The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  Grant had called Mrs. Thelma King of Cleveland, Ohio, to reinterview her. By this time, she was taking a break from traipsing through Trinity Church in Boston’s Back Bay (“. . . amazing stained glass, but truthfully, Commander, by the fifteenth cathedral it’s hard to differentiate”). Thelma had roused Grant’s interest because she’d stayed near Saint Patrick’s after the fire alarm had gone off. The first fire truck arrived twelve minutes after the alarm first rang, but the firefighters found the doors locked tight. Even though no one spotted smoke, they couldn’t get through the massive bronze doors, so they raced to the side of the cathedral and busted in there.

  Thelma had been glued to her section of the sidewalk, intently watching as more fire trucks appeared, immediately followed by a half-dozen squad cars.

  “When did you find out someone had been murdered?” Grant asked.

  “It came out in dribs and drabs. First, I heard someone say there was a body inside. I thought it was the monk who chased us out—that maybe he’d died in the fire. Then I overheard one of the police radios saying it was actually that poor priest.”

  When he asked if she’d seen the hooded monk again—possibly slipping out a side door—Grant could practically hear Thelma shaking her head.

  “Not after we fled the sanctuary. Do you think he killed the priest?”

  Grant sidestepped an answer and told Thelma they were still pulling facts together. He thanked her and hoped she enjoyed the rest of the tour.

  And so went the morning. By the time they headed to Saint Patrick’s to check out the crime scene in the daytime, Grant was only too happy to leave the tiny office.

  The rain had stopped and the sun was poking through cotton candy clouds gliding across the Manhattan skyline at a furious pace. Grant was certainly used to the dampness that pervaded his London streets, but the wind tunnel effect between the avenues, caused by being squeezed between skyscrapers and the Hudson and East Rivers, was an altogether new, and unpleasant, experience.

  Sadly, the daylight investigation of the cathedral yielded nothing worth noting. The perpetrator either entered the church with the general public or snuck in the back service entrance. As for changing into the monk’s robe, that wasn’t caught on the surveillance cameras; neither was the alarm being pulled.

  Grant didn’t think it a coincidence—with each successive murder it became apparent their quarry had carefully planned every step.

  Grant and Frankel made their way to the office of Father Timothy Polhemus, the senior priest at Saint Patrick’s. With gray hair and rosy cheeks that Grant imagined came from sampling the sacramental wine a tad too often, Polhemus said his colleague Adam Peters was a priest loved by all and a threat to none.

  “You don’t remember a disagreement with a parishioner?” asked Grant.

  “I’ve met my share of testy and opinionated clergy,” answered Polhemus. “But Father Peters had a disposition that never changed. He was even-keeled, always making sure to leave you with a good word and a blessing.”

  This didn’t surprise Grant—the only thing the priest had probably been guilty of was working on the Sabbath. He told that to Frankel as they left the office.

  “So you’re basically saying this maniac could have killed any priest.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Frankel shook his head. “And he had to pick my precinct to do it in.”

  “The frightening thing is that next time he might venture somewhere completely different. There’s no specific reason for him to stay in Manhattan. Every bloody person has a mother and father—he could choose anyone.”

  “You really know how to cheer a fella up,” chided Frankel as they entered the sanctuary.

  Before Grant could respond, Frankel’s cell buzzed. The detective glanced at the readout and motioned that he was going to take the call. As Frankel moved off, Grant’s eyes were drawn to a side altar where a lean man was lighting a candle.

  “Did they finally come to their senses and kick you out of your parish for a multitude of sins?” Grant asked as he approached the man.

  Monte Ferguson straightened up and faced Grant.

  The Daily Mail reporter appeared to be wearing the same ill-fitting suit Grant had seen him wearing over the weekend. He suspected Ferguson was the type of man who bought half a dozen identical off-the-rack suits, ties, and shirts—never wanting to be a distraction when pursuing a story, preferring to blend in unnoticed.

  “You didn’t call me yesterday,” accused Ferguson.

  Grant had been in such a rush to get himself across the Atlantic that he had forgotten he owed the journalist a phone call. By the time he remembered midflight, he figured the man was still pursuing connections to the murders back home.

  Clearly Grant had been mistaken.

  “The circumstances changed,” Grant told him. “Obviously, you figured that out—otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here. And just how did that happen?”

  “Have you ever known me to reveal a source, Commander?”

  The Scotland Yard man shook his head. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if Sergeant Hawley were a bit forthcoming when you rang yesterday looking for me.”

  “I leave that for you to discuss with your subordinate,” Ferguson said, obviously not wanting to discuss the subject of his arrival further.

  Grant let that pass without comment. “What exactly do you want from me?”

  “A reason not to tell the world you’re chasing a serial killer across two continents.”

  “If that’s what you think, why haven’t you gone and published this already?”

  “Corroboration from a credible source adds veracity to any story. And despite our past differences, I’ve always appreciated the fact that you’ve never outright lied to me, Commander.”

  “And why would I corroborate this theory of yours?”

