A shark. A killing machine. A creature with an insatiable appetite.
In Taft’s case, an appetite for killing.
“He scared the shit out of me.” Bill paused for a moment to light another cigarette. “I never told anybody that before. But it’s true.”
The hair on the back of Rick’s neck prickled. “What about an accomplice? Anything ever suggest he may not have worked alone?”
The detective narrowed his eyes, though whether with thought or against the smoke curling up from the tip of his Camel, Rick didn’t know. “He could have had an accomplice, though nothing in the evidence supported that. Taft always maintained he had a spiritual adviser who offered divine help.”
“Any connection to football or the Miami Dolphins?”
“Not that I know of. He may have been a fan.”
“He go to college?”
“Did a semester at Florida State in Tallahassee. It didn’t last. Flunked out.”
Rick’s heartbeat accelerated. “What year?”
“I’d have to check.”
“I’d appreciate it.” He cleared his throat. “Any markings on Taft or his victims?”
“What kind of marks?”
“Tattoos. Maybe of a strange-looking flower. Like a horned flower?”
Bill shook his head, and Rick shuffled the papers, digesting all that his friend had told him. “As far as you know, were any of Taft’s victims pregnant?”
The other man’s expression altered subtly. “Why do you ask?”
“One of our victims was. The bastard took the fetus.”
“Shit.” Bill took a long drag on his smoke. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Two of ’em. One six months along.”
“Did he-”
“Yeah, he did. Sick prick.”
Silence fell between them. Rick pulled a picture of Taft out of the file. The killer stared out at him, movie-star handsome. “I didn’t remember that he was so good-looking.”
The other man smiled without humor. “Evil takes many forms, my man. And if you’re dealing with anyone associated with Taft, I suggest you don’t forget that.”
CHAPTER 43
Tuesday, November 20
3:30 p.m.
The main branch of the Miami-Dade library was housed in the Cultural Arts Center in downtown Miami. The coral-faced and stained stucco building all but screamed fun-in-the-sun, and Liz suddenly realized that St. Louis was going to seem awfully tepid after the fanciful pinks, corals and palm trees of south Florida.
The second floor housed microfilm issues of all the local newspapers, including the Miami Herald. Gavin Taft had been headline news starting in 1998. A look at the microfilm index revealed a wealth of articles on both Gavin Taft and the New Testament Murders.
Armed with a legal tablet, pen and plenty of money to pay for copies, Liz began with the oldest article and moved forward in time. She took a few notes, but for the most part learned nothing new. The first victim had been found in June of 1987. Between then and October of 1998, eleven other women were murdered. All had been killed the same way.
No connection between the women had been found.
A stupid mistake had led to Taft’s capture. During a routine traffic stop for a burned out taillight, the officer thought he recognized the stains on Taft’s hands and arms as blood. A thorough search of the vehicle had revealed more blood and a knife. Unbeknownst to the officer, he had caught Gavin Taft on his way home from his most recent slaughter-Jennifer Reed, a twenty-two-year-old coed and the last New Testament Murder victim.
End of story until Tara turned up dead on Key West ten days ago.
Disappointed, Liz stared at the microfiche screen. She had hoped she would see a connection between the victims that no one else had. She had fantasized finding a mention of a tattoo, one of a strange horned flower.
As she moved to flip off the machine, an article at the bottom of the displayed page caught her eye.
Satanists Believed Responsible for Death of Livestock.
The story came from nearby Homestead. It detailed a rash of livestock killings-the animals had been found with their throats slit. Images associated with satanism had been drawn on fence posts and the sides of farm buildings. Pentagrams. Horned goats. An inverted cross.
A horned goat.
The Horned Flower.
Heart pounding, Liz altered her search from Gavin Taft to satanism.
CHAPTER 44
Tuesday, November 20
5:00 p.m.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Liz jumped and gasped, a hand going to her throat. She swung in her seat to find Rick standing behind her, expression amused.
She scowled at him. “You scared the life out of me!”
“I see that.” He bent and kissed her, then pulled out a chair and sat. “Sorry.”
She rubbed her arms. No wonder he’d frightened her, considering the things she had read in the past hour. She might never not be frightened again.
“What’s so interesting?” He tipped one of the books up so he could read the title. The Devil’s Hour. He looked at her, eyebrow cocked in question.
Rick wasn’t going to take what she had to say well. Considering the brevity of their relationship, she shouldn’t know him well enough to predict that, but she did. He would be resistant to anything that fell outside the typical law-and-order scenario of bad guy is busted by good guy-nice, neat and explainable.
A cult that worshiped Satan and murdered its wayward members and all others who might expose them fell way outside of that.
Liz changed the subject and forced a weak smile. “How’d it go with your friend?”
“Good. Seems Taft spent a semester at Florida State.”
“That’s where Pastor Tim went to school.”
“Yup. Bill’s checking the date for me.” Rick caught her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “He told me something I’d never heard before. Said Taft always claimed to have a divine mentor. A spiritual adviser.”
She frowned. “And?”
“Think about it, Liz. A spiritual adviser. Who in society is recognized as-”
“A pastor,” she murmured, excited. “Of course.”
“This might all be nothing but a coincidence. But if it turns out that Gavin Taft and Tim went to school together, I’ll feel a lot more confident that what we found is solid enough to go to Val with.”
“We have, I’m certain of it.” She drew a deep breath. “They’re satanists, Rick. The members of the Horned Flower are satanists.”
He gazed blankly at her a moment, then laughed. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.” She tightened her fingers over his. “When I was looking for stuff on Taft, I found this article. Here.” She slid the copy she had made out from under a pile of books and handed it to him.
He read the article then handed it back. “I saw stuff like this when I worked on the Miami-Dade force. What about it?”
“The horned goat, the horned flower. See the connection?”
He shook his head. “You’re making a pretty big leap there, Liz. My feeling is the Horned Flower is a sexual image, the group some sort of sex club. Think about it. The flower is a symbol for the female genitalia, the horn for a man’s.”
He had a point, but she knew she was right about this. She had to convince him. “Just listen to me, please. Satanists aren’t as rare as you might think. They’re not just the stuff of Hollywood. Research suggests there are more than a hundred thousand practicing satanists in the United States alone. And that figure doesn’t include self-styled satanists who aren’t part of a coven or those simply dabbling in the black arts. Research also supports that satanists’ belief in the power of darkness predisposes them to acts of lawlessness and violence.
“According to my research, law enforcement has learned to repress any satanic elements of a crime because they don’t play well in court or with juries. The defense calls it supernatural mumbo jumbo and the real evidence is discredited by association. So, they make their case without mention of black candles, altars, gutted animals or pentagrams. Can you tell me you didn’t do the same when you were with the Miami-Dade force?”