The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  The lot had about twenty vehicles in it, including a green tour bus. Stan parked the car, and I just sat there. Part of me didn’t want to get out. I’d be forced to confirm my worst fears—that Mia, who by all accounts was sharp, motivated, and a leader, lay inside the historical church, dead.

  “What are you waiting on?” Stan asked, one leg out the door.

  “I’m in denial. If I don’t go in, then I can’t confirm Mia is dead.”

  “We don’t know it’s her.”

  I turned my head and gave Stan a hard look.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about it on the way over here myself. I know it’s a possibility.”

  “I have this sick feeling in my stomach, Stan. I’m afraid for Raul and Consuela. And I’m mortified that I’ll have to be the one to tell them.”

  “I can tell them.” His voice was more subdued now. He released a tired breath. “Part of me doesn’t want to go in there either. I’m tired of seeing these crazy, sick homicides. And I hate like hell having to tell a family or friend about a loved one being murdered. But usually, later, when I’m a little less emotional, I ask myself: if not me, then whom?”

  I stared out the front windshield.

  “Maybe I was put in this place to do just that, to make sure I could do it in the best way possible. Although my best, I know, will still feel like their heart is being put through a shredder.”

  “I suppose.” My eyes were drawn to the front of the old stone church—two arches on either side of a thin cross.

  “After I tell them, and it’s the worst thing imaginable, this little seed comes to life inside of me. That’s my way of remembering who died, recalling my conversation with the family of the victim. I use that as motivation to find the killer.”

  I turned back to him, my expression softer. “I had no idea you felt all of that.”

  “I’m no robot, Ivy. I thought you knew that by now.”

  “I knew you were that way with Bev and Ethan. I just thought you put some distance between yourself and your work. I underestimated you, Stan. Again.”

  “I’ve been through a few things,” he said with a chuckle. “But you’ve been put through hell a hundred times over. Your strength to move past everything, to want to make a better life for all these kids, it’s pretty damn impressive. You make the rest of us want to do our part.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It’s true.”

  I saw a pack of gum in his center tray. I pulled out two pieces and handed him one. “Let’s get this over with.”

  After moving past an area that was cordoned off with yellow tape, outside of which were about thirty folks—some of whom appeared to be recording us on video with their phones—we ambled across a patch of grass. It was about fifty percent brown, the Texas Bermuda nearly in its dormant stage. The wind slapped my face, but it didn’t feel as cold as earlier. Or maybe my senses had dulled a bit.

  I noticed a number of uniforms walking the grounds, their eyes searching the grass. Looking for evidence. Three more uniforms milled about outside the front door to the church, and each greeted Stan with a tip of the hat and a “Sir.” Just as Stan put a hand on the mammoth wooden door, it opened. Detective Omar Moreno slipped outside.

  “Hey, Stan. One thing you should know.”

  “Ivy’s here too.” Stan flicked a thumb in my direction.

  “Yeah, right. Hey.” I gave him a slight head nod. Moreno and I had a not-so-great history. From my perspective, he was to blame for that. He was a know-it-all ass, who had doubted my sincerity on more than one occasion. I was sure he had a different view of things, but I didn’t really care to know about it. We’d basically learned to coexist, only because Stan had pretty much insisted on it.

  “How bad is it in there?” Stan asked.

  “It’s bad.” Moreno, who had a preference for wearing what Zahera and I called pimp suits, was following his typical fashion trend. The suit was brown and shiny, as if it were coated with plastic.

  “Any IDs on the two girls?”

  “Waiting to hear on that. The ME and his assistant are doing their thing in there. We’ll know soon.”

  I wanted to ask if he could describe their physical appearance, minus any fatal wounds, but I knew that would do me no good. It would only increase my anxiety. I just needed to get inside and see for myself.

  Moreno pulled out a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth. “Just a quick warning before you go in there. It’s, uh, rather emotional on the other side of the door.”

  “Who’s in there?” Stan pointed with his fake arm, his voice on high alert.

  “The priest and his choir director. Oh, and I came across the caretaker too.”

  “They’re potential suspects, Omar. Do I have to remind you of that?”

  “Two uniforms are in there as well, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. I know Father Vargas. My aunt dragged me to church here a couple of times a year ago or so.”

  “So you can verify his alibi at whatever time these murders took place?” Stan’s voice carried above the howl of the wind.

  “Dude, I’m not his mother.” Moreno shifted his toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “I’m just saying he’s a good guy. You’ll see. Feel free to grill him all you want. I just don’t want us to spend time where it’s not needed.”

  Stan put a hand on the door. “You coming back in to help out with the emotional issue?”

  “I’ve been dealing with it. Your turn now.”

  I walked around Moreno and followed Stan inside. The first thing I noticed was the horde of folks in one uniform or another at the front of the sanctuary. They blocked any view of the bodies. Even though their voices were muffled, the sounds reverberated off the arched ceiling and stone flooring. The gold painted walls were illuminated by sconces, with crosses affixed to the wall every three or four feet.

  “Rose, Rose, you must not take blame for this vile act.” I followed the voice to two people in one of the middle rows, where a priest had his hand on the back of a woman with gray hair. She was kneeling, her hands covering her face.

