In front of the church was a rusted lamppost. It was marked with an X.
Even though the hour was late, there was a small crowd of people gathering across the street. News stories of the murders happening in churches were breaking wider and wider, and now that there were three sector cars and four PPD departmental sedans in and around this small neighborhood church, the word had spread.
There was also a team from one of the TV stations.
When Jessica arrived, coffee in hand, she saw Byrne talking to Maria Caruso across the street from the church. Maria looked pale and drawn. This was understandable, seeing as it was the middle of the night. Maria Caruso would be lead detective on this case.
‘Hey,’ Jessica said.
‘Sorry to get you up and out,’ Byrne said. ‘I figured you wanted to be called.’
‘No problem,’ Jessica said, only half-meaning it. She gestured to the activity around them. ‘I take it we have another victim.’
‘Yes,’ Maria said. ‘Unfortunately we do.’
‘In the basement?’
Maria nodded. ‘Male white, sixties, DOA.’
‘ME notified?’
‘On the way.’
Jessica looked at the front of the church. It was another old neighborhood parish, a church with the capacity for maybe 200 people. ‘How did they gain entry?’
‘There’s a back door to the priest’s house. Broken window.’
‘Any blood?’
Maria shook her head. ‘None visible.’
Jessica looked at Maria. This was only her third or fourth case as a lead homicide detective, and by far the highest profile. Jessica wondered how she was holding up. She recalled her own experience as a lead detective early on. You work with other, more seasoned detectives, telling them what to do, not to mention a coterie of professionals — CSU officers, EMS personnel, lab technicians — many of whom are older, and have a great deal more experience. The potential for second guessing yourself, and making the wrong call, was always on your mind.
‘Is this our guy?’ Jessica asked.
‘This is our guy,’ Maria said.
‘Is the victim holding a missal?’ Byrne asked.
Maria swallowed hard. ‘He is.’
The investigator from the medical examiner’s office arrived with his photographer in tow. They signed the crime-scene log, entered the building. They emerged fifteen minutes later. The investigator briefed Maria Caruso, who made a few notes. They crossed the street to where Jessica and Byrne stood. It was Maria’s show, and neither Jessica nor Byrne would make a move until she said so.
‘Ready?’ Detective Maria Caruso asked.
No one was.
No one wanted to be.
They passed through the priest’s house, a two-story brick structure attached to the church proper. It was spotless, save for years of dust, and the soot that shakes loose from constant road traffic passing by. The myriad footprints in the dust were made by investigators.
And the killer and victim, Jessica thought. She scanned the floor, but CSU had not flagged any area as evidence. No blood splatter, no shell casings.
Before the entrance to the main part of the church, there was a door on the left, leading to the basement. Maria directed Jessica and Byrne. This was the crime scene.
Jessica stood at the top of the stairs, began to descend. The basement, she thought for the third time in the past few weeks.
You never get used to the basement.
This time the cellar was brightly lit, courtesy of the two field lighting units brought in by CSU. The lights were the only bright things in the space. Everything had a grim look of time and neglect. The concrete block walls were damp with condensation. There were small patches of ice.
‘The victim is in the small room to the right, next to the oil furnace,’ Maria said.
Jessica slipped on a pair of latex gloves, braced herself. She went in first. ‘Oh, God,’ she said before she could stop herself. Her stomach clenched.
On the floor, sitting against the wall, was the victim, a man in his sixties, perhaps his early seventies. He was nude, and next to him sat a pile of neatly folded clothing. Next to the clothing was a pair of running shoes, with socks balled up inside. Next to all of this was a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
Around him, on the floor, was a half-circle of small white stones.
There were no open wounds, no obvious signs of physical trauma, save for a thin trickle of blood running from the left corner of the man’s mouth, which was slightly open. One thing struck Jessica immediately, something that did not make immediate sense. The man’s throat bulged in an unnatural manner.
Jessica and Byrne did a quick look around the basement, which was three rooms; one large, two smaller. One small room held an oil furnace. The other small room had what looked to be a pile of vestments, mildewed and molded by time. In one corner leaned a pair of old wicker baskets, once used to make collections during mass, their tines thinned by mice and other vermin to use as nesting material.
The investigator from the medical examiner’s office stood by. Maria asked him if he had forceps of any kind. He ran out to his car, returned with a bag of instruments.
As Byrne angled one of the field lights closer, focusing the light on the man’s face, Maria put on a pair of latex gloves, knelt down. She gently prodded the area surrounding the man’s jawline. It seemed unnaturally solid, even though rigor had not yet set in.
Maria took two fingers and tried to open the man’s mouth. It opened with surprising ease. But even with the bright halogen lights, it was difficult to see down the victim’s throat. Maria shone her Maglite inside, took the forceps and gently removed an object. It was a white stone, oval in shape, about three inches long. It was covered in saliva and blood. Maria turned it toward the light, and they all saw that there was something written on it. Although the writing was obscured, Jessica saw that whatever was written on the stone was not English.
Maria put the stone into an evidence bag, and looked back into the victim’s mouth. There she saw two more stones of similar shape and size. Jessica had the sick feeling she knew what the cause of death had been. This man had swallowed — or, more likely, been forced to swallow — so many of these stones he had suffocated. The stones were almost identical to the ones on the floor, the half-circle that arced around the victim.
Maria handed the bag to a CSU officer. ‘Once this is processed I want it sent over to documents, along with the missal that was in his hands.’
They would want Hell Rohmer to lay eyes on these things as soon as possible. There was no one better with the written word.
‘Tell him I want to know what language is written on that stone, and what it means,’ Maria added.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And I want it last year.’
‘You got it.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
There is no rest for the righteous or the wicked.
How could there be?
When the devil attempted to make his throne high above the clouds he was cast from heaven, only to find a more hospitable place to ply his craft. It was on that day the end was foretold.
They stand on the corner, two among the crowd, watching. The third church is now written. Pergamos.
‘Do you know what his name means in Latin?’ she asks. It is an old game, one of which neither of them has grown weary.
‘Yes. It means “bearer of light.”’
‘Very good.’