The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  Frankel turned to Rachel. “And what did you conclude? Other than the idea of sharing with the world the one thing we were trying to keep for ourselves?”

  “Besides the fact that you and my father have a real mess on your hands?” Rachel gave Frankel a slight shrug. “Not much.”

  “I thought we’d agreed you weren’t going to write this story,” Grant said.

  “Did you see it in print, Dad? If this was meant to be self-serving, I think an exclusive edition would’ve hit the streets by now.”

  “Then why bring it up when you did?”

  “Because doing it this way makes your lives easier. And lets the people in the city sleep better at night.” She shrugged again. “Well, unless you happen to be a killer or an adulterer. Then you might have to keep an eye open and double-lock the windows and doors.”

  Grant tightened. “Jesus. You’ve been talking to Everett, haven’t you?”

  Rachel didn’t exactly nod, but her eyes betrayed the truth.

  Meanwhile, Frankel was still trying to keep up. “Wait. Everett? Everett—your brother, who you first figured this all out with? That Everett?”

  “Yes. That Everett,” replied Grant.

  “He called me this morning—just as I was leaving for work,” said Rachel. “He said he was worried about you and repeated the suggestion he gave you and it made a whole bunch of sense.”

  “Suggestion? What suggestion?” asked Frankel incredulously.

  Grant told Frankel how Everett urged them to come clean with the Ten Commandments connection for the precise reasons Rachel had just echoed.

  “You could have told me what you were going to do,” Grant said to Rachel.

  “Frankly, Dad, I didn’t know I was going to until it happened. I sat and listened to Ferguson make both of you look like accomplices in these last two crimes by blaming you for not reaching the victims in time. Everett’s idea suddenly made more sense than ever.”

  She turned slightly to address both men. “You have to admit anything that simplifies your job and makes this guy’s process a little tougher can’t be all bad.”

  Frankel rubbed eyes that hadn’t gotten much sleep since Grant had flown in to town. “Some kind of fucked-up family you’ve got,” the detective told them.

  Grant thought about it. By supper time, every media outlet would have broadcast the story and it was certainly all over the internet by now.

  “It will make this fellow’s ability to move around more difficult,” Grant admitted.

  “So, what do we tell Harris?” asked Frankel. “Right now, he wants both of our asses in a sling.”

  “I could say we planned it that way,” Rachel suggested. She turned to her father. “You can tell him you took me aside before the press conference and fed me the information about the Commandments for the exact reasons we’re talking about. But the story you go public with is that I managed to figure out the connection myself and the two of you just confirmed it.”

  “And you’re not self-serving at all,” said Frankel with a slight grin.

  “Absolutely not,” Rachel told them. “While I’m sitting with you two, I’ve probably been beaten at my own quote-unquote scoop by at least two dozen bloggers and news organizations.”

  “Point taken,” Frankel said.

  “So, what do you think?” asked Rachel.

  Grant turned to Frankel. “Unless you have a better idea, I say we give it a try.”

  “If it’ll keep Harris off our tails and let us do our job, I’m all for it,” said Frankel.

  “Does this mean I don’t have to get grilled by your lieutenant?” asked Rachel.

  “I think we can cover you there,” Grant told her. “Provided we meet for dinner later.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Two meals in two days, Dad? That’s . . .”

  “. . . twice as many as we’ve had in a couple of years,” Grant said, finishing the thought. “If we’re going to continue this charade, it’s probably a good idea to make sure our stories line up going forward.”

  “Strangely enough, that makes sense to me.” Rachel looked at Frankel. “Maybe you want to join us, Detective? Bring along a whistle and a striped shirt?”

  Frankel let out another laugh.

  “Like I said—you’re one fucked-up family.”

  Harris seemed to go for it.

  Either the lieutenant thought revealing the Commandments to make the killer’s life harder and warn New Yorkers was a good idea or Harris had no one to replace the two top cops in the investigation.

