The Church Murders: A stand-alone thriller (Greek Island Mysteries Book 2)

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘Take my car. It’s in the garage. Here are my keys. Drive round the block and park behind my house. I have to go to Saint Gerasimos church. Antony too, but if they see us leaving, they will follow.’

  ‘Sure, right away,’ Ioli said and took the keys. As she drove out of the garage, she saw the paramedics wheel out the poor girl from next door. The police fought to keep back the gang of reporters.

  ‘Perfect timing, Ioli.’ She smiled and turned down the street. She parked behind the house and soon Sophia and Antony appeared from behind the fence.

  ‘Let’s go and pray. I want to ask the Saint to spare Antony and give me the next wounds.’

  ‘The next wounds?’

  ‘If more stigmata follows, it will be the spear to the side.’

  Ioli fastened her seatbelt, stepped on the gas and focused on the road, hoping her fingers would stop their sudden trembling. Antony buckled his safety belt and remained quiet during the short journey. Sophia, on the other hand, could not stop explaining to Ioli how Saint Gerasimos performed many miracles during his lifetime and even more after. She paused only to give Ioli the necessary directions. Soon, the car was turning left up a dirt road that led to a small, Byzantine, stone church. The old wooden door was shut and the place looked deserted.

  ‘Is it open?’ Ioli asked.

  ‘Father Chrysostomo never locks.’

  ‘Mother, I...’

  ‘What’s wrong sweetie?’

  ‘I sense something. I think it is better we went home. We can pray to Saint Gerasimo there.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, my boy. It is a church. We are protected here. This is our home. Come on. Out,’ Sophia ordered him with a peculiar smile. There was something off with the way Sophia spoke to him. A cold manner. She obviously cared for the lad; her words though, lacked real emotion.

  The door creaked at every inch it was forced to take. The air inside missing the freshness of the breeze outside. A scent of burning candles and oil lingered in the air. Sophia’s three fingers met and the sign of the cross was formed three times. She made the sign again at every icon she approached and kissed, asking for God’s blessing. Antony followed behind her, mimicking her every move. Ioli made her cross once and approached the central icon in the middle of the room. A large, heavy icon with two red, silk curtains, sat on a cherry wood easel.

  ‘Ο ΑΓΙΟC ΓΕΡΑCΙΜΟC ΚΕΦΑΛΛΟΝΙΑC,’ Ioli read the icon description. She gazed into the Saint’s eyes, which seemed to follow you around the church. Sophia stood behind her, placing her arms gently on her shoulders.

  ‘Ask him to spare Antony the pain.’

  ‘I don’t think I am the most suitable person...’

  Sophia grabbed her hand and brought her down with her. The two women knelt before the Saint.

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, we ask you, Saint Gerasime, blessed be your name, to spare your slave Antony from any further stigmata. Send them to me. Glorious may your name be. Glorious may be the mercy of God...’

  Sophia continued with her praise as Ioli’s head grew heavier and heavier by the minute. Her eyelids descended fast and she lost all control of her body. In a matter of seconds she collapsed into Sophia’s lap.

  Ioli awoke in a hazy environment or at least that is what her eyes were transmitting back to her brain. She squinted and tried to focus. Her head still felt heavy. An iron anchor inside her head, pulling her down. She jumped up in an effort to come back to full consciousness. Her feet did not follow her will. She felt two arms grab her and help her up. Her blurry vision got clearer by the minute. Sophia stood opposite her.

  ‘Thank heavens you’re well,’ she said.

  ‘What happened?’ Ioli asked and felt the blood drip from her forehead.

  ‘I guess Saint Gerasimo chose you instead,’ Sophia replied calmly. Antony stood behind the golden framed icon, shaking in horror.

  Ioli was lost for words. She wiped her face and looked down at her bloody hand. She took out her cell and turn her camera on. Soon her screen was reflecting an image of an ashen Ioli with the same marks as Sophia’s.

  ‘He gave you the thorny crown and spared Antony. Thank you. Antony? Antony, speak up.’

