I Know a Secret

Twenty-one

Tied to a stake, Saint Polycarp the martyr gazed serenely heavenward as the flames engulfed him, searing his skin and consuming his flesh. The man in this full-color illustration did not plead or shriek as he was burned alive on the pyre; no, he appeared to welcome the agony that would bring him straight to the arms of his Savior. Studying the image of Polycarp’s demise, Jane thought of the time she’d splattered herself with hot grease while frying chicken, and she imagined the pain of that burn magnified a thousandfold, the flames lighting her clothes, her hair. Unlike Saint Polycarp, she wouldn’t be gazing at heaven with a look of rapture. She’d be shrieking her head off.

Enough of this. She turned to the next page in the book, only to confront another martyr, another portrait of agony. The color illustration showed the death of Saint Erasmus of Formiae in all its bloody glory, with Erasmus stretched across a table as his torturers slit his belly open and wrapped his entrails around a windlass.

From her daughter’s bedroom came the sound of Regina giggling as Gabriel read her a bedtime story, jarringly happy sounds that made the images in The Book of Martyrs seem all the more grotesque.

The doorbell buzzed.

Relieved to set aside the relentlessly gruesome illustrations, she left the kitchen to greet the visitor.

Father Daniel Brophy looked thinner and wearier than the last time she’d seen him, only seven months ago. His face reminded her of the martyrs she’d just been studying, a man resigned to his miseries.

“Thank you for coming, Daniel,” said Jane.

“I’m not sure I can offer you much assistance, but I’m happy to try.” As he hung up his coat, childish laughter erupted from Regina’s bedroom.

“Gabriel’s putting her to bed. Let’s go talk in the kitchen.”

“Is Maura joining us?”

“No. It’s just you and me.”

Was that disappointment or relief she saw in his eyes? She led him into the kitchen, where he surveyed the books and papers spread across the table.

“I’ve been reading up on the saints,” she said. “Yeah, I know I should already know all this, but what can I say? Catechism class dropout.”

“I thought you weren’t convinced about Maura’s theory.”

“I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’ve learned it’s not smart to ignore her theories. Because more often than not, she turns out to be right.” Jane nodded at the Cassandra Coyle and Timothy McDougal files on the table. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to find anything that links these victims, except for the mystery woman who attended both their funerals. They had no friends in common; they lived in different neighborhoods, worked in different fields, and attended different colleges. But they were both drugged with ketamine and alcohol, and both were mutilated postmortem. Based on those mutilations, Maura believes the killer is obsessed with Catholic lore. That’s where you come in.”

“Because I’m your expert on saints and martyrs?”

“And you’re also familiar with religious symbols in art. That’s what Maura tells me.”

“I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by sacred art. I’m somewhat familiar with the iconography.”

“Then could you take another look at these crime-scene photos?” Jane slid her laptop across the table to him. “Tell me if anything new jumps out at you. Anything that might give us insight into this killer’s mind.”

“Maura and I have discussed these photos in detail. Shouldn’t she be part of this conversation?”

“No, I’d rather hear from you separately.” She added quietly, “It would be less complicated for you both, don’t you think?”

She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, as stark as if she’d just thrust a blade into his chest. He sagged back in his chair and nodded. “When she called me, I thought I was ready to handle it. I thought we could both move forward as friends.”

“Going on that retreat to Canada didn’t help change things?”

“No. The retreat felt more like going under anesthesia. A long, deep coma. For six months I managed not to feel anything. Then when she called, when I saw her again, it was like suddenly waking up from that coma. And the pain was back. As bad as ever.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel. Sorry for both of you.”

From the bedroom came Regina’s voice, calling out, “Good night, Daddy!” Jane saw Daniel wince, and she wondered: Does he regret never marrying, never having children? Does he ever pine for the life he could have had if he’d never donned that priest’s collar?

“I want her to be happy,” he said. “Nothing is more important to me than that.”

“Nothing except your vows.”

