Maria took two fingers and tried to open the man’s mouth. It opened with surprising ease. But even with the bright halogen lights, it was difficult to see down the victim’s throat. Maria shone her Maglite inside, took the forceps and gently removed an object. It was a white stone, oval in shape, about three inches long. It was covered in saliva and blood. Maria turned it toward the light, and they all saw that there was something written on it. Although the writing was obscured, Jessica saw that whatever was written on the stone was not English.
Maria put the stone into an evidence bag, and looked back into the victim’s mouth. There she saw two more stones of similar shape and size. Jessica had the sick feeling she knew what the cause of death had been. This man had swallowed – or, more likely, been forced to swallow – so many of these stones he had suffocated. The stones were almost identical to the ones on the floor, the half-circle that arced around the victim.
Maria handed the bag to a CSU officer. ‘Once this is processed I want it sent over to documents, along with the missal that was in his hands.’
They would want Hell Rohmer to lay eyes on these things as soon as possible. There was no one better with the written word.
‘Tell him I want to know what language is written on that stone, and what it means,’ Maria added.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And I want it last year.’
‘You got it.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
There is no rest for the righteous or the wicked.
How could there be?
When the devil attempted to make his throne high above the clouds he was cast from heaven, only to find a more hospitable place to ply his craft. It was on that day the end was foretold.
They stand on the corner, two among the crowd, watching. The third church is now written. Pergamos.
‘Do you know what his name means in Latin?’ she asks. It is an old game, one of which neither of them has grown weary.
‘Yes. It means “bearer of light.”’
‘Very good.’
An icy wind slices through the gathering on the corner. People stamp their feet, rub together their hands. They are cold, yet they cannot leave, cannot look away. Instead they stand and watch, transfixed by the spectacle. It is not often that evil walks into their lives in ordinary raiments.
She considers the road they are plotting, how long ago it had begun, how dark the nights. Beelzebub, Belial, Satan, Old Serpent. None of these names are accurate. There is only one name. That name is Man.
‘Do you think light has been shed?’ she asks.
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Do you think they will follow?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is written in the stone.’
She brims with pride. Another car arrives, more officials. Above them, in the early morning sky, a light struggles though the gray clouds, a light as silvery as Venus. Some call it the Morning Star. Some call it the Day Star.
Others call it by its ancient name, taken from the Latin lucem ferre.
Lucifer.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jessica, Byrne, and Maria Caruso stood on the corner in front of the church. A crowd had already gathered on the other side of the street, despite the early hour. Jessica had asked Byrne to tell her what had happened the night before – the incident with DeRon Wilson that landed him on the news. Byrne promised to tell her the whole story, and added that he was scheduled to see the captain. There were many possible outcomes to that kind of meeting: nothing at all, suspension, even firing.
As Maria Caruso began to direct the neighborhood canvass, a young man walked out of the crowd. It was clear to Jessica he was crossing the street to talk to them. He looked familiar, but Jessica couldn’t immediately place him.
Then she did. It was Father Michael Raphael. Today, instead of his cassock and collar, he wore a heavy parka and knit cap.
‘Father,’ Jessica said. ‘What brings you down here?’
Raphael pointed across the street, at the TV cameras. ‘I saw it on the early news. This is terrible.’
Jessica introduced the young priest to Maria Caruso. They shook hands.
‘Is there any way I can be of assistance?’ Raphael asked.
Jessica looked at Byrne, at Maria, back at the priest. ‘Not really, Father,’ she said. ‘But thanks for asking.’
Raphael nodded, took a moment. Clearly there was something else on his mind. ‘I’ve been thinking about your visit,’ he said. ‘May I speak freely?’
Jessica figured he was talking to her. ‘Of course.’
‘Detective Byrne asked about whether or not there was a formal ritual when a church was closed.’
‘You’re talking about deconsecration,’ Byrne said.
‘Yes. I did a little research.’
‘What did you find?’ Byrne asked.
‘Nothing yet. Nothing formal anyway, at least as it applies to Catholics. The only real control the church has over what the sacred ground becomes is at the time of sale, I’m afraid. After that, with subsequent tenants, there really is not much the church can do.’
‘So there is no rite?’
‘Not that I could find,’ Raphael said. ‘But I found a few instances where churches – or at least sacred objects within the churches, like the altars – were destroyed to keep them from being desecrated.’
Raphael took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This might help to explain things.’ He handed the sheet to Jessica. ‘It’s from the code of canon law. The section on sacred places.’
Jessica unfolded the paper. She began to read. As she did, Father Michael Raphael quoted what was on the sheet, word for word.
‘Sacred places lose their dedication or blessing if they have been destroyed in large part, or have been turned over permanently to profane use by decree of the competent ordinary or in fact.’
‘So a church is deconsecrated by default,’ Byrne said.
‘Yes,’ Raphael said. ‘More or less.’
Jessica held up the paper. ‘May I keep this?’
‘By all means.’
The moment drew out. ‘Is there something else?’ Jessica asked.
Raphael pointed at the church. ‘Would it be okay if I said a brief prayer?’
