Violence of the Father (A Trinity of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 2) (6 page)

He forces a smile. “I wasn’t trying to give you new suspects. I’m just telling you what I know.”

“And I’m just telling you that I’m following this case wherever it leads me.”

He thrusts his hand forward and I shake it. “It was a pleasure talking to you, though, if you come back again, I expect you to have a warrant. When you came this time, I was talking to you as a good acquaintance of Philip’s. Next time, I’ll be a banker that won’t just hand over client information.”

“Your client is deceased and I’m sure his wife has no problem with you telling me anything in his bank statements,” I say. “Besides, wouldn’t you give me permission to look at his statements if I tell you some sad story about how my girlfriend can’t become pregnant?”

He grits his teeth. “No, I’d advise you to drink less. It lowers your sperm count.”

I nod. “That is really good advice.”

“You should leave.”

“Absolutely.”

I open his door and step out. As I pass by his office window, I catch a glimpse of him sitting back at his desk. He cradles his head in his hands. For some people, sadness is a solitary event.

I check my phone. There’s a text from Lauren.

Lauren: I’m heading back now. I’ll be in Detroit in around nine.

A
s I’m walking back
to my apartment building, my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize.

“Hello?” I answer. Silence. “Hello?”

“Err…It’s me,” a man’s voice says. It takes me a second to recognize it.

“Dad,” I say. “I’m glad you called. How is it going in recovery?”

“Well, it’s recovery,” he says. “So, pretty miserable. Your mother just wanted me to call, so here I am. Calling.”

I close my eyes. Of course. The only reason he would call is because of my mother. I open my eyes back up. Well, if it’s going to be like this, I might as well ruin this whole conversation. At least he’ll be less likely to yell at me when he’s in rehab.

“Did you ever want kids?” I ask.

“What?” he snorts. “What kind of question is that?”

“Well, when I was growing up, I remember Mom telling all of these stories about how badly she wanted a child, but you’re never really part of the stories, so I was curious. Did you ever want a child?”

“Hmph,” he says. “Honestly? No. I thought having a kid would suck out all of the money I’d earned and divert my attention from serving my community.”

“I’m glad you didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat that.”

“Look, son, you were just fine,” he says. “You know how I feel about you. I just care enough that I’m not going to lie to you. I didn’t want kids. Hell, I don’t think I treated you much like a kid while you were growing up because even when I had a kid, I didn’t like the concept of having a kid, so I treated you like an adult. Where is this question coming from, anyway? Does your girlfriend have a bun in the oven?”

“Dad, nobody says that anymore, and, no, she doesn’t,” I say. “I was just curious.”

“Because you don’t want kids?” he asks.

“Because I don’t think I should be involved in that process,” I say. “With my luck, it would go badly.”

“Tobias, my counselor is telling me to end the call. But, listen, you were great, but you better be damn certain that you want a kid before you have one,” he says. “You don’t go into parenting half-assed. A child is dependent on you and how they end up will largely rely on how you raise them. So, be damn certain, all right? I gotta go. We’ll talk…sometime later.”

“Bye, Dad,” I say.

“Goodbye, Tobias.”

He hangs up. Honestly, those were some of the nicest things my father has ever told me, so therapy is either working or someone is sneaking in enough booze that he’s getting a buzz, but not getting drunk.

It doesn’t help resolve the fact that Lauren has now attached herself to this question about children though.

Once I get back to my apartment building, I check my mail. There’s just a catalog for athletic shoes and a postcard reminding me that there will be a local blood drive in a week. It’s boring, but at least it’s not a threatening message by a religious psychopath.

As I walk up the stairs to my apartment, I pass by a man in a jogging suit and a woman wearing a janitor uniform. I’ve seen them a thousand times, but I don’t know either of their names. There’s a loneliness that resides in the fact that I’ve lived here for six years and I’ve never been close to anyone in this building. I occasionally nod at a few people who live on the same floor as me, but I’ve never had a conversation with any of them that lasted over a few seconds.

Honestly, the question in my head isn’t if I’m going to live like this the rest of my life. It’s how I’ve lived like this for the past six years.

