Violence of the Father (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (2 page)

A
fter questioning
Mary’s father and her manager (who was at his eight-year-old’s birthday party where several parents could corroborate his alibi) this morning, all we have left is Mary’s music producer, Asher Gleaner. Since we couldn’t get ahold of him through his home phone or his cell phone, Tobias and I called the NYPD to have them check if he’s at his New York apartment. They found him snorting cocaine off of his multitrack recorder.

Needless to say, that’s how we ended up talking to him through a video call on Tobias’s computer while he sits in the NYPD police station looking incredibly unhappy.

“Mr. Gleaner, if you had answered our calls the first time, we wouldn’t have needed to get the NYPD involved,” I say.

His upper lip raises—a sign of disgust. “I was making music.”

Asher has bright red hair that sticks up so high he must use hair spray to keep it up. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face appears to be sinking into his skull. “Trying to make a living, you know? Oh, wait. You cops have no idea how that works, do you? You just sit around all day, wasting taxpayers’ money.”

“Well, you know, we’re also not trying to make money for any drug habit…unlike you,” Tobias says.

“I have enough money,” he sneers.

Tobias leans over toward me. “I don’t think he could be stealthy enough to get a body to a baseball field without anyone knowing,” he whispers to me. “I don’t think this is our guy.”

“I don’t think so either,” I say. “But he could know something useful.”

“Secrets don’t make friends!” Asher yells through the screen.

“Actually, according to psychological reports, they do,” I tell him. I indicate between Tobias and me. “We’re really good friends. And we’re both very interested in knowing about where you were yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” he asks, tilting his head while raising his right eyebrow—the expression of condescension. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific. I’m not exactly the average Joe. I don’t spend my whole day watching sports on my couch while two kids hump my leg for attention.”

“Between six to six-thirty in the evening,” I say.

“Hmm…that would have been shortly after the album release party for a band called Awake Lions began. I normally don’t attend parties that begin sooner than eleven, but this band is going to be huge and they all have kids, so they didn’t want to be out late. You should buy their CD when it comes out. It’s called
Den of the King.
It’s a bit of country rock and indie.”

“Okay, you’re being questioned by the Detroit police while in the NYPD’s custody. This isn’t the time for you to try to be selling us music—” Tobias says.

“It does sound good, though,” I mutter. I pull my phone out of my pocket and text Jake Romano, one of our fellow detectives. He’s likely somewhere in the station, but I don’t want to miss any of this interview.

Me: Check to see if Asher Gleaner was at a CD release party for Awake Lions between 6 to 6:30

“Are there people who can confirm that you were there?” Tobias asks.

“Everyone who was there?”
Asher suggests. “I was mingling with everybody, I made a couple speeches…I don’t know. I was pretty buzzed through the whole thing. Is this about Mary? Because I think you’ve got that all wrong. She’s not a killer.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to tell that to the side of my abdomen and my arm that she shot with a nail gun,” Tobias remarks.

“You have the wrong person.” Asher sits up straighter, so his head nearly doesn’t fit in the computer screen. “You must have seen it wrong or it was someone who looked like Mary, but I’m telling you that Mary is innocent. Just because she’s religious doesn’t mean she’s an extremist.”

“You seem very defensive of her, Mr. Gleaner. The girl was arrested for multiple homicides,” I say. “Is there a reason that you would defend someone like that?”

“She spends her extra time at food banks and volunteers at adoption agencies!” he hisses. “Does that sound like a killer to you?”

“Ann Rule, a Seattle police officer who worked beside Ted Bundy, had thought Bundy was kind and empathetic before she learned he was a serial killer,” I say. “The more intelligent serial killers know how to blend in with society or else they wouldn’t be able to kill as many people.”

“She ain’t Ted Bundy,” he says. “Somebody must be trying to frame her. There’s enough women that look like her—whoever attacked you…she could have just been made to look like Mary! You know, make-up and shit.”

“Were you romantically involved with her?” Tobias asks.

“What? No!” he says, his voice a little too forceful. “We’re both pious people.”

“You were just telling me you were too buzzed to remember who was at that album release party and you were caught snorting cocaine,” Tobias says. “That doesn’t sound very devout to me.”

“That’s between God and I. The Bible says nothing about drugs.” He glances away from the screen, scratching his cheek. “There was nothing going on between that girl and I.”

“He’s lying,” I whisper to Tobias. “When people touch their face when they’re talking, it usually means they’re lying, and when he avoided using Mary’s name—
that girl
—he was distancing himself from the thought of her. He’s distancing himself from his lie.”

“Can you turn off this freaky psychological stuff when we’re talking?” Tobias whispers, turning his head to look at me. “Because once in awhile I’d like to surprise you and that’s going to be hard when you can see when I’m lying.”

