Maps of Hell

Twenty-Six

Peter Sebastian, perfectly turned out in a dark blue suit and striped tie, eyed the detectives on the other side of the conference table.

“Well, gentlemen. Over eighteen hours have passed since the discovery of Abraham Singer’s body. What progress have you made?”

“We’d be making more if you hadn’t called this meeting,” Gerard Pinker said, shaking his head hopelessly.

“Nice,” Sebastian said, smiling icily. “Very nice. Perhaps I should call in Chief Owen.”

Clem Simmons gave his partner a long-suffering look and then caught Dana Maltravers’s eye. He reckoned she’d have smiled if she hadn’t been so in awe of her boss.

“That won’t be necessary,” Simmons said, flipping open his notebook. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Special Agent Maltravers attended the autopsy with me. The report’s not out yet, but the time of death isn’t going to be much different from Dr. Gilbert’s original estimate of between 9:00 and 11:00 p.m. Cause of death, major brain trauma caused by the skewers driven into each eye. There’s no evidence of any other trauma, so it’s likely the killer inserted them while the victim was still conscious.”

“Meaning he knows what he’s doing,” Sebastian said.

Pinker gave a wry smile. “Kinda the impression we’d got from the first two murders.”

“Quite,” said the FBI man, holding his gaze on Simmons. “What about the significance of the M.O.?”

“Skewers again,” Clem said.

“And two of them again,” Dana Maltravers said. “So there’s the same symbolism of the pair.”

“Whatever that means,” Pinker put in, smiling at her. “Maybe he just likes using both hands. Or maybe there are two murderers.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Sebastian said. “That’s all we need. A pair of serial killers.”

“Maybe they’re twins,” Pinker suggested.

The FBI man raised an eyebrow. “Let’s not lose touch with reality completely.” He glanced at Simmons. “Go on with your report, Detective.”

“We’ve been canvassing the area. The problem is, the majority of buildings are university property, but offices rather than student accommodation, so there weren’t many people around in the evening.”

Peter Sebastian’s expression was grim. “What you’re saying, Detective, is that no one saw the killer.”

“If anyone did, we ain’t found ’em yet,” Pinker said. Not for the first time, he reverted to the way he talked back home in Georgia when addressing the Bureau man.

“CSIs?” Sebastian said, looking at his notes.

“They’re still comparing fingerprints with those we’ve taken from people who were in the professor’s room recently,” Clem Simmons said. “It’ll take some time. There are students, other professors, cleaners. Same goes for fibers.”

“Any suggestive background on the victim?” the FBI man asked.

“Suggestive?” Pinker repeated, smiling at Maltravers. “You mean, did he grope his students?”

Simmons frowned at his partner. “He was an expert in Jewish mysticism. That could be a connection with the other murders. He was studying a medieval book called De Occulta Philosophia. So-”

“So you think the killer has it in for people who dabble in the occult?” Sebastian said dubiously.

“That’s what the dailies are saying,” Pinker said.

“I pay no attention to trash like that,” the Bureau man said.

Clem Simmons raised his heavy shoulders. “We haven’t found anything else to explain the professor’s murder. He seems to have been happily married…” He gave Pinker a long-suffering look. “And he didn’t have a reputation as a groper. According to Professor Rudenstein, he wasn’t one of those academics who stir up controversy.”

“’Course, there is another possibility,” Pinker said, eyeing each of the others in turn.

“Enlighten us, Detective,” Sebastian said wearily.

“He was Jewish-could have been targeted by some far-right crazy.”

“It’s certainly a possibility.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Have you alerted the Hate Crimes Unit?”

Dana Maltravers nodded. “They’re checking it. I’ve been through the victim’s recent e-mail correspondence. There are no obvious threats. Of course, he could have deleted them. I’ve also spoken to his wife. She wasn’t aware of anything like that.”

“All right,” Sebastian said. “Keep in touch with our people. What about the drawing?”

“The document-analysis experts are comparing it with the others,” Maltravers replied. “There isn’t much doubt that it was done by the same hand, and with the same pen and paper.”

“And the meaning?” Sebastian asked impatiently.

