“Explore it how?” came another British-accented question from the group.
“Yes, how do you mean that. Doctor?” came the confusion.
A deep breath and she replied, “Primarily, we're asking that you be attuned to it.”
“How do you mean, precisely, 'attuned to it'?” came back an instant response from the seats.
Damn but some of their questions seem of the idiot fringe, she nastily thought, then calmly said, “Read up on the coming 'true' millennium, the actual, honest to goodness one: 2001. Any deaths by cult members, any suicides relative to a cult practice and the beliefs associated with this notion we are at last on doomsday's doorstep. And don't forget anything to do with St. Michael or a St. Michael's cult you may stumble over.”
“I see,” replied the last questioner. “Like your Hale-Bhopal thing in America?”
“Hale-Bhopp,” she gently corrected.
Stuart Copperwaite cleared his throat and helped Jessica out. “There's enough evidence to imply that our man, or men, are engaged in some sort of bizarre ritual surrounding the events that took the life of Christ. In the year of Our Lord's two thousandth birthday, 2001.. well, gentlemen and ladies, figure it out.”
“So, it's as we thought before we got outside help,” Chief Inspector Boulte said rather caustically and clumsily.
“Except that now we 'ave four victims of crucifixion murders, instead of three,” said a female inspector from the floor. Another woman chimed in with, “We've got ourselves another freaking Jesus freak, that's sure.”
“Agreed, our killer has a Messiah complex,” Sharpe softly added.
“Not just any old Jesus freak,” suggested Copperwaite.
“A far more dangerous one this time around,” cautioned Jessica. “One who indeed acts on his fantasy, and as we all know, religious fantasy-even in the hands of the supposed knowledgeable 'authorities' such as the Inquisition, this sort of perversion of religious beliefs can be absolute in its madness. We can't worry ourselves with a motive that only the killer comprehends.”
“So what do we do now?” asked a heavyset detective, between moments of working a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the next.
“Yes, you want us to be on the lookout for hippies and skinheads or just what?” came the questions from the floor.
Jessica gently urged, “Be in tune with the killer as much as possible.”
“And precisely how do we do that, mum… ahhh, Doctor?” asked another in an aggrieved tone. “What do you think of this, Sharpe?”
Jessica held a hand up to Sharpe before he could answer, and said, “You have to climb into his head. Be him.”
Sharpe said, “Dr. Coran has made extreme strides ahead in the investigation, helping us out tremendously in a short matter of days. We expect to follow up on the leads she has provided.”
Boulte put a prompt end to Jessica's question and answer period when he called upon Father Jerrard Luc Sante to take the podium to discuss the killer and his profile from Luc Sante's point of view. Jessica picked up her paltry notes and the forensic reports she had yet to complete and made her way to her seat. She herself felt great interest in what Jerrard Luc Sante might add to the picture. Luc Sante clambered to his feet with a cane in his hand, which he used for pointing at the slide still displayed on the wall behind him. He repeated the words, “Mihi beata mater,” jabbing each word with the end of his black cane. “It's a grave morning to you all, lads, gentlemen, ladies of the law,” began Luc Sante, his eyes giving away that powerful light of energy that Jessica believed marked him as a passionate individual. “I pity you your profession. What you must deal with on a daily basis. You are the vanguard, the army set against evil in this age. Now, today, we must explore this possibility that Dr. Coran has spoken of, this cult slant to the crime. Cults and cultism, I fear, are all too real. Throughout the Bible and throughout history, cults have thrived among us as freely as disease and domesticated dogs, and the more dangerous the cult is can be judged by how often and to what degree the cult threatens the life of its own followers or members of society at large.”
He allowed this to sink in. His intonation, his rich, redolent voice, filled the room. Once more Jessica felt a strong affinity with the wise old one.
