Mark of the Demon (14 page)

“Oh, yes, I know.” He tilted his head. “It still amazes me that she never gets hassled for that. This is the Bible Belt, after all.”

I shrugged. “Everyone just thinks of her as a harmless eccentric.”

He nodded, absently polishing his glasses on his sleeve. “So, did Crime Scene find anything that we can work with?”

“Not yet.” I paused, then decided to take a chance. “Look, Captain, I know this is going to sound insane, but is there any way I can bring my aunt out here to take a look at the body?”

His brows lifted. “Are you kidding? Look, I know she’s an expert on the occult, but the chief would lose his mind if I brought a civilian in to look at a corpse.” He paused. “But I’ll let you show her some pictures, see if maybe you can get that symbol identified.”

I’d done that right after I got the old Symbol Man file, but of course I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“So, is there going to be a task force? I’m thinking it would be pretty nice,” I said.
Even with Mr. Personality
, I added silently.
Boudreaux and Pellini aren’t exactly falling over each other to help me out
.

A grimace flickered across his face. “I agree with you, Gillian. I think that there’s sufficient reason to form one, and I’m still pushing the issue. But the chief isn’t ready to announce that these bodies are Symbol Man victims. Bad press, you know?” He spread his hands.

I looked back at the pitiful lump on the ground. “Yeah, well, if either of these victims had been the daughter or son of an upstanding member of society, we’d have had FBI, CIA, NSA, FAA, you name it, crawling all over this place.”

“He’s picking his victims well. People no one gives a shit about.”

“No. He’s wrong,” I said, eyes narrowing. “Because I give a shit about them.”

“And that’s why you’re the lead on these cases. Because you’re a stubborn, obnoxious, tenacious bitch.” His dark eyes flashed in rarely shown humor and something that might have been approval.

I laughed. “Aw, Captain, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t let it get out. I have a reputation to maintain.” He lifted his chin toward the bleachers, where a man sat with an imposing Rottweiler on a leash. “That’s Reverend David Thomas over there. He’s the one who found the body.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll let you know what I find out.” I turned and headed to the bleachers.

The man looked up as I approached, and my first thought was that he didn’t look at all like a preacher. He was dressed in utilitarian gray sweats and worn sneakers. Then I realized that I was looking for a clerical collar but that this was a preacher, not a priest. His hair was salt-and-pepper and his face was weathered, though not heavily lined. He looked to be well on the far side of middle age, probably late fifties, perhaps early sixties, though he also looked like he was in pretty good condition, which made it hard to tell. I had known out-of-shape forty-year-olds who looked older than fit and trim octogenarians.

The dog gave a low growl as I got close. I slowed, and the preacher put his hand on the dog’s collar. Light-blue eyes lifted to mine. “I’m sorry,” he said, brows furrowed. “He’s usually very friendly.”

He smells the demon on me
was my automatic thought. Then I realized that didn’t make sense. It had been two days since I’d accidentally summoned Rhyzkahl, and I’d certainly bathed since then. I couldn’t see how his scent or
feel
would still linger on me. “That’s all right,” I said, keeping a distance of about ten feet. It wouldn’t be the first time that a dog owner had insisted a dog was perfectly safe right before it attacked. “I can stand right over here, if you could just answer a few questions for me?”

He nodded, then gave the collar a slight jerk as the dog growled again. “Easy, Butch,” he said to the dog, then he looked back up at me. “Ask away, ma’am.”

I asked the usual identification questions, quickly jotting the info down in my notebook, and was surprised to find that he was actually in his early seventies. He was the preacher at a nondenominational church in town—one with which I was familiar, though certainly not as an attendee. It was a popular church—so much so that the church hired off-duty officers to help with traffic control on Sundays. I’d worked that particular detail a couple of times when I was in desperate need of extra income.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

“I was out walking Butch this morning. I go out every morning at about five a.m., unless it’s raining.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “Fortunately it does that enough in Louisiana that I get a break every now and then.”

I echoed the smile and waited for him to continue.

“Butch started acting really strange, pulling on the leash and barking. Then he finally pulled right away from me and ran over to the ball field.” Reverend Thomas grimaced. “He was going crazy, and so I had to go get him and pull him back. I saw it was a … body, so as soon as I could drag Butch away, I tied him up here and called 911.” He patted his pocket. “Thank God I always carry my cell phone.”

“Did you see anyone else in the park while you were walking?”

“No, I’m usually by myself this early in the morning. I don’t worry about it too much, since Butch looks fairly intimidating.” He gave me an apologetic smile as the Rottweiler continued to emit a low, unnerving growl in my direction. “I really am sorry. He looks fierce, but he’s normally incredibly placid and friendly. I guess he’s unnerved by the body.”

“But you don’t seem to be,” I pointed out.

He met my eyes. “I was a POW in Vietnam. Unfortunately, I’ve seen quite a bit of what one human can do to another.”

I exhaled. “I see.” I made a note to myself to check his military record. “Do you always walk in this park?”

Reverend Thomas shook his head. “Not always. I mix it up a bit, among this one and the lakefront and some of the parks south of here. Depends on how far I feel like driving. But this one’s closest to my house, so I usually end up here at least three days a week.”

“Do you think you would notice anything unusual? Any vehicles?”

“I think I would notice,” he said. “But, unfortunately, I’m fairly positive that I saw no vehicles other than mine this morning.” He gave me another apologetic smile. “However, I think I can be of help with identifying him.” He gave a nod toward the body, an expression of pain crossing his features.

“You know him?” That would be a hell of a break.

