Blind Instinct

TEN

After dinner at the Savoy, Richard, with tickets in hand, announced that they were going to take in King Lear at the Globe Theatre.

They drove to the theater, located at a wide bend on the River Thames on the opposite shore to that of St. Paul's Cathedral between the Southwark Bridge and Blackfriar's Bridge.

The air felt thick with an electric intensity as the crowd grew and took on a rambling, monstrous life of its own. The madding crowd, Jessica thought. The public anticipation of the performance in the open-air, outdoor, Tudor theater had created an intensity in the impatient audience. Jessica took in the replica of the Globe Theatre, a painstakingly reconstructed edifice down to the oaken steps leading onto and off stage. Even the bard himself would recognize the theater as his home. The place did, in fact, represent an exact likeness of the theater in which Shakespeare's plays had been performed in his day. The only change Shakespeare would feel was that of time, for almost four hundred years had gone by.

“It's been a boondoggle, some say, reconstructing the great Globe,” Richard informed her. “Not everyone is happy with her.”

“Give me one reason why,” Jessica protested, staring at the beautiful stage, its circular shape and the two-story, surrounding building.

“It opened in 1997 at a cost of forty-six million of your American dollars. Having remained closed since 1613, purist and taxpayer alike didn't relish paying for it.”

“Then it came into being through government funding?”

“Matching funds for a wood and thatch construction on the south bank of the Thames, some two hundred yards from the site of the original? Imagine the fire insurance alone.”

Jessica's eye wandered to the concession stand where plastic pullover raincoats could be had for two pounds, about three dollars American.

“The original wooden O, as many call it, as Shakespeare himself called it in Henry V, was built in 1598 or '99 by a pair of well-to-do brothers, Cuthbert and Richard Burbage, using timbers from a failed theater in nearby Shoreditch. They wanted to place the O centrally, you see. Later, Shakespeare himself became a shareholder.”

“I suppose the original, being made of thatch and timber, rotted of old age?” she asked.

“Fate has never been too kind to the Globe, no. In 1613, the thatch was put alight by two cannons fired during a performance of Henry VIII. King Henry's ghost's revenge on Shakespeare for depicting him as he did, some say.”

Together they laughed at the jest.

Since there was no assigned seating at the Globe, further simulating Shakespeare's day, they made their way toward the stage, to locate seats as close to the action as possible. Richard now added, “History books say no one was hurt in the fire, except for one poor chap who, and I quote, 'Found his breeches afire so that it would have broiled him if he had not, with benefit of a provident wit, helped himself to some bottled ale to quench the flames.' “

Jessica laughed even harder at this image.

“The theater was rebuilt sometime after the fire, but again it came under destruction when in 1642 the Puritans, finding it offensive, demolished her as the breeding ground of the Devil that she is, you see.” Guiding her to her seat, he added, “If you look closely, the reconstruction is not entirely complete. There's still scaffolding at the rear and some finishing touches are being applied. Only last year did the plywood stage get replaced with the oaken one we now have. Still, even unfinished, the theater has enticed some 150,000 visitors annually, a figure that

is expected to triple by the year 2001.”

In a balcony built overlooking the stage, an actor began hurling insults at the audience, his own patrons. “Ya've paid full fair to sit on a wooden bench to hear buffoons wail out their sorrowful lives here? Are ya' daft, ya' citizens of London? 'Aven't ya' a telly for that, the telly and soap operas? Are ya' daft?” he venomously shouted and tossed confetti at the front rows.

A female, acting as his wife, came out on the balcony to scold him, telling him to leave the paying customers alone and to come away with her, to help her prepare for the show.

“Ya're all daft!” he called back. “Ya' could be sittin' at the Coat of Arms down the street having a pint!”

“Shut that big hole of yours!” replied the wife.

“I'll not be aggrieved by ya', woman, not in public and not in private!”

And off they went, arguing, only to be replaced by an aged man with a white, flowing beard who talked to himself about the alignment of the stars, the heavens, and the meaning of life there on the balcony.

“It's a tradition with the Globe, the stage balcony rows,” explained Richard. “Keeps the audience entertained and in a good mood before curtain rise.”

“How many people does the theater seat?” asked Jessica, curious.

'To cover the cost of an opening, ticket sellers have to fill the seats, some 1,394. Five pounds buys the rights to be a groundling.”

“A groundling?”

“See those people up front, all on their feet in the pit ahead of us?”

She nodded.

“Groundlings. They have a right to space on the floor, standing or sitting. We, by comparison, have tickets for a seat in the terraces, a bit more costly at sixteen pounds, but well worth it for these seats.”

They had found their seats and settled in. Richard said in her ear, “The season began in May with the Globe ensemble of actors performing four plays in repertory. Performances run till late September. Playwrights other than Shakespeare are performed here from time to time as well.”

