“Is it possible the records were altered?” Renee asked.
“Anything is possible, Ms. Rankin, but why would they do that?”
“To save the church from embarrassment.”
“Which brings us back to my original question.”
“Again, Father Greco, I’ve told you everything I know. I’m not out to make the church look bad. I have one goal, which is to discover the purpose behind these killings.”
“Which killings? The ones that happened several years ago in your country or the ones chronicled in this journal?”
“Both.”
“This is for the book you’re writing?” Father Greco asked.
“Yes, I believe there is a connection between the two crime sprees. Before I tell you my theory, will you please describe for me what you read in the journal?”
Father Greco hesitated.
“I know I have said this before, but my goal is not to injure the church in any way,” Renee continued.
Father Greco nodded, although Renee could tell by his worried expression that she’d not completely won him over.
“I made a copy of the transcription for you. I can also send it to you electronically,” he said.
Father Greco paused a long moment.
Then he continued, “The writer of the journal, this Father David Lombardi, opens his story by describing his spontaneous murder of a young prostitute here in Rome. He says that he killed her with a rock and then dumped her body in the River Tiber. When he returned to his room at the Vatican, he heard a voice.”
“A voice? This was another priest, perhaps in another room?” Renee asked.
“No, I don’t believe that’s what he was referring to. Father Lombardi, if that was his true name, wrote that the voice came from inside his room, although there was no one else there. The voice spoke to Lombardi about his loneliness.”
“His loneliness?”
“Yes, his loneliness, or more precisely, his separation from God. Lombardi felt that God had stopped talking to him. The voice told Father Lombardi that God had abandoned him, much like God had abandoned the owner of the voice. He suggested to Lombardi that he needed to trick God in order to get his attention again.”
“How could he trick God?” Renee asked.
“By changing his face, essentially taking the identity of another person. The voice told Father Lombardi that he would need to kill again, but the next time he would need to remove the person’s face.”
Renee did everything she could to hide her shock from Father Greco, but he still noticed.
“This means something to you, doesn’t it?” the priest asked.
“The MAI killer in the United States took his victims’ faces. The police never knew why, other than that it was some sick calling card.”
“Those letters, MAI, why did the police call him that?” Father Greco asked.
“Because he would carve those letters into the bodies of his victims. The significance of those letters was another mystery the police never solved.”
“The journal answers that question. Father Lombardi asked the voice one day what its name was. It told him it was called MAI.”
“Do you know what those letters mean?” Renee asked.
“Yes, I believe I do. Are you familiar with the Biblical story of Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt to the promised land?”
“Yes.”
“When God first appeared to Moses in the form of the burning bush, Moses asked God what his name was. Moses said that his people would want to know this name as proof that he’d spoken to the true God. God told Moses that his name was I Am.”
“And MAI is the opposite of that?”
“Indeed. The voice is saying that it is the opposite of God, which I can only conclude means that it is saying it is the devil or some other demonic presence.”
“What else was in the journal?” Renee asked.
“Father Lombardi described many murders that he committed. Each time he took their face. Forgive me for being so graphic, Ms. Rankin, but the writings stated that Father Lombardi would wear these skinned visages, hoping that God would be tricked into thinking he was someone else.”
“Is that why he kept killing? Because God never noticed him?”
“Yes. Lombardi would complain to the voice that God was still silent, and the voice would tell him that he was killing people who were of the darkness. They were in a sense no better than Father Lombardi, so God would not notice them either.”
“As I mentioned in our last meeting, the translation of the final chapter survived the fire. It describes David Lombardi’s trip on a boat to America.”
“Father Lombardi was convinced that it was only a matter of time before he was caught. He’d even started killing in Florence to avoid the authorities who were searching for the identity of the killer in Rome. He was almost apprehended in Florence, which is why he fled Italy for America. During the journey across the Atlantic, the voice told Lombardi that it would always be with him, including his children and his children’s children.”
Father Greco reached back into his desk drawer and removed a stack of papers. He placed them beside the journal.
“This is the translation of the journal. You can read everything for yourself, of course, but I have told you the general story. Now, will you tell me your theory as to how these two sets of killings are connected.”
“The man who was convicted of the crimes in the U.S. is named Marcus Carter. His grandfather was named David Carter. I was told that David was from Italy. I actually attended his funeral in Virginia. He died during the early stages of the MAI investigation,” Renee said.
“David Lombardi and David Carter.”
“Yes, both men were named David. It’s possible that it was a coincidence, but I don’t think so. What would you do if you were wanted for multiple murders in another country? Would you keep your name, or would you change it to throw off the authorities? Furthermore, Carter is not an Italian name, yet this man was clearly Italian. It seems to me that he was doing everything he could to create a new identity.”
“You believe the grandson picked up where the grandfather left off?” Father Greco asked.
