The Second Coming (22 page)

As he sat across the desk from the red faced, bulbous nosed captain, he listened to him calmly, yet sternly explain the pressure that was being applied on the entire department since the night the Sterling Killer assaulted him and murdered Denise. The Captain explained that the press was sensationalizing the murders in order to exploit the stories to sell more papers and that was resulting in a backlash of pressure from the public all the way to the Mayor and on down.

The Captain didn’t yell at him, which Mike thought he might and now wished that he would. It was like when he was a kid and got into trouble and would be expecting his dad to yell at him, but instead he would just shake his head with disappointment. Disappointment was worse than anger; it made Mike feel loathsome and miserable, like he let everyone down.

Mike sat in the leather chair across from the captain with his stripped knit hat on his shaven and scarred head feeling like a high school kid being busted by the principal. He knew he fucked up and wondered what the punishment would be, but more than anything, he just wanted to get out of the captain’s office so he could get back to work and find the killer.

When the captain was done, Mike stood from his chair and looked him straight in the eyes and assured him that nothing like this would happen again. The captain told him he knew that it wouldn’t because if it did,
he would see to it that Mike wouldn’t work in homicide again. Mike didn’t think the threat was necessary, but he understood that the Captain was making a point and shuffled out of the room.

As Mike walked the sterile halls from the captain’s office to the homicide division, a few officers stopped and asked him how he was feeling and welcomed him back. Mike responded sheepishly that he was “fine” embarrassed that everyone was aware of his blunder and were probably mocking him behind his back. The thought of it all churned his gut with disgust. What a fucking “blow it” he was. He pushed open the swinging doors to the Homicide Division like a gunslinger with a scowl on his face and glared around the room daring anyone to make eye contact with him. No one so much as glanced at him as he conspicuously made his way over to his desk and sat down.

He stared at a short stack of manila files that Big Pete left for him. One of the files contained articles about all three murders in chronological order while the other files contained official documents including police reports, autopsies and crime scene photos.

Mike flipped open the file with the articles and began reading the headlines:

Female Found Stabbed to Death in Oakland Church

No Clues Found in Brutal Stabbing

Serial Killer Stabs Second Victim

Ritualistic Serial Killer

Murder Weapon Sterling Silver Knife Shaped Like Cross

Murder Victims Disemboweled

Sterling Killer Assaults Detective Claims Third Victim

Oakland Homicide Detective in Coma

Sterling Killer Still on the Loose

There were more articles, all of which were having the effect of sending the public into an uproar. It was the worst killing spree in the Bay Area since the Zodiac Killer. Mike closed the file on the articles and tossed it to the side as he glared at the names on the other files. There on the top was Denise’s file. Mike let out a deep breath as he tried to prepare himself for what he was about to see.

Slowly he turned the cover of the file open and began to read the police report. Evidently the church janitor reported finding the body in the
morning when he showed up for work. According to the autopsy, there were signs of penetration, but no biologicals. She was raped, but the killer didn’t leave any semen. She died from a fatal stab wound to the heart. Her body was found disemboweled.

Mike flipped the page and on top of a stack of crime scene photos was a startling black and white of Denise’s hollowed out cadaver. The look of loneliness and despair on her face made Mike feel like he was going to throw up. He looked up from the photo and glanced around blinking as he tried to compose himself. How the hell did he allow this to happen?

He bowed his head and gazed at the black and white photo trying to imagine what the last hours and minutes of Denise’s life were like. It must have been horrifying. She knew that she was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. Did she think about Mike and curse him for letting this happen? Did she blame him for leading the Sterling Killer to her? Would she be dead if Mike hadn’t shown up?

Mike thumbed through the photos of the crime scene with a sickening feeling in the bottom of his gut. Again, the Sterling Killer did not leave any evidence and the crime scene was immaculate. How did he do that? It was like he wasn’t even there. It was inexplicable.

Mike began to question his ability as a homicide detective. Maybe he was getting too old for this shit? Maybe all the years of drinking and doing drugs were taking their toll on his crime solving capabilities. When he was a Navy SEAL, he lived for challenges like this. It didn’t matter that the enemy wore civilian clothes in order to blend in and make it difficult to identify them. It was part of the rules of engagement and Mike didn’t get to make the rules. He worked around them.

The difference was when he would go into a village known as a terrorist stronghold he was on high alert in a confined area and knew generally who and what to look for. Now he was dealing with the City of Oakland, which is a much larger area, and there was no way to know who the killer was or what he looked like. The Sterling Killer was one man in a population of almost 450,000 people and they didn’t have any evidence, clues or suspects. It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It was like trying to find life on a distant planet. He didn’t know where to look or what he was looking for. Could he still do this? Did he still have the mental capacity necessary to
solve a crime of this magnitude? Did the blow to his head cause irreparable damage to his brain?

And then he came to the last photo in the file of the symbol smeared on the wall in the victim’s blood. Mike examined the number 6 carefully, trying to interpret what the Sterling Killer was trying to tell him. If he could figure out what the symbol meant, he knew it would give him the answers he was looking for. It was staring him right in the face. What the fuck did it mean?

chapter
40

F
ATHER
J
OHN WAS
allowing Mike time to recover before calling him and explaining what was happening in his dreams. It had been a couple of days since he saved Mike in his dream and he hoped that Mike was ready for what he was about to tell him.