Before I even open the door, I can smell death coming from my room. I grab my Glock 19 from my holster and shove open the door, easing inside. The smell isn’t as strong as when I was standing by the two crucified bodies, but it still stings my nostrils and makes my throat constrict.

My kitchen is on the left and my living room is on the right. My bedroom branches off of my living room and my bathroom is attached to my bedroom. The stench permeates the entire apartment, but all of my instincts tell me that the killer wouldn’t leave a body in the kitchen or bathroom—it would be left somewhere that the blood could stain the carpet and the scent would wrap itself around every fiber in the room. The killer would want to leave his mark.

I step into the living room. Nothing. Not a single item is out of place. Then again, I don’t own enough possessions that it would be easy for the killer to not touch anything when he’s walking through my house.

That leaves my bedroom. As I take a step toward it, I see what appears to be four pieces of uncooked pork chop nailed to the wall in the form of a cross. As I step into the room, I realize it’s not pig meat. It’s absolutely human flesh, which I’m sure of because there’s part of an 8 ball tattoo on the skin.

I begin to retch, but I can’t get to the bathroom without passing closer to the flesh. I take several steps back, closing my eyes, trying to forget what I’ve just seen.

I pull out my cell phone and dial Jake Romano’s number.

“I’m off the clock, Tobias,” he answers as soon as he picks up. “So, unless you’re calling me to tell me that you’ve caught the Commandment Killer and there’s a beautiful newswoman who wants to show the world the detectives who caught him, I’m currently unavailable.”

“He’s been in my house,” I tell him.

“What?” Romano asks, his voice two pitches higher. “How…you’re sure it was him?”

“Well, you know how Philip Herdon was missing a lot of flesh?” I ask. “We thought it was animals? Well, I’m thinking that the killer took some skin before the animals began to chow down. It’s here. Nailed to the walls in my apartment.”

“I’ll call everybody we need. Just make sure you have your gun out and don’t touch anything,” he says.

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure how to be a detective, but you’ve just reminded me,” I say, unable to contain my sarcasm.

He snorts. “I care about you too, Tobias.”

There’s a faint click as he hangs up. I look around. I didn’t think to check my bathroom or anywhere else that the killer could be hiding, but my gut tells me that the killer wouldn’t leave this grotesque display if he wanted to deliver the message in person. Keeping my gun out, I avoid looking at the flesh as I walk past it to step into my bathroom. I keep my gun raised. My shower has a frosted glass door, but I can still see nobody is inside and there’s nowhere else a full-grown human could hide. I walk back out into my bedroom.

That’s when I notice something in the middle of the four slabs of flesh. I step closer. It’s a photograph of Lauren and me. It’s the same one that was nailed to Philip Herdon’s cross—where Lauren and I are stepping out of my apartment. This time, it has something written on it:
Romans 8:13
.

I get onto the internet on my cell phone. I search for the Bible verse. The search engine displays the verse under the top link:

For if you live according to the flesh, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live.

Apparently, this killer likes to take metaphorical words and make them literal.

If you live according to the flesh…
I type the phrase into my phone’s browser and skim the discussion. One of the commenters has written, “…in this instance ‘flesh’ is in contrast with the Holy Spirit and it’s also connected to sexual immorality…”

Considering this photo was taken in the morning—evident by the fact that our shadows are cast to the west—I think I can safely assume that the killer is using this overly elaborate message to condemn Lauren and me for sleeping with each other. Did he not kill one of us because he already killed someone who committed adultery?

He didn’t kill either of us, right?

I dial Lauren’s number. It goes straight to voicemail.

“
H
ello
?” I answer.

“Where are you?” Tobias asks.

“I’m stepping onto your apartment’s floor right now…and there’s a police officer and forensic analysts in front of your door…what the hell is going on, Tobias?”

I don’t wait for an answer. I shut off the phone and take long strides over to his door. I flash my badge at the officer as he raises his hand to stop me from coming any closer.

“I’m Detective Williams. Detective Rodriguez is my partner—”

“Lauren,” Tobias says, nearly knocking over the officer as he steps out of his apartment. “Where have you been? I’ve called you three times.”

“I keep my phone on silent while I’m driving,” I tell him. “There’s this whole thing about driving and cell phones in case you haven’t been paying attention to the news. I don’t want to risk being distracted. I’m fairly certain that the bigger question is what on God’s earth is going on here? What is that smell?”