“Such a splendid idea… to revive the Globe.”

“We Britons can't take all the credit in reviving the Globe,” Richard confessed. “One of your American actors, Sam Wanamaker, established a trust to raise funds for the project. Construction began in 1993, the year Wanamaker died at age seventy-four in fact.”

“I've seen Wanamaker on the screen and on TV.” Jessica pictured the ruddy-faced, tall Wanamaker.

“The project is still several million dollars short, and was ten million short when the Globe opened in '93.”

As if hearing Sharpe, and as if on cue, a new character atop the theater at the balcony yelled down to the patrons to open their pocketbooks. “You critics among you who said the theater would never survive! You dig the deepest and pay treble for those seats you now have! Come along, out with it! There are jars and wretched fellows milling about who will take your donations!”

“We're still paying for her, but she is grand, isn't she?” asked Richard. “Right down to her Norfolk reed roof, the oak beams, the hand-turned balustrades.”

“Yes, it's a fantastic recreation,” Jessica agreed when suddenly thunder roared all around them, yet the source could be traced to crude sounds being created behind the stage.

“Even the sound effects are authentic to their time,” he explained. “That's heavy metal shot, cannonballs, rolled about in a metal washtub to simulate the sound of an approaching storm.”

“So there's actually no sound equipment?”

“None but what human hands and minds can create. There's no electricity, no lights, actually. Look around you.”

“So that's why we're here so early.”

“The performance ends with nightfall, just as in Shakespeare's day.”

“It's a totally 'rough' experience.”

“Exactly. The only thing not authentic is that we, the audience, aren't allowed to bring in overripe fruit and vegetables to throw at the actors.”

Jessica's behind already felt sore on the hard wood “terrace” seats. Taking her mind off the lack of creature comforts, Jessica noticed other buildings standing about, also with Tudor construction and thatch roofs. “What goes on there?” she asked, pointing.

“Just opened the final phase of the project, two museums, or rather one an educational center, and a three-hundred-seat small theater designed from blueprints left by Elizabethan architect Inigo Jones. Plan is to have them all operational by 2001 and have a gala millennium party alongside the 401st performance on the Globe stage at the same time.”

“What an undertaking! It's magnificent,” she conceded.

“The theater itself is fully operational now, and will support the cost of its operation. I firmly believe that, as a member of the board of trustees.”

“Ahhh, no wonder you know so much about it.”

“It's become a passion, something to give myself over to so that I am not wholly swallowed up by my job, as in the past.”

She thought momentarily of how her own work had swallowed up relationships, such as her and Jim Parry's irreconcilable problems, which prompted her to say, “Something all of us in law enforcement must… guard against.”

“Something indeed… When I allowed my job to consume me, well… for my troubles my wife gave me my walking papers.”

“Divorce. I'm sorry.”

“You see, too much time devoted to my work, not enough to the ones I love.”

“I'm so sorry for any pain you've been put through, Richard.”

“Pain, depression, you can say the whole gamut came down around me. Had to take some time off, get back my focus, regroup. The Globe project, when it came along, well, it worked as a lifesaver for me.”

Jessica settled in comfortably, excited at the same time. Then the curtains, faithful to history, were hand-pulled back to reveal the opening scene in Lear. She soon learned that Richard hadn't exaggerated in the least about the method of “special effects” here. Sounds and sights were indeed faithfully reproduced, even the firing off of a cannon like the one that burned down the original Globe.

King Lear had always held a great fascination for Jessica. Especially interesting to her was the tragic tyrant who, when he had eyes, could not see, and when blind, could see. The play, she believed, actually represented a metaphor for all mankind, the blind lives we all lead.

At the close of evening, walking from the theater, Sharpe asked if she'd like to see the Thames from Blackfriar's Bridge. She accepted, and they made the short stroll to the center of the bridge overlooking the river and nearby massive St. Paul's Cathedral by moonlight.

While there he reached out, took her hand in his, telling her, “You are an extraordinary woman, Jessica Coran. I've not met anyone like you before.”

“Funny,” she replied, squeezing the hand that he'd placed in hers. “I've been thinking the same thought about you, Richard Sharpe.”

“Perhaps we should do something about our feelings?” It came out as a question. He added a warm smile.

She dropped her gaze from his. “Perhaps. If you feel it won't jeopardize our working relationship.”

“We won't allow it to.”

“Are you sure? It often changes things.”

He kissed her under the pale lampposts of Blackfriar's Bridge. She eagerly kissed him back. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel light-headed, giddy, and wanted all at once.

“Let's go to my place,” he suggested. “I can make you breakfast there.”

“Why not enjoy the York? We'll order room service,” she countered.

