by Rick Murcer
The heavy man lying in the casket was hardly what Manny would have called funeral ready. Nor was the elderly woman lying nearly on top of him, angled away just enough to wedge into the oblong container, and to expose the gaping wound in the man’s large stomach. The dead woman apparently hadn’t been through any such ordeal because he saw nothing, initially, that looked like a cause of death. Her partner had been less fortunate. The striated bruising circling the wound to his stomach indicated, as far as Manny could tell, that the ragged hole had been inflicted antemortem. A chill ran over his scalp as he guessed at the pain the victim had experienced before death gave him relief.
He wished that the oddities regarding the two bodies had ended there. No such luck.
The two were clothed in similar multi-colored, striped tunics, reminding Manny of ancient robes he’s seen in pictures of Jesus and the Apostles during Sunday school as a child.
Each robe was bound just below the chests of the victims with gold cords, designed to hold the tunic in place. The rope extended completely around them, as far as he could see. His stomach clinched as he realized that the cords were really just one twine and that the killer had fashioned it in a figure eight to keep the two victims close together. Inseparable.
Why would the killer do that?
Knowing almost without doubt that he’d find that answer before the day was over, Manny continued with his examination.
Starting at the woman’s right shoulder, he traced down her arm and stared at the location of her hand. It was neatly resting on the man’s crotch, fingers clenched in a postmortem fist intended to look as if she had a grip on his manhood.
“Sick bastard,” Manny whispered.
He was struck with another idea and glanced in the direction of both victims’ feet.
The man’s feet were clad with leather sandals that were partially swallowed because of the swelling and rigor mortis. Manny could only see the right foot of the woman, and it was completely bare. If her other foot were without a shoe, then the killer could be drawing from an old tradition in many cultures. Woman without shoes were to be homemakers and submissive to the heads of the household, usually run by men. In Biblical times, that arrangement was the norm.
He frowned. The not-so-subtle implications were exactly that, making the reason for this distorted display hard to ignore, at least in his mind. She was to be submissive to her casket partner like the cultures of old demanded. But why?
The initial message was much less difficult to decipher than a typical Argyle riddle would entail. The potential copycat, if that were the case, was not nearly as clever or . . .
Sophie tiptoed close to his shoulder, then stepped back, her hand over her mouth.
“Shit,” said Sophie. “Just when you think you’ve seen every sick thing under the sun, we get this.”
Without moving his eyes from the vulgar yet curious content of the coffin, Manny spoke to Alex.
“Gloves?”
“Yeah, give me a minute. I’m getting them. This was worse than I imagined it would be.”
“Maybe,” said Manny, “but maybe not. This looks . . . different.”
“How so, other than the obvious of finding two bodies in a grave that shouldn’t be here?” asked Josh.
He looked at the group, shaking his head. “Did I just say that? Damn.”
“You did and I’m not totally sure what’s off. The whole biblical-time, Middle Eastern dress-code motif is obvious, but the question is, as always, why go there? And what did these two people have to do with this display? We need to dig deeper. There’s more here.”
Alex handed Manny a pair of synthetic gloves, then snapped on a pair of his own. “You can start the digging, Agent,” said Alex.
“Some things never change. One thing you can count on is Dough Boy keeping rubber gloves close by,” said Sophie, still holding her hand over her nose.
“Maybe. But how do you explain the fact that you have them hanging out of your jeans?” said Alex, handing a pair to Josh.
“Ahh, well, I got them from Mikus. He plans ahead,” she said, grinning.
“So if he has them, he’s planning ahead. If I have them, it’s kinky?”
“That covers it,” said Sophie with a wink.
“Don’t wink at me. It scares me. What were you doing with those gloves, wench?”
“Figure it out, Dough Boy.”
“Oh man. Really? And stop calling me Dough Boy.”
“Enough. Later you two,” said Manny.
Rolling her eyes, Sophie scowled. “You know, I was hoping you’d be less bossy and more fun once you got married and were getting laid,” she said.
“I am less bossy. I just need you to concentrate, okay?”
“Great, now you’re throwing guilt into the mix,” she answered softly, only her voice was already different. More intense. More like the good cop she was.
She would forever be Sophie, but the woman could shift gears.
He waved the others closer to the coffin.
“Like I said when we started this little jaunt, it’ll take all of us to figure out what’s going on here. When we start moving these poor folks, we’ll need to look for something that doesn’t fit,” said Manny.
“Seriously? Nothing fits here,” said Sophie.
“Patterns, Sophie. Look for patterns and then breaks in them.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
She then wrapped her scarf around her face and stared into the casket.
Alex tapped Manny on the arm. “Don’t you want me to bring another full CSU crew? There’s going to be a lot of possible evidence to sift through. Maybe even the rest of the cemetery to canvas.”
“No. Not yet. This was meant for us . . . hell, maybe even me, and I don’t need anyone else messing with what that might mean. We’re not screwing this up, got it?”
Manny heard the strain in his own voice. Apparently everyone else did as well because the silence was obvious.
Running his hand through his hair, he released a pent-up breath. “I’m sorry. We need to know just what’s going on here, and I’m more than concerned that Argyle could be behind this.”
