by Erik Carter
“Seaside, Oregon. Victim’s name: Isaac Bennett.”
Dale flipped the photo over. The next image was a closer shot of the scribbled writing on Bennett’s forearm. The writing was sloppy, almost violent.
“Joseph,” Dale said. “So someone slashed his throat and then decided to roll up his sleeve and scribble their name on his forearm?”
“No,” Taft said. “Bennett wrote that himself.”
Dale looked up from the folder. “What?”
“The neighbor woman heard the commotion. Came over. Didn’t get a response to knocking on the door. Eventually entered and found him on the floor, barely alive, with a marker in his hand writing that on his arm. He died before the ambulance got there. There were streaks of blood on the carpeting where he dragged himself ten feet from the attack at the desk to grab the marker.”
Dale flipped to another picture. This was a wider shot of the crime scene. There was an overturned desk, a bowl and its spilled contents. Massive amounts of blood. Scattered paper and pens and books. And Bennett’s splayed body. In this image, a large stab wound to the back of Bennett’s left shoulder was also visible.
“He was trying to tell us who killed him,” Dale said.
Taft nodded. “One might assume that.”
“‘Might?’”
“I’ll get to that in a second.”
“Okay,” Dale said and arched an eyebrow. “Any sign of the perp?”
“The neighbor saw a guy get into a car and speed off. Local forensics found nothing. No prints, no shoe prints. Nothing on Bennett’s phone record but work, his momma, and the girl he’d been dating.”
“Forcible entry?”
Taft shook his head.
Dale scratched his chin as he flipped back through the images. “So Bennett lets a guy waltz into his house, the guy slashes his throat, stabs him in the shoulder.” Dale pointed to the image of the scattered debris of Bennett’s fallen desk. “They knock over his desk, bringing out the neighbor before the perp can finish the job. But he sees the amount of blood Bennett has lost and figures the job’s already done anyway. He slips out as quickly as he can before the neighbor gets there. Bennett then uses his last bit of energy to pull himself away from the desk to where that marker landed and scribbles out the name Joseph on his own arm.” Dale paused. “All that said, a couple questions for you. Why do you not think our guy’s name is Joseph? And why is this a potential BEI case?”
“Bennett said two really odd things before he died. When the old lady went inside, Bennett was delirious, scribbling on his arm. After she called 911, he looked her straight in the eye and said ‘render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.’”
“That’s biblical.”
“Indeed it is,” Taft said. “But Bennett was a devout atheist. In fact, it was something of a contentious point between him and the old lady neighbor, as much as she liked him.”
“And what was the second thing he said?”
“After he quoted the Bible, he started to fade out. The old gal said his eyes glazed over, and he looked at the ceiling. He kept repeating something, over and over.” Taft took the folder from Dale and flipped through the papers in the back of the stack. He read aloud. “Actiones secundum fidei.” He butchered the pronunciation.
Dale leaned over, looked at the words. “It’s Latin. Actiones secundum fidei. ‘Action follows belief.’”
“All of that would seem pretty weird by itself but not necessarily worthy of BEI investigation … had it not happened again an hour later.”
Taft flipped through the papers and photos to about midway through the stack. He handed it back to Dale.
There was a photograph of a man of similar age to the first victim, splayed out on a hardwood floor. He had a wound to his chest, and a pool of blood surrounded him. Clutched in his right hand was a small piece of paper. Dale flipped to the next picture and saw a closer shot of the paper, which was a small, well-worn print of a painting of Jesus.
“Philip Vasquez,” Taft said. “Across the Columbia River in Washington State. City of Longview. Stab wound to the chest. Happened in a hallway at his workplace, The Longview Sentinel. A newspaper. Coworkers heard the commotion. One of them chased our perp off. Didn’t catch the guy or get a good look at him. And guess what Vasquez was mumbling as he died.”
“Actiones secundum fidei,” Dale said.
