FIVE
AN ELEMENT OF SATANISM
“This is the second time you’ve used my name to justify yourself,” Fullam said. “There won’t be a third.”
The two of them were standing outside the janitor’s closet where Stuart Brandeis had been found hanging. The crime scene cops, who had contacted Fullam after a few tense moments, maintained a discrete distance as they finished packing up their equipment, casting an occasional suspicious eye at Donovan. The sergeant’s attitude did not soften them any.
Donovan sidestepped the issue. “I have results,” he said simply.
Fullam started to speak but stopped. He took a deep breath through his nose and walked Donovan out of earshot of the crime scene men. “Let me be clear: this is not your show. You don’t get to pick times and places, you don’t get to do whatever you want and leave me to pick up the pieces. You are not an official part of the system, and I will not be fucked by the system because of that fact. Do you understand me? The only reason I have even tolerated this much is that you put your own life at risk to save another man.”
“And I showed you the astrology link was the starting point here.”
“‘Starting point’ isn’t ‘finish line.’” Fullam’s face hardened. “Explain to me why the Capricorn victim was hung with a stainless steel chain and a noose made from a vicuna sweater instead of a rope.”
“Is that what the sweater was? Vicuna?”
“Got the lab results an hour ago.”
Donovan considered this and nodded. “Vicuna is a type of goat. It’s goat’s hair.”
The tightness around Fullam’s mouth lessened just a little, and Donovan could see he’d already figured it out. “Sherlock Pothead Holmes. All right. We’re on the same page, and you’ve got a pretty good handle on how Mister X is doing it. Give me something so I can find out who he is, or this will be the last time we see each other without bars between us.”
“I can’t promise this will do that.” Donovan turned towards the closet, pointing towards the line of blood splatter and letting his finger move down towards the floor. “But you see that stuff that’s mixed in? Last night I saw it and thought it was bone or muscle or skin or something the chain saw had thrown when the legs were cut off. Some of it might be, but some of it, and that,” he indicated at a couple of blobs near the scabbed-over drain, “is red wax. I saw what I think is the same stuff in Father Roehling’s room.”
Fullam bristled. “You went after I told you—”
“I didn’t speak to the witness. While I was waiting for Father Carroll, I saw it on the top of Father Roehling’s dresser.”
“Father Roehling was a priest. Priests burn candles. And I told you—squatters get in here. Candle wax has been dripped all over the place.”
“This isn’t drippings. Look at the spots and dots; it was blown by someone onto the wall and, I’m guessing, onto Father Roehling’s dresser. In the Episcopal church, red candles are pretty much for holidays—in an advent wreath, for instance. On the other hand, red candles have meaning outside the Episcopal Church, and blowing wax or powder or herbs is a step in all kinds of rituals. Blowing could mean traces of saliva in the wax. Saliva means DNA; an ID.” Donovan shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe.” Fullam settled cop eyes on him for a long moment. Finally he said, “Thanks for your input. I might be in touch.” The tension in his voice was gone, replaced by more businesslike determination. He angled his head towards the stairs. “Get out of here.”
***
Donovan didn’t check his cell phone until he got back to his apartment. He had one message: “Hey, baby, it’s me. Just wanted to remind you, dinner at seven, with Dad, at Daniel. I’ll meet you at the bar at six-thirty.” Tonight they were going to tell Conrad about the engagement. He looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock.
Plenty of time to find some body armor.
The buzzer for the downstairs door sounded. Donovan pushed the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Ah, you’re home.”
“Father? Come on up.” Donovan buzzed him in, then opened the apartment door. Takeout menus that had been left outside his door fluttered around his feet like leaves. As he stooped to gather them up, he heard the priest’s footsteps pounding on the stairs. When they reached the fourth floor landing, Donovan glanced up. Father Carroll’s face was slightly flushed and a thin, dark line of perspiration bisected the Georgetown logo on his sweatshirt.