  ‘Thank you, Ioli. I told you, you were going to save me,’ Antony said quietly with an awkward smile.

  ‘Let’s get you to the hospital...’

  ‘No. No hospital. I am fine,’ Ioli finally spoke. ‘Just take me back to my hotel.’

  Sophia looked upon her. She disapproved of her choice, yet did not argue. She nodded and complied with Ioli’s wish.

  Chapter 45

  There is a certain magical aura floating in the air during summer nights in Greece. Especially on the islands. A feeling of living in a make-believe world. The heat of the day retreated with the sun, the sky dressed in sparkles, the moon came closer –or so it seemed- and shined brighter, the clean ocean breeze lingered carelessly in the air and nature’s sounds surrounded you.

  Sophia sat in her porch’s handmade rocking chair. Her late husband made it for her in celebration of their first summer in their –then- newly bought house. She had tucked Antony in, cleaned the kitchen and now relaxed in the company of the good book. No evil television ever entered through her front door and never would.

  She could read the Lord’s word for hours. But tonight she found it difficult to focus.

  ‘Vanity is a sin,’ she told herself off as her mind travelled to tomorrow’s long day. She was going to be interviewed by three different TV programs. All from major networks. All ready to transmit her story across the country. Her chance to spread the word of Christ. She had already spoken to news reporters in the morning, but they only presented the story for a few seconds at the end of the news or planted the story on page eighteen of the daily paper. TV programs were the way to go.

  ‘If only that silly cop would join me. Then, the story would be complete. We prayed to the Saint and he spared Antony, the poor, little, religious boy that felt God! And people always tend to disbelieve religious folk like me. But a woman like her, a police officer, they would have to believe...’ she spoke out loud like it was the most normal thing to be talking to yourself. She spoke in the same tone she would speak to a friend she invited over for evening coffee. Stress colored her last words. They had to believe.

  Sophia placed her Bible carefully on a side table and stood up. She walked straight to the kitchen, opened the fridge door and took out a tiny bottle of Propofol. She opened the top drawer and searched clumsily for her box of needles. She injected the pointy end of the syringe into the see-through bottle, held them up and pulled down, filling it with the anesthetic drug. Needle in hand, she strolled to her bedroom, opened her bedside table’s bottom drawer and pulled out her scarf with the carefully placed thorns inside.

  She paused outside of Antony’s room. She thought she would not have to put him through any more pain. Though, she had to be sure. Sure, that they all would believe. She turned the door knob and entered his dimly lit room. The curtains flew up and down calmly, moved by the breeze sailing in through the open window. Saved air conditioning for another month or so.

  Antony slept peacefully. She tiptoed near him and leaned over him. She injected him quickly, in the same way she had done before. He grunted and rolled to his side. She waited a few minutes for the drug to numb her boy and stood up, thorny scarf in hand.

  ‘Step away from him, you bitch.’

  Ioli’s voice scared her from across the room. ‘Your own son?’ Ioli had leaped into the room through the open window, gun first and looked upon Sophia in disgust.

  Sophia stood in shock. Frozen.

  ‘Step back, now,’ Ioli ordered.

  A faint word escaped Sophia’s pale lips. ‘How...’

  ‘I have a good sense of time lady. Besides, we entered that church with the sun low on the horizon and left with it nearly straight above us. You knocked me out for a good hour or so...’ />
  ‘I did what I had to,’ she whispered. ‘Forgive me, I just wanted to spread the Lord’s good word,’ she apologized, taking a small step closer with every word.

  ‘Stop right there.’ Sophia paused, unsure of her next move.

  ‘Your Lord told you to hurt your own flesh and blood? Your God is disgusted by you!’

  Sophia let out a small scream and jumped at Ioli. Both women fell back onto the wall. Both with a good grip on the gun.

  ‘You satanic whore. You will not stop the word from spreading,’ Sophia screamed, pushing the gun towards Ioli’s face. Ioli kicked Sophia hard in her stomach. Sophia bowed in pain, then bit hard into Ioli’s flesh. Both fell to the ground, struggling for control of the gun.

