CHAPTER SIX
Marcus knocked like someone who believed doors were mortal enemies.
KNOCK. KNOCK-KNOCK.
Pause.
KNOCK.
Inside, something groaned.
A slippered shuffle approached. The bolt slid back. Kate opened the door halfway, one eye squinting against the hallway light, hair flattened on one side like an overnight landslide.
“You’re lucky I don’t carry before coffee,” she muttered.
“Good morning to you too.” Marcus held up a paper bag and a cardboard tray. “Donuts. Hot coffee. Bribery. I didn’t think you’d fancy a lobster roll at this hour.”
Kate stared at it, then let him in with a grudging wave. “Fine. You may live.”
The room was dim but orderly — Kate’s version of orderly, at least, with the papers and books mostly concentrated on the desk and around it. She collapsed onto the edge of the bed and held out a hand for coffee like a medieval supplicant receiving a holy relic.
“You sleep at all?” Marcus asked.
“If I say yes, it’ll be a lie, and I’m too tired to lie.” She took a long gulp, sighed. “But I did figure something out.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Already?”
"Insomnia loves puzzles. The first of the artworks — the drawing of the tablets? I think I understand what he's getting at."
Marcus sat on the arm of a chair, donut in hand. “Hit me.”
"The Ten Commandments came on two tablets," she began, clearing her throat. "But it's not an arbitrary division. Tablet One is about the relationships between God and humans. Tablet Two is about relationships between humans and humans. So far, so Sunday school, right?"
Marcus nodded.
“Well,” she continued, suddenly looking more awake, “you’d expect ‘honor your father and mother’ to be in the second tablet — because it’s a human relationship. But it’s not. It’s on the first.”
“That seems… backwards.”
“Exactly.” Kate pointed at him with the donut she hadn’t yet eaten. “That’s the whole point. The murderous scribbler wants us to notice that. He wants us to understand: dishonoring your parents isn’t just being rude to Mom and Dad. It’s an offense against the Creator. As in — capital C Creator.”
Marcus let out a slow whistle. “That’s… heavy.”
Kate took another gulp of coffee. “If you dishonor the people who created you, you dishonor the One who created the world. That’s the theology.”
“You get that from the artwork?”
“Sort of.” She made a tiny grimace. “Also from a few dozen Christian and Jewish TikTokers. But I’m feeling pretty proud right now.”
“No progress on the second one. The painting?”
Kate made a face. “A little advice, Marcus. When the lovely Cheryl brings you coffee in bed, don’t say, ‘Where’s my bagel?’”
“Sorry. Long night.”
"Truth is, I hit a wall with the cartoony painting thing, so I sent it to Gabe to see if it rang any bells."
Gabe Levine was her former tutor and mentor, whose career had been, thus far, the perfect reverse of Kate’s: a former FBI profiler turned academic.
She liked to call him her rabbi. Officially a specialist in ancient Near Eastern languages and cultures, there was barely a topic from any place, of any era, on which he didn’t have an informed view.
Marcus took a thoughtful bite, then cleared his throat. “If our killer really believes this stuff — really believes he’s acting on God’s behalf — then we’re dealing with someone with no brakes.”
Kate nodded. “I used to think only Cox fit that description. But I’ve got a feeling this follower, or whatever he is, might be more dangerous.”
Marcus handed her the remaining donut and stood up. “I’ll be waiting for you in the car. I’m giving you ten.”
“Where are we going?”
“I just might have found our man.”
*
Twenty minutes later, with only a little grumbling from Marcus, they were on the road, with Kate at the wheel, heading for downtown Boston. As they slowed in the inevitable rush-hour snarl-up, Kate glanced across to her partner.
“Gonna share?”
Marcus flipped open his notebook. "Martin Shepherd. Elder-care advocate. Aged 48. Runs a non-profit dedicated to fighting elder abandonment."
Kate frowned. “That’s a thing?”
“Oh yeah. And he lives it. I did a bit of digging. His birth parents both died alone in a nursing home — his biological siblings left them there while they went off chasing their respective high-powered careers. Reading between the lines, it seems like he discovered he had this whole other family, and then discovered how badly they’d treated his birth mother, and he just hasn’t been able to get over it. ”
Kate winced. “That’s rough. I mean, in terms of an inciting trauma…
I can buy that. Imagine growing up, knowing or sensing you’re not with the right flock.
