Ferguson: But Sergeant Stanford Hawley wasn’t a “transgressor.”
Silver: Not as far as I know.
Ferguson: Yet you showed no compunction taking his life as well.
Silver: If you’re asking me if I regret the act, I can honestly say no.
Ferguson: But you just admitted the man wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing.
Silver: I have reconciled his death as an unfortunate byproduct . . .
Ferguson: A “byproduct”?
Silver: Of continuing the Lord’s work. I couldn’t allow someone like the sergeant to stand in the way of my mission from God.
Grant felt his blood pressure rise each time he got to that part of the story.
“What’s abundantly clear is that Silver is committing these murders with an interpretation of the Old Testament that suits his particular needs,” said Grant.
“In other words, the man is completely off his rocker,” suggested Frankel.
“Depends on how you look at it,” countered Grant. “Reread the part where Ferguson asks him about the Sixth Commandment.”
Ferguson: But each time you took a life, you were violating one of the Commandments, the sixth. “Thou shalt not kill.” How do you explain that?
Silver: As I quoted from Ezekiel, all previous transgressions will be forgiven because of the righteousness a man has done once he has turned from a life of sin.
Ferguson: One sin pardons the other?
Silver: According to the word of the Lord? Most definitely.
“That is total and utter bullshit. He’s just twisting words to justify his insane actions,” grumbled Frankel. “And this man is definitely nuts.”
“I think I have to agree with my father on this one,” said Rachel. “What might seem crazy to us has allowed Silver to stay true to his so-called mission.”
“And it’s pretty clear he isn’t finished yet.” Grant scrolled down his computer screen toward the end of the interview.
Ferguson: You say you still have a mission to complete. Does that mean you have set your sights on three more victims?
Silver: You’ll understand if I don’t answer that question.
Ferguson: I thought you wanted to, using your words, “set the record straight.”
Silver: And I have to this point. Austin Grant will know when I’m done.
It wasn’t the only time that Silver had mentioned Grant by name. Earlier in the story, while recounting the bank robberies, Silver had confirmed it had been Grant who put him behind bars. His subsequent statement might have been the most chilling of all, at least for those huddled in Grant’s study on Christmas day.
Silver: I hope the commander sees how his actions led me to seek salvation, allowing the Lord to send me down the path where I can now set things right.
“He’s essentially blaming you for all this,” Frankel pointed out.
“The notion wasn’t lost on me.”
But it wasn’t the only thing troubling Grant. He couldn’t imagine why Prior Silver had granted the interview in the first place or run the risk of being captured by the Yard when there were no assurances that Ferguson wouldn’t renege on the deal to keep the authorities away.
“Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Grant murmured.
“Why do you say that?” asked Frankel.
“Every move Silver has made to this point has been calculated—from his choice of victims to the clues he’s been taunting us with.” He glanced at Rachel. “Even the texts from Sergeant Hawley’s phone seem to be specifically timed.”
“Except for that one outside the church,” Rachel reminded. “After your eulogy apparently got under his skin.”
“Even so, one could argue that was still on point. That Silver was just marking territory to let us know he was still in control.” Grant tapped the computer screen. “I guarantee you he has a very specific reason for doing this right now. Remember, he told us we’d hear from him directly after Christmas.”
“But today is Christmas,” Frankel said.
“One could argue after Christmas starts when the clock hits 12:01 on December twenty-fifth,” Grant posed. “Silver probably planned on releasing this tomorrow on Boxing Day, fulfilling his promise. Ferguson and Michaels jumped the gun.”
“Michaels?” asked Rachel.
“Monte Ferguson’s editor at the Mail. He should be along any minute.”
The only reason Grant didn’t throttle Randolph Michaels when he stepped through the door was that the newspaper editor had been one of the first calls the Scotland Yard man had fielded after the story broke.
The key word being after. The editor wanted to explain the reasons he had waited until then to tell the commander his side of the explosive Ferguson story.
Michaels was maybe the same age as Grant, his hair gone completely gray—probably from too many years spent trying to find news to print that bloggers and internet trolls hadn’t already beaten him to.
“It was one of the caveats Ferguson insisted on when he sent over the interview,” explained Michaels. “He demanded that the story be published in a special edition of the paper before it was put online.”
“Why do you think?” asked Grant.
“You know the man, Commander. Despite claims the news always comes first, I think we both know Monte Ferguson wants people to see his name right there beneath the headline.”
“I presume another requirement was to not contact me or anyone else at the Yard beforehand?”
“Not until the story was published,” replied Michaels.
“You could have pulled rank and refused,” said Frankel.
“I suppose,” agreed Michaels. “But in the end, I’m first and foremost a newspaperman. A dying breed, but I’m still around, and I’m not going to sit on a powder keg like this. Besides, if I hadn’t gone and run it, there was no guarantee Silver wouldn’t sell it to the Mirror or someone else.”
“Or that Monte Ferguson wouldn’t have leaked it to the internet himself,” Rachel added.
