by Blake Pierce
“Is that so bad?” Mackenzie asked.
“For the world…no. But this is a fallen world. And it’s fallen because Man decided to disobey God. When you take the wrath and strictness of God away, you have nothing but a fake set of guidelines. But like I said…I did not fault him and he did not fault me. We were always civil about our disagreements.”
“Did you know any of the others?”
“Not well. I’d seen Pastor Woodall speak a few times. Once I went up at the end of service to ask for clarification on something. He was a smart man. Maybe too smart for his own good. He let intellect get in the way of his salvation, if you ask me. And Father Coyle…I spoke with him maybe a handful of times. I met him at a protest a few years back and we had a really good conversation.”
“What sort of protest?”
“An anti-abortion rally,” Hinkley said, rather proudly.
Don’t even take that bait, Mackenzie told herself. She then realized that it wasn’t bait. He was speaking as plain and as honestly as he could.
“Would you be able to provide your whereabouts for the last several nights?” Harrison asked.
Hinkley nodded solemnly, as if he had known the conversation was eventually coming to this. Without him saying a word to her, his expression told her that he knew she was eyeing him as a potential suspect.
“Off the top of my head, I can give you pretty specific details for every night up until about nine or ten days ago.”
“That would be great,” Mackenzie said.
“Well, I was in Virginia, down in the southeastern part, for three days last week. I’ve only been back in DC for four days.”
“And what were you doing there?” she asked.
“I attended one revival and spoke at another one,” he said. “If it helps, I’ve got the hotel receipts to prove it.”
He’s not lying, she thought. If I asked him to fetch them, he would. He’d do it right now and I’d have them in my hand within two minutes. And he’d have a shit-eating grin on his face about it the entire time.
“What about the last four nights?” she asked.
“I was here all of those nights. We had a Bible study three nights ago. It went on until ten or so.”
Mackenzie was about to ask a follow-up question when her phone buzzed in her pocket. When she saw that it was Ellington, her thumb hovered over ANSWER.
“Mr. Hinkley, would you mind showing me those receipts?”
“Of course,” he said. “One moment.”
As Hinkley left the kitchen, Mackenzie looked to Harrison quickly. “Your initial thoughts?”
“He seems like a creep but I don’t think he’s our guy.”
“Same here,” Mackenzie said. “One second,” she added, gesturing to her phone. She then answered the call with: “Hey. What’s up?”
“I thought I’d let you know that the patrols in front of those churches isn’t going to be as high of a priority as McGrath originally let on,” Ellington said.
“And why not? Does he have a better idea?”
“Well, it’s stretching manpower pretty thin. He may still have patrols outside of them, but it’s not going to take priority.”
“Isn’t he the one who wanted this wrapped up quickly before everyone on the Hill came crashing down on him? But he’s worried about manpower?”
“Think about it, Mac. What’s going to be more effective? A few agents actively out hunting for this guy or a few agents sitting still, hoping that the killer might just show up. Besides…he killed last night. The other murders have been spaced out. The odds that he’d strike tonight are slim to none. We can’t just sit and wait.”
He’s right, she thought. But still, she felt that it was a mistake. The Jesus Trail lead seemed solid and she felt that there had to be pay dirt at the end of it.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
She ended the call as she saw Hinkley already coming back down the hallway toward the kitchen. When he handed her the receipts, he did so with a crooked smile on his face. Here’s the proof of how absolutely wrong you are, that smile seemed to say.
She looked the receipts over and saw that they were legit. Harrison was looking over her shoulder at them, too, giving them an eye of scrutiny. Mackenzie knew that she could call the motel and make sure he had not checked in and then left just to come back to DC to enact his killings. But that was a long shot and it felt desperate.
It’s not him, she thought. You knew that a few minutes ago, from the way he spoke about Tuttle. So let it go and move on.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, handing him the receipts. “I’ll let you get back to your Bible study now.”
“Thanks. And Agent…it’s sort of sad, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“The fact that men who claim to believe so fervently in God would find someone who disagreed with them so alarming that they point fingers. It makes them feel comfortable. It makes it easier for them to turn their backs on their own sin.”
Like the splinter and the plank Whitter mentioned, Mackenzie thought…not without a hint of irony.
“Sorry if that upsets you,” Hinkley said
No you’re not, she thought.
“Agent Harrison,” Hinkley said, “please make sure you are always looking out for Agent White. Her outfit is tight-fitting, the skirt too high. And we live in evil times after all.”
“With all due respect,” Harrison said, “Agent White needs no protection.”
Mackenzie said nothing, though she did smile. She also offered a simple nod to Hinkley as she made her way back down the hall with Harrison following behind. She didn’t even so much as bother to look back into the small group of men huddled in the living room for the study. She walked directly back out into the night and increased her speed as she walked toward her car. She was rather glad that Harrison was with her. The mere fact that someone else was there with her helped her to stay grounded, not letting her discouragement get the better of her.