  Grant suspected it was a bit of both.

  He offered up an apology for keeping Harris in the dark about the “plan” he’d worked out before the news conference with Rachel (whom he’d told to head home). Grant wasn’t sure which he felt worse about—apologizing for something he hadn’t really done or outright lying to the lieutenant. When Frankel said he was sorry as well, Grant figured they were both on the hook—so that made him feel slightly better.

  Harris had just handed them a revised official NYPD statement to the media when someone knocked on the door. “What is it now?” he barked.

  Winona Lopez, a female detective in her forties, poked her head inside the office. “Sorry to interrupt sir, but I have a call from a Sheriff Barnes in Far Rockaway. He says it’s urgent. Line two.”

  Frankel got up and started for the phone. “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Lopez. “He asked specifically for Commander Grant.”

  Grant’s surprise matched the look on the faces of the other two men in the room. He picked up the receiver and punched the appropriate button. “This is Grant.”

  He heard Barnes’s gruff voice on the other end.

  “Looks like we located the car your guy used to transport Leeds from Connolly’s to the old hospital yesterday.”

  “Where?” asked Grant.

  Barnes told him it was a blue Hyundai Sonata found that morning, dumped in a back alley. “It was stolen from a local woman yesterday.”

  “What makes you so sure it was used to grab Leeds?”

  “There are traces of blood on the passenger’s side,” said the sheriff. “And it looks like he left a message as well.”

  Can this possibly get any worse?

  “What kind of message?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” said Barnes. “But I’m fairly sure it’s meant for you, Commander.”

  12

  Barnes was patiently waiting when they pulled up to the mouth of the alley. It had been cordoned off with bright yellow police tape and, being the dead of winter in a beach town, only a few curious locals stood on the sidewalk across the street. Not that there was much to see, just a midnight-blue Hyundai Sonata tucked up against the wall of an ice cream shop that closed down late each autumn.

  The sheriff introduced Grant and Frankel to the Sonata’s owner, Josephine Tuttle, a woman in her late seventies. Poor Josephine couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just take her car home—wasn’t it bad enough that “some hooligan had swiped it” and left her stranded?

  “I told you, Mrs. Tuttle, we will return it once we’ve concluded our investigation,” Barnes assured her. “We’ll even give it a wash and fill up the tank.”

  “That’s the least you can do,” muttered Josephine.

  Barnes said it’d be helpful if she answered Frankel and Grant’s questions.

  “I don’t see what I can tell them that you didn’t write down in that little black notebook.”

  “They might have different questions,” pointed out an exasperated Barnes. “Commander Grant has come all the way from England. The least we can do is show him a little bit of American hospitality and help him out.”

  This opened the floodgates and soon Grant and Frankel knew more than either had bargained for about Josephine Stuart King Tuttle (she’d refused to drop her first husband’s name when she’d married Maurice twenty years ago). The names and occupations of her children (they’d all moved away and Grant was
starting to see why), her gallbladder operation (Frankel passed on looking at the scar), and Maurice’s dying three years earlier (“a summer cold that didn’t get better”) worked their way into the recital of events that led them to this alley.

  As for the theft and return of the Sonata, she didn’t have much to say. She’d parked it near the laundromat and had come outside with a full load to find it wasn’t there. When she hadn’t found her keys, she realized she must have left them in the ignition while struggling with her laundry.

  “And how long were you in the laundromat?” asked Grant.

  “Three loads, what’s that? An hour and a half, maybe?”

  “And you didn’t see anyone approach the car?”

  “Didn’t I just tell you I parked it down the street? Am I supposed to have X-ray vision and see through buildings like Superman?”

  “No, of course not. But wouldn’t it be wonderful if you did?” asked Grant.

  Josephine frowned. She didn’t seem to appreciate his attempt at a joke.

  Frankel jumped into the breach. “Did you hear the car start up?”

