And this was a priest? The news just kept getting worse.
“Time of death?” his partner asked.
Either he did not understand that Ruth was not in the mood for frivolity, or the seriously socially challenged ME didn’t care. “Well, which do you want answered first?”
“I’m sorry?” Ruth asked, clearly not amused.
“Do you want to know when all of this began, or his ultimate time of death? The two events are hours apart.”
Paxton sighed. “Tortured, then?”
The ME nodded. “By someone experienced. See all those wounds?” He pointed to the myriad cuts. “They’re just flesh wounds. None were deep enough to kill him. As a matter of fact, they were shallow enough that someone had to hang around and keep them open—otherwise, they would have clotted closed.”
“How long did that take?” Ruth asked.
“Hours. This was a long, slow, brutal exsanguination.”
Oh, that just wasn’t right. While Paxton didn’t pretend to understand murder, he did kind of understand heat-of-the-moment actions, later regretted. But this? This was thought out—carried out in the coldest, most calculating manner possible. Give Paxton a domestic disturbance case or even a drug turf war over this wacko shit any day.
Ruth circled the body as her frown deepened. “If he died of exsanguination, then where is all the blood?”
“You tell me,” the ME stated.
“Um, isn’t that your job?” Paxton countered.
The ME tossed his bloodied gloves into a red biohazard bag. “Sorry. Whatever happens after they’re dead, it’s all yours.”
Ruth looked around at the cops watching as the body was taken down. “Which officer was first on the scene?” When no one spoke, she cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Who found the body?”
An older sergeant blinked twice, then stepped forward. “Yeah, sorry. It was my probie.”
“Where is he?” Paxton asked, looking around.
The gray-haired officer shuffled his feet a bit. “I sent him out on the perimeter.” He shrugged. “He’s just out of the academy, and for this to be his first DB….” The sergeant whistled through his teeth. “I thought he could use the air.” Then he rushed on. “But I know for a fact that he did not contaminate the scene.”
“No,” Ruth answered. “I wasn’t worried about that. I just needed to know exactly how the body was found.”
“I can get him, but he was only a few seconds ahead of me.” From Ruth’s nod, the sergeant went on with the briefing. Clearly this was not his first homicide discovery. “At 7:44 this morning, we got a call about a break-in here at the church. We were a little light on the details since the caller only spoke Spanish, and there was no immediate translator on the 911 switchboard.”
The old guy threw a thumb over to a dark-haired woman sobbing in the corner. “We were just a block away. We approached from the side entrance and found Mrs. Hendes crying hysterically, babbling way too fast and incoherently for me to make out what she was saying. Honestly, I thought it was a smash and grab.”
Gulping, the officer continued. “I feel horrible now, but at the time I thought the harder task was quieting the church’s caretaker, so I sent the probie in. I had line of sight of him. I didn’t know… you know… this was going to be there… Now, of course, I know she was saying ‘the devil’s taken him, the devil’s taken him.’ ”
Ruth broke the heavy silence. “You said you thought it was a smash and grab?”
“Yeah,” the sergeant answered, finally peeling his eyes away from the dead priest. “Last night there were several calls from neighbors that some young gangbanger-wannabes were hanging around.”
“I can’t imagine kids, even ones who want to join a gang, would do something like this,” Paxton stated. Or at least he hoped they couldn’t.
“No, but now we’ve got to track them down.” In a rare moment of anger, Ruth gritted her teeth. “But you’ve got to ask yourself—how could four or five kids be harassing a church at midnight? I mean, where were their parents?”
The sergeant shook his head. “In this neighborhood, you probably don’t want to know. But usually the gangs leave the church alone. Even if any of the kids did try something stupid on church grounds, Father Gonzales liked to handle things himself, because you know, once a kid gets into the system…”
Paxton nodded. Yep, once a guest of the penal system, one usually became a frequent flier. But there were questions that needed to be asked, and for some reason, Ruth still seemed too pissed to ask them.