Alex nodded. “We all are, Manny. And no problem. This time.”
“Fair enough,” said Manny, grinning.
“You said we need to look for something else . . . like what?” asked Josh.
“I don’t know for sure. Like I said, this repulsive display isn’t difficult to understand. The problem is that it’s also vague. This kind of clothing is obvious. That means seven or eight thousand years of history could be included in any meaning the killer intended. We’re good but not that good. Although, I’d say, because of the sandals he’s wearing and her bare feet, and the colors used, he’s trying to make some reference to Christ’s time on earth.”
“You mean because of the whole humility thing that women had to swallow?” said Dean.
“Yeah, that’s part of it. It might also have something to do with the whole feet-washing service that Jesus made famous at the Last Supper and our twisted unsub is trying to confuse us a bit more.”
“Or, like you said earlier, if this is a copycat, he’s not as good as the real deal,” said Sophie.
“That ran across my mind, but what if that’s what the killer wants us to think?”
“That’s paranoid, even for you,” said Sophie.
“Williams, you made my head hurt—again—but at least I follow you so far,” said Josh.
“Good man, Josh. And it is, Sophie. So we might as well get to this and stop all of the conjecture, yes?” stated Manny.
Turning toward Dean, he nodded. “Dean, get your camera ready. I don’t want us to miss anything.”
“Got it. And I never do.”
One last look at his unit and Manny knew, at least in part, what they were all thinking because he was thinking the same thing. How could anyone not?
Whatever they ended up finding, would they understand it? Did they really want to? Reaching into the cask
et, he grasped the old women’s hand and gently dislodged it from the fat man’s crotch. As he did, a piece of paper fell away from the woman’s fingers, landing near the hole in the man’s abdomen.
“What the hell?” said Sophie, bending closer.
Hearing Dean click the camera a few times, Manny waited and then reached over and picked up the small section of what looked like a remnant of a yellow legal pad. It was, however, neatly folded into a rectangle and gave Manny the impression that this psycho was tremendously detail-oriented and meticulous.
Not good.
His heart rate rose as he reached for the paper and began to unfold it carefully.
The breeze freshened and began to move the paper. He grasped it tighter.
Nodding at Sophie, she understood and placed her slim finger on one corner of the paper, holding it steady.
He reached for the last unopened corner and realized he hadn’t taken a breath for a while. He exhaled and filled his lungs with sour air before continuing.
They’d seen notes before, beginning with the cruise ship. Killers like this one assumed that their brilliance was unmatched and they had to leave obvious messages so that their unworthy opponents would be able to continue the hunt. Despite opinions to the contrary, most psychopathic killers didn’t want to be caught, yet couldn’t resist taunting law enforcement if they became bored. But, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend, this seemed different. The killer’s pattern of revealing general then more specific clues, at the same crime scene, reeked of impatience. Something Argyle hadn’t possessed, in Manny’s eyes. Nevertheless, enough similar traits were displayed here to think the Good Doctor could be involved.
“Agent Williams? You’re trancing again. You going to open the rest of this before I puke?” asked Sophie.
“Just thinking.”
With that, Manny pulled open the last corner of the paper.
Written there in neat, block characters was: NKJ-LK-25:4-5
Manny’s brain went numb.
He wasn’t totally sure what the letters and numbers meant. He did, however, recognize Doctor Fredrick Argyle’s handwriting as it jumped off the paper.
CHAPTER-9
“Are you going to shoot me or invite me in for some of that vanilla latte stuff you’ve got me hooked on?”
Gavin Crosby, Lansing’s police chief, stood behind the screened storm door, glancing at Chloe’s hand, then at her face. His nervous grin explained to her that she’d been a little more dramatic yanking open the door than she’d intended.
She exhaled, then smiled at the man who she’d grown to care for over the last few months. Not only was he a great cop, but he had a love for Manny and all those in Manny’s life. His love was similar to a father for his son, and it had spread to her like wildfire. He was tough, demanding, and strong enough to endure the emotional anguish of his wife nearly killing him with a shot to the chest—his Stella had lost touch with reality. Then he was forced to handle her subsequent murder. No easy feat, for anyone. Yet, he held that soft spot—which most men possess but hide almost jealously—and had shown it to her a time or two. If she could have picked a father, one not absent like her own had been, Gavin would fit the bill splendidly.
“Depends on what you’ve up your sleeve. A lass can’t be too careful now, can she?”
His sixty-year-old eyes glimmered with amusement. “I promise, lady, my intentions are honorable. Now, if your mother was here, well, I would probably change my tune.”
Chloe laughed and opened the door as Gavin rumbled in. Her mother, Haley Rose, and Gavin had been seeing each other over the last few weeks, and even though their relationship was short in time, there was no denying that special, undefinable spark between the two, and it had gone past its infancy.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m the only Irish woman in the place. Mum and Jen got an early start to Twelve Oaks Mall and promised not to return until her credit card is maxed or they get tired of trying on clothes.”
“Yeah. I knew that. My bet is on the card-max thing. Manny’s little girl can shop.”
