by Michael Beck
It was after I had escaped from my captors in Afghanistan in the summer of 2009. I had been shot twice and the hole in my leg had turned septic. I was delirious from my wounds and the ordeal of my internment. I hadn't eaten or drunk for days.
I remembered crawling into a cave the size of a coffin to escape the freezing drop in temperature at night. I had fallen into a restless, shivering sleep and dreamed of Jade.
"Watch out for father," she had said.
"It's too late for that. He's already dead. Who did it, Jade? Who did it?"
"Father's burning."
"No, he's not. He was good. He'll go straight to heaven. I'm sorry, Jade. It was all my fault."
How could I have forgotten that dream? Now, it all seemed so clear. I had misunderstood her entirely. She hadn't been telling me to watch out for dad. She had been warning me about Father Bailey.
Watch out for Father. Not a small f but a capital F. Father Bailey. And she hadn't been worried about dad burning in hell. Father's burning was Bailey with his thurible. She must have seen him and smelt the incense.
That's how Cupid was able to gain entry to his victim's houses. Who wouldn't invite a priest into their homes? Who would ever worry about turning their backs on a priest? And that was how he was able to lure all those girls into his car. What girl wouldn't accept a ride from an elderly, smiling priest?
Father Bailey was Cupid.
I found myself outside on the stairs of the church. Black clouds scudded across the sky, blanketing the sun. Parishioners still stood in groups chatting, while the few children ran among them like dogs in a herd of sheep. A gardener on a ride-on mower was going backwards and forwards on the church grounds and the smell of fresh cut grass took me back to my home.
Father Bailey was walking with Sister Immaculata across the grounds to the parking lot. The gardener stopped to allow them to cross. When they reached the car Father Bailey looked back at me and waved. I didn't return it.
CHAPTER 52
CUPID
So, the son was closing in on him. He had always known this day would come. It had taken longer than he had expected. He knew Tanner had been searching for him for all these years.
He had watched Tanner from a distance and seen his never ending search. The man's persistence made him tired. Why didn't he just give up?
Everyone else had. But Tanner never stopped, ceaselessly asking questions. Always searching. At times, he had to almost force himself not to leap out and yell, "Here I am! Over here! I've been here the whole time!"
But that would be defeating God's purpose. If God meant Tanner to find him, he would.
Sometimes he had been a spineless, sniveling coward and questioned his purpose. In moments of weakness, he had even wondered if he was doing the work of the devil, not God's. At those times he had wondered if he was evil and if he would ever see God. But no more. He knew what he was here for and he knew he was doing God's work.
God must be on his side. How else to explain how he had been able to go undetected for so many years?
But the son was closing in. It was no coincidence Tanner had come to church. Tanner hadn't been to the church in years and suddenly he drops in to Mass? He didn't think so.
Tanner either suspected him, or someone else from the church. Even from this distance, Tanner's hunger and anger were obvious. Tanner's eyes held a smoldering fire and his body seemed coiled, ready to explode.
Tanner was filled with hate.
He could understand that. After all, he had taken Tanner's parents from him. But he didn't hate Tanner. If anything he felt a certain regard for him. His parents had been the first, and as such held a special place in his heart.
He giggled at his accidental pun. Sometimes it would be good to share some of his special thoughts with a friend. Doing God's will was lonely work.
Tanner should be grateful. He could have killed the sister as well. She had been a beautiful little girl. He wondered what she looked like now?
CHAPTER 53
My Beetle was parked in a quiet, tree-lined, cul-de-sac several streets behind the church. Thoughts of my parents, Bailey, Bibles and incense were flooding my mind. I was distracted and when my foot hit a crack in the sidewalk, I stumbled. Which was when I heard the gunshot. Something struck the tree next to me above my head and I ducked down behind it.
I waited. Dogs barked and a car drove along the next street. I could still hear the distant throb of the ride-on mower back at the church. I was unarmed except for the knife I carried strapped to my ankle, so discretion was the better part of valor.