“Hey, Father. You didn’t run here from the Church of the Transfiguration, did you?”
“Oh, no.” The priest shook his head and mopped his brow with his sleeve. “I’m coming from home. I had to substitute for Father Montoya at the 11:30 mass after I left Miss Muglia.”
“Busy day.”
“But informative.”
“Mine, too.” They went into Donovan’s apartment. “Sorry to have left you so suddenly, but I found something in Father Roehling’s room I had to check out.”
“You did?”
“Droplets of red wax on the dresser where he was killed. When I saw them I remembered something like them in the janitor’s closet at the Dinkins Shelter. I went back to see. Fullam was not pleased with me—not at first, anyway—but he’s going to take samples of both. He’s looking for saliva and DNA; I’m hoping he can tell us what’s in the wax. Maybe there’s something to help us figure out what religious or philosophical school this ritual comes from.”
“It’s Satanic.”
Donovan’s head jerked over. “What?”
“Miss Muglia told me the killer wore a charm, an amulet, around his neck. From her description—inverted five-pointed star, goat’s head—I surmised it was a Sigil of Baphomet. I sketched one out and she confirmed it.” He glanced over and noted a faint smile on Donovan’s face. “Is there something amusing about an element of Satanism?”
“Oh, uh, no.” His expression turned sheepish. “I’m sorry, it’s just…a satanic killer in Manhattan? And I’m helping to stop him? Not exactly a typical summer job.”
“No, it isn’t.” Father Carroll examined him before showing a small smile. “Given the satanic element, and the involvement of the giant you bested at the morgue, our path becomes clearer. Our priority must be to prepare ourselves in every way, mentally, spiritually, and physically.”
Donovan felt a charge in his stomach. “Want to take a run to my gym?”
***
They left his building to run west, to the promenade along the Hudson River. A steady breeze dotted the surface of the water with whitecaps and kept the June sun from growing too warm. As he dodged a tourist who was lining up a picture of the Intrepid, Donovan felt Father Carroll’s eyes on him. “Is everything okay?”
“I might ask you the same question. This is more than sport, Donovan. I hope you do understand that.”
“I’m taking it seriously, Father. It’s just that it’s one thing to study mythology and weird religions, and another thing to have to deal with them in reality.”
“If there was anything I wanted you to take away from my classes, it’s that ‘reality’ is an extremely flexible concept.”
“I get that—in theory. But you learn more in one performance than in a hundred rehearsals. This is my first performance, and I am definitely learning. Come on, don’t you get any sense of excitement or adventure out of what we’re doing?”
“More at some times than others,” Father Carroll admitted. “Regardless, it is imperative to prepare fully. That’s something you must take seriously.”
“I do. Mentally, I’ve been studying this stuff forever. Physically, I’ve been working out at gyms since I was ten and The Colonel taught me how to box.”
“And spiritually?”
“Spiritually…okay, so philosophical hermeneutics has made me pretty skeptical. A lot of devils quote Scripture.” He sidestepped as a bicycle rode past. The rider didn’t even look up. “When it comes to organized religion, it isn’t ‘religion’ I have a problem with, it’s ‘organized.’”
“Clever words.”
“Best I can do is believe in myself. Occasionally wrong, never uncertain.”
“Belief in oneself is a way of expressing belief in the glory that God has manifested within you. It’s not for us to know or understand God’s plan, but to trust that His guidance of our actions will keep us walking the righteous path. We need only the courage to follow His lead. Such is faith, and I see it within you. It’s why I’ve involved you in this situation.”
Donovan couldn’t have explained why, but the priest’s words reassured him. Still, he felt uncomfortable expressing it. “Well, I won’t let you down. Whatever reason I’m involved, I can do good here. I already figured out the astrological connection, and now I found this red wax. If it’s not just some cheap candle drippings, it might help us understand what’s going on.”
As they approached Canal Street, Donovan spied a homeless man rummaging through a cardboard box. Father Carroll reached into his sweatpants pocket and took out a dollar, which he dropped at the man’s feet as they passed. The man glanced down and gratefully snatched it.
