The Second Coming

by J. Fritschi

  Gunnery Sergeant Baker was a Navy SEAL and ten years Mike’s senior. He regaled Mike with stories of the clandestine missions and used words like “camaraderie”, “brotherhood” and “leadership”. Mike realized that the Navy SEALs offered him everything he was missing from football and gave him a reason to quit drinking and get his life in order. Gunnery Sergeant Baker tried to talk him out of joining the SEALs, telling him that Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training is the toughest and longest military training in the world and only a small percentage make it through, but Mike was determined. He figured if he was mentally tough enough to get sober then he was tough enough to make it through BUD/S. He quickly found out there was a big difference. There were a couple of times during BUD/S when he almost quit and rang the bell due to fatigue and hypothermia, but he reminded himself that he didn’t have anything to go back to and this was his chance to be part of a team again. He used his sobriety as his motivation telling himself that if he wasn’t tough enough to make it through training then he wasn’t tough enough to remain sober and would probably end up killing himself. After he made it through training, Gunnery Sergeant Baker told him that he wasn’t really trying to talk him out of doing it; he was just making sure Mike was up to the challenge. He told Mike how proud he was of him.

  If he could just find something to inspire him now, he knew he could quit again. The problem was finding something worth quitting for.

  “This is different. I only drink in moderation and smoke a little weed,” he assured Big Pete.

  “What you call moderation, most people call gluttony.”

  Mike’s cell phone rang. It was Captain Volger.

  “Where the hell are you guys? Dispatch is trying to locate you.”

  “We’re on our way in,” Mike assured him as he began to pace the room. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a homicide. A young girl in her twenties raped and stabbed in the heart.”

  “Shit. Where’s the body?”

  “The Oakland Children’s Orphanage. The killer disemboweled her and left her body on the altar of the sanctuary. He smeared a symbol on the wall in her blood. I think we may be dealing with a ritualistic killer.”

  chapter 12

  THE OAKLAND CHILDREN’S Orphanage was a three story, colonial-style, brick building with columns and dormers. It stood crumbling on a circular driveway with a cement fountain. On the far side was an A-framed, stucco church with a clay roof and bell tower, which was cordoned off. The surrounding oak trees swayed in the brisk breeze.

  Emergency vehicles with flashing lights, television vans with satellites, construction vehicles and heavy equipment were parked out front as Mike pulled to a grumbling halt. Uniformed police officers, lab technicians and news crews were milling around waiting for answers as Mike and Big Pete ambled around and popped the trunk. Medical boxes with latex gloves and hand sanitizer were neatly stacked. Mike grabbed a bottle of sanitizer and offered it to Big Pete.

  “No thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” Mike said as he proceeded to scrub down like a surgeon. Big Pete struggled to stretch latex gloves over his chunky hands. “Why do you sanitize before you put the gloves on? It’s not like you’re going to give the victim germs.”

  “There are three keys to living a long, healthy life; water, aspirin and hygiene. The body is made of 90% water. If you keep yourself hydrated, take aspirin daily and wash your hands, you have less of a chance of contracting any germs.”

  “In your case the body is made of 90% alcohol.”

  Scotty approached wearing a lab tech jacket, looking like he had been surfing and smoking weed. “Well if it isn’t Riggs and McMurdock,” he quipped referring to the white and black partners Mel Gibson and Danny Glover made famous in Lethal Weapon. “Nice of you guys to show up.”

  “Danny Glover’s character was named Murtaugh, Scotty,” Big Pete corrected him. “What’s that make you? Joe Pesci?”

  “What’d we got?” Mike asked as the three men stood at the perimeter of the crime scene.

  “Dead female in her 20’s, stabbed in the heart and disemboweled. It isn’t pretty.”

  “It never is,” Big Pete replied as he ducked under the yellow tape.

  “This is different,” Scotty told him as he reached for the handle on the large wood plank door. “I wasn’t prepared for what I saw, so I’m just warning you.”

  As Mike slipped past Scotty, the pungent stench of rotting flesh hit him like someone opened an unplugged refrigerator. He held his hand up to his face.

  The sanctuary was shrouded with shadows. Dust was caked on the pews and floor. Mike’s feet crunched as he walked down the isle. It reminded him of clearing a dilapidated hovel in Iraq. Mike could sense the evil that preceded him as he cautiously made his way towards the altar.

  Pausing halfway down the aisle, he could see a body lying on top of the altar. Her skin was pale and waxy and her hair hung limply down the front. Mike was scanning the room when he spotted the symbol smeared on the wall like the finger-painting of a child.

  “Do you know what the symbol means?” he asked Big Pete.

  “I don’t know what it means, but it looks like the number six with a peace sign in it.”

  “An upside down peace-sign,” Mike corrected him as he approached the altar. Her stomach was spread open like an unzipped duffle bag and her intestines were gone. “Do you know where her guts are?” Mike asked Scotty.

  “We haven’t found them yet.”

  “Maybe he took them with him,” Big Pete chimed in.

  Mike crouched down and examined the floor. “Wouldn’t there be drops of blood if he killed her here?”

