The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  “This ought to be a doozy,” murmured Charles.

  Marla lowered her voice as well, conspiratorially. “It has to be one of his former altar boys. Getting revenge for some kind of abuse. Some of these priests . . .”

  “Marla! You know no such thing!” Charles face reddened. “This gentleman isn’t interested in your fanciful theories. Not to mention disrespect for the dead.” Charles started to guide her from the altar. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Grant assured him. “I actually found it quite fascinating.”

  “See!” protested Marla to no avail as Charles led her away. The Syracuse man nodded an apology to the gentleman in the winter coat as well.

  The man nodded and watched the couple walk toward the church exit, then turned back to face Grant. “Interesting theory, though.”

  Grant started to answer but stopped. Something about the voice.

  “But we both know this isn’t some killer just targeting men of the cloth. It’s a much larger problem. Isn’t it, Commander?”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Detective Frankel.”

  “I see why you earned that highfalutin title they gave you over there at Scotland Yard.” Frankel’s smile wasn’t exactly welcoming. “You might have given me a call.”

  “And you could’ve told me where you’d be tonight, Detective.”

  “Well, here we both are,” Frankel pointed out. “So we might as well start talking.”

  2

  The waitress at the Astro poured half the chocolate milkshake into a tall, narrow glass and placed it directly in front of Frankel. She left the rest in a metal mixing cup with a long spoon sticking out of it.

  “Thank you, Phyllis.”

  “Pleasure, Detective. How goes the bad-guy catching?”

  “Still trying to keep up.”

  Phyllis, who Grant thought must be pushing seventy years and looked like she’d been working at the coffee shop for most of them, nodded. “You’ll get there. We’re counting on it.” She turned to Grant. “More tea?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. I’m just pleased you have English breakfast.”

  She moved to the empty counter and wiped it down with a rag. Frankel took a big sip from the shake, then waited. Grant watched the detective repress a shudder, make a slight choking sound, clear his throat, and bring a finger to his head.

  “Brain freeze,” explained Frankel. “Gets me every time.”

  “You come here a lot?”

  “Ever since I made the squad. Going on fifteen years now.”

  Grant indicated the glass. “Been drinking those all the time?”

  “Long as I remember.”

  “And you don’t weigh twenty-five stone.”

  “Is that a lot?” Frankel asked innocently.

  “Three hundred forty, say fifty, of your pounds.”

  “What can I say? I was blessed with a healthy metabolism.”

  Not to mention a sweet tooth, thought Grant. He studied the New York cop. The man dressed well, not going for the polyester numbers detectives wore on the telly programs that made their way across the pond. Frankel was handsome enough that the ladies wouldn’t turn away but the men wouldn’t feel threatened. He possessed a frame that stretched just over six feet and had dark hair whose length probably pushed NYPD restrictions. Film-star piercing blue eyes were an added bonus, and Grant was fairly sure the man used them to his advantage.

  Frankel put down the glass without taking said eyes off Grant. “You want to tell me why you didn’t give me the head’s up about your little trip to Saint Pat’s?”

  “I had some free time on my hands and took a stroll.”

  “And ended up at the crime scene you traveled across the Atlantic for.”

  “Like you said—some of us are blessed. Tonight, I just caught a bit of luck.”

  Frankel laughed. “You don’t expect me to believe that.”

  “As much as I do that you were waiting for midnight mass to start.”

  “We both know that wasn’t the reason,” said Frankel.

  “What were you expecting to see?” asked Grant. “The killer return to the scene of the crime?”

  “No one catches that kind of luck,” grumbled Frankel. He drained the glass and moved on to the milkshake container. “It’s a habit I’ve developed—soaking it all in after the fact. You get all sorts who come to check it out. Can’t keep them away—kinda like rubberneckers on the road after a six-car pileup.”

  The detective poured the rest of the shake into his glass. “And the theories they come up with? They’ll blow your mind. Some guy a half hour before you showed up was sure it was an archangel sent to wreak vengeance on us because we are on the verge of eternal damnation.” He licked the spoon clean. “Like we already don’t know that.”

