“Here you go my young ones,” Mrs Douka said as she left the perfectly grilled lamb chops in front of us. “Bougatsa for desert, is that ok with you?”
“Bravo! Perfect choice!” Ioli replied with colours of happiness sprinkled over her words.
“Thank you so very much, Mrs Douka. You are too kind at such an hour.”
“My boy, besides my guests, I have seven children and God has blessed me with sixteen grandchildren,” she announced with a wide smile and continued, “out of which twelve are boys. You think I am not used to cooking at all hours of the day?”
“Pretty sure you are,” I laughed picturing herds of hungry teenage boys returning from clubs at dawn and playing the sympathy card to receive grandma’s exquisite meals.
“I am glad to meet a man who can still throw back his head and laugh. Too many worried faces nowadays and especially in your line of work. A beautiful girl like you should not have sad eyes!” she waved her hand at Ioli and exited the kitchen.
I looked at Ioli and thought myself a fool. She was truly troubled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said and just as I opened my mouth, she humorously snapped, “and it is not one of those women’s nothing that means everything! I had to tell the remaining cousin of the deaths. He was just a kid. End of story. No point in discussing anything to do with the case as we are only going to repeat it all in the morning. Let’s enjoy our meal like two normal people.”
“Fine, don’t bite my head off! So what do normal people do over dinner?” I asked.
“I have no idea what so ever!” she laughed and her warm laughter filled up the room.
The next day was such a Greek day. The golden sun rose from the ocean at twenty past six and started its fourteen hour journey above the islands. The sky was clear; the air was pure and even the birds sounded happier than usual.
“The less night time, the less sins,” Mrs Douka, with her long, silver hair tied up in a bun, joked as she served us our delicious and much healthier breakfast and asked how we took our coffee.
“Greek coffees, you order to me. Fancy cappuccinos and modern frappes you order to my grandchild Peter, who will be with you in a moment after finishing with the Germans.”
Various breads, butter, honey, apricot and cherry jam, warm milk, yogurt, turkey ham, freshly cut tomatoes and cucumbers, olives, orange juice, cooked pita bread with olive oil, feta cheese, tyropita, spanakopita and last night’s sweet and creamy bougatsa were laid out across the long wooden table.
“I remembered reading an article, in the New York Times I believe, about how people in Greece live longer due to our breakfast and generally our diet. I think it was called something along the lines islanders that refuse or will not die,” Dr. Jacob mumbled away as we dug into our plates.
“Greek breakfast in my town, Parga, is a strong coffee and a cigarette!” Dr. Helena said and we all laughed though somehow I sensed she did not mean it as a joke.
Ten minutes later, Douka was standing above us declaring that he had came in a mini bus to pick us all up. We all stood up to leave before sitting immediately back down as Mrs Douka ordered “sit!”
She kissed him loudly on the cheek and asked, “had breakfast?”
“Yes, grandma.”
“Coffee and a donut?”
His guilty look gave him away.
“That is no breakfast! Sit! Eat!” she ordered him and of course he complied. No point, in Greece, discussing whether families were patriarchal or matriarchal. There were without a doubt, granniarchal!
Another ten minutes later and we were all thanking her for her hospitality and her well-prepared food.
“Good luck on your murder hunt. Hope you hang the bastard!”
“Grandma!”
“What?”
“No one hangs people anymore.”
“Well, they should!” she said as she kissed him again and told him off for not visiting more often.
“And bring that nice little lady you’re dating… it’s about time I met her!”
“How do you…”
“I know everything boy. Thursday at eight. Dinner just the three of us. Now stop standing there, the people are waiting on the bus. Get going!”
We parked outside the police station and one by one stepped off the beige, ten sitter mini bus and walked into the newly renovated building.
After a few minutes of organizing papers and slides, we were all ready to get the show started.
A speaker’s stand was placed center front of the narrow room and twelve chairs formed rows of fours in front of it. All sat down as I presented the case. The Blairs, the model and now the twins all passed by, slide by deadly slide. All details, all info collected, everything was mentioned.
“So who wants to go first?” I asked, feeling like a school teacher.
“Don’t know about first, but I will be speaking last,” Dr. Roma said as he entered the room and sat down in the back row with no apology for being late or no good morning for that matter.
“Let’s go by age,” the coroner joked as he got up and gave us all the gory details of the decapitation and the brutal smashing in of the head.
Next up was Captain Phillip Dionysiou. He got up, fixed his navy blue shirt’s collar and coughed to clear his throat. In contrast to the talkative coroner who joked and changed tone now and then, the captain spoke calmly, maintaining the same rhythm and same tone throughout his presentation on how the killer had ambushed Amy by tricking her to kneel to the ground and how he drugged the two boys down at the beach.
“It is in my belief,” he continued, “that the murderer carried the two victims to his boat that was waiting for him just around the corner, in the next bay.”
“The only piece of significant physical evidence is the killer’s foot size. Size 44.”
“Ten and a half,” Ioli leaned over and whispered to me as the DNA specialist Matthew Cosma succeeded Captain Phillip to the stand.
“Well, erm…” he started to say as he scratched awkwardly the back of his neck.
