The 7 She Saw (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  “Does Sofia have system admin access to the city’s databases?” I ask.

  “She’s the ME. Of course she does,” he replies. “But I’m telling you, she’s as innocent of anything as I am. If her reports are being altered, she’s being framed as well.”

  “I need a list of anybody, past and present, who’s had that sort of access,” I say. “Even if you don’t think they’re involved, I need them on that list, Sheriff. This is not the time to be holding anything back. I’ve got enough to convene a grand jury as it is, and if I do, it’s going to go really badly for you.”

  “I told you before that I don’t like being threatened.”

  “It’s not a threat. It’s just a fact,” I say. “All of the evidence I have－”

  “Is circumstantial,” he interrupts me.

  “Be that as it may, it will be for a grand jury to decide its merit,” I say. “And I have to tell you, all of the evidence I have, circumstantial or not, points to you and Sofia right now. And believe me when I tell you, I’ve seen grand juries vote to indict on a lot less than what I have. Is that a risk you want to take, Sheriff?”

  He lets out a long breath of frustration as the reality of the situation settles down over him. Morris suddenly looks weary and older than his years, and I feel a pang of guilt for coming down on him so hard. But he has to know what he’s up against. Has to know the precariousness of his situation and the severity of the consequences.

  Deep in my heart, I don’t believe he’s guilty. I just can’t see this man, who I think is good, murdering innocent people. And I don’t see him as the leader of some fanatical, justice-seeking cult. But I’ve been wrong about people before.

  “I need you to put together that list, Sheriff,” I tell him. “If for no other reason than to find another suspect. If you say you’re being framed, that’s fine. Let’s prove it. Together.”

  His eyes linger on mine for a long moment, but he finally nods. “I’ll put a list together,” he says. “But I have to tell you, I may not know everybody that has the sort of access you’re talkin’ about.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I tell him. “Right now, we just need a starting point.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Thirty-One

  Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA

  “You listened to him,” I say. “What did you think?”

  She shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. He sounded sincere, but it’s hard to say when you can’t see their facial expressions and body language,” Astra says. “So the better question is, what do you think?”

  “I think if we’re wrong, we just tipped our hand and could be in for some real trouble. If Morris is our guy, and he knows we’re onto him, he’s either going to run, or he’s going to make sure his loose ends are handled,” I tell her.

  “We’re his biggest loose ends.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You’re not making me feel real comfortable here.”

  Night has fallen outside, and the darkness is absolute. I stand at the window for a moment, looking out into the night beyond, recalling the feeling I had of being watched. Could it have been Morris out there, perhaps contemplating tying up his loose ends? Or was it somebody else? With as many feathers as I’ve ruffled since I got here, it’s tough to say.

  But as I stand here gazing out into the abyss, I get that familiar tickle along my skin. I feel the goosebumps marching up and down my arms as a finger of ice slides down my spine. Somebody’s out there again. Watching. I quickly draw the curtains closed and glance at my sidearm that’s sitting on the table. Not wanting to alarm Astra, I leave it where it is, but sit in the chair, keeping it within easy reach.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed munching away on her salad. After gorging ourselves on pure crap food the last few days, she insisted on getting something reasonably healthy. I opted for a burrito, arguing that I’d go for a run later to burn it off. Honestly, I just need some fresh air and the burn in my legs and lungs. I need that almost Zen-like state I fall into when I run.

  “Do you think he had anything to do with it?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Honestly, I really don’t. He seemed genuine to me. And nothing in his face or body language made me think otherwise.”

  “I’ve learned to trust your instincts. Maybe you should too,” she says. “If you don’t think he’s involved, he’s probably not.”

  “But that takes us back to square one.”

  “Not exactly. We’ve got a mountain of information,” she says. “We just need to figure out how all the different pieces fit together. Once we do that, we’ll have our bad guy and life will be rosy again.”

  “Yeah, but figuring out how they fit is the problem.”

  “Don’t dull my shine here,” she says. “I’m trying to keep it positive.”

  I laugh softly. “Sorry. I’m feeling kind of pessimistic.”

  “Understandable, given everything going on,” she says. “Let’s see if we can make some pieces fit. Maybe it’s like a jigsaw puzzle and if we figure out one small section of it, the rest of it will fall into place.”

  I open my laptop and fire up the search engine. With everything else going on, I almost forgot that I need to check something out. When my system’s ready to go, I call up the website for St. Bernard’s and get back a bunch of links. I scroll my cursor down to the mission’s website, but something draws my attention and I click the link. A page comes up with the likeness of the man I saw in statue form outside the mission. And when I read a bit on the page, I feel my stomach clench as the adrenaline hits my system once more.

  I quickly flip back to the page for the mission and find the link for their Meals on Wheels program. As it comes into focus, I see photos of their fleet of black panel vans with the emblem of St. Bernard’s Mission emblazoned on the side－the angel with the sword in one hand, and a shield with the Templar cross with a B in an elegant script intertwined with it in the other.

  “Angels and demons,” I mutter to myself.

  “What’s that?” Astra asks.

