Fear Her (Complete)

Episode 16

THE FLOCK OF ABRAHAM ASSEMBLY

Las Vegas, Nevada

Detective Andromeda Miles arrived at the scene of the second ritual murder well after she should have been in bed. It was a quarter after one a.m. She’d been woken out of a dead sleep by dispatch 20 minutes and one shot of high-octane espresso ago. Being on-call is hell. She’d drawn the short straw when the detectives of the Major Crimes Division were playing to see who’d get stuck covering the overnight. That explained why she was out here on a Thursday morning, dressed in yesterday’s suit, a zombie on her feet; nevertheless, present and accounted for.

Flashing lights and grim faces were the usual greeting under the circumstances. Another day, another death. God help her, she was getting used to this.

Andromeda flipped up her badge to get past the bright-eyed lookie-loos and the uniformed patrol officers keeping them from contaminating her scene. They exchanged nods more than words. Words were at a premium when there was a predator on the prowl. There was something sacred about the taking of a life that demanded a little circumspection, a little discretion.

This was the second murder Andromeda had been called to in the last two weeks. The other cases on her desk were a high-profile kidnapping, a string of smash-and-grab bank robberies, and a coordinated investigation with Organized Crime over a suspected sex trafficking ring on the ragged edge of the Strip. Andromeda didn’t usually find herself taking care of murders, there was a designated squad for that, but there was something about these two killings that had got Captain Lyle’s back up; he’d handpicked her for the job.

Her partner, Sergeant Keiko Demesne, had the night off so Andromeda was going to be counting on uniformed officers and her own council. If the duty sergeant called anyone else in to give her a hand, they’d have to do. Andromeda wasn’t fool enough to turn down assistance; she had her white, male colleagues beat on that one. She couldn’t afford to screw up and people who only trusted themselves tended to screw all the way up. But for her that could be ruinous.

She motioned over the nearest officer who didn’t seem occupied with other tasks. He crossed the scene with his hands hooked on his belt.

“You the investigating officer?” he asked and introduced himself as Officer Opstead.

STORY CONTINUES BELOW

“I am. Lieutenant Andromeda Miles.” She showed her badge as a matter of course. This wouldn’t be the first time a reporter had played cop for a scoop. Heads would roll if it happened again. “What have we got?”

“Assistant Pastor Odille Patrice, 43. He presided with another priest over the congregation here. According to witness testimony so far, he was last seen at Wednesday night Bible study where presides over the youth groups. That ended just after 9:30, and the church is scheduled to lock its door straight up at ten.”

“Who found him?”

“The head of the usher board returned around midnight to retrieve his cell phone. He found signs of blood and unlawful entry, then rushed inside to see who the victim was. When he found Patrice, he made the call.”

They’d have to see if that story checked out once more had dawned and there were more souls milling about. Even church busybodies had to sleep a few hours of the day. “Collect his details. I’ll want to see him down at the station in the morning first thing.”

“You got it.”

Andromeda let pass through a battered black and gold rod-iron fence surrounding the small property to a squat, grey cinder block building that seemed to be the epicenter of the action. The sign read ‘The Flock of Abraham.’ A set of glass double doors stood open, propped by a convenient rock of concrete. Andromeda didn’t get farther than the worn green turf runner extending from the entrance down the walkway. The parking lot was illuminated by floodlights and red-and-blues swirling silently on the street. The ambulance and EMTs had been and gone.

Crime scene technicians were crouched on the asphalt taking samples of blood and turf. She hoped they were having better luck than they’d had at the first scene. A thick paste of congealing blood smeared a trail across the green. First down from the gaping doors to the swinging access gate and then from left to right. Andromeda cocked her head. A cross, and in the center a circle.

She planted her hands on her hips. The first case had been similar, though that one relied more on Pagan imagery than Christian iconography. This is a pattern. Nighttime. Ritualistic. Public. She needed to check out the body.

“Hey, Rommie!”

Andromeda waved a distracted greeting while retaining her focus on the crucifix painted on the ground.

“You sure know how to make a guy feel loved.”

She slowly looked from the bloody scene to glance at Luca Duvall, contract crime scene photographer for the LVMPD and the handsome bastard with the unfortunate distinction of being her ex-fiancé. He was in his customary LVMPD windbreaker and watch cap. His cheeks were chilly and pink. His grey eyes glowed. He always loved a crime scene, no matter the hour. He was already full of energy and inspired while she was merely tired. She wished she felt like he did: invincible and capable.

I wish other people treated me like they treat you.

“Hey. When did you get in?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. I was at Bellucci’s.”

“It’s almost two in the morning.”

His expression pinched and his eyes began to roll before he controlled himself. That tone. That was the tone that used to send them into screaming fights. ‘You’re not my mother,’ he’d shout. ‘I don’t want to be,’ she’d yelled in response. ‘I just want you sober for more than five minutes.’

“I was with a friend.”

A friend. Andromeda hadn’t gotten this far being ridiculous. She knew what kind of friends Luc had. He was gorgeous with a smile that still didn’t quit at a murder scene when he was meeting his ex for the third time since she’d called it quits. A friend. Luca can have friends. I have friends. She did. Occasionally. When she remembered them between all-nighters and paperwork and stakeouts. It was a wonder she even had a family as overfull as her life was with work. I have work. Work is enough.

STORY CONTINUES BELOW

“Your business,” she said instead of all the other responses that jockeyed for position. Sex and alcohol were Luca’s vices. He called himself a lover and a laugher. That was why she’d fallen for him. He could have his love and laughter. She’d have to sleep with justice; that would keep her warm.