The front door opened on the house behind me and a gray-haired man in a dressing gown appeared. "Hey! What's going on?" he shouted.
I gingerly stood up and peered around the tree. No one shot at me. I pulled my knife out and searched for the bullet. I found it embedded in the bark at head height and pried it out with my knife. A .222 bullet. A rifle, not a handgun.
"Hey, what are you doing to that tree?" said the man on the porch.
"Tom Trunker, Tree Inspector, Queens Borough," I said, as I flashed my driver's license. "These trees are infested with termites. Have you been watering them?"
"What? Well... Yes. I water them every week."
"Cold, tepid or warm water?"
"Er...cold water. From the tap."
"That explains it. Are you trying to kill these trees? You know that is an offence against council ordinance B305 and you could be liable for a $200 fine?"
"What? Fine? I just watered it, that's all."
"Termites thrive on cold water. Only warm water should be used on these trees until the infestation is past."
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Well, all right, I'll let you off with a warning this time but see it doesn't happen again. I'll be inspecting these trees weekly to make sure you comply."
"Thanks, I appreciate that."
I went to my Beetle. The trunk had been jimmied open. I carefully studied the cul-de-sac before I opened the door. Someone had been inside. My papers, folders and sports equipment had been moved.
As I drove off the fellow in the dressing gown walked out of his house carrying a bucket. He held it up. "Warm water," he called.
When, I arrived back at Heavenly Falls, the Black Ghosts were waiting outside my Winnebago, each holding a BB gun.
"What's happening, Acilino?"
"Pilar was off exploring about five this morning and heard some noises in your Winnebago."
Pilar was only ten. I didn't ask the obvious question about what a ten-year-old was doing wandering around at five in the morning. Some things are best not to know.
"He came and got us and we could see two men moving around inside."
I stepped inside the Winnebago. It had been ransacked. Bedding, cupboards, papers, clothes were all strewn over the floor.
"They look for something, eh?" said Acilino.
I went to the shower and pressed a spot on the wall half way up. A slot opened in the floor and I reached in and pressed a button. The floor of the shower slid back revealing the safe underneath. The safe was where I kept the photo. The panties, of course, were at the lab. The keypad lights were still green.
"They did not find it?" said Acilino.
"No. They did not," I said, closing the shower floor. "What is the BB gun for?"
Acilino smiled.
"Tan, it was great fun. It was still dark, so we hid and shot at them through the open door. You should have heard them squeal. They screamed like girls. They ran out looking for us but, of course, couldn't find us. We kept firing. They were most angry and were running around like dogs with their tails on fire. Not that we would ever do that to Little Bear."
"Of course not," I agreed.
"No, we like Little Bear." I kind of got the feeling that was the only thing saving Little Bear. "The men went running down the road, so we followed them. It was really good. Like, how do you say? Shooting ducks in a barrel?"
"Fish," I corrected him.
He squinted at me. "Why would fish be in a barrel? And what fun would that be? No, I think it is ducks. Tan, I'm sorry you missed all the fun. Perhaps they'll come back and we can do it again?"
"Somehow, I doubt it," I said.
Acilino nodded soulfully. "That's what we thought," he said and went trotting off with his brothers.
The Winnebago was a shambles. My guess was Kyle King's 'press-secretary', Donovan with the rifle back at the church, and some of Kyle King's hired thugs for the burglary.
I wondered what had taken King so long? And what had he and the other boys done that they were so hell bent on hiding? Why had the other boys agreed to protect King?
More importantly, how was I ever going to find out what actually had taken place in that cabin fourteen years ago?
* * * *
Faith and Bear were waiting for me in my rooms at Special Forces Fitness Center. I hadn't wanted either of them to accompany me to the church. I had needed to look at Father Bailey's face on my own. I was sure if I looked him in the eye I would know.
Now I knew.
Faith was going over crime scene photos from the murders and Bear was on a laptop. "But what about this guy the police have a lead on?"
