by Blake Pierce
His tone and grin made her realize that it was all coming from a place of love. Even the I know you think you’re hot shit comment.
“But this isn’t—”
“This thing…this you and me thing,” he said. “It goes beyond the bedroom. It goes beyond this feeling that I’ll go ahead and admit is very likely love. I’m in this with you. I’m going with you.”
“You think McGrath will even allow it?” she asked.
She had to admit…she liked the idea of Ellington being by her side when she would finally be able to put all of her attention on the Barker Antiques case. After talking with Peterson, she realized just how deep it went. It just made sense to go into it with a partner she trusted and knew she could rely on.
“If he doesn’t, we can always threaten to quit,” Ellington said.
“Oh, you sweet talker, you.”
She leaned over and kissed him. It was amazing how natural it felt, how normal.
“So, how do you think Hambry is connected?” he asked. “Any theories?”
“A few. There were always unfounded rumors about my father being involved in some shady stuff. I’ve secretly wondered if one of the reasons Jimmy Scotts was murdered a few months back was because the man who killed my father is maybe part of some generational thing. Like, maybe a family tree that skewed a little too hard. Maybe he’s raising his next generation to carry out whatever messed up work he was working on. It would explain the gap between my father’s death and the murder of Jimmy Scotts, I guess. And then there’s the vagrants…”
“What about them?” Ellington asked.
“Well, I don’t know enough about the cases, but vagrants being killed in an almost execution style would either suggest some sort of weird gang activity that would likely be drug related. Or maybe someone is just trying to send a message.”
“But what message? And to who?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s both things. Maybe if my father was involved in something he didn’t want his family to know about, it was drug related. Or maybe even weapons related. There were cases from back then of delivery trucks getting caught at the border, stocked with heroin, weapons, you name it.”
Ellington considered it and nodded his approval. “Yeah, it’s a theory, I guess.”
“And theories aren’t strong enough,” she said. “Which is why I’m shifting gears now. When we land, I’m one hundred percent on this priest case. I have to be. I have to have some sort of progress on something or I’m going to lose my mind.”
They held hands and enjoyed the silent hum of the airplane as they neared DC. She was pretty sure she drifted off once more during their approach, wrapped up in the safety of having him beside her. One moment, she was looking at their interlocked hands and the next, she was jarred awake by the landing gear contacting the runway.
“All of these little naps,” Ellington whispered into her ear, “and you’re bound to have some dragon breath.”
“I haven’t had a shower in nearly two days and I’ve been traveling far too much during that time,” she said. “The way my breath smells is the least of my concerns.”
As they unbuckled and waited for permission to get off of the plane, Mackenzie checked her phone. Just like when she had landed in Nebraska, notifications kept popping up as her service resumed now that they were on the ground.
She went over her texts first and the first one was enough.
“Damn,” she said.
“What is it?” Ellington asked. But the tone in his voice indicated that he already knew.
“Another body,” she said. “Another priest.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
After a while, the feeling of exhaustion had become just a minor irritation to Mackenzie. She now felt a lack of sleep in the same way some people dealt with a bothersome headache that came and went from time to time. When she and Ellington pulled into the rear parking lot of St. Peter’s Cathedral, it was 6:20 a.m. and Mackenzie had enjoyed about six total hours of sleep in the past thirty-six hours. She’d suffered through worse, but the jet lag made it even worse than normal.
The scene waiting for them behind the church was surreal. The first thing she noticed was a large black canopy that stretched from the wall of the church, stretching about three feet out into the parking lot. It stood about twelve feet tall, draped outward like some weird demonic Halloween decoration. A few cops were standing outside of the canopy, mixed in with a few other FBI agents.
Saw horses and traffic cones had been set up to block entrances into the back lot; Mackenzie and Ellington themselves had been ushered down the entering street by a policeman, as all streets leading to the back lot of the church had also been blocked off.
They walked directly to the canopy, where Yardley and Harrison were speaking rather animatedly to a police officer. Harrison saw them first, nudged Yardley, and pointed her toward them. After excusing herself from the officer, Yardley, with Harrison on her heels, met them at the front of the canopy.
“What’s with the circus tent?” Ellington asked.
“This one’s bad,” Yardley said. Her voice was stern and a little deflated. “We have a crew coming in to take it down.”
“Take it down?” Mackenzie asked.
“Just have a look for yourself,” Yardley said. She stepped aside to give them clear access into the canopy.
The entrance was just two sides of the canopy falling down and overlapping. Ellington had been dead on with his description. It looked exactly like a circus tent, only one that had been erected by a morbid and particularly demented carnival barker. Upon closer inspection, Mackenzie saw that the canopy had been constructed by steel poles that were bolted into the back wall of the church. It had been a hurried job, indicating that what waited for them under the canopy was bad enough to want the bureau to hide it from the public at all costs.
They stepped under the canopy and it was like walking into some strange underground chamber. Only this one was lit by two small floodlights that had been placed on the floor. They were angled toward the church, illuminating the gruesome scene that rested against the wall.