Even if he was innocent, Hinkley had unnerved her a bit. There was a certainty to him—an absolute assurance that he was right and the men who had been killed were all wrong. And if that was the case, then he surely would not have killed those men with glorification as a motive.
Maybe we got the glorification thing wrong, she thought. And if that’s the case, what else did we get wrong?
It was a troubling thought, and one that had her nearly peeling rubber out of Joseph Hinkley’s driveway.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Although it required some extra driving, Mackenzie left Hinkley’s residence and drove out to Monument Baptist and the District Church of God. Monument Baptist came first. The two were so close that when she stepped out of her car and onto the sidewalk, she could literally see the steeple rising in a shadow-shape of the night further up the street and on the other side.
She also saw that there was a decoy car parked in front of Monument Baptist, the sort of featureless 2005 model that was usually parked in the bureau parking garage. She raised her hand to the man inside, a gesture of acknowledgment. The figure inside returned it, the movement tired and listless.
Poor guys is bored out of his mind, Mackenzie thought. Maybe he wouldn’t be if this site was given the attention it should.
The night was dark—only a quarter of the moon was visible—so she used her flashlight to check the grounds. Monument Baptist was quite small, roughly as small as the tiny church she had met Benjamin Holland in. There was a small graveyard on the back of the property, something she rarely saw in the city, and it added a creepy quality to the whole scene. After a circuit of the property, she drove farther up the block to the District Church of God.
This church looked almost like a small store. A blacktop parking lot was perfectly trimmed out front. When she walked up to the large picture windows that looked in, she could see very little with her flashlight.
Maybe Ellington and McGrath are right, she thought. More than one
or two people stationed here might be a waste. The other churches had a sense of charm and beauty to them—even the much tinier Cornerstone Presbyterian. These two places…they’re like old forgotten monuments to a God people only kinda-sorta believe in.
Unsure of whether or not her encounter with Hinkley was simply making her feel defeated, Mackenzie knew that she needed to get back behind the files. She needed to be comfortable, her mind devoid of anything. Even if she was wrong about these two churches, she still felt like she was on to something.
But what?
It was a good question. And it was a question she intended to have an answer to before the sun came up. She went back to her car, waving at the man on patrol again as she passed. This time, he barely even raised his hand back to her.
***
Ellington was already home when she got there. And although he was getting ready for bed and made jokes about how they could both get the bed warm, she passed. She had to get to those files. Fortunately, Ellington knew all about her work ethic and did not take it personally. He also did not offer to help, knowing full well that she would turn him down there as well.
And he did not complain about any of it. He simply knew her that well, knowing that she had to work alone, in perfect quiet and with no distractions.
That’s why I love him, she thought. That’s why, if I get my way, I’m going to end up marrying him.
She pulled a soda from the fridge at 11:15 p.m. and started looking over the case files again. Crime scene photos. Forensics reports. Everything she could find from her physical files and in all of the emails and digital documents she had on her computer.
She saw the same thing in all of the photos. All of the men had been killed, stripped mostly naked, and crucified in a manner that depicted Christ.
But even if these are acts of glorification, it’s being done by a killer, she thought. And for someone who has no qualms about killing, something as seemingly simple as glory would be skewed.
She looked at the pictures side by side. Each murder…something was different at each one. There was just enough to indicate a purpose behind it. There was the faint cut in the side on Woodall, then the nastier, very clear gash in Coyle’s side. Also, with Coyle, there had been the personal items at the foot of the cross.
It’s like he’s building to something. And he’s taking his sweet time about it.
As gruesome as it seemed, she doubted that one more murder would satisfy this guy. So if they were to work on the assumption that the Jesus Trail approach was right, maybe there was more than one more stop along the way—the equivalent of Capernaum.
Or what if there’s a different course? Was there maybe some other well-known route that Jesus walked?
She spent some time on Google and came up with nothing. The Jesus Trail kept popping up over and over again.
By the time she was on her second soda, Mackenzie had resorted to digging up information on all four of the deceased. She saw a few articles on them, and Father Costas even had a Wikipedia page. On the page, there was a picture of him speaking from the pulpit, a fatherly smile on his face. His elegant church was behind him—the white colors, the ornate but tasteful columns, a strange but tranquil embossed piece of art.
A few minutes later she came across a YouTube video of Pastor Woodall. He was giving a tour of his church. The tour was co-led by a man Mackenzie had met on the morning Woodall had been killed—Dave Wylerman, the music director. As the video led the viewer through the sanctuary (a large room that looked more like a theater than a church), Mackenzie noted the differences between the interiors of Living Word and Blessed Heart. Where Blessed Heart was bright, highlighted in faux golds and natural light spilling in everywhere, it seemed that Living Word was more about mute colors and earth tones. Even the paintings on the wall of Living Word’s large entry room seemed to be dark and muted.