"His name is Bruce Grieves," said Bear. "He's a computer programmer, forty years of age and lives in Manhattan. Mole emailed us what the police have. Here's a picture of him."
Grieves had a skinny face, no chin, and thin lips. He was balding and his mousy, thin brown hair was brushed across his scalp in a lame comb-over.
"Not exactly Charles Manson, is he?" said Bear.
Faith gave him a derisive glance. "Looks like my French teacher from high school. He was scared of his own shadow."
"According to Mole, he wrote a number of letters to St. Mary's fifteen years ago, complaining that the church wasn't following the Bible's teachings closely enough. He also was a youth counselor for five years at the same camp where Geoff Symonds, the third male victim, worked."
"Cupid's not going to write lame, whining letters to the church. I still like Bailey," I said.
"He's sixty you said? Do you think he'd physically be able to pull off all these murders?" said Faith. "Remember, Symonds was found under the house. The killer probably had to carry him there."
"The killer relied on surprise to knock them all out. This fits in with Bailey. He gained access to each home by wearing his clerical clothing. Once the white collar got him in, he attacked them when their backs were turned. He's still a big guy even if he is a shadow of his former self. His hands are the size of baseball mitts."
"The clerical clothing also explains why teenage girls would get in a car with a stranger," said Bear.
"Did he act guilty?" asked Faith.
I thought back. "No, he never even blinked when I mentioned my parents. But there was something strange about him. Have you ever read about the Jonestown murders? Back in the late seventies Jim Jones ran some sort of religious cult in Guyana, comprised mainly of Americans. Over nine hundred of them died in one day from ingesting poison. I saw a picture of him once. You only had to see his eyes to know that there was something really off about him. They were crazy eyes. Bailey has the same eyes."
"Well, if he had crazy eyes let's go get him now. He must be guilty," said Bear.
"I think you're right, Tan," said Faith. "There are just too many coincidences. He knew your parents and was on the same Youth Counsel as Abrahams. He's a priest. We know those codes found in the dead girl's hearts come from the Bible. The priest theory explains how he was able to get the jump on each victim. And there's your memory of smelling the incense after finding your parents. It all comes back to the religious angle."
There also was the dream I'd had about Jade but I wasn't going to tell them about that.
"Something else," I said. "Remember the water found on the floor next to Abrahams? I never told anyone but there were water droplets on my dad's face. Cupid could be using holy water."
"Why would he sprinkle water on them?" said Bear.
"He was blessing them," I said.
"So he's blessing them before he kills? What a twisted fuck. Why?"
"It's like a ceremony, isn't it" said Faith. "Each man is killed exactly the same way. He knocks them out and lays them on the ground. He blesses them with holy water while he has incense burning. It's almost like a Mass."
"Last time I checked no one gets killed at a mass," Bear said.
"You're wrong," I said, slowly. "In a way someone dies at every Mass, don't they? Every Mass ends with Holy Communion, which is a kind of celebration of the death and resurrection of Christ. And look how each of the men has been killed?"
"Stabbed?"
"Yes. Not unlike how Jesus was stabbed in the side before he died."
"The MO all comes back to a religious motive," said Faith. "And who is more religious than a priest?"
"Are you going to give Bailey's name to Fulton?" Bear said.
I just looked at him.
"Stupid question, eh?" he said. "But you need to be sure before you move on him. You can't go knocking off a priest, and then find he's not guilty. It might not look good on your CV. It's a pity the police found no DNA at the scenes. That would have made it a slam dunk."
"That may not be necessary." Faith was leaning closely over the crime scene photos she had been examining.
"Have you found something?" I said.
She shook her head. "On the contrary, I've lost something."
"What do you mean?"
She pointed at several of the photos, the ones taken inside each of the murder victim's homes.
"The key is not what's there. It's what isn't there."
Bear and I both looked down at the photos and then at each other.
