The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  As a result, the building had sat neglected for over twenty years. Battered by winter storms and the deadly Hurricane Sandy, the structure continued to sit atop the white sands of Far Rockaway like a monolith on the brink of collapse.

  Frankel told Grant that every summer a few drunk teens or vagrants would be pulled from its run-down corridors and gone-to-seed rooms, having ventured inside either on a dare, looking to party in private, or looking for a place to crash. They all agreed it was spooky as hell and most weren’t sure if they were hearing the wind blowing through cracks or the haunted screams of former inhabitants.

  It wasn’t quite the Overlook Hotel, but the redbrick, five-story structure emitted a feeling of impending doom from the long shadow it cast on the lot’s white concrete. Weeds poking through the crevices cowered in its presence, having turned brown while trying to shrivel their way back below the surface.

  There wasn’t a car or person to be seen. Frankel checked out the edge of the parking lot closest to the building and tapped a foot beside some tire skid marks.

  “These are recent. Otherwise, the rain the other night would’ve washed them away. If our guy ditched his phone, it should be somewhere around here.”

  Frankel moved to a rusted dumpster. Grant walked over to join him. Both men peered inside to see a few broken bottles and crumpled fast-food bags.

  A search of the parking lot and nearby sand didn’t produce a discarded burner phone either.

  Grant studied a fence and the chain-link gate that separated the parking lot from the former hospital’s grounds. “Might have been more than just a quick stop.”

  He pointed to a broken lock lying on the ground by the gate.

  Frankel reached inside his coat and pulled out his service revolver. He looked over at Grant.

  “Oh, right,” Frankel said. “You fellas over there don’t carry these.”

  Grant realized he must have visibly reacted.

  “And our murder rate was quite below yours last time I checked.”

  “Need I remind you this maniac started on your side of the ocean?”

  “He hasn’t used a gun,” Grant added. “At least not yet.”

  “I’ve got a spare underneath the front seat if you want it.”

  Grant shook his head. “I’ve managed to get this far in life without one.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Grant asked about backup. Frankel indicated the skid marks. “If this was him, he’s long gone. It’s probably a wild-goose chase and would be a waste of manpower; plus, it’d take them forever to get here.”

  They moved through the gate and onto the white sand.

  A set of footprints led toward the building. The sand’s surface had been uniformly scraped directly behind the prints, resembling a narrow path.

  “Looks like somebody has been dragging something,” Grant observed.

  “Something or someone,” agreed Frankel.

  They followed the tracks until the sand met up with a huge concrete pad.

  Suddenly, the two cops were standing in the former courtyard of the old hospital. Two redbrick wings rose on either side of the concrete, half the windows boarded shut. A maroon-colored cylinder resembling a lighthouse rose above the west wing. Its fenced-in circular observation platform reminded Grant of a prison watch tower.

  Dead ahead was the entrance to the hospital. It was partially boarded up—one wood panel had been pulled off its hinges and cast aside. It looked like the gaping maw of some behemoth that had risen from the murky depths of the Atlantic waiting to be fed.

  “You sure you don’t want to go back for that spare?” asked Frankel.

  I probably couldn’t hit something five feet in front of me, thought Grant. But I’m not going to tell him that.

  Grant shook his head. “You said wild-goose chase, right?”

  Grant was fairly certain the last time a cleanup crew had been inside the hospital had been around the time it shuttered for good. It was a sharp contrast to the building’s exterior which had been clear of debris and graffiti. Frankel surmised that the fact it was a “former mental hospital” was bad enough; the Far Rockaway tourism board needed the outside to appear as palatable as possible if it was trying to attract New Yorkers to its white sandy shores.

  The main entryway could have passed for the county dump. Papers and old beer cans were strewn everywhere. Sky-blue wallpaper meant to give a feeling of peace and tranquility to the troubled residents had peeled away in mottled patches from cut floor to ceiling. The space was devoid of furniture except for one mattress shoved in a corner that had probably been used by vagrants until they crawled back out into the cruel, hard world.

  The two cops moved through massive clutter until they reached a perpendicular corridor running off the back of the entryway. It went both directions with doors upon doors on either side of the hallway. It was nearly impossible to see as the only light came from the room they’d just left and windows at opposite ends of the corridor that seemed to be miles away.

  “Where the fuck do we even start?” grumbled Frankel.

  Grant started to respond, then noticed something on the wall to his left. He pulled out his cell and used the lit screen to illuminate that section of the wall.

  It was a left-pointing arrow—scrawled in fresh blood.

  Grant motioned. “I’d say that way.”

  Frankel raised his gun a bit higher and Grant didn’t protest when he took the lead. Frankel dug out his iPhone and punched on the flashlight app to provide light as they slowly moved down the long corridor.

  Some doors were cracked open, others closed. All had glass windows halfway up so that back in the day the staff could check on their charges.

  The first dozen rooms they checked were either locked or filled with the tattered remnants of drunk-fests and homeless sleepovers.

  They were in the darkest part of the hallway when they reached a door with another message in dripping crimson blood.

  V.

  They exchanged woeful looks, then stood silently on either side of the door. They listened intently, waiting for any sort of sound.

