“Commiphora gileadensis,” he read off the screen. “Says here it’s a tree that grows mainly in the Middle East. Used to make balsam or myrrh. Sometimes referred to as ‘balm of gilead’. Why does that sound familiar?”
“Sounds almost biblical,” Maureen said while her eyes were on her own screen.
“It does,” agreed Manny as an idea sparked in his head. He vigorously typed on the keyboard, and what he found gave him the answer. “That’s it! It’s not an accelerant, it’s chrism!”
Maureen stared at him with a furrowed brow and tilted her head.
“Olive oil plus myrrh,” he said, “or balsam, if you want. It’s chrism. What they call holy oil. This sicko is pouring holy oil on the kids.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“What did you come up with?”
“I don’t know. I typed in what I wrote down and got a bunch of stuff in a list. Which one is what I’m supposed to be looking for?”
Manny slid over and scanned down the search results. It didn’t take but a moment to find what he was looking for.
“Leviticus, chapter six,” he said, clicking on the link and reading, both to himself and out loud, the passage that it brought up, “‘They must bring to the priest, that is, to the Lord, their guilt offering, a ram from the flock, one without defect and of the proper value.’ Good God! ‘The burnt offering must be kept on the hearth of the altar throughout the night, until morning, and the fire must be kept burning on the altar.’ Guilt offering, burnt offering. The liver and kidneys shall be offered? What the hell?” The reading made Manny start to feel queasy as he pictured the bodies of the young boys burned and left on the stacks of wood. “This is almost like a full description of the crime scenes.”
“Type in that other word you have written there,” he told Maureen.
She slowly typed Urim into the search engine.
“Says here that Urim is generally accepted to mean ‘light’ in ancient Hebrew,” he read. “It’s starting to makes sense.”
“So, the guy is an uber-religious nut?” Maureen said.
“Looks like it, but that’s not entirely what I meant,” he said. He decided it was time to tell Maureen. “When you were having your nightmare in the holding cell,” he continued, turning her chair toward him so he could look at her straight on, “it was like you were speaking in tongues.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said impatiently. “But I already told you I don’t know what I was saying, so what about it?”
“Maureen, I was able to understand one word. It was the last thing you said before you woke up. You said, ‘Amen.’”
Maureen sat still for a moment, her eyes cast to the side, seemingly in deep thought. “So, I was saying a prayer before I killed those kids,” she whispered. Her face began to redden and her eyes became glassy.
“You didn’t do anything,” Manny reminded her, placing his hand tenderly on her knee. He knew Maureen Allen wasn’t a saint, that’s for sure, but in that moment, she was just as much a victim. “This sick bastard is the one doing it. I’m just sorry that you have no choice but to watch.”
“Wouldn’t be how I’d choose to spend my nights,” she said, giving out a morose laugh. She looked down and saw his hand on her knee. She picked it up and laid it in his own lap, giving him a warm smile as his consolation. “Thanks,” she said and wiped her eyes, erasing every look of distress from her face. “So, what now? I mean, now we know we got a religious whack-job on our hands. How do we find him?”
“We can’t assume anything,” he said carefully. “This could all still be about money laundering. They could just be using the biblical imagery to send a message to Tom Lowes and Sandra Locke. In any case, we might as well pay a visit to St. Mary’s.”
“Why?”
“Nobody would know their flock better than a shepherd,” he said, pleased with his eloquence. “Maybe the priest might be able to offer some insight.”
“What about that Urim word?” she asked. “You said that was Hebrew. Should we be looking at Jewish people, too?”
“I’d say it’s doubtful, but I’ll bring it up when I give my report to Agent Layton.”
“You still haven’t told him you’re working with me.”
Manny shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “He doesn’t need to know.”
“He probably already knows.”
She likely wasn’t wrong, but he still wasn’t in any hurry to have the conversation. The longer he could put it off, the happier he’d be.
“I think we can head out,” he said, changing the subject. “What are you in the mood for dinner-wise?”
Maureen shrugged.
She’s retreating back inside herself, he noticed. He foresaw a night of her on the couch, hogging the remote and drinking whiskey until she fell asleep without saying more than a few sentences. And he’d miss another ballgame. If he wasn’t so sure he’d lose her to the road, he’d drop her off at her place.
They headed out of the library and into the summer twilight. The heat of the day was still hanging in the air and hit Manny hard in the face as they left the air conditioning. He looked about, observing the small clusters of students who were just beginning to return to campus. For a moment, he found himself wishing he were back in school, sitting in a criminology class, before the real world had swallowed him up.
Maureen had gone ahead of him and was leaning on his truck with her arms folded. They didn’t exchange any words as he unlocked the truck and opened the passenger’s side door for her. She hopped up into the seat and closed the door before he had a chance to do the same. Manny couldn’t help but smile to himself at her defiance as he walked to the other side and got behind the wheel.
“We’ll go to St. Mary’s tomorrow,” he said to her as he backed the truck out of its parking space and headed out of the parking lot. “See how much they know about the families of the victims?”