“Um…unclear, so far.”

“Anyone else have any ideas?”

“Could be building up to some sort of composite,” Clem said. “The shapes are in different places on each page.”

“True,” the FBI man said. “The problem is, if it’s not complete, then we can expect more murders.”

Silence greeted that remark.

“Have you gotten anywhere with background checks on Loki and Monsieur Hexie?” Dana Maltravers asked.

“Not really,” Simmons replied. “The band members are saying as little as they can. We’ve been looking at their activities. Loki got plenty of abuse on the band’s Web site about his lyrics, but that seems normal in the circles he moved in.”

“What about anti-Nazi and civil-rights groups?” Sebastian put in.

“Yeah, they thought he was a piece of shit,” Pinker said, “but we haven’t found any death threats. Same for Monsieur Hexie but Clem can tell you more about him.”

“Thanks, partner,” Simmons said. “The second vic actually seems to have been rather popular. People appreciated the stuff he sold. It made them happy.”

“Woo-hoo for voodoo,” Pinker said, with a sardonic smile.

Dana Maltravers looked up from her papers. “It seems he was still turning tricks, though, despite his age.”

Simmons nodded. “From time to time. We tracked down the recent johns-Monsieur Hexie kept a client list on his computer. They were pretty upset.”

“They had solid alibis, too,” Pinker said.

“Could the list have been tampered with?” Sebastian asked.

Clem Simmons shrugged. “I guess. The list was a standard Word file.”

There was another silence.

Gerard Pinker broke it. “What about your man Matt Wells? The CSIs haven’t found anything linking him to the latest scene.”

Sebastian gave a tight smile. “They’re unlikely to, given that he was in Maine last night.”

“So you failed to catch him,” Pinker said pointedly.

The FBI man stared at him. “The fact that Wells continues to evade arrest hardly suggests he’s an innocent man.”

“Oh, yeah? The way I hear it, the guy walked voluntarily into the state troopers’ station. He wouldn’t have done that if he was killing people, or even organizing their deaths.”

Sebastian shook his head. “You aren’t in possession of all the facts.”

“Is that so?” Clem Simmons said. “We’re the lead detectives on this investigation. You’re not in a position to keep information from us.”

Peter Sebastian got to his feet. “I’m in a position to do anything I deem appropriate,” he said, picking up his notes. “Next briefing at midday tomorrow, please.” He gave Pinker a malevolent smile. “Your presence isn’t required, Detective.”

“Right on, Dick,” Versace muttered.

Richard Bonhoff was wearing a nondescript blue wind-breaker and a Washington Redskins cap. For the past six hours he’d been in various locations with a view of the main entrance of the Woodbridge Holdings office-outside a shoe shop, inside a cafe, behind a van. There had been no sign of Gordy Lister and now, as the light faded, his stomach was rumbling and his feet were cold. But he was used to worse in the fields back home.

Richard knew he’d be pressed if Lister headed for the car park. He hadn’t brought the pickup after the last fiasco, and he would have to rely on a taxi passing at the right time. Short of stealing a vehicle, there was nothing else he could do. He thought of the twins and their haggard faces. What wouldn’t he do to get them back? Answer: nothing.

Then Gordy Lister made an appearance. He stood outside the office building for a while, looking around, markedly more cautious than before. Richard made sure the collar of his coat was up and the peak of his cap pulled low. Lister eventually started walking to the right. Richard moved out of the doorway he’d been sheltering in and kept to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. There were plenty of people around at the end of the working day, and he had to take care not to knock into those walking toward him. That was why he didn’t immediately notice that Lister had company.

The man who had suddenly taken up a position beside the newspaperman was tall and wore what looked to Richard like an expensive gray coat. He had on a hat, the kind that men wore in black-and-white detective movies, and his face was partly covered by his own raised collar. When he turned, Richard saw a prominent nose. It occurred to him that Lister’s companion was doing the same thing he was-trying to be inconspicuous. Interesting.

The two men continued down the street, Lister occasionally glancing over his shoulder. It struck Richard that maybe there were others watching the men, security men like the gorillas he’d laid out. He checked, but saw no sign of anyone, either on foot or in slow-moving vehicles.

