“You what?”
“I asked a few of the guys at work if they knew of Brandon Marshall.”
“Okay.”
“None of them did.”
Drexel took a drink. “Thanks for asking.”
“Did you find the building in the pictures?”
As he finished chewing, Drexel took the time to recall what his brother was asking about. “The one Zora took. Yeah. I did actually. At least the site where it had been. How’d you know?”
“You’re my brother. I know you pretty well. What do you mean by ‘had been’?”
“Hmmm. Well, the street corner in the photo doesn’t have any of the buildings in it. I think they’re gone and replaced.”
“They tear them down and build something new faster than you can blink these days.”
“Yeah. It was on Delaware and Dewitt in Streeterville. Now there’re condos there.” Drexel chomped on a fry with a large piece of feta stuck to it. “You know, I think of her every day. I have a crystal clear image of her that sits in my brain, and I can call it up whenever I want.”
“That and you have that home movie you watch all the time.”
Drexel did indeed watch a video he and Zora had filmed a couple of years before her death at a beach along Lake Michigan. It came out whenever he was feeling particularly lonely or had had too much whiskey, but he would never apologize for it. “It’s a good video.” He smiled at the thought of it. “What I’m trying to say is that seeing that photograph hanging randomly in a restaurant was still shocking. Like her spirit suddenly manifested itself.”
“I get that. It was also one of her last photos.”
“Yeah, but what do you mean by that?”
“She took it just days before she—” Even Ryan had never become comfortable saying that most final of words.
Drexel helped him over the hump. “Like two days?”
“Five to be exact.”
“I see.” He scratched his chin. “It feels like she reached out to me and is giving me a final message or gift.” He closed his Styrofoam box and saw that Ryan’s was empty and sitting on the coffee table. He dragged it over and closed it. He got up and put them both in the trash. “Another beer?”
“Sure.”
Drexel opened two more bottles and set them down before sitting down himself. Hart jumped on the couch and curled up on his lap. “You know what Lily would say, right?” Lily was their younger sister who lived in Seattle. She was a high-powered corporate attorney and her husband, Wayne, was a surgeon. Drexel despised the man. And Lily would have told her older brother to stop dredging up old memories. Let things be in the past, boxed. Thing was, it could be a time bomb.
Ryan laughed. “Speaking of which, she called today.”
“Lily?”
“Yep. Wayne’s got some sort of conference next week, so both of them will be out here for a few days.”
“We don’t have room to put them up.”
They both paused a moment and then laughed at the joke. Lily had become, according to the brothers, a complete snob who had forgotten her roots in working-class Chicago. The idea of staying in an apartment when she could stay at a five-star hotel would never have even crossed her mind.
“She wants to get together for dinner.”
“Okay. That sounds like a plan.”
Drexel made a pot of coffee, and they talked about the Blackhawk’s chances of winning the Stanley Cup again, and Ryan talked again about a TV series he had been watching and always encouraging his brother to watch. Ryan had set up Netflix on the TV shortly after he moved in. Drexel nodded. His brother turned in for the night, and Drexel drank coffee. He pulled up the full photo that Zora had taken, developed, and even sold in parts five days before her death. Something in it nagged at him, but that, too, stayed just beyond reach. So he switched and poured over the latest crime-scene photos and reports again. He wanted to know if the autopsies would provide any information. The forensics at the sites were sparse. The perp must clean the victims before storing them in a deep freezer. No trace fibers or hair turned up. He scratched his chin. Had Marshall really been that careless to leave fingerprints when the rest of the site was so devoid of evidence? People mess up. That is how detectives usually catch the bad guys, but these murders were carefully orchestrated. Looking at the photos, Drexel was more convinced than ever that the killer was leading up to something, was doing all this with an end goal in mind. But what it was and how long until he got there was an open question. And this scared Drexel, chilled him to the bone.
Chapter 17
As Drexel neared Marshall’s apartment complex, he called Daniela, who navigated him to her car. When he found it—a yellow Fiat 500 parked between two streetlights and facing north—he leaned over and waved at her. She rolled down the window. “You’re early. Get in.”
He heard the lock snap open and slid into the brown seats with cream head rests. “Good evening.”
She smiled. “Sorry I blew up at you.”
He shook his head and waved his hand. “You didn’t blow up and anyway I deserved it. I’m too used to working cases alone and forget. Doggett hated that about me.”
“Is that why Doggett gives you such a hard time?”
The question surprised him. He assumed the detective who guided him through the ropes of homicide, including acting as the official hazing committee, had told everyone about Drexel’s insubordination. “Huh, I assumed Doggett told everyone about me.”
She smiled. “Not the women and definitely not me. He’s very cautious around Natalie and Kendall. And about me, well, he doesn’t even see me.” She chuckled. “I’m not a detective, so I can be safely ignored, which I’m kind of fine about when it comes to him.”
“He probably doesn’t want to say something that might be offensive.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Well, there’s no disguising he’s an asshole.”
They laughed.
“So what happened?” she asked.
“He pissed me off one day and I punched him. Stupid thing to do.”
