by Blake Pierce
If he released the cloth, it would fly away—making him a litterer. If he stowed the handkerchief, though, then his fingers would smudge the handlebars, making him neglectful.
He sighed now, removing his hand and slowing his pedal speed, taking a momentary respite. He removed the handkerchief, his other hand tightening on the bars, guiding his bicycle up the back roads. He folded the cloth as best he could and slipped it in his pocket. Then he gritted his teeth, angling toward a split in the road.
Both paths would eventually reach the required destination. One went up, through mountainous terrain, the other went downwards, an easy, sloping route.
It was warm outside. He’d been enjoying the breeze.
But perhaps too much. Too much pleasure.
He jerked his handlebars toward the more difficult terrain, increasing the gear on the bike until his legs began to ache. He would sweat, it would be uncomfortable, but this was the price of penance.
Absolution came costly.
Most of the Lord’s errant sheep didn’t understand this. Not the old priest back in France, nor the young prostitute on the side of the road. They had received their judgment in due course. He had simply been the instrument of the Lord’s will—an honor leading to his own absolution.
The heat of the sun seemed to be rising now, and he could feel the faint trickle of sweat beginning to form along his brow, under his armpits. He sat straight-backed, eyes forward, expression impassive as his legs pumped like pistons—up, down, up down, pain—pain.
And yet he couldn’t shake the rising sense of giddy delight at it all.
He was on a sojourn of his own. And soon… very, very soon, he would reach the ultimate destination. That was where it would all matter most.
His hands fidgeted against the handlebars, gripping the leather tight. He wrinkled his nose, remembering the way the old priest had smiled when he’d entered the church. The man had seemed friendly enough at first, but then, when he’d gotten too close, the priest had touched the man’s shoulder.
When he’d reacted in a rage, the priest had seemed surprised, babbling an excuse, suggesting he hadn’t meant anything by it, but had simply been trying to be friendly.
A lie, of course.
He could tell the priest was lying.
A homosexual. That’s what he’d been. And he’d been making an advance. It all started with a shoulder touch and then it moved to the bedroom. The Lord watched it all. If an eye caused someone to sin, one ought to gouge it out.
The condoms he’d confiscated from a young pilgrim and his girlfriend. He’d scared the boy, but had decided to leave him alive. The age of accountability hadn’t been reached in that case.
He’d looked for the best place to discard the confiscated prophylactics and couldn’t think of a more appropriate disposal site than the piece of trash under the Lord’s judgment. The homosexual had suffered the due penalty for his sins.
Same with the whore who’d tried to solicit him on the roadside.
He lowered his head now, gasping louder, sweat streaking down the side of his face, his legs protesting the rapid motion. The Lord didn’t care about his pain. No… No, he needed to go—faster, faster, faster!
Now, he groaned with each press of the pedal, trying to stand upright on his bike as he took the steep hill.
He didn’t like exacting judgment. He’d cried many a night, asking for the burden to pass from him. But would he not sup the cup of the Lord’s offering? How could he dare refuse? King David had been a warrior, hadn’t he? The prophets had declared the exacting judgment—the falling of violence like a scything blade.
No—no, he didn’t enjoy it. Not at all. Not one little bit. This wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about his desires. This wasn’t about his wants or his judgments.
No. Of course not.
This was about the Lord.
And it would continue to be so. He would just play the small, humble role he’d been given in it all. As long as the signs kept coming, he was determined to see them through.
To obey.
Not for his own pleasure. Not for his own means or satisfaction.
But simply out of a desire to do what was right.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adele tried not to stare at the man’s velvet tie where he sat across from her at the local precinct.
John, every now and then, would glance up, rub his knuckles, then snicker.
Michael Bassols, for his part, simply sniffed, readjusting his position in the metal chair and refusing to glance at his ripped tie. The neat, silky-smooth item had torn in half, most of the cloth now back in the campgrounds somewhere, claimed by a tree as its spoils of war. The rest of the fellow didn’t look much better. His suit was stained in mud and dirt and a few droplets of blood. His nose, which had been bleeding, had two small pieces of cotton jutting from each nostril. A twig had buried into his cheek, but was removed now, replaced by a tan patch of bandage.
John, sitting next to Adele on the other side of the interrogation room table, leaned in again, glanced at Michael Bassols, and let out another snickering laugh.
The suspect glared, folding his hands where they were cuffed in front of him.
“We can remove those if you’d like,” Adele said, carefully, deciding perhaps they needed to establish some sort of rapport. She waved a hand at the cuffs.
The man shook his wrists, causing them to jangle. “It’s the least you could do,” he said in perfect French, his voice nasally and congested thanks to the cotton jammed in each nostril.
“What was that?” John said, leaning in and grinning again.
Adele kicked her partner beneath the table and his smile slipped a bit.
“It’s the least you could do!” the man repeated, louder, but the increased volume only made his congestion more obvious, creating a sort of buzzing, trumpeting sound behind every other word.
