Kouros waved to Andreas and pointed at one of the cops. Andreas walked to where they were standing.
‘Hello, Chief Inspector, my name is Mavros,’ said the man with Kouros.
From his stripes Andreas could tell he was a sergeant. Andreas nodded. ‘Where’s your captain?’
‘He’s in a meeting with the mayor and said not to be disturbed. But I can answer your questions.’
‘How about, “Where’s the body?”’
The sergeant looked surprised. ‘Back in the monastery. Being prepared for the funeral.’ In the Greek Orthodox Church, burial occurred as soon as possible after death, absent complicating circumstances such as murder.
The captain in charge of the island’s police was too busy making political nice-nice to meet with the chief inspector of special crimes at the murder site. He’d let the body be moved and tampered with before Andreas had the chance to examine it. If someone wanted Andreas to conduct a real investigation, he sure as hell didn’t bother to tell the Patmos police.
Andreas drew in and let out a breath. ‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Between two-thirty and three in the morning.’
Andreas nodded. ‘Take off the tarp.’
The sergeant paused.
Andreas smiled and patted the sergeant on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, I meant to say, “Take off the tarp, please.”’
‘Chief, there’s blood everywhere. We can’t let the tourists see that.’
So that’s why the corpse was gone, thought Andreas. ‘Who told you to move the body?’
The sergeant hesitated. ‘It’s Easter Week. We couldn’t leave a holy man lying dead in the middle of the town square.’
That’s what Easter Week is all about, thought Andreas. A holy man’s death in public view. He hoped that wasn’t a clue. Some twisted psycho murdering monks was more than he wanted to think about.
Andreas turned to Kouros. ‘Yianni, do you think he’s having trouble with my accent?’
Kouros shrugged.
Andreas turned back to the sergeant. ‘Please, just tell me, “ Who told you to move the body? “’ Andreas still was smiling, but not in a way meant to calm a sergeant heading toward a pension.
‘The abbot thought it disrespectful to the church.’ The sergeant paused. ‘But we videotaped and photographed everything.’
Great, thought Andreas. Now I’ve got the police chief, the mayor, and the head of the monastery working together at screwing up this investigation. He shook his head. ‘Just move everybody back and lift the tarp.’
‘The captain said not to touch it without his okay.’ Now he sounded as if he were giving an order.
At six feet two inches tall, Andreas was about a head taller than the sergeant, and Kouros, though an inch or so shorter and at least a foot broader than the sergeant, was built like a bull. Andreas ignored him, looked at Kouros, and nodded toward the tarp.
As much as police sergeants on tourist islands were used to being obeyed, this one must have realized he couldn’t win this confrontation on any level. He stepped back to allow Kouros to pass and remove the cones, then helped Andreas and Kouros lift the tarp.
Though only mid-April, it was a bright, sunny day. Perfect for baking blood onto black plastic sheeting. Whatever clues the tarp may once have protected were now part of an ugly, impenetrable mess. They set the tarp off to one side and Andreas studied the ground. There wasn’t much left to see except shoe prints. Lots of shoe prints.
‘What the hell was going on here, a track meet?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘A baker on the way to work found the body, panicked, and ran through the streets screaming, “Kalogeros Vassilis was murdered in the square.” People came running from everywhere to see if they could help, and when they saw it was too late, they stayed to pray by his body. He was a much loved man, and by the time we got here the square was packed with mourners. We had to pull two hysterical old women off his body.’
As if on cue, an old woman dressed head-to-foot in black hobbled into the square from a nearby lane. Chanting loudly, she walked to where Andreas was standing, crossed herself three times, and threw flowers smack-dab into the heart of the blood soaked crime scene. Those gathered at the edge of the square responded in a chorus of amens.
Andreas stared at the woman, then looked at Kouros. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
2
The police station was in Skala. It shared space with the post office in an all-white island landmark on the southern end of the harbor road. The distinctive, three-story tower at one corner of the building looked like a runaway little brother to the massive stone towers guarding the monastery above.
‘Everything we found at the scene is in there.’ The sergeant pointed down a hallway to a door marked captain. ‘It’s all inside, on the table.’
It was a cave of a room. The only window was shuttered. A dark desk sat on a dark carpet at the far end, with a dark bookcase behind it and two dark chairs in front. A dark table was beside the door. The only color came from a large, gold and crimson poster set in a gilt frame on the opposite wall. It was a reproduction of one of the island’s most famous icons, the sixteenth century Vision of Saint John depicting elements of his Revelation. Words wrapped around the poster’s edge advertised Patmos’ celebration nearly two decades ago of the nineteen-hundredth anniversary of the Book of Revelation.
To its left hung signed and framed photographs of the current archbishop of the Eastern Orthodox Church in Greece and his two predecessors. No politicians shared the walls. Obviously, it was the church that held influence in this office.
Andreas pulled two pairs of latex gloves from the dispenser box on the table and handed one pair to Kouros. Very carefully, they began sorting through the items. Blood seemed everywhere.
‘All we found were his robe, hat, sandals, undergarments, and two crosses.’
‘Do you know what was taken?’
‘No, but his pockets were turned inside out.’
‘Any idea of how many attackers?’
The sergeant did a quick upward jerk of his head, Greek for ‘no.’ ‘No idea, but my guess is more than one. These mugger bastards are cowards when alone.’
‘A lot of monks get mugged here?’
He gestured no again. ‘This is the first I know of.’
Andreas looked at the crosses. One was heavy, silver, and connected to a long, thick, woven black cord. The other was much smaller and lighter, like tin, and tied to a thin black lanyard. It was the only item without bloodstains. He pointed at the smaller cross. ‘Why is there no blood on this?’
‘We found it clenched in his fist.’
Andreas nodded. ‘Any thoughts on why the crosses were left behind?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘No. The captain thinks it’s because he was a man of God and the muggers thought it a sacrilege to take them.’
Andreas stared deadpan at the sergeant. Kouros started to laugh. ‘Can’t wait to meet your captain,’ said Andreas. ‘A monk is butchered in your town square and he thinks the muggers were worried about committing a sacrilege by stealing his crosses?’
The sergeant stammered. ‘No… no… I… I’m sure what the captain meant was that… uh… they didn’t know Vassilis was a monk when they attacked him.’
Andreas kept staring. ‘Show me the photographs of the body.’
The sergeant took an envelope off the desk and handed it to Andreas. ‘These were taken after we removed the body from the square. I’ll have to get you copies of the ones we took at the scene, the captain has them.’
It contained two dozen eight-by-tens of a very old, very thin, naked man. For an instant, Andreas wondered what passed through that poor soul’s mind in his last seconds on earth. His youth? His parents? His loves? Children perhaps? Regrets? Andreas moved on. He had to be clinical and focus: focus on finding the miserable, damned-to-hell bastards who murdered this old man.