“Perhaps. Many health conditions are hereditary, and some of them are known to skip a generation. I believe Marcus Carter may suffer from some form of schizophrenia. From what you describe of Father David Lombardi, it certainly sounds like he did. Hearing voices? How else would you explain that?”
“You may be right, but there are other explanations you may wish to consider.”
“Such as?”
“Lucifer is a deceiver, but that doesn’t mean everything that comes out of his mouth is a lie. He may have been telling Father Lombardi the truth when he told him his name was MAI.”
Despite her best efforts, Renee laughed.
“You think David Lombardi was possessed?” she asked.
“I don’t take offense at your laughter, but this isn’t a topic to make light of.”
“Believe me, I take nothing lightly when it comes to Marcus Carter and the murders he committed. I simply don’t believe in the devil.”
“Tell me, do you believe in God?” the priest asked.
Renee paused.
Then she answered, “I believe there is something, some higher power, but I don’t know what it is, nor do I have a name for it. Some may choose to call it God. I don’t.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because I’ve seen too much suffering in this world to believe in a benevolent supreme being watching over us. If there is, then he certainly isn’t doing his job very well. Forgive me for being so blunt, Father. I don’t mean to insult you,” Renee said.
The priest nodded.
“It is an emotional issue for everyone, and I can tell that you have suffered a great loss. It’s only natural to be angry at God, to blame Him for the terrible things that have happened to you and your loved ones. But I believe if you were to seek comfort in God, to ask for His merc
y and compassion, you may find a weight lifts from you.”
“I have one more question for you, if you don’t mind.”
“What is it?”
“You’ve seen for yourself that the journal was written in Aramaic. How many people in this world do you think could have done that?” Renee asked.
“I could count them on one hand. But these weren’t just a few words or a few simple sentences. This was pages and pages of text in Aramaic, all flawlessly composed. It’s a truly remarkable accomplishment, despite the horrors the writings depict.”
“Doesn’t it stand to reason that seventy to eighty years ago, there were only a few scholars who could do that, just as there are only a few people today with those language skills?”
“Your argument is a convincing one.”
“If the records were altered to remove all references to Father Lombardi, it may still be possible to confirm the identity of a priest at Vatican City who could write in flawless Aramaic. Surely someone would remember a man like that,” Renee suggested.
“Yes, I think you are right.”
“It seems we still have a mystery on our hands. Can I convince you to stay on this investigation with me?”
“I sense our motives are very different, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t after the same thing. Yes, Ms. Rankin, you may continue to count on my help.”
9
Druid Heights
FBI Agent Doug McMahon didn’t have to wait long for the results of the fingerprint analysis. The victim’s name was Lily King. She’d been arrested once for prostitution and drug possession. McMahon got her last known address and he was halfway to Baltimore when his phone rang. It was Agent Santos.
“Hey, Hector. How did it go?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but your friend, Penfield, got Marcus Carter to talk.”
“What did Marcus say?”
“He knew things about the case he shouldn’t have known.”
“Like what?”
McMahon listened as Santos gave him a rundown on the session at Central State, including Marcus Carter’s knowledge of the number of victims, as well as his proclamation that the killings would continue until Angela Darden was brought to him.
“Penfield told him that Angela Darden was dead,” Santos said.
“She is. She committed suicide.”
“There’s something else, but it didn’t make sense. Marcus Carter spoke about Penfield being in a box of some kind. He said he was there with Penfield. That he fed off his fear. I asked Penfield about it after we left the room. He wouldn’t talk about it. In fact, he left Central State without saying another word. I could tell the guy was upset. Do you know what Marcus was talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it, Hector. Let me handle it.”
“So, it does make sense to you?”
“I said don’t worry about it.”
Santos hesitated.
Then he said, “I’ll send you a video file of the meeting. You can see everything for yourself.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way to Baltimore now to meet Carly. We’ll talk later tonight.”
McMahon ended the call. He thought about phoning Penfield, but he figured his friend might need time to process what he’d heard from Marcus. Besides, most of it seemed irrelevant. A woman dead from suicide. A childhood trauma. How could either of those events be tied to this new case?
It was in the early evening by the time McMahon made it to the Druid Heights community of Baltimore, Maryland. McMahon arranged to meet Agent Carly Porter there and he saw her dark sedan parked in front of a line of row houses when he turned the final corner.
McMahon parked his SUV behind her car. He climbed out as Porter approached. The thirty-year-old African American agent was dressed in her usual attire of navy-blue pants, a white dress shirt, and a black mid-length overcoat.
“Anyone approach you?” McMahon asked.
Porter shook her head.
“Just got here. You made good time,” she said.
“I know. I’m not sure how I managed that with this hellish traffic.”
Porter turned and nodded toward one of the row houses.
“That’s the address we have for her. The one with the red door.”
