The Knight

by Steven James

  Kurt suggested we reconvene in an hour, at 3:30. I figured that the Denver Public Library, which was only a couple of blocks away, would likely have commentaries that might include additional details and background on the stories we were studying, so as the four of us dispersed to do our research, I grabbed my laptop and hit the sidewalk.

  Ever since Tessa and Dora had arrived at the house, they’d been lounging on Tessa’s bed, going through the items in her mom’s memory box, and Tessa had been telling her friend stories about the objects she remembered.

  The girls were about to start reading the letters when Dora announced that she’d missed lunch and was starving and had to eat something or she was probably going to keel over and die.

  Whatever.

  But Tessa realized she was pretty hungry too.

  So, to the kitchen.

  Dora opened the fridge, grabbed a Sprite for herself and a root beer for Tessa. “So he won’t even let you see the diary?”

  “Not yet, no.” Tessa dumped some tortilla chips into a giant bowl. Set it on the counter next to a smaller bowl of salsa. “I need to find a way to convince him to give it to me.”

  Dora closed the fridge. “How are you gonna do that?”

  Tessa shrugged and picked up the bowl of tortilla chips to head back to the bedroom. “I don’t know.” Then she noticed that the bowl was almost as big as the pot of basil had been.

  A shiver.

  She set it back down.

  OK. Think about something else.

  She went for two cereal bowls instead, transferred the chips into them, and then stuck the big bowl back in the cupboard. She hadn’t told Dora about the flowerpot and what was probably—almost certainly—inside it. She didn’t even want to think about that. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go read those letters.”

  They grabbed their snacks and returned to the bedroom. But Tessa noticed she wasn’t nearly as hungry as she’d been a few minutes earlier.

  I found the collections of Boccaccio’s writings in the 853s on the third floor of the Denver Public Library, sandwiched between the other volumes of Italian prose.

  Of the sixteen books about Boccaccio or The Decameron, twelve were translations, two were comparative literature studies of Boc-caccio’s writings and Chaucer’s, and two focused on Boccaccio’s other works.

  None of the library’s five commentaries about The Decameron were on the shelf.

  I checked the computerized card catalog and found that all five were checked out, but when I asked the library’s director which patron had them, she told me she couldn’t release that information.

  “Yes, you can.” I showed her my FBI badge. “And I’ll need a list of everyone who’s checked them out over the last twelve months.”

  She shook her head.

  “This is a federal investigation.”

  “And this is a public library.” The woman folded her arms. She had a haircut only a librarian could love. “There are laws to protect people’s right to privacy, you know.”

  Technically, she was correct, but the right to privacy isn’t a constitutional right, just an imputed right, and can therefore be overridden for things such as terrorist attacks, national security, or imminent threat. “People’s lives are in danger,” I told her.

  “So are people’s rights,” she replied stiffly. “Come back with a warrant and we’ll be glad to help you.”

  My jaw tightened. Over the years I’ve requested more than my share of search warrants and I knew we didn’t have enough information yet to get one for the library records. Besides, it would take an hour just to fill out the paperwork.

  Forget it. You can always follow up on that later. Just get to the stories.

  I went back to the 853s and chose the translation with the most footnotes—John Payne’s 1947 translation from Italian into English, rather than the 1942 translation we’d downloaded off the Internet.

  Then, I began to read the ninth and tenth stories of the condemned book that had, by all appearances, inspired a man to kill at least seven people so far this week.

  Giovanni sat at his desk and thought about the next six hours, thought about the man he was going to abduct and the rather unsettling way he was going to die in story number six: the tale of the greyhound and the convent and the silk sheet that would be covered with soft, graceful rose petals the color of bloody sunlight.

  And so.

  Giovanni had the straight razor and hypodermic needles with him.

  He checked the time: 2:53 p.m.

  Thomas Bennett would get off work in less than two hours.

  And he would be dead in less than twelve.

  It was perfect.

  When the authorities had offered Amy Lynn Greer the chance to be sequestered in a safe house for the rest of the day away from the prying eyes of Benjamin Rhodes, it was an offer too good to pass up.

  She had her son along, sure, but that wasn’t such a big deal. The safe house was stocked with plenty of children’s videos and toys.

  And she had her computer with her.

  That was all she needed.

  Earlier in Rhodes’s office, the girl whom Agent Bowers had identified as his stepdaughter had become upset when she connected the pot of basil with the name John, and right after that the authorities had hustled the pot away, so Amy Lynn had spent the last hour researching connections between the name “John” and the spice “basil” while her son played with Legos and watched TV in the adjoining room.

  And when she found a poem by Keats about a head that was hidden in a pot of basil, she decided it had to be related to the fact that Governor Taylor had been beheaded on Thursday night.

  She could hardly believe how big this story was. Even though Sebastian Taylor’s death was receiving nonstop media coverage, as far as she could tell, no one else had made the connection to the pot of basil.

  The pot had been sent to her.

  The killer had contacted her.

  Had chosen her.

  She could write the story no one else could ever write.