“I’ll try,” I promise him.

“Are you lying to us, Mr. Gleaner?” Tobias asks, turning back toward the screen. “I don’t think the NYPD would be too happy to hear that you’re being uncooperative.”

“I’m not lying!” he insists. “The truth sets you free, man.”

“Mr. Gleaner, why don’t you tell us about the fact that you’ve been arrested for assault with a deadly weapon?” I ask.

“Look, that was three years ago,” he says. “And that’s what caused me to turn my life around and accept Jesus. I’m a different man. You can’t hold what I did three years ago against me.”

My phone vibrates. I glance down at it.

Romano: Got ahold of the band and the DJ—they confirm that he was there and apparently drunk. There’s also photographs of him at the party and he made a speech around the time that body was put in the field.

I show the text to Tobias. He grimaces.

“All right, Mr. Gleaner, good luck with that drug charge,” he says before ending the video chat. He turns to me. “We’ve interviewed all of the men she was close to. Who else could it be? Do you have any other psychological profile for this killer other than the fact that he’s older than Mary and religious?”

“He’d have the personality of a leader—confident, good at charming people, very proactive,” I say. “But that’s only if he’s really who Mary made him out to be. For all we know, he’s not as great as she thinks. His greatness could be part of her delusion.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate this case. It never ends.”

I stand up, step behind him, and wrap my arms around his chest. I kiss the side of his neck.

“Can I make it better?”

He pretends to grumble, but I can feel his body relax. “Maybe.”

As my fingers slide through his hair and I can feel his body turning soft under my touch, I hear the elevator beep. The door opens and our Captain, Cameron Mattinson, steps through. I pull away from Tobias and sit back down at my chair.

“Come on,” Tobias grumbles. “He won’t care if we’re in a relationship.”

“Yeah, he will,” I say, “because it will affect our cases if we’re brought into court. The last thing we need is a defense attorney telling a jury that our case was compromised because we’re in a relationship.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Why does your God hate me?”

“He doesn’t,” I tell him. “Or at least, I don’t think He does. Maybe there’s just something about you that annoys Him. Did you steal any candy from a baby as a child? That could be the problem.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks. “I still steal candy from babies. They’re little freeloaders. They don’t need it.”

I laugh. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek because it’s worth the risk of getting caught and that’s really what real love is: weighing the risks and benefits of loving each other and seeing that benefits always surpass the consequences.

“
T
he body has been identified
,” Tobias says the moment he steps up to my desk. I set down my turkey sandwich as he puts a sticky note in front of me that reads
Glenn Erwin.
“Romano texted me. Some businessman visiting the area saw his sketch on TV. His name is Glenn Erwin. He’s originally from Indianapolis and he had been suspected of a hit and run before he disappeared from Indiana.”

“Why does Romano always text you and not me?” I ask.

“Maybe he’s taken in by my charm,” he says, shrugging. “He’s probably just used to it because we’ve worked with each other for…four or five years. He actually left narcotics two years sooner than I did. But you’ve been here for less than half a year, so…you’re still the new kid.”

“Shouldn’t Jack Hamlin be the new kid?”

“No, he’s just a pain in my ass,” he says, glaring in Jack’s direction. Jack Hamlin is Lionel Richardson’s replacement—victim of the PVP Killer—so Tobias generally views him as pure evil in a blonde crewcut.

I touch Tobias’s shoulder to get his attention again. He glances back at me.

“The hit and run would fit the same pattern as Mary killing in the order of the Ten Commandments because the sixth commandment is
do not kill,
” I tell him.

“Which is messed up, considering this murderer is killing people,” he mutters. “Mary’s father was pretty pissed that we weren’t going after that gang member, Raymond Sennett.”

“Well, Raymond’s still in the hospital after what Mary did to him,” I say, flipping open the folder that contains information on Glenn Erwin’s murder. “Somebody in the department will get around to questioning him. How did we know he was a gang member?”

“He was accused of the murder, but he got off after several people provided an alibi for him. It was in the news a few times, so it won’t give us any leads,” Tobias says. “Gang violence task force will likely do most of the work for it.”

I show Tobias a photograph of Glenn nailed to the cross.

“If this guy was trying to avoid the police because of a hit and run, don’t you think he would be avoiding any public places?” I ask. “Why would he go to a children’s baseball field?”

Tobias shrugs, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “I’d suspect it’s because he has a child or he’s close to some child. Or he’s a pedophile, but I’d rather not think about that…actually, maybe it’s better if I think about him that way. At least then I’d know he got exactly what he deserves.”

