Unhinged (Necessary Evils #1)(52)

Thomas’s disappointment was palpable. “I just sent you a photo of the priest. Run it against yearbooks from the Catholic school Wayne Holt used to teach at. My guess is that’s where you’ll find him.”

“Hold please,” Calliope said, though she didn’t actually put them on hold. They all sat silently while nails tapped over a keyboard. The only other sound was K-pop music playing in the background. Maybe Calliope’s kids liked BTS? Or maybe Calliope herself did. The only person who would truly know is Thomas.

Noah had thought he’d be more affected by this after his meltdown yesterday, but, somehow, sitting in a group of murderers made him feel safer than he’d ever felt before. Safe enough to tentatively search his memories for anything else that might help them put the pieces together, but there was nothing concrete. A cop and a priest were easy to remember; they had uniforms that stuck out and jobs that were supposed to protect children like Noah.

But the others… Gary had never done a good thing before in his entire life. He wasn’t likely to be running in the same circles as Paul Anderson and a priest. Of course, his father had been a respected school teacher and he and Gary were best friends. I guess videotaping each other in repulsive acts of violence against children guaranteed mutually assured destruction should one of them get caught. Or maybe they just enjoyed reliving the moment.

“Got him,” Calliope cried out, triumphant. “Father Patrick O’Hara… Jesus, Thomas. He was the school principal.”

“Of course, he was,” August said. “These guys somehow always rise to the top.

“I bet they’d all say he’s a respected member of the community,” Atticus added.

“His victims wouldn’t,” Noah muttered, bitter.

“Who’s that?” Calliope asked. “I don’t recognize that voice.”

Asa snickered. “It’s Noah. We have a guest in the Batcave.”

“Yeah, apparently that’s a thing we do now,” Avi said.

“Hi, Noah!” Calliope exclaimed, like she was meeting a celebrity and not just plain old Noah, who lived in a rotted out trailer.

“Hi,” Noah said, face hot.

“Noah made an excellent point,” Thomas said.

Had he? Noah couldn’t imagine how but it was nice to think that might be the case. Thomas perched his hip on the large conference room table, close to the twins.

“Calliope, look for any lawsuits where O’Hara was named as a defendant. They’ll most likely be sealed. The church is really big on keeping those things under wraps and paying to make problems go away. If you don’t find that, search for cases against Holt’s school and any previous schools O’Hara worked at.”

Once more, they all listened to Calliope’s frantic tapping. “Nothing for O’Hara specifically, but there was a case against the city’s archdiocese. Records sealed. But the complainant was an adult. Not a child.”

“Gotta name?” Thomas asked.

“Josiah Smithfield.”

“What can you tell us about him?”

“Twenty years old, high school dropout, arrested twice for narcotics and once for petty theft. He has been in rehab twice. Oh!” she cried. “Josiah’s rehab facility? St. Anthony’s, run by the same church that runs Holt’s school. Guess who’s listed as the social worker? O’Hara. He has a doctorate in child psychology and a bachelor’s degree in education. This fucker literally dedicated years to putting himself in the lives of vulnerable children.” Calliope’s voice was shaking.

Noah didn’t blame her. His insides were shaking, too. What kind of monster spent his entire life trying to find new ways to victimize little kids? The same kind of monster who would videotape it and share it with others.

Noah wiped his sweaty palms on his jean clad thighs. “But, this boy…he doesn’t fit the pattern. These guys are—what’s it called—preferential offenders, right? So, what would O’Hara want with a teen?”

“Good point,” Calliope said, followed by a series of more tapping. “Gold star for Noah. Josiah likely first met the man at Sacred Heart in 1997. He was the parish priest and Josiah’s parents show tithing records all the way back to the eighties. That could have put him in O’Hara’s cross hairs. Maybe seeing O’Hara’s name once he was in rehab triggered his memories like Noah. Maybe he couldn’t live with not doing anything?”

“Can we go talk to him?” Adam asked.

More typing and then a sound of dismay. “No. He died three years ago. Death record says suicide by hanging.”

Noah’s stomach churned and, for the first time that day, panic started to bubble inside, vomit climbing his throat until he knew he couldn’t hold it back. He lurched for the trash can, barely making it before he lost his breakfast. Adam was beside him in a second, hand on his back. It felt like hours before he stopped but it was probably only a few minutes.

When he finally stopped retching, Adam sat beside him, legs sprawled in a vee. Noah didn’t bother trying to stand, just sat between his splayed thighs, letting him curl his arms around him. Not one of them missed a beat, turning back to the board. “Keep looking. He can’t be the only one,” Thomas said.

“I have an idea,” Noah said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. They all turned to him expectantly. “The age group they target, younger children—they tend to suppress trauma, right? That’s what I read a few weeks ago after I started to remember. Kids with early trauma often act out, have substance abuse problems later, anger issues. Can’t you cross-reference children in the preferential age range against prison and rehab records like you did with Josiah? I mean, they won’t all be victims, but it would probably narrow our search. Maybe they remember more than I do.”