Doing her best to press on, Mackenzie continued. Obviously, we have reason to believe it could happen again if it has happened twice. So time is of the essence. I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for me.
I can try, she said, though it was clear that she was struggling to keep her emotions in check.
Because Blessed Heart is a relatively large church, I was wondering if there might have been someone within the congregation who might have recently approached Father Costas with a complaint or grievance.
Not that Im aware of. Of course, keep in mind that many people came to him in confidence to confess sins or work out spiritual unrest within their lives.
Is there anything at all over the course of the last several years that you can think of that might have rubbed someone the wrong way? Anything that might upset someone who perhaps previously looked at Father Costas with reverence?
Nancy looked down at her hands. She was wringing them nervously in her lap, trying to keep them from trembling. I suppose there was, but it was before I started working here. There was a story maybe ten years back, a report that one of the local papers broke. One of the teenage boys that lead a youth group claimed that Father Costas had sexually abused him. It was very explicit. There was never any proof of it and, quite frankly, theres just no way Father Costas would have done that. But once a news story like that hits and concerns someone within the Catholic Church, its taken as solid truth.
What was the aftermath of that story?
From what I was told, he got death threats. Attendance at the church decreased by about fifteen percent. He started to receive unsolicited emails filled with homosexual pornography.
Did he keep any of those mails? Mackenzie asked.
For a while, Nancy said. He had the cops called in on it but they were never able to make any connections. After it was clear that nothing was going to be able to be done, he deleted them all. Ive never seen them personally.
And what about the teen who made the accusations? If you could give us his name, we could pay him a visit.
Nancy shook her head, fresh tears spilling. He committed suicide later that year. There was a note near the body where he confessed to being gay. It was yet another strike against Father Costas. It made the story seem all that more plausible.
Mackenzie nodded, trying to think of any other accessible avenues. She knew, naturally, that trying to get this sort of information out of a grieving widow would be difficult. And when you added in a past ordeal with a news story that may or may not have had any truth to it, the whole thing just became that much worse. She supposed she could push for more information about the young man who had filed the complaint and eventually killed himself. But she could also easily find that information on her own while leaving this poor woman to get ready for Father Costass funeral.
Well, Ms. Allensworth, thank you so much for your time, Mackenzie said, getting to her feet. My deepest sympathies for your loss.
Bless you, my dear, Nancy said. She also got to her feet and led Mackenzie back through the house, to the front door.
At the door, Mackenzie gave Nancy a business card with her name and number on it. I understand you are going through quite a lot, Mackenzie said. But if anything else should happen to come to you in the next few days, please give me a call.
Nancy took the card without a word and slipped it into her pocket. She then turned away, clearly fighting back a larger swarm of tears, and closed the door.
Mackenzie headed back to her car, pulling out her cell phone. She dialed up Agent Harrison, who answered right away.
Everything going well? he asked her.
I dont know yet, she said. Can you do me a favor and look back about ten years to see what you can find about Father Costas being accused of sexually abusing a male leader of a youth group? Id like as many details on the case as I can get.
Sure. You think it might present a lead?
I dont know, she said. But I think a kid who claims to have been sexually abused by a priest who was nailed to the door of his church would certainly be worth looking into.
Yeah, good point, Harrison said.
She ended the call, again haunted by images of the Scarecrow Killer and Nebraska. She had obviously dealt with killers striking out of a religious context before. And one thing she knew about them was that they could be unpredictable and very driven. She wasnt going to take any chances and, as such, would not leave any stone unturned.
Yet as she got back into her car, she realized that a sexually abused boy did feel like a solid lead. Besides, other than him, the only thing at her disposal was returning to the FBI offices and seeing what she could mine from the files while hoping Forensics might be able to come up with something.
And she knew that if she sat idly, waiting for a break in the case, the killer could very well be out there plotting his next move.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was 3:08 by the cars dashboard when the pastor came out of the church.
