The Absolver: Rome (Saint Michael Thriller Series Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  Michael slipped from the driver’s seat and into the rain himself. He retrieved a toolbelt and a small red toolbox from the van’s rear cargo area and urgently approached the apartment building’s entrance. Gotta work fast to find the evidence. Isadore might only be out long enough for a smoke and an espresso, and I wanna uncover his secrets and get set up before he comes back. Michael momentarily paused at the covered doorway, reached up with his right hand and touched the plain wood cross pendant concealed beneath his zipped-up worker’s suit. God willing, I’ll soon know if this man’s the monster he’s alleged to be. With evidence to leave behind for the police, I can protect all human dignity from his future sins tonight and still walk away with a clear conscience. He quickly and slightly crossed himself with his right hand and stepped to a lighted security keypad on the wall to the right of the doorway. Michael quickly punched in the four-digit code from the intel packet.

  bzzzzt thunk

  The magnetic lock buzzed and released the door, and Michael pulled it open, careful not to appear too nervous or surprised that his code had worked. He saw a poorly lit hallway awaited him, and a small sign at the far end revealed the elevator’s location. Michael stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The same radio program he’d been listening to in the van lightly echoed toward him from an unknown, nearby apartment.

  “When Jesus tells us, ‘blessed are they,’ He is describing their inner joy and peace for being aligned with God, as well as praising their character and pledging divine rewards for it.”

  Michael smiled at this small, but welcome, confirmation of the righteousness of his task. Confident and just, he strode toward the expectedly-small elevator intent on determining the impending fate of one, Pietro Isadore.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Monday, 2251 hours.

  Isadore Residence. Rome, Italy.

  Michael had only required a few seconds to pick the old locks on Pietro Isadore’s apartment door. The internal components are so sloppy that I bet a Honda key would’ve opened it. He confidently opened the door, as though he belonged there, stepped inside the apartment, and quietly closed it behind him. No alarm noises, that’s good. Michael tacitly flipped the old deadbolt closed and saw a small, brass security chain hanging on the inside of the doorframe near his eye level. Ironic that Isadore’s got a rape chain on his own door. I guess he’s the kinda guy that’d know how important those are. He quickly examined the doorframe for telltale magnetic alarm sensors but found none.

  Turning around, Michael stood still and just listened to the apartment for a moment. If I’m mistaken and he is home, I’ll have to convince him that the landlord sent me to fix an emergency plumbing problem and I’m in the wrong apartment. I know just enough Italian to portray myself as a Spanish immigrant, as long as no one speaks more Spanish than I do.

  A long, door-less hallway led to the other rooms and prevented him from seeing much else from the doorway. Thankfully, it’s been updated to tile flooring, so the downstairs neighbors won’t hear me walking around up here. One call to Isadore to complain about his noise would ruin everything. Michael heard no movement, no sounds from inside the apartment, and saw nothing to indicate Isadore and the police would be alerted to his presence. He proceeded through the rest of the dwelling and kept his large toolbox in hand, just in case he had to be more convincing. This short scan for people might save me a lot of time if Isadore keeps his trophies out on display. The overall glance throughout the interior confirmed he was alone in the small one-bedroom apartment, but didn’t reveal any corroborating evidence. Dirtbags that do what Isadore's accused of aren’t gonna keep all that under lock and key in a wall or subfloor, they're gonna keep it accessible where they can easily and privately relive the conquests. I’ll start with the bedroom. Probably good that I don’t have a blacklight handy.

  Michael quietly strode to the apartment’s small bedroom and paused to decide where to begin searching in earnest. There was no closet, but a tall armoire stood on the wall opposite the door. A traditional double-bed with a metal frame, head-, and footboard stood centered against the wall to Michael’s right. A long, low dresser that matched the armoire stood against the wall to his left. Above that dresser was a large canvas painting. Michael stepped to his right, alongside the bed, to better examine the painting. At first, it appeared to be a slightly abstract nude of a woman lying in bed, as seen from the perspective of her headboard. Upon closer inspection, Michael realized the void between her legs was a man apparently performing oral sex on her. Hmm, so he’s a romantic. I’m gonna start there.