John shook his head, clapping a hand against the same leg Adele had just kicked. He coughed, staring at the table, very thinly disguising the way his shoulders were now shaking with mirth. The big Frenchman had bruised his own knuckles and had a black eye from where Michael’s elbow had caught him.
Adele still felt the residue of horror at the image of John Renee flying through the air, arms outstretched, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and adrenaline launching toward the small, hapless form of their suspect. The backpacker hadn’t stood a chance. It had been like watching a leaf in a tornado.
Still, it didn’t give John permission to act like a grade school boy.
“Well?” the nasally voice piped in again. “Remove them!” He shook his wrists, causing another jangle.
John, though, sobered a bit and snapped, “Nah, don’t think so.”
Adele looked at her partner, but John didn’t look back. Instead, the Frenchman pointed a finger at the man across from them.
“You like it when you’re in charge, yes? When you’re in control. This is why you threaten women with knives for sex? Hmm? Well—you are not in control here, are you, little man? Do you feel in control, Michael?”
The man stared bug-eyed, his half-torn tie not so comical anymore at this tirade. He stammered a moment, eyes glassy as he shook his head. “What? No—no, I am not. What—what?” he repeated, a few too many times, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. “I did not…” He hesitated, pausing and frowning. Then, continuing in French, he declared, “I did not threaten anyone with a knife!”
“You were seen,” John said, scowling. “At the Little Puppet—know that bar?”
The man shook his head far too quickly, letting out a soft squeak. “No—no, of course not. I’ve never been there. I don’t know what that is.”
“See,” Adele said, interjecting, “now we know that’s a lie. We have your information on a receipt there. We also had an eyewitness.”
Michael’s eyes bugged. He coughed, regrouping, then blurted, “Oh! Oh, the Little Puppet, yes… Of course. I was there. I forgot. I was so… so drunk.”
“They said you ordered water,” Adele pressed, scowling more deeply now and allowing her displeasure to become apparent.
“I—I don’t remember,” the man said, leaning back and moaning. “I just… just don’t remember.”
“You speak French very well,” she said. “How come?”
The man shrugged. “French mother. Spanish father. We do share a border, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“A border,” John said, “where passports aren’t usually required for EU citizens, hmm? Convenient we don’t have any way of tracking your comings and goings.”
Now the man in the half-torn tie looked confused. He shook his head, his small chin wagging back and forth. “No… Why would you need to? I already said I was at the Little Puppet.”
“You said you weren’t. Then you changed your story.” John tapped his fingers against the metal table, drumming loudly. It sounded like thick raindrops against a tin roof.
The smaller man stared at John’s large hand.
“How come you ran, Michael?” Adele pressed, using the momentary intimidation to catch him off guard. “How come you tried to avoid us?”
He sighed again, puffing a breath. “I… I just…”
“One moment,” John said, holding up a finger. “May I help you? Please, hmm?” When the suspect didn’t reply, John nodded politely in gratitude and continued, “If you continue lying to us—I’m going to probably hurt you again. I shouldn’t. She wouldn’t want me too. But I have a thing about knife-wielding rapists…” He shrugged, still tapping his fingers nonchalantly against the table. “Call it a pet peeve. I admit it. Sometimes, when I see a spider—I squish it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why. I just don’t like spiders. Is it nice? Perhaps not. But I squish spiders. Understand me?”
The man had turned pale, causing the remaining streaks of blood against his skin to stand out like stains of crimson.
Adele sighed, hoping John was only bluffing, but pressing all the same. “Why did you run, Michael? This knife of yours—we didn’t find it on you. Why is that?”
The man still looked panicked, shooting horrified looks at John Renee. At this comment, though, he paused momentarily, shooting a different look toward Adele. “Wait—wait, my knife? I never used this knife… What are you implying?” His eyes widened in panic. “Did that bitch say I cut her? I didn’t cut her at all! I just showed it to her. I thought she’d like it.”
“You showed a woman you followed from the bar your knife?” Adele said, her voice deadpan. “That’s your story?”
He licked his lips, shooting shifty-eyed glances one way then the other.
John, bored and impatient, got to his feet, snorting in disgust. “Wasting my time, Adele. I’m going outside for a smoke. Just book him for the murders. It’s him. Let’s go home.”
Now, though, the pale-faced man impersonated a snowdrift, the blood completely leaving his cheeks. He gaped like a landed trout, sputtering a series of sounds somewhere between syllables and gasps. At last, gathering himself, in one long, wheezing breath, he said, “Murders? I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t kill her. I just had some fun. That was all! She liked it! She liked me… I could tell. She was hitting on me back in the Little Puppet. You should have seen the way she kept walking past my table, wiggling that cute little ass of hers. She wanted it. I knew she did. You weren’t there—you don’t get how women are…” He looked at John imploringly, but at a glimpse of the Frenchman’s glare, he looked at Adele instead, his expression pleading.
“What do you mean you had some fun?” Adele said, her own tone going cold.
He winced, trying to hold up his hands in protest, but then realizing they were cuffed. “You don’t get it,” he said. “It isn’t like that. She wanted it.”
“Are you admitting to raping our murder victim?” said Adele.