“I have no other reply than… Yes, why not?” With Richard Sharpe's deep, rhythmic breathing a soothing anthem alongside her, Jessica studied his peacefully dozing countenance. Unfortunately with her evil friend insomnia also in bed with her, Jessica took only fitful breaths of air; at the same time, she brought back the images and the wonder of Sharpe's and her intermingling. They'd meshed effortlessly, naturally, intuitively in their lovemaking; the two of them in sync, in symbiosis. How truly free and extraordinary.

Unable to sleep, Jessica cautiously pulled herself up to a sitting position, not wishing to disturb Richard. She sat contemplating the feelings within her, stirrings which Richard had left rummaging about inside her. Jessica carefully brought her legs over the bed. She searched through her purse on the bedside table, and from it, she pulled forth the last letter she had received from James Perry.

Both she and James had tried to hold on to the unraveling shreds of a long-distance relationship. Trying to make love work from across oceans and continents was hard to do in any time zone, and in any historical era. Was it an impossibility in the late 1990s, she wondered, or simply an impossibility for the likes of Dr. Jessica Coran? At any rate, their long-nurtured, long-distance affair had proved impossible, no matter whose fault, hers or Jim's or theirs.

Perhaps, she simply hadn't the determination required to maintain any close relationship. “So what do I do?” she muttered to herself. “I intentionally seek out relationships divided by continents and pernicious seas. Ultimately, safer that way,” she finished with a disdainful moan. She then stared down at Richard, whose catlike serenity irked her; she so envied it. A part of her, a large part of her, wanted to simply cry her eyes out, here and now. She wanted to cry for James, cry for the death of their love, cry for the confusion she felt, cry for Richard and herself, for what they had now undertaken together, cry for the future of their obvious long-distance relationship-the one that could come of this night, if she let it. She wondered if it would simply be a great deal easier and wiser and cleaner and better if she told Richard they had no future whatever together. That he must immediately forget any thoughts along those lines. She wondered if she ought not to simply lie to him, tell him that she could never love him as she did James. “Would certainly make things simpler,” she mumbled aloud.

She wanted to bum Jim's last letter, bum it in effigy to their several “reconciliations” and get the anger out. Instead, she sat rereading it, reminding herself that her intuition, upon reading the letter the first time around, had told her the relationship was over. She'd stubbornly and foolishly ignored the information from within, denial being the predator of all reason, the predator of all who failed to heed their own inner voices.

Jessica realized now for the second time, that all the signals had been given her then, and they were vivid, huge signals, like billboards in the sky. Signs she had simply chosen to ignore; signs she unconsciously shunned, like an insistent dream that one ignored only to find it coming to full-blown life.

“And me with my handwriting expertise, learned the hard way on the job,” she muttered in a whisper. “If only I'd subjected this letter to the same analysis I would a criminal's letter.” If only I had paid attention to the handwriting, the hesitation marks that skitter between the lines, she thought now. But like a motorist on an interstate, she'd been moving too fast to read the fine print on the billboard.

She imagined that if she closely examined his last several letters, she would find signs of the impending doom that had befallen the two of them. Love makes you blind, she told herself. She told her shadow self, the one keeping her awake, something altogether different. “Love's a war, a battle for one's soul, and in the battle pieces are lost, scars won, mostly scars bearing the appearance of defensive wounds. Love's poison. Love's a bitch. Love's a killing offense.”

Richard-half asleep and in what appeared a muddled nightmare-crinkled his forehead and mumbled something about a bastard, stakes, and crosses. Jessica imagined his personal nightmare of the moment filled to overflowing with the spirits of menace in a place thickly populated by demons. A pained gasp for air made her wonder if he were dreaming of his own crucifixion death, pinned to a cross, unable to move or to fight back. Then as suddenly as the darkness had swept over his brow, the dreamer smiled a grin similar to those she'd seen on Coibby and Burton, one of contentment, peace.

Obviously, Sharpe lives, breathes, and sleeps his work, she thought. Just as I do. The conviction grew the longer she stared down at his prone figure. Still, he was older than James, and retirement for him loomed on the near horizon. He'd be free to come to America. They could both live in the Quantico area where he might buy a large farm-no, a ranch with horses. She loved horses and horseback riding, and when he would call for her to come out on a weekend, she'd drop everything and be there and… Her dreams ran a bit rampant for a half second, her eyes fixed on Richard Sharpe lying alongside her, her “alongsider” friend and lover.

Their lovemaking rivaled any lovemaking she'd ever known, and she sensed it the tip of the iceberg with this man. They had been cautious, yet passionate with one another, halting yet fulfilling each other's needs. Jessica knew that she could grow to love this man.

She reread the letter for the eleventh time. James had desperately tried to make it come clear to her, clear that she either choose her career or him, clear that he could no longer accept the status quo: the burden of the long-distance love affair they'd established had fallen squarely on her shoulders-typical of the male of the species.

