The Hand of Christ

by Joseph Nagle

  “Sir, the young boy at the Hotel Bramante was tortured, but each wound that was inflicted upon him was very clean and very meticulous; the breaks in his legs and arms were in the perfect spots and each was broken from one blow, an extremely difficult thing to do. His hyoid was crushed with precision, leaving very little bruising. In my experience, most, if not all, strangulations leave large marks around most of the neck of the victim. To strangle someone is a difficult endeavor, but this is not true with ours; the killer easily crushed the hyoid to asphyxiate the first victim and with little bruising. The old man had the same marks. The Persian at Bar Tomas had his larynx nearly ripped out by hand; no untrained man could have done this. But it was the killing of our man,” Dante paused as the emotion of losing one of his own rose up in him choking him slightly.

  The two police-heads sensed the same feeling. The Commissario offered his empathy, “He was a friend to all of us, Dante, and will be missed. Now, please continue with what you think.”

  “Sir, he didn’t have to kill our man. When the killer escaped through the window of the bar he could have kept running, but something in him made him stop. A sociopath would have continued to flee the scene of the crime; his first instinct would have been to protect himself, but not this man. From what we can tell, he jumped up and grabbed a balcony in the alley way and waited for our officer.”

  Detective Dante’s voice turned lower, he peered carefully at each man ensuring that they understood his next set of statements, “After chasing the killer for a short distance, the officer stopped and knelt down to inspect the killer’s footprints and some spots of blood. This was a trap. When the moment was right the killer fell in behind him and snapped his neck as if it were a small twig. Only someone with specialized training would act this way, could kill this way. He was efficient; this killing was not like the others, it was not from his rage or to satisfy some urge, he killed out of a need to protect himself. He didn’t take his time or torture the officer, he was quick and professional.”

  The Commissario cringed at the thought of this.

  “Gentlemen,” Dante continued, “this man is more than dangerous. I believe that he is very strong, adept, but is losing his grip on control. You both may remember that I spent some time with the American FBI and trained with their experts in behavioral sciences.”

  It was the last comment that raised the brow of the Commandante; Detective Dante was renowned throughout Italy for his expertise in solving homicides, especially the more difficult ones. He leaned back on his desk and waited for the detective to continue. The Commissario stared on, hungry for more information.

  “Commandante, a moment ago you offered a presumption that serial killings were typically sexual in nature.”

  “Yes, that is right, Dante; is that not true?”

  “Yes, it is true; the vast majority of killings that the FBI labels as serial are usually related to something sexual.”

  “Usually?” The Commissario was a man always focused on the details and avoided, if not detested, using phrases that are non-committal, “Detective, are they or are they not sexual in nature?”

  Dante could sense the Commissario’s escalating impatience and got to the point, “Serial killings go to the darkest core of the human being that is capable of such monstrosities."

  “And that core is our sexuality, no?”

  “Yes, it is, but not in the overt sense. Most people think of sexuality and sensuality together when they think of the act of sex. They think of something that is both physical and intimate between two people, they think of love making. But it is much more that just that, it transcends intimacy; the physical act of sex is the single most controlling thing that one person can do to another. It is the one way that any one man, that every man, can truly dominate another human being no matter how small or insignificant that man’s life is.”

  The Commandante was thinking out loud, “This is why almost all serial killers are men.”

  “That is correct; men are raised to be the more dominant of the two sexes, it is a causation that is both social and innate. Serial killers have somehow manifested their need to dominate into the vilest and most sadistic acts that one can imagine, into murder.”

  “But, Detective,” the Commissario’s frustration was growing, he wanted answers not a lesson on sexuality, “how can you say that this man is such a person when he has not raped anyone or done anything sexual?”

  This man has clearly not been paying attention, thought Dante.

  He continued with a measured calm, “Commissario, your question is critical to understand my point. We must stop thinking of just the act of sex as the driver, but of what sex is – it is an act of complete physical and emotional domination. In its most pure form, when a man is conjoined physically with another being, he has that person at their most vulnerable of states. That person is at their weakest, it is at that point that they are completely dominated, the point that they have given into complete submission: physically and emotionally."

  Dante paused for a moment to ensure that he had their attention, and continued, "This is what serial killers want to do; they want dominate their victims as completely as possible; they want to own them, to control them, to deface them. They want to rob that person of any identity, absorbing it, which is the ultimate goal. These types of people cannot have normal relationships and are filled with an indescribable and usually hidden rage that ultimately spirals out of control.”

  “I see," said the Commissario, "I am beginning to see your point. Our killer was destroying who these men were. Dante, if this man is losing control; when he loses control, what will happen?”

  “Either his death, being caught – which I don't think will happen with our killer - or, in some cases, they simply reach the apex of their rage and blend back in with society never killing again.”

  The head of the Carabinieri jumped to his feet, “The apex of their rage? Do you think this man will continue?”

  Detective Dante paused briefly.

  “Please, detective, if you could answer the question: do you think this man will continue?” The question was repeated by voice that didn’t belong to any of the three men that had been in the room.