Then you find out you’re adopted and it all makes sense.
So you go looking for your birth mother, full of hope and joy, only to discover that she’s died a lonely death due to the indifference of your true brothers and sisters. That could knock you spinning.”
"It gets better, by which I mean worse. Shepherd's organization was sponsored by Jennifer's firm until a year ago, after he learned that she hadn't seen or spoken to her father in years. Witnesses said he confronted her at a charity event. Loudly. And tore up the check she'd sent."
Kate rubbed her forehead. “Fond of theatrics. Like whoever left that crime scene. And vocal about his principles, no? I don’t imagine many non-profit organizations would rip up a check.”
“More than vocal.” Marcus flipped another page. “He’s got two priors. One for a violent altercation at a political demonstration — environmental justice something-something. The other involved him physically assaulting a man who was beating his dog.”
Kate froze. “Okay. I can kind of understand the anger where dogs are concerned, but… Violence mixed with righteousness? Never a reassuring combination.”
Marcus nodded. “He’s… the type who takes principles past the speed limit.”
And with that, the lights changed and they pulled into the stream of traffic, sirens distant in the winter morning, while the city woke unaware that someone out there was rearranging Scripture with a knife.
*
The offices of Elder Justice Now occupied the third floor of an old red-brick building wedged between a juice bar and a boutique gym. From the street it looked harmless enough. Inside, it felt like stepping into an advocacy campaign that had exploded.
The reception area had been painted a righteous shade of crimson.
Every wall was plastered with black-and-white photographs of elderly people in hospital beds or care-home rooms — some smiling faintly, others clearly in distress.
Under each was a small metal plaque with the person’s name, age at death, and the damning phrase: No family present.
Kate paused just inside the door. “Subtle,” she murmured.
Marcus shot her a look. “Be nice.”
“I am. This is my nice voice.”
A young volunteer led them to the inner office.
If the reception area was dramatic, Shepherd’s office was a shrine — or, Marcus thought, a moral battlefield.
The walls were festooned with giant blow-ups of the same photos as the lobby, except here they were enormous — looming faces, desperate eyes, the scale deliberately overwhelming.
And then there was Martin Shepherd.
He rose as they entered. Mid-forties, lean, intense, wearing loose-fitting beige trousers and an embroidered Guatemalan-style shirt that looked handmade.
His hair was tied back, his beard carefully plaited into a little bead.
He had a preacher’s posture — tall, straight, chin lifted — and he wore an elastic band around one wrist.
“Agents Valentine and Reid,” he said, extending a hand to each. “How can I assist the FBI?”
Kate sat. Marcus sat. Shepherd did not sit until both of them had. Politeness, Kate wondered, or a small display of moral theater?
“Mr. Shepherd,” Kate began, “we’re here to ask about Jennifer Hayes.”
His expression tightened, lines forming around his eyes. “What’s she done now?”
“She’s been murdered,” Kate said bluntly.
“What?”
He sounded shaken — genuinely. Looked it, too – that early incomprehension of the hardest fact to bear. But then again, Marcus thought, people who run non-profits are good performers. They have to conjure up money from thin air, and that takes drama.
"Murdered in her office sometime Monday night," Marcus added. "With photographs of her parents prominently displayed."
“We understand,” Kate said carefully, “that you had a strong disagreement with Ms. Hayes some months ago.”
Shepherd let out a breath through his nose — controlled, measured, but simmering. He snapped the elastic band once. Thwap.
“Yes,” he admitted. “Jennifer Hayes stood for everything I fight against — abandonment, neglect, the idea that age makes a person disposable. When I learned she hadn’t seen her father in years, I was furious. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“Furious enough to confront her,” Marcus said.
Shepherd nodded. “At a gala. Publicly. I said things I regret. I raised my voice. I may have embarrassed her. But I did not threaten her. And I certainly did not harm her.”
His tone was righteous — too righteous — but there was something else beneath it. Shame, maybe.