  “Just something Sergeant Turner said.”

  As far as I’m concerned, that confirms Sergeant Turner’s story, so I flip back to the page that drew my attention before. And the more I read, the more adrenaline I feel pouring into me. I feel a few more pieces of that puzzle falling into place, just like Astra said a moment ago. It’s not much, but it’s something. A direction to go in. And as I contemplate what it is I’m reading, it opens up a whole new avenue of thought for me. It’s giving me a different perspective on this case and the motivation behind it all.

  As I look at the image of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, I feel like that one thing that’s been staring me in the face the whole time, the thing I couldn’t see before, suddenly becomes visible.

  “Did you know Bernard of Clairvaux was the patron saint of the Templar Knights?” I ask.

  Astra looks over at me, an incredulous expression on her face. “Thinking of becoming a history professor or something?”

  I turn to her, growing more and more excited as the connections start snapping together in my mind. I don’t know yet how it all fits together in the bigger picture, but I know in my heart of hearts that this is relevant. And that this is huge.

  “Think about it for a minute, Astra,” I say. “What did the Templar Knights stand for? What was their thing?”

  “I didn’t realize there was going to be a pop quiz. I didn’t study, sorry.”

  I laugh softly and toss a balled-up piece of paper at her. “They were the grail knights, according to some histories. The knights who protected the Ark of the Covenant in others,” I explain. “But there are a lot of stories out there that describe the Templars as the deliverers of God’s Justice. They were fanatics about their faith and about delivering justice to the people.”

  “And by justice, I’m guessing you mean they cut the heads off a lot of people,” Astra notes wryly.

  “That the
y did. Their battles against the Muslims, especially during the Crusades, were infamously bloody,” I tell her. “But they believed they were following God’s will, which was to deliver His justice upon those who’d broken His law.”

  “Okay, I can see the fanatics angle here, but why does this Templar thing have you so hot and bothered? There are fanatics of every stripe out there.”

  “Yeah, but not all of them are dropping bodies with acrylic nails painted with a Templar cross on it.”

  I call up the crime scene photos for both Tracy Webster and Stephanie Helton, pulling up the photos of their hands, adjusting them so they’re side by side. Astra gets off the bed and sets her salad down on the nightstand, then walks over to me. She leans down and looks at the photos of their nails, and when I feel she’s fully taken them in, I pull up a picture of a Templar knight. She gasps when she looks at the rendition of the Templar tunic－white with a blood red cross down the center of it. But she quickly gathers herself and looks at me.

  “Okay, that’s impressive and all, but what does it mean?” she asks.

  “That I’ve been looking at this all wrong from the jump. Religion plays a massive role in this whole thing. Religion may be the driving force,” I say.

  “How do you figure? I mean, they could have just as easily picked that symbol because it looks cool.”

  “True. But there’s more. The number seven is considered a holy number,” I add. “It’s considered the number of perfection by many religious folk. And you found seven victims, seven years ago.”

  Astra purses her lips and ponders my words, but I can still see she’s skeptical.

  “Trust me, this feels right,” I say. “And this is a good thing.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re right and that religion is a factor in all of this. What does it prove, and why is it a good thing?”

  “Because, it narrows down our suspect pool even more. There can’t be that many religious zealots in town. They’ll stand out to other people,” I say. “We just need to figure out the right people to ask. And consider this, aren’t most cults based in some sort of religious faith? Sure, it may be abhorrent to all of us, but to them, it makes perfect sense.”

  “But what about the revenge angle?”

  “Not revenge. Justice,” I say. “God’s justice. They wouldn’t sully themselves with something as petty and worldly as man’s revenge. Like the Templars, they’d consider themselves harbingers of God’s justice. And by punishing those who escaped judgment, they believe they’re carrying out God’s will.”

  Astra whistles low then frowns. It’s a lot to take in, I know. And I understand why she’s skeptical. It sounds crazy to me too. But the thing is, believing that these guys see themselves as some modern-day Templar Knights is no more outlandish than a conspiracy inside the city’s governmental body designed to murder its citizens.

  She looks over at me. “This whole thing just took a turn for the darkly weird that I was not ready for.”

  “Well, buckle up. I’ve got a feeling this is going to get really bumpy from here on out.”

  Thirty-Two

  Miller’s Beach; Briar Glen, WA

  Another day, another lonely stretch of beach that’s totally uninhabited, and another body of a beautiful brunette. Business as usual in Briar Glen. Astra and I stand side by side, watching Sofia working with the body, taking measurements and jotting down notes. I eye her critically as she works.

  It’s getting harder to not voice my suspicions to her, but I hold myself back. If Morris is being framed, it stands to reason she could be too. So until I have more evidence, I’m going to hold off on dragging her into an interview room out of deference to the Sheriff.

  Speaking of the Sheriff, he walks over to us and looks at Astra curiously. “Y’all are multiplying now?”

  “Sheriff, this is my partner Astra,” I say, then turn to her. “Sheriff Morris.”