“Rotting flesh.”

“Rotting flesh? Please tell me that you left something in your fridge too long.”

“No…I mean that the killer got into my apartment and he nailed flesh from the lakeshore victim onto my wall. Oh, and in both cases there was a photograph of us involved and from the verse that the killer wrote on the photo, he doesn’t appreciate you and me being intimate.”

“What was the verse?” I ask, trying to look past him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder, pushing me back away from his apartment. “You don’t want to see what’s in there.”

“I’m going to see it later in the crime scene photos—”

“Yeah, seeing the photos and seeing the real thing is completely different,” he says. “The verse is Romans 8:13.”

“I don’t know that one. Do you remember what it says?”

“I know that it doesn’t say
nail human flesh to a detective’s wall
,” he says.

I cross my arms over my chest.

He sighs. “It says something about a person living by the flesh will die, but if you live with the Holy Spirit, you’ll live. It was truly a touching message that the killer sent me. I think we’ve brought our relationship to the next level: from general disagreement to contempt. But enough about me and my new best friend—how was your trip to Indianapolis? Was it as exciting as my day?”

“I’m fairly certain that Glenn’s ex-wife is innocent,” I say. “He worked a lot, they weren’t religious, and they have a cute kid. I think the trip was a waste.”

“Well, that’s too bad because I think it’s best if you leave the city again,” he says. “This killer seems to be focusing his murder spree within Detroit and it’s not safe. It seems like the killer is telling us that he thinks we’re sinners and he could decide to kill us at any point. That’s the whole problem with crazy people—they’re unpredictable.”

I take a step back. “I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of a case right now. Do you plan on leaving?”

“No, but one of us needs to stay behind and help solve the case. There’s no point in both of us risking our lives and it simply makes more sense for me to stay,” he says.

“How does it make more sense?” I ask. “Because I’m a woman?”

“Because if you were killed, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” he snaps.

“You don’t think I feel the same?” I retort. “You don’t think that I’d be devastated if you were killed?”

“I’m sure you would be upset,” he says. “But I’m also certain that you could eventually move on.”

“What?” I blurt. “Are you kidding me? You think that I care less than you?”

“No, I think your heart is more open to love than mine is,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to piss off everyone around me. You’re immune for some reason—likely because you’re too empathetic, but the facts are still—”

“This whole argument is bullshit,” I say. “If you’re staying here, I’m staying here. In fact, even if you left, I still wouldn’t go anywhere because there’s a crazy serial killer. For the record, it makes more sense for me to be here because I’m the one who actually knows the Bible.”

“I used the internet to look up that Bible verse you didn’t know,” he says. “That’s the amazing thing about the twenty-first century. The internet exists and I don’t have to know anything because it’s right there!”

“That’s not the same thing as knowing things off the top of your head. If it weren’t for me, you’d think this killer was part of the Illuminati—”

“Excuse me,” the police officer in front of Tobias’s apartment interrupts. “Are you two always like this?”

“No,” Tobias grumbles. “Fine. If you’re not going to leave, could we at least go back to the police station? That should be safer than it is here.”

I throw my hands in the air. “Fine.”

He reaches toward me, but I pull my hand away. He bows his head—the signal of shame—and as we head down the stairway of his apartment building, he doesn’t look at me at all, so I can’t read him. When we get to the bottom of the stairs, he finally turns to face me.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “This killer isn’t messing around and he truly believes what he’s doing is for the good of society.”

I take his hand. “It’s okay. We’re here together and we’ll find him.”

“I missed you,” he says.

I nod. I know I should repeat the phrase back to him—isn’t that what relationships are about? Everything being reflected back, so that we’re in constant equilibrium?—but I can’t because if I say the words, I’ll continue to get too attached and I know I need to cut ties in order to get the future with children that I want.

I take his hand anyway because his love is the one thing that keeps me from falling apart. I don’t know how I’ll deal with breaking up with him, but I have to do it.