Taft nodded. “And Vasquez, like Bennett, was known to be an atheist. Yet he died clutching a picture of Jesus that his coworkers said he pulled out of his wallet. Seaside, Oregon, and Longview, Washington, are both in the Portland, Oregon, area. And about an hour and a half apart. The two 911 calls were recorded as 3:32 PM for Bennett’s murder in Seaside and 4:48 for the Vasquez murder in Longview.”
Dale thought about the timing. “That’s doable. If our guy drove extremely fast and didn’t waste any time.”
“And if he had everything perfectly planned out and if absolutely nothing went wrong and if a whole lot of other things perfectly fell into place.”
“So what you’re saying, sir, is you think we have some sort of coordinated killings?”
“Maybe. But I won’t rule out your idea that we have an incredibly efficient, lead-footed serial killer. With some sort of vendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
“Both Bennett and Vasquez went to the same college. Over ten years ago. Chinookan University in Portland.” He paused for effect. “A Christian university.”
“Two loud-and-proud atheists went to the same religious school and a decade later are slaughtered an hour apart, mumbling the same Latin phrase.” Dale flipped back through the file. “One kept a picture of Jesus in his wallet and pulled it out as he died, and the other wrote the name Joseph on his arm. I see what you’re getting at now, sir. That Joseph might be referring to one of the biblical Josephs.”
“That’s right. And now you see why this case might be BEI material. You’ve got two hours. You’re booked on the next flight to Portland.”
“And what about—”
“Arancia?” Taft said, referring to Dale’s glorious De Tomaso Pantera. “I already got that damn car of yours on the back of a truck. It’s been on the road towards Oregon for an hour already.”
Taft shook his head and rolled his eyes. Taft always seemed frustrated by how his eccentric agents were able to get their way about things like this. One of Dale’s quirks was he demanded that his car be with him for every mission possible.
Dale was pleased to know that Arancia would be meeting up with him in Portland, but he was displeased to know that someone had been touching her without his knowledge.
“Now all I have to do is wait for Gillian Spiro,” Dale said.
Taft pointed past Dale. “That would be her now.”
Dale turned around. A car pulled up and came to a stop.
Since hearing that an FBI civilian would be working with him on the case, Dale had an image built up for Gillian Spiro—either a mousy bookworm or a robust bookworm. Either way, she would have a ratty mess of hair, skin that hadn’t seen the sun in months, copious acne. Glasses, probably, peering out from which would be eyes that would avoid making contact with his.
Gillian Spiro stepped out of the car. And Dale’s jaw hit the ground.
Chapter 4
Gillian Spiro was stunning.
First a pale, shapely lower leg emerged from the car, and a heel tapped on the ground. A black, four-inch heel on a one-inch platform, a thin strap encircling her leg just above the ankle. Her knee revealed itself followed by a black-and-white, plaid skirt, which lay several inches up her leg until she stood up, at which point the skirt fell to its final resting spot a couple inches above the knee. Pantyhose would have been appropriate, but she was sporting the bare-legs-in-a-skirt look, a look that drove Dale wild. Dale traced upward to find a yellow blouse, button-up with a large collar and sleeves that puffed out above wide cuffs that went almost halfway up her slender forearms. As Dale’s eyes continued to move north, there was a cascade of black hair. The hai
r was incredibly shiny in the Arizona sun and also incredibly straight, parted in the middle. The hairstyle looked professional on her, but it also vaguely reminded Dale of a flower child look. Her face was soft and heart-shaped, and as she took off her designer sunglasses, Dale saw that she was Asian. Her eyeliner accented her brown eyes, and her skin was smooth and flawless. She didn’t smile, didn’t even give a casual salutation. Her expression was at the same time grim and neutral. She was assessing. She paused a moment before she walked over to Dale and Taft.
Taft raised a hand, welcoming her. “Spiro, I’d like you to meet your partner for the case, Special Agent Dale Conley.”
Dale offered his hand to Spiro, and they shook hands. By the way she cocked her head to the side, ever so slightly, and narrowed her eyes, Dale could tell there was something there. Suspicion? Putting up her guard?
“Pleasure,” Dale said.
“Likewise.” She spoke in an authoritative tone, which seemed somewhat affected, but from that single word, Dale could also sense her intelligence. Her voice was crackling with it.