“Many interesting human traits are put to the test at a time like this, at and around the turn of the ordinary century, but this… None of us knows of anyone who has been 'stressed' by a coming millennia-twice if you will, given the millennium readiness first made for the year 2000, and now for 2001. Still, we already know that millennia mania and cruel phobias surrounding this portentous time are rising out of control, beyond anything we've seen before.”
Luc Sante had the undivided attention of every man and woman in the room as he discussed the possibilities in some detail. “The killer or killers may be fixated on the coming of year 2001.” He separated each word for emphasis. “And the possibility the killer or killers are trying to hurry along Christ's Second Coming is hardly out of the question.” He banged his cane down and it sounded like a gunshot.
This was met with murmurs, a general disquiet, some snickers. Jessica tried to imagine what a police precinct in Chicago, L.A., New York, or Miami would do with such “news” from this expert.
Luc Sante judged the level of suspicion and disbelief, and then he added, “Belief in a millennial experience that will bring Christ to reign again on Earth, ladies and gentlemen, is based on the Resurrection story and the Bible's own Book of Revelation, and this belief recurs throughout the history of Christianity. Hedging their bets, the Catholic Church has made the year 2001 a jubilee year, as they had 2000, and the Adventists and several other conservative, evangelical groups take it even more seriously.”
“Pardon, Dr. Luc Sante,” interrupted Boulte. “Father, are you saying what I think you're saying?”
Luc Sante pushed on, adding, “Christ's Second Coming has always been just over the next horizon. Well, the actual date of the millennium is one hell of a horizon, my friends.”
At eleven in the morning, Boulte called a halt to the meeting, encouraging everyone with a quip, “Do keep a sharp lookout for anyone impersonating Jesus H. Christ, lads.”
The assembled investigators, some 160 of them, filed out of the largest room in the Yard's facility, in abject silence or confused murmurs.
Boulte took Luc Sante's hand, shook it vigorously, and turned to Jessica and Sharpe, while Copperwaite stood a bit off to one side. Boulte said simply, “I've put all my trust in you people. Dr. Coran, Dr. Luc Sante, Sharpe. Get me some results and quickly.”
Sharpe simply nodded. Luc Sante simply smiled. Jessica said, “We'll end the career of the Crucifier soon, Chief Inspector. He will make a mistake. He will slip up sometime, somewhere.”
“Soon, I pray.” And Boulte was gone in search of his office.“I have paperwork to my eyeballs,” Sharpe said, “and Stuart has some phone calls to make, and we have some interrogations to take. Getting some anonymous dps, mostly bogus, but we have to follow through.”
“Dr. Coran is in good hands, Inspector,” Luc Sante assured Richard. “We have much to discuss, don't we, Dr. Coran?”
“About our year 2001 theories? Yes, we do.”
“Good, then share a cab with me back to my humble cathedral. I must get back to my office on time or my secretary, Eeadna, will have my head.”
Before she could answer Luc Sante, Richard interrupted, extending his good-bye, which Jessica thought sweet. Then the somewhat subdued Copperwaite followed Sharpe out the door. Copperwaite's body language told Jessica that somehow he knew about Richard and her. It might account for his awkward standoffishness.
“I want you to come back to St. Albans with me, Dr. Coran,” requested Father Jerrard Luc Sante again as they climbed aboard the elevator and pushed for the main floor.
“I really can't, not just now. I have far too much awaiting my attention in the lab this morning,” she countered, “but I do wish to pursue this cult notion and the
millennium question with you. Perhaps later?”
He smiled and nodded. “I certainly understand how very busy you must be, Dr. Coran. Forgive me my persistence, and yes, perhaps later. Call me, but for now, do walk with me out to the cab stand. I must share my views with you.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed as the elevator doors opened. Jessica walked him past security and through the glass doors.
Outside, the stark sun burned their eyes. Luc Sante hailed a cab with his black walking stick. He opened the cab door but hesitated getting in. “I do wish to consult with you on this madman you and Sharpe are pursuing.”
