The Second Coming (23 page)

“That is fine,” Father John replied kindly. “I look forward to meeting you then.”

After they said goodbye and hung up the phone, Mike stared at Big Pete mystified. “Did you get a trace on the call?”

“Yep,” he replied. “The address is 316 Sheridan Avenue in Piedmont. You want to go pick him up for questioning?”

“No,” Mike said shaking his head with a discouraged expression. “Let’s put Axe on surveillance on him.”

“Why Axe? He’s only a rookie.”

“He’s the only guy I know who has the right skill set not to fuck this up.”

chapter
41

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Mike was on the internet researching the web page for the La Grande Abbey. He found that the land the Abbey is nestled on was owned by Leland Stanford, the founder of Stanford University, who used it as a vineyard. The monks today were still producing wine, beer and brandy in the original brick cellar. Mike knew the name La Grande Abbey sounded familiar. He was pretty sure he had tried their beer before. There were photos of the Abbey, the rolling vineyards and expansive oak trees. It looked like a cool place to visit, but Mike was starting to think that Father John had been sampling too much of the product.

When the doors to the homicide office swung open and a handsome middle-aged man walked in wearing a plain white t-shirt, cargo shorts and sandals, Mike thought he must be lost.

“Can I help you?” Mike asked as he examined the average sized man with short sandy hair and ice-blue eyes.

The man grinned knowingly. “Good morning Detective. I’m Father John Carpenter. We spoke on the phone yesterday.” He approached Mike with his hand outstretched.

Mike stood with a stunned scowl on his face. He didn’t look anything like what Mike had pictured. He looked like a surfer.

“Nice to meet you Father,” Mike said trying to down play his surprise.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” Father John asked noticing the furrow of his brow.

Mike shook his head. “No, not at all. Thank you for coming in.”

“Thank you for seeing me. I know my story must sound unbelievable, but I assure you I am not making it up.”

Mike nodded his head with a grin.
Of course you’re not.
“Do you mind if we talk in one of our…” he hesitated. “…meeting rooms?”

“That would be fine. I understand.”

The two men entered the tiny interrogation room and sat across from each other at the square metal table.

For some reason he seemed familiar to Mike. He couldn’t place how he knew him or where he might have met him, but he was sure that he did somewhere.

“Have we met before?” Mike asked with a pleasant smile, trying to earn the Father’s confidence. “You seem very familiar to me.”

Father John smirked. “Perhaps our paths have crossed somewhere along the way.”

“You look like you’re about the same age as me. Did you grow up around here?”

“I spent my formative years in Piedmont.”

“I grew up in Orinda. Did you go to Piedmont High School?”

“No, I went to Sacred Heart Cathedral in San Francisco. I assume you went to Miramonte?”

“Yes. I graduated in 1987.”

“I graduated in 1985. I’m a little bit older than you.”

“That must be how I recognize you. Did you play football?”

Father John shook his narrow face. “I spent my free time exploring the outdoors,” he explained solemnly. “I hiked and fished in the summer and skied in the winter.”

“We must have met at a school function somewhere along the way,” Mike continued determined. “I never forget a face.”

“Perhaps,” Father John replied with a mischievous grin.

“I’ll remember eventually,” Mike commented discouragingly as he ran his hand over the knit cap on his tender head. “My memory isn’t the same since…”

“Since your miraculous recovery from a coma,” Father John continued.

Mike glared at him. Did everyone know what happened to him? “I don’t know that I would call it miraculous.”

“What would you call it?”

“I’d call it lucky,” he said reluctantly as he leaned back in his chair. “Let’s not talk about me. Why don’t you tell me about your dreams?”

Father John sat calmly in his chair with his hands folded peacefully in his lap and recalled how in his dreams he saw the victims being raped, murdered and disemboweled through the killer’s eyes. “I do not expect you to understand, but I have spent my life in search of enlightenment. I do not know what God’s plan is, but I do know that I am part of it.”

“What makes you think so?” Mike asked skeptically.

“I have been having dreams like this my whole life except, instead of killing people, I saved them.”

“Saved them from what?”

“Whatever it was that was putting them in danger.”

“Were the people you saved real people like the victims who were murdered?” Mike asked indignantly.

“At first I thought I was just having spiritual dreams, but then I found out that all of the people in my dreams were miraculously saved in real life.”

“You expect me to believe that, not only are you having dreams where you witness the murders, but you also have dreams where you save people?”

“I know it is hard for someone of no faith to comprehend.”

Mike sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. “Why is God allowing you to see the murders?”

“To help you capture the killer, of course.”

Of course. Another would-be psychic.

“If God gives you the power to save people, why didn’t he give you the power to stop the killer and save the victims?”

“I don’t know. I tried to stop him, but I have no control over his actions.”

“How do you try to stop him?” Mike asked as he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table. “What do you do?”

Father John shook his head with a distant look in his eyes. “It’s like my spirit is trapped inside the Sterling Killer’s head. I feel everything he feels and I can hear what he is thinking, but I can’t stop him. It’s like there are two people battling for control of his movements and actions and I can’t get him to do what I want.”

Mike sat up alert with a befuddled look in his eyes.
Is this guy a fucking schizophrenic? Maybe he has one personality that is Father John and another that is the Sterling Killer and he doesn’t even realize it. Holy shit!
Mike let out a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

“Do you talk to him?”

“I don’t have a conversation with him, but I do tell him not to do it and that it is wrong.”

“Does he talk back to you?”