  The NYPD detective received a diatribe all his own—Josephine doing chapter and verse on the faults of industrial washers and dryers. “With that racket? I keep forgetting my earplugs. How am I supposed to hear a car a block away?”

  Frankel ended up apologizing as well.

  They finally got the whole story. She’d filed a stolen car report with the sheriff’s office. One of Barnes’s officers had given Josephine and her laundry a ride home. She’d been “stuck” there until she got a call that the car had been located.

  “And now I’m going to be stuck again,” she practically moaned.

  “I told you the department would provide a rental,” Barnes said.

  “It’s not the same. I’ve got my stations and seat arranged just so . . .”

  “I’m afraid it’s evidence in a crime, Mrs. Tuttle,” explained Frankel. “I’m sure the sheriff will return it good as new. He might even throw in an oil change.”

  He gave Barnes a pleading look. The sheriff nodded, anxious to move on as well. “I think that can be arranged.”

  This seemed to appease Josephine. Somewhat.

  “I’m telling you right now, I’m not paying for mileage.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it, ma’am.” Barnes indicated a uniformed officer standing nearby. “Officer Kelly will take you to the rental agency and get you settled.”

  Josephine emitted a harrumph and crossed the street without saying goodbye.

  Frankel and Grant moved with Barnes toward the Hyundai Sonata. “Kelly was the one who found the car. It’s not like we get tons of stolen vehicles this time of year. Having just been reported, my guys were keeping their eyes out for it.”

  Barnes slipped on plastic gloves, then dug out pairs to give Frankel and Grant. The sheriff nodded at the steering column. Josephine’s keys dangled from the ignition. “I imagine that’s what your fellow hoped to find when searching for a car. Didn’t even have to hot-wire it.”

  He pointed a gloved finger at the beige faux leather directly below the passenger window. Specks of red and a similarly colored small blotch were on it near the door handle. “Here’s the blood I mentioned.”

  Frankel took a closer look. “Hardly anything to write home about.”

  Barnes nodded. “We’re assuming he didn’t cut off the man’s head here.”

  Grant took his turn examining the stains. “The ME told us Leeds was hit twice in the head. The first blow probably happened right here.” He straightened up. “Delivered from the driver’s side; Leeds’s head would have hit that spot below the window. It certainly would account for the blood traces.”

  Barnes walked around to the driver’s side. “Fact is, Kelly didn’t notice the blood right away. He only started to look around more carefully after seeing this.”

  The sheriff pointed to a folded newspaper lying on the driver’s seat.

  The paper’s masthead could be easily seen.

  The Daily Mail.

  Barnes let Grant lean in and carefully remove it with his gloved hands.

  The now-familiar headline Serial Killer Takes His Act on the Road screamed up at him. Monte Ferguson had managed to get his name above the fold.

  Grant flipped the paper over to find the story’s copy and a few photos. One was from the Saint Patrick’s crime scene, another of the dead Father Adam Peters. There were also pictures of the two cops leading the investigation—NYPD Detective First Grade John Frankel and Commander Austin Grant of Scotland Yard.

  Grant’s picture had been X-ed out repeatedly with a black marker.

  Practically obliterated beyond recognition.

  Frankel peered over Grant’s shoulder. “Looks like someone doesn’t like you very much.”

  Grant was starting to feel like a genuine New York commuter. For the third time in four days, he found himself back on the LIE into the city. With rush hour approaching, it gave him and Frankel plenty of time to discuss the killer’s latest parting gift.

  “We’re getting stuff from this lunatic on a daily basis,” said Frankel, inching the sedan along. “I’m starting to think he’s confusing the Ten Commandments with the Twelve Days of Christmas. All we’re missing is an Advent killing calendar.”

  Grant looked down at the newspaper residing in a clear Ziploc bag. His own marred image stared up at him behind the black crisscrosses. “I suppose it’s pointless to try and trace where this came from.”

  “You can’t get it on every corner like in London. But plenty of newsstands carry international papers. Not to mention subscribers.”