"Look," said Faith, impatiently brushing us aside. "This is the Tanners' living room before the murders and this one is after."
The before-photo showed me sitting with my parents and Jade. Mom and Dad had their arms across Jade's shoulders. Jade had a big grin on her face. The second photo was one of the crime scene pictures of my home.
"Where did you get the one of my family?"
"Bear had some birthday snaps from Jade's sixth birthday. But that's not the point. Can you see any difference?"
Bear and I looked again. Nothing.
"Look on the mantel." Faith's tone rose with impatience.
On the mantel above the fireplace were a number of photos, a clock and a small picture of Jesus.
"Now look at the crime-scene photo," Faith said.
"The picture of Jesus is gone," said Bear.
I looked at Faith with awe. "How the heck did you get the idea to check that?"
"I remembered what you said to me one time about sickos loving souvenirs so I thought I'd check."
"That's brilliant."
She ducked her head.
"But how do we know the killer took it," said Bear. "Tan's mom might have moved it when dusting."
"You're right. That's what I thought," said Faith. "So Mole hacked into Abrahams' computer and found some photos of his home. There was no point in trying the Symonds' home because a lot of it was destroyed in the fire. Here, have a look. This one, going by the date on the jpeg, was taken two weeks before Abrahams' murder. And here is one of the crime-scene photos. Look closely."
Bear glanced at me. "She's starting to sound like my wife."
"Can you see it?" Faith said impatiently.
I couldn't.
Then I did. "The rhinoceros figurine."
In the first photo a small, white carving of a rhinoceros stood next to a bowl of fruit on the coffee table. In the crime scene photos it was missing.
"Yes," said Faith. "Now, I know what you're going to say. That it might have been moved. But this photo was taken only two weeks before Abrahams' murder. And look here. I blew up the crime scene photo of the coffee table. Check that out."
Faith pointed next to the bowl of fruit. For a moment I wasn't sure what she meant and then I saw it
. Next to the bowl of fruit was an unmistakable dust outline where the rhinoceros had been standing.
"You saw how spotless Abrahams kept his home. You could eat off his toilet seat, for God's sake," said Faith. "If Abrahams had moved the rhinoceros, he would have dusted straight away."
"He's keeping souvenirs," said Bear.
Faith nodded at me. "You don't need DNA if you can catch him with his souvenirs."
"Where does Father Bailey live?" I said.
CHAPTER 54
"Why don't you just grab this fucker and put his balls in a vice? I'm sure he'll tell you everything you want to know then."
"This fucker happens to be a priest," said Bear.
Cap shrugged. "Sorry, I forgot the proper respect. Read him a Hail Mary first, then squeeze his balls."
Bear and I served under Cap in Afghanistan for five years. He might have gray hair at his temples but he was lean as a greyhound and as friendly as a mountain lion on speed.
"It might be somewhat embarrassing if we torture the respected local parish priest, crush his balls, and then find he hasn't done anything wrong," said Bear.
"Hey, he's a Catholic priest isn't he? Even if he's not the guy you're after he's probably been fondling kids since he graduated from Seminary College. And I didn't say crush his balls, just put them in a vice. A gentle turn or two is all it will take."
"You must be a great hit at grandparents' day at kindergarten. What do you do? Take war souvenirs for show and tell?"
"Yeah. Why?" Cap seemed honestly puzzled by Bear's question.
"I want to be a hundred percent sure before I go after this guy," I said. "If we don't find anything in his house then we'll think of other options."
"Balls in the vice time," Cap agreed.
We slipped out of the car that was parked in a side street around the corner from Bailey's house. It was only 7:00 p.m., but it was hardly as if we could wait for Father Bailey to go out partying. Bailey was attending a church meeting at St. Mary's tonight, so we had about an hour and a half grace. It should be more than enough. We crouched behind some thick bushes outside the old six-foot-high brick fence that ran around the two acre property. The sign on the locked metal gate said, Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering Convent.