He looked at her with haunted eyes. “I made a promise to God when I was fourteen years old. I pledged that—”

“Yes, Maura told me about your sister. She had childhood leukemia, is that right?”

He nodded. “The doctors told us it was terminal. She was only six years old, and all I could do for her was pray. God answered my prayers, and today Sophie’s alive and healthy. She has two beautiful adopted children.”

“And you really believe your sister’s alive only because of that deal you made with God?”

“You can’t understand. You’re not a believer.”

“I believe we’re each responsible for our own choices in life. You made your choice, for reasons that seemed right when you were fourteen. But now?” She shook her head. “Could God really be that cruel?”

The words must have stung, because he had no answer. He sat in silence, his hands resting on the illustrated book of saints and martyrs. Daniel too was a martyr, a man who’d accepted his fate as resolutely as Saint Polycarp, sacrificed to the flames.

Into that silence walked Gabriel, who came into the kitchen, saw their defeated-looking guest slumped in the chair, and gave Jane a questioning look. As a seasoned investigator, Gabriel was adept at assessing a scene, and he instantly understood that more than crime was being discussed in their kitchen. “Everything all right in here?” he asked.

Daniel glanced up, startled to see that Gabriel had joined them. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to contribute.”

“Intriguing theory, though, don’t you think? A killer who’s obsessed with religious iconography.”

“Has the FBI joined the investigation?”

“No, I’m just the interested spouse on this one. Jane’s spared me no details.”

Jane laughed. “If a couple can’t share a juicy murder, what’s the point of being married?”

Gabriel nodded at the laptop. “What do you think, Daniel? Has Boston PD missed anything?”

“The symbolism seems apparent,” said Daniel, clicking halfheartedly through the crime-scene photos. “The young woman’s mutilation certainly looks like it’s meant to represent Saint Lucy.” He paused at a photo taken in Cassandra’s kitchen, where the vase of flowers was displayed on the countertop. “And if you’re looking for religious symbols, you can find plenty of them in this bouquet. White lilies represent purity and virginity. Red roses symbolize martyrdom.” He paused. “Where did these flowers come from? Is it possible the killer—”

“No, that’s a birthday bouquet from her father. So any symbolism you see there is purely incidental.”

“She was killed on her birthday?”

“Three days later. December sixteenth.”

For a moment Daniel stared at the birthday flowers, meant for a girl who would live only three more days.

“When was the second victim killed?” he asked. “The young man?”

“December twenty-fourth. Why?”

“And when was his birthday?” Daniel glanced up at her, and she saw a spark of excitement in his eyes. Gabriel had also picked up on the new tension in the room and he joined them at the table, his gaze fixed on Daniel.

“Let me find the autopsy report,” Jane said, rifling through the file folders. “Here it is. Timothy McDougal. His date of birth was—”

“January twentieth?”

She looked up, startled. Said, softly: “Yes. January twentieth.”

“How did you know his birthday?” Gabriel asked.

“The liturgical calendar. Each saint is commemorated on a particular day. On January twentieth, we honor Saint Sebastian, who’s depicted in art with his body pierced by arrows.”

“And Saint Lucy? Which day is she honored?” asked Jane.

“December thirteenth.”

“Cassandra Coyle’s birthday.” Jane turned in astonishment to Gabriel. “That’s it! The killer chooses the form of mutilation based on the victim’s birthday! But how would he know what their birthdays are?”

“Driver’s licenses,” said Gabriel. “Young people at a bar, they almost always get carded. And both these victims had alcohol in their stomachs. So now you’re talking bartenders. Servers...”

“Tim McDougal was stabbed with arrows,” said Jane. “Did the killer have a stash of arrows handy, just in case he happened to run into someone born on January twentieth? He’d have to be a very well-equipped killer. Think of all the ways martyrs have been killed, with rocks and swords, cleavers and pincers. There’s even one guy beaten to death with wooden shoes.”

“Saint Vigilius of Trent, celebrated on June twenty-six,” said Daniel. “He’s often depicted holding the clog that killed him.”

