Gilbert had been killed in another location, stabbed through the heart, and then bathed and dressed and prepared before being placed in the old coffin.

Seeing her was heartbreaking. Craig hadn’t known the woman or really anything about her until today, but she’d been young and beautiful, and her life had been brutally taken. She lay in the old coffin, dressed in shimmering white, a wilted rose in her hands. With her eyes closed, it looked as if she slept.

Except, of course, she’d never wake again.

“Defensive wounds?” he’d asked Andrews.

“Not a one. She was taken by surprise. Whoever killed her stood close by—had to be someone who seemed trustworthy. Maybe someone she knew,” the ME had speculated. “Or she could’ve had some kind of opiate in her system. Anyway, she didn’t expect what was coming.”

“Time of death?” Mike had asked. “She’s been missing about two weeks.”

“I’m thinking one to two weeks,” Andrews replied. “And I don’t believe she’s been embalmed—but she was somehow preserved. Maybe in a freezer while he worked on her or made arrangements or...” He sighed. “I need to get her on the table.”

Two patrol officers, the first on the scene, had closed off the area. Luckily, the club had been closed, pending the investigation of the newly discovered crypt. Detective Larry McBride, with the major crimes division, had been the first to arrive. Craig and Mike had worked with him before. He was particularly mild mannered, but he had a brilliant mind and nothing deterred his focus.

“Glad you guys are lead on this,” McBride had told them. “This is... Well, I believe we have a real psychopath on our hands. Bizarre! Wherever he killed her, he bathed away the blood. I’ve got officers who’ll be doing rounds with pictures of the dress. Pending notification of the so-called aunt who raised the girl, they’ll be asking all her friends if she owned the dress. It’s possible the killer obtained it.”

“Checked the label,” Andrews had said. “It’s from Saks.”

McBride had nodded. “Nice dress. She looks like a princess.” He paused. “I have a daughter her age... So, anyway, no inside security by night—but cops watching on the street. The men on duty swore no one went in until Roger Gleason opened up to wait for the archaeologists. Gleason says he comes in every day, even though the club’s closed for a few days. I interviewed him personally, and he seems to be on the up-and-up. Says he’s personally not that interested in the historical stuff, but seeing that the work goes well will actually make his club more famous. Still, he’s not one of those guys who lets his own property go unattended. He was working up here—and heard Shaw’s screams. Shaw swears there was no one down there at the time but him, an associate professor and a few grad students. I have names and numbers, which I’ve emailed to you already. They were all questioned. I don’t think they had anything to do with Ms. Gilbert’s death. The mystery here is, how the hell did the bastard get in with the body? Anyway, the security footage is down at your office now. And, of course, we’re hoping Forensics can come up with something. This killer...well, they’re calling in shrinks. You know, profilers. The murder was cold, swift and brutal. But then, the killer takes all this time with her. He comes in like a shadow, and then leaves her on display, waiting to be found. I talked with Egan, and I’ve been hanging in for you guys. Actually, I’m almost afraid to leave. It’s a media frenzy out there.”

By now, the frenzy on the streets involved more than just media. Word had spread; dozens of celebrity-stalkers and those inclined to the macabre had congregated outside the club.

New York City’s finest were dealing with the facility and crowd control.

Craig had questioned Gleason himself before leaving. He seemed like a Wall Street type, and although his club might be Goth, he was far more prone to the elegant in his manner and dress.

“I need to talk to Shaw,” Craig had said.

But Shaw wasn’t there. They’d heard that when he’d first gotten up close and personal with the body, he’d screamed like a banshee.

And Allie Benoit, John Shaw’s grad student and assistant, had told him that Shaw had spoken with the police, and then freaked out and fled. Allie was pretty sure he’d gone to the pub—the pub whose back wall abutted that of the old church-turned-nightclub.

Finnegan’s.

He swore, walking around the corner and reaching the pub.

The damned man just had to go to Finnegan’s!

The pub had stood there almost as long as the church. It had seen the New York draft riots during the Civil War, and the violence of the Irish gangs that had once held huge sway in a city where immigrants poured in daily from around the world.

The pub had witnessed so much history.

Including the recent history of the diamond heist that had nearly cost his girlfriend her life.

“She won’t be involved!” he said firmly, speaking aloud.

But before he entered, he knew, somewhere in his gut, that the die was already cast.

Of all the pubs in the world.

Finnegan’s.