  She shakes his hand and exchanges pleasantries with him. A gust of wind rips down the beach, making the both of us shudder and pull our coats around us a little tighter. The surface of the ocean is dotted with whitecaps, the wind creating a lot of chop on the water.

  Miller’s Beach is even more remote and isolated than Rhodes. And since it’s not known for its exceptional waves, few surfers come out this way. It was a man walking his dog early this morning that found the body and called it in. Sheriff Morris called just after daybreak with the news, and I told him we’d meet him there. I figured it was time he met my better half. Mostly because I want her unbiased take on both the Sheriff and on Sofia.

  The victim is wrapped in the same muslin robe as the others, has dark hair and pale skin. From where I’m standing, I can see the acrylic nail with the Templar cross on it. After the rush I got last night making the connection, I’ve backed off, slowed down, and am now trying to look at this with logic and a critical eye.

  If this cult, for lack of a better word at this point, running around Briar Glen is all about delivering God’s justice, why is it they’ve now killed three women, who by all accounts, were good and decent? What was their crime? I’d had Astra run backgrounds on the first two vics and nothing popped. No mysteriously deleted files, no record of arrest anywhere, and no trouble in their lives.

  And when we get this woman’s identity, I’ll have Astra do the same, but I’m already fairly certain the result will be the same. So why did they have God’s justice visited upon them? That’s where this connection starts to fray for me. It doesn’t fall apart completely, simply because it fits too well with the other murders. It feels right when I spell it out.

  But as I go back to basics, I ask myself again, why these three women? Why now? What did they do to earn this punishment?

  “I don’t see any drag marks,” I mention to Morris. “Somebody had to have carried her out here.”

  He nods. “That tracks.”

  As Sofia continues to work, snapping pictures now, I pull Morris to the side. Astra and I then go over everything we learned last night, laying out our theory about the Templars and the religious motivation behind the killings. Astra is watching him closely, as am I, searching for any tells. Once again, he gives nothing away. Nothing that would indicate we’d struck a nerve, or that he was surprised we put it together. Nothing but genuine interest.

  “So, you’re thinkin’ it’s religion at the root of all this?” he asks once I’ve finished.

  “We think so. It fits. The religious iconography. The number seven. The Templar cross on the fingernails of the three female vics,” I tell him.

  “All right, supposing I buy this, what is it these three women did to earn this wrath of God or whatever it was?” he asks.

  “God’s justice. Not wrath,” I correct him. “As for what our three did, I have no idea. I need to think on that some more to see if I can find a connection. But the Templar cross on the nails is the link to the other killings. Those victims all had God’s justice delivered to them for whatever offenses they were never convicted of.”

  “So now we’re thinking it’s one group, a cult I think you called ‘em, running around town, thinking they’re doing God’s work by killing people? How does that make sense?” he asks.

  I shrug. “It only has to make sense to them. In their mind, they’re doing as God commands.”

  “When in truth, they’re doing what one narcissistic, egomaniacal, murderous sack of crap is telling them to do,” Astra chimes in.

  We’re both looking at him closely as her words wash over him. Astra isn’t normally that aggressive when questioning people, so I know she did it for the shock value. She wanted to see what Morris would do if she impugned his character. Wanted to see if he’d react at all, even unconsciously, to her verbal salvo.

  But he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t bat an eye. He simply stands there, his mind working, and doesn’t react at all. Astra and I exchange a look with each other and I can tell we’re both on the same page about Morris. Neither of us are inclined to think he’s involved
with this. Either that, or he’s got the most remarkable self-control of anybody on the planet.

  “You know, I’ve been standin’ here thinkin’,” he muses. “You told me ritual was big for these people, right? That everything they did was ritualistic?”

  I nod. “Absolutely. The condition the bodies are left in strongly suggest their ritualistic nature.”

  “What if these three women are part of that ritual. Or, what I mean is, what if they’re a ritual unto themselves?” he asks.

  I cock my head and look at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that… we had the seven women before, seven years ago, right?”

  I nod. “Right.”

  “What if their ritual, for whatever reason, is to murder seven innocent women every seven years?” he wonders. “I mean, I don’t get it, but like you said, it only has to make sense to them.”

  “And the rest of the year, they deliver God’s justice to those who escaped earthly punishment,” Astra says, picking up on his train of thought. “Maybe this seven-year cycle is their way of like, renewing their faith.”

  I nod as I catch onto where they’re headed with this. “Or maybe it’s their way of bonding themselves all together, making sure any new members have just as much skin in the game by forcing them to participate in this kind of ritual,” I say.

  Morris scratches his chin. “They all get together and have a mass rape and murder fest to make sure everybody’s got blackmail material on each other, so if you implicate somebody else, you’re also implicatin’ yourself. That’s twisted.”

  “What’s even more twisted is that they’ve perverted religion enough to make their sick little fantasies fit the narrative,” Astra says. “They hide what they’re doing and commit atrocities behind the veil of religion.”

  “So they use whatever criteria they use to determine somebody’s guilt, and then kill them,” I say. “And then every seven years, they choose seven innocents to murder and call it faith. Twisted doesn’t even begin to cover it.”