“Yeah, well, I doubt our killer packs a wooden shoe in the trunk of his car just in case he finds someone whose birthday is June twenty-six. No, our perp chooses his victim in advance, and then he gathers his tools. Which means he has access to their birth dates.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You’ll have to cast a very big net to find him. Birth dates are easy to find. Employee records, medical records. Facebook.”

“But at least we’ve picked up his pattern! Mutilations that match the victims’ birth dates. If this perp has killed before, now we can track it on ViCAP.” She opened a new file on the laptop and turned the screen to Daniel. “Okay, I have a new job for you.”

“What’s this file I’m looking at?” he asked.

“These are all the unsolved homicides in New England this past year. Frost and I compiled a list of every victim who had postmortem injuries. After we eliminated firearm deaths, we were able to narrow it down to these thirty-two victims.”

“Do you have their birth dates?” asked Daniel.

She nodded. “They would be on the attached autopsy reports. You know the liturgical calendar. Tell me if any of the victims’ injuries match those of the saint celebrated on their birth date.”

As Daniel slowly worked his way through the list, Jane stood up to make a fresh pot of coffee. This could be a very long night, but even without a new infusion of caffeine, her nerves were already humming. We’ve found it, she thought, the key to identifying the killer’s earlier victims. Every new name, every new data point, improved their chances of finding some crucial link between the victims and the killer. She refilled everyone’s coffee cup and sat down to watch Daniel click through the files.

An hour later, Daniel sighed and shook his head. “Nothing matches up.”

“You’ve gone through them all?”

“All thirty-two cases. None of these injuries correlate with the victims’ birth dates.” He looked at Jane. “Maybe your two cases are his first kills. Maybe there aren’t any other victims yet.”

“Or we haven’t searched widely enough,” said Jane. “We should go back two years, even three. Expand the geographical region beyond New England.”

“I don’t know, Jane,” said Gabriel. “What if Maura’s wrong and you’re looking for connections that don’t exist? This could end up being nothing but a huge distraction.”

She scowled at the book of saints, which she’d pored over all evening, and suddenly focused on the cover image of Saint Polycarp, his flesh engulfed by flames. Fire. It destroys everything. Bodies. Evidence.

She reached for her cell phone. As Gabriel and Daniel watched in bewilderment, she called Frost.

“Do you still have that list of fire-related deaths?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Email it to me. Including all the cases that were classified accidental.”

“We excluded the accidentals.”

“I’m including them again. Every fire death involving a lone adult victim.”

“Okay, I’m on it. Check your in-box.”

“Accidental fire deaths?” said Gabriel as she hung up.

“Fire destroys evidence. And not every victim who dies in a fire gets a tox screen. I’m wondering if some of those accidental deaths weren’t accidents at all.”

Her laptop chimed with Frost’s email.

She opened the attached file and a new list of cases appeared. Here were the two dozen victims who’d perished in accidental fires throughout New England in the last year. “Take a look,” she said, and turned the laptop to Daniel.

“A ruling of accidental fire death usually means there’s evidence of smoke inhalation at autopsy,” said Gabriel. “That doesn’t fit your perp’s pattern. Not if he suffocates them with a plastic bag.”

“If your victim’s unconscious, you can let fire do the job. You don’t need to suffocate him.”

“Still, it’s a different pattern, Jane.”

“I’m not ready to give up on this theory yet. Maybe suffocation is a new technique for him. Maybe he’s refining his—”

“Sarah Basterash, age twenty-six,” said Daniel. He looked up from the laptop. “She died in a house fire in Newport, Rhode Island.”

“Newport?” Jane peered over Daniel’s shoulder to read the file. “November tenth, single-family home burned to the ground. Victim was alone, found in her bedroom. No evidence of trauma.”

“Ketamine?” asked Gabriel.

She sighed in frustration. “A tox screen wasn’t done.”

“But look at her birth date,” said Daniel. “It’s May thirtieth. And she died in a fire.”

Jane frowned at him. “Which saint is celebrated on May thirtieth?”

“Joan of Arc.”