An Aegean Prophecy - Jeffrey Siger [4]
Andreas stared at the woman, then looked at Kouros. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
2
The police station was in Skala. It shared space with the post office in an all-white island landmark on the southern end of the harbor road. The distinctive, three-story tower at one corner of the building looked like a runaway little brother to the massive stone towers guarding the monastery above.
‘Everything we found at the scene is in there.’ The sergeant pointed down a hallway to a door marked captain. ‘It’s all inside, on the table.’
It was a cave of a room. The only window was shuttered. A dark desk sat on a dark carpet at the far end, with a dark bookcase behind it and two dark chairs in front. A dark table was beside the door. The only color came from a large, gold and crimson poster set in a gilt frame on the opposite wall. It was a reproduction of one of the island’s most famous icons, the sixteenth century Vision of Saint John depicting elements of his Revelation. Words wrapped around the poster’s edge advertised Patmos’ celebration nearly two decades ago of the nineteen-hundredth anniversary of the Book of Revelation.
To its left hung signed and framed photographs of the current archbishop of the Eastern Orthodox Church in Greece and his two predecessors. No politicians shared the walls. Obviously, it was the church that held influence in this office.
Andreas pulled two pairs of latex gloves from the dispenser box on the table and handed one pair to Kouros. Very carefully, they began sorting through the items. Blood seemed everywhere.
‘All we found were his robe, hat, sandals, undergarments, and two crosses.’
‘Do you know what was taken?’
‘No, but his pockets were turned inside out.’
‘Any idea of how many attackers?’
The sergeant did a quick upward jerk of his head, Greek for ‘no.’ ‘No idea, but my guess is more than one. These mugger bastards are cowards when alone.’
‘A lot of monks get mugged here?’
He gestured no again. ‘This is the first I know of.’
Andreas looked at the crosses. One was heavy, silver, and connected to a long, thick, woven black cord. The other was much smaller and lighter, like tin, and tied to a thin black lanyard. It was the only item without bloodstains. He pointed at the smaller cross. ‘Why is there no blood on this?’
‘We found it clenched in his fist.’
Andreas nodded. ‘Any thoughts on why the crosses were left behind?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘No. The captain thinks it’s because he was a man of God and the muggers thought it a sacrilege to take them.’
Andreas stared deadpan at the sergeant. Kouros started to laugh. ‘Can’t wait to meet your captain,’ said Andreas. ‘A monk is butchered in your town square and he thinks the muggers were worried about committing a sacrilege by stealing his crosses?’
The sergeant stammered. ‘No … no … I … I’m sure what the captain meant was that … uh … they didn’t know Vassilis was a monk when they attacked him.’
Andreas kept staring. ‘Show me the photographs of the body.’
The sergeant took an envelope off the desk and handed it to Andreas. ‘These were taken after we removed the body from the square. I’ll have to get you copies of the ones we took at the scene, the captain has them.’
It contained two dozen eight-by-tens of a very old, very thin, naked man. For an instant, Andreas wondered what passed through that poor soul’s mind in his last seconds on earth. His youth? His parents? His loves? Children perhaps? Regrets? Andreas moved on. He had to be clinical and focus: focus on finding the miserable, damned-to-hell bastards who murdered this old man.
Andreas studied the first few photos very carefully, handing each to Kouros as he finished. Then he quickly shuffled through the rest as if disinterested. ‘What do you think, Yianni?’
‘Only one.’
Andreas nodded. ‘Sergeant. Where’s your captain?’
He looked at his shoes. ‘I don’t know.’
Andreas took that to mean that he did, and that his captain probably was nearby. ‘Tell him to get his ass