Checking the time, realizing it is after twelve noon in Hawaii, Jessica impulsively telephones James. She checks the digital figures on her bedside clock and while she realizes the hour puts him at work, she calls nonetheless. Her toe begins tapping at the air where it dangles alongside the bed, and she mentally taps her thoughts: He will be at his desk, she assures herself, pacing, wondering if he'd done the right thing, calling off their relationship, worried sick about her. On the fourth ring, he answers, acting surprised to hear from her again, when in fact he is not in the least surprised. When he speaks, he spews forth venom, telling her, “Jess, damnit, it's over now! Now, please never call here again!”

In the background, she hears someone softly asking if everything is all right: a female associate. Jessica throws the telephone through a nearby mirror where it is swallowed up. Her eyes open, and she finds, found, located herself in time and place, found herself being held against Richard Sharpe's powerful chest, listening to the beating drum of his heart, feeling the power of his grip on her back where his hands and fingers massaged while his voice soothed her pain.

Sharpe had grabbed her, holding on, telling her, “You're all right, Jessica. Your nightmare is just that, a nightmare.” His voice flowed like fine wine, strong, firm, reassuring, solid.

“Sorry,” she softly apologized, awake enough now to distinguish dream from reality, to assure him that she was no infant in need of coddling.

“Lamenting the death of an old relationship is never easy,” he replied, holding up the letter from Jim Parry.

She snatched at the paper, tearing it even as he welcomed her taking it. “That's private!” she shouted, realizing that this moment could end their relationship with one stroke, that it represented one of those escape exits from a relationship that Dr. Donna LeMonte, her psychiatrist and friend, had so often told Jessica she grasped at like straws. She could so easily overreact, sending Richard out into the night, screaming at him for daring to touch her letter from Jim. She could easily accuse him of having read her private correspondence, of finding the act vile. Or she could hold on. Hold to the moment, hold to Richard, hold.

“I quite well know and understand the depression and horror of a long-term relationship falling apart,” he calmly said, his hands still massaging her back.

“None of my relationships have any chance whatsoever, thanks to my

… This obsessive drive to be the best forensic scientist I can be.” She found herself confessing and not knowing why. Sharpe brought it out in her. She wanted to share everything with him, including her darkest moments and her every mole.

'To be the best at something. No better desire or goal on the planet. And you are, you know, the best M.E. I've ever seen at work. You don't have to keep proving yourself to me. Boulte, yes. Me, no.” He said it with the rich, lusty laugh which he'd trumpeted at the theater.

“God, you're a wonderful man,” she told him.

“That's the nicest thing a woman, any woman, has said to me in a long time.”

She bit on her lower lip, pouting. “So, you've found me out, and quickly. I found you irresistible from the start, from the moment I first saw you in my office.”

“I had no idea.”

“Nonsense, Inspector. You're both too observant and too fast for that, Sharpe.”

He countered, saying, “I find you keenly quick-intelligent, capable-and as to your obsessions, well, I rather fancy them admirable obsessions. Far more so than those of women obsessed with hair, lipstick, and ornamentation.”

She smiled at this. “Will you find it so admirable once I've returned to the States?”

“We're both adults, Jessica. We've both been in prior relationships, both good and bad. I have no wish to put any yokes on you. Besides, it's a great deal closer to London from Washington than it is to Hawaii.”

She looked peculiarly at him. She hadn't explained to him anything about James Parry or ever mentioned Hawaii to him, not that she could recall. “Then you did read Jim's letter. How else could you know it was Hawaii?” she asked, point-blank. “You said so, in your sleep.”

“I did?”

“You repeatedly said the words 'paradise' and 'Hawaii' amidst a gibberish about spawning whales. I could not follow. I tried waking you before you toppled the phone, but-”

'Toppled the phone?”

He pointed to the floor beside the bed. She realized now that the buzzing in her ears was the phone off its cradle where it lay on the floor beside the bed.

“Perhaps you're not quite over this fellow in Hawaii, in which case, I feel that perhaps I ought not to have stayed.”

“No, no, Richard. I'm glad you and I, that we… that we have had this moment. It's been…” She wanted to say therapeutic, but she feared he'd take that description badly. He reached her mouth with his and covered her halting words, taking her breath away, feeding on it. She responded with quick energy, returning his probing kiss, feeling the heat and passion rising in Richard Sharpe again, feeling her own passions well up and boil over.

“It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a woman, and never one so beautiful as you,” he continued the none-too-subtle flattery, and she loved it.

“It's been a long time since a man has lied so well to me,” she countered.

“Lie!” He laughed and repeated it. “Lie? Me? Inspector Richard Sharpe of Scotland Yard? Lie to a lady? Never about such matters of importance.”

“Shut up. Kiss me.” She kissed him, James's letter falling in a crumple on the floor beside the bed with the phone still off the hook.