He watched the pastor through the windshield from a distance. He knew the man was holy; his reputation was stellar and his church had been blessed. Still, it was rather disappointing. Sometimes he thought holy men should be set apart from the rest of the world, easier to identify. Maybe like those old religious paintings where Jesus had a large golden circle around his head.
He chuckled at the thought of this as he watched the pastor meet with another man in front of a car by the church. This other man was an assistant of some sort. Hed seen this assistant before but wasnt concerned with him. He was very low on the food chain within the church.
No, he was more interested in the head pastor.
He closed his eyes as the two men talked. In the silence of his car, he prayed. He knew he could pray anywhere and God would hear him. He had known for quite some time that God did not care where you were when you prayed or confessed your sins. You did not have to be in some huge and gaudily decorated building. In fact, the Bible indicated that such elaborate dwellings were an affront to God.
With his prayer over, he thought about that bit of scripture. He muttered it out loud, his voice slow and gritty.
And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are. For they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, so that they may be seen of men.
He looked back to the pastor, currently walking away from the man and to another car.
Hypocrite, he said. His voice was a mixture of venom and sadness.
He also knew that the Bible warned of a plague of false prophets in the end times. That was, after all, why he had set himself to his current task. The false prophets, the men who spoke of glorifying God while eyeing the collection plates as they were passed around the same ones who preached of sanctification and purity while staring at young boys with lustful eyes they were the worst of them. They were worse than the drug dealers and murderers. They were worse than rapists and the most deplorable deviants on the streets.
Everyone knew it. But no one did anything about it.
Until now. Until he had heard God speaking into him, telling him to set it right.
It was his job to rid the world of these false prophets. It was bloody work, but it was Gods work. And that was all he needed to know.
He looked back to the pastor, getting into his car and leaving the church.
He looked back to the pastor, getting into his car and leaving the church.
After a while, he also pulled out onto the street. He did not tail the pastor closely, but followed along at a safe distance.
When he came to a stoplight, he could just barely hear the musical noise from his trunk as several of his industrial nails clinked together in their box.
CHAPTER SIX
She walks up toward the church, the blood moon casting a shadow of her body on the sidewalk that looks like a stretched out bug a praying mantis or a millipede perhaps. There is a bell ringing, a large bell above the cathedral, summoning everyone to come worship and sing and give praise.
But Mackenzie cannot get inside the church. There is a throng of people on the front stoop, congregating around the front door. She sees Ellington there, as well as McGrath, Harrison, her estranged mother and sister, even her old partner, Bryers, and some of the men shed worked with while still a detective back in Nebraska.
Whats everyone doing? she asks.
Ellington turns to her. His eyes are closed. He is dressed in a nice suit, punctuated by a blood red tie. He smiles at her, his eyes still closed, and holds a hand to his lips. Beside him, her mother points to the front doors of the church.
Her father is there. Strung up, crucified. He wears a crown of thorns, and a wound in his side leaks something that looks like motor oil. He is looking directly at her, his eyes wide and maniacal. He is insane. She can see it in his eyes and in the leer of a grin.
Has thee come to save thyself? he asks her.
No, she says.
Well, you certainly did not come to save me. Too late for that. Now bow. Worship. Find your peace in me.
And as if someone has broken her in half from inside, Mackenzie kneels. She kneels hard, scraping her knees on the concrete. All around her, the congregation starts to sing in tongues. She opens her mouth and formless words come out, joining in the song. She looks back up to her father and there is a halo of fire encircling his head. He is dead now, his eyes blank and expressionless, his mouth trailing a pool of blood.
There is the chiming of the bell, repeating over and again.
Ringing
Ringing. Something ringing.
Her phone. With a jerk, Mackenzie came awake. She barely registered the clock on her bedside table, which read 2:10 a.m. She answered the phone, trying to shake the vestiges of the nightmare from her head
This is White, she said.
