by Rick Jones
“She’s fine. She wasn’t screaming because she was being assaulted. She was screaming because she received a package.”
“A package?”
“More specifically…of what was inside it.”
“And what was that?”
“Literally,” he said, “the missing piece to Father O’Brien.”
Shari switched her course to Lashonda Jackson’s apartment.
* * *
By the time Shari reached Lashonda’s residence, there were already a number of cars there, including a pair of cruisers. Police officers were maintaining a perimeter outside of the building as people gathered along the fringe of the proposed boundary. Once Shari badged them and was allowed through, she made her way up the stairs, down the darkened corridor, and to Lashonda’s apartment. Metro detectives wearing suit coats milled about the apartment, along with CSI officers who wore paper-thin hazmat suits and rubber gloves. On the table being examined by these officers was an open box, though Shari couldn’t see its contents from where she was standing.
“Not a pretty sight,” said Darce Earl, as he joined her side.
She made her way to the box and saw the butchered remains of Father O’Brien’s genitalia resting upon pieces of bloodied tissue, with the color of the tissues now burgundy instead of cardinal red. The flesh was gray and mottled. And a stink was beginning to rise from the organ, at least enough for Shari to twist the features of her face into a look of distaste.
“There was a card inside the box,” said Darce. “Nothing spectacular about it. No special font or script. All it said was: For the sins of the Father.”
Shari seemed to mull this over for a short moment before asking. “And Lashonda?”
“In the other room,” he answered.
She nodded. “Did you know there was a third killing?” she asked.
“In Alexandria, Virginia. Not my jurisdiction.”
“No. But it is the third murder with the same M.O., which means that your department will be getting a memo by the end of the day dismissing Metro from further investigation. These homicides will now be classified as serial killings, which is under the complete jurisdiction of the Bureau.”
“That may be so, Shari, but until that memo comes through, jurisdiction of this case, and the case of Father McKenzie, still belongs to us.”
And this was true. Two killings in a particular district never amounted to a serial killing. But three within the circuit and with the ritualistic killings possessing the same method, then the ball is taken by the players in the Federal Bureau. To establish this, however, paperwork needed to run its course through red tape and the AG’s approval.
Then from Shari: “And this,” she pointed to the flaccid remains, “will be examined by the coroner?”
“For trace elements,” he answered.
Then she thought of Father Modesto’s missing hands, wondering if they would show up in a neat little package as well.
Darce Earl slid his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Look,” he began, “I know this is going to fall into your lap, eventually. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Perhaps in a few days once the AG looks at the reports. Who knows?”
“But?”
“Reports are always objective,” he said. “And sometimes a little subjectivity is needed to shed some light on the situation.”
“Subjectivity can also steer you away from the truth, if not blind you,” she told him.
“What I’m saying, Shari, is that I want to talk shop about this with you over dinner.”
“Darce—”
He removed his hands from his pockets and began to pat the air. “As a professional,” he cut in. “I just want to talk a little shop, that’s all. I think we both need to get out a little bit. At least I know I do.”
Shari gave him a sidelong glance. “Shop talk only?”
He smiled. “I promise.”
“When?”
“Tonight? At the Mastro’s? Say seven o’clock.”
“It’s pricey.”
“But well worth. We could go Dutch, if you prefer.”
She thought of Kimball and the potential of a call. “Maybe tomorrow,” she said.
Darce smiled. “Tomorrow then. At Mastro’s. Seven o’clock.”
“Seven o’clock.” Turning away from Darce to look at the genitalia which CSI was packaging on ice for forensic analysis, she added, “Tomorrow night then.” As she walked away, she entered the adjoining room.
Lashonda Jackson was sitting on the bed, the eighteen-year-old looking much older than when Shari had seen her the day before. Her face was as pale and slick as the underbelly of a fish. “Hi, Lashonda. You remember me?”
Lashonda looked up and shook her head. “Special Agent Cohen.”
“That’s right.”
As two police officers parted to give Shari an opening to approach, she said to them, “Can you excuse us, please? We need a moment.”
When they left the room, Shari sat on the edge of the bed next to Lashonda and looked at the nightstand where the eighteen-year-old had swept her drug kit into the drawer. Possession of drug paraphernalia in Washington D.C. was a crime that was punishable for up to six months in jail and a $1,000 fine. But Shari believed that jail time was a poor substitute for what Lashonda truly needed, which was rehabilitation and therapy.
“Obviously they didn’t find the drug paraphernalia,” said Shari. But why would they, she considered, since a warrant wasn’t issued to examine the premise for drugs.
“They wouldn’t have found anything, anyway,” she told her. Lashonda was embracing herself from the shakes. “I tossed everything away after you left.”
But Shari thought this to be a lie.
Then: “Lashonda, where did you find the box?”
“In the corridor in front of my door.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Not even after you saw what was inside? You didn’t even look out the window to see if anyone was looking up—perhaps to see if you received the package?”
She shook her head. And her body trembled badly.