When the men turned right into a side street, Richard got worried that he might lose them and ran across the road. Luckily, there was a gap in the traffic, but he warned himself to be more careful. If a driver had hit his horn, Lister’s attention would have been attracted. The two men were still in sight, deep in conversation. They stopped outside a building for a few moments, still talking, and then went in.

Richard strode up the street, examining the building. There was a panel of buttons and names to the right-lawyers, accountants and the like. He waited until someone came out. A blonde woman, speaking into her cell phone, paid no attention when Richard slipped in past her. The two men were by the elevators, the taller of them moving his right hand up and down animatedly. Richard decided to get closer, trusting his changed appearance. Lister’s expression was tense, his eyes locked on his companion’s face.

“…the camp,” the tall man said. “Everyone is in place. What about your people?”

Lister’s voice was barely audible. He lowered his gaze as people came out of another elevator. Richard took out a newspaper and opened it in front of him, trying to look as if he was waiting for someone.

“You know they’re ready.” Gordy Lister’s tone grew sharper. “But what about the killer?”

“We can’t risk the operation by taking everyone off it.”

Lister shook his head. “So we run the risk of being screwed by one of our own?”

“We have no idea of who might be the next target?”

“Same as before, I reckon-there’s no shortage of occult weirdoes in this city.”

“Gordon,” the tall man said, lowering his voice. “The company must be protected at all costs.”

“What do you think I’m do-” Lister broke off when he saw that his companion had turned toward the street door.

Richard heard the loud click of heels to his left. He watched as a striking woman with short brown hair approached. She was wearing a sober pantsuit.

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” The man in the gray coat lifted his head. Richard saw that the skin on his face was tight and unnaturally smooth. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Sorry. A meeting ran late.”

Lister pressed the call button. When the elevator came, the three of them went inside.

Richard Bonhoff watched the doors close behind them. He couldn’t risk joining them in such an enclosed space. In the meantime, his mind was jumping hoops, trying to make sense of what he’d overheard. Gordy Lister had said people here were ready. Who? The twins? And who was the killer? Could that be the one the papers were calling the Occult Killer?

Jesus Christ, he said to himself. What have I got myself into? And what has happened to Gwen and Randy?

Joe Greenbaum was sitting in an interview room on the fifth floor of the MPDC building. He’d been there for half an hour and the plastic cup of thin coffee he’d been given had long gone cold. He was beginning to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He had tried to talk to one of the detectives on the Singer case over the phone, but the man had insisted Joe come to headquarters to give a statement. That was all very well, but he had work to do. The deadline for his article on high-level corruption in the U.S. automobile industry was only a week away and he hadn’t even started pulling his notes together.

The door opened and a heavily built black man came in.

“Mr. Greenbaum? I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” He sat down opposite Joe and eyed the untouched cup of coffee. “I’ve gotten used to it over the years. The good lord knows what it’s done to my innards.”

“Probably killed off all the bugs from the burgers in the cafeteria.”

Clem Simmons laughed. “You eaten down there?”

“No, but I’ve heard stories.”

Simmons’s expression became more severe. “So, you’ve got some information on the Singer murder.”

Joe Greenbaum raised his shoulders. “Information? I suppose you could call it that. It’s just background, I’d say.”

The detective opened his notebook. “I’ll take anything you’ve got.”

“First of all, I want to ask you about Matt Wells.” Greenbaum shifted his bulk on the chair and grimaced. “Is this thing an instrument of torture?”

Simmons smiled briefly and looked at him with more interest. “What about Matt Wells?”

“He can’t really be a suspect like they’re saying in the papers. It’s ridiculous.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Come on, Detective. I know Matt Wells. No way would he have killed that poor man.”

“You know Matt Wells.”

“Sure. I saw him several times in the weeks before he disappeared.”

Clem Simmons kept his tone neutral. “You a friend of his?”

Joe Greenbaum smiled. “Yeah. I first met him at a crime-writing conference here a few years back. He can drink almost as much as I can.”