“
O
kay
, we were running on the assumption that this killer’s victims were random—except for the fact that they had broken commandments—just like Mary’s victims were random,” I say, writing down the names of our two new victims on white board. “But Mary’s victims were not that random—she had Gavin Lively who was going to Pious Church, where she performed. There was Jackson Belamonte, who she said she didn’t kill, but he was still her ex-boyfriend and he was murdered. There was Sarah Lurie, who had been in the news since she had been a royal bitch after taking over her parent’s store. So, she knew one of the victims, she was in the same place as another victim, and she knew about Sarah Lurie through public information.”

“What about her almost victim?” Tobias asks, chewing on licorice as he sits on his desk. “The one that would have fulfilled
do not kill
. He was a gang member and had killed people. Maybe one of his victim's family members told her about it or something. She had a lot of strangers confiding in her.”

“See?” I say. “They were probably all connected to her somehow. It may not be the same as regular murders in terms of motive, but they all have to come into contact with our killer unless their murders were in the news.”

“Well, Glenn Erwin’s murder was in the news.” He taps licorice against his lips. “Still not sure how the killer would have known about Philip Herdon. It’s either someone at the bank, his wife, someone at the adoption agency, someone at his job…or maybe even one of the bar’s patrons caught on to what he was doing.”

I stare at the two names on the board. “Glenn Erwin’s murder was in the news but the killer knew he was in Detroit before anybody else. How did he know?”

“Maybe he saw him in Detroit?” Tobias suggests.

“We didn’t even know he was a killer until someone from Indianapolis identified him,” I say. “There has to be more to that story. What do Glenn and Philip have in common?”

I draw a Venn diagram around the two names.

“You really think we’re going to stumble on something they have in common? It’s not like we would have stumbled on Jackson and Gavin’s connection to Mary if we hadn’t thought she was kidnapped.”

“You need to be more positive.”

“This is me being positive,” he says. “If I was being negative, I would be telling you that we should just wait until we find the killer crucifying a body like we did with Mary.”

I shake my head at him and begin jotting down notes on the whiteboard. “Okay. They had different jobs, one was married, one wasn’t, they lived in different parts of the city…could they have had similar hobbies?”

“Glenn worked during the day and you said his ex-girlfriend said he was always working. Philip worked during the night as a bartender. Even if they did have a similar hobby, I don’t see how they could have spent much time together. Maybe at the bar, but they both had a kid too—it’s not like that leaves a lot of extra time on their hands.”

“Right,” I say, writing
child
where their two circles intersect. “They both had a kid, but their kids would have gone to different schools. Could they both have been on the same sports team?”

Tobias picks up a photo of Glenn and his son that had been in one of the newspapers. “Philip’s child was a girl. Glenn had a son. I don’t think there are too many activities that they would have been doing together.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit sexist?”

“No, I think that I understand how people separate children’s activities,” he says. “There’s girls teams and there’s boys teams. There’s Girl Scouts and there’s Boy Scouts.”

He flips around the photo of Glenn and Nathan.

“I still don’t think he looks anything like his son,” he says. “Is it possible that his wife cheated on him? I mean, if we’re going under the assumption that Glenn is the one who is supposed to represent a person who broke the commandment that orders people to not murder and that Philip is the one who represents someone who broke the commandment that says to not steal, then they skipped over infidelity.”

“If someone was meant to represent infidelity, it would be Philip, since the murder commandment would have to come before infidelity,” I say. “Besides, Glenn’s son is adopted.”

“Whoa.” Tobias jerks up onto his feet. He swallows the licorice he had been chewing. “His son is adopted? Philip’s daughter is adopted.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” I say, turning back to the whiteboard. Tobias shuffles through the papers on his desk.

“I’m pretty sure…” he mutters. He yanks up a piece of paper. “Yes. Mary’s father told me that she volunteered at adoption centers when we still thought she had been kidnapped.”

“Her manager said the same thing,” I say. “That’s our connection.”

Tobias finds another piece of paper. “The Herdons used an adoption agency called New Hearts.”

“Do you want to start making bets that it’s the same agency that the Erwins and Mary had been to as well?”

“I don’t gamble when the odds are against me,” he says.

I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him close to me. “You did with us.”

“You weren’t a gamble.” He kisses my cheek. “I was absolutely certain of you.”

“Are you still certain of me?” I ask.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?”

“No,” I say, planting a seed of hope when I know how cruel hope can be.