  Michael set his toolbox down near the doorway and moved over to the bottom left corner of the painting. Lifting it just slightly away from the wall, he wanted to first identify how it had been hung. A small folded piece of paper fell from behind the painting and landed on the dresser. Setting the canvas back against the wall, Michael briefly inspected the paper and found it was blank. He probably thinks it’s a security measure. If he sets it between the wall and the painting, and comes home later to find it on the ground, he’ll suspect that someone might’ve seen what he’s hiding behind it. A little silly, though, given his alleged sins and crimes. If someone’s interested enough to break in, he’d be dead or in handcuffs before he ever sees the misplaced paper. Maybe this’ll be more like cop work than I thought. We didn’t often catch the smart ones there, either.

  Michael dropped the paper back down to the dresser and again tried to confirm how the painting was hung. The first thing that caught his eye, however, when he looked behind it, was a Polaroid photograph tacked to the wall and concealed just behind the corner he’d lifted. Can’t see the image clearly, but that’s exactly the kinda thing I’m looking for. He glanced farther up the wall. Single wire near the middle, looks like. Michael stepped around to the front of the dresser, which was deep enough to allow him to barely grasp and lift both bottom edges of the painting. He carefully slid the canvas up the wall several inches to avoid damaging anything hidden behind it. Once confident he’d freed it from its hooks, Michael picked the painting up, turned around, and placed it gently on the bed behind him. Before turning back to the wall, he momentarily steeled himself for what he feared and expected to find there.

  As soon as Michael turned around, dozens of instant-photo images of naked women stared back at him and turned Michael’s stomach, even though he hadn’t yet taken in any of their details. The forest is terrible enough, examining the trees will be insufferable. Still, it must be done. Stepping closer to the images, Michael methodically began with the bottom left, the first one he’d noticed, and worked his way around Isadore’s collection as a horrible clock. All the depicted women appeared very intoxicated and some seemed unconscious. None smiled at him or seemed aware of their actions or current engagements. No one looks like an active, willing participant.

  Every photographed woman was a brunette, under thirty, and most appeared college-age, at best. I’m sure there's no shortage of residents and visitors in that age bracket willing to put themselves at risk of meeting Isadore, but none of them deserved or asked to be violated like this. There have to be twenty-five or thirty victims here, and I’m sure he didn’t have the guts to start collecting and keeping pictures until he’d already been at this a while. It’s still possible this was all consensual, so without the chance to speak with these women, I need more evidence to move forward. There can be no doubt, none whatsoever.

  Michael opened the top right dresser drawer, the one farthest from the door, and another small folded piece of paper dropped onto the floor at his feet. Jackpot, just like an “X” on a treasure map. Confident he searched in the right place, Michael cautiously pulled the drawer open. I might have to put everything back as I found it, even though I’ll probably be posing all this for the cops to find in a few days when Isadore’s neighbors report the stench.

  Once the drawer fully opened, Michael found another part of Isadore’s trophy collection. Driver’s licenses, credit cards, passports. Remove
d body piercings. Necklaces. A few locks of brown hair held together with clear tape. Distinct, elaborate hair barrettes. Lock and barrettes, just as the victim said he’d taken from her. This is another time it’d be nice if I could have the victim’s name. Seeing her D-L in here would corroborate this beyond all reasonable doubt.

  Michael set that drawer on the dresser and moved to the next one. Another folded paper. He found an internal tray that appeared to contain Isadore’s supplies: a large tube of personal lubricant and an economy size box of Magnum condoms. Michael frowned. I doubt it, Isadore. After lifting the tray, Michael found the last of what he needed: four brown bottles, each about four ounces in volume and two sets of pliers. That’s gonna be his intoxicant. Probably GHB. The pliers, one large adjustable set and a small pair of needle-nose, were probably for removing the women’s intimate body jewelry. Probably.

