Raven scribbled a note, then focused on the sign pinned to the dead man's shirt. The words were printed in ink. Safety pins fastened the scrolled message.
Seek the truth, Christian!
"No respect for the church, but what do you make of the sign?" she countered. "Religious fanatic?"
"Could be." Her partner sighed. "Zealots are the worst to figure. Maybe digging into the vic's background will tell us something."
Looking over her shoulder to the priest sitting in a pew three rows back, she asked, "We got a witness?" Even from this distance, she saw the man shaking, his eyes avoiding the gruesome sight of the body being lowered.
"No. No such luck. That'd be way too easy," Tony replied, a look of compassion on his face. "That's Father Antonio. He found our DB and called in the nine-one-one. No sign of forced entry. The chapel is usually open at this hour."
Lowering his voice, he added, "The good father is pretty shook up. Once we get the body bagged and off the premises, we'll talk to him. See if he remembers anything new."
She studied the priest. Short, dark hair framed a full face with childlike eyes. Yet after what he'd seen tonight, she felt certain he'd be irreparably marred by his experience. When she started to turn away, he caught her eye for an instant. Raven understood the pain conveyed in that look. She wanted to smile, but couldn't bring herself to do it. A slow nod was all she managed, but it had an impact. The priest returned her gesture, then closed his eyes briefly before sinking into the pew.
"Easy now. Lay him down easy," Tony directed.
With the cross and body lying flat on the floor, a CSI team member snapped countless photos. Raven felt like an interloper into the dead man's final moments. The horrified expression on his face was frozen in time, immortalized as evidence by the camera.
Raven scrutinized the body and noticed something peculiar. "Where's his coat? On a night like this, he should've had a coat." Tilting her head, she tried to get a better look. "And his tie is missing. Expensive suit like that would have a tie."
"Good eye, Mackenzie." Tony nodded. "And the slice and dice with a knife might make it personal."
Once the cameraman left, Raven stepped closer to the body and directed her question to Farrell. "Shouldn't there be more blood? I mean, a wound like that?" Kneeling, she stared dispassionately into the mutilated face of the victim. Her training helped to obscure the horror, but she knew this would be one more image to keep her up nights. "There's no arterial spray, either."
"We'll know more after the autopsy, but yeah, it looks like this isn't the kill site. There'd be more splatter in the church if the cut were made here. And check this out, fresh drain over dried." Scott knelt by her, holding a pencil in his gloved hand. He pointed to the dried stains on the man's suit. "The minimal pooling we see at the base of the cross was probably only made when the body was first hoisted up. What little blood was left at that point. That'd be my guess for now. With the temp in the room, won't have anything definitive on time of death until the ME does the postmortem. But my best guess at this point is two to three hours."
Her partner narrowed his eyes and stared at the face of the dead man, pointing a gloved finger at his temple. "What's this? Looks like some kind of bruise."
The CSI man leaned closer. "'Bout the size of a nickel." Pulling back the shirt collar of the victim, he pointed out, "Looks like there's another contusion here, on his neck. Not prepared to give you an answer on that one. We'll know more from the ME."
"And what's that smell?" Tony asked, sniffing the air near the vic's face and clothes. "Something medicinal or chemical?"
Raven closed her eyes and inhaled, sensing the first thing out of order. "Alcohol. I smell rubbing alcohol." With another whiff, she added, "It's all over his suit."
"I'll run an analysis on that, skin and clothes," the CSI man offered. He gave direction to one of his techs. "No sign of defensive wounds, but let's get those hands bagged. We may get some trace under his nails."
"Robbery's not the motive. Check out his Rolex." Feeling for the man's wallet, Tony found it tucked in his breast pocket. "And he's still got his money and credit cards, but no gun in his holster. Guy might've used it, though." Directing his next comment to the CSI man, he asked, "What about gunshot residue? We'd better check for GSR on his hands. See if he fired it recently."
With the dead man's jacket open, her partner found an ID badge with photo clipped to his belt. "Our vic is Mickey Blair." Concern registered on his face when he looked at Raven. "And it looks like things just got more complicated."
Tony held the badge for her to see, and Raven sighed. "Well, how'd we get so lucky? We'd better let the chief know."
"Let me know what?" The booming voice of Chief Sanford Markham echoed down the aisle. With the press out front, the man never failed to take full advantage of a good photo op.
The tall, elegant black man walked toward them, dressed in a tux with a long wool coat and scarf buffeting in his wake. Raven always suspected the man had been born on Krypton, a distant relation to Superman with his x-ray vision and supernatural hearing. And now it would appear Chief Markham had a life outside the office, something she couldn't claim. In reflex, she stood at attention when he neared.
Tony had been slower to react, but quicker on his reply. "The man worked for Dunhill Corporation as security. Nothing like a high-profile murder investigation." '
"This man might only be a foot soldier. Maybe it doesn't have to be high profile," Chief Markham contended, his eyes taking in every detail of the scene. "In fact, I insist on it. This type of case can get ugly fast. I want low profile with every i dotted and every t crossed."
"Everything by the book, yes, sir," Tony replied, with a glance toward Raven. "Like always."
"Not just 'by the book,' Detective. I know Fiona Dunhill. She can be a tough woman if she chooses to be, and politically well-connected."
"What are you suggesting, sir?" Tony's body stiffened.
"I'm not suggesting anything except to get the job done quickly, and with a little finesse, Detective Rodriguez. Make sure you cooperate with Mrs. Dunhill to the extent possible, without compromising the case. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir. Crystal." Tony waited for the man to turn and head toward the exit before he muttered, "Clear as mud."
"I heard that." Without missing a step, Chief Markham lifted his hand and shook a finger in admonishment. He kept walking, but bellowed over his shoulder, "And can you two dress a little more professionally when you talk to Fiona Dunhill? Quit taking fashion tips from Vice and Narcotics."
Raven's jaw dropped. She glared at the back of the chief's head as he left the chapel. Very uncharacteristic for a murder scene, a low rumble of laughter echoed through the room. It ended when she tried to catch the offenders. Even Father Antonio had been distracted enough to break his solemn expression with a faltering smile.
Tony only shrugged, checking out her attire. "Personally? I've always liked your taste in sweatshirts." With a grin, he tugged at the brim of her cap. "And your Cubs cap is way cool. A sure sign of a bleeding heart, always rooting for the underdog."
Her father's Cubs ball cap and her family home, a small bungalow on the fringes of the northern suburbs near Lincolnwood, northwest of Wrigley Field, had been part of her inheritance. Sergeant John Mackenzie had died in the line of duty fifteen years ago when she was nearly seventeen. With her mother dead just after her birth, she'd been practically raised by the Central Station House, without a female influence in her life. Coming from a long line of police officers, Raven had little choice but to pursue law enforcement as a career. It was a connection to her father—a bond they shared that transcended his death.