“I … think so. I would have to take a closer look to be sure, but I think it’s a young man who was in a rehab program I used to work with.” He sighed and scrubbed at his face. “It’s so disheartening when these young people get caught up in drugs. It’s like they’re drowning, but by the time they realize that they’re in the riptide, it’s too late for them.”

I nodded in full agreement. “I know. I’ve watched people completely destroy themselves. It used to be crack, but lately it’s meth.” I closed my notebook. “Would you be willing to come take another look at this victim, to see if you know him?”

He hesitated. “Yes … yes, of course,” he said after a few seconds. He bent and made certain that the leash was well secured to the bleachers, then stood. The dog gave a soft whine and the preacher patted his head. “I’ll be right back, Butchie,” he said, then followed me as I turned and walked back toward the crime scene.

The coroner’s office personnel were just finishing placing the body in the body bag as we approached. The reverend leaned over the bag and then gave a heavy sigh. “Yes, that’s him.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Mark Janson. He used to live with his mother, but she died a couple of years ago of various health problems, and after that he just went downhill. He’d always had issues, but she managed to keep him vaguely in line. Without her guidance, he fell apart.”

I wrote the info in my notebook. “Reverend Thomas, you’ve been a huge help. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

“I appreciate everything that you and the other officers are doing.” His smile was warm and sincere. “Please don’t hesitate to call or come by the church.”

“You can count on that,” I assured him as I shook his hand. I could see why his church was so popular. Too bad his dog hated me.

I
MADE A QUICK DETOUR HOME AFTER LEAVING THE SCENE
to grab a shower and change of clothes, then raced back to the station to get started on putting my notes in order. It was nearly mid-morning by the time I made it back, and I circled the tiny lot reserved for detectives and patrol several times, looking for a space, before finally giving up and parking on the street.

The broad glass doors at the front of the station swung in at a touch, revealing a spacious lobby with the Beaulac PD emblem worked into the tile of the floor. A scattering of people sat on chairs, probably waiting for copies of police reports or for appointments with detectives. I avoided eye contact with any of them and went straight to the door that led to the offices, swiping my ID card and heading on through as soon as the lock clicked open.

I hardly ever entered through the front door, but I couldn’t see the point of walking all the way around the building to get to the back entrance that patrol officers and detectives often used. However, using the front entrance meant that I passed right by all the offices for administration and the higher-ups. Normally that was no big deal, but to my surprise I heard my name called out just as I passed by Chief Morse’s office.

I blinked and took a step backward, peering around the door frame in case I’d misheard. It was by no means common for the chief to call random passersby into his office. In fact, he hardly ever associated with the troops, and I didn’t think he even knew my name.

I was wrong. Chief Eddie Morse stood in the foyer of his office, in front of his secretary’s desk, a manila folder in his hand and a slight frown on his face as he looked at me. As usual, he was dressed impeccably, white shirt starched within an inch of its life and tucked perfectly into place, dress slacks immaculately pressed, tie in a tight double Windsor. Not a single steel-gray hair on his head was out of place. “Detective Gillian,” he repeated. “Do you have a minute?” It was asked in a tone that said that he didn’t give a shit if I had a minute or not but that I’d better make a minute.

I resisted the urge to gulp nervously and merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He jerked his head toward his office, then headed that way, clearly expecting me to follow.

I obliged and followed him, taking in the surroundings in a quick glance as he moved to the far side of the broad oak desk. The office was neat and perfectly styled, much like his person. Dark-blue carpet matched the colors in the Beaulac PD seal, which had been painted on the wall behind his desk. Books were arranged by height. Certificates and plaques on the wall were ordered in perfect harmony with one another. One shelf was devoted to trophies, and the brief glance that I was able to make told me that they were either for athletic events or firearms competitions.

The chief motioned me to sit with the folder in his hand. So I sat, trying to not appear uncertain, even though I definitely felt that way. Chief Morse never called nonranking detectives or patrol officers in. Even if someone was in serious trouble, the chief preferred to have his immediate underlings take care of ugly tasks like discipline or firings.

He leaned back in his chair while I remained sitting stiffly upright. He flipped open the folder, looked at the contents for a second, then made a “hmmf” noise and looked over at me.

“You’re working these murders,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a question at all, but I gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

His frown deepened, though I couldn’t tell if it was a frown of displeasure or of thought. This was the first time I’d spent more than five seconds in the man’s presence, so I didn’t have much experience to draw on.

“I read your initial report on the first case,” he said, voice clipped. “Same symbol on this latest one as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve read up on the previous cases?”

“Yes, sir.” I resisted the urge to fidget.

“So you’re the resident expert.” There was still no clue from his tone as to where he was going with this. He hadn’t phrased it as a question, but he was looking at me as if expecting a response.

I hesitated briefly before answering. I didn’t want to appear cocky, but I probably did know more about the case than anyone else in the department. “I don’t know if
expert
is the right word, sir,” I finally said, “but I have a strong familiarity with the case.”

Chief Morse set the folder down, expression still unreadable. “Captain Turnham says that you asked for the Symbol Man files not long ago.”

“Yes, sir. I was transferred to Violent Crimes just a few weeks ago, so I figured I’d take a look at some old case files to start getting a feel for it all.”

His lips pressed together and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk and lightly clasping his hands together. “Why the Symbol Man cases?”

“Well, sir,” I said, as I tried to gather my thoughts into something coherent, “it’s not often that any detective gets the chance to work this kind of case, or even see the details of the case. I’ve been a detective for only a couple of years—in Property Crimes—and I thought that by reviewing the files I could learn something about homicide investigations. And that’s pretty much the biggest unsolved case we have, and … Well, I’ve been interested in the case for quite some time.”