The Second Coming (12 page)

“What the fuck?” was all that Mike could manage to say.

The chapel was calmly quiet except for the murmurs and echo of distant sobbing from somewhere in the halls of the mortuary. It was something
most people would never have to witness, but those who did were changed forever. It took away your innocence and hardened your soul.

“Why is this guy leaving their bodies in churches?” Big Pete asked quietly.

Mike stepped around the outside of the crime scene, examining the tile floor and altar.

“How is it that there isn’t so much as a drop of blood beneath her?”

“Maybe he didn’t kill her here,” Big Pete hypothesized.

“You would still think there would be at least a drop.”

Mike made a concerted effort not to look up at her. He knew it was ridiculous to think that a dead person could be offended, but he knew that he wouldn’t want people looking at him or even worse, his daughter. Out of respect for her parents, he would do his best not to sneak a peek. He wanted to maintain some semblance of dignity when he told her parents that their little girl had been savagely murdered.

Where was the symbol smeared in her blood? It had to be there somewhere. He checked the surrounding walls and they were clean. To the left of the altar, back against the beige stucco wall, was a small brown door with a dull brass knob. He walked over and opened the squeaky door. It was dark in the stairwell as he felt along the spackled wall for a light switch. He clicked it on. The steps were narrow and worn.

“What is it?” Big Pete asked.

“Stairs. I’m going up.”

At the top of the stairs there was a balcony with a plaster railing and two pillars that Vicky’s wrists were bound to. And then he saw, with a mix of disappointment and relief, the symbol smeared in blood on one of the pillars. It was all the confirmation he needed. The killer was the same sick bastard.

Mike glared at the symbol trying to decipher it. He had done research on symbols, but was unable to find one that resembled this one. Did the number 6 represent the number of the beast or maybe it was the number of victims he was going to kill? What about the lines in the loop of the number? Were they an upside down piece sign or did they represent something else?
Come on Mike. What is he trying to tell us?

“What’d you find?” Big Pete asked as he walked up the stairs. Mike waited for Big Pete to see it himself. “Son of a bitch,” he said with unnerving realization. “It’s his calling card.”

Mike nodded. “That and the sterling silver knife.”

Both men were inspecting the balcony when the clank of the front door broke their concentration. They headed down the stairs. They had seen all they needed to see.

When they got to the bottom, Scotty was haphazardly bounding down the aisle dressed in infection control apparel like a surgeon, carrying what looked like a large tool box. Another technician was behind him carrying a long-lens camera.

“Well if it isn’t Tubbs and Crocket,” Scotty cackled.

Mike looked at Big Pete with an appreciative grin as Big Pete shook his head with tolerating disbelief.

“You should eat your lunch Spicholi, not smoke it,” Mike quipped.

“Good one Sonny,” Scotty replied as he looked up at the hollow corpse. “Jesus Christ. He gutted this one like a fish,” he said with a hint of morbid admiration. “Speaking of fish, doesn’t she look like a mermaid on the bow a pirate ship?”

“Come on man,” Big Pete replied. “Have a little respect for the dead.”

Scotty shot Big Pete a confounded look. “You deal with it your way; I’ll deal with it my way.”

“Easy ladies,” Mike said. “We’ve all got our jobs to do. Let’s keep our focus.”

Scotty introduced the other lab technician who set up his tripod and was now focusing in on the body like a rare flower.

“Do me a favor Scotty,” Mike pleaded. “Find something for us this time. Anything.”

chapter
22

W
HEN
F
ATHER
J
OHN
woke hours later, he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling contemplating what his dreams meant and why he was having them and by the end of the day he was overwhelmed with shame and fear. Shame for being so weak in spirit to allow this to happen again and fear for what it meant and what was going to happen next. Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this?

He wanted to talk with someone and he thought about seeking the abbot’s council, but he was reluctant to admit what he was doing in his dreams, especially the fact that there was a part of him that enjoyed the allure of power despite how much he tried not to. That was the hardest part for him to accept.

He decided he would tell Abbot Paul about his dreams, but would not tell him that he was the one committing the crimes.

Abbot Paul’s shoulders were hunched and he shuffled his feet like he was carrying a burden that he wished someone would lift from his back. He had been with the abbey for over 20 years and had risen all the way through the ranks. He was a gentle and understanding man that was considered fair, but firm.

They sat on wood Adirondack chairs in the open terrace outside of what used to be Leland Stanford’s brick wine cellar, sipping brandy made in the abbey’s winery as they looked out at the acres of vineyards. It was a heavy, hot night with not even a wisp of a breeze. Both men sat in silent contemplation enjoying the brilliant display of stars as they waited for the other to break the silence, when finally the abbot spoke.

“Is everything alright John? We missed you at the daily prayers again today. That is the second time this month.”

Father John paused and looked down at the grass beneath his sandaled feet. “I’ve been having dreams again,” he said wearily.

“Ah yes. Dreams of divine intervention. I was hoping that one day you would share one with me.”