A huge cross had been propped against the back wall. A priest had been nailed to it in the same way the other three had been displayed. This priest had been set up to look exactly like the figure of Jesus Christ, right down to the crown of thorns and the thin white sheet covering his privates that was seen in all depictions of the crucifixion.
At the foot of the cross, there was a shirt, a pair of pants, a wallet, a half-used roll of Lifesavers, and thirty-six cents in change.
Quietly, Yardley and Harrison entered the canopy. Yardley came up beside Mackenzie and spoke in a low voice.
“Father Wade Coyle,” she said. “Fifty-one years of age. We’ve spoken to others within the church. He would have been here alone between the hours of five and eight, stationed at the confessional inside.”
Mackenzie nodded, still taking it all in. The top of the cross nearly touched the top of the canopy. The slabs of wood were massive, and Coyle’s feet were easily three feet off of the ground. For someone to have done this by themselves…it was almost impossible. They’d have to be determined and strong—and would have to have a very straightforward plan to follow.
She approached the cross and looked up at Coyle. The slit along the right side was much more noticeable this time. It actually looked as if it had intentionally been roughly cut. She looked to the hands, then the feet; the hands had been nailed and the feet bound, just like all of the others.
There are four now, she thought. It should be easier to decipher what’s important and what is not.
She went through a mental checklist as she observed the body. She did her best to observe every inch—a next to impossible task being that his feet were roughly three feet off of the ground.
The types of nails used are leading us nowhere, she thought. Forensics has come up with nothing there. Same goes for the bailing wire around the feet. They’re all too common to figure
out who might have bought some at a certain time. So that’s basically ruled out in regards to finding a lead.
It’s going to come down to the planning. To put this cross together and nail someone to it without anyone seeing it…the killer had to plan it. He has to know the church and the area. But to know all of the churches that are involved, he’s really canvassing this thing out.
So it’s going to come down to how the killer knows the victims and the churches. This is going to come down to relationships and connections. His ability to plan and carry out these murders without anyone seeing him or leaving any evidence—he’s far too careful. We could wait for him to slip up but by then…how many more would be killed?
She was barely aware of Harrison slowly coming up from behind. He looked down at the foot of the cross, at the scattered items there.
“You get the meaning of the things scattered at the bottom of the cross?” Harrison asked.
“Yeah,” Mackenzie said as some of the stories she’d heard in Sunday school came back to her. “When Christ was crucified, the soldiers and onlookers cast lots at his feet for his belongings.”
“So are we to think this guy saw Coyle as Christ?” Ellington asked.
“I think we have to consider it,” Mackenzie asked.
Someone else came into the canopy, entering with a little less silence than Yardley and Harrison. Mackenzie turned and saw McGrath coming in with a strut in his step. He did not look mad or upset, but very concerned.
“Well,” he said, “let’s consider it as quickly as we can. There’s a massive shit storm brewing on this. I’m receiving calls this morning that are making me uneasy. Whether we like it or not, this case is going to make national headlines. It also has the potential to be one of those cases that’s going to bring the religious zealots out of the woodwork. And once they come out, the angry and bitter atheists are going to come out, too. It’s going to get bad before it gets better, I can tell you that.”
“What kind of calls?” Mackenzie asked.
“The Vice President, for one,” he said. “He was here just yesterday to worship. Yesterday. And he chewed into me for the bureau not having caught this guy yet. And he also let me know that there are a lot of people on the Hill that are worried about this case.”
“So in other words,” Mackenzie said, “if we don’t wrap it up soon, we’ll also have a media and politics fiasco to contend with while working it?”
“That’s the long and short of it,” McGrath said. “But listen…I’ve come here personally to speak with Agents White and Ellington. Yardley and Harrison, could you please wait for me outside. I’ll debrief you as best as I can in just a moment.”
Harrison started walking for the exit right away, as dutiful as ever. Yardley was a little slower to move, though. Mackenzie understood her reaction; she felt like she was playing second fiddle, which was never a good feeling. She cast one final look back at the scene before making her exit back out into the parking lot.
McGrath stepped closer to Mackenzie and Ellington. She didn’t think the man had ever stood so close to her before. It was a little intimidating.
“Look. I have some information that isn’t classified, per se, but it would cause some bombs to go off at the White House and within Congress. And I think it might be information that could build a lead. I just got the info about an hour ago. In addition to the Vice President calling, I’ve also had calls from two congressmen and a senator. Through those calls, I learned something about Father Coyle here that isn’t exactly public knowledge.”
“Not more scandals of abuse and sexual misconduct, I hope,” Mackenzie said.