CHAPTER TWO

AS HE ENTERED the pub, Craig’s attention was all for his search. With luck, Kieran would be at the office today or—

But, no, she walked directly over to him.

And he couldn’t do what he wanted to do—tell her that she wasn’t to have the least interaction with anyone connected to the murder.

He didn’t have the right to make that kind of demand.

And since she was here, she might have already served John Shaw, and John Shaw would’ve talked to her...

At the moment, though, he needed Shaw. She’d understand that; he never had to explain himself or his intentions to Kieran.

She knew what he did for a living; he knew about her professional work for Drs. Fuller and Miro. They respected each other’s professions and discussed things when they could—or when the other might have a useful insight. Or when, as occasionally happened, they became involved in the same case.

Fuller and Miro worked with the police and the FBI. They often gave their considered opinion of a suspected criminal’s state of mind or behavior.

They’d been involved, all four of them together, in a situation before—the so-called Diamond Affair.

But now...

He wanted to hold her and yet he couldn’t; he was here professionally. He strode past her, his eyes on Shaw.

Even as he approached the booth where John Shaw was seated, he was still hating the fact that the church where Jeannette had been found was directly behind Finnegan’s. He’d come to terms with being in love with Kieran—and the fact that she, too, dealt with criminals.

However, it was still difficult for him to accept that she was sometimes too quick to put herself in danger in defense of others.

Yes, it seemed to be a Casablanca moment.

Of all the old abandoned dug out holes in Manhattan, the damned catacombs just had to be close to Finnegan’s!

Too close... This place was too close to where a young woman lay dead, where her body had been stashed with the bones of those long forgotten.

Craig knew John Shaw, and Shaw knew him; they’d met at the pub several times when the professor had come for his professional meetings or get-togethers—or when he just wanted to sip one of his ultra-lite beers and chill.

“Craig!” John said, looking up at him with surprise. “I—Oh, my. You’re coming to see me. So I guess it should be Special Agent Frasier. Not Craig. Look, I’m not sure what else I can say to anyone. All I know is that we opened that coffin and...and there she was.”

Craig slid into the booth and smiled at him. “You must be pretty rattled.”

“Yes. You’re here officially? The police told me not to say anything yet. They need to contact the poor girl’s family. I mean, that’s why you’re here—coming to me and not Kieran, right?”

“Yes, John, this is official. The NYPD detectives are on the case, of course, but we’re taking part, as well. We’ve put together a task force. This as a very high-profile murder.”

John nodded, his white hair—something of a strange mullet cut—flapping beside his ears. His glasses slid down his nose with his effort, and he pushed them back with his forefinger.

“Of course. This needs to be solved fast,” John said. “But...” His expression grew even more perplexed. “I don’t know how I can help any more. I don’t know how I can help, period. Professor Digby—Aldous Digby, one of my associates—and I were there, and three grad students. Oh, and two of the construction guys. The guys were watching—waiting to get back to work. I didn’t let them touch the coffin. Nice guys, but, you know, that coffin might be two hundred years old and, well, you need to have a delicate touch. And Ms. Gilbert... The second I saw her... I have to admit I screamed. I was rattled, as you said. But I made sure everyone got out. We did and then went up to the church—the club area—to wait for the police.”

“Right. So there were seven of you. I have the names,” Craig said. He was certain that the meticulous Detective McBride had sent his email.

He’d also seen Jeannette Gilbert’s body at the site.

He winced, the picture of her still so clear in his mind. Her lovely, pale, perfect face. The white dress. The red rose.

John nodded. “Seven of us were in there—and seven of us got out quicker than a flash. And we were all interviewed.” He sighed loudly. “Hell of a thing for the owner of that place. They’ve barely been open what, a month or two? Then they have to stop work and close up because an engineer finds the coffins in the dirt and then the catacombs. They bring us in, and... Sad. So sad. By God, she was beautiful! Poor thing.”

“Just to confirm, you were there yesterday, too?” Craig asked.

“Of course. I was there as soon as the situation was reported.” He paused. “Did you know that the land where the Waldorf Astoria sits was once a potter’s field? Think of how old this city is. A number of the parks we enjoy today were originally cemeteries. I worked the old slave cemetery they discovered a few years back, so it was natural that I’d work on this one, too.”

“You started on the church yesterday?”

“Yes. I did. I was called yesterday morning, and I made arrangements to get there as fast as possible.”

“And then?”