Simmons narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me, sir. What exactly is it you do?”

“Freelance journalist. I specialize in corporate and organized crime.” He could see what the detective thought about that. Journalists were only a few rungs up the ladder from mass murderers.

“So when you saw Matt Wells, was it business or pleasure?”

“Oh, both, I’d say.” Greenbaum stretched backward and the chair creaked ominously. “We have similar interests. He writes a crime column for a British daily.”

Simmons already knew that-he’d done an Internet search after Wells first became a suspect for the Monsieur Hexie murder. “Why are you so sure he’s innocent? His fingerprints were found at the scene.”

“Give me a break, Detective. We both know prints can be transferred. It’s obvious that Matt’s being framed. I mean, there’s no evidence tying him to the other so-called occult murders, is there?”

“I can’t confirm or deny that,” Simmons said.

Joe Greenbaum smiled. “That’s okay, Detective. I can see that you’re not exactly sold on Matt’s guilt. Is it true that he was spotted in Maine yesterday?”

“That’s way outside my jurisdiction.”

“All right.” The reporter’s expression grew more serious. “Listen to me now. Matt Wells’s life has been under threat for three years. Have you heard about the Soul Collector?”

“His ex-girlfriend? Yeah, I read the reports.”

“Okay. So you know she’s gunning for him. I’d say you should be trying to nail her for these murders. She’s been involved in that kind of thing before in the U.K. and she’s likely to have samples of his fingerprints.”

Clem Simmons chewed the end of his pen. He had wondered about the woman called Sara Robbins. The problem was, absolutely no evidence pointed to her involvement.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she was behind the disappearance of Matt and his policewoman lover,” Greenbaum went on. “I know, there’s no proof. But she’s definitely capable of killing savagely and with the utmost precision.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any leads on her.”

The reporter rubbed his unshaven cheek. “It’s not really my area. I’m asking around, though. You can be sure I’ll pass on anything I hear.”

Simmons nodded. “All right, sir. Now, what about Professor Singer?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, it’s nothing concrete, like I said, but you should check his e-mail correspondence from around a year ago.”

“Why’s that?”

Greenbaum’s tone suddenly grew sharper. “Because some far-right assholes started threatening him and his family.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because Abraham asked me to look into it, see if I could track the fuckers down. We weren’t so close, but he was a friend of my old man-they were both professors at Columbia. We used to meet for a drink occasionally after he moved down here. He was a funny man-I mean, in the humorous way. He wasn’t your typical dull-as-dust academic.” He shook his head. “Fuck, Abraham didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Simmons noted the reporter’s fury. “And did you find out anything about the people who threatened him?”

Greenbaum took a deep breath. “They weren’t the usual boneheaded racist gorillas, I can tell you that. They called themselves the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant. I ran a check and found that they were founded back in the 1840s. Up in Maine, now I think of it-I wonder if that could tie in with Matt. They were supposedly wiped out ten years later, but it seems they’ve resurrected themselves recently. They spouted the usual crap about the Jews-how they’re ripe for sacrifice, that Hitler was right, shame he isn’t still alive. You know the kind of thing.”

“What did you do with that material?”

“Passed it to the FBI. I know a guy in the Hate Crimes Unit, name of Harry Slater.”

Simmons felt an icy finger run up his spine. He’d already wondered why Special Agent Maltravers hadn’t mentioned the threats; he’d assumed the professor had deleted them. Now he was hearing that the FBI had received the information after all. What the hell were Sebastian and his sidekick playing at?

Joe Greenbaum shrugged. “I never heard anything and, since the threats dried up, Abraham and I decided to let it go.” He raised a thick-fingered hand to his brow. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

Simmons gave him a few seconds. “Anything else, sir?”

“Yeah, just one thing. The original Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was run by a lunatic called Jeremiah Dodds. He wrote a text called the antiGospel of Lucifer, which has never been found. There were strong but unsubstantiated rumors that people were sacrificed and their blood consumed.” Joe Greenbaum looked up at the detective. “It was also said that, later in the process, they were blinded.”

Clem Simmons blinked to dispel an image of the professor’s mutilated face.