“Congratulations, Spiro,” Taft said. “You’re a special agent.”
Her eyes lingered on Dale for half a moment longer, still assessing, before turning to Taft. “Come again?”
“Change in protocol. For the duration of the case, you’re now a special agent. And until Conley here makes a decision as to whether this is a BEI case or not, you’re the lead investigator.”
Spiro thought this over for a few seconds, and Dale was surprised at how little she reacted. She turned back to Dale before replying to Taft. “That must be why he looks so upset.”
A small grin formed at the corners of her lips, and she narrowed her eyes at him even more. She was toying with him. She put her sunglasses back on.
“You’re going to need a couple things,” Taft said. He unbuckled his belt.
“Sir,” Dale said. “Right here?”
“Shut up, Conley.” Taft removed his badge and gun/holster combination and handed them both to Spiro. She hesitated and looked cautiously at the gun before taking the items.
Dale hadn’t thought he could be any more stunned by Taft’s actions that day. “Sir, that gun is registered to you, and the badge has your number on it!”
“Do I need to get the pencil out again?” Taft said as he buckled up. “I make the rules.”
“Ridiculous.”
Spiro held the gun with two fingers, away from her body. She gingerly put it in her purse.
“Good luck,” Taft said. “Phone me if you need anything. Spiro, don’t take this guy too seriously. And, Conley, none of your usual bullshit.” He looked at his watch. “I got a taxi to catch. Now run along, you two. Play nice. Shoo.”
Taft left.
Spiro looked at Dale. She crossed her arms. Not to be outdone, Dale looked right back at her, put his hands on his hips.
“Spiro,” Dale said. “Is that Greek?”
“Yes.”
“Like Spiro Ag—”
“Like Spiro Agnew, yes.” It was clear she was used to fielding questions about her last name’s similarity to the first name of Richard Nixon’s original vice president, who resigned in disgrace and was convicted of bribery, tax evasion, and money laundering a few years back.
“You sure don’t look Greek.” She looked like a damn fine-looking Asian woman.
Spiro suppressed more frustration. “My father is Greek-American. He met my mother serving overseas.”
“In the war?”
Spiro didn’t reply for a moment. “Before that. I’m older than that.”
“How old are you?”
Spiro frowned. “You don’t ask a woman that.” She paused. “I’m thirty-nine.”
“Well, you still look good.”
She frowned again and opened her mouth as if to reply. Stopped. Shrugged her shoulders and gave a halfhearted nod as if to say thank you. Dale hadn’t meant to flabbergast her. He’d learned long ago that a woman’s age was a sensitive topic, but in regards to interpersonal relations, Dale was a very slow learner.
Spiro headed toward her car, and Dale followed.
“Let’s head to the airport. We can look over the case there,” Spiro said.
“Sure. Over a drink at one of the airport bars. We have the time.”
Spiro stopped abruptly, turned on Dale, and slammed him against the car. There was a loud smack against the sheet metal, and the car shook on its suspension. She grabbed Dale’s crotch and stepped into him, getting an inch from his face.
The intense, stomach-dropping sensation of groin pain flooded Dale’s nether regions as Spiro dug in hard and relentlessly. His eyes watered. He groaned.
“Now you listen to me,” Spiro said. “I’m going to make this perfectly clear. I’ve been told about you and what to expect. Your supposed charm isn’t going to work on me. I looked at your file. From everything I’ve seen, you’re just a manipulative snake who uses his charisma on vulnerable women. Not this woman, Conley. We won’t be having a drink. We won’t be doing anything but working this case. You won’t be laying one finger on me. If you so much as look at me the wrong way I’ll tear this feeble thing right off your body. Don’t antagonize me. I want to know that you’ve understood everything I’ve said. Communicate to me clearly that you’ve understood every last word I’ve said. Now.”
Dale was sputtering at the pain, and it took all his effort to get out his reply. “It’s not feeble.”
Spiro scowled at him, threw his member aside, and stormed off to the driver side of the car.