Father John shifted uncomfortably as he gazed at his glass trying to figure how to tell the abbot without disappointing him. “Unfortunately these were not dreams of divine intervention. These dreams were different.”

The abbot looked at him with a wrinkled forehead of confusion. “How were they different?”

“Instead of dreaming about saving people, I’ve been dreaming about people, women, who are being raped and murdered,” he said hesitantly as he watched the abbot with squinted eyes.

The abbot’s face contorted inward. “I don’t understand. Who is raping and killing the women in your dreams?”

Father John cleared his throat and took a sip of his brandy. “In my dreams, I see the rapes and murders through the eyes of the killer. It’s like I’m in someone else’s head and I can hear what they are thinking and feel. I try to stop the killer, but I am helpless against his will.” Father John felt relief with his explanation. Why didn’t he think of this before? It couldn’t have been him that was doing these terrible things to the young women. It was the only explanation that made sense. The question now was, why was this happening to him?

The abbot paused and reflected intently. “Could it be that it is you who is committing these crimes in your dreams and the voice that you hear in your head is
your
conscious?”

“At first that is what I thought, but now I don’t think so. I think I am meant to be there to try and stop the killer, but I don’t know how or why?”

“Do you think these crimes are just dreams or do you think they are happening in real life like your dreams of divine intervention?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been afraid to look. I was hoping that it wouldn’t happen again. I suppose we should go on the internet and search to see if there have been any murders that match my dreams.”

“Why didn’t you mention this to me before?” The abbot asked with an upset tone as he wearily stood up. “I believe you are right and that you
are there to protect the innocent. God did not endow you with the power of divine intervention only to turn it against you. There may be some other evil force at play here. First we must find out if the dreams are happening in real life and if they are, we can try to figure out why they are happening. In the morning we can use the computer in the administration office to see if we can find a match to your dreams.”

chapter
23

B
IG
P
ETE AND
Mike sullenly walked through the doors of The Precinct over to the corner of the bar and perched themselves atop of their stools, hunched over with their forearms resting on the bar. They were both emotionally drained. There were a couple of guys and a girl sitting at the other end of the bar carrying-on and a couple of guys playing pool. Alice in Chains was melodically strumming over the jukebox drowning out the crack of the cue ball.

As he sat on his lopsided stool, staring at the hairy knuckles of his interlocked fingers, Mike could have fallen asleep except for the fact that he couldn’t get the image of Vicky’s carcass, hanging defiled in the sanctuary, out of his mind. There were only two things that would make it go away; alcohol and catching the killer. At the present, alcohol was the only option.

“Jesus Christ!” George said as he approached them from the other side of the bar. “What the hell happened to you guys?”

Big Pete and Mike slowly raised their heads and looked at George blankly. “They found another body,” Big Pete replied solemnly.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with a tilt of his silver-haired head. “Let me get you something to drink.” He filled a glass with ice and poured it full of Gin and then laid two onions on a toothpick across the top of it and placed it in front of Mike. He then opened a fridge door, grabbed two green bottles of beer and snapped the tops off with a bottle opener, placing one in front of Big Pete and raising the other to offer a toast. “To the dearly departed and to the family and friends they left behind. May God bless them all,” he said as if he had said it a hundred times before. They all touched glasses and took mouthfuls from their drinks. “There’s nothing you
could have done. There was no way to know if and when this guy was going to strike again.”

Mike set his glass down with disgust. “It doesn’t help anything. Someone still lost their little girl because we didn’t do our job and someone else is going to lose their daughter if we don’t catch this sick fuck soon.”

George looked at Mike disappointed. “Someone lost their life because there is a homicidal killer on the loose. Don’t let this discourage you. You need to just keep chopping wood.”

George was right. He was a cop himself back in the day and Mike and Big Pete always respected his opinion, but it didn’t change anything. They still had nothing to go on.

“What do the two crime scenes have in common?” George asked encouragingly.

“Both victims were attractive young blondes in their twenties and were raped and stabbed in the heart with a sterling silver knife shaped like a cross and then gutted like wild game,” Mike replied as he stared blankly at his drink and then took a hard sip.

“Did he leave any evidence or clues?” George asked with piercing eyes.

“He left a symbol smeared in the victims’ blood at both crime scenes,” Mike said as the image of the diagram in the loop of the number 6 flashed in his mind. He paused reflecting on the symbol. He was sure the killer was leaving them a clue and challenging them to decipher it. Mike reached over the bar and grabbed a cocktail napkin from a stack. “Can I borrow your pen George?”

George pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and Mike began to draw a replica of the symbol from memory as Big Pete and George watched with interest.

“After the first murder, I did a lot of research on symbols and the occult, but I can’t find anything like this one,” he told George as he slid the drawing across the bar.

George removed his wire rimmed glasses from his front pocket and placed them on his red, bulbous nose as he examined Mike’s sketch. After carefully reviewing the symbol, he removed his glasses and slipped them back into his pocket and looked at Mike bewildered. “I’ve never seen it before, but he’s trying to tell you something. We need to figure out what it means.”

“I wish I could,” Mike replied dejectedly. “I’ve looked everywhere.”