  Outside, Mrs Callas ambled down her driveway, blue trash bag in hand. A loud bang made her jump. Her hand let go of the week’s trash, while the other searched for her cell phone. As a can of coke rolled away and a smell of rotten chicken filled the air, the emergency operator answered.

  ‘Kefalonia Police, what is your emergency?’

  ‘I think I just heard a gunshot from my neighbor’s house...’

  Chapter 46

  Yesterday’s five hours of driving and four hours of interviewing relatives of the seven suicides, followed by two hours with the chief, were taking their toll. My back retaliated at every move, while my feet felt like ripping off my black, derby shoes and spending the day soaking in the tub.

  Piraeus port was in full swing. Cruise ships were flung out across the bay like God had just hit a gigantic piñata full of them. Buses arriving to pick up holiday makers from around the globe made traffic a living hell. Stuck there in limbo, I realized, I was going to be late for my final appointment with Ariadne. I could picture her judgmental eyes traveling to her wall clock, before coughing like a school teacher quietening down whispering pupils.

  The evening sun reflected off the glass building, standing like a beacon calling out to me to make it on time. So near, yet so far. As I was contemplating abandoning my vehicle in the moving-an-inch-a-minute traffic, the line of cars came to life and started to roar. If I could only make it to the green light on time.

  Orange. That will do just fine.

  I swirled to the right and entered the building’s underground parking lot. Sun light gave way to neon lights as I headed down into the building’s belly. In a hurry, I slid the car between a badly parked wagon and a cold, graffiti-filled, concrete wall.

  ‘Hold the door,’ I said, rushing up to the closing elevator doors. Three words I soon regretted. I spent the next few minutes listening to a whining eight year old who did not want to visit the dentist. The perfect soundtrack to my menacing migraine. I gladly exited on the 14th floor and felt sorry for the boy’s mother. She had five more floors to go. I took a deep breath, pushed open the main door, smiled at the receptionist and rushed into Ariadne’s office.

  ‘Sorry for being late. Traffic is murder out there.’

  ‘Nice choice of words,’ she enigmatically said while gazing at her wall clock. ‘I did not notice the time,’ she lied.

  ‘Analyzing me, already?’ I fell back into the armchair, aware of my sweaty forehead and racing pulse. At least, my new deodorant acted as an ally against the hot weather. The cool room helped too.

  Ariadne remained standing up behind her desk looking down at the morning paper.

  ‘Never seen you read the paper before,’ I commented.

  ‘Catching up on the political scene. Don’t own a TV,’ she said without looking up.

  ‘I hate politics. Isn’t politics just money talking?’

  ‘Hmm, I guess that’s one way of looking at it.’

  She walked over and sat opposite me, her beautiful legs crossed; her notepad on her lap.

  ‘You failed the test.’

  ‘What test?’ I asked, causing her lips to form a smile.

  ‘I wasn’t reading anything in particular. I was being silent. I wanted to see, if you could too, Costa.’ She always pronounced my name in such a caring way.

  ‘The quiet scares me because it speaks the truth...’

  ‘And what is your truth?’

  ‘I have had a hell of a year because of you.’

  ‘Hell of a good time or hell of a bad time? You have had your ups and downs, your joys and worries.’

  ‘Maybe you just gave me hell.’

  Her emerald eyes crawled all over me. Searching, analyzing my body language, my facial expressions. She calmly collected her red hair off her shoulders and collected it up into a pony tail. Her high cheekbones, reddish from the sun.

  ‘You are in a weird mood today.’

  ‘Want to play along?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘How about, today, I ask the questions for a change?’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Personal ones.’

  ‘Costa, that would be highly unprofessional of me. We are not at a cafe. This is my place of work. I...’

  ‘I insist,’ I said, pulling out my gun and placing it on my leg.

  ‘Are you mad?’ her cool undertone of a voice jumped up the decibel scale. However, it gave off the feeling of a well rehearsed show. No emotion colored her words. No muscles twitched.

  ‘Sit down, now!’

  ‘Costa, what is this...’

