Authors: Erica Spindler
They both alighted the vehicle and slammed their doors in unison. Without speaking, they crossed to the front door.
Mira Gallier opened it. “Thank you for coming, Detective Malone.”
Though her tone was steady, her expression was traumatized. Blood stained her white knit shirt and was smeared on her chest and throat.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes. He didn’t hurt me.”
“I think you met my partner, Detective Bayle.”
She nodded and moved aside so they could cross the threshold. Malone shifted his gaze to the two people with her, a woman and a man. The woman was young; early twenties, he guessed. She was petite, pixieish with her short, spiky dark hair and heart-shaped face. The man looked slightly older, medium build and height with blond hair and brown eyes.
Gallier saw Malone’s gaze and introduced them. “Detectives, this is my studio assistant, Deni Watts, and her boyfriend, Chris Johns.”
He nodded in greeting, then shifted his attention back to her. “Tell us what happened, Ms. Gallier.”
“I was the first to arrive this morning—”
“What time was that?”
“Around ten.” She stopped, as if struggling to put her thoughts together. “I’d given Deni the morning off. We’ve been working nonstop cleaning the Sisters of Mercy windows.”
“How’s that going?” he asked.
“We finished. Last night.”
“I’ll have to stop by and take a look at them.” He glanced at the spiral notebook in his hands, then back up at her. “So, you were the first to arrive at about ten this morning?”
“Yes. I made coffee and headed into the workshop.”
“Where’s that?”
She pointed to her left. Pocket doors stood open. Bayle crossed to them and peered through.
“Go on.”
“I closed the doors behind me and—”
“Why?”
The question came from Bayle. Mira turned her way. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You were all alone. Why close the doors?”
She gazed at Bayle a moment before answering. “Habit. We keep the two areas separate because the studio materials make such a mess.”
Malone took over. “What happened next?”
“I heard someone out here, moving around. Figured it was Deni and I called out.”
“But you gave her the morning off.”
“Deni’s like that.” She flashed an appreciative smile at the woman. “Dedicated.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t lock the door when I came in. Technically, we were open for business, though we don’t get a lot of foot traffic.”
“But it wasn’t your assistant?”
“No. It was a homeless man I’d given twenty dollars to last night.”
Malone glanced at Bayle; she was watching Gallier intently. “And where and what time did that happen?”
“The Corner Bar. Around one
A.M.
I felt sorry for him.”
“That’s only a few blocks from here,” Malone said. “He’s probably taken up residence in somebody’s backyard or shed. Go on.”
“He was holding what I thought was a knife.”
“But it wasn’t?”
She shook her head. “A piece of broken glass. One of ours. He was bleeding.”
Bayle stepped in. “Is that his blood on your shirt?”
Mira brought a hand to her throat. “Yes. He—” She cleared her throat. “He was standing there, staring at me. Spouting all this crazy stuff about Jesus and judgment, false prophets and burning in hell. That’s why I called you, Detective Malone. It just seemed so weird that somebody spray-painted that message on my windows at Sisters of Mercy, then today … this happens. It just—” She suddenly sounded unsure of herself. “I wondered if they could be connected? If this guy could be the one who killed Father Girod?”
“Did he say the exact phrase from the church windows?”
“No.”
“What did he say? Can you remember exactly?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget.” She clasped her hands together. “He said, ‘In the end, the Shepherd will gather together his flock. What awaits false prophets is far worse than eternal damnation.’”
She stopped, shuddering. “The last thing he said really freaked me out. ‘The flesh will be peeled from their bones, roasted and eaten by demons.’”
“Whose bones?”
“The false prophets’,” she said. “That was it. He said the worst awaited ‘false prophets.’”
Chris stepped in. “He was quoting Scripture last night, too. But not all that judgment stuff. It was more like, ‘God’s got you in His hands and will take care of you.’”
Malone made a note. “You did the right thing calling me,” he said. “Don’t worry about what’s connected, leave that to us.” He smiled reassuringly. “That’s our job. You just tell us what happened next.”
