CHAPTER TWENTY
When James Whitmore opened the door, Kate’s breath caught in her throat.
For a terrifying moment, her mind shrieked that Cox had escaped, had somehow gotten out of solitary and broken out of prison again and was now standing in the doorway staring at her, cold, intense eyes judging her and finding her wanting but fascinating all the same.
After another moment, though, her eyes picked up on the differences that proved this wasn’t the Lawgiver here to torment her once more.
For one thing, he was younger. He appeared to be in his early thirties, around Marcus’s age or maybe a few years younger than that.
His hair looked gray at first glance, but upon further inspection was an extremely fine light blonde.
He was tall like Cox, over six feet, and possessed of a wiry, athletic build that matched Cox’s before he had lost weight and muscle mass due to the sepsis he’d given himself to escape prison in an ambulance months ago.
He wore a black priest’s robe with long sleeves and a skirt that reached all the way to his ankles.
The scuffed sneakers that peeked from underneath the robe only served to make his getup more disturbing.
She could easily imagine those scuffs gained from climbing into and out of Derek Hammond’s window or trudging across Michelle Santos’s backyard.
And differences aside, his eyes were a carbon copy of Cox’s. They blazed with the same passion, the same fire for his version of justice, the same willingness to do whatever was required to achieve that justice.
All of this ran through her head in the second that passed between James opening the door and Marcus saying, “James Whitmore?”
“Speaking.”
He did so with a calm, cultured voice, another similarity to Cox, as though speaking like a gentleman would somehow make up for the animal that ruled his actions.
“I’m Special Agent Marcus Reid. This is my partner, Special Agent Kate Valentine. We’re with the FBI investigating the murders of Michelle Santos and Derek Hammond. We were hoping you could help us out with a few things. Mind if we come in?”
Whitmore nodded. “Ah yes. I imagined this moment would come.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “That so?”
“Of course. You are agents of justice, as I am. It was inevitable that our paths would cross.”
Another alarm went off in Kate’s head. Whitmore hadn’t said anything explicitly damning, but the way he delivered that last sentence, it was inevitable that our paths would cross, sounded a little too much like Cox for her comfort.
“What’s with the robes, Mr. Whitmore?” Kate asked.
Whitmore’s smile widened a little. “An affectation, I admit. I admire the Catholic Church for the way it separates the clergy from the laity.”
“And you consider yourself clergy?”
“I serve God,” he replied. He stepped back and gestured for them to enter.
“After you,” Marcus said, not a request.
Whitmore stepped inside, his pace as measured as his voice. Kate was feeling better about him by the second. Although he was taller than they thought their killer would be.
Concerns about his height evaporated when Kate saw his apartment.
The interior was decorated like a shrine.
In place of a television was an actual shrine, with an eight-by-ten portrait of a beautiful young woman with the same wispy platinum blond hair as James sitting amidst a collection of candles, flowers, and cards. Julia, obviously.
But what really caught Kate’s eye were the crosses. Everywhere. A large one above Julia’s shrine, a smaller one over the hallway, one over the dining table, one above the couch, and through the hallway, Kate could make out another one over the bedroom door.
A stack of Bibles sat on the coffee table. Kate was willing to wager that each one would be a different translation of God’s word.
Marcus and Kate shared a look as Whitmore walked into the kitchen. “Would you two like some water? Perhaps some cranberry juice?”
Marcus lifted his eyebrows again. “Cranberry juice.”
“It cleanses the blood,” Whitmore said. “I’ll pour you a glass.”
“No, thank you, that’s fine.”
Whitmore nodded, a slow, even bow. “Would you mind if I indulge?”
“Indulge away.”
He pulled the glass bottle out of the refrigerator and grabbed a glass from a cabinet above the sink. He poured himself three fingers of the deep red juice, then replaced the cap and put it back in his refrigerator.
“You suspect me of being responsible for these murders.”
“Why do you say that?” Kate asked.
“I can sense it. You’re afraid of me.”
Marcus chuckled. “Don’t get too cocky, kid.”
Kate laid a hand on his arm and said, “You recently published a blog post where you claimed that Derek Hammond and Michelle Santos deserved what happened to them.”
“They did.”
“Because, and I believe this is verbatim, ‘He who sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’”
“Do you deny that those are the words of God?”
“They’re found in the Bible,” Kate replied.
He smiled slightly. Kate really didn’t like that smile. “I find it fascinating that you don’t believe, Agent Valentine. Surely with all you’ve experienced, you must believe that God’s hand is active in this world.”
“I believe that people are active,” Kate replied, “and some of those people prefer to blame their behavior on divine commission rather than the acting out of their own desires.”
“So, you don’t believe that God is working through you to correct the world?”
She took another breath. “Why don’t we get back to the victims?”
The first sign of emotion flashed across his face. “You’re referring, of course, to Jelena Santana and Gene Parker, along with their families forced to watch their killers live freely while their loved ones rot in the ground.”
“Nope,” Marcus said. “I’m referring to Derek Hammond and Michelle Santos, two people who were found not guilty of murder and were granted freedom by a court of law.”
“A corrupt court following corrupt laws.”
“Still laws. The law, if we’re being technical.”
“So, you believe man’s law supersedes God’s law?”
“Do you believe otherwise?”
“Of course. When we worship and serve the creature more than the creator, we exchange the truth of God for a lie.”