  Frankel peeked inside the window.

  “Goddamn it.” He quickly brought the iPhone up, shined the light inside for a second, then brought it back down again. “Fuck this asshole.”

  Before Grant could respond, Frankel threw open the door.

  A worn chair was in the center of the room; a man was sitting in it.

  His head was covered by a bonnet hair dryer attached to the back of the chair. Even in the dim light, Grant could see he was dead, with pools of blood beneath him.

  Frankel approached the chair and carefully lifted the hair dryer for a closer look.

  The man’s head rolled off his neck and plopped onto the floor beside their feet.

  Both men jumped backward.

  “Jesus,” Grant muttered.

  Frankel recovered enough to aim the light toward the decapitated head on the floor.

  Timothy Alan Leeds stared up at them with blood-filled vacant eyes and a carved V in the middle of his forehead.

  Grant was still trying to slow his heartbeat when he caught sight of the wall behind Frankel. “John,” he whispered to the detective. “Shine your light behind you.”

  Frankel did just that.

  And illuminated a small wooden cross in the middle of the wall.

  He widened the flashlight’s scope. It revealed numerous photographs and news clippings taped up on either side of the cross.

  All were of Leeds or the murders he’d committed thirty years ago just a few miles from where they now stood.

  Frankel shook his head. “I guess it’s the last thing he wanted Leeds to see before he sent him off to meet his Maker.”

  “I think it might actually be another message for us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s arranged in a specific pattern.” Grant pointed to the wall again. “Unless I’m totally wrong—that looks like a big Roman
numeral seven to me.”

  Frankel trained the flashlight on the wall one more time.

  Sure enough, two sets of photos and clippings were arranged in a V and an I on one side of the cross.

  A second Roman numeral I was on the other.

  VII

  “Seven?” asked Frankel.

  He glanced down at Leeds with the freshly carved V in the middle of his forehead.

  “This is definitely the Roman numeral five,” observed Frankel. He looked back up at Grant. “But if he’s moved on to seven already, what the hell happened to six?”

  10

  As dusk fell over Far Rockaway, the Neponsit Health Care Center was teeming with people for the first time since it had closed its doors decades earlier. The crime scene was led by Marcus, the medical examiner Grant had last seen talking about a Manhattan souvenir pulled out of a holy man’s stomach.

  Marcus was carefully studying Timothy Alan Leeds’s mouth when Grant appeared beside him. “Just wondering if he left us another gift like Father Peters.”

  “I think you were saved the trouble this time, Doctor,” Grant said, motioning toward the stone wall. A steady stream of flashbulbs illuminated the morbid photo and clipping gallery, each bright pop shoving the killer’s message in Grant’s face.

  VII.

  Grant didn’t need a cheat sheet to remember the Seventh Commandment.

  Thou shalt not commit adultery.

  The fact that the killer had either skipped the Sixth (Thou shalt not kill) or committed another murder they’d yet to come across was simply maddening.

  It had been difficult enough hunting a fifth victim with everyone having a set of parents. And though the number was certain to be much less, Grant imagined the number of adulterers in New York City would still be staggering. And none would want to own up to their transgressions—an affair was something both parties did their utmost to keep from being discovered.

  The medical examiner took one look at the wall display.

  “I wouldn’t want to be you guys,” Marcus said. This was clearly meant to include Frankel as well, who had taken that moment to join the ME and Grant.

  “I’d rather be anyone than me just about now,” Frankel conceded.

  Grant managed a sad smile.

  “What can you tell us so far?” asked Frankel.

  “Nothing earth shattering. I see a couple of bruises developing on either side of the head. Administered separately, I’d guess.” Marcus pointed out the spots and continued. “Lines up with your theory he was dragged from the parking lot. No way of telling yet which blow was administered first, but playing fast and loose? I’d say he needed to subdue Leeds a couple of times. That would account for the second bruise. Not that either was the killing blow.”

  “Any idea what was used to decapitate him?” Frankel asked.

  Marcus shook his head.

  “A preliminary glance at the jagged marks on his severed neck make me think we’re looking at an industrial saw. It’ll be hard to identify the brand unless I find trace material during the autopsy. I won’t know until I get in there—but these tools are practically indestructible, so I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “It’s hard to believe he killed Leeds with a saw,” Grant said. “Sort of unwieldy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely,” Marcus answered. “Look here.”

  He placed one gloved hand on Leeds’s chin and used the other to indicate two gashes directly below the part of the neck that was still attached to his head.

  “Two deep slits—thinner and smoother than the jagged ones I mentioned. They’re very similar to those I found on the priest at Saint Pat’s.” The ME turned to Grant. “I’d wager they resemble the ones on your three bodies back in England.”

  “I don’t share your expertise—but I’m inclined to agree with you.”

  “These were made with a sharp knife and probably killed him. That left him free to do his dirty work with whatever portable saw he brought along.” Marcus gently lowered Leeds’s head back down onto a plastic sheet. “I’ll compare these marks with those on Father Peters, but I suspect they’ll confirm that you’re dealing with the same perpetrator.”

