As he waited for the church’s pastor, Bob Ho, to get off the phone, Charlie’s thoughts went in circles. He believed that the key to solving a murder was to start with the victim. Why had the killer chosen that particular person? If you could pick out that first thread, you could start pulling it until it led back to the murderer.
Whoever had killed Abigail Endicott this morning had clearly sought her out. The killer had walked past dozens of other potential victims, ignored the people who fled screaming at the sight of his gun. Paid no attention to Marvella Lott, the greeter who had followed on his heels and shouted out a warning to the congregation. In other circumstances, Charlie might have said her actions had saved dozens of lives, but the more he heard, the more he was certain this man had come with only one purpose: to kill Abigail Endicott. He had been a man on a mission. And once he had succeeded, he had fled without trying to harm anyone else or even uttering a single word.
Confronted by chaos, the first responders had radioed for additional units to help question witnesses and search the area. A lot of the congregants had already fled in a mad panic, resulting in sprained ankles and even a few broken bones. They had run down the street until they could run no more, or piled into their cars and peeled out of the parking lot.
The first officers on the scene had herded those who remained into the social room, the place where coffee and cookies were normally served after the service. Officers had questioned each person briefly, getting names and addresses and a quick description of what they had observed. Unfortunately, no one seemed to have witnessed the killer leaving.
Their best lead was Marvella, the only one who had seen the killer before he pulled down his ski mask. The rest had focused on the eerily embroidered white balaclava with the black stitches across the lips. What else they remembered: about his height, weight, and even ethnicity varied dramatically from person to person. Marvella was working with a sketch artist, but Charlie was afraid that her fixation on the gun had pushed aside anything else.
They had no suspects, Charlie thought as he shifted on the hard bench. No leads. There was no video camera in the foyer, and none in any nearby business that focused on the street. The little information they had on the suspect was being broadcast. But you couldn’t get very far putting out a BOLO for a white male in his thirties or forties, about five foot nine, wearing a black winter coat and dark pants, and who was believed to have fled in an unknown vehicle in an unknown direction of travel.
Marvella had said he was white and had a stocky build. She also thought his head was shaved, but Charlie didn’t know whether that was true, because the balaclava he had worn like a hat had covered his head. The lady had paged through mug shots, but so far not a one had been familiar. And the spectacular MO certainly did not match any other recent crimes in Seattle or even in surrounding states. Charlie had checked.
The only clues the guy had left behind were the spent brass from his gun and the bullet in Abigail’s head. The best Charlie could hope for was that the guy had ditched the balaclava—and his DNA along with it.
So Charlie’s first job was to start with the victim and learn everything he could about her. It was like a spiral, the beginning of the yellow brick road. It was here at the church that she had died—and also where she had spent a big chunk of her life.
On the other side of his office window, the pastor raised one finger to indicate to Charlie that he was almost done. Charlie nodded in return, his thoughts still consumed with Abigail.
The problem was that the road seemed more of a dead-end. Why would someone want to kill a seventy-two-year-old widow? She had no history with the criminal justice system. Not even a parking ticket. She had lived in the same house for thirty years and seemed to have had no disputes with the neighbors. Abigail had a forty-three-year-old married daughter who lived in Missouri, a daughter who loved her and who was bewildered.
She was a retired piano teacher. It was hard to imagine that the killer was a former student, come back to wreak revenge for being forced to spend their formative years playing “Fur Elise.”
Her social life revolved around her church. So it seemed the most likely suspects would be found here, at the very place where she had been killed. A rival Sunday school teacher? A jealous spouse? But then why hadn’t Marvella recognized the killer?
Charlie’s mind circled around the problem and tried a different angle. If you wanted to kill someone, the last place you would do it would be in front of hundreds of witnesses. Unless you wanted to be showy. What if this was a murder for hire, designed to send a message to someone else in the congregation?
The door to Bob Ho’s office opened, and the pastor stuck his head out. Ho was in his midforties, stocky, with black hair parted on one side and the hint of a double chin. “Sorry that took so long. I don’t think my insurance company is used to claims arising from a murder and its investigation. In fact, none of us is used to any part of this. Not like you must be.”
“Every case is different,” Charlie said as he went into the pastor’s office and took a seat. “And even I’ve never had one like this.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Why don’t you tell me more about your church.”
The man had said to call him Pastor Bob, but Charlie was trying to avoid calling him anything.
