Maps of Hell

Seventeen

Detectives Simmons and Pinker were on one side of the conference table on the fifth floor of the Metro Police building in Washington, D.C., FBI agents Sebastian and Maltravers on the other. Chief of Detectives Rodney Owen, thinner than the most ascetic of monks, the pale skin stretched tight over the bones of his face, sat at the head.

“Clem?” the chief said. “You want to bring us up to speed?”

Simmons nodded, then started to run through what had been done in the Monsieur Hexie case. The victim had been officially identified by the woman who cleaned the shop, a Tennessee native who didn’t seem too surprised by the murder. According to her, folks who played with fire ended up getting burned. It turned out she didn’t have anything specific in mind but, as a devout Baptist, she thought that “voodoo and all that mumbo jumbo was an offence to the Lord.” However, she was in her seventies and had cried when she saw the victim’s face. Living with a daughter who taught grade school, she wasn’t any kind of suspect.

“Canvassing hasn’t gotten us much,” Simmons went on. “You know how it is in Shaw. Nobody wants to talk to us.”

“You think maybe she saw more than she’s saying?” the chief asked.

“Doubt it, sir. But even if she did, I don’t think she’ll come out with it.”

Owen sighed. “That neighborhood is supposed to have gotten better.”

Simmons glanced at Pinker. He was tugging on his cuffs, displaying a pair of cuff links that must have cost him most of last month’s salary. Clem nudged his partner; they’d agreed beforehand that they would share the presentation.

“Yeah, right,” Gerard Pinker said, looking at the file in front of him. “You’ve all seen copies of the M.E.’s preliminary findings and what we’ve got from the CSIs so far.”

“Which doesn’t amount to much,” Peter Sebastian said, narrowing his eyes. “Would you gentlemen care to put this murder in context with that of the singer who called himself Loki? Indeed, do you have anything further to report on that case?”

Simmons leaned forward, his eyes warning Pinker off. “Apart from the skewers, the most obvious common factor is the drawings.” He paused as the others found their copies of the pages attached to the bodies. “As you can see, they’re similar in terms of the shapes, but the layout is different.”

“Is there some occult meaning, do you think?” Chief Owen asked.

“Voodoo?” Pinker said, smiling at his partner.

“Nothing strikes me,” Simmons said, shaking his head. “I’ve checked my books.”

“Do you have any inkling of what the shapes might mean?” The FBI man’s tone was almost neutral, but the hint of authority was plain enough.

“Do you?” Pinker riposted.

“We’re looking into it,” Sebastian said, glancing at his assistant.

Dana Maltravers nodded. “Copies have been passed to our Document Analysis Unit. They have a database of symbols and signs.”

“A database, eh?” Pinker said with a grin. “That’s great. When can we expect the killer’s name, address and social security number?”

“Detective,” the chief said sharply.

Pinker raised his hands.

“You bring up a significant point,” Sebastian said. “Are we right to assume the same person was responsible for both murders? There were no fingerprints at the first scene, were there?”

Simmons shook his head. “No footprints, either.”

“So even if the CSIs identify what they found at Monsieur Hexie’s-and they haven’t yet-we can’t be sure that killer also dispatched Loki.”

Maltravers looked at her boss. “Apart from the M.O. s, sir,” she said, in a low voice.

Sebastian held his gaze on Pinker. “We’ve already talked about the double murder weapons.”

“And what was the consensus?” Chief Owen asked, pen raised over his notes.

Pinker smiled. “Well, sir, Clem thinks maybe the killer has a thing about twosomes.” He grimaced as his partner’s boot struck his shin.

Dana Maltravers broke the subsequent silence. “It’s rare for two weapons to be used, particularly in successive cases.”

“It’s also rare for ears and kidneys to be pierced with such a degree of accuracy,” Owen said. “No practice cuts, no miscues.” He looked at the FBI woman. “What does your database tell you about that, Special Agent?”

“We don’t need a computer to tell us that this is a highly skilled operator,” Sebastian said. “That’s one reason why the Bureau is involved in the investigations.”

Pinker gave him a suspicious look. “What, in case the killer is some kind of prize exhibit?” He looked around the table. “Has it occurred to anyone here that maybe the significance of the number two is that the guy’s stopping after the second murder?”

There was another silence.

“That would be very gratifying,” Sebastian said, giving the detective a tight smile. “But it would still leave you with the task of catching that individual for these two murders.”

“Cool it, Vers,” Simmons said before his partner could answer.

“Very well,” the chief said, eyeing the detectives dubiously before turning to the FBI man. “Dr. Gilbert will be starting the PM shortly. Anything else we need to discuss?”

“Actually, there is, Chief Owen.” Sebastian stood up and passed a sheet of paper to each of them. “I took the liberty of sending one of our crime-scene people to Monsieur Hexie’s apartment.” He shrugged. “No reason not to make use of the Bureau’s resources. Anyway, he discovered a set of fingerprints on a candleholder under the bed.”

“You saying our people missed it?” Pinker said.

The FBI man shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll report it in due course. But I very much doubt that you will have any record of this person’s prints.”

“So who is this Matthew John Wells?” Simmons asked, looking up from the sheet.

“That’s where the story gets interesting,” Sebastian said.

“So, are you going to tell us?” Pinker asked, when the agent kept quiet.

Peter Sebastian frowned at him and then nodded. “Of course I’m going to give you the details. They’re already being distributed to law enforcement agencies all over the country.”

As he elaborated, the faces of Rodney Owen, Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker took on expressions ranging from surprise to sheer disbelief.