  “Probably,” Scotty replied. “Unless he has the precision of a surgeon.”

  “Even if he does, there would still be some evidence.”

  Scotty nodded his head.

  “It’s like he was never here. There are no footprints or any sign of disturbance.”

  Mike stood up and examined the shiny handle that was protruding from her chest. “Take a look at this knife. It looks like it’s made entirely of sterling silver.”

  The flash from Scotty’s camera startled him. He walked cautiously around Shelly, gazing at her bruised and swollen face. His heart ached for her. While fighting terrorists in Afghanistan, Mike had seen many crime scenes, but most of the victims were willing combatants. This innocent girl was snatched from the prime of her life. She was someone’s daughter and Mike vowed to make the killer pay for his crime.

  “It looks like he lit some candles,” Big Pete called out.

  “Check out her Achilles heals,” said Scotty.

  Mike bent over. “He must have cut them to disable her.”

  He walked over and examined the symbol smeared in blood. He didn’t know what it meant but he knew that the killer was leaving them a message. All they had to do was figure out what it meant.

  “Be sure to get a few close-ups of the symbol,” Mike told Scotty as he turned and started walking towards the front doors.

  “You alright Mikey?” Big Pete asked.

  Mike pulled the latex gloves off and discarded them as he walked outside. He lit a cigarette to get rid of the thick taste of death. He gazed around at the news crews, emergency personnel and vehicles parked in the driveway. “What’s the killer trying to tell us?”

  “I don’t know man. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “When the terrorists would capture one of our troops, they would string up his torn body for everyone to see. They were letting us know this is what would happen to us if we didn’t leave. This guy is sending a message as well,” Mike postulated as he exhaled with disgust. “I think he killed her somewhere else and then brought her body here for us to discover. Why else would he leave her on the altar like a sacrificial lamb?”

  Big Pete shook his head. “Why would he go to the trouble and risk of transporting her here?”

  “He wouldn’t unless he wanted the body to be found.”

&
nbsp; “What do you think it all means?”

  “Have you ever seen that symbol or knife before?”

  Big Pete shook his head with a grimace.

  “When we find out where the knife is from and what the symbol means, we will have the answers we are looking for.”

  “Forensics will come up with something. There is no way the killer didn’t leave behind some sort of trace.”

  “I hope you’re right, but until we know, we need to get all the information we can on the victim. I want to know where she lives, if she’s married, if she has kids, who her friends are, who her lover is, where she works, what hobbies and habits she has and most importantly, who she was last seen with.”

  chapter 13

  FATHER JOHN AWOKE late in the morning and stared at the holes in the ceiling boards as he recalled his nightmare. Why wasn’t he able to save her? He sat up on the edge of his cot, his muscles aching like a ditch digger, as he gazed at his worn hands. Were these the hands of a killer?

  He always assumed the reason he had his dreams of divine intervention was to save people that were integral to God’s plan. If that was the case, why did he kill the woman in his dream?

  He weakly rose and pulled his robe over his cropped head and then sat down at his desk. Maybe it was just a dream. When he first began having dreams of saving people, he did research to get a better understanding of what they meant. Normally dreams are triggered by an event in the subconscious. His dreams were caused by divine intervention.

  Was God punishing him for walking away from the church when he met Arianna? Maybe God was tempting him with another woman to see what he would do?

  Father John plucked his worn bible from his shelf and opened it to his father’s inscription.

  To my son John,

  Never be afraid to follow the path that leads to your destiny.

  Love,

  Dad

  Perhaps it wasn’t God who caused him to have the dream. Maybe it was Satan? He shut his bible and stared blankly at the white concrete block wall of his room. Was the Devil trying to lure him to the dark side?

  He stood and began to pace his cell as he wrung his hands. He had not felt this conflicted since he decided to leave Arianna and continue his search for enlightenment. He wished he could be with her. She would know how to calm his soul.

  Father John shuffled to his bed resigned that he would not attend the morning prayers. The thought of having to explain why he missed them gave him a stomach ache. He rolled onto his back and let out a sigh as he stared at the ceiling and envisioned Arianna’s soft, olive face with her arching lips. He missed her flowery smell and gentle touch. He couldn’t help but think that maybe his dream had something to do with her.

  Did his dream result in a murder like his dreams of divine intervention resulted in the saving of lives? He was afraid of the answer and resolved that he would go to the abbey’s administrative office and search the web; tomorrow.

  chapter 14

  AS THE EVENING fog rolled under the Golden Gate Bridge, Mike sat hunched in front of his monitor, entering his report.

  They were able to identify the victim as 26 year old Shelly Clark. There were no fingerprints, hairs or fibers at the crime scene. The autopsy revealed no evidence of biologicals or seminal fluid, although there were signs of forced penetration. There was no tissue or DNA under her fingernails. Whoever the killer was, he was very thorough.

  “I just got off of the phone with her employer,” Big Pete said from his desk. “I think we have another crime scene.”

  “What do you mean?” Mike asked as he sat up.