  ‘Shh,’ I placed my finger on my lips. ‘My turn to ask the questions. Remember?’

  She raised both hands slowly and said ‘You’re the man with the gun.’

  ‘Were you born Maria Kontopoulou in Trikala, on the 4th of March 1975?’

  ‘My past is my own. You have no right...’

  ‘Maybe, I should have been more specific. Let’s start with a few yes or no questions, before moving on to the why’s. Were you born Maria Kontopoulou in Trikala, on the 4th of March 1975? Yes or no?’

  She sat up straight. Her eyes, not flinching, gazed into mine. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you admitted to Trikala’s CareForGirls institution at the age of thirteen, then run by the church? An institution for the mentally insane?’

  ‘Well, that is not the proper term or...’

  ‘Yes or no?’ I stressed and picked up my gun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You left the institution at eighteen, legally changed your name, left for Germany and came back a certified psychologist.’

  ‘Do I answer to statements too? Yes. So you know my past. What are these shenanigans with the gun about?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Murder? I haven’t murdered anyone in my life.’

  ‘From what I have seen, perhaps that sentence could even be true. Innocent, though, you are not. Your actions have murdered plenty.’

  ‘Shall we stop beating around the bush, here? You come here to talk. Speak your mind freely. What is it you think I have done? What actions of mine have led to murder?’ She mocked the last word.

  ‘Giannis Keraunos.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Ariadne. Don’t play me for a fool. You are too intelligent to not remember a patient of yours. 1997, Katerini. You worked in the hospital’s psychiatric ward.’

  ‘Yes, I was a rising star back then. I worked miracles.’

  ‘Giannis Keraunos,’ I insisted.

  ‘Mr. Keraunos was admitted into the ward by court order. After a string of violent incidents, he was finally arrested. When I met him, he was in an animal like state, with clear signs of schizophrenia and had withdrawn from any type of human communication. Doctors had pretty much given up on him...’

  ‘Until, you came along.’

  ‘Until, I came along and got through to him.’

  ‘Got through to him, alright.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Three years later he was released on good behavior.’

  ‘After, you deemed him healthy.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Yes, because everybody in their right mind, joins a monastery, becomes an abbot, brainwashes the monks into believing he has a holy book and sets th
em on a course of death.’

  ‘That is not my fault. Religion got to him. That happened after me.’

  ‘Really? So you deny meeting him again?’

  Her head tilted to the right. She studied me.

  ‘There is nothing you can charge me with.’

  I smiled. ‘You believe, I am wired?’

  She signed a I-don’t-know with her hands. She was a lady that took no chances.

  ‘I would even bet, you gave him the holy book.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘After all, you do have a thing about religion, right?’

  ‘Are we back to the yes or no game again?’

  ‘I bet you loved treating Father Avgoustino during your holidays in Santorini. Got a nice little vacation house out of town, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I own property there. Is that a crime? Yes, pro bono, I agreed to have sessions with the priest. He came to me. Is that a crime too?’ She acted as if she was getting bored with me.

  ‘You twisted his mind. A priest quoting Freud and teaching Kate what a Cinderella Syndrome was. I bet you saw him frequently. I bet you played your evil mind tricks on him...’

  ‘You make me sound like a witch. I talked with the old man. His religion was oppressing him. He needed a release. All I did was to advise him to deal with all the sins he could not bear to hear anymore. By all means, I did not intend for him to set his sinners on each other.’

  I sat there, quietly, staring at her.

  ‘What?’ she asked, annoyed by my silence.

  ‘I can picture you in court. All dressed up, playing your act.’

  ‘And the jury declaring me not guilty.’

  ‘You have it all planned out, haven’t you? Was your family that bad? What the hell happened to you in that institution?’

  ‘Yes. You have no idea. Hell. There, I answered all three of your questions.’

  ‘No remorse? None, whatsoever?’

  ‘Remorse? A word for the weak.’

  ‘Not even for the seven people you convinced to take their own lives?’ I started to lose my cool.

  She looked around, uncomfortable with the tension. Her fingers ran along her legs, just before her arms crossed.