“And what is the truth of God?” Kate asked.
His eyes flashed again. His voice deepened, seeming to echo across the small apartment.
“Thou shalt not kill. Whosoever taketh a life shall surely be put to death. I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hurt me.”
“You’re big on punishment, aren’t you?” Marcus said.
“I’m big on justice, Agent Reid.”
“So, did you provide it? Were you God’s instrument of justice against Michelle Santos and Derek Hammond?”
Whitmore smiled thinly. “I stand by the statements I made in the blog. The killer who rid the world of the stains that were Maricela Santos and Derek Hammond was doing the Lord’s work. As am I. But God has seen fit to call me for a different purpose. Related, but different.”
“And what purpose is that?” Kate asked.
“Advocacy.”
When he didn’t expand on that after a few seconds, Kate pressed, “Care to expand on that?”
Emotion crossed his eyes a third time, but this was a positive emotion: eagerness, even pride.
“Justice For Julia. Advocating for Victims of Miscarriages of Justice. It’s my website. Well, hers.”
He glanced at his sister, and grief came to his face. But there was no anger behind that grief. There was only love. For the first time, Kate began to doubt her assumptions about this man.
“And what does Justice for Julia do?”
He grinned. A second later, he seemed to remember himself.
He wiped the smile from his face and adopted the facade of calm again.
“We conduct independent investigations into cases where killers escape justice. We raise funding for further legal action and to provide relief for the families of our victims. Our real victims. We tell their stories.”
“And from time to time, you use the Bible to justify vigilantism,” Marcus added.
“The Bible justifies the death of those who kill,” Whitmore replied. “You may choose not to believe God’s word, but it remains inviolate just the same.”
“Right. So can you tell us where you were the previous two evenings?”
“Certainly. I was here at home working on my advocacy website. It’s how I spend all of my free time.”
“Can anyone verify that you were here?”
The first sign of fear came to his eyes, quickly suppressed. “I’m afraid not. I live alone. I’m afraid God’s calling precludes personal relationships.”
“Hmm. Well, that presents a problem, doesn’t it, Mr. Whitmore?”
“It seems so. Should I seek the services of a lawyer?”
Marcus looked at Kate. Rather than answer him directly, she said, “You served six months in jail for assaulting the man who killed your sister.”
His left eye twitched. “Yes.”
“If given the chance, would you kill him?”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
She lifted her hands and gave him an apologetic smile. “Okay, I’ll admit that was a cheap shot. I guess my real question is what would prevent you from providing Michael Parker and the Santana family the same closure you desire?”
The room was silent for several minutes.
James Whitmore no longer looked much like Elijah Cox.
His fake poise now seemed paper thin. Behind it was a scared, grieving, angry man who couldn’t understand why God would have taken his sweet, beautiful sister from him and not ensure that the demon responsible was brought to justice.
It was funny how tragedy always drove people into God’s arms or away.
She wondered what made the difference. Maybe if she knew the answer to that, she would understand Cox a little better.
Whitmore finally took a breath and smiled.
This one looked a lot less confident than his previous ones.
“As I said, God has called me to a different purpose. Were I to face the murderer of my sister, I would be too weak to remember God’s will.
I believe that is why He’s ensured that our paths haven’t crossed since I left jail.
As for Hammond and Santana, I believed that God would provide his own justice. I was right.”
Another, briefer silence followed. Marcus broke it this time. “You like knives, James?”
Whitmore smiled thinly. “They have their purpose.”
“Ever heard of a pugio?”
“A Roman dagger. A broad thrusting weapon. Very effective. It leaves large wounds not easily stitched. It was designed to pierce the heart of an opponent with a single hard thrust.” His upper lip curled.
“I assume this was the weapon with which justice was executed against Derek Hammond and Maricela Santana?”
“Why do you assume that?”
“For what other reason would you ask?”
Kate and Marcus frowned at each other. If they’d wanted to catch him in a lie, they’d flubbed it badly.
“Would you like to search my apartment and confirm that I possess no such weapon?” James asked.
“If you’re all right with that.”
He spread his arms. “Be my guest.”
The agents began where they stood in Whitmore’s living room. Kate doubted like hell they would find a knife. Whitmore wouldn’t volunteer to let them search if he thought he was going to incriminate himself. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t find something else incriminating, though.
Such as no fewer than eight different translations of the Christian Bible.
Kate noted all four of the translations used in the ciphers so far along with the New International Version, Revised Standard Version, New Living Translation, and a reprint of the Septuagint from which much of the more modern translations were derived.
“Any reason why there are so many translations here?” Kate asked.
“I enjoy comparing them,” Whitmore replied. “I find each lends its own unique emphasis to God’s word.”
“I see. You wouldn’t happen to be into shorthand, would you?”
“Shorthand? I’m not sure I follow.”
“Stenography. The type of writing court reporters use to keep up with spoken words.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar.”
“Kate.”
Marcus’s voice from the bedroom carried a tone that chilled her. She had a feeling she knew what she would find.
She walked to the room to see Marcus standing in front of the dresser, staring soberly down at something on top. Kate walked over to it, and the blood drained from her face.
On the desk was a picture of Whitmore, younger, smiling happily. Next to him, shaking his hand, was a priest, also smiling, although his smile ended well before his intense, piercing eyes sitting below close-cropped gray hair.
Elijah Cox.