They made love for the second time, and the second proved better than the first time. Jessica's thoughts and memories of James Parry dissipated and faded as Richard's touch opened her mind to new possibilities. She particularly enjoyed hearing Sharpe laugh in complete and total abandon when he came in her.

They enjoyed a shower together and a large breakfast via room service the next morning, and Richard, having no change of clothes, left ahead of Jessica to swing by his flat to find what he needed. They both felt a euphoria about the step they had taken in forging a personal bond. Neither felt obligated to the other, and yet both wished to get to know the other at a still deeper level. They had parted with this feeling strong between them. Jessica had stopped just short of telling Richard how awful she felt at ever having, even for a moment, suspected him in setting up the Crucifixion murders to further his career. The nasty, vulture-atop-a-tree suspicious mind she had cultivated over the years, so rich in its cynicism, so capable in its bullshit detection, had simply kicked in prematurely there in Hyde Park when Richard had stepped off the crime scene so abruptly, leaving her alone with Copperwaite. Now she rather admired his having simply dropped everything-all of his duties and responsibilities-to seek out his girls in an effort to reassure himself of their safety.

Still, she thought better of telling him of her foolish suspicions during that fleeting moment in Hyde Park. The suspicion had come and gone like a bird flying in through an open window and out another. No big deal. Funny, really. Perhaps, one day, she might tell him, so that he might see clearly and exactly the bad sort he'd become involved with. But not now, not here. She feared spoiling what they had only just found.

The phone rang, and Jessica found Chief Inspector Boulte on the other end. “I've gathered together every available detective, policeman, and investigator in and out of Scotland Yard who has devoted any time at all to the case, and it has amounted to some one hundred and fifty chaps and ladies, all of whom I wish for you to speak to this morning.”

“Speak to… today?”

“As soon as you can get here, yes.”

“About what we've uncovered thus far about the Crucifier? “Exactly.”

“You know how very little that is, Chief Inspector.”

He cleared his throat before replying, “I do, but our chaps need some guidance, and that is what you are here for, correct? Haven't you developed a complete picture-profile-of the killer as yet?”

“I have some preliminary notes, but-”

“Good show, then read from your notes. See you in half an hour, then?”

He hung up before she could protest with another word.

Jessica quickly dressed now in a lime green two-piece suit with a forest-green blouse. The colors accentuated her auburn hair and set off her smooth, tanned skin and hazel eyes. She located her black valise and keys and set off for the stroll from the York to the Yard.

The morning air felt crisp, clean, and brand-new, and the sun felt like the life-giving source that it was. All around her, life appeared bright, teemed full with promise, and Jessica realized that her dream of telephoning Parry had been a compensatory dream. Compensating for her true feelings of relief that it was finally and cleanly over with James. While she cherished their most intimate and fun-filled moments together, she, too, had felt the weight of their relationship like heavy chains of late. Her entire body now felt airy. Still a lump of remorse stuck in her craw, a set of smoky, mirrored images of James and her together in past moments, embracing; images of them in an imagined future. This sad and wasted hope conspired with her unease at presenting what little evidence they had against the Crucifier at an open meeting at Scotland Yard. It proved enough to make her feel nauseous. Her stomach felt as if someone had left a hot poker inside her.

She tried to concentrate on her surroundings, ban the ill thoughts, doubts, and fears. This area of London displayed wealth and pomp on every comer, at every hotel door and lobby, even down to what the doormen wore. Public pounds kept this area of the City clean day and night. The vagrants were kept out, leaving tourists with the impression that Britain suffered no homeless problem, no poverty, prostitution, or drugs. All social ills locked away or kept at bay, just beyond the tourist-dollar districts.

Jessica watched London cabs and buses and people bustle about the streets. Each had a purpose, a sure destination; while she, like a rank tourist, stared at all the wonders of the City. Suddenly a strange, odd, eerie twinge of fear struck like small lightning down her spine, as if the Crucifier were close by, damned near within touch, simply observing her out of morbid curiosity, having learned of her presence on the case. Yet when she stopped to look in every direction, staring down one cabdriver, she found no one stalking her, no cameras pointed.

She dismissed the notion and continued on to Scotland Yard, finally coming within sight of the revolving cube-shaped sign. At the entry, she flashed both her FBI badge and her temporary Scotland Yard ID and was allowed to pass by the armed security guards.

She didn't relish the idea of speaking before the huge crowd Boulte had assembled, and she wondered where in the building such a crowd might be stored. She stepped back to the guards, asking advice. One of the pair, in his late twenties to early thirties, said she must take the elevator for the top floor. “Entire top floor is a theater with a stage,” he told her.

When the elevator opened on the top floor of the building, she found people in suits milling so thick that she had to fight her way off the elevator before the doors closed on her. She'd found the meeting room, a large lecture hall with a microphone and chairs set up before a table at the front.