  Had the three policemen paid more attention they might have noticed that, standing in the doorway was a young handsome priest, at his side was Colonel Miguel Camini.

  None of the three men needed an introduction; all of Rome knew the faces of the personal assistant to the Pope and the head of the Swiss Guard.

  The police officers stared at the officials from the Vatican and bowed their heads, Detective Dante did not. Instead, he was the first to step forward, “Welcome, Monsignor, how may we assist the Church?”

  “Will he continue to kill, Detective?”

  Dante's response was cold if not insolent: “Yes, he will. He is not done.”

  Geoffrey was an intuitive man and could see that the detective was troubled and asked, “You wish that I were not here, detective? You think that this is not a matter for the Church?”

  Of all the men in the room, Detective Dante was the least religious among them, and, in Rome, this was something that could not be hidden. He served Rome and its people and felt that far too often the Church often stuck its nose in places that it didn’t belong. He had left his religion long ago.

  “With all due respect, Monsignor, this is not the business of the Church. This is not your business. These crimes happened outside of the Vatican’s walls. What concern is this of the Holy See that it sends the personal assistant to the Pope?”

  “Detective!” The Commandante, however, was a deeply religious man. To him, everything began and ended with the Church, “Monsignor, I apologize for my detective. It has been a truly difficult day.”

  Geoffrey waved his hand and dismissed any slight bit of disrespect from the detective, “Commandante, I have not been offended. The detective has lost one of his men, I can understand his perspective and emotions; death is always a trying time for everyon
e that it touches.”

  “How did you know that we lost one of our men, we have not yet made that information public?” Dante asked.

  Before Dante finished the question he knew the answer. The Vatican is everywhere; they have better technology than any military or police branch in Italy. No doubt they monitor every radio frequency and emergency call. More importantly, Dante knew that they have connections at every level of government service. All the Church would have to do is pick up a phone; any good Catholic in Italy will give the Vatican whatever they wanted.

  Geoffrey ignored Dante’s question, instead, referred to the formidable looking man that was standing next to him, “Detective, I would like you to welcome Colonel Camini, head of the Swiss Guard, and two of his finest detectives; they will be of immense help into your investigation. They will serve you well.”

  I doubt they are here to serve me.

  Dante was offended at the priest’s presumption and spat back, “These men have no jurisdiction outside of the Vatican and cannot possibly be allowed to be a part of this investigation. This matter is not an issue for the Church, even if were, protocol and law would not allow it.”

  “Oh, to the contrary detective; this is the most grave of issues for the Church. It is the sworn duty of the Swiss Guard to protect his Holiness and this man, this killer, has eradicated four men, one of them your own.”

  “But these have nothing to do with the Vatican, or the Pope!”

  Geoffrey stepped forward and imposed his will on the detective. His demeanor shifted, and the once simple looking attractive man took on a persona that shouted power. His face contorted with an angry strength. With a formidable tone, he said to Dante, “Two men were killed and within minutes of the Pope’s doorstep. Hours later, and just before killing two more men, the man you are looking for was seen in front of St. Peter’s square.”

  “What? How could you possibly know this, we don’t even know what this man looks like?”

  Geoffrey smiled coyly and flatly said, “We do.”

  The three policemen looked at each other in stunned disbelief saying nothing.

  Colonel Camini opened the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out two paper sized black and white photos and handed them to Geoffrey.

  Geoffrey looked at them and then handed the photos to Dante and then informed the men, “These were taken by Vatican cameras. This man was struck by a tourist bus just outside of the Piazza that leads into the Vatican. One of the patrolmen from the local Vigili Urbani responded to the accident, but by the time he arrived this man was gone.”

  The photo showed a quite large and dark haired man lying on his back in the middle of the street, “And this one,” Geoffrey held out the second photo for the men to see, “shows the man on his feet. As you can see from the photo he is injured. It is quite obvious that he is bleeding from the back of his head.”

  Dante carefully studied the photo of the man. He was large and looked capable. His features were Middle Eastern; a dark brow and prominent nose, he looked like a version of pure hate. The photo had captured the assassin as he stared at the blood on his hand; a trickle of blood could be made out as it streaked down the side of his ear and neck. Even more important, the photo displayed a clear look at his face.

  “As you know detective,” Geoffrey continued, “there was blood found at the scene of your policeman’s murder that did not belong to the Persian victim or to your dead officer.”

  “Fernando Paulo Santorino!” Dante scowled. He would not allow the killed patrolman to simply be an unknown victim to the priest. The man had a face, he had a name; the priest would hear his name, he would know it.

  “Excuse me, detective?”

  Dante move a step closer to Geoffrey and through gritted teeth, he repeated, “His name was Fernando Paulo Santorino. He had a wife, Maria, and a three-year old son named Salvatore. He was my friend.”