I type Glenn Erwin’s name into an internet search engine. The first link is from the Indianapolis Weekly Report:
Public Defender Involved in Hit and Run Disappears with Son
. I almost click on the link until I notice the one under it, published eleven minutes ago, from
Pigeon Post
, that has the headline
Son of
Suspect of Vehicular Manslaughter and Child Abduction Found.
I click on the second link. A photo of Glenn with a blonde kid appears.

G
lenn Erwin
, whose license plate was caught on surveillance footage fleeing from a hit and run that caused the death of 22 year old Lisa Stint, has not been seen since the morning after the vehicular manslaughter. A few hours after he was suspected of fleeing from the police, it was discovered that his son was missing as well.

His son has been found.

Nathan Franzen, the six-year-old child of Glenn Erwin and Chelsea Franzen (who separated back in 2011 when Nathan was two years old) was found wandering in Detroit. Sixteen-year-old Caden White found Nathan crying in front of his apartment building on Veil Street after coming home from school. He walked Nathan to a parking attendant, who helped to return Nathan to his mother. Erwin is still missing. Nathan stated that his father did take care of him for the first four days they had been gone, but had disappeared from the motel they were staying at two days prior. Erwin will now also be facing child endangerment charges.

“
H
e has a son
,” I tell Tobias. “His name is Nathan and he’s back with his mother.”

He peers over my shoulder. “That child doesn’t look anything like Glenn.”

“Maybe Glenn dyed his hair or there’re some blonde genes in both him and his child’s mother,” I say. “Should we question the two of them?”

He shakes his head. “Not right now. If the mother had known anything, she would have been able to find her son sooner. And the past two murders by Mary had no connection to her. We’re going to have to find this next murderer through the crime scenes, not the victims.”

“You’re probably right,” I say, but I can’t stop looking at Glenn’s son. He’ll have to grow up having some knowledge that his father was violently murdered. My parents’ deaths—a car crash caused by a drunk driver—was terrible enough for me that I dreamed about it for years, but this is something else. This is a pain that seeps past Glenn’s stigmata and into his son, where the reminder of pain will last even longer than the sins of his father.

L
auren
and I walk all over the baseball field, but there isn’t much evidence left there. There are footprints all over it from when the police force and forensics were scanning the area. There’s a little bit of blood on the pitcher’s mound, but there’s definitely not enough to say that this is where he was crucified. He had to have been moved here, so it’s safe to assume that, like Mary, this killer is using a secluded place to torture his victims.

After we’re done, Lauren and I decide to go to my apartment to study photographs of the crime scene. I park my car a block away from my apartment since there’s never any space to park near my apartment, and we walk the rest of the way.

Detroit gets a bad rap—the economy is a mess, we repeatedly end up being first on a list of U.S. cities with the highest murder rate, and our population continues to decrease as people realize that they would have much better lives elsewhere. But, still, it’s home and it has its own rough beauty. The lights from all of the buildings aren’t as bright as the ones in Times Square, but it adds a glow that doesn’t intrude on this feeling of a “concrete jungle.” When everything isn’t polished and made to appeal to rich businessmen that will buy every building on the block without giving a damn about any of them, the dust and grime that clings to the streets serves as a reminder that this city isn’t owned by anybody. It may be violent, it may be endangered, but that’s the price of being wild.

“You seem lost in your thoughts,” Lauren notes.

“I’m just thinking about how I love Detroit,” I say.

She loops her arm around mine, leaning against my body. I wrap my arm around her waist. It’s an awkward position for some—where it feels more like they’re part of a three-legged race—but for us, it feels natural.

“It is amazing,” she says. “Even though my grandma has lived on the more affluent side of the city, she was wary of me coming down to work here. I was robbed the first time I was walking down the streets here, but…I hope the guy who stole my purse enjoyed tampons, two dollars, and a fifteen percent off coupon for towels. I wasn’t exactly rolling in money.”

“But now you’re with me and I’ve made you richer than you could ever imagine, right?” I tease. I stop and kiss her. Her cheeks are a bit cold in the brisk night as I brush my thumbs against them. Her skin is so smooth that she feels like a sharp contrast from the rest of the rough city.

My hands wander down to her waist, enjoying the feminine curves of her body. I never imagined my life would be like this—happiness was elusive and I was willing to settle for occasional contentment—but now it feels like I have too much joy. I haven’t earned this and there’s always this lingering fear of losing it when the universe realizes that I’ve been pampered for way too long.

The sound of honking jolts me out of my trance. I catch the glimpse of some twenty-year-old guy giving me a thumbs up from his red car as it passes by. I feel a flash of possessiveness, but it quickly fades. I take Lauren’s hand and we continue walking to my apartment.