  Grant couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve been down the abuse road, naturally.”

  “Everyone loved Father Peter and there isn’t even a whisper of it being anything but in a platonic, God-blessed way. Plus, it doesn’t sound like it’s personal, especially if this is really connected to your killings in London.”

  “I’m completely convinced.”

  “There are plenty of fruitcakes out there. Could be a copycat.”

  “We’ve made sure this hasn’t leaked yet.”

  Frankel shook his head. “There are always leaks.”

  Grant didn’t correct him and took another sip of tea. The cup was full. Phyllis smiled from the counter, having topped it off when he wasn’t looking. “I presume the accent gave me away in the church.”

  “That and the picture on your Wikipedia page,” Frankel said. “It’s rather old by the way—no offense.”

  “I didn’t put it there. My late wife’s doing.”

  “I read that you lost her recently. My condolences.”

  An uneasy silence followed. The type where strong-willed men try to figure out what the other is made of.

  “So, how are we going to go about this?” Frankel finally asked.

  “Work together?”

  “That seems to be the issue. You’ve got three murders on your hands where I’ve just got the one. But seeing as how you didn’t get the job done on your side of the Atlantic, it now falls to my department to pick up the pieces.”

  “I closed every church in Greater London,” Grant said, defensive.

  “I’m sure Father Peters would be the first to applaud you.” Frankel finished off the rest of the shake.

  “I’m sorry the bastard didn’t leave a travel itinerary.”

  “I suppose the killer could have gone anywhere to spread holiday cheer.”

  “Have you checked out passenger manifests for all the major airlines?”

  “Of everyone who left London for New York since the musician’s murder?” asked Frankel. “When did he die? Five days ago?”

  “Six,” corrected Grant.

  Frankel waved the spoon for emphasis. “I don’t need to tell you how many people flew over that period between Heathrow and JFK. For all you know they could’ve left from Gatwick or flown into one of the other major airports here. Or they could have taken the Chunnel and hopped a plane from Paris to throw us off track . . .”

  “You’ve made your point.”

  “I know everyone wants to think we’ve cracked down on our security since 9/11 but technology has grown by leaps and bounds. It’s easier than ever to forge documentation and the TSA can’t begin to keep up with it.”

  “I’d still be looking at those lists.”

  Frankel offered up a slight smile. “Ever since I hung up the phone with you earlier today.”

  This produced another go-round of silence. Phyllis came over and asked if anyone wanted a refill. The two cops said they were fine and she scribbled out a check. Grant tried to reach for it.

  “Not on my turf.”

  Frankel dug a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to the waitress. He told her to keep the change and that he’d see her in a day or two. As she walked
away, Grant thanked Frankel for the tea.

  “If I’m ever over your way, you can return the favor,” Frankel told him.

  “On my turf,” Grant echoed.

  “Exactly.”

  “I understand I’m the guest here, Detective. What do you say we start over bright and early tomorrow at the precinct as previously agreed?”

  Frankel gave Grant a nod. “A fresh slate sounds good.” The NYPD detective got up and handed Grant his heavy overcoat.

  “I even have the perfect place to start,” said Frankel.

  “The Fifth Commandment?”

  Frankel laughed. “Ever been told you’re a pain in the ass, Commander?”

  “Constantly.”

  3

  Honor thy father and thy mother.

  That only narrowed the field to the entire human race. Everyone had one of each. Sure, there were orphans to consider and those who had lost their parents—but even those people dishonored those who brought them into the world. And what exactly constituted a transgression against one’s parents? Disobeying their orders? Not heeding sage words of advice? Lashing out at them verbally or even physically in public? Forgetting a birthday? Interpreted differently, it could be putting an elderly mother or father away in an old folks’ home.

  Or none of the above.