“We’ve been around for over a hundred years. When we first started, we mostly served Chinese people who had been brought over to work on the railroads and in the coal mines. Men like my grandfather. The Chinese still come to this area of town for herbs, for advice, or for jobs. They like to go someplace where people will speak their language, where they can buy bok choi and roast duck.”
Charlie nodded.
“But over time Chinatown became the International District, and something similar has been happening with the church. We’ve branched out. Now we have members who are Filipino, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, and Thai. And there are a lot of people who just live in the neighborhood who come to services here, people who like a dynamic church. We’re growing, and not a lot of churches can say that. Two services on Sunday, Bible study classes, men’s and ladies’ groups, a youth group, even a food pantry and clothes closet.”
“And how long has Abigail been a member?”
“As long as I can remember. She and her late husband lived a few miles away. Jack had a heart attack when he was sixty. Died before he even got a chance to retire.” Bob let out a shuddering sigh. “I guess it’s good he wasn’t alive to see this. If he weren’t already dead, it would have killed him.” The sound the pastor made wasn’t quite a laugh. “And she’s got a daughter who lives in Missouri or Mississippi.”
“Missouri,” Charlie supplied. “St. Louis.”
“That sounds right. They get along well. And that girl has a daughter of her own, a three-year-old. Abigail’s always showing off new photos of her.” He shook his head. “The whole thing just seems senseless. And so wrong. The Bible says that where two or three are gathered in Jesus’ name, he is there. It’s a terrible sin, taking a life, and it was committed here in front of God.”
Charlie went off script. “Do you believe God should have protected her?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the pastor said, “Maybe he did, by taking her in the place where she would feel closest to him. And it was fast. By the time I got to her, she was already gone.”
After he was done with his questions, Charlie thanked Bob for his time and then kicked the man out of his own office, which he had temporarily commandeered. As he left, Charlie asked him to send in Gwen Lin.
While he was waiting for the woman everyone agreed was Abigail’s best friend, Mia called.
“Hey,” Charlie said, “I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk. I’m in the middle of another murder investigation.”
“Another one?” Mia sounded surprised. It was unusual for Seattle to get two murders in a single week.
“And this one really doesn’t make any sense. Retired piano teacher gunned down playing piano at church. It’s so public I’m starting to wonder if it was murder for hire.” There was a soft knock on the door. “Sorry, gotta go.”
Gwen Lin wore her too-black hair pulled back in a tight bun. “We talked every morning at seven,” she told Charlie. “Two widow ladies, living on their own. It was nice to check in with someone, to have someone to talk about the news with, or who knew if you had a cold, or if your son was coming to visit. I guess I won’t have that anymore.” Her eyes, caught in a net of wrinkles, shone with tears.
“Can you think of anything she was worried about? Anyone she was angry with or who was angry with her?”
“You obviously never met Abby. She was all about giving. Helping people. Even though she was retired, she gave free lessons to anyone who loved music. She said it gave her joy.”
“Did she ever have trouble making ends meet?”
“Abby had her savings, she had her Social Security, but that was about it. So not a lot.” Gwen managed a half smile. “If you wanted to get together for lunch, it had to be a place that had coupons in the Sunday paper.”
“Do you think she was in any debt?” Charlie asked.
“Abby? No way. Besides, even if she did owe someone some money, what good would it do to kill her? She’s certainly not going to be paying anyone back now.”
After Gwen left, Charlie scrubbed his face with hands. He was not getting anywhere.
How big of a risk had the killer actually taken? Even though he had done it in front of dozens of witnesses, he had been the only one who was armed. And the only one who had seen his face was Marvella. Charlie was more and more convinced that this hadn’t been a murder. It had been an execution.
Charlie read back over the witness statements that had been gathered the day before. And then he realized the one thing that was missing.
He thought back to Abigail’s body, vulnerable and small in death. He had seen only one entrance wound in the victim, the one just above her ear. But many of the witnesses had described hearing two shots. Some had talked about seeing a flower vase on top of the piano explode.
He went back out into the main part of the church. The wall behind the piano was papered with a small blue-and-white geometric print, the kind of thing that was designed not to show dirt if people rubbed against it in passing.
Moving his head back and forth, he scanned the wall. And finally he spotted it. A hole in the drywall. Charlie took out his phone to call the crime scene tech back.
He would make sure the guy didn’t get his saw anywhere near the bullet.
And then he would tell Bob Ho that the insurance adjustor had one more thing to adjust.