Richard Sharpe, Stuart Copperwaite, Father Luc Sante, and Paul Boulte sat at the panel table, all of them looking sharply up at her as she entered. There was an expectant look on Boulte's face, like a pit bull before feeding. Luc Sante gave her a professional nod and a beaming smile. Copperwaite bit his own lower lip, and Richard dropped his gaze, as if pretending no interest in her whatsoever.

Just as it should be, she thought before plunking down her valise at her feet and a small notebook on the table.

“Good, Dr. Coran,” said Boulte. “Glad you could join us. I've informed Dr. Coran that we wish to share all we have with the citywide task force, including but not limited to the information Dr. Coran unearthed regarding the tongues, and the meaning of the words found on those brands. We may proceed now, gentlemen and ladies.”

“I would first like to make a call to Dr. Raehael,” Jessica interrupted. “I have put him to work on creating some slides from the wounds. They may be helpful here.”

'Time being a factor, I took the liberty. Here are your slides,” replied Boulte, who with an upturned finger signaled someone in the dark rear of the room to bring up slide number one. Instantly, the murmurs and scattered discussions among the assembled police authorities fell to a dying hush as everyone stared at the seared flesh and lettering found on the fourth victim's tongue, the best impression they had been able to get. The words, large on the screen behind Jessica and the panel, reading Mihi beata mater held an eerie quality about them in their grand scale.

The room fell silent, seeing for the first time the words of the Crucifier. No one had anything to say, not a single question regarding the tongue brandings. So Jessica, after asking Dr. Luc Sante to explain the meaning of the words to everyone, moved straight into her profiling of the killer or killers.

“The suspect or suspects will most likely be white, a man or men who live in the Bow Bells district, and most certainly London, and if he does not have a Messiah complex, it will be just as twisted or just as closely linked with one.” She stopped to let this sink in. The response from the audience was one of whispered heckling, as if what she said must be obvious to all present. Some brave fellow finally said, “Really now?”

Another asked, “Is that an absolute certainty?” The tone alone ridiculed.

“The killer may have developed some interest in St. Michael, patron saint of the exorcists, and so as you can imagine, he likely spends a great deal of time on religious matters. Still, he may exhibit an emotional age of late teens to early twenties. He likely lives or works within close proximity to the crime scene, or in this case the dump sites. He may have recently acquired some knowledge or a psychological jolt to his system, some shocking news, as in the death of a close family member, the breakup of a long-standing relationship, perhaps a divorce or loss of income.” She unconsciously stopped and eyed Richard. Then she hurried on, adding, “He may be a spontaneous person with a quick temper. He may take great pride in his vehicle.” She read her own notes and paused, not sure she herself believed this one. The typical profile may not apply here, she reminded herself. “Might brag about his van or truck to others, might even joke about how many bodies it can carry. Having left the scene in disarray, we believe him to be a youthful offender, inexperienced at killing. He is known to have been in the Victoria Gardens Embankment-York-front area between three and four in the morning of the first discovered body. Now since the fourth killing, characteristics the killer may be displaying are: a change in eating and drinking habits, and personal hygiene. Inappropriate or obsessive interest in the crimes. The killer may frequently initiate discussion about one or more of the victims and the crimes. Anyone acting like a different person, and anyone who may have suddenly left the area.” Finished, Jessica asked for questions from the floor. She received many. Some seemed oddly repetitious, and she found herself having to repeat herself. She pushed on. “The crucifixion deaths, Sharpe and I surmise”-Jessica paused to stare out at the detectives and beat cops from all over the city-”may have all to do with the coming millennium! As if the year 2000 were not enough, now we face 2001, and together, we'd like everyone to explore this possibility.”

“Explore it how?” came another British-accented question from the group.

“Yes, how do you mean that. Doctor?” came the confusion.

A deep breath and she replied, “Primarily, we're asking that you be attuned to it.”

“How do you mean, precisely, 'attuned to it'?” came back an instant response from the seats.

Damn but some of their questions seem of the idiot fringe, she nastily thought, then calmly said, “Read up on the coming 'true' millennium, the actual, honest to goodness one: 2001. Any deaths by cult members, any suicides relative to a cult practice and the beliefs associated with this notion we are at last on doomsday's doorstep. And don't forget anything to do with St. Michael or a St. Michael's cult you may stumble over.”

“I see,” replied the last questioner. “Like your Hale-Bhopal thing in America?”

“Hale-Bhopp,” she gently corrected.

Stuart Copperwaite cleared his throat and helped Jessica out. “There's enough evidence to imply that our man, or men, are engaged in some sort of bizarre ritual surrounding the events that took the life of Christ. In the year of Our Lord's two thousandth birthday, 2001.. well, gentlemen and ladies, figure it out.”

“So, it's as we thought before we got outside help,” Chief Inspector Boulte said rather caustically and clumsily.