‘Of course,’ Jessica said. ‘We’ll take all the prayers we can get.’
Jessica lifted the crime-scene tape. As Father Raphael said his goodbyes, and ducked under the tape, Jessica got the attention of the uniformed officer guarding the church door. With a nod she told him that Father Raphael was allowed on the scene.
Jessica read the excerpt again.
Turned over permanently to profane use.
There could be no doubt about that, Jessica thought, considering what had been done in the three crime-scene churches.
‘Detective?’
All three detectives looked up. It was one of the CSU officers. He was talking to Maria Caruso.
‘I’ll be back,’ she said.
While Maria returned to the church, Jessica and Byrne walked over to his car, each lost in their own thoughts.
‘Seven churches,’ Byrne said, echoing the words the caller had spoken, words that began this dark odyssey, uttered what seemed like months ago.
‘I don’t want to think about that right now, Kevin.’
Byrne ran a finger over the small, V-shaped scar over his right eye. Jessica knew this meant the wheels were turning. It really was Byrne’s only tell. To a great degree, Kevin Byrne was a cipher. Jessica had no idea what was coming, but she knew something was.
‘I think we need a little spiritual guidance here,’ Byrne finally said.
Jessica glanced at the steps leading to St Regina’s. Father Raphael was no longer standing there. She scanned the crowd. He was gone.
‘Do you want me to try and catch Father Raphael?’
‘I’m not talking about the church,’ Byrne said. He took his keys from his pocket, unlocked the passenger door on the Taurus,
held it open for Jessica. ‘I’m talking about something else.’
TWENTY-NINE
Villa Maria was a sprawling compound, located in a wooded setting in Chester County. The building had at one time been a long-term care facility owned by the county for indigent patients, but purchased and refitted by the archdiocese in the late 1980s. In all, there were sixty-one retired priests at the facility.
From a distance it looked like a fading old resort, something you would find in the Poconos or Catskills. The only hint that it was not was the large statue of the Blessed Mother in front of the main entrance.
The priest sat alone on the rear porch, a large fieldstone veranda overlooking the valley. The room looked like it had at one time been an open porch, but had been enclosed sometime in the seventies or eighties. There were two space heaters glowing in the corners.
The old man faced away from them. As Jessica and Byrne approached, Jessica was first struck by how small the man was. On the way up to Villa Maria, Byrne had told her stories about him, about how the priest had instilled fear and respect in not just the smaller kids in his parish, but the older boys as well.
‘Only one ring at the first genuflection, Mr Byrne,’ the old man in the wheelchair said.
Jessica and Byrne stopped in their tracks, looked at each other. Father Thomas Leone had not turned around. There were no mirrors in the room. It was a bright winter day so there were no night-reflections to be found in the windows. Byrne had not called ahead to make any kind of appointment to see the man. They were not expected.
Was the old man prescient?
‘How did you know it was me?’ Byrne asked.
Leone dabbed at his lips, gently put the napkin back into his lap. His hands were gnarled with arthritis. ‘I wish I could tell you that, at my age – as reward for more than sixty years in service of Our Lord – I have been imbued with the power of omniscience.’ He lifted a thin arm, pointed out the window. ‘The truth is, I saw you pull up in the parking lot.’
Byrne laughed, put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Jessica walked around the other side. Byrne introduced her.
This close, Jessica could see not only the ravages of time, but the ravages of disease. Leone unhooked the oxygen cannula and let it dangle over the side of the chair.
‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Byrne asked.
Leone shrugged. ‘What are they going to do? Withhold my stewed tomatoes?’
The two men took a few minutes to catch up. Mostly they talked about who had died.
‘Have they torn it down yet?’ Leone asked.
‘Not yet,’ Byrne said. ‘In a few days.’
Jessica knew they were talking about St Gedeon’s, the church of Byrne’s youth, the massive stone cathedral on Second Street.
Leone looked out over the grounds, which were still covered with a thin layer of snow. ‘I married about five hundred couples at St Gedeon’s,’ he said. ‘Baptized around a thousand babies.’ He looked at Jessica, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Do you think those numbers add up?’
Jessica thought for a few moments, doing the math. ‘Two babies each? Not for Italians and Irish,’ she said with a smile. ‘I think you must have missed a few.’
Leone smiled. ‘It’s possible.’
Byrne tucked the afghan back around the old man’s thin legs as a draft skittered across the large porch. Leone put a hand on Byrne’s hand.
‘Do you still think about him, Kevin?’
Jessica looked at Byrne, found no answers there, then back at the old man. Think about who?
‘Now and again,’ Byrne said.
Father Leone took a few seconds, adrift in time. ‘Do you remember how I found him?’
Jessica understood. They were talking about The Boy in the Red Coat.
‘I do,’ Byrne said. ‘I remember as if it were yesterday.’
‘Nothing seems like yesterday to me anymore.’
‘It was Monday morning,’ Byrne said. ‘You called at 6:15.’
Leone looked surprised. ‘Was it that early?’
‘It was.’