  “Because you’ve been the lead investigator on three murders taking place over a ten-day period and have now flown across the ocean to look into a fourth. Not to mention that this one is a priest. I find it hard to believe that is a coincidence—given the church closings you orchestrated back in England over the weekend.”

  “It could just be a nasty stretch we’re going through. You know what they say about people this time of the season.”

  “Perhaps I’ll talk to your American colleague over there.” Ferguson indicated Frankel, who was still on his call by the entrance. “I could ask about the marks on the priest’s forehead and how it matches up with the bodies you found back home.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. This was the first thing that Ferguson had uttered that took him by surprise. He thought they had successfully clamped down on the particulars of the crimes. He chose his next words carefully.

  “If I asked how you got that information, I suppose you’d fall back on your precious sword of privileged information.”

  “I’m glad you’ve been paying attention all these years,” replied Ferguson. “Are you going to stand here and deny all four bodies had the same mark?”

  He doesn’t know that they were numerical in order.

  Which meant that Ferguson hadn’t tumbled to the Ten Commandments connection.

  Grant considered the ramifications of a published story linking the crimes to a serial killer working two sides of the Atlantic. It wouldn’t hurt for people to be a touch more careful around strangers in the coming days—at least until he and Frankel figured out who wasn’t honoring their mothers and fathers.

  “Suppose I was to acknowledge the existence of such a person. Would you be willing to hold back the information concerning the ‘markings’ as you call them?”

  “I think that can be worked out,” Ferguson replied.

  Grant, his mind already made up, pretended to consider the deal. He went on the record with the journalist about a serial killer being in two nations’ midst. He was about to send Monte on his merry way when Frankel joined them.

  Grant made introductions. The two men nodded, then Ferguson headed out,
clearly wanting to file his story before Grant rescinded their agreement.

  As Frankel stared at the departing Ferguson, Grant said the newsman might actually be an asset to their investigation. A dubious Frankel told Grant he might want to explain that on the way to the morgue.

  Off Grant’s questioning look, Frankel explained. “That was the ME. He’s done the autopsy on Father Peters and is ready for us.”

  In the cab on the way to the coroner’s office, Grant was happy to learn Frankel agreed on the deal he’d made with the reporter.

  “I think it’s time we let this nut know we’re not far behind him,” Frankel said.

  He asked Grant if he wanted to grab a bite before the autopsy. The commander felt his stomach turn and suggested perhaps waiting till afterward.

  One look at Father Adam Peters’s body on a metal slab and Grant knew he’d made the right decision.

  It had been only a day since the priest had been murdered, but he looked like something that had rotted in a closet for weeks. His face was blue tinged and bloated from his eyebrows to his cheeks. His neck bulged from a wire wrapped around it tight enough to not just extinguish his life, but hang him from the cross atop the main altar.

  Marcus, the African American coroner, was in his late forties and told Grant he couldn’t remember performing an autopsy on a holy man, even though hundreds of unfortunate souls had found their way to his table. The coroner relayed his findings while massaging a thin goatee that was starting to go gray.

  “The first blow he received was to the back of the head.” The ME indicated a bruised section on the dead priest’s skull that had been shaved and cut open.

  “Is that what killed him?” Frankel asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “I’m getting to that.”

  Marcus pointed to a tray that held various instruments, bagged fluids, and specimens extracted from the corpse.

  “The blow definitely subdued him; probably knocked him unconscious—but it looks like your killer wanted to keep him alive long enough to give him this.”

  Grant and Frankel stared at the item in question.

  It was silver and a perfect circle—much like a coin but a bit larger.

  “May I?” asked Grant, holding up a gloved hand. Marcus nodded and Grant held it up so both he and Frankel could study it.

  “It’s a souvenir coin,” remarked Frankel.

  Grant gave him a curious look.

  “You must have something like them in London. They’re all over the city—particularly in Times Square and other tourist traps. You pay a dollar or two and create your own New York City souvenir with the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, or some other landmark on it.” Frankel took the coin from Grant and flipped it over. “This one has the Empire State Building. You choose which you want and then engrave a message on the other side.”

  Grant thought the temperature in the room had just dropped, but then realized it was his body reacting to whatever was coming next.

  “And I presume there’s one on this particular coin?”

  Frankel pointed at it with his forefinger. “9888.”

  Grant turned to face Marcus. “The killer kept Peters alive long enough to make him swallow this? So that we’d find it?”

  “That’s what I’m figuring,” the ME responded. “But for the life of me, I’ve no idea what it means.”

  “It means this asshole is really starting to fuck with us,” said Frankel.

  Grant would be the first to say there was quite a difference in the way Americans and Brits described things.

  But he couldn’t have put it better if he tried.

  5

  Sitting in a cafeteria in the bowels of the building that housed the morgue, Grant found the concept of food nauseating after Marcus’s discovery from the dead priest’s stomach. It didn’t stop Frankel from gobbling down two hot dogs slathered with mustard, sauerkraut, and ketchup. The detective polished off the second with a swig of Coke, then wiped his mouth and noticed Grant staring at him.