Chapter 5
Dale and Spiro sat in the coach section of an airplane. They had reached cruising altitude, and the engines hummed smoothly outside. Dale was in the middle seat of their row, Spiro had the window seat, and an old woman had the aisle seat. Spread out on the seat-back trays in front of Dale and Spiro were the contents of the case file.
“I can’t believe we’re flying coach,” Spiro said and scanned her surroundings with contempt.
“Taft is a cheap SOB,” Dale said.
It was a tight fit. Dale could feel the humanity around him in all its unwashed glory. Coughing. Squeaking seats. Body odor. The stale smell of smoke-drenched clothing. A baby crying in the back. Dale tried not to get too close to Spiro—lest he accidentally touch her, causing her to attack his genitalia again—but it was difficult given the large dimensions of the other woman to his right.
Dale motioned to the case materials. “What’s your professional opinion on all this, Dr. Spiro?”
The old woman next to Dale looked at the gruesome pictures. She gasped. Dale repositioned himself to hide the file from her.
“I’m withholding judgment until we get more info,” Spiro said. “The fact that both men went to the same school is significant because serial killers’ victims often have something in common, and the fact that they were mumbling the Latin makes me wonder if that’s the last thing our killer said to both of them. But the distance between the crimes makes me doubt it’s one guy. If there is a single killer, he has one helluva fast car.”
Dale thought about his own car, Arancia, just then, on the back of a truck on an Interstate somewhere between Arizona and Oregon. He sure hoped she was okay. He thought about wayward stones being flung from passing cars. Bird poop. They were dark thoughts. Dark thoughts indeed. He pushed them from his brain.
“I have one helluva fast car,” Dale said with pride.
“Oh? And do you have a red, bouncy ball? And a lunchbox with your name on it? Child.”
Dale was taken aback by the immediacy and severity of her nasty response. But, then, only hours earlier she had attacked his groin because he offered to buy her a drink, so he was quickly getting used to the fact that Gillian Spiro was an over-reactor. Dale knew that it was best to not give nasty people the reactions that they so craved, so he ignored what she had said and was about to continue the conversation when she spoke again.
“And what’s your professional opinion?” Spiro
said. “The biblical reference? The Latin?
“I’m also gonna reserve judgment for now. But it’s hard not to make biblical connections.”
Spiro turned over a page. “Actiones secundum fidei. The Bible was written in Latin, right?”
“No, you’re thinking of Catholic Mass. The Old Testament was originally written in Hebrew. The New Testament was written in Greek.”
“So why were both of our victims speaking in Latin?”
“I still think there’s some sort of connection with religion there. During the Middle Ages, the Roman Catholic Church was the biggest power in the Western world, and so it was the highest institution of thought and learning. And they spoke Latin. These days, as I’m sure you know, Latin is the language of science, and it’s where our legal terminology comes from. It’s become a sign of intelligence and prestige. It’s why colleges and military institutions have Latin mottos. Maybe our victims, when they went to the Christian university, had been Catholic. Or maybe the phrase meant something to them. An inside joke of sorts. Or maybe, since they both died as self-professed atheists, using the language of science was their way of bucking their religious pasts. Now, why they would be muttering the phrase as they died … I haven’t the foggiest.”
Spiro ran her finger along the paper. “‘Action follows belief.’”
“And of course we have Vasquez holding the picture of Jesus and Bennett having written the name Joseph on his arm. What do you know about Joseph and the Bible, Agent Spiro?”
Dale put a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the word Agent. If she was going to be nasty, he wasn’t going to bend out of his way to be nice to her either.
Spiro shot him a look before answering. “Joseph was Mary’s husband. That’s all I know. I’m not religious.”
“Nor am I,” Dale said. “You’re right that Joseph was Mary’s husband, but there are also two other significant Josephs in the Bible. The first one is in the book of Genesis, and the other is Joseph of Arimathea, who was alive during the time of Christ. If there’s a biblical connection to our case, I’m guessing that we’ll be dealing with one of the two New Testament Josephs, since our phrase is in Latin.”
