The Last Commandment

by Scott Shepherd

  The room went silent as Frankel wondered if Grant and Rachel were thinking along the same lines. They had spent all that time combing lists for a thief to be the next possible victim and the answer had been under their noses all along.

  Grant finally spoke up. “I never imagined he would stop at eight.”

  “Maybe he thought we were closing in before he could finish,” said Frankel.

  “Or planned it that way all along,” countered Rachel.

  “I suppose either is possible,” Grant conceded.

  “Silver certainly made good on what he told Monte Ferguson,” said Frankel.

  “Which would be what?” asked the commander.

  “Silver specifically said that you’d know when he was done.” Frankel eyed the crate one last time. “I’d say the man stuck to his word.”

  You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Commander.

  It practically leaped off the cell phone Frankel was staring at.

  They were back in Grant’s office and Frankel was scrolling through texts on the cell found in one of Silver’s pockets. It had already been dusted and fingerprinted. Two sets of prints were found; both belonged to dead men.

  Stanford Hawley and Prior Silver.

  Traces of the sergeant’s blood had been found on the casing as well and Frankel couldn’t avoid flashing on how it had gotten there in the first place. He willed away the disturbing images and concentrated on the text chains on the phone that Silver had purloined from his unintended victim.

  Not only did he find the chats the killer had with Rachel, there were subsequent texts to a different number.

  The one belonging to Monte Ferguson’s cell.

  Frankel realized Silver had used Hawley’s phone to contact Ferguson and make an offer the Mail journalist could clearly not refuse.

  I want to tell my story. Interested?

  The text chat had started shortly after Hawley’s funeral. By scrolling through it, they quickly pieced together how the interview published in the Daily Mail came about.

  It explicitly outlined Silver’s demands, those mentioned in Ferguson’s exclusive. The journalist was to show up alone and forbidden to contact the Yard; otherwise the interview was a no-go. The end of the chat shed light on why Ferguson would even consider meeting one-on-one with a serial killer.

  Ferguson: How do I know I’ll be safe? Why won’t you kill me when I step through the door?

  Silver: Because you haven’t violated one of the Lord’s statutes yet.

  Ferguson: You mean the Ten Commandments?

  Silver: Yes. Have you broken one of them?

  Ferguson: No.

  Silver: Then you have nothing to fear from me.

  That had been enough for Ferguson to take Silver up on his one-time offer.

  The chat concluded with a meeting time—six o’clock the following morning, Christmas Day. And Silver had provided Ferguson an address that turned out to be an abandoned warehouse in the East End that the MIS had just checked out.

  Not only was it the perfect place for a clandestine meeting (in an industrial section of London that was a graveyard on Christmas morning), it happened to be the same address the crate had been picked up from on Boxing Day to be delivered to the Scotland Yard commander.

  The coup de grâce had been the final usage of Sergeant Hawley’s cell phone. The search history brought up the package service’s website, accessed around seven o’clock on Christmas night.

  When Grant followed up with the delivery service, they confirmed the online order for a package pickup the following morning. The information had been entered digitally using Monte Ferguson’s Daily Mail account. They presumed that Silver had gotten the journalist to give him the name of the package service and account number. There would have been no reason for Ferguson to suspect or even care what the killer was going to do with it. The reporter just wanted to get the hell out of the warehouse and file the story that would change his career.

  “Unless Ferguson actually ordered the pickup himself,” suggested Grant.

  “Why would he possibly do that?” wondered Rachel.

  “We’d have to ask him,” said Frankel. “But we’d need to find him to do that.”

  Nearly an entire day had passed since Ferguson’s story had stunned London and the world, yet there hadn’t been a single peep from the journalist.

  Frankel wondered if the newspaperman was waiting for the news conference Stebbins had scheduled in an hour to show his face. He could easily imagine a smug Ferguson basking in the glory of having landed the only interview with Prior Silver and also being the last person to see him alive.

  Just one more ignominy to throw into his and Grant’s faces.

  As Frankel considered this and the upcoming presser, he began to share Grant’s feelings about his impending retirement only a few short days away.

  Frankel couldn’t wait for all this to be over.

  But Monte Ferguson was a no-show.

  It was the first thing Frankel noticed entering the packed conference room. Michaels, the Daily Mail editor, told him and Grant that he still hadn’t heard from Ferguson since their phone call the previous day.

  Stebbins started out confirming the death of Prior Silver and the surrounding circumstances. There were audible gasps at the revelation that the body had been delivered to Grant’s house. Frankel looked over at the commander, sandwiched between himself and Stebbins on the podium; he could feel a wave of embarrassment coming off him.

  Stebbins gave way to Jeffries, who played it close to the vest, saying it was suicide by poison, but refused to elaborate without more tests—even though he’d informed Frankel and Grant he’d found traces of strychnine in Silver’s system.

  When asked by an overanxious journalist if there had been a tell-tale mark on Silver, like the ones reported by Monte Ferguson in the already-famous interview, the FME looked over at Stebbins, who gave him a go-ahead nod.