“Let’s see if we can learn anything.”
McMahon and Porter walked up the short cement staircase. There were two clay flowerpots on the edges of the top step, neither of which had anything in them.
Porter knocked on the door. They got no response, so she knocked a little louder. They were about to leave when the door opened a few inches before catching on the chain lock.
“Yeah,” the woman said.
McMahon guessed her to be in her late twenties. She had light-brown skin, short black hair, brown eyes, and she was dressed in beige sweatpants with a matching hoodie.
The agents showed her their badges.
“Yes, ma’am, my name is Agent Porter. This is Agent McMahon. Can you tell us if this is the residence of Lily King?” Porter asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Are you a relative of hers?” McMahon asked.
“Did something happen to her?”
“Ma’am, we’re sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. King was murdered. We’re hoping you can give us some information that might help us catch who did this,” Porter said.
McMahon had been to these family notifications more times than he wanted to remember. They were always the same. Most people broke, some people steadied themselves, but he could still see the shock and pain in their eyes. This woman was different. She didn’t flinch. No movement of the mouth. No looking away. No slumping of the shoulders. He realized she’d heard news like this before, probably more than once.
“May we come in?” Porter asked.
The woman shut the door. McMahon heard her unlatch the chain, then the door opened all the way. The woman turned from them and headed back into the house. McMahon and Porter gave each other a quick look. Then they proceeded into the tiny row house.
They followed the woman down a short foyer and into a living room. There was a pale green sofa covered with a blanket and a couple of magazines. Off to the side was a faded brown chair, which the woman sat on. McMahon and Porter remained standing.
“What is your name?” McMahon asked.
“Peggy Boyle.”
Porter removed a small black leather notebook and wrote down the name.
“How did you know Lily?” McMahon asked.
“We’ve been friends since grade school.”
“Is it just the two of you who live here?” McMahon asked.
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw Lily?” McMahon asked.
“Two nights ago,” Peggy said, and she looked away.
“Was that here in the apartment?” Porter asked.
Peggy shook her head.
“Where were you?” McMahon asked.
“A few blocks from here,” Peggy said.
“You were working?” McMahon asked.
Peggy nodded.
“What is the name of the place where you work?” Porter asked.
“Blue’s,” Peggy said, and she finally turned back to them.
“What kind of establishment is that?” McMahon asked.
Peggy laughed.
“Establishment? I’ve never heard anyone call it that.”
“Is it a gentlemen’s club?” Porter asked.
Peggy nodded.
“Do you know what time Lily left the club?” McMahon asked.
“Around two.”
“Did she leave with anyone?” McMahon asked.
“She was talking to this guy. I saw them leave the club together, but I don’t know where she went after that.”
“Did you recognize this person? Had he been in the club before?” Porter asked.
“He might have. I don’t know.”
“Can you describe what he looked like?” McMahon asked.
“He was weari
ng a dark hoodie, so it was hard to see his face.”
“Was his hair long? Maybe some of it showed around his face?” Porter asked.
“He was a white guy. That’s all I can tell you.”
“What about his age? How old did he look?” Porter asked.
“Thirties maybe. It’s hard to tell with the lighting in that place.”
“What about his face? Anything unique about it? Facial hair? A scar?” McMahon asked.
“I didn’t get a good look at his face,” Peggy said.
“What about his vehicle? Did you see them drive off together?” Porter asked.
“No, I was with someone. I saw her walk to the door with the guy and that was the last time I saw her.”
“Did you speak with her after that? Maybe a text message?” McMahon asked.
“No, the last time I spoke with her was in the back of the club. I tried calling her when she wasn’t here in the morning, but I didn’t get no answer.”
“Was it odd for Lily not to come home?” Porter asked.
“No, sometimes she’d go see her boyfriend and stay over. I called her again yesterday afternoon.”
“Is it possible that she might have been with another customer after the guy she left with?” McMahon asked.
“We always get more than one number when we work. She might have called another guy later.”
“Did you report her missing to the police?” Porter asked.
“No.”
“We’d like to get Lily’s number from you,” McMahon said.
Peggy paused a moment.
Then she asked, “How was she killed?”
Porter turned to McMahon. He didn’t return the look.
“Her throat was cut,” McMahon said.
“Where did you find her?”
“South of Richmond in New Kent County.”
Peggy nodded.
The two agents spoke with Peggy for a few more minutes but learned nothing of substance beyond the man with the dark hoodie. It was as McMahon had expected, another victim who’d worked as a prostitute who got in the wrong vehicle with the wrong man.
After wrapping up the interview, the agents left the row house and drove the few blocks to Blue’s. It was located in a small brick building with the club’s name in blue neon light above the door. It was nearing eight o’clock and there were already several cars in the parking lot.
Nature of Darkness Page 7