“As long as they have souls they deserve help,” the priest said.
Donovan’s gym was downtown by City Hall, one of the old-time boxing ones that had existed before “fitness centers” with chrome barbells and juice bars in the lobby. Every so often a local paper would do a feature on its “colorfulness” and “authenticity” and the membership rolls would swell, but when people found out you had to work hard on the heavy bags and in the professional-sized ring, things would die back down.
“Austere,” Father Carroll commented. “But powerful.”
The gym was deserted this time of day but heat and dried sweat filled the air up to the thirty-foot ceiling. If the attendant thought they made a strange pair—Donovan thought it sounded like the beginning of a joke: “A priest and a bartender walk into a gym…”—he made no comment.
When he was warmed up he moved to one of the heavy bags. He tugged his boxing gloves on, allowing the priest to tie the laces, and started right in, pummeling the bag with combinations and occasional kicks. While he did, Father Carroll jumped rope. Three rounds elapsed. When the clock buzzed the third time Donovan stopped and put his hands on his hips, gasping for air. Sweat rolled down his face and back.
“Man, people have no idea how hard it is to just stand and hit something.”
The priest was barely winded. “I recognize the boxing, but never in conjunction with kicks and some of those other moves. What were you doing?”
“Krav maga. An Israeli system of street fighting. I studied it for a couple of years. Basically, it’s controlled brawling; you fight as hard as you can with whatever you have at hand, and try to do as much damage as quickly as possible to your opponent. The way my instructor described it, it trains you how to fight in a situation where if you lose, you die. It’s helped when I’ve been a bouncer.”
“I see.”
“I started going to classes after I got my head opened up in a bar fight by a long-necked bottle of beer—never did see what kind. Wouldn’t drink it anymore if I knew what it was.”
“A prudent attitude.”
“But not our focus just now.”
“No.” Father Carroll turned professorial. “We are facing a man without limit on his thoughts and deeds, a man intent on traveling the darkest of paths to obtain what he wants. What does such a man want?”
“What does any man want? Money? Power? A hot girlfriend? Maybe the wax will tell us something.”
“Perhaps.” Father Carroll set the jump rope aside and went to an elliptical machine. He set the timer and climbed on backwards. “A pity the Sigil of Baphomet is so generic a symbol of Satanism. If only we had something more specific to reference, we might identify the ritual. I can’t imagine there’s a great number of satanic astrological rituals of this sort.”
Donovan sucked in air and held up one boxing glove. “Let’s grant it’s satanic; what if it isn’t an astrological ritual?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think astrology might just be a theme for the murders.” He went to a wall-mounted bag and began to work hooks and uppercuts. The bag jerked and popped. “Each zodiac sign has specific colors, right? But the wax at both murder sites was the same color.”
“In candle magic, every zodiac sign has its own hue,” Father Carroll agreed. “Sagittarius is purple or royal blue, Capricorn black. Red is wrong for both.” He paused, intrigued. “Go on.”
“You pointed out that most astrological rituals are geared towards fortunetelling. We’ve been looking at everything that way and getting nowhere. What if Mister X isn’t interested in fortunetelling? What if he’s looking for something entirely different?”
“Such as?”
“Don’t know. Yet.” Donovan slammed a right hook into the side of the bag and smiled. “But we’re trained for this. We’ll figure it out.”
***
When Charles C. Haight designed the New York Cancer Hospital for the west side of Central Park in 1884, he borrowed heavily from the great Renaissance chateaux of the Loire Valley. Two- and three-story buildings, all connected above and below ground by corridors and tunnels, surround a courtyard speared by a skyscraping smokestack. Five massive round towers, each four stories high, guarded the building corners. The shape of the towers was conducive to fresh air and sunlight, while the accoutrements of French design were hoped to have a beneficial effect on the psyches of terminally ill patients. In its era, it was one of the most impressive constructions on Central Park West.