She almost missed it because it was so unappealing. But after a moment of hesitation, she stopped the video and backed it up ten seconds. She watched as Woodall and Wylerman walked through the entry room and then paused the video when the painting came back into view.
She studied it for a moment and shrunk the window size. She then opened up the Wikipedia page for Father Costas again and shrunk that one as well. She zoomed in a bit on his picture and then slid the windows side by side.
The painting in the background of Living Word bore a few similarities to the embossed art behind Father Costas in his picture.
Curious now, she sent a text to Harrison. She knew he was a night owl and that he’d likely respond as quickly as usual. Do we have ANY pictures of the interiors of Cornerstone or St. Peter’s?
While she waited, she ran a Google image search for Cornerstone Presbyterian, Washington, DC. She had to scroll for a bit until she found anything but even then, it was not much. A few pictures of a cookout for the Vacation Bible School last year. A picture of a visiting choir. A few images of Reverend Tuttle. Nothing else.
She received a text back from Harrison eleven minutes after she had sent it. Slow for Harrison, but not too bad considering it had somehow come to be 1:48 in the morning.
Had to forward the request to records, he replied. Case is sensitive, so they hopped on it. They’re sending you a mail with some interior shots of St. Peters from after Coyle’s murder.
She checked her email and sure enough, there was an email from Records waiting for her. It was titled St. Peter’s.
She opened the mail and clicked the link inside of it. She was directed to a bureau file sharing service where there were eighteen pictures of the interior of St. Peter’s. She didn’t make it past the second one before she saw what she was looking for.
In the background, behind the sanctuary and damn near centered perfectly in the picture, was a piece of faux relief artwork. While it did not appear to be the same style as what she had haphazardly seen in Living Word or Blessed Heart, there were many similarities.
It was far too much to ignore.
In fact, in that moment, it seemed incredibly important.
She looked at the clock and then at her phone. 2:03 in the morning.
She had no choice. Sure that the poor man would soon come to hate her very much, Mackenzie placed a call to Benjamin Holland.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Mackenzie was surprised and relieved to see that Benjamin did not look nearly as tired as she had expected him to be. It was 2:50 when she followed him back into the small library in the back of the small church. He seemed almost happy to be there, as if he might be returning to his favorite place in the world.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you meeting me at such a miserable hour,” Mackenzie said.
Benjamin shrugged as she plopped down in the couch. “I’m a bit of a night owl anyway,” he said. “I was just getting ready to settle down for the night when you called.”
“I’ll try to see to it that you return to your bed as soon as possible,” she said.
She was wearing her laptop bag over her shoulder. She slid it off, opened up her laptop, and pulled up the images she had been studying so hard in her apartment.
“While we are still strongly considering the Jesus Trail approach, there is something else I noticed in some of these images. At first I thought it might be nothing, but I don’t know…it seems a little too coincidental to me.”
“Well,” Benjamin said. “Let’s see what you have.”
Mackenzie spent the next few moments walking him through how she had come to find the images—of the piece of art behind Father Costas, the painting in Living Word, the faux relief art at St. Peter’s. They then studied the images closely. Benjamin seemed rather fascinated as he studied the pictures, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you recognize the artwork?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “I mean, I’ve never actually been in St. Peter’s before so I have not actually seen that artwork, but I do recognize it for what it is. All three of these pictures you’v
e stumbled across…they are three stages of the Stations of the Cross.”
“What’s that, exactly?” she asked, again not liking the feeling of being uneducated in any specific area.
“In Latin, it’s referred to as Via Crucis. It’s depictions of what Christ went through on the day he was crucified. There are fourteen of them—fourteen images that show several scenes from that day. It starts at the moment that Pilate condemned Christ to die and ends when he is placed in a tomb. There’s a somewhat unofficial fifteenth depiction showing Christ being resurrected.”
“And this is a well-known thing?”
“Not really,” he said. As if struck by an afterthought, Benjamin got up from the couch and started to look through the titles. He ran his finger expertly along the spines, looking for a particular one.
“If you yank some random person in off of the street and ask them about it, they’ll likely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he continued. “I suppose, though, if you live in Jerusalem, you’d know about it. There’s an alleyway in the city known as the Via Dolorosa that has these stations numbered. People can travel down it as a form of remembrance and prayer. Of course, as we see in these pictures, there are replicated depictions all throughout the world. One of the more popular, I believe, is located in Portugal.”
That said, he selected a book from the shelf and started thumbing through it as he walked back to the couch. By the time he got back to the couch, he had found the place he was looking for and handed the book over to Mackenzie.
She looked at the pages in front of her and saw a few different depictions of scenes from the Stations of the Cross. There was a gorgeous one in Portugal at the Shrine of Our Lady of Fatima. There was an entire colorful set located in the Portuguese church at Kolkata. As she flipped to the next page, she even saw pictures showing people reenacting Christ’s walk to Golgotha, complete with huge crosses strapped to the backs of the actors.
