The Second Coming (32 page)

The silence of his prayer was interrupted when he felt his father’s hand flinch in his. Father John lifted his head and saw that his father’s eyes were half mast. His father attempted to smile at him under his oxygen mask and then to Father John’s delight, his father feebly squeezed his hand three shaky times. Father John smiled lovingly as he held back his tears and gently squeezed his hand four times.

Father John leaned forward and pet his father’s greasy, thinning hair with his right hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently, quietly choking back his tears.

His father reached for his oxygen mask and fumbled futilely to remove it. Father John reached over and gently grabbed his hand, resting it on the white sheet that covered the belly of his disintegrating body and then pulled the mask off over the top of his face.

“There’s my boy,” his dad said with the creaky voice of someone who did not use their vocal cords much. “I knew you would come. I asked God to deliver you to me.”

“I’m here now Dad. I’ll take care of you. Everything is going to be alright.”

His father smiled a knowing smile of agreement and then squeezed his hand tight as he grimaced with pain and looked away ashamed with his condition. He held his sons hand tight as he waited for the draining wave of
pain to subside. “It’s my time,” his dad told him with a strained voice. “Now that you are here, I’m ready.”

Father John nodded his head with knowing approval. “It’s alright Dad. Your place is with the lord above. You will be with Mom soon.”

His father’s eyes welled with tears and as he blinked, they ran down the wrinkles in his face like a cascading river. He struggled to catch his breath. “It is time I shared something with you,” he coughed in between short breaths as he struggled to get the words out. “It’s about the night you were born.”

Father John lifted the oxygen mask back over his dad’s nose and mouth and shushed him tenderly. “It’s best not to speak now Dad. Rest and we can talk tomorrow,” he told him lovingly as he rubbed his head. His father smiled at him and squeezed his hand three times. Father John knew the end was near and as he tenderly squeezed his dad’s hand four quick times, he told his father everything that needed to be said with his eyes. As his dad closed his eyes and turned his head away from his son, Father John sat holding his skeleton hand, listening to the air pump in and out of the life support system, waiting for it to stop and for the beeping sound of his father’s heart monitor to flat line. As he held his dad’s hand, he could feel his father’s pain and what it felt like to be dying and he closed his eyes and willed some of that pain unto himself. He could feel his father’s burden lighten and his father willing himself to stay alive. He was not quite ready to go and at that moment, Father John knew his dad had something important to tell him about what happened the night he was born. He could feel the struggle and torment deep in his father’s soul. It was a burden that Father John would know well all too soon.

chapter
54

B
OULEVARD’S WAS BUSTLING
with the clamor of voices and the loud sound of dishes and silverware being swapped about as Mike held the heavy glass door open for Kate. The large, high ceiling room was filled with patrons sitting at their white clothed tables laughing and conversing. Plates of elaborate meals were being served by waiters and waitresses dressed in black pants with white button down shirts and black ties. The red wine flowed freely. The smell of garlic, roasting meats and sea food filled the air as Mike and Kate approached the hostess’ stand. The hostess was a pretty young lady with dark flowing hair, dressed in a long dress who greeted them with an inviting smile like she was expecting them.

“Hi. How are you?” Mike said pleasantly as he stood tall behind Kate. “We have a diner reservation for two under McCormick.”

As the young lady checked her reservation list and table availability, Mike glanced over at the large mirrored bar with its brass railings and noticed that one of the bartenders was a young blonde gal. She was the perfect potential victim for the Sterling Killer except the bar wasn’t in Oakland. Mike figured she was safe, especially since the father was under surveillance, but he also knew that she was probably stressed from everything she was hearing and reading in the news. He wanted to tell her that everything would be alright and that they had a suspect. Kate saw the look of concern constricting his face.

“Is everything alright?”

Mike’s face transformed into a crooked, distressed smile. “Every time I go to a bar now, I look to see if the bartenders are blonde.”

Kate looked over at the bar and saw the bartender and a cringe of compassion flashed across her face.

“You would be amazed at how many young blonde bartenders there actually are,” Mike said disturbingly.

“Do you want to go talk to her?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mike said shaking his head. “We have the father under surveillance so she’s safe for now.”

“If I was a blond bartender, I would be looking for a different job.”

“Right this way please,” the hostess said as she grabbed two menus and led them through the tables to their booth in the back of the restaurant. Mike scanned the room for anyone suspicious as he took Kate’s black sequined shall from her shoulders as she sat. He handed it to the hostess and then eased his way into the booth. The hostess handed them each a menu and then told them that their waitress would be right with them.

“I love this place,” Kate said with a hint of romanticism as she gazed around at the dark wood paneled walls. “My family used to come here every year during the Christmas holiday after shopping. It’s so warm and cheerful.”

“They have great food and they pour a good drink,” Mike concurred distractedly.

A young lady with curly, sandy hair showed up at the end of their table with her black bow tie and a white apron tied tightly around her waist. “How are you folks doing tonight?”

“Fine thank you,” Kate replied sweetly before Mike could say anything.

“My name is Molly and I will be your server tonight,” she informed them as she removed a pen and leather bound ticket. “Would you like something from the bar to start you off?”

“I’ll have a Coors Light please,” Kate said cheerfully with her hands in her lap.

“Sapphire Martini, dirty, on the rocks please,” Mike said calmly as he leaned forward with both elbows on the table, clasping his hands together.

The waitress disappeared and left Mike and Kate admiring the ambiance of the restaurant and making small talk. When she returned shortly thereafter, she placed the drinks in front of them and proceeded to tell them the specials and then told them she would be back to take their orders in a few minutes.