She nodded. “I heard Deni and Chris. He must have, too, because he just suddenly … leaped at me. He grabbed at my throat, I thought—”
Her voice turned thick. Deni put an arm around her. “I thought he was going to kill me. But he just took my necklace and ran.”
“Mind if I take a look around your workroom?” Bayle asked.
“Go ahead. Deni, could you show her where—”
“I’ve got this,” Chris offered, then motioned to Bayle. “This way.”
After they’d disappeared into the workroom, Malone continued. “Can you describe him?”
“Dirty, baggy clothes. Army fatigue jacket. Boots.” She fell silent a moment. “He was a medium height.”
“What about his age?”
She pressed her lips together a moment. “It’s hard to tell with people like that, but … He wasn’t a kid but not an old man.”
“Hair? Skin?”
“He was white. Dark hair. Long.” She motioned about her jawline. “But it was his eyes that—” She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “They were crazy. Bright, even though they were dark. Like they were lit from inside.”
“Anything else? Some defining mark or—”
“A tattoo. Between his eyebrows. A cross.”
“A cross?” he repeated. “Between his eyebrows? That sounds like Preacher. And this whole area is his favorite stomping ground.”
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“A street corner zealot. Been around for years. Doesn’t have a history of violence, though things change. It’d help if you could come down to headquarters and look at some photos, confirm it for us.”
“Can I get cleaned up first?”
“Of course.” Malone checked his watch. “How much time will you need?”
“Not long. I keep some things here.”
“Malone,” Bayle said from the workroom doorway, “you’ll want to see this.”
He joined her in the other room, aware of Gallier and her assistant following him.
Bayle motioned a trail of blood from the doorway to a small puddle in the center of the room. The perp had entered the studio bleeding, crossed to the center of the room and stopped.
“And there.” Bayle indicated a point six feet in front of that, to a spray of glass and tools on the floor.
“That’s where I was standing,” Gallier said. “When he grabbed me, I fell against the table and knocked everything off it.”
Malone crossed to the spot and squatted beside the conglomeration. He indicated a long, triangular piece of glass smeared with blood. “Is this the piece of glass you saw in his hand?”
“It is.”
Spencer looked up at Bayle. “From her description, it sounded like Preacher. He’s been known to get in people’s faces.”
“Anything to get his message across,” Bayle agreed. “I’ll radio this in, communications can put out a BOLO.”
“Bolo?” Mira asked.
“Be on the lookout.”
“Should I clean this up?” Deni asked. “Or will you guys send a, you know, CSI team?”
God help them, TV had made everyone an expert
. “I’m afraid you’re looking at the CSI team for this one.” At her crestfallen expression, he smiled. “Don’t worry, Ms. Watts, every sworn officer is trained in evidence collection.”
In the end, they collected the blood-smeared piece of glass and a couple drops of blood, the latter just in case this did end up connecting to the Sisters of Mercy homicide.
Gallier walked them to the door. “Do you still need me to come look at photos?”
“Give us an hour. We’ll cruise around. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick him up.”
“Thank you, Detectives. I’d really love to have my necklace back. It was a gift from my late husband.”
“Was it valuable?” Bayle asked.
“To me it’s priceless.”
“Monetarily.”
Mira stiffened. “Does that matter? Isn’t it enough that it was stolen and I want it back?”
Bayle had the people skills of a pitt bull, Malone decided and stepped in. “Of course it’s enough. But it makes a difference in our investigation. For example, if it’s worth a lot of money, he might try to pawn it.”
“Oh.” For the first time since they arrived, she looked near tears. “Less than fifty dollars.”
Moments later they were buckled into the Taurus. Bayle started the engine. “Do you think she was telling the truth?”
He glanced at her in surprise. “Yeah. Why?”
“Something just seemed a little off about her.”
“Honestly, didn’t pick up on that. Though I found it interesting she called the Sisters of Mercy windows ‘her’ windows.”
She rolled her shoulders. “Think Preacher could be our guy?”
“Could be. Geographically it works. The whole God’s wrath thing works. At this point he’s looking better than anyone we’ve interviewed so far. One thing bothers me, though. He didn’t hurt her.”
“Come again?”
“Why would the same guy who killed Father Girod run off without harming her? The situations were similar.”
