Chapter 38
Another murder in Savannah?
Linked to the Savannah Slasher?
No, no, no!
He re-read the article again as the haunting notes of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” filled his private, cavernous space.
He’d always found the song to be thought-provoking and deeply emotional.
Now, it was just background noise that irritated him and really got under his already itchy skin. He scanned the online article again, recently posted to the Savannah Sentinel’s website and linked to its social-media outlets. Written by that horrid, nosy heathen Nikki Gillette.
He felt his blood begin to boil.
Naomi Kittle?
The missing woman whose car they dredged from the river?
They thought she was one of the chosen sinners that he’d so carefully picked.
Insane. That’s what it was. He knew her. Of course. Had seen her in church.
Were the police that stupid?
Well, of course, he knew the answer to that.
Give me strength, he silently prayed, Please, Father, help me.
The song ended, and he found another old LP, one of his father’s favorites and oh so appropriate.
Carefully, he removed the one record from the stereo and replaced it.
As the turntable spun, he waited for the first notes of “The Ten Commandments” and Johnny Cash’s distinctive bass baritone to fill the chamber.
He cranked up the volume, and soon the song was nearly reverberating against the thick stone walls.
But it didn’t help.
Because someone—an interloper—was ruining his plans!
Copying his style.
Using the very place he’d left that pagan Jeanne LaRoux to die.
He gnashed his teeth. He hated to give up his carefully planned game. It had taken him years of waiting for the right opportunity, and he’d spent hour upon hour planning.
Until now, he’d been able to work in his own, perfect time line.
But no longer.
He’d lost control of the situation.
The new stone wasn’t ready. Although he’d meticulously etched the number 3 in Arabic and Hebrew into it, he hadn’t doused it in blood and let it dry.
Nor polished it to a perfect sheen. He could no longer admire his work or savor his deeds.
Reaching over his shoulder, he scratched his back, where his wounds from his recent flogging were healing and itching to the point of distraction.
Scratching was a problem.
Because it was noticed.
In the house, when he’d absently reached over his shoulder and rubbed his back, the woman had taken note and commented.
She’d asked if he had gotten into some poison ivy or had been bitten by the ever-present mosquitoes that abounded?
Did he need her to apply some salve? He’d brushed off her suggestion, but, he knew, she was suspicious.
She had reason to be.
She knew him. Knew what he was capable of.
Had witnessed it herself, though she was young at the time and her memory had clouded. Because he’d altered it for her. Insisting that he, older, remembered what had happened more clearly.
He’d convinced her, yet she was still wary.
He had to tread carefully.
But move quickly.
There was no longer time for perfection.
And that was a worry.
He couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
He usually planned his attacks with precision, but tonight he would have to rely on his own intuition and the Father’s help.
“Remember the passage: I can do all this through Him who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13.”
“Yes, yes,” he told himself, and though this deed would be far from perfect, he would get it done.
“Forgive me, Father.” He knew he needed to atone for his failings, that another self-flagellation was in order, though he could not attain perfection.
That alone was for the Lord. He was but a mere mortal.
One who had broken the sixth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.
Well … He’d studied the commandments. He knew the meaning of that particular passage, and of course, murder of an innocent was a sin. But none of the lives he’d taken were without sin. In fact, they were riddled with sin. So, he reasoned, he was doing God’s work.
He would never take an innocent life.
Never.
But sinners beware.
Idly, he fondled the rock he’d fashioned with its bold number 3 carved in Arabic and Hebrew. Thou shalt not take the word of thy Lord in vain. How many times in her lifetime had Nikki Gillette uttered the Father’s name as a curse?
Hundreds?
Thousands?
Enough!
He found himself scratching over his shoulder and forced himself to stop.
Irritated, he went to the medicine cabinet, where he located some anti-itch cream next to the roll of surgical tape and scissors.
He applied a little of the medication to his shoulders and hoped it would relieve the itch, though he was a little ashamed at having to deal with it.
The initial pain and subsequent discomfort were all part of his atonement.
He rubbed in the salve and considered what he’d already accomplished.
Billy Huber had borne false witness against his neighbor, breaking the ninth commandment.