  “We found the Roman numeral eight carved into his forehead,” said Jeffries.

  The room buzzed again. Stebbins stepped forward and thanked the FME, then proceeded to read aloud the “official” findings.

  “This is being deemed a suicide by Scotland Yard. Prior Silver had been the primary suspect in these murders. The forehead markings are consistent with similar ones found on seven previous victims. We also have confirmed that Silver was in New York City when the fourth and fifth murders were committed.”

  Frankel couldn’t help but marvel how smoothly Grant’s superior had taken the reporter’s question and segued it into the definitive statement by the Yard stating Prior Silver’s guilt. It also reaffirmed Frankel’s self-knowledge that he didn’t have the patience or desire to walk such a political tightrope.

  Then Stebbins opened up the floor for questions. For the next half hour, Frankel and Grant found themselves under siege as they had to face reprimands for Silver having outsmarted them right up till the moment he died. More than a few journalists wanted to know what their colleague Monte Ferguson had told them about his conversation with Prior Silver.

  “We’ll let you know after we’ve talked to him,” answered Frankel, the first time it was asked.

  The next time it came up, Grant took the microphone. “If any of you hear from him, you must contact us immediately or risk having charges brought against you for impeding an ongoing investigation.”

  Frankel could tell Grant was doing the utmost to control his temper.

  A journalist popped up in the back. “Are you saying the case isn’t closed?”

  Stebbins stepped back in and repeated his claim they were no longer searching for a suspect; they were tying up loose ends.

  “Detective Frankel?”

  The NYPD detective was once again lost in his admiration of Stebbins’s tap dancing skills when he realized he was being called on specifically. “Yes?”

  “Where does the New York Police Department stand on all this?”

  Frankel hesitated. The day had been so craz
y he hadn’t had time to check in with Lieutenant Harris back in Manhattan. But he knew NYPD would be thrilled at the thought of the Commandment Killer not darkening the five boroughs again.

  “We stand by the conclusions reached by Scotland Yard,” Frankel said.

  “Does that mean you’ll now be heading back to the States?”

  “Not right away. I’m planning on staying to see some things through.”

  Frankel couldn’t resist glancing over at Rachel, who offered up an appreciative smile. It wasn’t the first time Frankel had been reminded of the one very good thing that had come into his life since finding a dead priest impaled on a cross in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  Soon after that, Stebbins ended the press conference.

  Not a moment too soon as far as Frankel was concerned.

  And from the look on Austin Grant’s face, he knew the feeling went double for the Scotland Yard commander.

  “Not even one drink to celebrate?” asked Everett.

  “Do I look like I want a drink?” responded Grant.

  “You look like you could use a few actually,” said his brother.

  Grant looked gloomier than when he’d exited the press conference. His expression matched the weather outside, where it was raining in sheets.

  They had ended back up at the Wolseley for a late supper—but instead of it just being Frankel and Rachel, they had been joined by the Grant brothers.

  It hadn’t been planned.

  When the trio had returned to Grant’s office after the media bloodletting, Everett was there waiting. Being a Thursday, it was the night the brothers had their weekly chess match, but Frankel had heard Grant beg off before the presser when the Oxford professor had called to remind him.

  Having followed the proceedings on television, Everett said there was no way he was going to let the three of them sit around and mope when they should be out—if not celebrating, then at least breathing a collective sigh of relief that it was over.

  “Let me guess. You’re not leaving my office till we agree?” Grant asked.

  “You know what happens when I don’t get my way,” Everett said.

  Frankel didn’t get a chance to find out what that might be because Grant threw his hands up in dismay and told his brother to “just pick a bloody place.”

  At the restaurant, neither Frankel nor Rachel followed Grant’s teetotaling lead. They both ordered Old Fashioneds and agreed they were subpar to the ones Everett had made on Christmas Eve.

  By the time the appetizers had arrived, Everett had extracted everything about the demise of Prior Silver from Frankel and Rachel, while Grant remained mum the entire time.

  “Strychnine poisoning?” Everett exclaimed. “How Agatha Christie of him.”

  “It supports Jeffries’s timeline,” said Frankel. “Slow enough to ingest, then carve an eight into his forehead and have his body shipped to Austin the next day.”

  “Using Monte Ferguson’s delivery account. There’s an inspired touch for you,” observed Everett.

  The discussion naturally moved on to the missing Ferguson.

  “Where do you think the man could have got off to?” Everett asked.

  Grant spoke for the first time since ordering a salad when they sat down. “That’s what I want to know. When I find out, I have a whole bunch of questions.”

  “Such as?” wondered his sibling.

  “What was he thinking pulling a foolhardy stunt like meeting a serial killer by himself?”

  “Sounds like he was willing to do anything to get a story,” said Rachel.

  “And what was the deal with him and that package?” asked Grant. “I find it hard to believe Ferguson would just hand over his account number to Silver and toddle on his merry way.”

  “What other possibility is there?” asked Everett. “Ferguson ordered the crate himself, stuffed the dead man inside, and sent it to you as a belated holiday gift?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m thinking.” Grant shook his head. “I just know I’m not going to rest easy until I get some of these answers.”

