The Redeemed (3 page)

On the other hand, she’d just met Hirst and she always let the other person set the standard. If Hirst remained respectful, she would be respectful. If Hirst was a dick, she would respond in kind. Friend of Parkman’s or not, she had to engage in a relationship with professionals on her terms from the get-go or it wouldn’t work.

Hirst crossed his arms as he leaned back on the room’s door.

“My hands are tied,” he said. “I don’t know what to do or where to go with this case. Calls are being made. Big shots are coming to L.A. If I don’t get some leads on this case within a couple of days, they’re going to form a task force and take it from me.”

“What are you saying?” Sarah asked. “Are we done here?”

“You’ll be off the case by the weekend if nothing breaks. Let me rephrase that. I will be off the case this weekend if nothing breaks.”

“What big shots are you talking about?” Sarah went to drink from her cup and forgot she hadn’t refilled it yet. She got up and started for the kitchenette, but Parkman raised a hand. He took her cup and refilled it for her.

“The Catholic Church is bringing in a representative from Rome.”

“How does that affect you?” Sarah asked. “Or us? Aren’t we only advisors?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Hirst pushed off the door and walked farther into the room. He addressed Sarah directly. “I’ve heard about you for years. I knew Parkman was your friend. I have always wanted to meet you. When I got to three dead bodies with no clues, not even DNA under a fingernail, I called Parkman. Well, here you are,” he spread his hands wide, “and still, I have nothing.”

“There’s no guarantees with what I do. I’m sure Parkman was clear on that point.”

“Yes.” Hirst nodded at Parkman. “Yes, he was.” He brought his attention back to Sarah. “Not to mention the flack I’m getting for you being here.”

“None of this is my problem. Nor will I feel responsible for it. If I can help, I will. If I can’t, well, you get the picture. Is there anything else?”

“There is.” Hirst tapped his bottom lip and looked down at the carpet, lost in thought. “Have you ever met Father Adams before?”

“No. Why?”

Hirst met her gaze. “You seemed overly aggressive with him last night.”

“It’s in my nature.” She drank from her cup. “I wish I was softer, kinder.” She shrugged. “But I’m not.” She offered him a wry smile. Then her lips drew back to a line again. “It’s kept me alive.”

“Father Adams seemed anxious in your presence.”

“Maybe he can recognize when someone isn’t intimidated by the clothes he wears or what his belief system is. I don’t have a lot of respect for authority to begin with. Don’t get me wrong. I have no personal issue with religion. Believe in what works for you and let me believe in what works for me. I would never push my beliefs on anyone and I don’t want to be preached to. But when a man walks around thinking he has an idea of what God might think or say is just a clown in vestments. Yeah,” she nodded, “that’s what he might have felt from me.”

“So you two don’t have any history?”

She looked at Parkman, then back at Hirst. “Really? Didn’t I just answer that?” She turned back to Parkman. “How do you know this guy again?”

“Sarah,” Parkman said. “If you don’t have anything, I’m fine with that and so is the detective. Calling us down to L.A. was a last ditch attempt.” Parkman walked over to Hirst, his hand extended. They shook firmly. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

“It’s fine, really.” Hirst looked past Parkman at Sarah. “I believe in what you do because I trust Parkman. He wouldn’t bring a charlatan to me. I guess I was just hoping you’d have something.”

Hirst released Parkman’s hand and stood there, his suit clean and pressed, Windsor-knotted tie, shiny black shoes. He looked like the stereotypical TV detective. The strain showed on his face. He needed to eat better and slow down.

“I have a name,” Sarah said.

Both men exchanged glances.

Hirst, his eyebrows raised, said, “A name?”

“Gaspard de Coligny.”

“What kind of name is that and how does it help us here?” Parkman asked.

“Vivian gave me the name when we were called to come out to the murder scene last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” Hirst asked.

“The name wasn’t relevant last night. It is now.”

“How could you know it wasn’t relevant last night?”

“Because your killer always engraves the names of the victims on a cross. You would know the name of the body regardless of the condition it was in. He has been consistent on that point.”

“What if it’s the name of the killer?”

“It’s not the name of the killer.”

“How could you possibly know something like that?”

“Google it. You’ll see that Gaspard has been dead for over four hundred years.”

“We’re really getting nowhere with this, aren’t we?” Hirst put his hands on his hips. “How is it relevant at all, then?”

“Your killer isn’t just out to execute Catholic priests. He’s replicating atrocities the Catholic Church have been involved with going back as far as the Crusades and the Inquisition. At least that’s my guess.”

Hirst and Parkman both frowned. Parkman spoke first.

“You got all that from a name?” he asked.

“Let me ask you something,” Sarah said as she placed her coffee cup on the desk beside her computer. She rested her broken foot out in front of her. “The body you found last night, were the clothes wet?”

Hirst’s eyes twitched briefly. He was surprised, astonished.

“How … did you know that? It was dark. He was partially covered in dirt. You didn’t get down and examine the remains.” His voice rose a notch. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Gaspard de Coligny was stabbed with a sword in the 1500s. A mob of Catholics mutilated his body by cutting off his head, his extremities and his genitals. Then they dumped him in a river. After a moment’s reflection, they decided he wasn’t fit for fish food, so they yanked the corpse out of the water and dragged his body to a local gallows where they let the maggots work on him.” She waited a moment to let that sink in. “When the call came last night, Vivian gave me the Gaspard name. It’s not that hard to figure out the killer is reenacting against the Catholics what the Catholics have done to others. Since the Catholic Church has committed hundreds of atrocities over centuries and your killer is picking them at random for each kill, you won’t be able to catch him by that alone. There are simply too many horrors committed by the Church over the centuries to be able to nail one down, let alone know what his next murder will copy.”

