The questions swirled around Lee's mind as he worked his way through the room, taking note of everything he saw. A suitcase of clothes lay open on the bed. He looked through the clothes, all neatly packed-underwear, socks, shirts, enough for three days. Another puzzle. Why take clothes for three days if you planned to kill yourself the night you arrived?
A musty, sweet odor hung in the air. It smelled familiar, but he couldn't place it.
He went over to the body to examine it more closely. Samuel was fully dressed, in black slacks and a pressed white shirt, with conservative oxfords and argyle socks. Why hang yourself wearing shoes? He tried to think of seeing any photos when he was enrolled at John Jay of people wearing shoes when they hanged themselves, but couldn't think of any.
He examined the footstool that lay beneath the body. When he stood it up, it was not tall enough to reach Samuel's feet. Lee felt a surge of adrenaline through his veins. Samuel could have looped the rope through the rafters without the help of the stool, but if he had hanged himself standing on the stool, it would have to be at least tall enough to reach his feet.
There was no doubt in Lee's mind now that this was a staged crime scene. Someone had killed Samuel and then tried hard to make it look like a suicide-but not hard enough. The details didn't add up. Either the murderer lacked knowledge of forensics, or he was in a hurry.
Lee went over to the suitcase full of clothing. Perhaps it held a clue, something to help identify the murderer. He searched the clothes, but found nothing helpful. Seeing the hotel phone on the bedside table, he punched the Speaker Phone button, and, on an impulse, hit the Redial button.
The musical pattern of the numbers was so familiar to him that he didn't even have to wait for the voice mail to pick up. In an instant, everything became horrifyingly clear to him. In a flash, he saw every misread clue, every wrong turn in the road, every false lead. He knew now what the musty, sweet scent in the air was.
His hand trembling, he put the receiver back in its cradle.
Depression began to tug at him, seeping into his stomach like poison, threatening to spread upward, turning his limbs to stone as surely as if he had seen Medusa herself.
"No!" he muttered through clenched teeth, fighting it off with all his might. "Not this time you don't!"
He took a last look around the room. There was nothing more he could do for poor Samuel. He would leave the crime scene untouched for the local police to ponder.
He had to go, now-before it was too late.
Chapter Sixty-four
Dr. Azarian's house was not hard to find. A handsome Edwardian brick structure in an affluent neighborhood, it stood at the end of a short stone walkway. The front gate was open, and Lee went through it and up to the front door. The house was dark, though, and the blinds were drawn. He stood on the front stoop and peered inside. There was no sign of life-no sound, no movement. He walked around the house and looked in all of the windows. He found no sign of forced entry, no indication that anyone was inside. He glanced at his watch. It was only five o'clock, and the Vidocq Society meeting would not start for several hours yet. Kathy and her father could be anywhere.
He had an idea. Forcing himself to breathe against the rising panic in his chest, he turned from the door and stumbled out into the street. A little old lady bundled up in a blue woolen coat was pushing a shopping cart loaded with groceries down the street.
"Excuse me!" He was afraid his voice came out too high, too urgent. Not wanting to alarm her, he kept his distance several feet away.
The woman looked up, startled, her body already tightening in response, her eyes apprehensive.
"Excuse me," he repeated more softly, "do you know where the nearest Catholic church is?"
That seemed to relax her a bit, but her eyes were still wary. She wore garish blue eye shadow, and black mascara was caked thickly on her lashes, giving the impression of a wrinkled, wizened Kewpie doll. Then her face spread into a smile, and she lifted one gloved hand from the handle of her shopping cart and gestured north along the street.
"There's one just four blocks up," she said. Her voice was thin, like a shredded nylon cord. "I prefer St. Michael's, of course," she continued, her tone conspiratorial. "Father Paul is very young, you know, but he gives a wonderful sermon."
But Lee was already running in the direction she had indicated.
"Thank you," he called over his shoulder.
By the time he reached the church he was out of breath, more from fear than exertion.
The church was a heavy, neo-Gothic monstrosity, built during an era when labor was cheap and building materials plentiful. The main chapel loomed over the street, and various gray stone outbuildings sprawled from beneath its buttresses like chicks under the wings of a great stone brooding hen. A clunky sign, made out of the same gray masonry, sat on a little square of grass outside the church.
Welcome to St. Mary's Come Worship With Us And Celebrate the Glory of God
Lee dashed up the shallow front steps, but the heavy wooden front doors were locked. He raced around to the side of the church, where a single door faced the side street. When he turned the brass handle, the latch clicked, and the door opened inward.
He pushed open the heavy oak door. It was dark and quiet inside, the only light coming from flickering votive candles along the far side of the chapel. A deep animal instinct warned Lee that he was in danger, but his feelings for Kathy propelled him forward.
He crept forward into the semidarkness of the chapel. The air was heavy with bayberry incense. He felt his breathing thicken, and tried to clear his throat without making any sound. He thought he heard a scurrying sound at the back of the church, and he froze, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.
He took a few steps toward the noise, and a strange sensation crept from his fingertips up his forearms, as if ants were running up his arms. He shivered and took a few steps toward the choir loft, the burnished mahogany pews glimmering in the dim light.
As he rounded the corner of the pews, he heard a rustling sound over his right shoulder. He wheeled toward it, but too late. A flash of light blinded him; then a heavy object crashed down on the back of his head. He felt himself falling, and then the blackness closed in around him, cradling him in its dark embrace.
He awoke with the feeling that he was floating above the ground, but as his body regained sensation he realized that he was tied to the heavy wooden cross above the altar. He struggled to move, but he was bound firmly. His arms ached, and his head throbbed. Kathy was stretched out over the altar, and a dark figure in a black robe was bent over her. She was wearing a long white dress. He recognized it as a choir robe.
"Stop it!" Lee cried out as loudly as he could to the figure bending over her. "Leave her alone!"
The man looked up, and Lee saw the face of his mentor and surrogate father, John Paul Nelson.
Nelson smiled up at him. "Nice touch, the robes, don't you think? I found them hanging in the vestibule."
Lee looked down at his mentor through bleary eyes. "Please, don't. I–I understand you."
"Oh, please! No one 'understands' me!"
"No, you're wrong-I do, I swear it."
"Nice try, Lee." Nelson's voice was harsh, the vowels twisted into diphthongs, consonants sharp as the prongs of a garden rake.
Lee pulled on the ropes binding him, trying to wrest free.
"Why did you have to ignore me?" Nelson said. "I begged you-begged you-not to take on this case! I tried to protect you. Even all that rubbish about your sister-that was to throw you off-but you just had to persist, didn't you? My God, I never wanted it to come to this!"