“No, not this time,” McGrath said. “I’ve heard the same story from two different sources now, and I trust both of them. Apparently, Wade Coyle had a serious beef with a man who nearly got on staff with St. Peter’s as a deacon. The man was rejected at the last minute—literally two weeks before he would have been given title of deacon here. And the news came directly from Coyle. There was some social media bickering between the two, which Coyle wisely stopped engaging in. But there was then an altercation outside of Coyle’s home a little less than three weeks ago. From what I gather, the altercation occurred about two weeks after the rejection. At least a dozen people in the neighborhood saw it.”
“What’s the connection to the people who called you?” Ellington asked.
McGrath shook his head. “I can’t get into those details. The most I’ll tell you is that there are certain scandals the Catholic Church has worked hard to keep dead. And sometimes they need some help with that.”
“So do we have a name for this rejected deacon?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yes,” McGrath said. “And I want the two of you—and just the two of you—to be as discreet as possible on this. Do whatever you need to do the moment you leave here. I want only the two of you speaking to this man and then as far as I’m concerned, I’m taking the leash off. Do whatever you can to wrap this case before it becomes even more of a nightmare.”
“How much time do you think we have?”
McGrath shrugged. “I’d say two days. Maybe three, but that would be pushing it. You know how news travels around here—especially bad news.” He sighed and whispered the next part. “The rejected deacon is a man by the name of Colton McDaniel. I’ll send you his address in a few minutes. And seriously…after that text, you go quiet. Update me when needed, but you two become shadows. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” Mackenzie said.
“How were things in Nebraska?” McGrath asked.
“Frustrating,” Ellington said.
“There are more questions than anything else,” Mackenzie said.
McGrath waved it away and shrugged. “I’ll request a report from the Omaha field office. For now, you two get going. I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down, okay?”
And with that, McGrath turned on his heel to leave.
“No pressure, right?” Ellington said, reaching out and giving her hand a squeeze.
“Right. No pressure.”
They walked out from beneath the canopy. As they stepped back into the morning, the sun just starting to cast light on the back lot, a work truck was being allowed to come onto the scene. The small crane on the back of it showed its intent—this was the crew that would be taking Coyle and his cross down.
As she and Ellington marched quickly back to their car, Mackenzie caught sight of Yardley and Harrison. Yardley was watching them go, doing what she could not to appear jealous. They exchanged a little nod of acknowledgment as Mackenzie got in the passenger’s seat.
“Ellington,” she said. “I know we’re in a hurry but I really need a shower. And coffee. Can we make those happen in the next hour?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You do kind of stink.”
And even that little jab failed to lift her spirits. She was too busy focusing on the comment McGrath had made to them.
I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down…
He’d never expressed such desperation before and now that he had shown this bit of vulnerability, Mackenzie couldn’t help but felt that she was going to do exactly that.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
They stopped by their apartment and were very professional about it. While Mackenzie took a shower and allowed herself a single minute to just soak and relax, Ellington put on coffee. Mackenzie toweled off, got dressed, and found a cup of coffee ready and waiting for her.
“Bless you,” she said.
“Sure thing. So hey…I’ve been on Twitter, looking at this exchange between Coyle and McDaniel. It’s interesting to say the least.”
“Anything that would point to motive?”
“No. Just the rejection in and of itself. But I’m seeing hints from Coyle’s account from what it might have all been about. Something about a past that would easily deter his duties as deacon. Of course, it’s all veiled. He was trying to be professional without calling McDaniel out by name.”
“Well, maybe McDani
el will open up about his past if he knows that Coyle has been killed.”
“How do you know McDaniel isn’t the killer?”
“Oh, I don’t. He might very well be. But I’m not going to jump right into that assumption just based on some bitching on Twitter.”
“Fair enough,” he said, checking his watch. “If we leave now, we can probably get to his house before morning rush hour kicks in…almost certainly before he leaves for work.”
She nodded and grabbed her coffee, already heading for the door. “What does he do anyway? Do we know?”
“He owns a small landscaping company. He only does it part time, from what I can tell. He’s writing a book on the side.”
“What about?” she asked.
“New Age mysticism and its effects on Western religions.”
“Maybe that’s a glimpse into that checkered past Coyle was hinting at,” Mackenzie suggested. And as the words came out of her mouth, something about them just felt right.
Maybe this is it, she thought. Perhaps it was simply being invigorated by the shower, but her mind was clearer, her hope for progressing on the case brighter. Maybe this is the one lead we’ve been looking for.
With coffee in hand and a restored motivation pushing her along, she stepped out the door behind Ellington and into a morning she hoped would finally yield some results.
***
They’d made pretty good time but just barely caught Colton McDaniel before he left for work. He lived in a respectable subdivision twenty minutes from Capitol Hill. It was a quaint house with a nicely maintained yard, the result of his profession. When Ellington parked the car in front of his house, McDaniel was loading a weed eater into the back of a small work truck with a decal along the side that read McDaniel Landscaping.
Colton McDaniel looked to be about forty-five or so. He was slightly overweight and had the slightly chubby cheeks that, a decade or so earlier, might have made him look younger than his age. Now, though, they seemed to hint at more weight to come as he got older.
