Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [49]
The heavy marble altar was magnificent, its splendor only serving to heighten the gloom he felt as he approached it. The CSI team was already there, moving about the church with their usual efficiency, dusting for prints, scanning the pews for any stray scrap of evidence. He approached the little group around the pulpit. Chuck Morton was there, still wearing his overcoat, which was cream colored and looked pricey. Chuck’s wife, Susan, had a knack for buying clothes that weren’t expensive but looked like they were.
When Chuck heard Lee approach, he looked up.
“Thanks for coming out on such short notice.”
Lee looked at the body draped over the altar.
The victim in this attack was eerily similar to the one at Fordham—young, with dark curly hair and a decidedly Irish look about her. This time, however, the crime scene showed evidence of a frenzied attack. Several hymnals had been ripped from their racks in the front choir loft surrounding the altar and lay scattered about, their pages ripped and spattered with blood. A large blue and white flower vase lay a few feet from the victim’s body, broken in two, its contents strewn over the thick carpet covering the floor of the altar. Yellow roses—ironic, Lee thought, since they were the symbol for friendship.
But what he couldn’t take his eyes off were the words carved into her chest.
Hallowed be thy name.
The cuts were deeper than last time, the slashes cruder—the e in Hallowed bisecting her right nipple so deeply that it had almost come off. There was more blood, too—a lot more blood. He thought about what the pathologist at the morgue had said about postmortem injuries—and these injuries did not appear to be postmortem. He turned away, sickened.
Hallowed be thy name.
The phrase circled his brain rhythmically, mockingly. Hal-low-ed be thy na…
“Jesus,” Lee muttered. He had another horrifying thought. The Slasher was only two lines into the prayer—not even a quarter of the way through it.
“It’s him—it’s the same guy,” Chuck sighed, coming up to stand next to him. “You were right about one thing: he isn’t going to stop.”
“And there was less than a week between these two killings,” Lee pointed out. “The last time he waited a month, but this time—well, he’s either more driven, more confident, or both. What do you have on the victim so far?”
Chuck looked down at the girl. “Poor kid. Name’s Annie O’Donnell.” He indicated a nearby detective interviewing a middle-aged Hispanic man in a drab green uniform, who appeared to be distraught. “Even the janitor recognized her—said she attended this church. Apparently she’s fairly quiet, but he says he has an eye for pretty girls.” Chuck glanced over at the man. “He’s not…is he?” he asked.
“Too old, wrong race. The Slasher is younger, and probably white. Interracial sex crimes aren’t unknown, but they’re rare, and this guy seems to be a preferential killer.”
“Meaning—?”
“He targets a specific kind of victim.”
“Yeah, okay,” Chuck said, with a glance at the technicians quietly dusting for prints, gathering and bagging evidence. “The CSI team is doing what it can, but I wouldn’t expect much.”
“No,” Lee agreed. “If he covered his tracks last time, he will this time too. He knows what he’s doing. On the other hand, this time there is evidence of a struggle, so it’s always possible—”
“Lee,” said Chuck, “do you think that John Nelson would consider…”
“What?”
“Well, you guys are pretty close, right? So I thought maybe you could ask him if he would—if he would like to consult?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I mean, no offense, but we could really use all the help we can get, right?”
“Sure,” Lee said. “When it comes to criminal psychology, he’s the guy.