CHAPTER FOUR
Jennifer Hayes’ apartment was the kind of place that cost too much to feel this sterile: polished concrete floors, curated furniture, splashes of color that tried too hard to look accidental. The kind of place that said successful, connected, in control.
Except nothing about the room felt controlled tonight.
Kate stepped inside, tugging latex gloves into place. The smell hit immediately—iron, raw and metallic, clinging to the air like cold breath.
Jennifer Hayes was on her knees in the center of the living room, forehead touching the floor, arms at her sides. A rigid supplicant. A grotesque imitation of prayer. Her throat had been opened in a single, decisive slash.
A scarlet collar.
CSIs clustered around the body, murmuring measurements, identifying spatter patterns, and sliding evidence markers into place. The clicking of camera shutters punctuated the room like insects ticking against glass.
Marcus crouched beside the victim. "Clean," he murmured. "One stroke. Deep. But short and precise. Unusual.” He stopped himself, one of those moments you have when your business is death. “Whatever usual is. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.”
Kate nodded, eyes narrowing as she studied the scene. The kneeling posture. And—most strikingly—the photograph.
In a simple clip-frame. A stern, proud-looking man in a business suit, early fifties in front of a building. There was a certain look in his eyes that said this is all mine.
“Strong Old Testament vibes,” Marcus said quietly. “Sacrifice. Submission. Atonement.”
Kate exhaled slowly. “It’s more than that. This… this is a sermon. It’s like him, but not like him.”
“You mean Cox?”
She nodded.
“Cox,” she said, “has never posed bodies like this. And he’s always been subtle with the symbolism—coded messages, obscure alphabets, arcane scriptures. Layers upon layers.”
“And this guy?” Marcus asked.
“This guy is direct. Almost enthusiastic. He wants us to see it. Wants everyone to see it.”
She crossed to the desk in the corner—the one Sullivan had pointed out when they'd arrived—and saw the artwork.
One was a drawing, pen and ink on sketch paper.
She photographed it.
Two stone tablets, side by side. Ten lines total. Five on each. The 5th line on the left tablet was underlined.
Kate zoomed in on her phone. The lines weren’t actual writing, just quick horizontal strokes to indicate text. No letters. No numbers. The underlined fifth mark sat like a scar across the left tablet.
“What do you think?” Marcus asked.
“Superficially, it’s the fifth commandment,” Kate said. “Honor thy father and thy mother. But that’s too easy. Too obvious.”
“And we already know that’s the theme.”
“Exactly. So the underline isn’t really telling us what—it’s telling us something else. Like where to look. Or who.”
Marcus frowned. “I don’t usually feel this dumb this early in an investigation.”
“I think this killer wants to show he’s not just following Cox’s pattern. He’s embellishing it. Interpreting it. Personalizing it.”
She photographed the second piece. This was a small painting, done in oils that still smelled; she caught a whiff that reminded her of school, her beloved art teacher: a voice of both sanity and sedition among the nuns.
It was on a small canvas, portrait-format, maybe seven inches across and ten top to bottom.
This one was jarring in a different way—comical at first glance, yet deeply unsettling.
A portly, well-dressed man sat at a lavish table, goblet in hand, mouth open mid-speech.
Behind him crept an older woman in a shawl, arm raised, ready to box his ears.
The style was unmistakably that of a 19th-century satire—lurid colors, comically exaggerated expressions.
“What the hell is that supposed to be?” Marcus asked.
Kate shook her head. “It’s moralizing. Victorian. Punch magazine, maybe, or something like it. The powerful man oblivious to the judgment behind him.”
“From an older woman,” said one of the CSIs, peering at the picture as she passed by.
Marcus scanned the room again. “So this guy—whoever he is—likes theatrics. That’s always fun.”
Kate didn’t smile. “Cox’s acolytes tend to be rigid, obedient, almost reverent. He cultivates discipline. Precision. But this…” She gestured to the kneeling corpse, the sketches, the crude reverence. “This is someone with imagination. And ego.”