“Nobody, huh?”
“No. The box was there. I picked it up. I opened it. Lying on top of the bloodied tissues was a card, so I picked it up and turned it over.”
“For the sins of the Father,” Shari stated.
“Yes.”
“Nothing else?”
“I told you and the police everything.”
“Did you tell them about Father O’Brien?”
“Just to the guy in the gray hair.”
Shari knew that she was talking about Darce Earl, the lead investigator on the O’Brien/McKenzie cases. “What did you tell him?”
“The same thing I just told you.”
Realizing that she had tapped Lashonda for as much information as possible, she reached a hand out to the eighteen-year-old and placed it on Lashonda’s bare forearm, which was ice-cold to the touch. “Lashonda, getting clean is not going to be easy. I can help you.”
“I can kick this myself.”
“No. You can’t. I’m not talking about jail, Lashonda. I’m talking about an inpatient program. Whatever problems you have, they’ll get you through them.” Lashonda, however, continued to stare at a fixed point on the floor before her.
“I said, I can kick this myself.”
Shari sighed as she brought her hand up and gently removed a lock of hair from Lashonda’s forehead. “Do you still have my card?”
Lashonda, without looking at Shari as she embraced herself against the chills, said, “It’s in the drawer. I haven’t thrown it away, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I meant what I said,” Shari told her. “You can call me anytime. Day or night. I’ll help you if that’s what you want.”
Lashonda didn’t say anything as her teeth began to chatter, and as sweat poured downward across her cheeks to the base of her jawline.
When Shari stood Lashonda didn’t bother to follow
her rise from the bed with her eyes, but kept them fixed on the ground before her. Though Shari hoped that Lashonda would reach out to her, she wouldn’t. Two weeks later in a crack-house that sat at the outskirts of Washington D.C., Lashonda Jackson’s body would be found with the rubber tubing wrapped around her bicep and a needle in her arm. “Call me, Lashonda.” It was Shari’s last plea to her. But Lashonda remained unresponsive as she kept her eyes downward.
As she left the apartment, Shari thought of Kimball and the Vatican Knights.
She thought of Lashonda Jackson and the hardships that would follow for the girl, with her demons at this point impossible to unshed. And in her mind’s eye she saw Fathers O’Brien and Modesto, with Father O’Brien swinging upside-down and spinning lazily in the air on a makeshift crucifix, nearly three flights above the pavement with his genitalia missing. And then there was Father Modesto who, with both hands missing, was pinned against the wall with nine-inch nails. The sites on both occasions were extensively gruesome in nature, images she couldn’t quite exorcise from her head.
As she got into her vehicle, she sat staring at the officers that cordoned off the area from onlookers. The news agencies were also on the scene, no doubt about to become a problem through media embellishments. Then she looked up at Lashonda's window and saw Lashonda looking out at her from between the sheets that covered the wide pane on the second level. When Shari waved to her, Lashonda allowed the sheets to fall back.
After starting her vehicle, Shari left the area with several thoughts continuing to weigh on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Archdiocese
Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.
Cardinal Bishop was sitting behind his desk inside the office of the archdiocese with the Vatican Knights and Sister Godwin situated throughout the chamber either sitting on high-back chairs or along the couch.
The cardinal was a portly man with doughy features and a wattle for a double chin. His eyes were gray, his hair white, and when he smiled he did so with perfect rows of teeth. But after discussing the Nocturnal Saints for a good part of the hour, the cardinal’s smile was not so prominent.
“Three priests dead,” Kimball told him. “And we believe that there may be more targets, though that’s speculation at this point.”
“And do you believe that I’m a target?” asked the cardinal.
“The pontiff has demanded a change of policy that centers on extreme liberalism. In the viewpoint of some, especially in the eyes of the Nocturnal Saints, they see liberalism as a turning point in religious values. He has asked the priests to give comfort to those who had abortions, which was the case of Father McKenzie.
He has spoken about the other matters which met with unfavorable responses by the cardinals, something I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Cardinal Bishop did. The current pontiff, though quite popular with the people, was at loggerheads with the cardinals due to recent admissions that went against the Bible, and telling the people that he did not want them to believe that
‘God was a magician who simply waved a magic wand.’ Such damning admissions going against two thousand years of teachings and unquestioned beliefs were being challenged by the one man who sat upon the most powerful seat inside the Vatican, and a sin in the eyes of the College.
The cardinal raised his hand and told Kimball to ‘go on.’
“To answer the question of whether or not you’re a target, Cardinal, only you can answer that. Father McKenzie’s crime was to provide aid and comfort to those who aborted children. Father O’Brien’s crime was his weakness for the flesh and the disregard for the rule of celibacy. And Father Modesto’s crime, as far as we can determine, though we haven’t been able to verify it, was thievery.”
“Thievery?”
Kimball nodded. “The authorities are examining his background as we speak.”
“What authorities?”
“The Federal Bureau. D.C. Metro. They’re investigating the cases.”