He glanced over at Maureen, who simply shrugged and continued to stare out of the window with a faraway look in her eyes. He didn’t see the need to press her further. She needed time with herself to process and stuff her feelings back into the corner of her mind where she kept things like this. He didn’t blame her. She’d seen a lot, obviously, and with the nature of the person who had undertaken the killings coming into focus, anyone could be forgiven for being a little shaken. In his mind, it was still all about the money, but the twist of using Tom and Sandra’s religious beliefs to send a message was a very disturbing one.
“I make a pretty good steak,” he said to Maureen, trying to lighten the atmosphere of the truck’s cab. “What do you say we pick up a couple, and I do some cooking for a change? I’ve got some dried chilies and limes. I could inject a little Latin flavor into the night.”
“Keep it in your pants,” Maureen replied, without the usual bite.
“I’ll take that as a yes to steak,” he said.
As they drove along, Manny wondered if the FBI’s investigation was going along like theirs was. Surely by now, they had made the connection between the sale of the county building and Sandra’s payoff of her son’s medical bills. But had they understood the significance of the chrism at the crime scene and why the children were being burned? He would sure like to figure out for certain what language Maureen had spoken in her trance state on Saturday morning. There couldn’t be many people in Sycamore Hills who could speak it, whatever it was.
TWENTY-FOUR
Maureen stared up at the cross atop the steeple of St. Mary’s and frowned. Given all that she discovered about herself since the last time she was there, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to setting foot inside again. Whispering prayers over young boys that were about to be murdered, even if it was in her sleep and it wasn’t her literal hand on the knife, didn’t inspire confidence that she wouldn’t burst into flames upon entering. She knew the idea was outrageous,
but she couldn’t shake it. She wondered what part of hell was reserved for psychics.
A sharp jab into her back brought her out of her thoughts and made her jump. Detective Benitez smirked as he walked past, seemingly pleased with himself. She smacked him on the arm and watched as he stalked up the stairs toward the church’s front door, trying to not let her eyes stray too far down his back. Admonishing herself for even considering it, Maureen shook her head and jogged up the steps to stand next to the detective.
The door swung open as he reached for the handle, almost as if they were expected. The smiling face of Father Patrick greeted them.
“Ms. Allen,” he chimed, seeming to ignore the detective completely. “I’m glad to see you again. Have you come to firm up our dinner plans?”
Detective Benitez turned and raised an eyebrow.
Maureen ignored the detective’s look. “We’ve come to talk to you about something else, Father. This is Detective Benitez from the police department, but he’ll probably try to insist that you call him ‘Manny.’”
The detective held out his hand to shake the old man’s and nodded his hello.
“I suppose you had better come in so that we can talk,” the priest said.
The three of them moved into the entrance, allowing the door to shut behind them. Father Patrick seemed perfectly comfortable in the awkward situation, much more so than Maureen felt herself. She looked on uneasily as the two men held their conversation.
“Father Patrick,” the detective began, putting on his investigative tone, “you may have heard about the double murder that is being investigated here in town. Two young boys, found three days apart, burned on large pyres.”
“I have, sadly,” the priest replied. “I’ve kept abreast of the local news. Though, actually, it was your companion, there, who first brought them to my attention.”
Both men turned their heads to Maureen. She felt the color in her face drain and her feet back up one step.
“Don’t judge her, Detective,” Father Patrick said, reaching out and touching the detective on the shoulder. “I assure you, I just happened to run into her after each occurrence, and in my work, I’ve found that people are simply comfortable talking to me about things that are disturbing them.”
Detective Benitez gazed at the old man, and it appeared to Maureen that he was trying to study the man, like a poker player looking for a tell. Father Patrick’s face, however, betrayed nothing. He was going to keep their private conversations to himself it seemed.
“So, Detective,” Father Patrick said, leaning himself casually on a nearby table, “I suspect you have found something in your investigation that you feel I may be able to help shed some light upon.”
“What do you know about Commiphora gileadensis?”
“Though I am familiar with Latin, Detective, I’m afraid I’m not fluent.”
“Balsam? Or, if you like, Balm of Gilead.”
“Ah, of course,” Father Patrick exclaimed with a muted laugh, “I suppose it is rather obvious when you think about the name. Yes, it’s a plant from the Middle East, I believe. Balsam is the primary ingredient in chrism.”
“Exactly,” said Detective Benitez. “Thing is, we found quite a bit of the stuff on one of the bodies. The coroner’s office originally thought it was an accelerant used to start the fire, but lab reports confirmed it was a mixture of balsam and olive oil. It seems that the murderer covered the body and wood in the stuff before lighting them on fire.”
“Anointing them, you mean,” the priest said, the joviality of his voice disappearing.
Manny nodded as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook. “Father, the two boys were children of two of your parishioners. How well do you know Tom Lowes and Sandra Locke?”