“You are sure, though, that the priest had no connections to any gangs? The Colombians are known to do some pretty awful crap. Maybe that’s why Gonzales liked to handle things himself? To keep his involvement on the down low?”
“I know you have to run down any leads,” the sergeant said. “But I am telling you, Gonzales would just say, ‘God keeps his own house in order.’ I’ve been on this beat for three decades, and I gotta tell you, I believed him.”
Paxton nodded. He knew these old grizzled beat cops liked to seem all fierce and unyielding, but underneath it all, they felt a deep sense of protection for their streets and the people who lived on them. They pounded the pavement to help—even when a neighborhood was going belly-up, like this one. Paxton was sure that the sergeant’s wife, kids, and hell, even grandkids, had begged him to take a desk job, but the guy just couldn’t. He had to stay to help the people he loved.
They all watched as the priest’s ashen body was loaded into a body bag.
“Sorry,” the sergeant said, clearing his throat. “It’s just…I knew the guy. He really helped keep drugs off the street. How could anyone do this… to a priest… to him?”
Paxton really couldn’t argue much as the zipper finally blocked the gruesome sight.
Ruth shook her head. Her anger had seemingly evaporated, and it was replaced with melancholy,
“For all of humankind’s capacity for good, we still hold a reservoir to do such evil…”
Something about this church, or the death of the priest, was really affecting Ruth. He’d not seen this much vulnerability in her in the last six months as he had in the last six minutes. She, too, must have sensed it as she shook her head again.
Ruth’s tone was crisp again. Any lingering emotion was gone. “My understanding is that some money was taken?”
“Yes,” the sergeant said, returning to his brusque manner. “At best guess, seven dollars from the collection plate. However, the collection plate itself is solid gold, and is worth over four hundred dollars, but it was left.”
Paxton raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think we can exactly hang our hats on robbery as a motive.”
“I agree. This seems directed at the priest.” Ruth turned to the sergeant. “Thank you. We will contact you if we have any other questions.”
The older officer went to move away, but then turned on his heel. “Oh, one other thing. Mrs. Hendes said that the front door was locked when she came in. The techies scanned for prints. It seems that they only found the priest’s. It looks like Gonzales locked himself inside with the bastard.”
Ruth nodded as the sergeant headed toward the front of the church, but when she turned back to Paxton, she had a concerned look on her face.
“What?” he asked.
They moved out of the way as the MEs rolled away the gurney carrying the priest.
“None of this strikes you as slightly familiar?”
Paxton was going to reflexively answer no, but thought better of it. What had her mind deduced that his hadn’t yet? He was missing something, and he didn’t like the feeling of that.
“Um, to my knowledge, no clergy have been killed since… Well, since ever.”
“No, not that specifically.” She pulled out her smartphone and typed frantically into the browser. “Two weeks ago, they found a prostitute with her head cut off and her eyes gouged out. ”
She brought up the news report. “Her name was María Sanchón.” Paxt
on averted his gaze. He really did not need that sight burned into his retinas.
“Then, six weeks ago, this homeless man’s feet were cut off.”
Ruth tried to show him another photo, but Paxton became extremely interested in the mustard stain on his jacket.
“Okay, none of these seem the same at all,” Paxton stated.
“I know, but we need to look not at the crimes, but how they were committed.”
Paxton looked up to find Ruth’s eyes crackling with intent. He couldn’t help but respond. “Okay, I’ll bite.”
“They were committed cleanly. For an act of supposed rage from a john, the perp left no forensic evidence. And why cut off a homeless man’s feet? Again, without leaving even a single fiber behind?”
“So, basically, you say they are connected because they have nothing to connect them?”
Ruth nodded. “Work with me here.”
With that shy grin on her lips, how could he not? “All right, fine. But let’s keep your theory under our hats while we track down and rule out all the nut jobs that have been released from our fair city’s mental institutions.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Paxton liked the way Ruth smiled before she continued, “We will need to roll out a full canvas and—”
Her smartphone buzzed in her hand. Her brows knit together as she read the text. Quickly, she pocketed the phone. “Pax, can you supervise the canvas?”