  Grant surmised fingerprinting wouldn’t help. The Sonata had come up empty, everything wiped clean from the door handle to Josephine’s set of keys.

  They had walked the street near where the car was found, as well as the one by the laundromat where it had been stolen. The citizenry of Far Rockaway had been easier to question than Josephine, but their answers had yielded a similar result. Nobody recalled seeing the Sonata, let alone a just-released convict inside it.

  Grant wasn’t surprised. Not only did the killer cover his tracks, he had only left behind things he specifically wanted found. And it appeared that Commander Austin Grant was the person he was leaving them for.

  “You got an idea who you might have pissed off so much?” asked Frankel.

  “Do you know how long I’ve worked at the Yard?”

  “You told me last night,” replied Frankel. “Thirty-four years.”

  “And how many cases have crossed my desk during that time? Thousands.” Grant shook his head. “Not that we convicted and put away that many—but more than our fair share. I’m sure a few have gotten out over the years bearing some sort of grudge. But it’s not like I kept track of them for any reason.”

  “Doesn’t necessarily have to be someone you tossed in jail. Could be a loved one who thinks you ruined their life by doing so.”

  After leaving Barnes, Grant had phoned Hawley in London. He had caught the Sergeant just as he was leaving the Yard for the day. The commander had updated him on the newspaper discovery and asked the sergeant to start compiling a list of those that Grant had arrested over the years who were back on the streets of London.

  Now, he realized Hawley had to spread a wider net and would need help. Grant had an idea where that might come from. His thoughts were interrupted by Frankel.

  “If it’s really revenge, he’s certainly going to elaborate extremes.”

  “Especially as I’ve no connection to any of these victims. At least none that I know of. If, like you say, I’ve pissed him off so much, why such a roundabout way of going about things? Why not take a shot at me and get it over with?”

  Frankel indicated the Ziploc-bagged newspaper in Grant’s lap. “Seems to me he wants you suffering through all this.”

  Back in the city, they returned to the morgue to check in with Marcus. Frankel had worked it out with Barnes to get Leeds’s body t
ransferred. The sheriff was happy to turn over the dead parolee; his sleepy department was ill-equipped for a case this size and Frankel had caught the priest murder to begin with.

  Marcus had already ID’d the blood samples from the Sonata as type B, the same as Leeds. He wouldn’t have a definite match for a while, but that was enough for Frankel and Grant—especially coupled with the newspaper found on the front seat. As suspected, Marcus hadn’t found any trace material from the saw used to decapitate Leeds. But the blood on the Sonata’s door lined up with the bruise found on one side of Leeds’s head.

  Frankel and Grant returned to the precinct and ran into Little the moment they arrived. The media man looked ready to tear out the little hair he had left.

  He had a stack of different newspapers under his arm and thrust them in their faces. “Just got these.”

  Each had its own seventy-two-point headline.

  THOU SHALT KILL! FIVE AND COUNTING? MURDER, I COMMAND THEE!

  “You can only imagine the internet,” said Little. “It’s completely blowing up. Please tell me you’re closing in on this maniac.”

  Grant didn’t think telling the media liaison that the killer was leaving messages all over New York (and specifically for the Scotland Yard Commander) would make him feel any better.

  Frankel and Grant watched the harried man move down the hallway. Grant couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could hear Little mumbling to himself.

  “This is just the tip of the iceberg,” Frankel said, watching Little depart. He turned back to face Grant. “That sergeant of yours. . .”

  “Hawley.”

  “We need that list he’s been working on pronto,” said Frankel.

  Grant nodded.

  The restaurant Orso was on Forty-Sixth Street just west of Eighth Avenue, situated on the edge of the Theater District. It was always packed prior to Broadway curtains being raised and after they fell. But in between, Rachel told them, you could shoot a cannon through the place and not hit a soul. Plus, the food was good and you could hear what the other person was saying.