  Stan and I traded glances, then walked toward the front. Just as we passed them, that was when it started.

  “You must help us,” the woman cried out.

  Stan stopped and turned around. I did the same, but not before I caught a glance of a bare leg on the floor near the altar. Someone wearing a CSI shirt stepped in my line of sight and started taking pictures with his camera.

  The woman’s cries turned into a hacking cough. She either had bronchitis or smoked on the regular. “Rose, are you okay?” The priest glanced up at us, a look of quiet desperation on his face.

  “I’m fine,” she said between wheezing breaths. “We can’t pretend this is just another crime, Father Vargas. This isn’t about a kid breaking into your office and stealing last Sunday’s offering. This is the work of the devil. And we must refuse to give in to the devil.” She smacked her hand on the back of the pew in front of her. Then she jerked her head upward and stared at Stan. “Are you going to rid our church of the devil who has laid his roots right here in our sanctuary?”

  It almost seemed like she was asking him to perform an exorcism. I’m sure Stan had dealt with a lot of personalities over the years. As he’d mentioned in the car, he’d delivered bad news to family of murdered or injured loved ones before. But the bewildered look on his face told me he’d never come across someone like Rose.

  “Rose,” I said, taking a step toward the pew. I made sure my voice was set to calm, regardless of how she was about to respond. “We’re truly sorry for the horrible things that happened to those girls. And the fact it happened in your church can’t be easy.” I couldn’t help but turn and try to snag another look at the front. Just more law enforcement folks milling about. “Please know,” I said, turning back around, a hand to my chest, “that we’re just as human as you. It breaks my heart to see this. But Detective Radowski and his team at SAPD are dedicated to working this case and
doing their best to find the person who did this.” I put my hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Just give him and his team some space, and that will help expedite the process. Can you do that?”

  With the help of the priest, she got to her feet, grabbed my hands, and looked me in the eye. “Bless you, child. You knew exactly what to say to this old lady. To help me see light, where I only saw darkness. You are a blessing from above. God has plans for you. I can feel it.”

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I was at a loss for words. Her kind message touched me.

  Her eyes shifted to the scene up front, and for a moment, I thought she might fall back into her sea of despair. “You and the detective need to go do your job. I’m sorry if I took your focus away. I need to go clean up and make myself presentable.” She forced a smile and walked out of the sanctuary.

  “Thank you,” the priest said, shaking my hand. “I’ll be available if you have questions.”

  “It won’t be if,” Stan said. “More like when. Give us some time to review the crime scene first.”

  The Father motioned his hand in the shape of a cross, and then Stan and I walked to the front of the sanctuary to identify the two dead girls.

  11

  Before I stepped up to view the scene, I took a moment to look at the picture of Mia on my phone, my hand trembling. Please don’t let it be her. I looked up to the larger picture of Jesus hanging on the wall behind the flurry of activity in the sanctuary of Mission Concepcion and pushed out a couple of breaths.

  “Zahera would be proud of your breathing cadence.” Stan, who was referring to the fact that Zahera was an OB/GYN, was trying to lighten the mood.

  “Part of me wishes I was with her right now, wherever she is.”

  “Knowing her, she’s probably drinking a Mai Tai on the French Riviera.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man in a white coat lean over, and then I heard the sounds of metal dropping into a plastic toolbox.

  “Okay, Detective, it’s all yours.” The man in the white coat removed his rubber gloves, then adjusted his metal-rimmed glasses.

  “Thanks, PJ. Do you know cause of death yet?”

  “Appears to be multiple stab wounds that probably severely damaged several internal organs. That and loss of blood. But I won’t know the whole story—”

  “Until you do the full exam back at your lab. Right,” Stan finished for him.

  “I know I sound like a broken record, but let’s not forget, Detective, there have been murders where the killer’s act of rage gives the appearance that was the cause of death, when in actuality the death was more subtle. Maybe he slipped them a pill that caused a fatal heart attack, or shot them up with so much heroin that they overdosed.”

  I was listening to all of this, thinking the ME had quite the imagination, or had just seen so many twisted, sick crimes carried out that he’d be a great candidate for writing horror stories.

  “Can you stick around for any questions I might have?” Stan asked.

  “I’ll be right behind you and…” PJ looked in my direction.

  Stan quickly introduced me to the medical examiner for Bexar County. PJ Frazier seemed to sense my anxiety. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “I didn’t know her personally.” I was acting like it was a forgone conclusion that one of the girls was Mia. Part of me had, apparently, already gone there. Probably a subconscious internal defense mechanism to soften the blow once I was faced with reality.

  “I thought you might be family.”

  “I guess I’m a representative of the family.”

  “Attorney?”

  “Private investigator.”

  “Oh.” He sounded surprised, and not in a good way. I ignored it as he stepped aside.

  I took another look at the picture of Mia on my phone. Her smile made her seem so confident, as if her future was full of hope and promise. And not just aimless hope. She had an air about her that said she knew what she wanted to get out of life and she’d enjoy the ride along the way.

