CHAPTER 6

 

Davis and Foster looked across at one another from opposite sides of the bed. Their eyes reflected a mutual concern. Each, in his time, had investigated countless homicides, many with characteristics far more offbeat than those currently on display. What disturbed them both was the fact that while individual murder cases were solved at the surprisingly high rate of around seventy-five percent, the probability of solving serial homicides was much lower. Often, these types of crimes involved complex motives, and frequently defied the best efforts of even the most aggressive detective work. Davis addressed the ME regarding his most pressing concern.

“Listen, Cathy, about these initials,” he said. “If the press gets a hold of this we’re gonna be screwed. We were lucky as hell to keep it out of the papers last time.”

The ME nodded. “So?”

“It’s all we’ve got to go on right now. Other than that we don’t have a clue.”

“And?”

“I just don’t wanna let things get out of control.”

The ME was a tall, slender woman, always immaculately dressed. Her short hair was coifed in the latest style, and her make up was impeccable. She straightened her charcoal gray skirt, and regarded Davis with an icy stare. Leaks were like cancer. Once they started there was no saving the patient—or the case. It was common knowledge that most leaks to the press originated either in the DA’s office or in the office of the medical examiner. Davis wanted to be at least reasonably confident of securing the latter.

The ME resented the implication. “Don’t worry about my office, detective,” said Ahearn, sarcastically. “Worry about your own blabbermouths.”

Davis’s jaw tightened in response. Only on rare occasions did a rumor escape the confines of precinct headquarters, and then only by way of a uniformed officer. Leaks from detectives were almost nonexistent. Davis let her remark pass in the interest of harmony, but Ahearn could tell by the detective’s silence that she had overstepped the boundaries of propriety. After an uncomfortable pause, she broke the stalemate.

“Matt,” she offered, almost in apology, “you might want to get in touch with the archdiocese. Maybe they can shed some light on any religious angle.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “There does appear to be a connection, don’t you think?” Davis nodded automatically, subconsciously making a mental note of her suggestion.

Foster and Davis left the ME and returned to the living room. Freitag had returned from the canvass, and sat beside the victim’s husband.

“I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Spiros,” said Matt, his voice trailing off. This part was never easy, no matter how often he did it and this was his thirty-third homicide investigation. It always made him feel the same—very uncomfortable, and more than a little sad.

“Sir,” he began, “when did you first discover your wife’s body?”

Spiros blew his nose before he answered. “Around nine-fifteen, I guess.” Davis had his notebook out, and wrote down the information. “I noticed the dead bolt wasn’t on,” he continued. “I’m always telling Melina ‘Lock the door, Melina. It isn’t safe.’” He started to cry again, then tried to regain his composure.

“Yes, sir,” replied Davis. “You told her the right thing.” He smiled and patted the little Greek man on the shoulder. A lot of good that did, he thought.

“Anyway, I came home a day early. I want to surprise her, you know?” His eyes brightened at the memory of his anticipation, then dimmed at the reality of what had followed.

“I see the bedroom light from the street. I figure she’s watching TV. But the door is unlocked. I know something is wrong. I just know it…” The man began weeping openly now. Davis waited patiently for him to stop.

“Were you away long, sir?” he asked.

“Five days,” replied the husband.

“Business trip?”

“Yes, to California. I was at a trade show. I make furniture, and...”

The questioning continued for another five minutes, but Davis had already dismissed the man as a suspect. He concluded the routine interrogatory as quickly as possible, hoping to save the tired man any further agony. Finally, he thanked him, and turned to Freitag and Foster. “I think we’re done here,” he said, softly.

They left the apartment as quietly as they had entered it.

 

Matt took the wheel on the way back to headquarters; he hoped the driving would serve to distract him from the crime—at least for a while. Instead, dozens of questions flashed through his mind as he steered the Chevrolet in silence. When did the killer carve the initials? Were the women still alive? Was it before he raped them, or afterwards? To whom did they belong? Did the J.C. really refer to Jesus Christ? Did the killer love women or did he hate them? Maybe he couldn’t get women—except by force.

The possibilities boggled the mind, but one thing was clear. There was a compelling reason for the heart and the initials, and the sooner he discovered what it was, the sooner he would possess the key to unlocking this mystery.