  “I know. My ex used to say I was raised in a barn.”

  “I didn’t realize you were divorced,” Grant observed, his eyes drifting to the detective’s left ring finger and the simple, slightly tarnished gold band on it.

  “This?” Frankel waved the finger. “Almost two years now. I keep meaning to take it off but then don’t know what to do with it. I’m not going to throw it in the trash and it’d just clog up a toilet. I stick it in a drawer, I’ll come across it when I least expect and it’ll make me feel like shit for not working things out with Julia.”

  “Does that mean you hope she’s coming back?”

  “Fat chance of that. She took off with the super in my building. They’re running a beach bar on the Big Island in Hawaii.” Frankel shook his head. “A shrink told me I keep wearing it so I won’t have to explain what happened. If I take it off, it’s going to end up being some kind of big thing.” He polished off the rest of the Coke. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right girl to get rid of it for.”

  Grant, not knowing how to respond, retreated to an old British standby: polite empathy by way of a simple nod. It seemed to do the trick as Frankel switched the conversation to their current conundrum.

  “9888,” Frankel said. “What do you suppose we’re looking at here?”

  “First thing that comes to mind is a location or address,” suggested Grant.

  Frankel already had his iPhone out and started to work Google Maps. “988 Eighth Avenue is an apartment building on the corner of Fifty-Eighth Street and Eighth Avenue—that puts it just south of Columbus Circle.”

  “How many apartments or tenants are we looking at?”

  “I’ve got no idea till we get there,” Frankel replied. “But I imagine a whole bunch of them are occupied by mothers and fathers.”

  “Or their sons and daughters,” said Grant.

  As Frankel navigated the unmarked sedan through clogged Midtown Manhattan, Grant suggested making the twenty-block journey on foot.

  “Some days you don’t move two blocks an hour, others you sail right through,” Frankel pointed out. “You used to catch the stagger up and down the avenues but it’s gone to hell ever since Uber and Lyft, along with apps like Waze and Tell-Me-the-Fucking-Best-Way-to-Get-There.” He finally gave up honking and dug up a portable red light encased in a plastic bubble, tossed it on the dashboard, and clicked a siren switch that let out an annoying whoop-whoop.

  “That seems to help considerably,” Grant commented a minute or two later when they had barely budged an inch.

  “If our friend’s intent on killing someone in that building, let’s pray he’s stuck in the same traffic jam.”

  Grant glanced at a city map to get his bearings. He’d earlier asked Frankel about Eighty-Eighth Street; what if the address were either 98 West or East Eighty-Eighth Street instead? A quick check revealed that those locations would be the actual middle of intersections, as both directions of Eighty-Eighth Street ended with the number 88 before jumping to 100.

  At least they were looking at one building instead of three. Still, 988 Eighth Avenue was fifteen stories high.

  Frankel used “police privilege” to deposit the sedan in front. He slapped a police banner on the dashboard, then motioned for Grant to get out of the car.

  The commander glanced up the gray edifice—it was completely nondescript and probably only got washed by the splatter of wind-based thunderstorms. He started, then quickly stopped, counting windows.

  “This is going to take us forever.”

  “Hopefully this guy will prove useful.”

  Frankel indicated the doorman stationed outside massive glass doors. He produced his NYPD shield, then proceeded to give the semi-lowdown on the situation they were facing to Jordan Sanchez, a hefty, handsome Latino who commuted from Queens every day except Sunday.

  “And why do you think someone here is going to be targeted?” Jordan asked.

  “Afraid we’re not at liberty to share that infor
mation,” Frankel responded.

  They got Jordan to discuss the recent nonresident visitors to the building. Unfortunately, with over sixty apartments, the figure was in the dozens over just the past couple of days.

  Guests were asked to sign and check in, but formal identification wasn’t required. Visitors wrote down the apartment they were headed to, then the doorman buzzed the resident to inform them of their arrival. But that wasn’t a guarantee the visitor went directly to the apartment in question; it was easily possible to make a stop or two on other floors of the building.

  There was also the matter of deliveries. Tenants were accustomed to takeout and online shopping, so things appeared at all hours. Jordan provided the register for the past three days, then took them to meet the super, who could assist further and provide access to the building’s security system.

  Grant thought George Tompkins must have come with the building, his age anywhere between seventy and the century mark. The super possessed a full head of hair the color of Wite-Out but had enough energy for someone half his age. He was the third generation of Tompkinses to oversee the goings-on at 988 Eighth Avenue, dating back to Grandfather Hal, who took occupancy of the same basement apartment shortly after World War I.

  Tompkins led them belowground to the space where he had basically spent his entire life. Crammed with mementos, it was a visual history of Manhattan since WWI, from the glory of V-Day in Times Square to the tragedy at the tip of lower Manhattan that September day early this century.

  The security cameras were orderly stacked in a tiny closet and Tompkins showed the two men how to play them back. Frankel lined up entries from Jordan’s logbook with the digital time readout to watch guests enter and exit the building.