  Michael took a deep breath to quell his rage, and tried to focus on what he needed to do next. He knew law enforcement would eventually have to try to connect the women from the photographs with the identification documents. That’s not my purpose here, though. I can ensure they’re offered counseling and help, but I only need their names and addresses for that. He started to return to the IDs to photograph them for follow-up, but then decided better of it. This’ll take too long, given the sheer number of documented victims he’s assaulted. I have to be ready before he comes back. The photos can be done after Isadore’s been subdued.

  Michael unzipped his overalls and retrieved a holstered tranquilizer gun concealed at his right hip. He checked to ensure its powerful, anesthetic darts were loaded. Having confirmed it was ready to fire, he placed it upon the dresser close to the hallway and pointing toward the front door. Can’t risk an accidental discharge. Now Isadore can come home whenever he’s ready. I’ve got a whole different kinda double-shot with his name on it.

  Michael looked back up at the photos and felt tremendous sorrow and sympathy for the women being assaulted before him. I know that Isadore uses these trophies to relive his conquests, revictimizing these women in his mind and in real life, through his alleged extortion and blackmail. Probably sends his demand letter to the address on their license, so not every victim sees them. Gets new pics delivered to an anonymous email account he accesses with a V-P-N. As long as he continues to prey on foreigners, the odds of him being caught are much lower. The cops might eventually arrest him, if victims start coming forward with enough information and evidence, but he’s such a prolific predator that I can’t wait around for one of his victims to file a report. I’m not the detective assigned to the case, so I don't have to care how he’s victimizing these women, I only have to care that he’s doing it.

  As he scanned the images, Michael noticed small, handwritten dates on the bottom right corner of each. That arrogant prick! He thought the dates showed some consistency and checked them against the calendar on his phone. Most of these are Fridays and Mondays. Today’s Monday! He’s out hunting somewhere, right now! Michael frantically considered the intel he had on Isadore and the resources available to him at that moment. I don’t know his hunting ground. I don’t know where he went and I can’t risk leaving here to try finding him. I can’t ping his phone, I can’t call the cops and ask for their help. Hell, I don't even have a phone number for him, but I’m sure that’s something the cops could find, if I could break the Seal of the Confessional to tell them what I know! Michael returned to the images on Isadore’s wall and urgently scanned their backgrounds, looking for anything that might identify a location. A hotel, a business, anything. Wait, it’s here. He looked at the bedroom again and compared it to the photos’ background, which confirmed that Isadore brought his victims back to his own apartment. Every one of them up here, they’ve all been taken in this room!

  Now confident that Isadore would bring any new victim back to Michael, he set about his preparations. There’s little chance that I can stop him from targeting another woman tonight, but I’ll be damned if I can’t stop him from following through on the abuse. He retrieved a pair of nitrile medical exam gloves from his pocket and put them on. A second pair overtop of them helped ensure he’d leave no prints or latent impressions behind. Should’ve put these on when I first came in. Rookie mistake. I know better than that. Focus, Michael, the devil is in the details! He carried his red toolbox to the small living room and set it down next to a sturdy chair he intended to use for Isadore’s confession and absolution. He opened the metal box and hurriedly retrieved and set out the tools he hoped to soon require: three syringes of anesthetic antidote, two sets of padded nylon restraints, a thick gym sock, and a balaclava. Ironically, the balaclava’s for Isadore, not for me. I’m not worried about my identity, but I am worried about keeping the gym sock in his mouth without duct tape. Any coroner would notice the skin damage and adhesive it leaves behind.

  The sudden, unexpected sound of a key fumbling about inside the front deadbolt immediately chilled Michael. He moved over to the entryway wall and glanced around the corner to his left. The door shook slightly as someone on the other side attempted to get it open.

  “Solo un momento, mia bella,” a male voice offered.

  He’s not talking to the door, or to himself, is he, Michael wondered. He's probably not alone. Michael scanned the apartment for an additional exit and found none. I’m stuck in here to deal with whoever’s about to walk through that door with him. If he met someone tonight who didn’t need to be drugged to sleep with him, that’s gonna change everything! From somewhere deep in his mind, Michael heard John's voice yelling at him. How now, brown cow?! Just then, the apartment’s front door flung open, and Michael’s fears instantly became his reality.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Monday, 2358 hours.

  Isadore Residence. Rome, Italy.