“No,” Father John reflected. “It’s as if he knows I’m there and he can hear me, but he ignores me. He wants to make me watch while he does it. I think he enjoys putting me through the torment.”

This was unbelievable! Was Mike sitting across the table from the Sterling Killer? He had to keep himself from jumping out of his chair and arresting him. He reminded himself that he didn’t have any evidence to tie him to the crimes and that it would be better to continue questioning him to see if he would incriminate himself.

“Do you have a theory as to why he is killing young women bartenders?”

“I don’t know why he is choosing bartenders. In my dreams he is attracted to the women by an uncontrollable, animalistic lust which causes him to beat and rape the women. It is the only way he can satisfy his urges.” Father John paused as he reflected with a look of pain on his face. “After he has beaten and raped them, he is ashamed for what he has done and becomes enraged with guilt for being weak and allowing the women to seduce him. The guilt turns to resentment of the women who he blames for causing him to commit these heinous crimes. He then kills them as a way of punishing them.”

“How do your dreams end?”

“When the Sterling Killer disembowels the girls and uses their blood to smear the satanic symbol on the wall.”

“Why do you think he is disemboweling them?” Mike asked intrigued as he sat back with his hands folded in his lap.

“I’ve thought about that a lot and it may be that he wishes he was never born and that by killing and disemboweling these women, he is preventing another child from suffering his same fate,” Father John postulated. “He may blame his mother and all of womankind for being the root of all evil.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Mike admitted with a nod of his head and curl of his mouth. “What does the Sterling Killer think about when he is smearing the symbol on the wall?”

“He doesn’t think anything. He just laughs a sinister laugh.”

“Can you draw me a picture of the symbol from memory?” Mike asked eagerly.

“I could try,” Father John replied.

Mike pulled a piece of paper from his note pad and slid it across the table with his pen. Father John retrieved the pen and straightened the lined paper. He stared distantly at the wall behind Mike and then drew the number 6. He concentrated on the loop of the number and slowly began to draw the lines across it until he had produced a pretty accurate replica.

Mike was amazed. The father’s drawing was almost identical to the symbol left at each of the crimes scenes. How the fuck did he know about the symbol? Mike would keep it and see if forensics could match Father John’s hand writing to that of symbols left at the crime scenes. It was a long shot, but worth checking.

“Do you have any idea what the symbol means?” Mike asked cynically.

“I have searched the internet and the abbey library for it and can’t find it,” he said discouragingly. “I can only assume that the number 6 has something to do with the number 666. I’m not sure why there is an upside down peace symbol in it.”

“What happens when you awake from your dream?”

Father John frowned discouragingly. “This is the strange part,” he said with a disturbed glimmer in his eyes. “I usually awaken standing in front of my mirror in the bathroom with a bloody nose. I don’t have any recollection of getting out of bed or walking to the bathroom. I think I get startled awake when I see my reflection in the mirror.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. This was too good to be true. Maybe he was letting his imagination get the best of him. He couldn’t really be the Sterling Killer; could he?

“That is quite a story Father,” Mike said astounded. “Is there anyone at the abbey who can provide you with an alibi?”

“Of course,” Father John said confidently. “You can call the abbot, Father Paul. He will vouch for me.”

Either this guy was making up the whole story and he would have an alibi or he has a split personality and doesn’t realize it. If that is the case, his alibi would be bullshit. If he does have an alibi, the question becomes why is he making up this story? What is his motivation? There was no fucking way that he was really having dreams in which he saw the murders taking place as they occurred. No fucking way.

Mike slid his chair back as he slowly got to his feet. “Great,” he said appreciatively. “We’ll check with the abbot and get back to you. Where can we reach you?”

“I will be staying with my father,” he replied as he stood up from the table. “He is terminally ill and I will be there until he passes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike replied as the image of his father sitting in his chair with his brains blown out the back of his head flashed in his mind. He wished he could have been there for his dad.

Father John studied Mike’s sadden face inquisitively. “We all lose the ones we love eventually and sometimes we are prepared and other times it is sudden and unexpectedly tragic,” he told him solemnly. “There is nothing we can do to change the course of their lives except acknowledge and accept them for who they were.”

Mike looked at the Father mystified. Was he talking about Mike’s dad in particular or death in general? Mike had to remind himself not to take it personally. Father John could not know about his father’s suicide, but that was one of Mike’s big hang ups. Because of his insecurity and the shame he felt from the way his father took his own life, he always felt like people were referring to his father’s untimely passing when they spoke of death.

“Thank you for coming down here to meet with me Father,” Mike said as they stood and shook hands. “I’m not sure what to think of your story, but I appreciate your time.”

“I know you think I am making this up or that I might even be the killer, but I can assure you that I am not.”

“Until you have a dream, wake up and call me with the details before we find the body and report it to the press, I’m going to have a hard time believing you.”

“If you wait until there is another murder before you believe me, then there will be blood on your hands.”

“Blood on my hands?” Mike replied defensively as he squeezed the father’s hand like a vice grip. “What about your hands? If what you are saying is true, you are the one who can’t stop the murders from happening.”

Father John stared at Mike with sad eyes of remorse and Mike felt a twinge of guilt as he let go of his hand.

“I have plenty of blood on my hands already Father.”

“Would you like to talk about it? Maybe I can help you.”

“It’s too late for that. I’ll deal with it on my death bed.”

“It’s never too late for forgiveness if you accept Jesus Christ into your heart.”