“Your input is much appreciated, sir, really.”
“Oh, you needn't stroke me, my dear. I'm beyond having any ego whatsoever when it comes to needing a compliment fix. No, what I need from you is a sounding wall, a confidant. You see, I've been having these hellish, nightmarish dreams of late, all having to do with this maniac. I see him as a shadow, quite vague, but quite clearly intent on a mission, a religious test or quest if you will, to please God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost and the Virgin Mary, all of it. To set right what is wrong in the world. Does that sound foolish?”
“Not at all, Dr. Sante.”
“Luc Sante,” he corrected her. “It is said as one name.”
Jessica felt agreement between them on the killer's motives and fantasy, but when she brought up the notion that there might be two killers rather than one, Luc Sante quickly shook his head and said, “No, not two. But perhaps an entire congregation, a cult following, along the order of any church, you see… There is always a congregation.”
“Yes, that would make sense, but convincing that many people that crucifying innocent people is a good approach to… to-”
“To inspire the Second Coming, yes. There is literally no limit to the numbers on this planet who would gladly involve themselves in a ritual designed to reanimate Christ, my dear. My God, look at what else people involved themselves with during the year 2000. When December 31, 1999, gave way to midnight, Iceland lit bonfires, England gave a nationwide pealing of bells, and your New York turned Times Square into a circus; an extravaganza of TV screens and lights, showing festivals and feasts in all twenty-four time zones, but the suicides and the cult ritual deaths followed in the news as did the orgies.”
“It stands to reason that, thanks to the X-Filing of America, most Americans will be expecting Christ to descend over the New Jersey Meadowlands in the mothership again come this January 1, 2001.”
“Right you are. The psychological countdown began long ago, and the psychological fallout from the enormity of the disappointment-should Christ not show up, should the world not end or be punished… Well, imagine it. All those religious leaders marching their followers off to seaside shores, mountaintops, holy lands, and valleys. All those survivalists in your Utah and Idaho mountains for the Day of Judgment. It may well be devastating to us all, I fear. My French grandmother had a term fitting such extravagances, fin de siecle, now a synonym for the 2000 bridge to the 2001 disillusionment.”
“Fin de siecle? End of a cycle?” she guessed.
“Quite.”
The cab stood idling, the driver growing anxious to move on, anxious for the next fare, “Father, I'm dyin' here,” he called out, sounding more like a Brooklyn cabdriver than a British one.
Father Luc Sante ignored the rude ruffian, gently reached into his inside pocket, and from deep within the folds of the cloth, he brought forth his business card, extending it toward Jessica. “Do ring me up when you can, dear. We have much to discuss.” Jessica nodded and tucked the card away in her own pocket. She shook his hand again and felt the warmth and energy coursing through his hand to hers.
She waved to the old man as he ambled into the cab, fighting with his knobby black walking stick. She wondered at the dedication of such a man, after so many years, that he should still enjoy his work, after seeing so much of the dark underbelly of humankind. This gave way to the fleeting thought that the old man himself must hold enormous fears for his clients and congregation both in the church and in his psychiatric practice. The old priest must also behold the turn of the true millennium with great trepidation, as did Jessica.
ELEVEN
If evil is an illness, then why fear approaching it as an object of scientific study, as with any mental illness?
— Dr. Asa Holcraft, M.E.
After a long, disappointing day in the laboratory in which she found herself in a holding pattern-waiting for the results of tests from experts on matters such as the DNA findings- Jessica felt bored and anxious. She kept returning to Father Luc Sante's words both at the meeting earlier today and from his findings in his book, which she had as yet to finish reading. Richard and Shakespeare had taken up all of her time the night before. She gathered an inward, delighted smile at the memory of her enchanted evening with the dashing, handsome inspector and former colonel. He proved to be a caring, kind, gentle man. When she'd brought up his children he had gone into a kind of beatific reverie, speaking of their beautiful faces, moments of happiness snatched with them between job and visitations. He had nicknames for the two girls, Pixie-snow and Pixie-cream, he called them. “Enchanting creatures, both with diametrically opposed personalities. Neither of them are the least like me. Sweet, the two of them. Bloody treacherous we have to bring such innocence into this world.”