“Lowes and Locke,” the priest said thoughtfully. “Yes, I’m familiar with both of them. They have attended St. Mary’s as long as I’ve been here, and I’m sure even before that. They almost never missed a Sunday. Quite devout Catholics, both of them. Fixtures in the confessional, which I must say is relatively rare in this day and age. Mr. Lowes is a member of our lay council and the Knights of Columbus, if memory serves. And I’m mostly familiar with Mrs. Locke because of her son. One of the first things I learned about my congregation upon my arrival was of the surgery that saved his life. There were many prayers for that little one, I can assure you. Some people called him difficult, but the boy’s soul was so gentle. I had no troubles with him in our First Communion classes.”
“Was Jacob Lowes in those classes, too?”
“Yes, now that you mention it. In fact, they just celebrated their First Communion at Mass about a month ago.”
“Father,” said Manny, finishing his notes and looking back up at the priest. “It’s come up in our investigation, that it appears Tom Lowes and Sandra Locke were involved in some sort of conspiracy to defraud the county of a substantial amount of money.”
“How terrible.”
“What would you say if I told you that it appears that the bodies of these two boys were staged in a manner suggesting an Old Testament sacrifice?”
“I would say that it’s a horrifying thought. Though, now that you mention the holy oil, I could see why you would think that.”
“Do you know of the reference in the Bible?”
“Of course I know it. Leviticus, chapter six. Though I don’t generally hold with the burning of sacrifices as the best method for atonement.”
“We’re working on the theory that there is someone else involved with the defrauding of the county,” the detective continued, mirroring the priest’s lean on the table, “and they are using both victims’ beliefs to send a message through these murders. They might even be someone else in the congregation.”
“I confess, Detective, I don’t intimately know everyone in my congregation, but I consider myself a fairly good judge of character. And I can’t think of anyone in my flock who could be capable of something like this.”
“Well, not to disregard your analysis of people, but is there any way that someone from the church could steal a large quantity of holy oil from your stores?”
“We keep it locked up in the sacristy. Although, I’m not sure we keep enough on hand at any one time to cover a burning body in the way you’ve described. And truthfully, my junior priest, Father Preston, handles the ordering and stocking of things like that. He’s in my office working on his sermon for this Sunday. I’ll go grab him and have him take you into the back to discuss the inventory.”
Father Patrick retreated around the corner to the side hallway. Detective Benitez blew out of his lips and paced back and forth in front of the door.
“Do you think Father Patrick had something to do with this?” she asked, surprised that she found herself even caring.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “We’re looking for a person with intimate knowledge of the Bible who might be tied to this church. But he’s being more than helpful, and I don’t want to think ill of a priest. Of course, I don’t have to ask how you feel about him.” The detective flashed his infuriating smirk at her.
She scrunched her nose in response.
“Oh, come on,” he said, “it’s pretty obvious that you like him. And what was that about dinner plans?”
“It’s not like that. It’s just talking.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. Everyone needs someone to talk to.”
The sound of a pair of footsteps coming around the corner prevented Maureen from replying, much to her relief.
“Detective,” Father Patrick said as he came into view with the young priest, “this is Father Preston. He’ll take you back to our sacristy and go over the inventory and the books. You’ll be in better hands than mine.”
“If you’ll follow me, Detective,” the young priest said, inclining his head and gesturing behind the detective. The two men headed off
around the opposite corner, leaving Maureen and Father Patrick alone.
The silence that hung in the air was palpable. Maureen stared at the old priest and he stared back, his face even with the faintest twinkle in his eye. If the situation were different, she might have almost thought him amused by her presence. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though doing that would keep her nervous energy from erupting onto them both.
“Well, this has certainly been an interesting visit so far.” Father Patrick smiled, sadly she thought, and slowly made his way into the nave of the church. Maureen followed behind.
“So, how did you become the detective’s partner?” he asked her, after kneeling in the aisle briefly and sitting in one of the back pews.
“Detective Benitez came and got me at my work a couple of days ago,” she replied, taking a seat next to him. “He seems to think that I can be helpful in solving the case, since the FBI has decided I’m not a suspect anymore. Or if they do, I guess they’re waiting for me to off another kid.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding as if he understood completely.
“It’s just messed up, you know?” she continued. “He thinks like you. That my dreams can be some sort of trump card against this guy.”
“So you’ve told him.”
“Yeah, I didn’t have much of a choice,” she confessed. “I guess I’m helping a little. Maybe. In my last dream, I was in a candlelit office or den or something, and I guess I was reading a Bible. That’s why the detective asked you about Leviticus. That’s what I was reading.”
“I see. That’s why you think the children might be burnt offerings,” he affirmed.
“Yeah, pretty much. But there was something else in the dream, too. On the table next to the Bible, there was an old piece of paper—if you could call it paper. It had writing on it but it wasn’t in English. I was definitely reading that too, but right to left instead of normal. Do you have any idea what that might be all about?”
Unholy Shepherd Page 17