  As the front door of Isadore’s apartment struck the wall behind it, Michael filled with panic. The gun's still in the bedroom! A quick glance across the open end of the hallway confirmed that his anesthetic tranquilizer still sat on the top end of the dresser where he’d last placed it. Dammit!

  “Ssshhhhh,” a male voice drunkenly whispered from the open doorway.

  They’re never as quiet as they think they are, Michael thought. How can I get to the bedroom without being seen? If he shouts at this hour, it’s all over. He risked a momentary glance back down the long entryway and saw Isadore walking backward through the doorway. Michael took another look and realized he was carrying a woman inside. She was petite with long brown hair, but he couldn't tell much more about her yet. Well, not carrying, really, so much as dragging. He’s already drugged the victim. Her legs didn’t move to help or protest, and a black high-heeled shoe slipped off her right foot as it slid across the apartment threshold. Her left foot was already bare. The first one must have gone missing somewhere between here and there. Knowing his target couldn’t see him, didn’t expect him, and had likely been drinking, Michael quietly rushed across the back of the entryway and retrieved his tranq gun from the dresser.

  “Un momento, bella, e ti farò sentire molto meglio.”

  Michael didn’t fully understand the drunken statement, but he certainly knew “one moment” and Isadore’s obvious intent. He stood in wait, just a few feet inside the bedroom doorway, while Isadore struggled to get the woman inside and close the door. I can’t help her yet, not without risking a conversation with the carabinieri.

  Hefting the unconscious woman through the doorway, Isadore kicked at the bottom of the door with his foot until it slammed back closed again. He didn’t bother locking it.

  He knows she’s not going anywhere and he’s not concerned about being interrupted. As many times as he’s done this, it’s clear the neighbors must think he’s some kind of Romeo.

  Isadore kept shhhh’ing the woman, even though she hadn’t made a sound. He again walked backward toward Michael and pulled the woman deeper into his apartment.

  Michael didn’t feel especially confident she was still breathing. He just
made her the first priority. I care more about her safety than I ever will about his soul. Waiting as long as he could, he let Isadore get within four feet of him. Michael raised the gun, pointed it at the meaty back of his target’s left thigh, and smoothly pressed the trigger. Twice.

  schooockschooock

  Before Isadore had a chance to react to the first dart, Michael had placed the second at nearly the same point of impact. Even though the dart tips themselves were covered with the same powerful anesthetic they delivered, Michael was surprised when Isadore only slightly yelped at their impact. Supposed to be milder than a bee sting. I never wanna know, and he may never be able to tell me.

  Isadore released the woman from his left hand and tried to inspect the back of his leg, but her awkwardly descending weight tripped him. Michael’s target fell onto his buttocks and back with the woman still on top of him, and he hoped Isadore’s flailing had driven the darts in farther.

  It’ll only be a few seconds now, Michael thought as Isadore’s resistance quickly lessened. When Isadore flopped down onto his back with his arms helplessly out to his sides, Michael felt confident the powerful overdose had done its job and stepped over to him. Looking down on the man, Michael briefly saw recognition and wonder in his eyes, just before his pupils relaxed and rolled back in their orbitals. You’re gonna get lucky tonight, Pietro, just not in the way you had planned.

  With his target out of commission, Michael knew he had several minutes to care for the woman before he had to assess Isadore's vitals. The anesthetic only works so fast because it’s a significant overdose. I don’t want him to die yet, the absolution requires his conscious participation! Michael grabbed the woman by her wrists, pulled her up and off Isadore, and, careful not to injure her head, he slid her farther into the apartment. She wore a small black dress and Michael thought her hair and makeup identified her as American. Her smell and appearance confirmed Michael’s suspicion that Isadore probably hunted at bars. That’s the easiest place for him to find and target new victims. Michael leaned down and placed his ear directly over her mouth. The stink of liquor and cigarettes filled his nostrils and he felt only very shallow and slow breathing. Michael next checked her carotid pulse. Also weak. If he is using G-H-B, there’s a fine line between effective and lethal dosing, and that’s without the alcohol she’s also got on-board.