She hadn't pried into the causes of his breakup with his wife. She could imagine the underlying reasons, what had caused the underpinnings of the relationship to be removed. Most likely his story would prove similar to how she and James Parry had drifted apart. At first in subtle ways that go unnoticed, and then came the wrecking ball at the end of a chain, she thought.
Shaking herself from her reverie, Jessica scanned the victims' files once again. She looked up at the clock and found that time had become fleet-footed as usual. It was pushing four in the afternoon. She felt a twinge of pouting come over her, combined liberally with a dash of anger that Richard hadn't made contact. Her eye fell on Father Luc Sante's professional card which read beneath his name, Minister and Psychotherapist of the Jungian School.
Not all therapists declared themselves so openly and blatantly Jungian. This meant that Luc Sante believed in the power of the subconscious mind, that the voice of dream held potent sway over individual lives and decisions, and that-if dream therapy was right-dreams foretold, foreshadowed, and reexamined events of the waking world. Jessica knew from her own reading in the area that Carl Jung had believed dreams to be a kind of god-voice, the overseer of personal protection and good, not unlike votive god statues in primitive people's homes, not unlike praying to rosary beads or a statue of the Virgin Mary or to Christ on the cross. Jung believed the dream-god-voice to be the god of truth spoken of in the admonition “to thine own self be true.” This god was also known as intuition and instinct from within, the one voice that never lied to the individual. The voice spoke in highly charged, loaded symbols. Many of them were archetypal symbols from avatars to zoo animals, from fish, water, and womb to the death's head. Nonetheless, if the dream could be decoded as one that denied or confirmed, then the individual could safely interpret the dream one way or the other.
Jessica had never heard of a shrink who so openly displayed his basic approach to psychotherapy by exhibiting it on his business card, but then how many psychotherapists were also ministers? How many are as eccentric as Luc Sante? she asked herself. Below the name and title, the address loomed large as St. Albans Cathedral, Marylebone Street. On impulse, Jessica felt a need to really converse with Dr. Luc Sante, to delve more deeply into his feelings and hunches about the Crucifier. Perhaps his insights could kick-start the investigation back on track.
To this end, she telephoned Luc Sante, and after getting the nod from his proper, prim old secretary, Luc Sante came on the line, delighted that she had called. He had been thinking of her all day, as if picking up some psychic reading, he said and then laughed so loud it hurt her ear.
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br /> “I'd like to come over to talk about the case in more depth with you, Dr. Luc Sante.”
“Hurry over, then. I will have Janet prepare us afternoon tea. Have you had afternoon tea?”
“Well, no, not today.”
“And crumpets. I'll see we have something to nibble on as well. Delightful. Do come over. My calendar is always clear after three of the day.”
She took the cab to his cathedral under a sky that had become menacing with roiling clouds that changed in hue and expression with each passing moment. The weather had turned cooler, the light dimmer, the day more dreary, making Jessica recall a time, as a child, when she didn't understand the clock or the passage of time. She had been in kindergarten when a storm had blown over her school with the sky a charcoal black only to grow even more deeply dark. The storm had intensified with sleet and crackling hailstones; the view through the sleek, storm-blackened window had represented a hole she might tumble into, like Alice had fallen into from the story they had read that day. The sky had turned to a blackness as shiny and fascinating as the coat of a black stallion. The blackness had felt impenetrable and forever, and as a child without understanding of time, young Jessica had assumed it was the blackness of midnight. She could not understand why her father and mother had left her at school so late into the night. She feared they had left her there forever. It had mattered not a wit that all the other children and teachers were also there with her.
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