“Mr. Shepherd,” Marcus said, “you have a history of… physical reactions. We know about the demonstration. And the incident with the dog. You broke the guy’s jaw.”
Shepherd winced, looking down at his hands. "I won't justify either. I have anger issues. Serious ones. I've been in therapy for four years. That's what—" he lifted the elastic band, "—this is for. To stop me before I boil over. It works most days."
He sat finally, folding his hands tightly. “I hate cruelty, the active kind and the absent kind. I react badly to it. But my advocacy? My work? It is lawful. Always. I use persuasion, pressure, protest. Not violence.”
Kate studied his face. He wasn’t sweating. His eyes didn’t flicker evasively. If anything, he had the chastened look of someone who’d already yelled at himself before anyone else got the chance.
“Did you know Leo Hayes also passed away last night?” Kate asked.
Shepherd closed his eyes briefly. “No idea at all. I’d hoped — honestly — that Jennifer would reconcile with him first. I wrote her an email months ago. Offered to mediate. Offered resources. Encouragement. Forgiveness, even.”
“You wrote to her,” Marcus repeated.
“Yes. Kindly. I can forward it to you.” Shepherd reached for his laptop. “I wanted her to see him again. For both their sakes.”
He typed quickly, earnest fingers striking earnest keys. A moment later he said, “Sent. Three attachments — the email, her auto-reply, and the timeline.”
“Thank you,” Kate said. “Did she reply?”
“What do you think?” Shepherd said, drily.
“I could flip that and ask, what did you expect?”
“I had no expectations, only the firm belief that it’s always worth a try. If I didn’t have that, I wouldn’t have this," Shepherd said calmly, gesturing to the room, the posters, the cause. Kate sensed he was being truthful, but she didn't change her expression.
Marcus flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Where were you last night between, say, seven p.m. and midnight?”
Shepherd sat back. “Dinner at my adopted sister’s house. Natalie Crowe. In Cambridge. Her husband cooked. We opened a bottle of wine. Then another. I stayed overnight — I was in no condition to drive.”
“We’ll need to confirm with them.”
“Of course. I’ll give you their details.”
Kate turned her head slightly, catching Marcus’s eye — Well?
He gave the smallest of shrugs — Not him. Or not obvious.
Shepherd leaned forward, earnest again. “Agents… listen. Jennifer and I disagreed. Violently, even — philosophically, I mean. I hated her decisions. But I don’t hate her.
Murder? God, no.” His voice thickened. “I’ve spent my adult life watching people die who didn’t deserve it, or at least, deserved a better end. I would never inflict that on anyone.”
Then he looked suddenly older — the photos on the walls reflected in his glasses, an army of silent witnesses over his shoulder.
Kate softened. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“And I appreciate your work,” he said. “Find whoever did this. Please. Don’t let the narrative become that she deserved it, or that it was ‘cosmic justice’ for what she did. No one deserves to die alone. No one.”
Marcus watched him closely.
Shepherd meant it.
And that made everything harder.
"Don't leave town for now, Mr. Shepherd. We'll be in touch."
Outside, in the hallway lined with laminated pamphlets, Kate exhaled.
“Well,” she said. “At first I thought he was awful.”
“You read my mind,” Marcus said. “The shirt. The beard. The tone. The walls. The—” he snapped an invisible elastic band, “—self-flagellation aesthetic.”
“But more a man of principle than a zealot,” Kate murmured. “And not a killer. At least… not in this.”
“No,” Marcus agreed reluctantly. “If anything, he was trying to undo the damage between Jennifer and her father, not escalate it.”
Kate nodded, lips tightening. “So we cross him off.”
“Or,” Marcus said thoughtfully, “we don’t cross anyone off. Not yet. But he’s not our prime.”
They headed down the stairs toward the street, the winter sun weak and white above the rooftops.
“Back to square one,” Kate said.
Marcus shook his head. “Not square one. Just a different square.”
“Which one?”
“The one where we’re still dealing with somebody who thinks they’re on speaking terms with God.”
Kate swallowed. “Those squares are always the worst.”
Marcus opened the car door. “Let’s go find the next one.”