“I wouldn’t put anything past him at this point,” said the editor. “Hell, the man met with a serial killer without telling anyone. Clearly Monte wasn’t coming away from this empty-handed.”
“The bloody idiot is lucky he came away with his life.” Grant shook his head. “What else did Ferguson say when he called you?”
“To be honest, not very much,” replied Michaels. “He sounded frightened. Can’t say that I blame him. For all I know, Silver was sitting in the same room at the time.”
Michaels paused to wipe a dabble of sweat from his head. “It was a very quick call,” he continued. “He told me what he had, what he wanted, then emailed the story to me while I was on the phone to make sure I got it. Then he was gone.”
“You sure it was Ferguson on the other end of the phone?” asked Grant.
“I think I’d recognize the voice of a man I’ve talked to almost every day for the past decade, Commander. Who the hell else would it be?”
“Prior Silver, possibly?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a killer tried to hijack the headlines or redirect the news cycle,” added Frankel.
Michaels vehemently shook his head and turned to Grant. “You’ve talked enough to Monte Ferguson to know how distinctive his voice is.”
“If by that you mean annoying, yes, I most certainly do. Where is he now?”
“I haven’t a clue,” said the editor. “I’ve tried his mobile at least a dozen times, dropped by his flat, even the Chelsea pub where he drinks himself into a stupor most nights, thinking he’d gone there to celebrate. But he’s nowhere to be found.”
“He’s probably hiding out knowing the commander will haul him into jail for interfering with a police investigation,” surmised Frankel.
“He’ll be lucky if that’s all I do to him,” said Grant.
Grant asked Michaels a few more questions but there wasn’t more to tell. He insisted the editor get in touch immediately once he heard from Monte Ferguson. M
ichaels promised to do so. The editor wouldn’t make the same mistake twice and apologized for any damage that he might have done.
The editor left, and Grant considered the apology. The truth be told, any fallout from the interview had probably been minimal. Except for letting the public know the killer was leaving his calling card on the foreheads of his victims, the story was just a madman boasting with pride about his horrendous accomplishments.
This led to Grant wondering once again why Silver had gone to such lengths to set up the interview with Ferguson. It was hard to believe it was just so Prior Silver could share his twisted journey to salvation with the world.
Grant firmly believed that once he caught up with Silver or, for that matter, Monte Ferguson, he could finally get the answer to that question and others that were nagging him.
Of course, that meant finding them first.
It certainly wasn’t how Grant had planned to spend the rest of the holiday.
Back at the Yard, Grant knew he hadn’t done anything to ingratiate himself among his colleagues. He had pulled constables and detectives away from their families, unwrapped boxes filled with cuddly sweaters and scarves, gathered carolers, and anything else that went with the spirit of Christmas.
It also wasn’t quite what he’d envisioned for the end of a three-plus decade tenure at the Yard. He’d imagined the time would come when he’d just clean out his desk and quietly move on to the next stage of his life.
Instead, there was now a chance his legacy would be letting a serial killer run rampant all over London (and don’t forget, New York City), thus doomed to live out his life with a reputation as a colossal failure.
At least he could be thankful that Allison wasn’t around to see it.
He realized he hadn’t been to the cemetery since the day Hawley had found him there to say that a Blasphemer named Street had been sent to meet his maker in a Piccadilly back alley. Grant promised to head up there on Sunday and visit Allison one last time before finishing up his time at the Yard. Maybe talking through the case by her grave might give him some perspective he hadn’t yet considered.
Grant had plenty to tell her since he’d last sat on that stone bench.
Perhaps he could even convince Rachel to go with him.
By the end of Christmas evening, Grant was wondering if he could even accomplish that.
Because when midnight rolled around and Grant sent everyone home (after apologizing for ruining their Christmas), he felt more useless than at any time since the whole mess started. There still wasn’t a trace of Prior Silver to be found.
And now Monte Ferguson had vanished off the face of the earth as well.
When the knock came on the front door, Grant turned to squint at his alarm clock and saw it was almost nine o’clock in the morning.
He figured that Rachel would answer it, but then remembered she had spent the night with Frankel at the hotel in Covent Garden.
As he hauled himself out of bed, he thought while he never would have imagined Rachel falling for a member of his profession, he had to admit that John Frankel was living up to being the “good man” his daughter claimed him to be.
At least so far. He had seen way too many relationships go awry in his years at the Yard, so he still thought it best for her to be cautious. Cautious, but hopeful.
The second knock at the door was more pronounced.
“Coming,” Grant called out as he came down the corridor.
He opened it to find a delivery man for an overnight package service standing with a clipboard in hand, shivering in the morning cold.
“Sorry,” Grant told him. “Overslept.”
“Have a pretty good Christmas, did you?” asked the delivery man with a knowing twinkle in his eye.
“Not particularly,” answered Grant.
The delivery man frowned, obviously not expecting such a forthcoming response. The man nodded over his shoulder at the delivery van.
“It’s a rather large package. Anywhere specific you want me to put it?”