Good morning, came Harrisons voice. She was secretly rather disappointed. Shed been expecting to hear from Ellington. Hed been sent off on some task by McGrath, the details of which were sketchy at best. Hed promised to call at some point but so far, shed heard nothing from him.
Harrison, she thought groggily. What the hell does he want?
Its way too early for this, Harrison, she said.
I know, Harrison said. Sorry, but Im calling for McGrath. Theres been another murder.
***Through a series of texts, Mackenzie pieced together all she needed to know. A rebellious couple had pulled off into the shadow of a well-known churchs parking lot to have sex. Just as things had started heating up, the girl had seen something strange on the door. It had spooked her enough to put an end to the nights planned activities. Clearly pissed, the male who had been robbed of his exhibitionism stalked to the front door and found a naked body nailed to the doors.
The church in question was a fairly popular one: Living Word Community Church, one of the largest in the city. It often made the news, as the President frequently attended services there. Mackenzie had never been (she had not stepped into a church since a guilt-filled weekend in college) but the size and scope of the place sank in fully as she steered her car into the parking lot.
She was one of the first on the scene. The CSI team was there, approaching the main entrance of the church. A single agent was getting out of a car, apparently having been waiting for her. She was not at all surprised to see that it was Yardley, the agent who had handled the first case with Father Costas.
Yardley met her at the sidewalk that led to the main entrance. She looked tired but excited in a way that only other agents would likely identify and relate to.
Agent White, Yardley said. Thanks for coming so quickly.
Sure. Were you the first one on the scene?
I was. I got sent out about fifteen minutes ago. Harrison called and sent me.
Mackenzie almost commented on this but shut it down. Strange that I wasnt called first, she thought. Maybe McGrath is letting her fill in where Ellington would be helping. Makes sense, as she was the first to handle the Costas scene.
Seen the body yet? Mackenzie asked as they headed for the front door just behind the CSI team.
Yeah. From a few feet away. Its identical to the others.
Within a few steps, Mackenzie was able to see this for herself. She stayed back a bit, letting the CSI and Forensics guys do their job. Sensing that they had two agents behind them waiting, the teams worked quickly yet efficiently, making sure to leave the two agents some room to take in their own observations.
Yardley was right. The scene was the same, right down to the elongated mark across the brow. The only difference was that this mans underwear had apparently slipped down or had been yanked down to his ankles on purpose.
One of the guys from the CSI team looked back at them. He looked a little out of sorts, maybe even a little sad.
The deceased is Robert Woodall. Hes the head pastor here.
Youre sure? Mackenzie asked.
Positive. My family attends this church. Ive heard this man preach at least fifty times.
Mackenzie stepped closer to the body. The doors to Living Word were not ornate and decorative like the ones at Cornerstone Presbyterian and Blessed Heart. These were more modern, made of a heavy-duty wood that was designed and distressed to look like something akin to a barn door.
Like the others, Pastor Woodall had been nailed through the hands and his ankles had been bound with bailing wire. She studied his exposed genitalia, wondering if his stark nakedness had been a decision made by the killer who had staged the body. She could see nothing out of the ordinary and decided that the underwear must have slid down by itself, perhaps due to the weight of the blood it had collected. The wounds that had shed that blood were numerous. There were a few scratches on his chest. And while his back could not be seen, the trails of blood that smeared along his waist and ventured down his legs indicated that there would be a few back there.
Mackenzie then saw another wound a thin one that brought back the hellish imagery of her nightmare.
There was a slit in Woodalls right side. It was slight but clearly visible. There was something precise about it, almost pristine. She leaned in closer and pointed. Whats this look like to you? she asked the CSI team.
I noticed that, too, said the man who had recognized Pastor Woodall. Looks like some sort of incision. Maybe made by some sort of crafting blade an X-Acto knife or something.
But these other cuts and stab wounds, Mackenzie said. Theyre made with a standard blade, right? The angles and edges