“I assessed the location. I called in Digby and my assistant, Allie Benoit. You don’t pry apart ancient caskets willy-nilly. We researched church plans, but the original architect’s plan is long gone.” He shook his head. “You must be familiar with what happened. The church sold the property to the club people. There was an outcry, not that it made any difference. But the building is so historic. Everyone wants to shop Fifth Avenue, see a show, bank on Wall Street. They forget that Wall Street was a wall. Canal Street was a canal—or a cesspool, really. Those are all part of our city’s origins, and we need to preserve history!”

Craig nodded, although he wasn’t convinced they’d needed to preserve the cesspool that had been Canal Street. He spoke quickly, not wanting the academic to bluster endlessly. “What time did you get in there yesterday?”

“Let’s see... They called us right around ten in the morning. I was there within the hour.”

“So, who was there then?” Craig asked. “Besides you and the colleagues and workers you’ve mentioned.”

“Oh, lots of people. Let’s see, the manager and owner, Roger Gleason. He’d been working down by the construction area. They stored their booze down there—in the old crypt they knew about, I mean, with the coffins and bodies all gone now. It’s a foundation, a basement. The basement—the crypts—were far more extensive than people realized. The wall had hidden some of the old coffins and shrouded corpses, so when some of the corpses were moved, the ‘second’ crypt was missed.”

“Okay. Anyone else know what was going on?”

“At least two construction workers and one of the barmaids-slash-dancers. Have you seen what they do in there? She was dressed up in a little black bra and skirt and wearing some wicked makeup. The girls dance on tables when they’re not handing out booze.”

“So, employees, construction workers—anyone else?”

“Oh, yeah, the rep from the historic preservation group. Henry Willoughby. Loves history. He’s not a scientist, but he’s a great hands-on guy, ready to protect the past and help out if he can. The man loves New York and studied history and architecture. His wife passed away a while back, and now he gives all his love to the city. He stayed long enough last night to check in with us, make sure we were ready to catalog the bodies and the artifacts we found. I would’ve brought in more crew, but—”

“Who stayed, then? Who was actually there when you kept working?”

“Me, Digby showed up, my grad students—plus a structural engineer and a construction worker, all to see that we didn’t bring down a wall, I assume.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, after I initially went in yesterday, the construction guys created a kind of door for us.”

“How long were you there yesterday?”

“It was almost midnight before I left. I didn’t touch or open anything. I stepped over the hole—where the wall broke when they were working on the foundations—into the crypt beyond. Digby and my grad students and I were there. We make drawings and assessments and plan before we start the actual work, so, yes, I’d say it was midnight. By then, of course, the vampire dancers were gone and all the club people had been told to go home. Once they made the find—the second crypt—they closed down, of course, but people were hanging around. It’s...it’s history being reclaimed! Roger Gleason, the owner, seems like a nice guy. He has a conscience and some perspective on what’s important. We didn’t have to get court orders or anything. He simply agreed to close for a few days. They had patrol officers covering the place, making sure that once the news about the crypt got out, some Goth freak or necrophilia-pursuing creep didn’t try to break in.”

Craig nodded. He knew the answers to most of what he was asking; he just wanted it from Shaw and he wanted to ensure that their facts were straight.

“Yesterday,” Shaw said, “you understand, was discovery day. I planned where to put some lights. I judged the space for people and decided on equipment. I did all the assessments, got my ducks in a row, you know what I mean?”

Craig nodded again. “This morning when you arrived—were things exactly as you’d left them?”

“What?”

“Had anything you’d done been changed? Were tools missing, anything like that?”

Shaw frowned. “I...I don’t think so. I don’t get it. I’d roped off different areas in the basement for my people. We had our little brushes and chisels and...no, I’m positive that our work tables were the way we’d left them,” he said. He leaned forward. “Didn’t Ms. Gilbert disappear about two weeks ago? She didn’t look as if she’d just been killed. She...she was beautiful as she lay there, but decay had set in. I guess down there, with the cool temperature, natural decay wouldn’t be what it would up here.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If she was embalmed, she wasn’t embalmed well, but she was dressed up. As if she’d been prepared for a viewing. Seeing her gave me chills! Chills! And I work with the dead all the time. When did she die?”

“The medical examiner is estimating her death to have been between one and two weeks ago. He’ll tell us more definitively when he’s done the autopsy.”

“So, you think that—”

“I don’t think anything yet,” Craig said. “We need more information from the experts before I can even speculate. Go on, please, tell me about this morning.”