“Yeah, but I bet it felt good.”
He let a smile creep across his face. “That it most certainly did. But it’s been pretty unceasing hate from him since.” He rubbed his chin. “Hate’s too strong. It’s more like I don’t fit the mold he expects. Regardless, he’s a damned good detective. Maybe the best. Kind of like the genius artist or scientist that’re all complete jackasses. That’s Doggett. And he loves to solve cases. He’s sniffing around on this one, I can tell.”
Daniela nodded. “Hmmm. Anyway, I think I was pissed at you because I thought you respected me more than the others did.” She pulled a small cooler from the back seat. “Monster?”
“Sure.”
She handed him one.
He popped it open. “Thanks. I’ll need it for tonight. It’s not that I don’t respect you. I do.” He let silence linger between them for a few. He twisted his mouth as he thought. She was right to feel that way, and he did not like that he caused that. “Anything happen?”
From between her seat and the center console, she pulled a small notebook with the spiral binding at the top. She pulled out the pen inserted into the spiral and then reviewed the few notes she had on the first page. “Nothing. Guy came home and nothing. So when you watched him, anything?”
“Not really. I did look through the windows of his van. Looked pretty normal, though there was a Bible in the front console. And the second night, he went on foot to a church a few blocks down. I think it was a Bible study. He left and came straight back. I stopped the surveillance around 1:00 in the morning.”
“So either between 1:00 and showing up to work he’s doing his deeds or he’s somehow managing to do them during the workday. Or he’s not our guy.”
“That’s how I figure it.”
She
sighed and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s going to have to make a mistake.”
“Yeah. He is.” Drexel took a drink. “You need to get home to get some rest.”
She looked at him and smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Right.” Drexel pulled on the door handle. “Again. Sorry.”
“I’ve forgotten already. Here.” She handed him the notebook.
She pulled away and into traffic as he walked to the sidewalk and texted Ton. He found the Mustang as Ton texted him the location. He jogged over and jumped into the passenger side. “Hey.”
“Yo. Who were you chatting up?” His friend wore a light red long-sleeve T-shirt with Taste of Chicago 2002 emblazoned on the chest. “I saw you in the car when I was trying to find a place to park.”
“Daniela. She’s assisting on this case.”
“I take it she’s not seen anything?”
“No.” Drexel raised the notepad. “There’s another two victims though.”
“Shit.”
Drexel filled Ton in on the latest information. “Our primary suspect, for now, is Marshall.”
“He sounds like a cool cucumber.” Ton drank coffee from a large, stainless steel Chicago Bears insulated cup. “I did some more research. I plugged in that phrase from the first letter into Google: I, Simon, said to the Lord, ‘Lord, before Satan fell, in what splendor did he attend the Father?’ Turns out, that pops up in a translation from Cathar texts, a Gnostic group in medieval France.” Ton reached into the back seat and pulled out a folder and handed it to Drexel. Ton had printed information from the web. “The text is from Interrogatio Johannis, or The Questions of John. I think they mean John the Evangelist.” He grinned. “This shit is better than the Templar stuff. The Catholic Church crushed them. I mean, they hunted them down and killed the Cathars. Bloody war.”
Drexel had to summon from the depths of memory his Sunday school days. His parents had been insistent on church attendance until he was a teenager. Why they stopped going, he never learned. “Daniela looked this up on Google, but we haven’t explored it much beyond.” He scratched his chin. “John, the author of Revelation?”
“If you believe John—one of the apostles—did write that, then yeah. One and the same. This Interrogatio Johannis though, look at the first page. I highlighted that phrase.”
Drexel looked at the highlight, and then he looked up to the paragraph previous and read beyond the quotation:
“I, John, your brother and partaker in tribulation, and that shall be also a partaker in the kingdom of heaven, when I lay upon breast of our Lord Jesus Christ and said unto him:
“Lord, who is he that shall betray thee [and] he answered and said: He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish: then Satan entered unto him and he sought how he might betray me.
“And I said: Lord, before Satan fell, in what glory abode he with thy Father.
“And he said unto me: In such glory was he that he commanded the powers of the heavens: but I sat with my Father, and he did order all the followers of the Father, and went down from heaven unto the deep and ascended up out of the deep unto the throne of the invisible Father. And he saw the glory of him that moveth the heavens, and he thought to set his seat above the clouds of heaven and desired to be like unto the Most High.”
Drexel shook his head. “I’m not sure what the hell this means.”
“That’s where the Cathars come in.” Ton watched Drexel shake his head. “They were a religious group in southern France in the Middle Ages. Ever hear of the troubadors? A set of poems?”
Drexel nodded once and then once again as he recalled the time Zora had mentioned it, though the memory was vague.