Mike raised his glass and offered a toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers?” Kate replied somewhat disappointed.

“To a beautiful woman who I hope I don’t scare away.”

They clinked the rims of their glasses and took a sip as they leered into each other’s eyes.

“How’s your martini?”

“Very good.”

“How do you drink Gin straight like that? Doesn’t it taste terrible?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” he informed her, feeling as though he had to justify himself but not wanting to sound defensive. “You probably didn’t like beer the first time you drank it, but you enjoyed the way it made you feel, so you kept drinking it.”

“I know, but there is a big difference between the flavor of beer and gin.”

“I started off drinking Gin and tonics and then someone introduced me to the martini,” he explained careful so as not to sound like a complete lush. “Once you try one and feel the rush, you want to have another.”

“Sounds kind of dangerous.”

“Someone once said, ‘I like my martini’s like I like my women. One is never enough and three is too many’,” Mike told her cheerfully. “Or was it vice versa? I guess it doesn’t matter. You get the point,” he said feeling foolish and wishing he didn’t say it.

Kate nodded her head with an approving grin. “I’ll have to remember that.”

They both sipped on their drinks and then set them down within arm’s reach.

“What can you tell me about the murders?” she asked with a fascinated twinkle in her eye.

Mike sat back on his bench, leaning against the leather back rest with his right hand slowly spinning his drink he gazed at it. He began speaking deliberately. “You already know that all three victims were young, blonde, female bartenders who were abducted, beaten and raped and then stabbed in the heart with a sterling silver knife shaped like a cross,” he recalled in a hollow, spooky voice as he starred at her with wide eyes. “All three bodies were found disemboweled on altars in random churches.”

“Did he leave any clues or evidence?” Kate asked with a disturbed furrow of her brows.

“That’s the thing that is so strange,” Mike told her mystified. “He left no evidence. There are no finger prints, no hair, not even a single damn fiber.
It’s like he was never there,” Mike said as he gazed distantly at his glass. He raised the glass to his mouth with narrow eyes and took a sip of his drink and swallowed hard.

“Nothing?” Kate responded astonished. “No seminal fluids or anything?”

Mike shook his head deliberately. “There are signs of forced penetration, but no trace of bodily fluids or lubricant from a rubber.”

“That’s not even humanly possible, is it?”

Mike’s face perked up and he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheet of white paper that was folded in quarters. He was hesitant about showing her the photo, but hoped maybe she knew something about it.

“The only thing he has left behind are the sterling silver knife shaped like a cross and this symbol that he smears on the walls with the victims blood,” he told her intently as he unfolded the photocopy of the symbol smeared on a church wall and placed it on the table before her. Kate picked up the piece of paper and examined the digital photo of the number six smeared in blood. “We think it’s some sort of satanic symbol that we have yet to identify.”

“I’ve never seen this symbol before,” Kate admitted regretfully. “Do you have any theories about what it means?”

“We don’t know,” Mike replied discouraged and then raised his glass and finished his drink. “I think the Sterling Killer is leaving it behind as a piece of a puzzle that he is challenging us to solve. I think if we can figure out what it signifies, we will know why he is committing these murders.”

“Did you show it to Father John?”

“He told me about it before we even mentioned it to him,” Mike replied with disbelief. “The only reason I agreed to meet with him was because he knew about the symbol and we deliberately didn’t release it to the press to eliminate false confessions.”

“He doesn’t have any idea what it means either?”

Mike shook his head with a grimace. “According to the father, it is the last thing he sees in his dreams before he wakes up. There is no way he could know all of this stuff unless he is the Sterling Killer,” Mike said trying to convince himself.

“I have a hard time picturing Father John when we talk about the Sterling Killer. I picture a doctor with his black medical kit full of sharp
surgical knives and scrubs; not a monk,” she said as she reached down for her black handbag, pulled out her smart phone and began scrolling through her contacts. “It’s like Jack the Ripper all over again.”

Mike chuckled. “I wonder if Jack the Ripper was a monk who had a split personality.”

“I have a former professor from the Harvard Divinity School who specializes in the history of religion,” Kate explained as she concentrated on her phone’s screen. “If anyone would know what this symbol means, it would be him.”

“I’ll take any help I can get,” Mike replied distracted as he glanced around the room looking for their waitress so he could order another drink. “We can’t find anything about it. I think the Sterling Killer may have created it.”

“Even if he did make it up, Professor Schafer might know what it means.”

“It’s worth me following up with him.”

“I’m texting you his contact information,” she told him as she deliberately pushed the buttons on her phone’s key pad. “It should be in your text messages.”

Mike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. “I just got it. Thank you,” he said with a gracious tip of his knit-cap covered head.

Mike stared down the waitress as she took an order at another table until she looked in his direction and he casually signaled her. The waitress returned with a smile and asked if they were ready to order.

“We’ve been talking so much that we haven’t even looked at the menu,” Kate told her apologetically.

“Would you bring us another round please?” Mike asked her courteously.

“Certainly,” she replied as she checked their ticket to make sure she knew what they were having. “Sapphire martini, dirty, rocks and a Coors light?” She reiterated for confirmation.

“That would be great,” Mike replied.

“I guess we better look at the menu,” Kate said as if it was the last thing she wanted to do.

Mike opened his menu and pretended to be reading it. He already knew what he was having. He always had the bone-in rib-eye with creamed
spinach when he was at Boulevards. The night was going better than he anticipated after what he viewed as a debacle at Kate’s house. Talking about the murders, a subject he clearly knew and was comfortable with, as well as the gin martini, was helping him to relax.