Cardinal Bishop stood from his desk, went to the window, and looked through the scrim weave of the sheer curtains. The day was nearing its end, he considered. And then from the cardinal: “If Father Modesto did do something that called for his execution, then how would the Nocturnal Saints know of his crime?” he asked.
Sister Godwin took the floor. “Because, Good Cardinal, they have policed the church for centuries. And they are not blind to the dark practices of some when people of position—and with all due respect, Cardinal, and without indicating anyone here with an accusing finger—turn a blind eye to ongoing improprieties. When others refuse to curb the issue, they will. They have eyes and ears everywhere. Maybe even within the church itself.”
The cardinal turned on her, though not with any sense of agitation. “Are you saying that I knew of Father Modesto’s crime? A man I knew by name only.”
Sister Godwin shook her head. “What I said originally, Cardinal, was ‘with all due respect and without indicating anyone here with an accusing finger.’ I personally believe that you knew nothing about Father Modesto’s alleged crime, since no one knows at this time if he committed one or not. But I’m sure the investigation will turn up something since the Nocturnal Saints, given their history, does not act without suggestive data to support their actions.”
When the cardinal nodded at this, the waddle beneath his chin wobbled. “And you believe that they’re continuing their vendetta against other priests, right here, as a statement to the Vatican?”
“Most assuredly,” she answered.
“Whatever skeletons the priests in this district may hold, and if they’re damnable enough to warrant an execution by the Nocturnal Saints, then they’re next on the hit list, should a hit list exist. But the statement to the pontiff, for sure, will not end until his ideologies do.”
Cardinal Bishop appeared to be thinking. Then: “But we have no knowledge as to who may be next?”
“Are there any priests being investigated for alleged crimes against the church?” Kimball asked him.
“Outside of Father O’Brien whom we suspected, no one. Father Modesto’s crime, if he committed one, went under the radar.”
“And there may be others, Cardinal, who are in the same boat as Father Modesto. Now that boat is beginning to sink. If possible, get a message out to the clerics in the area. Inform them of the dangers. If they believe their lives may be in jeopardy no matter the reason with no questions asked, have them come to the archdiocese. We can protect them here.”
“No one wants to admit their sins,” the cardinal answered. “Especially in the eyes of God.”
As silence fell over the room like a pall, the cardinal eventually dismissed himself after reiterating the fact that he would assist the Vatican Knights in any way possible.
After he left, Kimball went to the window and parted the drapes. A block away sat the olive-green sedan along with its two occupants, both men watching.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Archdiocese
Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.
In a small conference room inside the archdiocese, the Vatican Knights were sitting in council without Sister Godwin present.
“I saw them, too,” said Isaiah. “When we got off the plane. But I took them to be TSA.”
“Maybe,” said Kimball. “When our unit broke up while on the way to the archdiocese, they continued to follow Shari and me. So I’m beginning to wonder if I’m the target, since Shari left the scene and they remained behind.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” said Jeremiah.
Kimball nodded. “After the sun goes down,” he said, “we will find out.” Then Kimball discussed in-depth the plan of operation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.
The sun had set and the olive-green sedan was still there, sitting under a cone of light that had been cast from a streetlamp.
About fifty feet from the archdiocese, Kimball and hi
s team observed the vehicle from the blind of surrounding shrubbery that was close to the car. The windows were up as a light drizzle began to fall, the panes dappled with drops. “Everybody up for this?” Kimball asked, though the question was rhetorical. Isaiah was to his left. And Jeremiah and Elijah hunkered close by with suppressed rifles.
“I’ll come up on the passenger side,” Kimball whispered. “Isaiah will watch the driver. Jeremiah and Elijah will pin them in the crosshairs should this go sideways.”
Kimball got on his phone and dialed a quick-call number. Shari answered.
“Can you be here in fifteen minutes?” he asked her.
“Close to it. Why?”
“We’re about to get some answers,” he told her.
“Kimball, what’s going on?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. Then he hung up.
* * *
The darkness was their ally as Kimball and Isaiah moved prudently through the brush, making it as far as a few vehicles behind the sedan. With Kimball low to the ground, he came up alongside the vehicles parked along the street and made his way toward the olive-green car, which looked black underneath the sodium vapor lamps. From behind he could see two heads, nothing but black shapes as they bobbed occasionally as if they were having a discussion. When Kimball was upon the passenger side window, he got to his full height and wrapped a knuckle on the pane, startling both driver and passenger. Even through the rain-speckled window, Kimball could read the passenger’s lips mouth a profane word that was a synonym for defecation.
“You mind rolling down your window,” Kimball told him.
The passenger did so, but only enough so that the top of the pane stopped halfway down. “Something I can help you with?” he asked.
Kimball looked inside the vehicle, then at the passenger. “I couldn’t help but notice that the two of you have been sitting here for most of the day. There a reason for that?”
The passenger looked at the cleric’s band inside of Kimball’s collar, then into Kimball’s eyes. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, pal,” he said, then he started to roll the window up.