Ton continued. “They don’t matter here, but that’s how a lot of people have some knowledge of the Cathars. Regardless, the Cathars were accused of being Gnostics, early Christian sects that ultimately lost the battle of beliefs. The Cathars believed in a good god and a bad god. The good one was the creator of the spiritual realm. The bad one, well, he created the physical world and his name is Satan. Also, the good one was the god of the New Testament and the bad one the god of the Old. Everything you see was created by Satan and tainted. And Cathars believed that was a bad thing. You know, Satan and all.” He let a broad smile cross his face. “They thought people were the spirits of angels trapped in this Satan-created body. And those spirits could only be saved by a ritual. I can’t remember.” He grabbed the folder and opened it. “Yes, here. The consolamentum. Then these people were called the Perfecti. I printed off a lot of stuff. But it’s kind of weird. Anyway, the Church hunted down and killed the Cathars in a crusade. They disappeared a long time ago. We have only a little bit of knowledge about them.”
“So our perp is quoting a Cathar text. Did they do human sacrifice or something?”
“No. Not at all. The Cathars abhorred violence. Were vegetarians and stuff. No. Probably some freak who’s read too much about them and twisted them all up in his head.”
Drexel nodded, took back the folder from Ton, and started reading it until the power on his phone was drained too low for him to use as a reading light. They then traded taking short naps. Brandon Marshall made one appearance on their watch: He entered his van at 7:00 a.m.
* * *
Over a breakfast of corned-beef hash, two over-easy eggs, and coffee at a small diner in the Loop, Drexel told Ton about Kevin Blair. He said that Blair was in all likelihood not the killer, but he was a con man and probably taking Mrs. Darlington for all the money he could get out of her—though he could not rule out that the elderly woman was involved in the con with the house and contractors. Drexel told Ton, too, that he was going to kick Kevin’s name to another department for investigation, but he doubted they would do much follow up. He thought something needed to be done, but it needed to be outside police channels. Before they were done with breakfast, Ton had agreed to see what he could dig up on Kevin Blair. Afterward, Drexel realized he told Ton about this knowing his friend’s hard-wired sense of justice would swing in. And he counted on that.
Ton dropped Drexel off at the station. Carrying a large cup of coffee, he rubbed his eyes and sat in the conference room after plugging in his phone to the outlet on the wall. He looked at but did not see the whiteboard. He rubbed his jaw. He liked some stubble, but even he needed a shave.
Daniela walked in. She wore a pair of thick, dark reddish framed glasses. “Good morning.”
“Morning. Glasses?”
“Couldn’t go with the contacts today. Anything?”
He tossed her the surveillance notepad and Ton’s collection of Internet articles on the Cathars. “Nothing. I’m going to shave.” He walked out of the room and to the small kitchenette. In a cabinet drawer near the floor and farthest away from the coffee machine, he found a bag of disposable razors. Cheap things that did almost as much harm as good, but still did the trick in making sleepless homicide detectives look presentable. Travel-sized versions of deodorant, shaving cream, toothpaste, and so on filled up the drawer. In the restroom, he splashed cold water on his face, holding his hands there, letting the cold seep into his skin. He then turned it as hot as he could, splashed that on his face, and then applied the cream.
While he was shaving Doggett walked in. “Lone Ranger. Just the fucker I was looking for.”
“Not in the mood.” And Drexel meant it. He was too tired to deal with Doggett.
“Right.” Doggett walked to the urinal. “Look, I want to help on the case.”
“What?” Drexel hated to have conversations in the restroom, but others seemed to insist. Talking over the pissing or shitting seemed wrong to him.
“I mean it. I want to help.”
“The captain put you up to this?”
“No. Not at all. I cleared a case yesterday. I know a couple more bodies popped up. It’s a big case. I’d like to help.” Doggett sig
hed, shook, and zipped up his pants.
Drexel tossed the razor into the trash can and wiped his face with a paper towel. “Okay.”
Doggett smiled and washed his hands. “Great. What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s talk to Daniela.”
The senior detective nodded once, hiked up his trousers by the belt, and followed Drexel to the conference room. Drexel pitched sending Doggett to follow up on Marshall’s stops for Plumber Savior. “See if Marshall’s actually been showing up. If he’s spending what seems like a normal amount of time on the job. See if there are gaps.” Daniela agreed, wrote down the number of Marshall’s supervisor, and sent Doggett on his way.
She held up the folder on Cathar history. “Interesting reading and I’ve only read a few pages. Do you think it helps us?”
“Perhaps gives us a bit of insight into who we’re dealing with. Even if it doesn’t help all that much, our perp’s got a perverted sense of Cathars. But. Well, he’s at the very least referencing this shit in his letters.”
“What do we do with it?”
“I’m thinking we talk to somebody who knows more than the Internet.”
“Any ideas?”
“I figured I’d call the chair of the department of theology at U of Chicago.”
She nodded, pulling down another missing person’s file to review.
Drexel ended up talking to the dean of the Divinity School, who told him the professor he wanted to speak to was Cheryl Barber. He called the office number for Barber. He got voice mail and left a message asking her to call him. He slid the phone into his pocket as Daniela set hers down on the table.
“Let’s go,” she said. “That’s the ME. She’s starting the autopsies.”
She drove them to the ME’s office, stopping along the way to pick up three coffees. In the office, Drexel gave one to Noelle, who smiled. “I think you still owe me some beer.” She wore a white, long coat over her blue scrubs.
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 14