Time and advancements in medical science eventually outdated the facility’s capabilities. The plan to convert it to residential space has long been bogged down, leaving it to the mercy of nature and vandals. Bordering plants have grown amuck, obscuring the detail work. The courtyard is choked with garbage and the structure fortified by bricked-up windows and a wooden fence topped with barbed wire. Its more modern neighbors on West 105th and 106th Streets heighten its incongruity. A castle whose vampires have left in search of more sanguine feeding grounds, it stands desolate, isolated…
…but not abandoned.
On the last block of 106th Street before Central Park West, Valdes sidestepped into an alley between a rundown three-story building and that wooden fence. He carried four large shopping bags. Although the sun had gone down and the streetlights didn’t penetrate here, he knew where to push. A section of slats swung noiselessly inwards.
“No entry!” Immediately, a hulking shadow loomed over him. “I make the rules! The rule is: no entry!”
“It’s all right, Officer Burt. It’s me.”
Officer Burt, a bear of a man who reeked of old tension sweat, gazed blankly as he processed this information. When he did he stumbled back, nodding deferentially. “Oh, uh, sorry, Mister Valdes. The rule is: no one comes in but you or who you say.”
“That’s right.” Valdes passed over the shopping bags. “Have someone relieve you, and take these down to Bridget in the dining hall, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Officer Burt? Keeping us secure is important. You do a fine job of it.”
Officer Burt stood a little straighter as he shambled off. Valdes nodded, satisfied. In the past few months he’d been sorting through homeless men and women, selecting some to perform tasks mundane but necessary. By providing them with a marginally better existence than they’d known and a sense of belonging, Valdes had fostered fierce loyalty within them.
Loyalty I don’t betray.
He entered the shell of the hospital and descended three flights of stairs, guided by a string of bulbs that George—the mousy former high school shop/English teacher with a penchant for molesting his students—had rigged. At the bottom he made his way along a stained, dripping corridor to a shadowy doorway. He gave a cursory glance around as he unlocked the door but was confident he was alone—everyone knew not to come to this part of the hospital’s labyrinthine sub-basements.
Inside, the room was paneled with grimy, chipped tiles and a three-by-three section of metal squares that had once held rolling morgue drawers. There were a few items of furniture: a table and valet chair reclaimed from the junk heap by Melvin, the carpenter on the run from Jamaican authorities for his enthusiastic use of a machete, a standing mirror fogged around the edges by time and moisture, and a battered meat freezer powered by cables coiled, snakelike, around the floor.
Stripping with unconscious efficiency, he walked naked to the valet chair. Gooseflesh rose on his skin but he knew it wasn’t from the cool damp. Draped over the chair back was the suit he wore whenever he went to make a sacrifice (murder was so judgmental a word). The dark cloth had a bit of a funk to it but he had come to accept it. According to the book the integrity of the ritual would be spoiled if he washed away any bodily fluids his efforts generated, either his own or those of his sacrifices. He dressed quickly, eager to go out and take another step closer to his ultimate goal.
Before he left the room, he did two things: flipping open the seat of the chair, he removed one of the two remaining black velvet sacks from inside. A blue design—two zigzagging lines resembling waves—was sewn onto it. He traced it with a finger, the material slick under his touch.
“The Water-Bearer,” he murmured.
He unhooked a professional’s messenger bag from the back of the chair and slipped the sack inside, next to the bone saws and two red candles. He touched everything in the bag, making certain nothing was missing, then turned to the table. On top of it sat the book. The title, Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei, had been embossed once but now was nearly invisible from wear. Its midnight purple cover had the texture and warmth of freshly flayed skin—the first time he’d touched it, Valdes had thought it was a living thing. Flipping a bulk of pages over, he revealed a cut-out section; inside was the Sigil of Baphomet he’d worn during each sacrifice. He removed it and looped its chain around his neck. A smile crept across his face.
He closed the cover and left.