“I don’t really have much to say. This is one careful killer. No foreign DNA was found on the bodies or the mask. You realise as the island of Delos is a tourist attraction that any DNA collected from the beach or the ruins could belong to anyone and it would not stand in court.”
Alexis Andreadi was more enlightening.
“I lifted two sets of fingerprints from the mask,” he said and suddenly everyone went quiet. I leaned forward in my chair eagerly waiting for good news.
“One set is very clear and due to the density of the ridges I would say they belong to a woman. The other was not so clear, but I… well, I won’t bore you with the process… I managed to overlap some partials and create a whole. This set is larger and again due to the density, I would say that they probably belong to a large man but not an overweight one. Both sets have been sent to Athens and are being run through the system; however, no hits have yet to come up. I will be checking through police and state records as soon as we are over here. Hopefully, I will have better luck.”
Dr. Helena Argyriou placed her hands firmly on the wooden stand. She was the first to bend the switched off microphone out the way. She looked down at her notes for a few seconds before placing her USB on the laptop that was connected to the projector. Images of blood spatter in the sand from various angles flashed before us accompanied by the dry narration of Dr. Helena’s.
“… and as you can clearly see here, the common carotid artery was cut and blood squirted upwards. From the gap between the blood, here and here, we see that the killer was on his knees right in front of the victims. This is pretty uncommon in cases of decapitation, as normally, if there is anything normal about a decapitation, the executioner would stand behind the victim avoiding the blood. I guess the blood might give our killer a thrill, but such psychological explanations are not my field of expertise,” she said as she nodded to the profiler.
Dr. Simon Roma strolled pass us and
as always, he was looking straight ahead. He held notes and did not seem interested at all in the projector.
“I realise by everyone’s rather short presentations that most of you are eager to get back in the game, the field as you say. This is a murder hunt and you have a job to do. However, may I have your full attention for the next few minutes as I describe your murderer to you. My past work speaks for me and I have never been wrong. I say this not to show off, but to stress the importance you take into full account the details I am going to share with you. As for outer appearance, I am in full agreement with Captain Papacosta. The killer is a man, he is tall, and he is what most would agree upon, handsome. He lured the model down to the beach. He probably opened a conversation with Mrs Blair as to get closer to her. He knows how to have a conversation without showing an apparent psychological or psychiatric disturbance. This is a result of his higher education. You should look for someone with a master’s degree or a PHD. Most likely a degree in the arts. He did not need to study. He wanted to. He is a wealthy man and only studied to better himself and for a further knowledge in an area that sparked his interest. I place him anywhere over thirty five and surely under fifty. He is someone that people would describe as confident. I believe he is Greek or of Greek origin in some way yet fluent in the English language. He feeds his high intelligence with all the little clues he has left behind for the police to reach the conclusion of the mythological connection of his murders. He wants the reason of his murders to be known. I would say the title The Olympus Killer would find him in agreement. All clues left behind were for this reason. He was careful as to leave no incriminating evidence. Though, the signature characteristic of each murder, the naked body, is a part of the whole mythological angle and not part of hiding evidence. He leaves them naked just like the Gods are depicted through art. The naked body arouses him, yet, he has not had intercourse with any of his victims. I find this rather strange and would expect that in a next murder or an unknown previous crime, some sort of intercourse would have taken place.”
“Let’s hope there isn’t another murder,” Dr. Helena commented to the obvious disapproval look of Dr. Romas.
“I’m sure we will get this bastard by then,” the good hearted Matthew added.
“I would not expect the intercourse to be anything but normal as this individual is a very disturbed one when it comes to sex. Abused and neglected as a child, he has had trouble connecting with people his whole life. Maybe an orphan, a foster home kid or someone who ran away from home at a young age and had to make ends meet on his own. Our serial killer is motivated by revenge. Fame, money, curiosity mean nothing to him. He has an inner desire to accomplish his goal which is to kill the ancient Greek Gods. He has a great deal of rage in him, most likely caused by traumatising events at a young age. For some reason, he has connected these traumatising experiences with the Gods of Olympus. Closing, I would like to say that I am positive that he will kill again and that he will not stop killing until he has exacted all his revenge. Thank you.”
The professor stayed behind the stand –he was used to accepting questions at the end of his speeches. As the team, myself included, asked for various clarifications about his conclusions, I noticed that Ioli had exited the room and was pacing up and down the corridor, phone in ear. Satisfied by the profiler and the whole team’s work, I opened the door to find Ioli sitting on the floor with her head against the wall looking rather gloomy.
“It’s my grandma. She had a stroke this morning. My mama called from the hospital. Things are not looking good.”
I sat down beside her, placing my hand around her shoulders.
“Go. I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t leave. Not without…”
“You are leaving. Today. Go catch the next flight. I will keep you in touch. Get back as soon as possible. Anyway, judging by the DNA that grandma passed down, I am sure she is one tough cookie and will be out of the hospital in no time.”
She hugged me and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek before standing up and walking off without saying another word. Soon, she was back in the air on her way to Crete.