Hirst moved to the bed and sat on the corner. Parkman went to the window and looked out.

“We do crime scene analysis, fingerprints, DNA, investigative work,” Hirst said. “I hadn’t thought of examining the kill to see if it had been done before.” He turned to face her. “I would’ve never discovered the murder of a man in the 1500s. Even if we did, I would’ve brushed it off as coincidence. Father Alvin went through the exact method of murder that you just described.”

“This means,” Parkman said, “you have an educated man out there killing priests.”

“An angry man,” Sarah added. “Someone who hates Catholics. Probably someone who has had a terrible experience with them. There has to be something to drive a man to murder priests in a way that resemble past crimes committed by the church. Father Alvin wasn’t the only victim killed to replicate the past, I’m sure.”

“I didn’t tell you everything about the first few victims,” Hirst said.

“Now’s your chance.”

He didn’t hesitate. “The first two priests were sodomized. Both had their rectums ruined after death.”

Parkman shuddered.

Sarah asked, “Were those the two under suspicion for touching children?”

Hirst nodded.

“Sounds like you have your case. Find a man who has a personal vendetta against the Church and is pretty angry at what it’s done in the past. When I looked up the Catholic Church, the list of horrors committed by it was long. We’re talking millions of people killed since the days Jesus walked the Earth. The original crusaders were called the Knights of Christ. The crusades alone cost the lives of over three million people. During the sacking of a German town in the 17
th
century, over 30,000 Protestants were killed. They found fifty women in one church, beheaded, their infants still sucking the breasts of their dead mothers.” Sarah shook her head. “I can see how this guy is angry at Catholics. The more I learned, the more I began to despise Catholicism.”

The two men remained quiet, taking it all in.

“Maybe that’s why my sister isn’t really helping,” Sarah added.

“How’s that?” Hirst asked.

“This guy is only killing priests under suspicion of deviant behavior. He isn’t attacking random Catholics. He appears to be a religious vigilante.”

“And …”

“Why would Vivian and I, somewhat a vigilante myself, expend too much effort stopping another vigilante from ridding the world of scum?” She raised her hands before either man could say anything. “I’m not saying what he’s doing is right. The guy’s deranged and he needs to be stopped. What I am saying is, maybe Vivian will step in before he hurts an innocent.” She pulled the note out of her pocket. “She specifically said, ‘Everybody and everything has its time.’
”

Hirst wiped his face with his hands. Parkman pulled a fresh toothpick out of his pocket and slipped it in his mouth, tossing the old one in the garbage.

“Anyway,” Hirst got up off the bed and walked to the door. “I came by to thank you two for coming down, but this thing got too big too fast. Too many dead priests. Sorry to waste your time, but with a task force being put together, we’re done here.”

“No, no,” Parkman said as he walked over to join Hirst at the door. “No waste of time at all. Glad we could come down, take a look at the case. Just sorry we couldn’t help you more.”

“Sorry, Sarah. Wish we could’ve solved this together. I’d love to see you in action.”

She nodded.

I thought we had until the weekend? What changed?

Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

Hirst opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

“Detective Hirst?” Sarah said. Parkman held the door open. She had a direct line of sight to him. “Are you under pressure to get rid of the psychic girl? Were you told to send us home?”

Hirst looked unsure how to answer. For such a seasoned detective, she was surprised how much he wore his heart on his sleeve. Something about this decision was tearing him apart. Maybe she would have to dig deeper into the relationship between Hirst and Parkman. What had bonded these two men so deeply?

“No, Sarah.” Hirst avoided looking at Parkman. “This is just how it is. There’s no case anymore. No need to have you here. Go home. Leave soon.”

Leave soon? What the hell does that mean?

“There’s still a case,” she said.

“It isn’t mine. Nor is it yours.”

Sarah looked away, the debate pointless. Parkman said goodbye and closed the door. He stood by it a moment, then reopened it.

“I’ll go pack my things. Maybe we can get to Santa Rosa by nightfall. You should be resting that foot at home, anyway.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sarah, you heard the detective. We’re done here.”

“I’m not. Everybody and everything has its time. Just like my sister said.” She pivoted on her chair and looked at him. “I’m staying until this guy is caught whether the police like it or not.”

“Oh shit, here we go …”

Her hand numbed. She grabbed a pen but couldn’t find paper. The white paint on the hotel’s wall drew her eye.

She slipped off the chair as her arm numbed, always mindful of her broken ankle, and lunged toward the wall, pen hand first.

She passed out before she made it.

Chapter 4

Mike stood under the shower too long. His skin had reddened and the glass doors had fogged up. He could no longer see Evelyn on the bed. He shut the water off and slid the shower door aside.

Eve lay spread out, arms secured above her head, gag in her mouth. She turned toward him and glared. He smiled back. There was nothing quite like having someone hate you. He would have to get used to it. Love was the business of the church. Hate was his business, despair and cruelty his currency. He was Satan’s instrument. Hell would offer him a suffering that nothing on Earth could match. Eve’s hatred of him was simply an appetizer of things to come.

Last night had been wonderful. After leaving his crime scene, he had found Eve in the parking lot she usually inhabited on Sunset Blvd. Mrs. Routine. Seven days a week she turned tricks and fed her drug habit. All this at the tender age of eighteen.