“She can. I’ll get you some coffee. If you know mom is shopping and Manny is at the cemetery, that means you want to talk to me.”
“Bright woman, you are,” he said, showing off his best Irish accent. “I do have a proposition for you.”
“I’m already married, but I’ll listen.”
Gavin laughed. “That’s all a man could ask.”
Brewing a fresh cup of latte for Gavin and pouring another mug of milk for herself, she sat the mugs on the table and settled across from him. Her phone, decorated with the message from the Netherworld and still firmly in her pocket, seemed to be burning a hole in her skin as she wondered whether to mention the message to Gavin or wait to talk to Manny. She didn’t want Gavin to think she was overreacting, but then again, fresh perspective was a strong foundation for good law enforcement.
She started to speak, hesitated, then decided to wait, for now.
“Something on your mind, Chloe?” asked Gavin, his eyes narrowing.
“I was just about to ask what was on your mind, Chief. I’m dying to hear this proposition you have for a pregnant, apparently vacationing FBI special agent, who is currently sitting around on her arse. Which, by the way, I hear will get bigger over the next few months.”
“Good points, all. Stella’s got a little wider just before Mike was born,” he said.
It didn’t take a cop to hear the sadness touch and then leave his intonation. She felt his pain. She hadn’t lost Manny, but it had been close, and that was as close as she wanted to get to traveling that road . . . ever.
“But it was good wide,” continued Gavin. “I knew Mike was coming, so no problem for either of us. Besides, it looked kind of good on her. And, I gotta tell you, if that’s the worst of your trials before Baby Williams gets here, you’ll be way ahead of the game.”
“Great wisdom. Still, I plan on wearing things that will make Manny look more to the top than the bottom,” she said, grinning.
Gavin laughed out loud, then took another long draw from his cup.
“I’m not too good at beating around the bush, Chloe, so here it is; I want you to go to work for me here in Lansing as my new lead detective.”
Raising her eyebrows, Chloe leaned back against the chair and stared at her friend and would-be boss, surprise etched firmly over her face. Leaving the Bureau hadn’t crossed her mind, not once, until this minute. Yet she was already recognizing the merits of such a move.
Gavin raised his stout hand. “Before you say anything, let me tell you why this makes sense. And no, Manny has no idea I’m here talking about this.”
She nodded.
“All right. Number one, you and Manny can’t work together anymore, and in my eyes, that’s good for both of you. Your relationship as husband and wife, and pregnant, would most certainly cloud one or both of your judgments at some place in time, and that could get someone killed. So, for a change, I agree with the Feds.”
Shifting in his chair, he grew more animated. She was struck with the notion that he’d be a terrific car salesman.
“You’d get to work regular shifts, run the department, all ten of them, stay near home so you make all of those doctor’s appointments that are coming, and a company car—sort of. We pay pretty well, and I’ll start you out with a month’s vacation and, when the time comes, as much maternity leave time as you need or want. Not to mention, I’m not getting any younger. I think my son Mike—who would have been here with me, by the way, but he’s in a training seminar in Dallas—will be the next Lansing police chief in a year or two. He’ll need your help.”
He leaned back and waited, exercising the first person who speaks loses ploy. Yep. Car salesman for sure.
Stirring her coffee, she looked up at Gavin. “Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into it. But I love the Bureau, and that would be a difficult decision.”
“I understand, but is that the life you want when the b
aby arrives?”
“You’re just full of logical counterpoints this morning, aren’t ya?”
“I do my homework,” he answered.
“Gavin. I’m flattered and tempted. And, of course, I’d want to talk this over with Manny, but I have a question of my own.”
“Fire away.”
“What’s in it for you and the LPD? I mean, we’ll be fine if I stay with the Bureau.”
“If you’re implying this is some charity situation, and I’m trying to take care of all of you, you’re wrong. I’d be a liar to say that wouldn’t be a perk, but my reasons are almost entirely selfish. Did I say you’d be a great help to Mike? Look. You’re a topnotch profiler with great instincts, and you’d be the second best cop I’d ever had the privilege of working with.”
“Second?” she chided. “Are you referring to that forty-year-old husband of mine?”
“Afraid so. If it makes you feel any better, though, you’re a hell of a lot better looking than he is.”
She laughed as she felt Gavin press in for the kill.
“Listen. You’re perfect for this job. The City of Lansing would be lucky to have you, and I’ll say it again: you’re a helluva cop. As good as anybody. Your experience and training would be a Godsend. We need you.”
“Any more whipped cream you wish to pile onto the shit?”
“Yep. I’ll even throw in a better retirement package if you name the new kid Gavin.”
“Now that might work.”
Standing, Gavin went over to the coffee machine and made another cup of latte. Chloe listened to the sputtering and gasping of the machine as her mind evolved from cloudy to clear.
Manny’s old boss was right on every level, and God knew she’d had her fill of cases that kept her up at night and her nightmares vividly alive.
Sitting back down, Gavin reached for her hand. “I know that’s a lot to ponder, but you’re a smart cookie and you and Manny will make the right call. But I can see you’ve at least bought into the concept.”