*****
Chapter 24
In the wealthy and prestigious area of Colonaki, Bill Aggelopoulos or Mr Rich as the Greek media referred to him, woke up after only two hours of restless slumber. Today was going to be the big day. As his custom-made, dream machine alarm clock went off, he immediately rose to his feet. He picked up his wooden cigar box from his bedside table and slowly and steadily walked towards the caramel and latte damask curtains. He blandly pulled them aside, turned the golden knob and walked out, barefooted, onto the balcony. He leaned against the Syrian stone balustrades and looked down upon the vast city of Athens. A few groups of clouds lingered in the sky; an unusual sighting for the beginning of August in Athens, but then again, this was not going to be an ordinary day.
He smiled as he remembered standing in the same spot, eight years ago, with his wife in his arms and a lively, chatty real estate agent who couldn’t stop talking about the exquisite fireplace of the master bedroom and let them enjoy the city skyline and the vast ocean on the horizon.
He took in a deep breath, offering his nose –probably for the last time-the remarkable and overwhelming sense of pine from Lycabettus Hill which bordered his estate. The seven bedroom mansion truly had a magnificent view. Not that he cared anymore. Ever since his wife, Christina, put a gun in her mouth last December, the whole place was just a colossal mausoleum. The mansion’s spacious rooms, once decorated and furnished with much joy and love, felt cold and alien. Silence filled the air between the walls as the maids, the cook and even the live-to-sing gardener moved around like ghosts through the corpse of a house. Christina was the heart and soul of the place and one bullet changed all that.
He placed his 13-top cigar box on the balustrade, opened the hinged box and took out one of his Cohiba Esplendido cigars. They surely were splendid. Mr Money –an alternate name used not to bore the public with Mr Rich-was a firm believer that Cuban cigars were and would always be the best in the cigar market. He never used lighters. Old-fashioned soul as he was, he always used matches. He never smoked regular cigarettes for that matter. He sniffed in the rich aroma as he passed the cigar under his nose. He lit his Cohiba and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. He exhaled and thought that if he cried, this would most likely be the time he would shed tears. But he was tough. He had no time for tears. Having left New York at the tender age of only seventeen, he came to Athens, where he got involved in shipping. Soon, he was one the market’s top players. He was definitely the youngest. Now at forty-two he was the top.
He flicked his cigar away and watched it as it journeyed down to the interior court yard’s swimming pool and landed in the still tranquil waters.
“Won’t be using the pool again, I guess,” he smiled with sadness. He walked back into the master bedroom to get ready, as ready as he could ever be. Normally, he would follow his morning ritual with devout punctuality. Now, he didn’t even bother to shave or brush his teeth. He stood and stared at himself for a second in the bathroom mirror wall before splashing some cold water upon his face and through his black hair. A rich and powerful forty year old that was once the envy of the city’s so-called good society. Now, too many worry lines graced his forehead and the area around his once vibrant green eyes.
He wore one of his many black suits, a plain, but as expected expensive white shirt and he skipped the tie.
“Not a formal occasion.”
He took the house’s glass elevator down to the basement and beeped open his black Bugatti Veyron and then the garage door. As the garage door reached its destination, the car roared into the street.
The First Cemetery of Athens was only ten minutes away, but traffic always made that fifteen. He parked opposite the main entrance where the two archangels majestically looked down on the human race. He bought a dozen purple carnations off a polite senior lady selling flowers outside the cemetery f
or a living. She had helped him choose which flowers to buy as she explained carnations symbolised pride and beauty. His Christina was a grounded proud person and beauty was an understatement to say the least.
He always laughed at the idea that the First Cemetery was the cemetery for the rich and famous. A luxurious resting place for the well off. He also thought the name of the street was humourous too. He looked up at the street sign. Οδός Αναπαύσεως - Eternal Rest Street! Now, the whole idea did not seem so funny anymore. He walked past the cemetery’s notable interments, politicians, singers and actors, heading towards Christina’s grave. He took comfort in the fact that she was buried near her all time favourite actress, Melina Mercouri. He sat down beside her and placed the flowers under her angel sculpture. The cypresses offered much welcomed shade as he looked at Christina’s sun faded photograph. Bleached blonde with dynamic blue eyes and French facial characteristics; she had been the love of his life. They met at high school and as soon as they graduated, they ran away together from New York to Athens.
“Wish you were here to guide me, baby. I’ve done so many wrongs… I hope my next move is a right,” he whispered, kissed his fingers and placed them on her photograph.
“A prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages,” he poetically read her tombs engravement. Christina’s favourite quote by Tennessee Williams.
Before leaving, he entered the cemetery’s church, not the main one of Saint Theodore but the smaller one of Saint Lazarus. He had no faith but Christina did, and that was good enough for him. He lit a single candle, and whispered, “for Christina” as he placed it amongst the others in the sand filled round, golden container.
He placed his black shades back on and walked back to his car. He drove around for a while in silence before heading down Vasileos Conctantinou Avenue towards the Syntagmatos Police station.
“Great. No parking,” he said as he searched for where to abandon his car.
His eye finally caught a spot on his left and he quickly maneuvered and parked as many were in the same situation as him.
Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you! Page 16