Behind him, the packages silently ticked on with the promise of death.
Every exit leading in and out of the Chateau Grand Hotel was battened down tight. Guests were not allowed to leave. Employees remained on the clock. And law enforcement interrogated every available employee and guest with a volley of questions.
Did you see anyone?
Did you hear anything?
Are there any security surveillance tapes?
Etcetera…
So far, everything was coming up blank.
In room 616, investigators from the Los Angeles Police Department took careful study as the Crime Scene Analysts combed the area for trace elements and latent prints.
When Investigators Marty Cardasian and Joey Bardaggio entered the room, it was like stepping into a black museum. Macabre patterns of blood splatter covered the walls and ceiling, and the smell of copper continued to hang in the air with the thickness of humidity. It was a difficult place to wade through as investigators made their way to the bathroom where the bloodied and clawed hand of the deceased extended over the tub’s edge.
Cardasian was tall and gangly and a husk of his former self. Twenty-five years ago when he entered the force as a rookie, he was full of the typical bravado and enthusiasm that usually accompanied someone who often romances the ideas of law enforcement by seeing himself as someone who could single handedly change the streets of a city growing decadent by the day. But over time his face had become long and jaded from partaking in too many tragedies that held the promise of more to come. And now when he walked he did so in a stoop, his body bowing in the shape of a question mark. The reality of life had hit him hard.
Bardaggio, however, learned to desensitize himself and left the pressures of life at work when he went home a night. And that is why he — and two years older than Cardasian — looked much younger with a marginally youthful appearance, lean shape, and hair that was thick and full.
When they entered the bathroom they observed the victim with mutual indifference. Within the yellowing pool of light they could see that the victim’s skin had marbled as he laid there with an eye slightly opened, as if to spy a glimpse of the path Death was taking him. And his throat, a grisly display, was in terrible ruin, the flesh surrounding the straight-lined gash paring back in a horrible grimace, as the blood within the crease glistened like black tar.
“Got two tickets to the Dodgers game for next Saturday,” said Bardaggio. “And they’re burning a hole in my pocket. Interested?”
Cardasian shook his head. “Got plans,” he said. The tall man got to a bended knee, his ligaments cracking — another testament to his aging limbs — and measured the victim with a seasoned eye. “Straight line across the throat,” he commented. “And…” He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, the type surgeons wear, the ones that fit like a membrane, and carefully positioned the victim’s head until the deceased was looking away, the rear of his neck exposed. “Take a look at this.”
A ligature mark that didn’t bite through the flesh but left a bruise was apparent.
“Strangulation,” Bardaggio remarked. “And not from a cord, either.”
Cardasian stood up. “More like a garrote.”
“A professional hit?”
“It appears that way.” The taller man removed the gloves and pocketed them, the gloves to be discarded later. “We know anything about this guy?”
Bardaggio nodded. “All we know right now is that his name is Mario Morgenessi, an Italian national whose room was billed to the Vatican account, which makes us believe he was part of the Papal Symposium. But we’re trying to verify that.”
Cardasian took a position at the doorway between the bath and hotel room, the analysts canvassing and cataloguing every piece of evidence as he watched them. For nearly two decades he had analyzed and conceived his own theories based on ‘similarity’ styles of murder. And in the case of Mario Morgenessi, such brutally often wagered in as a signature for a passion killing. The excessive gore often a telltale sign. But for someone like Morgenessi whose duty was to the pope and had no American affiliations, left Cardasian scratching his head. It definitely was not robbery. So why take the time to kill the man so viciously? “Are there any other rooms billed to the Vatican account?” he finally asked.
“Five,” said Bardaggio. “But the rooms were vacated early this morning.”
“Are you sure? Like this room was supposed to be — before the maid found Mr. Morgenessi here?”
Point made!
Bardaggio immediately forwarded a call to hotel management, asking them to allow all rooms billed to the Vatican account to be checked.
What they would find would make Cardasian’s world a little clearer, a little sicker, causing him to age a little bit older.
The pope’s limousine and trailing entourage entered a pre-designated entry point of LAX Airport that bypassed a sea of people gathering at the gates. Yet the course granted the people a marginal view of the pontiff from a cordoned-off distance.
As the limo and accompanying SUV’s quickly crossed the tarmac, the people amassed a fantastic cheer. Signs and banners waved in comprehensive support as people wept or prayed or looked upon the man with adulation. It was simply a glorification of a man who promised hope.
When the limousine curbed itself beside the mobile stairway, Pope Pius XIII exited the vehicle and raised a hand in salutation, marking the masses with a papal blessing by giving the sign-of-the-cross, which incited further applause.
Standing head and shoulders above the rest and wearing his scarlet beret and sunglasses, Kimball gently cupped the pontiff by the elbow and began to escort him toward the first step of the mobile staircase. With caution, Pope Pius XIII grabbed the railing and began his climb.
Hakam and his team watched the pope make his way to the base of the stairway and respond to the masses. From their vantage of the aircraft’s windows, every man could feel his heart palpitate against the rack of his ribs. In life they had fought in significant battles — had bled and wept over fallen comrades. And they had felt the virginal tremors of going into battle the moment they first laid their hands on a rifle. But this was different. What they felt was closure. Going into battle against insurgent forces meant they could live to fight another day. But this was conclusive. This time they were going to surrender their lives and enter Paradise. And never again spy upon the faces of loved ones.
For them this was their final journey as soldiers, but a new beginning toward martyrdom.
At that moment, Hakam closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Once Shepherd One became airborne and hit the twenty-five thousand-foot mark, then he would have all the leverage necessary to consummate the final thrust of Jihad.
It would be the start of a glorious victory, he thought. The beginning of the end.
Easing away from the window, Hakam placed a hand on the lever that would allow the door to open to the top tier of the mobile staircase. “I’m proud of you,” he told his team. “And no man could ask for a better unit than what I have in all of you. Simply acknowledge in your heart by knowing what you do will make you all blessed in the heart of Allah.” Glancing over the faces of his team he sighted their stoicism, as well as the deeply rooted fear all men possessed when knowing their lives were about to come to a violent end. “Allahu Akbar,” he finally said.
And then collectively from his unit: “Allahu Akbar.” Allah is the greatest.