  But she needed just a little more information to do it.

  One news commentator had mentioned that there had been two anonymous phone calls reporting the location of the bodies.

  Amy Lynn knew that sometimes audio files of 911 calls get posted online, so she took a few minutes to search for them but came up empty. Which meant, if she were going to find out what those tapes said, she would need to call her source at the police department.

  Not her husband. No. She couldn’t use him. The man she was thinking of worked in the EMS dispatch office.

  It was a friendship she’d never taken the time to mention to her husband. It wasn’t anything serious, they’d shared drinks a few times, met for coffee, nothing compromising, but it had paid off for her in three previous stories.

  With office buzz in the EMS department, who knows what he might have heard.

  She closed the door to the safe house’s bedroom to make sure the federal agent watching TV with her son in the living room wouldn’t overhear her conversation. Then she pulled out a notepad and called her contact’s cell number.

  He answered after one ring. “Ari.”

  “Ari. It’s Amy Lynn.”

  A slight pause. “Amy Lynn.”

  Dr. Bryant, her journalism professor, had taught her to always start by relating as a person, before ever relating as a reporter. “Otherwise your source might think you’re more interested in the story than in him,” he’d told the class, then he’d paused and grinned. She still remembered that. “Of course, you are more interested in the story, but knowing how to get the information you want without letting people realize you’re using them is the difference between good journalists and great ones.”

  “You doing OK, Ari?” she asked warmly. Considering his timorous personality, she’d always found it ironic that in Hebrew his name meant “Lion.”

  “I’m good.” He paused. “How are you and Jayson?”

  She noted that he
hadn’t asked about her husband, just her son, but she decided not to remind him that she was a married woman.

  “Just turned three. He’s talking now. He’s a real mama’s boy. Yeah, we’re good.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how do you do it? Working, mothering, everything?” It was a subtle compliment bordering on flirtation, and she noticed.

  “Lots of day care.” Get to the case. Ask him about the tips. “Hey, I heard about these calls the last couple days. The homicides. That someone tipped off the police.”

  Silence.

  “Off the record, I was wondering—”

  “Amy Lynn, I’m not supposed to—”

  “I know, I know. But I won’t use your name. I’ll just say, ‘an anonymous source,’ just like we did last time.”

  “Yeah, but last time they almost found out.” He’d lowered his voice. “I could lose my job. They’re really worried about leaks with this one, he’s been killing two people every day—” He cut himself short.

  “Two people a day?” She jotted the words “Mounting Death Toll Shocks City” on her notepad. “So they think he’ll kill again before tomorrow?” She spoke without thinking, slipping into reporter mode.

  “I didn’t say that.” Slightly defensive. Not good.

  “Of course not. No, you didn’t say anything.”

  “Maybe I should go.”

  Quick.

  “You’re right, Ari. Really, look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. The last thing I’d ever want to do is get you in trouble.”

  Wait. Wait.

  “Don’t worry about the story. Really. I can . . . It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Wait.

  More, a little more.

  “It’s really good to say hi, though. Good to hear your voice. I should probably go.”

  Wait.

  “Good-bye, Ari—”

  “Hang on.”

  Oh yes.

  “One thing.” He spoke even softer than before. “But I didn’t tell you, though. You have to promise.”

  This was good. Very good. “No, of course not. You didn’t say a word.”

  “I didn’t take either of the tips the guy called in, but I heard people talking.”

  She waited, pen poised on her notebook.

  “He said dusk was coming, that Day Four would be over soon, that he wouldn’t stop until he was done with the story. I don’t know what it means. No one does. That’s it. But don’t print it, OK? Just say something like ‘the police are investigating the calls.’”

  “I promise, I won’t print it.” It was a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, but it was the right thing to say at the moment. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt our friendship. You know that.”

  “Yeah, thanks . . . um. Hey, I’ve been wanting to give you a call. It’s been awhile since . . . Maybe we could meet for dinner?”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’d be great.” She needed to end this. She glanced at the closed door to the room she was in. “Wait, here comes my editor. I need to go. OK? I’ll call you.”

  “OK—”

  She hurriedly said good-bye, ended the call, and looked down at her notes: dusk . . . day four . . . he’s telling a story . . . two victims each day.

  Maybe the note John left in the pot of basil has something to do with the story the killer is telling.

  Slowly she wrote out the words to the note, thinking carefully about each one: “Must needs we tell of others’ tears? Please, Mrs. Greer, have a heart.—”

  Wait.

  She’d missed a word before. A crucial word—we.

  “We tell of others’ tears.”

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  Maybe John was in the media as well.

  He’s one of us.

  She pulled up the Denver News’ staff roster on her computer and began to search for anyone who might have recently written a story about dusk, or the fourth day of something, or someone who’d been off duty at the times of the murders.

  She would start there. Then move on to other media outlets until she found the man who’d sent her the flowers.

  I was deeply troubled by the two stories I read in The Decam-eron.

  If our killer really was reenacting the stories told on day four, when he came to the ninth tale he would commit one of the most shocking crimes I’d ever heard of.