“Oh, man! That’s the fourth one in a row.”
“No,” Ruth chided. “It would be the second one in a row, and I did the six before that.”
“I know, because I hate talking with people and listening to them whine, lie, and make up excuses.”
Surprisingly, she seemed sympathetic to his plight. “Look, you know I would do it, but Evan forgot his history paper. The one that’s due today.”
Paxton tried to pout his way out of it, but Ruth drew the line.
“Sorry, but a possible ‘F’ in social sciences trumps your lack of social skills.”
“Fine,” Paxton said.
“Thanks.” Ruth flashed another smile before she turned to leave.
Paxton watched her walk away, ponytail swaying. Then she picked up the pace. With traffic heavy at this time of day, she had better hurry if she wanted to get to the school before noon. Ruth passed by the lieutenant and waved, giving him the briefest reason why she was leaving as she hit the street. Paxton watched Tyner watch Ruth leave.
Suddenly, an arm draped over his shoulder. “Well?” the ME asked.
“Well, what?” Paxton asked as he scooted the man’s unwelcome appendage off his jacket.
“Exactly how long have you two been partners?”
Paxton was pretty sure where the pale, Vitamin D-deficient doctor was driving this conversation train, but for inter-departmental cooperation, he had to hear the guy out. “Just over six months.”
“So, my question still stands…” the guy’s eyebrows went up and down, “Well…?”
“Don’t start,” Paxton stated as he headed for the door. Even a neighborhood canvas was sounding better than hanging out with Doctor Inappropriate.
“What? Like you weren’t just watching her ass. I am just applying the Socratic method to determine if you two have—”
Paxton held up a hand. “Yes, I get it. No need to elaborate.”
“Come on. I’m stuck in the autopsy room all day. Can’t you tell me just a little—?”
Thankfully, Paxton’s phone began vibrating.
“Oh, gosh. I guess we will have to cut this conversation short.”
Paxton headed toward the door as fast as he could.
Still, he could hear the ME shouting, “I think you’ve got that thing rigged!”
With the text message on-screen, Paxton wished that were the case. Unfortunately, his already crappy morning just took a turn for the worse.
CHAPTER 2
Cecilia tried to stay out of everyone’s way as they rushed to class through the crowded quad. She was already plastered up against the statue that dominated the center of their Catholic school.
Our Lady of Sorrows.
She glanced up to see the larger-than-life statue of the Virgin Mary glaring down at her, as if scolding her for trying to hide within the Lady’s stone folds. Even the Virgin found her wanting.
Ugh. Where were her friends? If they didn’t get here soon, she would have to head to science class herself, which did not sound appealing. It had taken everything just to get Jeremy out of bed this morning. Cecilia really did not think she could face a dry lecture on photosynthesis on her own without nodding off.
“Cec!” a bright voice called out from behind.
She turned to find the freckle-faced Helen hurrying toward her. Right behind her was the darker-haired Francesca. Cecilia didn’t even wait for them to catch up before she made her way through the surging crowd to Building D.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Helen demanded. Puffing, the redhead caught her by the sleeve. “What is going on with your skirt?”
Cecilia looked down at her school uniform. Everything seemed in order. Her shirt was a stark white, and her skirt the required blue-and-black plaid. “Nothing.”
“Um, what about the length?” Helen asked, in that weird I-am-trying-to-talk-about-something-secret-without-really-telling-you-what-I-mean voice.
Francesca tried to help out. “A quarter turn, remember?”
“What are you guys talking about?”
Both of her friends glanced over their shoulders at Sister Switzler, the vice principal. The matronly figure stood outside her office, watching the quad like a hawk over a field of mice, trying to decide which one she would pluck from its day.