  Everett gave his brother a pat on the shoulder. “I think you’ll be resting plenty starting next week, old chap—what with retirement around the corner.”

  “Couldn’t come a moment too soon.”

  “Does that mean you’ll reconsider my invitation to Zermatt for New Year’s?”

  “All I’m considering is going to bed and hoping I’ll wake up to realize this has all been some horrible nightmare,” replied Grant.

  “Well, aren’t we the life of the party?” Everett quipped. He turned to Rachel and Frankel. “You think you two can work on him to see if he’ll change his mind?”

  Frankel raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I was invited.”

  “Of course you are,” chortled Everett. “What young man doesn’t want to ring in the new year with his best girl at his side?”

  Frankel glanced at Rachel and could see her starting to blush. Truth be known, Frankel thought he might be getting a little red behind the ears as well.

  “It does sound rather fun,” said Rachel. “Don’t you think so, Dad?”

  The only response she got was a subdued hmmmm.

  “We’ll get back to you on that one,” Rachel told her uncle.

  An hour later, when they were leaving the restaurant, Frankel noticed that Grant’s mood had only dampened with the weather outside where, impossibly, it seemed to be raining even harder. As the Grant brothers exited to hunt down cabs, Frankel hung back beside Rachel near the coat check.

  “Maybe you should head home with your father tonight,” Frankel suggested.

  “You trying to get rid of me already, Detective?”

  “Furthest thing from my mind actually.” Frankel motioned outside. “I think the commander has a lot on his mind right now and you’re the only person in the world who can try and help him go a little easier on himself.”

  “You don’t know my father as well as you think. This sort of thing can go on for days,” Rachel said. “But I think it’s a lovely notion and even lovelier that you suggested it.” She leaned in and gave him a healthy kiss.

  Frankel immediately began to regret his selfless offer but stayed the course and told her he’d see her first thing in the morning.

  Rachel smiled. “So, I’m really one of those ‘things you want to see through’?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That earned him another kiss and yet another pang of regret.

  After putting father and daughter in the first cab that the doorman had been able to flag down, Everett suggested they share a second—should the drenched Wolseley employee be able to repeat the trick.

  “Convent Garden is right on the way up to Hampstead,” Everett pointed out.

  Moments later they stepped into a second taxi that the doorman had practically done a swan dive in the water rising off the curb to secure.

  As they settled for the short ride through the storm to Frankel’s hotel, Everett stared out the side window.

  Finally he spoke. “I’m concerned about Austin.”

  “I thought it was usually the other way around—with the older sibling doing all the worrying about the younger one.”

  “It’s a lot for a man to lose in a year. First, the love of his life. Now, the only career he’s ever known.”

  “The second was his choice.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think he’s ready for having all that idle time on his hands.”

  Everett turned back around and shook his head.

  “Especially now—what with you taking Rachel away to the States so soon after Austin finally got her back.”

  Frankel didn’t know exactly how to respond, so he just let Everett go on.

  “I’m sure she’s told you a little about how things have been with them the past couple of years,” Everett said.

  Frankel thought about how Rachel had opened her heart to tell him the truth about what happened to her mother. He felt that same hollow pit in h
is stomach.

  “Some of it, yes.”

  “Then you understand what I’m talking about,” said Everett.

  “I understand we both live in New York,” replied Frankel. “But I have no intention of ‘taking her away from her father,’ if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

  “It might help if you told Austin that at some point,” suggested Everett.

  Frankel had never seen the man so solemn. Clearly, Everett Grant held the notion of family near and dear.

  “I’ll certainly try,” Frankel replied softly.

  Everett gave him a grateful smile. “Rachel is indeed lucky to have you.”

  For the rest of the short journey, Frankel watched the pouring rain, deep in thought himself.

  When Everett and the cab dropped Frankel at the entrance to the hotel, he had reached a conclusion.

  If there were a way he could offer some sort of salvation to both Rachel and her father, John Frankel was determined to find it.

  29

  “How many times are you going to read that thing?”

  Grant looked up from his desk chair to see that Rachel had quietly entered the study. She was wearing an Oxford sweatshirt and royal-blue leggings, holding the door open with one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other.

  “Until I figure what keeps bothering me about it,” answered Grant.

  He lowered the well-worn copy of Ferguson’s interview with Prior Silver. He had been through it at least a dozen times just that morning.

  “Maybe the fact that he went off and did it without telling you?” Rachel asked.

  “That goes without saying.”

  She placed the teacup on a coaster with a Degas racing print on it. The Impressionists had been Allison’s favorites and she collected coasters with replicas of their works—“the closest we’ll ever get to owning one,” she used to joke.

  “It’s just all so perfectly pat. Religious mania begets a killing spree we haven’t seen since the Ripper prowled Whitechapel and then ends in the blink of an eye with a confession and dose of strychnine? Doesn’t it seem a bit schizophrenic?”

  “Sounds more manic depressive to me. Have you spoken with the medical personnel at the prisons? Might be interesting to get their read on the man.”