  The tenth tale was less gruesome, but it left the door open for even more crimes.

  My time was slipping away.

  I checked out the copy of the 1947 translation of The Decameron and hurried back to police headquarters.

  Even though I was anxious to share what I’d uncovered about story number nine, I knew that in order to understand the broader context of The Decameron connection, we needed to start with the first story told on day four.

  That was Jake’s story and he was already waiting in the conference room when I stepped inside.

  Kurt and Cheyenne arrived less than a minute later, and the meeting began.

  39

  3:34 p.m.

  Kurt got things under way. “This guy has been escalating, and we have a lot to cover. Let’s be thorough, but let’s be concise.” He nodded to Jake. “Talk to us.”

  Jake glanced at his notes. “In the introduction to the first story, the storyteller Fiammetta says ‘needs must we tell of others’ tears,’ in reference to the goal they have of telling tragic stories on this day. John simply inverted the first two words to make it into a question directed at Amy Lynn.”

  “Since the words weren’t in order, an online search engine wouldn’t have found the phrase,” Cheyenne said. “Clever.”

  If there’d been any doubt at all, that reference locked in the connection between the killings and The Decameron.

  I caught myself tapping my finger against the table. Stopped.

  Jake went on, “This first story is about a father who has some men strangle his daughter’s lover. He sends her the dead man’s heart in a golden bowl, she pours poison over it, drinks it, and dies.”

  “And I’ll bet she’s found holding his heart against her own,” I said.

  Jake didn’t have to glance at his notes. “Yes.”

  I had a horrifying thought, but one I couldn’t shake: John made Heather drink a bowl of poison that contained her boyfriend’s heart.

  “Wait,” Cheyenne said. “The anonymous caller said that Day Four would end on Wednesday—that’s ten days after Heather and Chris disappeared. And there are ten stories told about others’ tears. So that means—”

  “He’s reenacting all ten stories,” Kurt said.

  Stillness climbed through the room.

  “Well,” Jake said at last. “I’m not sure how he’ll reenact the second story: it’s about a priest who pretends to be the angel Gabriel in order to have sex with a woman who’s beautiful but not all that bright.”

  “What happens to the priest?” Kurt asked.

  “He’s caught, humiliated, sent to prison.”

  “He’s not killed?” I said.

  Jake shook his head. “But he is left for a while in the forest, chained to a tree with a mask fastened over his face so he couldn’t call for help.”

  “The woman?” asked Cheyenne.

  “She survives too.”

  Kurt stared thoughtfully at the wall for a moment and then said, “I don’t know of any priests from the area who’ve been caught recently in sex scandals, but I’ll check with Lieutenant Kaison in Sex Crimes, and I’ll give Missing Persons a call.” He scribbled some notes on his pad.

  “All right,” Jake continued. “Third story: this one reads like a medieval soap opera. It covers a three-way love triangle gone bad. Really convoluted. In the end, though, one man is poisoned and a woman is killed with a sword.”

  “So that must be Ahmed Mohammed Shokr’s poisoning and the stabbing death of Tatum Maroukas on Wednesday,” Cheyenne said.

  “Those are my three stories,” Jake conc
luded.

  Cheyenne’s turn. She stood.

  “The fourth story obviously relates to Sebastian Taylor and Bri-gitte Marcello: a woman is dismembered before her lover’s eyes, then dropped into the sea, or in this case, Cherry Creek Reservoir. In the end, her lover gets beheaded.”

  “So,” Jake said reflectively, “the UNSUB dumps bodies where they can be found quickly, calls in tips, leaves notes.” He paused, looked around the room. “He’s a storyteller. He wants an audience; needs to tell someone of others’ tears.”

  “That fits,” Cheyenne said. “Story five is about the pot of basil.”

  Something didn’t click. The timing of the crimes was off. “Hang on,” I said. “Heather and Chris disappeared on Monday, but they were found on Thursday. If the killer is reenacting the crimes in order, they should have been found first . . . Wait . . .”

  “What is it?” Jake asked.

  “Remember the temperature in the mine? Forensics measured it at 42 degrees Fahrenheit when they tested the candles. The cooler temperature preserved the body and the heart.”

  “So they might have been killed on Monday,” Cheyenne said.

  “Yes. For now, let’s call the killer John. If he really is retelling the stories in order and if the priest isn’t supposed to die in the second story—”

  “He might still be alive.” Kurt finished my thought.

  “Right.”

  I felt a small thrill.

  Kurt stood. “I’ll put this into play right now; see if we have anything unusual—anything at all—involving priests this week.” He left the room.

  “Hang on, Pat.” It was Jake. “The first anonymous tip came in on Thursday; if John killed Heather and Chris on Monday, why wait three days before calling our attention to the crime?”

  “Who knows,” I said. “Maybe he waited to give himself a head start. Let’s not worry about reading his mind, let’s just focus on catching him. The first crime occurred on Monday; today is Saturday. That means he’s going to be reenacting story number six today.”

  Jake and I shifted our attention back to Cheyenne.