Grant saw a medium sized crate on a dolly beside the van.
“I guess the living room, if you don’t mind,” Grant directed.
A few moments later, the man had deposited the crate and departed with a few pound notes that Grant dug out of his wallet.
It was only when he took a better look at the shipping label that the sleepy-eyed Grant snapped fully awake. It wasn’t his printed name and address that caught his eye. It was the return label in the upper left corner of the crate.
M. Ferguson/The Daily Mail/39092930
Grant presumed the numbers were some sort of account the newspaper had with the delivery service.
Of more interest, and a trifle bit more concern, was what Monte Ferguson had sent him via overnight delivery.
Grant thought about calling Frankel and Rachel but knew he couldn’t sit and just stare at the crate until they got themselves together and came over.
So Grant went down to the basement.
He found a crowbar he hadn’t used in ages and climbed back up the stairs to the living room. He wedged the tool under a couple of the crate’s corners and lifted the lid.
Prior Silver had made good on his word that Grant would be hearing from him directly after Christmas.
The man that Grant, Frankel, Scotland Yard, and the NYPD had been searching for in two major cities was curled up in a heap at the bottom of the crate.
Prior Silver was dead to the world.
With a Roman numeral VIII carved into the center of his forehead.
28
Suicide.
Frankel stood beside Rachel and her father in the Grant living room as Jeffries, the FME he’d first met in Esher, shared his preliminary findings.
“We’ll run a battery of tests back at the morgue, but everything we’re looking at so far seems to be consistent with Silver taking his own life.”
“Any idea how long he’s been dead?”
“It’s only a guess at this point,” said Jeffries. “But with rigor mortis still in effect, I’d have to say some time in the past twenty-four hours.”
Frankel looked around the room that was wall-to-wall cops and techs. Grant stood beside the open crate, staring deep inside it. He’d been in pretty much the same position since Frankel arrived with Rachel a few hours earlier.
He looks like he’s in shock. Can’t say I blame him—starting Boxing Day with a dead body dumped beneath his nicely trimmed Christmas tree.
Rachel had been in the shower when Frankel answered Grant’s phone call. When she emerged wrapped in an oversized bath towel while drying her hair with another, Frankel had hung up in the same stupor that Grant was now exhibiting.
“Who was that?” Rachel had asked.
“Prior Silver is dead,” he had simply answered.
Hearing himself speak the words aloud hadn’t made it easier to believe. And now standing over the dead man himself, Frankel felt it was completely surreal.
He suddenly realized what he was feeling was disappointment.
For a search that had consumed them for the better part of a month to end this way, without being able to ask Silver a single question, was beyond frustrating.
It actually seemed unfair.
Even in death, Prior Silver held the same upper hand he had since beginning his killing spree not-so-very-far-away at the British Library in Saint Pancras. With each elaborately staged murder, he had doled out only the precise information he wanted authorities to have.
Even his own death.
“We’re still looking at poison?” asked Grant.
“Everything points that way,” said Jeffries. “I don’t see any of the slashes or knife wounds like the others. Except for the mark on the forehead, naturally.”
“And that was self-administered as well?”
“Appears so.” The FME indicated the dead man’s forehead. “You can spot the hesitation marks. By the V in particular—where he must have started. There’s also a lopsidedness
here compared to the other victims, which indicates he did it in a backwards fashion without being able to see what he was doing. Like so . . .”
He raised a curled fist to his forehead and made a carving motion.
“Do you think he did that before or after he took the poison?” asked Frankel.
“If it were in liquid form, it was likely before getting in the crate because we haven’t located a receptacle on or near his body. If it were a pill or tablet, then he could have taken it at any time.” He glanced at the crate, then continued. “But given the knife we found inside the crate and the blood splatter patterns, I’d say Silver carved himself shortly after stepping inside it.”
Jeffries elaborated on his theory. The bloodstains on the inside wall of the box were consistent with Silver holding on to the crate’s edge with one hand while cutting himself with the other. Subsequently, some blood dried on the inner wall, with the rest pooling on the crate’s floor once Silver collapsed and eventually died.
“But he managed to lock himself inside beforehand,” pointed out Frankel.
“I think he could have secured the box before losing consciousness. Simple enough—given the nature of the crate.”
Jeffries had already identified the container as the sort that could be locked from both inside and out. That meant Silver had opted to literally stay buried inside and have himself delivered to Grant’s doorstep.
Frankel watched Rachel shudder. “Such a brutal way to die,” she said.
She had not strayed far from Frankel’s side since they’d arrived and was clearly shaken. Frankel had suggested she needn’t be there, but Rachel had steadfastly insisted on staying put. He desperately wanted to reach out and comfort her but knew this was hardly the time or place.
“I guess in the end he decided to save the worst punishment for himself.”
“How do you figure that?” she asked.
“The Eighth Commandment. ‘Thou shalt not steal,’” quoted Frankel. “Once a thief, always a thief.”
The Last Commandment Page 25