  Grant shoved the room service table away with a sigh. His first morning in Manhattan wasn’t off to a good start. It had taken three tries to produce English breakfast tea after they brought obscure herb varieties. The kitchen’s idea of a scone resembled a rock and the concept of porridge was lost on them altogether.

  Getting to the Midtown North precinct proved equally challenging—even though it was only six blocks from the London. The skies had opened up to greet Scotland Yard’s Finest and with temperatures hovering in the low thirties, the precipitation was stinging pellets of ice. Finding a cab in these conditions was foolhardy; how hard would it be to navigate six bloody blocks?

  Ten minutes later, soaked to the bone (his umbrella flipped inside out when the icy wind gusted at typhoon speed), he had his answer.

  Upon pushing through the precinct’s heavy double doors and depositing his crumpled brolly in a trash bin, Grant shed his drenched raincoat and shook himself dry like a sodden Lab. Moments later, he was led by a uniformed officer through a bullpen where detectives busily mapped out their days while washing breakfast burritos down with cups of hot coffee. The uniform escorted Grant to an office at the back of the precinct and knocked on the door.

  “Detective Grant is here to see you, sir,” the cop said.

  Grant considered correcting him but figured the title “Commander” or “Chief Inspector” would seem pretentious and curb no favor from either man. He nodded thanks to the uniform and turned his attention toward John Frankel.

  The detective had his feet up on the desk, a huge file in his lap, and was sipping from a blue-and-white pinstriped coffee cup with a Yankees insignia. Frankel gave Grant a good once-over and didn’t bother to suppress a grin.

  “We could’ve sent you a car, Inspector.”

  Now he tells me.

  “Seemed silly to waste funds and manpower on a six-block jaunt.”

  “Six blocks in Midtown during the holidays can seem like a suicide run.”

  “I prefer to consider it a character builder, Detective.”

  “Let’s make it John,” suggested Frankel. “And I’ll call you Austin?”

  “Might as well. Everyone else will come the first of January.”

  “I heard you were retiring. How many years with the Yard will that be?”

  “Thirty-four, Detective.” Grant corrected himself. “I mean, John.”

  “Well, they picked a hell of a case to send you out on.” He glanced at the file on his lap. “You’ve come to the same conclusion about the Fifth Commandment?”

  “I’ve no doubt of it.”

  Frankel nodded. “Since every single person in the five boroughs is a potential victim, I’m not even sure where to begin.”

  “There’s no guarantee the killer will limit himself to the island of Manhattan. I was certainly wrong about him sticking to Central London.”

  “Where would you suggest us starting?”

  “With what we already know—the latest victim,” answered Grant. “What I don’t understand is how the killer isolated Father Peters like that. Isn’t Saint Patrick’s open twenty-four hours a day? Surely there would have been witnesses.”

  “He pulled the fire alarm. Then he got even more daring.” Frankel tapped his keyboard and swiveled the computer screen around.

  A surveillance camera tape from Saint Patrick’s began to play. The time code read 9:58 P.M. Two dozen people were milling around the sanctuary. Frankel fast-forwarded to fixate on a portion where the visitors suddenly scurried into motion.

  “Obviously in response to the alarm sounding.” Frankel tapped the left corner of the screen. “I imagine this is the person you and I are looking for.”

  A hooded, robed figure entered from the wings. The shrouded person waved their arms toward the exit, beckoning for everyone to head for the street.

  “I presume you’ve tried to enhance this?” asked Grant.

  “Of course.” Frankel punched more buttons until the cloaked figure filled the screen. “He seems to be wearing some kind of full-face covering.”

  Frankel freeze-framed the image. The hood and robe concealed a lot, but Grant could make out an ebony full-face mask deep within the folds of the cowl.

  “Clever. Didn’t anyone find that sort of mask strange?”

  “Not in the moment. Chalk it up to yelling ‘fire’ in a crowded building. The alarm sounds, a man of the cloth flies into the sanctuary and orders people to vacate the building—everyone does a 180 and makes for the streets pronto.”