Father John sat in his robe in an armchair in his father’s living room contemplating how he was going to explain his dreams of the murders in a way that Detective McCormick would understand and believe. He was acutely aware that his story of seeing the murders in his dreams through the eyes of the killer was going to be hard for the detective to believe.

Lifting the receiver from the black, rotary dial phone on the side table, he began dialing the Oakland Police department. After being transferred a few times a man with a gravely voice answered the phone.

“Detective McCormick,” Mike answered wearily. “How can I help you?”

“Good afternoon Detective. My name is Father John Carpenter. How are you feeling today?”

Mike rubbed his hand lightly over his knit covered head. “Better, I guess,” he said skeptically. “What can I do for you Father?”

“The question isn’t what can you do for me,” Father John corrected. “The question is what can I do to help you?”

Mike let out a long sigh. “No disrespect intended Father, but the last few days have not been good for me and I’m in no mood to solve your riddles.”

“You are the lead detective in the Sterling Killer case, are you not?”

“That’s correct.”

“I think I may have some information regarding the murders that you might find useful.”

“What type of information?” Mike asked as he sat up on the edge of his chair.

“What I am about to tell you may require you to suspend your disbelief,” Father John politely warned him.

“Try me,” Mike replied with an irritated tone. “I’ve been having dreams about the murders,” Father John explained. “I see the murders happening in my dreams.”

“Maybe you should stop watching so much TV and stop reading the newspapers.”

“You don’t understand Detective,” Father John corrected him calmly. “I don’t dream about the murders after the fact. I dream about the murders as they happen through the eyes of the killer.”

Mike pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it with disgust. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

“I assure you that it is not bullshit,” Father John responded. “I have dreamt about all three of the murders as if I was the one doing the killing.”

“Why should I believe you? Do you know how many calls we get from people claiming they know who the killer is? What makes you any different from any of the other nut jobs who claim they are psychic?”

“I understand your skepticism Detective, but I know things that only the killer would know.”

“You’re going to have to do a better job of convincing me than that.”

“Have you figured out what the symbol means yet?”

Mike’s adrenaline spiked as his heart contracted. He pulled the knit hat off of his head and tossed it on his desk as he sat back in disbelief. “How do you know about the symbol? We haven’t released that to the press yet,” Mike stammered as he spun around in his chair and began snapping his fingers at Big Pete who was sitting at his desk intently working. “I’m sorry Father. Can I put you on hold for a minute?”

“Certainly,” Father John replied amenably.

Mike pushed the hold button and held the receiver to his chest as he looked at Big Pete with bulging eyes of amazement.

“What is it?”

“I’ve got a guy on the phone who claims that he sees the murders in his dreams,” Mike said under his breath as if what he was saying was so unbelievable that it shouldn’t be repeated. “He says his name is Father John.”

“Sounds like another whacko to me.” Big Pete replied confused. “What’s the big deal? Get rid of him.”

Mike shook his shaved head with a frown. “He knows about the symbol.”

Big Pete glared at Mike with a furrowed brow. “How the fuck does he know about the symbol?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Mike said definitively. “I’ve got him on hold. Put a trace on the call for me.”

“Right,” Big Pete confirmed as he lifted his headset and placed a call for a trace.

Mike took a deep breath and told himself to be calm. This could be the break he was looking for. He pressed the hold button and placed the receiver to his left ear, holding it in the crux of his shoulder. “Sorry to keep you waiting Father,” he said kindly, gripping a pen on paper with his right hand. “Tell me more about your dreams. What do you see in them?”

“In my dreams I am trapped in the killer’s mind listening to what he is thinking and watching as he rapes and then stabs the innocent young victims.”

“If you hear his thoughts, do you know why he is killing them?”

“I don’t know why he is killing them, but I do know that he is angry and blames them for making him kill them.”

Mike paused. This was too surreal. How the fuck could Father John know what the killer was thinking unless he was the killer. Was The Sterling Killer bold enough to call and taunt him and risk having the phone call traced or was it just another phony psychic?

“Why is he killing them with a sterling silver knife shaped like a cross?”

“I do not know. My dreams don’t begin until he has already kidnapped the women and has them tied up on the altar. All I see is the victims being raped, stabbed and disemboweled. My dreams end when I see the symbol smeared in the victims’ blood.”

“Do you know why he is smearing the symbol on the wall?” Mike asked earnestly. “Do you know what it means or what he is trying to tell us?”

“I believe it is some sort of satanic symbol.”

“Do you know why he is leaving their bodies to be discovered in churches?”

“I don’t know anything except that the killer is angry and blames the women for making him kill them.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. Why should I believe you? What’s to keep me from thinking that you are the Sterling Killer?”

There was a moment of silence followed by Father John sighing. “I assure you that I am not the Sterling Killer,” he replied patiently. “If I was the killer, why would I call you and let you trace my call?”

Mike was impressed. At least the Father wasn’t stupid.

“Where were you the nights of the murders?” he asked sharply.

“I was asleep in my cell at the La Grande Abbey in Chico.”

“Where are you now?”

“As I’m sure your trace will be able to tell you, I am staying at my father’s house in Piedmont.”

“Would you be willing to come in and make a statement on record?”

“Of course. That is why I called you. I want to help in any way I can?”

Mike shuffled his mouse on his pad and brought his computer screen back to life and then clicked on his calendar. “How does tomorrow at noon work for you?”