“Don’t know. Could Gallier be lying?” Bayle offered.
“Always a possibility. But why would she? All he took was her necklace, one she admitted wasn’t worth much. Certainly not enough to make an insurance claim. Besides, her story hangs together. We even have the bloody piece of glass.”
“True. But she could have planted it. Manufactured the whole tableau.”
“Could have.” He looked at her, curious. “But again, why?”
“People do crazy things for attention.”
It was true, though in this case it seemed far-fetched. He told her so.
She laughed and pulled out of the parking area. “Keeping me grounded, Malone. I like that.”
“Here to help.” He pointed down Carrollton Avenue as they approached it. “Why don’t we swing by the Riverbend? Preacher’s been known to hang out there. On the way, I’ll give Vicky over at Sisters of Mercy a call, see if Preacher has any history with them.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, August 12
Noon
Preacher liked to hang out on street corners and share the Word. His particular fire-and-brimstone version of it, anyway. But there’d been no sign of him around the Riverbend that morning. Malone and Bayle checked with each business—all of them familiar with the street evangelist from having shooed him away from their doors many times.
A maniac shouting about frying in the eternal fat vat tended to hurt business.
Preacher was also known to hop the Carrollton Avenue streetcar and treat the captive commuters to his doomsday message. Invariably, the driver would boot him off; undeterred, he would simply catch the next one to come along.
He would make a day of it—until the NOPD arrived.
Again, nobody had seen him.
* * *
Mira Gallier was waiting for Malone when he arrived back at the station. He noted that she had cleaned up and come alone. “Sorry,” he said, approaching her. “Have you been here long?”
She shook her head. “Just got here a couple minutes ago. Did you find him?”
“No luck yet. If it’s Preacher, he’ll show up.” He motioned for her to follow him. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”
“I’m not shaking anymore.” She held out her hands. “See? Rock solid.”
“That was pretty fast. Good for you.” He sat her in an interrogation room. “Can I get you a soft drink, coffee, anything?”
“No, thanks. How long do you think this will take?”
“It’s all up to you. Depends on how long it takes for you to ID him.”
Malone had called ahead and had a six-pack of photos prepared for her inspection. The single sheet consisted of mug shots of six similar-looking men, three of whom had tattoos on their faces.
He laid the page on the table in front of her. “Take all the time you need.”
Turned out, she didn’t need more than a moment. “That’s him,” she said, pointing to the grainy photo.
“You’re certain.”
“Positive. Is that Preacher?” When he nodded, she gazed at the picture for a long moment. “He’s one creepy dude.”
“That he is.” Malone cocked his head. “Ironic that he spends twenty-four/seven warning people to repent and be saved, but he’s so friggin’ scary most folks would choose hell over a minute in heaven with him.”
She smiled. “Wasn’t quite as creepy when I gave him twenty bucks last night.”
It was the first time he’d seen her smile. It lit up her face, altering her angular features, making her beautiful.
“I guess that’s it, then?” she said and stood.
“Yup. We’ll call you when we arrest him.” He motioned the doorway. “I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
When they reached it, she held out her hand. “Thank you, Detective.”
He took it. “You’re very welcome. By the way, I know where you recognized me from. My fiancée and I live in the Riverbend area. We were in your shop, she bought a fleur-de-lis panel for our front window.”
She smiled. “The one with the sunflower behind it?”
He reached around her and pushed the call button. “The very one.”
“I remember Stacy. I hope she’s doing well?”
“Great, thanks.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
“I will.”
The elevator arrived and she stepped onto it. He held the door open. “If you happen to see Preacher, or if he shows up at your studio again, call me. Anytime, don’t hesitate.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it, as if there was something she wanted to say but worried she shouldn’t. Curiosity won out. “What’s he been arrested for?”
“Disturbing the peace. Resisting arrest. Trespassing. Burglary.”
She seemed to be attempting to come to grips with it all. After a moment, she said, “Do you think he meant to hurt me? I mean, I gave him money, so he followed me? I don’t get it. And you said he’s never been violent, so why the piece of glass? And why take my cross that way?”