Helen leaned in with a harsh whisper. “You were supposed to roll your waistband a quarter turn this morning. You know, to bring your hem up.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes. She had forgotten about this ill-conceived attempt to get around the strict uniform guidelines. The theory went that if every girl in school rolled her waistband just the tiniest bit each day, so that every girl’s skirt looked the same, that somehow in a few weeks they could get their hems above the knee. It was, quite possibly, the stupidest idea Cecilia had ever heard. Besides, she liked her hem exactly where it was.
“Sorry, not doing it,” Cecilia said as she renewed her trek to get to class on time.
“Come on!” Helen pleaded. “We need everyone to do it, or we’ll get busted.”
“Then you’ll get busted,” Cecilia snapped, then instantly regretted it as Helen’s lips fell from a smile into a frown.
Francesca, though, had a sympathetic look. “Rough night, again?”
Cecilia could only nod.
“Your mom had another migraine?” Francesca asked.
Yeah, sure. A migraine. Cecilia nodded, though, letting them think what they would. It was easier than explaining the truth.
Helen shifted gears as only she could. She grabbed Cecilia’s arm so that they walked locked together. “I am so sorry! I wouldn’t have bugged you if I’d known. You do look really tired.”
“Can’t the doctors figure out what’s wrong with her?” Francesca asked, as they finally made their way to Building D.
Sure, it seemed everyone knew what was wrong. No one though, not the doctors or even her uncle, actually seemed willing to do anything about it. But that was TMI for her friends. They didn’t need to be as bummed out, or as worn out, as she was.
“They just say she needs plenty of rest.”
Her two friends nodded in sympathy until they heard some tinny music. That same stupid song from last night. A group of four boys were gathered around watching a video on someone’s phone. They had the speakers cranked up so high that even she could hear the KMNY radio promo.
“And once again, K-Money comes through for Halloween! We’ve got the creepiest bands at the creepiest mansion on the creepiest night of the year. You’re gonna stain your shorts when you see what Diana Dahmer has in store for you! To win these exclusiv
e tickets you just need to—”
“Mister Donovan!” a shout came from across the quad. Sister Switzler did not even have to move away from her office to make her displeasure known. The boy in question shoved the illicit phone back in his pocket and tried to act like he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Then, she crooked a finger at him.
No one, but no one, ignored that finger.
Francesca leaned in to whisper, “Those eyebrows alone scare me.”
Yes, Cecilia had to agree. Sister Switzler did look like Mike Myers in drag as a Russian weight lifter. Only Mike Myers would look way more girly.
Finally, the boy lowered his head in acceptance and started the trek over to the vice principal’s office. They all made a clear path for him, not wanting the “Finger of Switzler” to beckon them as well.
“Darn it,” Helen sighed as they put as much distance between Mister Donovan and them as they could. “I really wanted to find out how to win those concert tickets.”
“What?” Cecilia asked. “Why? You hate that music as much as I do.”
“Um, hello? Look at those guys over there.” Helen indicated three boys sitting along the far railing. “Why else would I want to go?”
Even Francesca nodded. “They are hot.”
“Ah, from those bleached tips to their pointy goatees, they are smokin’ hot.”
Cecilia, though, did not see the attraction. The boys in question were a fairly skinny and pale lot. Apparently, looking sickly was a goth code. And given that they went to a Catholic school, it made it a little hard to really go full-on death black, but somehow they tried to make up for it with hair products and eyeliner. One even had a folder with Diana Dahmer doing something unsavory to a sheep.
“You guys can have ’em,” Cecilia said, but then one of them nodded and smiled.
Helen gasped. “OMG. Michael just smiled at me!”
“You? It was for me,” Francesca stated, as she stepped in front of them.
Cecilia sighed. “Whatever. I’m going to science class, if either of you would like to join me.”
Her friends followed, but only so that they could try to flash that quarter of an inch more leg they had showing.
Don't Read After Dark: Keep the lights on while reading these! (A McCray Horror Collection) Page 33