  “Ready?” Stan asked, moving forward a few steps.

  I glanced down and, after telling myself to ignore the blood, did a quick cursory scan of the two girls. One had blond hair and a nose ring. Not Mia. The other one had skin the color of wet sand, with lustrous brown hair. I could see she wore makeup. Her nose had a few sprinkles of freckles and sat atop a bloated face. The physical dimensions of her body were close to those of Consuela.

  My heart fluttered. I tried to swallow, but it scratched my throat.

  “Is it her…Mia?” Stan asked, a hand on my back.

  I couldn’t answer him.

  “Ivy. Can you tell, or do we need to call her parents for confirmation?”

  My eyes went back to the photo. That was when I noticed the hoop earrings in the picture. Mia had pierced ears. I lowered myself to the floor, my mind switching into a gear that an ME or mortician might have. I’d momentarily severed my emotions from what was all around me. I was looking for factual evidence.

  “Hold on there, Ms. Nash,” PJ said, moving down next to me. “You can’t get near the body. You could contaminate the crime scene.”

  I didn’t like being admonished, but I couldn’t argue his point.

  “I need to see her earlobe.”

  PJ pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You want to see if her ears are pierced?”

  I nodded. “It’s either that, or we have to call her parents and have them identify her. I’d rather not put them through that.”

  He rubbed his sizable forehead, as if I were asking him to cross some ME line.

  “I want to do this for the parents, to find out if this is Mia.”

  Stan shuffled his feet. “Can you do this for me, PJ?”

  The ME didn’t say a word. He pushed himself to a standing position, walked a few steps to his toolbox, pulled out some type of metal instrument, and then put on a pair of rubber gloves. “Excuse me,” he said to me.

  I moved out of the way as he leaned down and, ever so carefully—as if a house of cards might topple if he actually touched the ear with the instrument—lifted a lock of hair.

  I squinted. “I don’t see anything. Do you see a hole in the meat of the earlobe?”

  Stan had his hands—well, one hand and a fake hand—on his knees, leaning next to me. “I don’t see a hole.”

  PJ agreed.

  I took another glance at the picture on my phone, then I met Stan’s gaze. “It’s not her, Stan. It’s not Mia.” Tears welled in my eyes, and I backed up a few steps, away from the warm glow of the spotlights.

  Stan and PJ exchanged a few words while pointing at the bodies, then Stan joined me by the front pew a few moments later.

  “Are you relieved?” he asked.

  “Yes. But it’s still horrible. Their family and friends will be devastated.”

  “And I thought the scene at the field house was bad.” Stan shook his head.

  Taking in the full spectacle, I was suddenly struck at how similar it was to the crime scene at the field house. The bodies were at the base of an altar. They were also positioned at similar angles as the animals’ bodies were, and there was a lot of blood.

  I blinked a couple times then continued studying the bodies. That was when the differences between the two crime scenes became clearer to me. This was a church with an actual altar—not a makeshift one. The girls’ chests weren’t split open, although there was enough blood to make it seem like they’d been. They were fully clothed. The one who looked like Mia wore a dress that dropped to just above her knees. “Stan, do we know if the girls were sexually assaulted?”

  “I just asked PJ that question. From his preliminary exam, no. But he won’t give me a definitive answer until he does a complete exam back at his office.”

  For some reason, I felt better hearing that they likely weren’t sexually assaulted, but I shouldn’t have. The girls had still died a horrific death. And for what reason? What was their connection to e
ach other? Race, gender, religion, other affiliations? Nothing at all?

  I cleared my throat and quietly asked Stan the one question that would tie the two crime scenes together. “Were there any Satanic symbols?”

  “According to the CSI guy I just spoke with while you were in your little trance, nothing. Now, maybe the killer did leave a similar clue, and it’s just not as obvious as a scorched piece of artificial turf. So, they’ll keep looking.”

  I followed Stan’s gaze to the door at the other end of the sanctuary. Father Vargas was standing there, patiently waiting, staring at us. His calm demeanor freaked me out a little. I expected a little more concern. Maybe he was one of those who kept everything on the inside. Or maybe he was guilty of something and knew we would never figure it out.

  Now, why the hell did I go there?

  “Let’s start the questioning,” Stan said, signaling with his head for me to follow him. I scooted up next to him, and we walked down the aisle. “What are your initial thoughts?”

  “It’s really weird. On my way here, I was preparing myself to see Mia. Yet, before I knew this crime existed, my mind kept wondering if Mia had somehow changed overnight, or maybe she’d been duping her parents for some time. And maybe she might be involved in that scene at the field house, even though the two events—her disappearance and the sacrifice of the two animals—have no reason to be associated with each other.”

  “We still have hope that the video footage might turn up something,” he said as we moved closer to the Father.

  “The school video feed that Principal Peterson is looking over?”

  He nodded. “And maybe even the one-camera footage at the field house.”

  Just as we reached the priest with his tight-lipped smile, a scream echoed through the sanctuary. It sounded like Rose. I ran in the direction of the scream—down an adjoining hallway.

  “Ivy, wait,” Stan shouted.

  But I was already in the hallway and its incredible darkness.