‘Were you awake?’
‘I was doing my best,’ Byrne said. ‘I was on last out in those days. I was trying to stay awake.’
‘You weren’t down at Platt Bridge, were you?’
Jessica laughed. She had no idea that spot was so well-known. At one time some PPD officers on last out – the midnight to eight shift – would drive down to the area beneath Platt Bridge during the last hour or so of their tour and catch a nap. Jessica’s father told a story of waking up in his squad car one morning with a dead squirrel under each windshield wiper. Nobody was more relentless with practical jokes than police.
‘I know why you’re here,’ Leone said.
Byrne knelt down. ‘We need help understanding this, Father.’
The old man nodded. ‘Tell me how I can help.’
Byrne gave Father Leone the briefest details on what had been happening.
‘These people are being found in closed churches?’ Leone said.
‘Yes.’
‘The first body … where was it?’
‘St Adelaide’s.’
‘Ugly place. Never liked it. Even when it was new.’
Jessica wanted to mention that St Adelaide’s was built in 1853, but decided against it.
‘I mean in the church, Mr Byrne,’ Leone added. ‘Where was the body found in the church?’
‘In the basement. It was –’
‘Where in the basement? In relation to the church proper. Was it directly beneath the altar? The vestibule? The sacristy?’
Byrne looked at Jessica. Jessica closed her eyes, relived the moment of descending the stairs. As a matter of procedure, one of the primary detectives always made a pencil sketch of the crime scene. It was rudimentary, but even in this digital age it was the most referred to document – besides the body chart – in the binder. Jessica had sketched the basement at St Adelaide’s. She found it in her portfolio, took it out, showed it to Father Leone.
The old man studied it for a moment, his weary eyes suddenly flashing bright. ‘This X … This is where the body was found?’
‘Yes.’
He turned the sketch around four times. ‘Which way is north?’
Jessica berated herself for not putting that on the drawing. In fact, she’d never put it on a crime-scene sketch. She would from now on. She turned the paper, showing Father Leone north.
‘This is below the sacristy,’ Leone said. ‘What about St Damian’s?’
Now it was Byrne’s turn. He took out his drawing. The old man looked at it.
‘You still can’t draw, can you?’
Byrne reddened like a schoolboy. He tapped the N at the top of the sketch. ‘At least I indicate north on my sketches.’
Byrne looked at Jessica, who stuck her tongue out.
‘I was only in Damian’s twice,’ Leone said. He studied the sketch. ‘But this is below the sacristy, too.’ He handed the drawing back to Byrne, who filed it away. ‘This was the baby?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Leone made the sign of the cross. ‘No need to see the third sketch.’
This was good, because they didn’t have it. It was Maria Caruso’s case.
‘Look to the sacrarium,’ Leone said.
Jessica glanced at Byrne, who nodded. Jessica wrote this down. The word was somewhat familiar, but she knew she would have to look it up, even if it was not going to mean anything in the end, even if it was just the rambling of an old man.
‘Father, I hate to think that these killings are going to continue, but we have to be prepared for that,’ Byrne said. ‘If there is any way we can anticipate the killer’s next move, we need to do everything in our power to be there first.’
‘I understand,’ Leone said.
‘On the day the first body was discovered, at St Adelaide’s, we received a telephone call,’ Byrne said. ‘A call relaying a r
ather cryptic message.’
‘What was the message?’
‘The caller said, One God, then seven churches.’
‘Seven churches.’
‘Do you have thoughts on this?’ Byrne asked.
The old man thought for a few moments. ‘I do.’
Father Leone pushed off the afghan, tried to rise to his feet. Byrne helped him.
‘Whatever it is, I can get it for you, Father,’ Byrne said.
Leone glared at Byrne, and for a moment Jessica saw the fire in his eyes, the look Byrne had described to her. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
Byrne smiled, but still kept a light touch on the old man’s arm. It took a minute, but eventually they made it over to the bookshelf. The bottom half was mostly popular fiction, brightly colored spines ripped and torn with use. The upper shelves were devoted to board games and jigsaw puzzles, haphazardly filed. On the right side of the bookcase were two shelves of leather-bound books. It was from this section Father Leone drew a volume, then slowly made his way back. He eased himself down into the chair, arranged the afghan over his legs.
‘Seven churches,’ Leone said. ‘It’s from the Book of Revelation.’
Jessica, who was anything but a biblical scholar, knew some of the major points of the Bible. Genesis, Exodus. Some of the Psalms. She had probably heard the least about Revelation, although the 666 number popped up from time to time in movies and fiction.
‘This section is known by different names. The Seven Churches of Revelation, the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, the Seven Churches of Asia – all the same.’
Leone flipped through the book slowly, continued.
‘When Jesus appeared on the island of Patmos, in Greece, he gave John a mission to write down on a scroll what he saw and send it to the seven churches.’
‘Were there specific churches named?’ Byrne asked.
Father Leone looked up. ‘Are you asking if the person you’re looking for is targeting churches by name?’
‘I suppose I am.’
The Killing Room Page 20
