They headed back to the Roundhouse in silence. The investigations that comprised the task force — including detectives, CSU officers and laboratory technicians, working around the clock — probably involved close to one hundred people. Jessica thought about how one deranged person, one person with a deep and disturbing pathology, could manage to stay one step ahead of the collective wisdom and experience of so many people.
In the parking lot at Eighth and Race Jessica’s cell phone rang. It was Hell Rohmer.
‘Hell, I’m going to put you on speaker,’ Jessica said.
‘Who am I on with?’
‘Just me and Detective Byrne.’
‘I have a break on that stone,’ Hell said. ‘The writing on it anyway.’
‘What do we have?’
‘Well, it took awhile — long for me, anyway — but the writing is Greek. It’s not particularly well written.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t mean contextually. It’s only the one word, after all. What I mean is that, at this size, with the tool that was used, it’s not all that clear.’
‘Do we know what kind of tool?’
‘Not exactly. If there was trace evidence left by the tool, it was washed away with blood and saliva. Firearms are getting it back in a minute.’
The Firearms Unit, also located at the lab, handled evidence related to tools and tool marks.
‘Anyway, because the characters were so primitively cut into the stone, it seemed like it matched a number of different words.’
Hell stopped. Jessica figured he was going through his notes. When he didn’t continue, she realized he just wanted some sort of overture to his findings.
‘And what does the word say, Hell?’ she asked.
‘It’s a name. Ignatios.’
‘Could you spell that?’ Jessica asked.
Hell did. ‘It’s Greek for Ignatius.’
‘Do you know anything else about it?’
‘Well, I can tell you that he was born in 1491 at the castle of Loyola, and died in Rome in 1556, and that — ’
‘No, Hell,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m asking if there is — ’
‘There is,’ Hell said. ‘It’s not really a church, but rather a chapel. Used to be a chapel.’
‘It’s closed?’
‘It is. A couple of years now. Ever since they tore that old hospital down.’
Jessica heard her phone beep.
‘I just texted you the address.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You got it,’ Hell replied. ‘I hope the good guys get there first.’
The good guys did not.
THIRTY-NINE
Jessica and Byrne stood at the foot of the mattress. Next to them stood Maria Caruso and Josh Bontrager. The sight before them was horrific beyond imagining.
The dead woman was white, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. She was naked, except for a cloth that covered her eyes.
The old mattress beneath her body was soaked with blood. The woman’s throat had been slashed. No, slashed was too kind a word, Jessica thought. Her throat had been savaged. The action had left the muscles in the woman’s face in a rictus of terror.
‘Detectives?’
It was a CSU officer in the small room off the main section of the basement. The four detectives walked across the room. The first thing Jessica noticed as she got closer were the dozen or so small yellow cones on the floor, placed there by crime scene officers, noting where blood evidence had been dropped. The drops led to the old stone archway.
Jessica stepped in first. There was something on the floor. When she knelt down to get a closer look, she realized what it was. Bile rose in her throat.
It was the woman’s tongue. The killer had cut out the woman’s tongue, and pulled it from her throat.
Jessica looked overhead, and saw the rusted iron pipe coming through the floor. They were below the sacristy.
Look to the sacrarium.
While the CSU began to process the basement, Jessica walked the first floor, made some rough measurements. Josh Bontrager drew the sketch. He would be the lead investigator on this case.
Four churches. Four brutal murders. No suspects.
Jessica knew this case would be folded into the task force, just as she knew that status reports on these murders had already reached the inspector level, most likely the commissioner.
She also had the feeling that whatever overtime money was needed to put the rest of the shuttered churches in Philadelphia County under twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance would now be appropriated.
By early afternoon they learned that, unlike the other cases, they already had an ID on the victim. A car parked directly in front of the chapel was registered to a woman named Michelle A. Calvin. A PCIC check provided a photo ID, and showed that a few years earlier Michelle Calvin had been arrested in a prostitution sting, and as a result served four months in jail. The search also yielded the woman’s current employer, Rudolph Realty. Josh Bontrager put in a call and spoke to the owner of the victim’s firm, Raymond Rudolph, who agreed to come down to the crime scene to talk to investigators.
As Jessica and Byrne emerged from the church, they saw Rudolph standing next to one of the sector cars, talking to Bontrager. Rudolph was clearly shaken. In his late thirties, standing five-eight or so, Rudolph was dressed conservatively in a black trench coat, white shirt, maroon club tie. He turned a BlackBerry over and over in his gloved hands.
Introductions were made.
‘You were her boss?’ Bontrager asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was.’
‘Do you know what brought her here today?’
‘She had an appointment with a buyer.’
‘This property is for sale?’
Rudolph nodded. ‘It’s been on the market for a long time.’
‘What do you know about the buyer?’
Rudolph reached into his pocket, brought out a printout of an email. ‘Michelle was here to meet a woman named Mara Reuben.’
Jessica looked at Byrne. Mara Reuben. The woman Jessica had talked to across from St Adelaide’s. The phantom who was not on the video recording.
‘Did you ever meet this woman?’ Bontrager asked.
‘No,’ Rudolph said. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Do you know if this woman ever called Ms Calvin, ever left a voicemail?’
‘I don’t know, but I can check.’
‘We’d appreciate that,’ Bontrager said. ‘Also, do you know if the woman ever visited your office? If, perhaps, someone else there has ever met her?’
‘I don’t believe so. Again, I’ll ask. But keep in mind we’re a small office. There are only five of us.’ The expression on Rudolph’s face said that it suddenly occurred to him that there were now only four.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a problem with Ms Calvin?’ Bontrager asked. ‘Any deal that might have turned sour?’
Jessica knew that Josh knew that this murder was part of an ongoing ritual, not a personal vendetta, but it was a question that had to be asked.
Rudolph shook his head. ‘Not really.’
They gave the man a moment to clarify his answer. He did not.
‘Is that a no or a maybe?’ Bontrager asked.
The man looked up, clearly conflicted about something. ‘Look, it’s not really my business what a person does, or what they used to do. I know Michelle had some … difficulties in life before she came to work for us. But she was bright and smart and, by all accounts, had turned her life around. I was happy to work with her, and happy to have known her. God judges, detective. Not man.’
Rudolph began to mist up. He turned away. Bontrager gave him time.
Jessica figured the man was talking about Michelle Calvin’s arrest and conviction for prostitution, but maybe there was more to it than that. Maybe there was much more.
Because of the ever-widening scope of these related murders, everything was passing through the commanders of the various units. On scene now was the day work commander of the Crime Scene Unit. Sergeant Terry O’Neal was a veteran in his fifties, a jovial father of six, but heart-attack serious about his job. He had worked as a patrol officer when Byrne was coming up, and the two men had a long relationship.