Once we get to my apartment, I unlock the door and we walk in. For the past couple of months, my apartment building has felt different to me. I used to enjoy the feeling of anonymity—the knowledge that some of the people who live here don’t know my name, don’t know what I do for a living, and some probably couldn’t even pick me out of a police line-up—but now, it feels like I’m living a life without meaning until I’m around Lauren. Somebody could replace me in this apartment, somebody could replace me at my job—and I could handle both of these things—but I can’t imagine anyone else knowing the most sensitive places on Lauren’s body or understanding how her coffee preferences change by the season. And, more selfishly, I know I can’t replace her. I’ve changed for the better while being with her—so much, that if she ever left me, I think all those good parts of me would fall away until there’s nothing left but the bitter person I used to be.

It’s pathetic and juvenile, so I just don’t think about it.

I stop at the mailboxes in the lobby. There’s something comforting about the uniformity of the boxes—flat against the wall except for the small round locks, all of them are the same size except for the larger ones at the end, and all of them are made of untarnished metal. I had thought of asking Lauren to move in with me before, but that’s one of our stark differences—she likes her surroundings to be assorted and clustered. I like this uniformity. I prefer everything to be organized and monotonous. It prevents anything from being out of place.

I unlock my box and pull out my mail: two envelopes and a box.

“Do you think the killer followed Glenn Erwin from Indianapolis?”

First envelope: one cell phone bill. That shouldn’t be horrible. I have unlimited texting and that’s mostly what I do.

“No idea,” I say. “We don’t know how he even knew Glenn was here. And as far as we know, Mary didn’t know any of her crucifixion victims, but this guy could have more of a personal agenda. They could have the same M.O. without the same motive. ”

“Especially if he’s the one who influenced Mary to kill. Maybe this person did have personal reasons to kill them all. We just need to figure out who he is.”

Second envelope: junk mail from some car insurance company.

“The last murder seems pretty random though,” I say. “They’ve all been from around this area except for Glenn. And we’ve never seen any connection between the victims, so I can’t imagine how they would all have met the killer.”

Box from Elizabeth Rourke, whose child we saved from the PVP Killer. She usually sends baked goods.

“From Elizabeth?” Lauren asks. “I gave her last batch of peanut butter cookies to a homeless shelter. I feel a bit bad about giving them away, but I still have the brownies and the lemon tarts.”

“Only you could feel bad about giving to the homeless,” I say. I frown. The bottom of the box feels too smooth to be the thick paper it’s wrapped in. I flip it over. There’s a postcard caught under the fold of the package. The postcard has a photograph of the Christ the Redeemer statue in Rio de Janeiro. I take it out and flip it over.

It’s addressed to me as “Detective Rodriguez,” and the postmark is for Detroit. The handwriting almost looks like it’s typed and the only thing that indicates that the words weren’t typed is the little imperfections—the dot on top of the i’s slanting to the right or the spaces between the words slightly varying.

Detective Rodriguez

I will give this warning to you once: if the police continue to interfere with our God-given purpose to baptize sinners in blood, you will face the wrath of our Creator. While non-believers, such as yourself, may perceive this to be an empty threat, I am certain that God will continue to protect us while He impedes every step you take. By the end, you will know the power of God, and you will beg to be crucified as well. But God has no plans to hurt you now—if you walk away, you will not be harmed. God loves you and wants you to be safe, but if you put yourself between Him and His other children, there will be punishment. Walk away and pray for forgiveness. -The Son

“What’s wrong?” Lauren asks. I hand her the postcard. As she reads, she shakes her head in disbelief. “How did he get your address?”

I shrug. “He could have followed me here, seen which mailbox I went to…who knows? This just means he’s bolder than Mary, though it sounds like he does have the same motive—he thinks he’s getting people into Heaven by crucifying them.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Lauren says. “He has to be mentally disturbed to think this would actually work.”

“I think the mentally disturbed diagnosis comes with the murder part of the equation,” I say.

“Yes, but most serial killers are mentally disturbed to the point that ethics doesn’t come into the equation,” she says. “They may have some kind of code that they follow, but that’s not quite the same as having morals. This guy believes that he’s doing good. That could make him more dangerous. If you thought you were saving people from an eternity of pain, what would you do?”

“Hmm, maybe I would do whatever the step below crucifying people is?” I shake my head. “Maybe we should, uh, move in together if there’s going to be a serial killer that knows how to track us down.”

She pauses and looks at me, frowning. “Are you really suggesting that we move in together out of fear of a mentally unstable murderer? Is that really how you want to take the next step?”

“If that’s your answer to my suggestion, then no…that’s not what I was suggesting.”

She shakes her head. “We need to talk to Mary. She’s our best connection to this guy.”

“We talked to her before. Her lawyer won’t let her talk and she believes so much in her cause that she shot two nails into me.”

“Except now, maybe, she’ll realize that her savior isn’t actually going to risk saving her and that maybe the two of them aren’t on God’s side,” she says. “Spending time in jail can really change a person’s perspective.”