“My business,” he echoed. He looked at her, damn him, like he could read all her thoughts. They’d been friends, real friends before they’d crossed a line to lovers. There was no undoing what had been done between them. He knew her to her bones and marrow. Luca knew her so very well. “You want me to take some more photographs?”

He lifted his chin toward the cross. “I saw you eyeing it.”

“You haven’t already?”

“You know I did. But you might want me to take another shot. Once it’s gone, it’s gone and we won’t get another chance to document the scene as it was.”

“Crime examination 101.”

Luca had been a beat cop once, and then he decided he’d rather leave the policing to others and picked up a camera instead. When he wasn’t photographing the dead, he was taking pictures of weddings and adoption hearings. He was only doing this for the perks and because deep down, he was a caring bastard. A caring bastard I still love.

“Yeah, I want this symbol from all four directions. I want every inch of it up close to the body’s original position.” Andromeda set a hand on her hip. “Where is the body exactly?”

Luca nodded toward the open doors. “I think the trail is a hint. Follow the red blood road.”

Andromeda did.

She grabbed a forensic suit and paper booties off the nearest mobile unit to cover her clothes. All the better not to contaminate her scene and piss of the DA. Not to mention avoiding tracking gore into her car. Getting detailers to scrub out blood and ichor was more trouble than it was worth, in her opinion.

The cinderblock building turned out to be two levels. A ground level where most of the church’s activities were conducted and a sub-basement where the minister kept an office and the various committees of the congregation met and organized. Lush green plants dotted the halls. Close inspection found most of the flowers plastic and the greenery real.

The minister, an older man-forties or so-of indeterminate ethnicity, had been left in the basement foyer at the foot of the rear stairway exit. He’d been tied to the wooden slats of a heavy iron park bench beneath a locked community display board. The ligatures looked to be nautical rope. She’d have to ask trace evidence about it. Inside the locked display board was a message, sketched across flyers for potlucks and toy drives and apartments for rent in the same congealed substance marring the floors: PLEASE GIVE.

‘Give’ was underlined twice.

A wicker collection plate was pinned to his right thigh by a knife. The basket held a selection of crumpled bills and casino chips, and on top of them was a pair of hacked off hands. From the stumps of raw red flesh duct taped to the underside of the basket, Andromeda concluded they must have been his. The message was clear: Thou shalt not touch.

Yeah, this is definitely the same perp.

Andromeda wasn’t going to be getting a full night’s sleep anytime soon.

Luca interrupted her ruminations with a powerful flash.

“Ouch, man. Give a girl some warning.”

“I thought you heard me coming.”

“Sure,” she groused. He knew she got in the zone when she was scoping out a scene; she swore sometimes he did these things just to annoy her. “Make sure to get good close shot of the message, the knife, the ligatures, and the collection plate.”

“Affirmative.”

The techs had already been by, leaving numbered yellow evidence markers to indicate areas of interest. It was all either of them could do to get close without disturbing any.

Andromeda had mistakenly assumed that the murder began in the basement and then the body had been dragged to the lot out front. For obvious reasons, she had to amend her theory. The murder had started outside and then the victim had been brought down to the basement and put on display.

Luca was squatting beside the minister’s feet to get right-angle close-up photographs of his shoes and trousers. “Hey, Boss, have you seen this?”

“Seen what?” She got down beside him, grateful she’d opted for trousers over the occasional skirt she was prone to wearing for a change of pace.

“There’s not a drop of blood on these shoes.” The man’s shoes were nothing special: lightly scuffed brown loafers. Neither conspicuous nor impressive. They were spotless. Andromeda narrowed her eyes.

“I wonder…”

“You think the perp made him walk barefoot?”

“Through his own blood? Yeah, maybe.”

“You want I should look?”

“No way am I getting Shaughnessy on my ass for stepping on his turf. He’s still PO’d about me contradicting his TOD estimate on that nursing home case seven months ago.” Dr. Corcoran Shaughnessy, a medical examiner out of the Clark County Coroner’s Office, took his job seriously and he took threats to his expertise even more seriously. Andromeda’s assertion that the extreme cold in the nursing home due to a busted thermostat would complicate resident time of death estimates had been correct. Shaughnessy had found that a bitter pill to swallow.

Shaughnessy had already been by tonight to establish a rough time of death for their victim based on lividity, rigor, and liver temperature, placing death between two and three hours prior to his examination. He’d be handling the autopsy once she cleared the victim to be moved.

“Give me wide- and tight angles. Don’t miss anything.”

“I already said I wouldn’t.”

“You say a lot of things,” she replied, her thoughts once again examining their previous victim, a Pagan priestess meant to lead a healing retreat out in the Mojave Desert. She’d been found tied to a tree by some familiar looking rope. The tree had been set ablaze. The fire engine hadn’t arrived in time to put the woman out. A shard of amethyst was found set firmly in the dirt affixed with a typed note: STAY COOL.

“You can’t keep throwing my mistakes in my face.”

“Which mistake are we referring to? The drinking or the sleeping with other women while drinking?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you. An apology is not a ticket to redemption.”

“And everyone’s just meant to forgive all your shortcomings?”

“No one’s meant to do anything if I don’t change. Can we please focus? I need to make a report to Captain Lyle by 9 am, and I’m not about to let you hold me back.”

“Maybe if you stopped thinking of a relationship as holding you back, you wouldn’t be destined to end up alone.”

“I’d rather be alone than desperate and grasping at anyone who’ll give me the time of day so I can feel something. I’m successful, I’m driven and I’m someone who is 0.000% interested in the gospel according to you.”

“Technically, 0.000% is equivalent-“

“Google ‘sarcasm,’ and then never speak to me again.” She turned back to the murder victim counting on her to find him justice. “And no, I’m not kidding this time, either.”