“Except that now we 'ave four victims of crucifixion murders, instead of three,” said a female inspector from the floor. Another woman chimed in with, “We've got ourselves another freaking Jesus freak, that's sure.”

“Agreed, our killer has a Messiah complex,” Sharpe softly added.

“Not just any old Jesus freak,” suggested Copperwaite.

“A far more dangerous one this time around,” cautioned Jessica. “One who indeed acts on his fantasy, and as we all know, religious fantasy-even in the hands of the supposed knowledgeable 'authorities' such as the Inquisition, this sort of perversion of religious beliefs can be absolute in its madness. We can't worry ourselves with a motive that only the killer comprehends.”

“So what do we do now?” asked a heavyset detective, between moments of working a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the next.

“Yes, you want us to be on the lookout for hippies and skinheads or just what?” came the questions from the floor.

Jessica gently urged, “Be in tune with the killer as much as possible.”

“And precisely how do we do that, mum… ahhh, Doctor?” asked another in an aggrieved tone. “What do you think of this, Sharpe?”

Jessica held a hand up to Sharpe before he could answer, and said, “You have to climb into his head. Be him.”

Sharpe said, “Dr. Coran has made extreme strides ahead in the investigation, helping us out tremendously in a short matter of days. We expect to follow up on the leads she has provided.”

Boulte put a prompt end to Jessica's question and answer period when he called upon Father Jerrard Luc Sante to take the podium to discuss the killer and his profile from Luc Sante's point of view. Jessica picked up her paltry notes and the forensic reports she had yet to complete and made her way to her seat. She herself felt great interest in what Jerrard Luc Sante might add to the picture. Luc Sante clambered to his feet with a cane in his hand, which he used for pointing at the slide still displayed on the wall behind him. He repeated the words, “Mihi beata mater,” jabbing each word with the end of his black cane. “It's a grave morning to you all, lads, gentlemen, ladies of the law,” began Luc Sante, his eyes giving away that powerful light of energy that Jessica believed marked him as a passionate individual. “I pity you your profession. What you must deal with on a daily basis. You are the vanguard, the army set against evil in this age. Now, today, we must explore this possibility that Dr. Coran has spoken of, this cult slant to the crime. Cults and cultism, I fear, are all too real. Throughout the Bible and throughout history, cults have thrived among us as freely as disease and domesticated dogs, and the more dangerous the cult is can be judged by how often and to what degree the cult threatens the life of its own followers or members of society at large.”

He allowed this to sink in. His intonation, his rich, redolent voice, filled the room. Once more Jessica felt a strong affinity with the wise old one.

“Many interesting human traits are put to the test at a time like this, at and around the turn of the ordinary century, but this… None of us knows of anyone who has been 'stressed' by a coming millennia-twice if you will, given the millennium readiness first made for the year 2000, and now for 2001. Still, we already know that millennia mania and cruel phobias surrounding this portentous time are rising out of control, beyond anything we've seen before.”

Luc Sante had the undivided attention of every man and woman in the room as he discussed the possibilities in some detail. “The killer or killers may be fixated on the coming of year 2001.” He separated each word for emphasis. “And the possibility the killer or killers are trying to hurry along Christ's Second Coming is hardly out of the question.” He banged his cane down and it sounded like a gunshot.

This was met with murmurs, a general disquiet, some snickers. Jessica tried to imagine what a police precinct in Chicago, L.A., New York, or Miami would do with such “news” from this expert.

Luc Sante judged the level of suspicion and disbelief, and then he added, “Belief in a millennial experience that will bring Christ to reign again on Earth, ladies and gentlemen, is based on the Resurrection story and the Bible's own Book of Revelation, and this belief recurs throughout the history of Christianity. Hedging their bets, the Catholic Church has made the year 2001 a jubilee year, as they had 2000, and the Adventists and several other conservative, evangelical groups take it even more seriously.”

“Pardon, Dr. Luc Sante,” interrupted Boulte. “Father, are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Luc Sante pushed on, adding, “Christ's Second Coming has always been just over the next horizon. Well, the actual date of the millennium is one hell of a horizon, my friends.”

At eleven in the morning, Boulte called a halt to the meeting, encouraging everyone with a quip, “Do keep a sharp lookout for anyone impersonating Jesus H. Christ, lads.”

The assembled investigators, some 160 of them, filed out of the largest room in the Yard's facility, in abject silence or confused murmurs.

Boulte took Luc Sante's hand, shook it vigorously, and turned to Jessica and Sharpe, while Copperwaite stood a bit off to one side. Boulte said simply, “I've put all my trust in you people. Dr. Coran, Dr. Luc Sante, Sharpe. Get me some results and quickly.”

Sharpe simply nodded. Luc Sante simply smiled. Jessica said, “We'll end the career of the Crucifier soon, Chief Inspector. He will make a mistake. He will slip up sometime, somewhere.”