  Geoffrey contemplated for a moment, but understood what the detective was trying to say. He put a hand on Dante’s shoulder and apologized, “Detective, forgive my demeanor. I did not mean to sound so cold. I should have spoken differently. You must understand, I am charged with every aspect of the Holy Father’s personal life. These tragedies are of great concern. The Bar where the Persian was killed is a short walk from the Hotel where the first two victims were and from St. Peter’s Square, the place the killer was hit by the bus. The Swiss Guards were able to speak with the only other guests at Hotel Bramante; after looking at these photos they have confirmed that this is the man they saw at the Hotel. I am as desperate as you to find this man.”

  “What! You have questioned witnesses? You have no authority!” Dante was not the only officer in the room whose anger was growing as the Commissario screamed his protest at the priest.

  “Please, Commissario, there is no need to shout. It so happened that these people were visiting the Vatican today. We took the opportunity to discuss this matter with them while they were on Vatican property.”

  Detective Dante knew the Vatican was skirting the laws. What else was new? Certainly, they used their vast connections to find out whatever they could about the killings including the identities of the other guests at the hotel. Undoubtedly, their men had been in street clothes and stationed outside of Hotel Bramante. It was a certainty that they had been watching as Polizia and Carabinieri spoke with the guests of the hotel and then had followed them – coaxed them more like – to the Vatican.

  “Monsignor, these images are evidence and should be run through Interpol to try and find a match. If you allow me,” Dante’s hand was outstretched gesturing for the photos. “I can begin the process.”

  Up until this point, Colonel Camini had stood stoically at Geoffrey’s side but finally broke his silence. Stepping forward, his deep and gruff voice flatly stated, “We already have.”

  Why am I not surprised, thought Dante as his own impatience grew. Coldly he retorted, “Was there a match, Colonel?”

  Reaching into his case once more, the head of the Swiss Guard removed a thin stack of papers, “This is the dossier compiled on the man in the photos. He has no known name or aliases, other than the one he used when he checked into the hotel, but what little we found indicates that he was a member of Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniat-e Keshvar, otherwise known as VEVAK.”

  The Commandante of the Carabinieri jumped in, “Miguel, what is VEVAK?”

  Referring to the revered man in such an informal fashion turned the attention of more than one man in the room. Unbeknownst to the other men in the room, the head of the Swiss Guard and the Commandante had grown up together and had attended the same school living only blocks apart. At one time the two men were best of friends, but are no longer amicable; a result of the Colonel holding a position that the Commandante once coveted. Referring to the Colonel in the familiar tense was a result of that history.

  The Colonel’s response was without emotion and monotone, “VEVAK is the Ministry of Intelligence and Security in Iran.”

  With an echoing yell detective Dante burst out, “Iran? What the hell is an Iranian Intelligence agent doing here?”

  Dante’s slight sin was ignored by the young priest who replied, “That, detective is what we would like to know. As I said earlier, the Colonel and his two men are here to assist.”

  The Commandante of the Carabinieri may be a fervent and devout Catholic but he was also charged with upholding the law, and, even more so, detested the idea of the man who stole his life’s dream becoming the fulcrum of this crisis, “Father, I cannot allow it. This would be highly unusual and outside of your jurisdiction; I do not have the authority to…”

  Before the Commandante could finish, the telephone sitting atop the desk rang.

  “Commandante,” the priest’s devilish smile returned, “I believe that you should answer your phone, perhaps you will find that authority you need.”

  Slowly the Commandante reached over and removed the handset from its place on the cradle his eyes not wavering from the priest
. He answered, “This is Commandante Allesandro Romero.”

  As he listened to the caller his eyes remained affixed on Geoffrey, the Commandante could see a bit of arrogance beginning to line the priest’s return gaze. He gingerly hung up the phone after saying a simple, “Yes, sir, I understand, sir; of course, sir.”

  “It would seem that we have been asked to include the Colonel and his men into our investigation.”

  The Commissario was furious and demanded, “On whose authority?”

  “The Office of the President, Commissario.”

  “If you will excuse me, the Dean of the Cardinal College is making an unexpected visit to the Vatican and is due to arrive soon; I must attend to him. Please extend all of the same courtesies to my men as you would your own; I expect any updates as soon as they become known. Commandante, you must find this man.”

  Geoffrey spun around, nodded at the Colonel and left as abruptly as he had arrived.

  “Detective, I trust that you will do as our President asks. Please keep the Commissario and I informed of your progress as well.”

  Dante was confused, “You are not coming with?”

  “No,” the Commandante looked deflated and turned his attention from Dante and spoke directly to the Commissario. “Our presence has been requested at Parliament, Commissario.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Mosque of Rome

  Rome, Italy

  The assassin’s heart beat heavily and seemed to slam against the walls of his peritoneum like a demolition ball that worked to bring down a condemned building. The resulting elevation in his blood pressure forced him to attempt - with futility - a defiance of Bernoulli’s Principle. His head pounded with each beat of his heart as too much blood forced its way through his veins and into the tiny vascular passageways that surrounded his brain, passageways that were too small for such pressure.

  Grimacing at the throbbing, he had to stop; he needed to rest and calm himself down.

  The assassin had raced from Bar Tomas, from the site of his last bout of uncontrolled rage, in a disorganized manner; this bothered the professional killer. Why am I losing my senses; my control! He thought to himself, I must regain them.