  “When he found Shelly’s truck in the parking lot he figured she must have had too much to drink and taken a cab home. When he went inside, the power didn’t work and a window was broken,” he explained. “He called Shelly’s cell phone and when she didn’t answer, he decided to check her truck.”

  “And he found blood next to it.”

  “You got it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Mike said under his breath. “Does she have a boyfriend or lover?”

  “Not according to the owner.”

  “Does he have an alibi?”

  “He was at home with his wife and kids. He checks out.”

  “Do we know who the last person was to see her alive?”

  “An 83 year old local.”

  “Have you talked with him?”

  Big Pete nodded with a smile like he knew something that would make Mike shit his pants. “He says he saw the killer.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Mike asked as he shot up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Calm down,” Big Pete said motioning with his hands. “According to Mr. Rafferty, he and Shelly were having a final drink when someone opened the front door and stood in the doorway.”

  “Could he identify him?”

  “He was wearing a hood and it was too dark. When he confronted the man, he slammed the door. He checked around the building and then went home.”

  “Does he have an alibi?”

  “No, he lives alone.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t think he could have killed her and transported her body to the church. He’s too old.”

  Mike sat quietly contemplating. “Did he say anything that might help us?”

  Big Pete nodded his head. “Shelly hadn’t seen her biological father since she was a child and she was estranged from her mother and step father because he sexually assaulted her.”

  “Does he know where they live?”

  “He thinks in Montana.”

  “Alright, you track her parents down and let them know what happened and see if they have an alibi. I’m going to search the database for any information about the orphanage and the symbol.”

  As Mike stared at a photo of horror on Shelly’s face, he remembered that it was the same “Oh shit!” expression on his dad’s face when he found him. Mike didn’t care what anybody said about there being no pain when you shoot yourself in the head; that it was over before you knew it. Mike knew that the instant it took for the bullet to travel down the barrel and rip through the brain was the most painful feeling anyone could ever experience.

  Not only that, but the last minutes his dad spent convincing himself to do it must have been agonizing. Mike imagined him loading the single bullet into the cartridge and sliding the cartridge into the handle and then pulling back on the slide before he placed the cold barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Those last moments had to be as close to hell as anyone could imagine.

  What did his father think about? Was he sad? Did he have second thoughts? Did he cry? Did he pray? Did he stop to consider how his actions would affect those he left behind? Did he have a special bullet he used? Mike imagined it was a silver bullet with a hollow tip to make sure the job was done correctly. That’s how he would do it if he ever got the courage.

  There wasn’t a day that went by that Mike didn’t regret not saying something to his dad. He played the conversation over in his head trying to figure out what he could have said and he kept coming back to the same thing; he wished he had told him that he loved him too. How could he have been so callous? Every time he thought about it he wanted to punch something.

  “Fuck this,” he said as he got up from his desk. “I need a drink.”

  chapter 15

  CLASSIC ROCK COULD be faintly heard over the ruckus crowd as Mike and Big Pete jogged across the dimly lit street to avoid a patrol car as is it sped past the maroon awning of The Precinct Bar and Grill. The Precinct was a hole-in-the-wall cop bar that occupied the bottom floor of a wood frame building with apartments on the second floor. It was walking distance from the police department. It stood at the foot of the massive pillars that supported the Nimitz Freeway, which had collapsed during the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. It was a mix of vacant buildings and industrial buildings that were being converted into live-work condominiums in an attempt to lure the middle class back to the Jack London ar
ea.

  On the other side of the freeway was Broadway, which in its prime was home to a bustling commerce of the largest retail businesses in California including Sears, Macy’s and Emporium. These once grand buildings were now shells and were only partially occupied by anyone willing to pay rent.

  Oakland struggled with the great industrial heritage of its past and what she wanted to become. Crime, murder and poverty were inextricably linked to Oakland’s status as San Francisco’s step-sister. It was great geographically, but they couldn’t get businesses or middle class families to move there because of the crime and violence, which wouldn’t leave unless the money from businesses and the middle class forced them out.

  The Precinct was where all of the cops and detectives traded stories and didn’t worry about anyone judging them. It was like a fraternity and homicide detectives were the elite.

  As Mike and Big Pete crossed the threshold, someone called out Mike’s name. Mike made eye contact with the Assistant State’s Attorney who was dressed in a suit and a loosened tie. He held up a bottle of Budweiser and motioned for Mike to join him with a group of well groomed men. Mike shook his head and held a finger up. He needed a strong drink first.

  The room was boxed with cheap wood paneling that was decorated with painted shields from the different police departments in the state of California. There were hundreds of them.

  Mike and Big Pete made their way over to the corner of the bar and silently waited for George to acknowledge them. Mike was leaning on the bar with a scowl on his face when he saw the Assistant State Attorney approaching them.

  “What the fuck? You too cool to talk to a bunch of suits?” he asked as he offered Mike his hand. “I just want to thank you. Let me buy you guys a beer.”

  George, a stocky man with thinning white hair parted to the side came down to take their orders. “Hey guys. What’ll it be?”