An Aegean Prophecy - Jeffrey Siger [3]
Kouros waved to Andreas and pointed at one of the cops. Andreas walked to where they were standing.
‘Hello, Chief Inspector, my name is Mavros,’ said the man with Kouros.
From his stripes Andreas could tell he was a sergeant. Andreas nodded. ‘Where’s your captain?’
‘He’s in a meeting with the mayor and said not to be disturbed. But I can answer your questions.’
‘How about, “Where’s the body?”’
The sergeant looked surprised. ‘Back in the monastery. Being prepared for the funeral.’ In the Greek Orthodox Church, burial occurred as soon as possible after death, absent complicating circumstances such as murder.
The captain in charge of the island’s police was too busy making political nice-nice to meet with the chief inspector of special crimes at the murder site. He’d let the body be moved and tampered with before Andreas had the chance to examine it. If someone wanted Andreas to conduct a real investigation, he sure as hell didn’t bother to tell the Patmos police.
Andreas drew in and let out a breath. ‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Between two-thirty and three in the morning.’
Andreas nodded. ‘Take off the tarp.’
The sergeant paused.
Andreas smiled and patted the sergeant on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, I meant to say, “Take off the tarp, please.”’
‘Chief, there’s blood everywhere. We can’t let the tourists see that.’
So that’s why the corpse was gone, thought Andreas. ‘Who told you to move the body?’
The sergeant hesitated. ‘It’s Easter Week. We couldn’t leave a holy man lying dead in the middle of the town square.’
That’s what Easter Week is all about, thought Andreas. A holy man’s death in public view. He hoped that wasn’t a clue. Some twisted psycho murdering monks was more than he wanted to think about.
Andreas turned to Kouros. ‘Yianni, do you think he’s having trouble with my accent?’
Kouros shrugged.
Andreas turned back to the sergeant. ‘Please, just tell me, “Who told you to move the body?“’ Andreas still was smiling, but not in a way meant to calm a sergeant heading toward a pension.
‘The abbot thought it disrespectful to the church.’ The sergeant paused. ‘But we videotaped and photographed everything.’
Great, thought Andreas. Now I’ve got the police chief, the mayor, and the head of the monastery working together at screwing up this investigation. He shook his head. ‘Just move everybody back and lift the tarp.’
‘The captain said not to touch it without his okay.’ Now he sounded as if he were giving an order.
At six feet two inches tall, Andreas was about a head taller than the sergeant, and Kouros, though an inch or so shorter and at least a foot broader than the sergeant, was built like a bull. Andreas ignored him, looked at Kouros, and nodded toward the tarp.
As much as police sergeants on tourist islands were used to being obeyed, this one must have realized he couldn’t win this confrontation on any level. He stepped back to allow Kouros to pass and remove the cones, then helped Andreas and Kouros lift the tarp.
Though only mid-April, it was a bright, sunny day. Perfect for baking blood onto black plastic sheeting. Whatever clues the tarp may once have protected were now part of an ugly, impenetrable mess. They set the tarp off to one side and Andreas studied the ground. There wasn’t much left to see except shoe prints. Lots of shoe prints.
‘What the hell was going on here, a track meet?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘A baker on the way to work found the body, panicked, and ran through the streets screaming, “Kalogeros Vassilis was murdered in the square.” People came running from everywhere to see if they could help, and when they saw it was too late, they stayed to pray by his body. He was a much loved man, and by the time we got here the square was packed with mourners. We had to pull two hysterical old women off his body.’
As if on cue, an old woman dressed head-to-foot in black hobbled into the square from a nearby lane. Chanting loudly, she walked to where Andreas was standing, crossed herself three times, and threw flowers smack-dab into the heart