  Grant’s eyes took in the clipping collage again. He turned to see Frankel doing likewise. The message might as well have been in flashing neon.

  “Yeah,” grumbled Frankel. “It’s the same fucking guy, all right.”

  It was after midnight when Frankel and Grant returned to the sedan. They had watched Marcus’s crew bag Leeds’s body and place it on a gurney, wheel it down the same corridor that only hours before they’d crept through with iPhones in hand, and into the entryway bathed in electric light (courtesy of massive floodlights brought in by Con Ed) for the first time since the hospital’s patients had been evacuated decades ago.

  Now, as they swung onto the LIE, Frankel told Grant he should take note of the rarest of the rare. Cars were actually moving—some exceeding the speed limit.

  Grant remembered his cab ride in from JFK a few days earlier. “Beats being stuck in the world’s biggest parking lot.”

  “Look at you. Stick around long enough, we’ll turn you into a real New Yorker.”

  “I just want to book a return trip for two,” replied Grant. “Bring this lunatic back to England and put him in the docket where he can answer for what he did.”

  “Might have to arm wrestle you for that. Though you are ahead three to two.” He ducked over and jumped into the carpool lane. “Of course, it might be all tied up and we don’t even know it.”

  “I just don’t see him moving on to the Seventh Commandment unless he’s already gone and murdered a sixth person.”

  “Maybe he’s changing things up—keeping us on our toes.”

  Grant shook his head. “He’s been systematically working a very specific pattern. My concern is that the murders are becoming increasingly extravagant—not to mention happening more frequently. If there’s a sixth victim out there, he killed them within hours of Leeds.”

  “‘Thou shalt not kill .’ So, what are we looking for? Another killer?” Frankel switched lanes again. “Maybe he’s still talking about Leeds. Figures he could knock off two birds with one stone. The guy was a murderer who offed his mom and dad. Violates both the Fifth and Sixth Commandments.”

  “Wouldn’t he have etched a Roman numeral I to go with the V we found on his forehead?”

  “Just wishful thinking on my part,” said Frankel. He indicated the police radio below the dashboard. “I’ve got them running the system for released killers in the Tri-State area. See if any are missing or if one of their bodies showed up.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a convicted-and-released killer. Might be a murderer who has gotten away with their crime so far.”

  Frankel stared out at the Manhattan skyline rising in front of them.

  “Most times I think there can’t be a more magnificent place to live. But tonight? All I see is how damn big the city is and wonder how the hell we’re going to find a dead murderer’s body we’re not even sure exists yet, let alone the right cheating spouse. It makes my head hurt.”

  Grant heard a slight gurgling sound and saw Frankel rubbing his stomach.

  “Not to mention my insides grumble. Hungry?”

  Grant tried to remember when he last ate. He realized it hadn’t been since breakfast with Rachel at the Surrey. He couldn’t believe it was the same day.

  “It’s one in the morning.”

  “You know how they call New York ‘the city that doesn’t sleep’?”

  “I know the song,” Grant said.

  “They should’ve added another verse. Called it ‘the city that always eats.’”

  The line was at least thirty deep and curved around the southwest corner at Fifty-Third Street and Sixth Avenue.

  The Halal Guys, more commonly known as “Fifty-Third and Sixth,” had been serving New Yorkers from their hot food cart since it had first appeared next to the New York Hilton in 1990. It
opened every night at seven o’clock and closed at four in the morning. The most popular dish, and what Frankel insisted Grant try, was a simple combination of chicken, rice, and pita bread with their famous “white sauce,” whose recipe the Egyptian proprietor would take to his grave.

  While waiting a half hour in the slow-moving line, Frankel explained how it had started out as just another Manhattan hot dog stand. The owner, Mohamed Abouelenein, had claimed that a frankfurter wasn’t a satisfying meal and switched to a Mediterranean-inspired menu a couple of years later. There had been no advertising; its popularity spread by word of mouth. Its first real appearance in the news had been in 2006 when a fight broke out ending with one man stabbed to death. The reason: cutting in line, naturally.

  “I’ve been coming here since high school,” Frankel said as they crossed the street with their stuffed-to-the-brim metal tins.

  Grant studied the concoction. “I think I’d be dead by now.”

  They sat on the edge of a fountain beside two kids wearing Hunter College sweatshirts. Frankel watched Grant dip his fork and told him to make sure he got a lot of sauce.

  “So?” the detective asked after Grant had taken a bite. “Pretty great, huh?”

  “Better.” Grant didn’t elaborate; he was too busy loading up the fork again.

  “They’ve franchised all over the country. But nothing beats the original.”

  “Coming from a people who take great pride in tradition, often to a fault, I would have to concur.”

  Frankel dug into his own platter. The next few minutes were spent making huge dents in their dishes. Frankel finally paused between bites.

  “Speaking of England—have you given much thought to what you’re going to do once the new year rolls around?”

  “Not really. For years I figured when the time came, Allison and I would get to do all the things we never got around to.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry,” Frankel said apologetically.

  “No. It’s a fair question.” Grant repressed a sigh. “Right now, I’m just praying this is all over by then.”