Mavis Greenlee had never honored her father, nor her mother, blatantly breaking commandment number five.
And that witch Jeanne LaRoux had flaunted her weird mixture of any pagan religion she came across and probably made up some of her own. Brazenly, she continued to break the first commandment by putting all kinds of false, heathen spirits before the one true God.
They all had paid.
As for the copycat killer who had taken Naomi Kittle’s life?
Well, killing for killing’s sake was a sin. Murder without holy intent was very much a sin, and so far he’d not used the sixth commandment.
That would change when he unmasked the copycat.
Now, he reached for his keys.
Tonight, it was Nikki Gillette’s turn.
Sol was right, Reed thought.
Naomi Kittle’s homicide was different.
It didn’t quite fit into the same mold as the other murders attributed to the Savannah Slasher.
As he drove through the dark, from the crime lab to the station house, Reed reviewed the differences.
For one thing, the murder hadn’t occurred in Naomi’s home. Unlike the previous victims, Naomi’s body had been moved. She’d died somewhere else and been taken to the LaRoux property and hung upside down in that weird hut.
While examining the body at the hut, the medical examiner had pointed out that the lividity on Naomi’s body, the blood pooling on her back, indicated that she’d died lying down, not suspended from the crossbeam at the crime scene.
Also, although there was a wound on her throat, like the other victims, there was also bruising on her neck.
And yet she hadn’t been dead long before she’d been hung and Nikki had found her.
Some partially coagulated blood had drained from her nose and mouth and onto Nikki as well at the rocks rimming the fire pit.
There hadn’t been much blood, and the ME decided what little had drained was the work of gravity rather than a beating heart.
But why would someone go to the trouble of taking her to the LaRoux property? What was the point of that? Why would someone try to make this homicide look like the others, try to camouflage it?
He didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.
Hadn’t liked where they’d taken him in these early-morning hours.
Had discovered some answers in the wee hours that took him down the dark, lonely road of truth.
He pulled into the station’s lot and parked in his usual spot. As he climbed out of his Jeep, he felt a twinge in his back, a sharp pain that was a reminder of his fight with Jamison. At least now he better understood his friend’s mercurial temperament.
But it didn’t bode well.
Frowning, he pocketed his keys and went inside.
Even though it was long before dawn, officers were on duty, a few milling through the station house, bits of conversation audible.
He found a pot of still-warm coffee in the break room and took the time to pour himself a much-needed jolt of caffeine before heading to his office.
And facing the damned music.
Sol was at her desk, a cup of tea steaming near a stack of papers.
“You didn’t go home?” he asked.
“Just to check on Princess.”
Oh. Right. The cat. Once owned by Mavis Greenlee.
“She’s doing fine,” Sol added with a grin. “Thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, but he couldn’t scare up any humor tonight, and it must’ve been infectious, because she turned serious.
“I knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I came back. Thought I’d check out a few things.” She was staring at the computer screen again, split into four sections, each frame a picture of an etched rock discovered at a crime scene. “What about you?”
“I tried. Failed. Maybe dozed for a couple of hours.” But he’d tossed and turned, the image of Naomi Kittle’s body burning through his brain. The questions about her death, the disparities from the other murders, were like sharp needles burrowing into his subconscious.
Nikki, too, had been restless, unable to sleep. She’d been in and out of the bed, alternately trying to catch a few winks or throwing off the covers and going up to her office, the new dog tagging after her.
“I thought about what you said at the Kittle murder scene,” Reed said, cradling his cooling coffee and taking a seat on the corner of his desk. “That it’s different from the rest.”
“It is.”
“I know. I agree. Let’s talk it out.” Although he had come to the same conclusion, he wanted her insight, her take on things, as she invariably came at a crime from a different perspective, one he found insightful, if not in keeping with traditional detective work. A good thing, he decided.
“Okay, but it’s not just the scene that’s different,” she clarified. “The entire homicide isn’t like the others, or at least has a lot of disparities. You heard what the ME said last night.”
“Right. We know the body was moved.”
“Uh-huh. And the rocks are different. Take a look.” She showed him images of the stones found at all of the crime scenes. All polished to a shine, all about the same size.
“What am I looking for?” he asked.