Sacred Sins Read Online Free PDF Page A

Ed.
    “If there's any hot water…” Ed reached in his pocket and drew out an herbal tea bag.
    “And a cup of hot water,” Harris said, his lips twisting into something like a smile. “Yeah, for Jackson. Dr. Court…” Harris didn't know what had amused her, but had a feeling it had something to do with his two men. They had better get down to business. “We'll be grateful for any help you can give us. And you'll have our full cooperation.” This was said with a glance, a telling one, at Ben. “You've been briefed on what we need?”
    Tess thought of her two-hour meeting with the mayor, and the stacks of paperwork she'd taken home from his office. Brief, she mused, had nothing to do with it.

    “Yes. You need a psychological profile on the killer known as the Priest. You'll want an educated, expert opinion as to why he kills, and to his style of killing. You want me to tell you who he is, emotionally. How he thinks, how he feels. With the facts I have, and those you'll give me, it's possible to give an opinion… an opinion,” she stressed, “on how and why and who he is, psychologically. With that you may be a step closer to stopping him.”
    So she didn't promise miracles. It helped Harris to relax. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben watching her steadily, one finger idly stroking down her raincoat. “Sit down, Paris,” he said mildly. “The mayor gave you some data?” he asked the psychiatrist.
    “A bit. I started on it last night.”
    “You'll want to take a look at these reports as well.” Taking a folder from his desk, Harris passed it to her.
    “Thank you.” Tess pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from her bag and opened the folder.
    A shrink, Ben thought again as he studied her profile. She looked like she should be leading cheers at a varsity game. Or sipping cognac at the Mayflower. He wasn't certain why both images seemed to suit her, but they did. It was the image of mind doctor that didn't. Psychiatrists were tall and thin and pale, with calm eyes, calm voices, calm hands.
    He remembered the psychiatrist his brother had seen for three years after returning from 'Nam. Josh had gone away a young, fresh-faced idealist. He'd come back haunted and belligerent. The psychiatrist had helped. Or so it had seemed, so everyone had said, Josh included. Until he'd taken his service revolver and ended whatever chances he'd had.
    The psychiatrist had called it Delayed Stress Syndrome. Until then Ben hadn't known just how much he hated labels.
    Roderick brought in the coffee and managed not to look annoyed at being delegated gofer.
    “You bring in the Dors kids?” Harris asked him.
    “I was on my way.”

    “Paris and Jackson'll brief you and Lowenstein and Bigsby in the morning after roll call.” He dismissed him with a nod as he dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his cup. Across the room Ed winced.
    Tess accepted her cup with a murmur and never looked up. “Should I assume that the murderer has more than average strength?”
    Ben took out a cigarette and studied it. “Why?”
    Tess pushed her glasses down on her nose in a trick she remembered from a professor in college. It was meant to demoralize. “Other than the marks of strangulation, there weren't any bruises, any signs of violence, no torn clothing or signs of struggle.”
    Ignoring his coffee, Ben drew on the cigarette. “None of the victims were particularly hefty. Barbara Clayton was the biggest at five-four and a hundred and twenty.”
    “Terror and adrenaline bring on surges of strength,” she countered. “Your assumption from the reports is that he takes them by surprise, from behind.”
    “We assume that from the angle and location of the bruises.”
    “I think I follow that,” she said briskly, and pushed her glasses up again. It wasn't easy to demoralize a clod. “None of the victims was able to scratch his face or there'd have been cells of flesh under their nails. Have I got that right?” Before he could