Now the man crumbled, slumping so low in his chair, his chin barely passed the top of the table. “She’s the one who is dead? I didn’t kill her! I didn’t! I ran because I thought you found out I’d followed her from the bar into that alley. I—I thought…” He swallowed, desperately looking around.
“Murders. Both,” John said, coldly. “He did it. Put him away for the rest of his rotten life.”
“No! No! I didn’t kill anyone. My knife is hidden beneath a tree back at the campground. You can look at it. It won’t have any blood—anything. I know because I didn’t kill anyone.”
“So you ran because you thought we were there about your rape?” Adele said, still cold.
“It wasn’t a—a—”
“Rape,” John returned.
The pale man turned, snarling. “It wasn’t!” he howled, a hidden rage bursting to the surface now. He shook his head violently. “She wanted it. We both had fun. Ask her!”
“She’s dead,” John said. “Because you killed her.”
“No—no,” he moaned, lowering his head and pressing it against his cuffed hands. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t…”
“Where were you the last three nights?” Adele said, frowning.
Here, the man perked up. “Wait—three nights? That’s when this happened. Great!” he said, excited all of a sudden. “Wonderful. My phone… my phone. You took it. The big one has it. Look through my phone. I have pictures from the last three nights. I was out clubbing—each time.”
“Clubbing?” John snapped. He fished into his pocket, pulling out a large, sleek phone. He held it across the table, jamming it toward the whimpering suspect.
Before the fellow could react, John reached down, grabbed the man’s finger, yanking it so hard Adele was worried he might break it before pressing the digit against the finger-scanning slot on the back of the device.
Then, once the phone was unlocked, John straightened again. He began sifting through the pictures, snorting as he did. “Strip clubs?” he said, shooting a look toward the slumped fellow. “Three nights in a row, hmm? Classy.”
“Hey, man,” snapped Michael. “It gets lonely traveling for work weeks at a time. A guy has to do what he has to do.”
“I wonder if Rosa feels that way,” John muttered, his sneer twisting his lips as he continued cycling through the phone. As he did, though, he sighed, jamming the device toward Adele.
“All three nights,” John muttered. “That’s the little runt, his head buried between those silicone heavies.”
Adele wrinkled her nose as John showed a slew of pictures. She clicked the device, inwardly reminding herself to wash her hands vigorously when they left, scanning the information on the picture.
“From seven p.m.…” She scrolled to the final picture. “Until past midnight. Each night?” She looked at the man, eyebrows high. “That’s what you do in your evenings?”
The man just glared at them now, shaking his head. “It proves I didn’t do it, though. Right? I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t!”
John pointed the phone angrily toward the fellow. “If any of these prove to be staged, you better believe I’m coming after you. Hard. And don’t think I won’t send someone to retrieve that knife of yours.” John slammed the phone back on the table with a loud crack.
“Hey! You’ll break it!” Michael protested.
“Well… you’ll find out in a decade or so,” John snorted.
“W—what? I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Guess what,” John said, his tone like ice. “Sexual assault is a crime. Sit tight, Michael. Not that you have a choice.”
With another disdainful glance, John pushed to his feet, gesturing Adele should follow. She glanced at Mr. Bassols’s phone a moment longer but sighed.
The dates did check out. Michael himself was in a few of the pictures—not to mention, he seemed genuinely surprised.
As Adele followed John out of the interrogation room, stepping into the hall, the door behind them creaking on poorly maintained hinges as it closed slowly.
“Well?” Adele murmured, looking at John. “Thoughts?”
John scowled, cros
sing his arms in a way that caused his muscles to stand out more. “Wish I’d tackled him harder. We should speak with Agent Pascal and get someone to check for that knife. Someone else can comb through the pictures and interview strippers.”
“Is that the sound of personal growth I hear?” Adele murmured, trying to lighten the tone. “You don’t want to speak with strippers?”
John, though, still frowned. “We went looking for a killer and caught a creep. We still don’t know where this guy is.”
Adele crossed her arms, hesitating for a moment. The two of them stood in silence, outside the interrogation room, allowing their own thoughts to wander. John’s seemed to only sour his temper further. For her part, Adele closed her eyes, trying to think through any possible connections the victims might have had.
If this really was a serial killer, then it couldn’t be a crime of opportunity. She glanced out the large window facing the street outside the precinct. Light was now fading, evening rapidly approaching.
As the sun fell, it took Adele’s spirits with it. The conversation with Michael Bassols had done little to improve her mood.
But they weren’t here because of a knife-wielding pervert. They were here for a serial killer.
Were the two cases connected? That was what mattered most. The weapons used suggested yes. But the victims themselves suggested otherwise.
These could have been crimes of opportunity, perhaps. Maybe something in the interactions alone had caused the killer to lash out.
Ms. Alvarez’s movements would be nearly impossible to trace. Her boyfriend had suggested she’d been all over Northern Spain. By the sound of things, she even had family in Madrid.
If tracing all her connections, all the people she might have angered or irritated or attracted, didn’t end well…
So what then?
Father Fernando… His situation was different. He lived in a commune, didn’t he?