“Soon, I pray.” And Boulte was gone in search of his office.“I have paperwork to my eyeballs,” Sharpe said, “and Stuart has some phone calls to make, and we have some interrogations to take. Getting some anonymous dps, mostly bogus, but we have to follow through.”

“Dr. Coran is in good hands, Inspector,” Luc Sante assured Richard. “We have much to discuss, don't we, Dr. Coran?”

“About our year 2001 theories? Yes, we do.”

“Good, then share a cab with me back to my humble cathedral. I must get back to my office on time or my secretary, Eeadna, will have my head.”

Before she could answer Luc Sante, Richard interrupted, extending his good-bye, which Jessica thought sweet. Then the somewhat subdued Copperwaite followed Sharpe out the door. Copperwaite's body language told Jessica that somehow he knew about Richard and her. It might account for his awkward standoffishness.

“I want you to come back to St. Albans with me, Dr. Coran,” requested Father Jerrard Luc Sante again as they climbed aboard the elevator and pushed for the main floor.

“I really can't, not just now. I have far too much awaiting my attention in the lab this morning,” she countered, “but I do wish to pursue this cult notion and the millennium question with you. Perhaps later?”

He smiled and nodded. “I certainly understand how very busy you must be, Dr. Coran. Forgive me my persistence, and yes, perhaps later. Call me, but for now, do walk with me out to the cab stand. I must share my views with you.”

“Absolutely,” she agreed as the elevator doors opened. Jessica walked him past security and through the glass doors.

Outside, the stark sun burned their eyes. Luc Sante hailed a cab with his black walking stick. He opened the cab door but hesitated getting in. “I do wish to consult with you on this madman you and Sharpe are pursuing.”

“Your input is much appreciated, sir, really.”

“Oh, you needn't stroke me, my dear. I'm beyond having any ego whatsoever when it comes to needing a compliment fix. No, what I need from you is a sounding wall, a confidant. You see, I've been having these hellish, nightmarish dreams of late, all having to do with this maniac. I see him as a shadow, quite vague, but quite clearly intent on a mission, a religious test or quest if you will, to please God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost and the Virgin Mary, all of it. To set right what is wrong in the world. Does that sound foolish?”

“Not at all, Dr. Sante.”

“Luc Sante,” he corrected her. “It is said as one name.”

Jessica felt agreement between them on the killer's motives and fantasy, but when she brought up the notion that there might be two killers rather than one, Luc Sante quickly shook his head and said, “No, not two. But perhaps an entire congregation, a cult following, along the order of any church, you see… There is always a congregation.”

“Yes, that would make sense, but convincing that many people that crucifying innocent people is a good approach to… to-”

“To inspire the Second Coming, yes. There is literally no limit to the numbers on this planet who would gladly involve themselves in a ritual designed to reanimate Christ, my dear. My God, look at what else people involved themselves with during the year 2000. When December 31, 1999, gave way to midnight, Iceland lit bonfires, England gave a nationwide pealing of bells, and your New York turned Times Square into a circus; an extravaganza of TV screens and lights, showing festivals and feasts in all twenty-four time zones, but the suicides and the cult ritual deaths followed in the news as did the orgies.”

“It stands to reason that, thanks to the X-Filing of America, most Americans will be expecting Christ to descend over the New Jersey Meadowlands in the mothership again come this January 1, 2001.”

“Right you are. The psychological countdown began long ago, and the psychological fallout from the enormity of the disappointment-should Christ not show up, should the world not end or be punished… Well, imagine it. All those religious leaders marching their followers off to seaside shores, mountaintops, holy lands, and valleys. All those survivalists in your Utah and Idaho mountains for the Day of Judgment. It may well be devastating to us all, I fear. My French grandmother had a term fitting such extravagances, fin de siecle, now a synonym for the 2000 bridge to the 2001 disillusionment.”

“Fin de siecle? End of a cycle?” she guessed.

“Quite.”

The cab stood idling, the driver growing anxious to move on, anxious for the next fare, “Father, I'm dyin' here,” he called out, sounding more like a Brooklyn cabdriver than a British one.

Father Luc Sante ignored the rude ruffian, gently reached into his inside pocket, and from deep within the folds of the cloth, he brought forth his business card, extending it toward Jessica. “Do ring me up when you can, dear. We have much to discuss.” Jessica nodded and tucked the card away in her own pocket. She shook his hand again and felt the warmth and energy coursing through his hand to hers.

She waved to the old man as he ambled into the cab, fighting with his knobby black walking stick. She wondered at the dedication of such a man, after so many years, that he should still enjoy his work, after seeing so much of the dark underbelly of humankind. This gave way to the fleeting thought that the old man himself must hold enormous fears for his clients and congregation both in the church and in his psychiatric practice. The old priest must also behold the turn of the true millennium with great trepidation, as did Jessica.