“And ego is dangerous,” Marcus said.
“Very.”
Behind them, a voice cleared. A weathered-looking guy in a suit and badge stepped inside, shoving wind-mussed hair off his forehead.
"Agents," he said, with a nod. "Detective Brian Sullivan. Homicide Team. Sorry—been trying to get hold of CCTV from the maintenance company but guess what? Their after-hours number just rings out."
“Lucky us,” Marcus muttered. “Any chance of interviewing the person who found the body?”
“She’s in a bad way. Weak heart. Maybe tomorrow,” Sullivan said, gruffly, as he flipped open his notebook.
“I don’t know much about the victim. Jennifer Hayes—early forties, senior VP at Halberd Dynamics.
Grew up in Weston. Father was some kind of titan in the financial sector.
She was following in his footsteps, apparently. ”
Kate’s gaze flicked back to the altar of photographs. “Where’s the father now?”
“In a home,” Sullivan said. “The Cedars. Fancy place over in West Roxbury. Costs more per month than my mortgage.”
He lifted Hayes’ phone, sealed in an evidence pouch. “We found this on her nightstand. Lots of missed calls from a number that matches The Cedars’ main line. Dozens in the last few weeks. All ignored.”
Marcus leaned in. “And the last call?”
“She picked up. Or someone did.” Sullivan shrugged. “We’ll know more once tech cracks the phone. But the earlier voicemails—there’s no way in without a warrant.”
Marcus straightened. “I can swing by The Cedars right now.”
“At this time?” Kate queried.
“Old folks keep funny hours. So do the people who care for them. Someone might know something.”
Kate nodded. “Good idea. I’ll go back to base and try to make sense of the
artworks. I'm guessing they were prepared in advance. The oil, at least, would have taken hours to complete."
Marcus touched her shoulder lightly. “Don’t leave without me.”
“I’m not going anywhere except room 9G.”
He headed for the door.
Sullivan cleared his throat again. “Can I… give you a ride back to your motel, Agent Valentine? It’s on my way, and you look like you haven’t slept since last Thanksgiving.”
Kate almost refused. Habit. Control. But her brain was still spinning around the sketches, the symbolism, the unsettling theatricality of it all.
“Sure,” she said. “Thanks.”
The cruiser smelled faintly of old coffee and pine-scented air freshener. Sullivan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on the window frame.
“So,” he said after a minute, “hell of a scene back there.”
Kate nodded, staring out at the glistening sidewalks. “Yeah.”
“You seen artwork like that before? Drawings, paintings?”
“No,” she said truthfully. “They don’t fit the pattern.”
“Meaning?”
Meaning they were wrong. Meaning they were playful where they should have been austere. Meaning they hinted at someone not simply following Cox’s orders but weaving his own ideology into the tapestry.
But she couldn’t explain all that. Not yet.
“They’re unusual,” she said. “We’re still figuring them out.”
Sullivan shot her a brief grin. “Well, you solve them, you let me know. I did a semester of art history in college. Did not help me get laid, in case you’re wondering.”
Despite herself, Kate huffed a quiet laugh.
He drove another block, then risked: “Sorry. You’re… elsewhere.”
He didn’t press further. Respectful. Or cautious.
They pulled into the small motel parking lot. The sign flickered weakly: HARBOR INN — VACANCY.
Sullivan shifted the car into park and turned toward her, expression sober now. “We’ll get him,” he said quietly. “Whoever he is.”
Kate opened the door. The night air rushed in, cool and sharp. “I hope so.”
She closed the door gently and watched the cruiser drive off.
Then she stood alone in the dark, the images rising unbidden behind her eyelids:
The stone tablets.
The underlined fifth mark. The painting of an absurd Victorian glutton, oblivious to the justice stalking up behind him.
And behind it all—something deeper.
Kate felt a chill crawl down her spine.
A disciple with imagination was far more dangerous than a zealot with faith.
Possibly even more dangerous than Cox.