“Okay,” John said. “This morning.” He looked longingly at his scotch glass.

It was empty.

“You want another?” Craig asked.

“Yeah,” John said huskily. “Yeah. The long dead are one thing. Fresh corpses...or not so fresh corpses...”

Craig knew what he meant.

He had seen the body.

He scanned the bar area but didn’t see Kieran. Declan Finnegan, however—looking like an old-time Irish bartender as he dried a glass, decked in a white apron tied around his waist—was behind the bar.

Craig walked over to him. Declan, he knew, had been fully aware that Craig was in the pub and that he’d been talking to John Shaw.

“You want another scotch for him?” Declan asked.

Declan was the oldest of the Finnegans; he wore his sense of responsibility and dignity well. All the Finnegan family were attractive and charming people with different degrees of red in their hair, and they all had eyes in varying shades of blue. Even a casual observer had to note that they were related.

Declan tended to be the most serious in demeanor. He didn’t ask questions, not of Craig; he knew he’d learn what was going on if and when it was appropriate.

“Thanks,” Craig said. “Any idea where Kieran is?”

“She and Kevin were helping out before. I’m not sure where they went.” He poured the scotch. “Anything for you?”

“Soda water.”

Declan quickly poured him a glass from the fountain, and Craig returned to the table. Where the hell had Kieran gone?

She was helping out her brother today, which meant she was working here somewhere. If he was going to start worrying every time she wasn’t in sight, he’d need to get a psych evaluation himself.

John Shaw took the scotch from him; it looked as if he was going to gulp it down. Craig set a hand on his. “Hey, that’s prime stuff, my friend. Sip it.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Shaw murmured.

“Okay, so, you got in today—”

“Early. Just after seven. This is an important true find. The historical value is immense.”

“Of course. I understand,” Craig assured him. “So, today. You haven’t opened any of the other coffins in the catacomb, have you?”

“No. Some of the coffins have disintegrated, and the remains are down to bones and dust and spiderwebs. Remnants of fabric...belt buckles, shoe buckles...” John rambled, studying the amber liquid in his glass.

“But you found Ms. Gilbert in the first coffin?”

Shaw nodded glumly.

“What made you open that one first?” Craig asked.

The question seemed to confuse Shaw for a minute. “It seemed to be the best preserved.” He paused, staring up at Craig. “Actually, it was at an odd angle on the shelf. As if it had been moved. Oh...that was obviously because someone had been there! They’d put her body in it!”

“Do you remember it being that way the day before?”

“No! That must’ve been it. There was something different!” John Shaw said. “I didn’t realize it immediately. It was such a...subtle difference. The thing is, I thought I’d start with the best preserved, but so did—” He frowned at Craig. “It was definitely the best preserved. And someone else knew that, too. Her killer.”

Jeannette had been dead at least a week, possibly two. But she’d been placed in that coffin in a forgotten crypt much more recently than that.

The killer had learned about the historical find, and he’d made use of it for his own designs.

“Excuse me,” Craig said abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

He wanted to see where Kieran was; it suddenly seemed important.

She wasn’t at the bar. She wasn’t on the floor.

He hurried down the hallway to the office, not bothering to knock.

Kieran was there, and Craig let out a sigh of relief.

But then he saw that she wasn’t alone. She was sitting there, on the sofa in front of the desk, talking earnestly with her twin brother, Kevin.

They both looked up at him, startled—and their expressions could only be described as guilty.

* * *

Kieran jumped up, looking at Craig and then Kevin.

“Hey,” she said, talking to her brother first. “You’ve got that audition—you better get going!”

“Yep, right,” Kevin said, rising quickly. “Definitely. Craig, are you involved in the situation over at the old church? No one is supposed to know anything yet, but I think that everyone everywhere knows that the body of Jeannette Gilbert was found in an old coffin. I think someone tweeted it. So much for the ‘please keep silent’ request. I’m sorry. Sounds terrible. But, what is the FBI doing in on it?”

“There’s a similarity to another murder, down in Virginia,” Craig said. “We may be looking at a serial killer.”

“Oh?” Kevin said. “So...” His gaze fell on Kieran, and his voice sounded a little sick. “You’re going to be involved with the investigation?”

Craig nodded. “Lead for the FBI.”

“Better get going, Kevin,” Kieran said. “This is truly so horrible, but we all have to keep working.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you all later tonight,” Kevin said, and headed out of the office.

When he was gone, Kieran looked at Craig.