  Grant watched the visitors flee until the hooded figure was the sanctuary’s sole occupant. He closed the main doors, bolted them, and remained inside the church. Then, just as the man crossed the sanctuary, another entered the edge of the frame.

  “The unfortunate Father Peters?” asked Grant.

  Frankel nodded. “He was in the rectory when the alarm went off. Probably asleep at the time, seeing as how he’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants—clothes he would have thrown on quickly before checking things out.”

  They watched Father Peters advance on the robed figure. Grant could tell that the priest was calling out to the other man.

  “Have you been able to determine what he’s saying?” asked Grant.

  “Best we can tell is ‘What is happening?’ and ‘What are you doing?’”

  Frankel hit the zoom function and focused on Peters’s face.

  The priest’s expression went from curious to frightened.

  “That must have been when he noticed the mask,” ventured Grant.

  Frankel resumed the tape and Grant watched Peters try to run from the hooded man. The latter was inches from catching the priest when they both exited the frame. The tape showed the empty sanctuary—then the screen fritzed and went black.

  “What happened there?” asked Grant.

  “Our friend obviously found the camera source and cut the power. Probably right after he knocked Father Peters unconscious.”

  Grant nodded, somewhat shocked by the killer’s audacity. “So once the cameras were off and the doors locked, he was able to cut the alarm and go about his nasty business?”

  “Exactly. Might have taken him all of ten minutes to cut Peters’s throat and mount him on the cross.” He closed the web browser and leaned back.

  “Have you been able to ascertain anything from the tape about the man?”

  “Based on his close proximity to Father Peters—we’re looking for an individual about six feet tall.” Frankel shrugged. “Of course, since the robe covered his feet, we can’t say for sure that he wasn’t wearing lifts in his shoes or large heels.”

  “Which eliminates maybe half the men walking the streets of Manhattan.”


  “That sounds right,” said Frankel. “But shouldn’t we be looking for someone from your side of the Atlantic? This started on your island, not mine.”

  “That’s a fair assumption. But I never imagined he would venture out of the UK. Now that he’s done that, he could be practically anywhere.”

  Frankel extended the file toward Grant. “We’ve already run a cross-check on the London victims with Father Peters. There doesn’t seem to be any connection. Peters has never been to Oxford, didn’t collect art by this dead woman Keaton, and it’s a pretty safe bet you won’t find the Blasphemers in his iTunes.”

  “The killer doesn’t appear to be linking the victims personally. He seems intent on carrying out his own interpretation of the Commandments.”

  “But why leave England?” wondered Frankel. “It wasn’t like he was wearing out his welcome there.”

  “We did tumble to him wanting to go after a man of the cloth. Maybe he figured we might try and stop him back home, so he took his show on the road.”

  “But why New York?” Frankel asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to gallivant all over Europe without risking air travel or sticking out like an English sore thumb?”

  “I suppose he has some sort of logic that works for him. The biggest questions I have are what set him off and why he is doing this now.”

  “As opposed to him just being fucking insane?”

  “I guarantee it makes perfect sense to him.” Grant shook his head. “Why did he start with Frey and only two weeks ago? Why not kill a different professor six months ago—or six years ago, for that matter? That’s what I keep asking myself—why now?”

  “Maybe it’s an early retirement present for you,” suggested Frankel.

  4

  Given a tiny office in the back corner of the precinct, Grant continued to follow up on the Saint Patrick’s murder. The room had a desk chair, potted plant (green plastic), blank desk blotter, a cup with blue Pilot G2 pens, a framed picture of the precinct’s cops circa 1920, and one rather disgruntled Scotland Yard Commander.

  Most of the interviews were to the point—the few “witnesses” they’d tracked down relayed the same story. The alarm blared, then a man resembling a hooded monk appeared to shoo them out of the building. One woman, a matronly sort from Ohio on a tour of the Eastern Seaboard’s great cathedrals and churches, had seen the cowled figure enter from a side hallway—the same corridor that housed the fire alarm. It was hard to make out his voice, muffled by the face mask. It covered his entire face.