Measure Twice

by J. J. Hensley

  “Uh-huh,” Channing half-acknowledged. The kills were similar, he thought. But not only because they were public murders of public servants. The bodies were both posed facing east. He had already noted that similarity, but there was something else. He could not put his finger on it.

  “The dark marks we found around his wounds appear to consist of sulfur, carbon, iron, and ash.” Lambert furrowed her brow. Mostly to herself, she asked, “What does that mean? Why can’t the guys down there just write this stuff out in plain English? And the rope that was used to support his body was made of hemp. Who buys rope made of hemp?”

  Channing stopped scanning the images on the desk and looked up at Lambert.

  “Did you say sulfur?”

  “Yes—around the wounds. Does that mean something to you? Don’t tell me you’ve run into a weapon that leaves traces of sulfur and carbon before.”

  Channing’s gaze returned to the photos. He focused on one that was a straight-on view of Abdella’s corpse centered on the front of the Incline car.

  Lambert, seeing her partner’s expression, took a seat across from him. She saw sparks of revelation in his face. The same look he had when he grabbed her and demonstrated how he thought the killer was using multiple weapons was returning to his face. She watched the expression overtake him, then asked, “What is it, Jackson? What are you seeing?”

  Without taking his attention off the photos, he asked, “Are you a churchgoer?”

  “Not much these days, but I spent a lot of time in church when I was younger.”

  “Did you read the Bible much?”

  Lambert’s shoulders lifted and lowered. “Sure. My mother insisted on it.”

  Channing put the photo down, picked up a pen, and started twirling it in one hand.

  “Sulfur—it’s mentioned in the Bible somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” his partner responded. “But usually not in a good way. The verses that talk about it are mostly referring to foul lakes or streams of sulfur, or burning rains of sulfur, along with fire and brimstone…that sort of thing.”

  “Does it appear as a response? Some sort of retribution or punishment for a wrong?”

  Lambert took a second to recall what she had read long ago. “I think so. Punishment for the wicked, plagues on mankind, things like that.”

  Channing nodded and started turning some of the photos toward his partner.

  “Look at the bodies,” he said. “Look at the poses.”

  She looked at Abdella’s photo and immediately saw the similarity to that of a crucifixion. Then, she looked at photos of Culligan’s body hanging from the bridge. The photos were taken with the help of a telescopic lens; the photographer was on a boat in position to see the front of Culligan’s body. She failed to see any Biblical reference in the image.

  Channing, seeing her confusion, explained, “If I recall from the very few sermons I ever witnessed, it wasn’t uncommon for the bodies of offenders to be put on display for all to see. Some offenders were hung from trees—others, nailed to crosses. It was intended to send a message to the public. ‘This person crossed a line and paid the price. This could have been you.’”

  Lambert gave her partner, who seemed completely sober this morning, a skeptical look.

  Channing acknowledged the look and said, “I know. It’s a bit of a stretch. But look what we have so far. Two men violently murdered using what I think are homemade weapons. The killer seems to be sending a message, although we don’t know what that message is. Both bodies posed to face to the east. Again, we don’t know what that means, but I think it’s important. And Abdella’s body coming down from the mountain has religious overtones as well. I think this guy is not only angry at the world, but he’s applying a type of Biblical vengeance to his work.”

  Lambert thought about Channing’s words, but her skepticism remained. “You may be jumping to conclusions. Last night, we were at least entertaining the possibility that Culligan was killed because of a construction-kickback scheme. Now, you’re proposing this guy killed people because of religion.”

  “Not because of religion,” Channing quickly responded. “No…I think he’s using religious overtones because it’s part of his message. Or, maybe it provides him with some level of internal rationalization. Whatever the reason, I think we have to consider it may be part of his M.O.”

  Lambert shook her head and said, “I still think you are making some giant leaps here. And you said you think this guy is making his own weapons. What makes you say that?”

  Channing ran off the list, “Sulfur, carbon, iron, ash on weapons that are not too sharp. Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t the burning of coal release sulfur and carbon? And couldn’t iron be shaped over a fire?”

  Lambert’s cell phone rang in her pocket. As she retrieved the phone, she told Channing, “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you have to admit it sounds a bit farfetched. For all we know, this guy picked up some pieces of iron at a construction site and the positions of the bodies were simply because he wanted everyone to see what he had done.” With that, Lambert glanced at the phone, saw Sergeant Ken Harris’s name, and hit a button to answer the call. Covering the mouthpiece, she said one more thing to her partner. “Please don’t start telling people you think these killings involve religion. We’re already pretty unpopular around here.”

  Uncovering the mouthpiece, she turned her attention to the call and announced, “Detective Lambert.”

  – – –

  “I think these killings may involve religion,” Lambert said as she and her partner stared up from their vantage point on the corner of Smallman Street and Twenty-First. A ladder truck from the fire department was slowly navigating the narrow streets two blocks from the Allegheny River.

  “I think you may be right,” was all Channing could say in response. Both detectives were looking nearly straight up at a bell tower of one of Pittsburgh’s oldest churches. The Polish Cathedral style church was the tallest and most prominent structure in the Strip District. Behind it, the rising sun in the wintery sky cast a shadow over the front steps, where a mortified morning crowd had begun to assemble.

  The ladder truck stood haphazardly parked next to the building. Several of its tires sat on the sidewalk that stretched along the north side of the church, and firefighters began working to extend the ladder. Nobody moved with any sense of urgency, as police officers on the scene had already entered the church, climbed creaking stairs, and pushed open a set of shutters to take a closer look at what was tied to the tower. With all four limbs stretched out, the body of what appeared to be a male with blood completely covering his face was displayed on the side of the southernmost of the church’s dual towers. Multiple ropes extended from the body’s wrists and ankles. Gravity pulled the figure’s darkened face down toward the street.

  Harris, tired and doing his best to battle the cold with a cup of steaming coffee held in gloved hands, spotted his two detectives through a light flurry of snow and walked to them.

  “One of the priests called it in. As soon as there was some daylight, he walked out to clean up some trash from the sidewalk and looked up when it started snowing. That’s when he saw it.”

  Lambert waited to see if Channing was going to mention his theory about the other murders, but Channing did not seem to be in a rush to speak.

  “I made all the notifications, including one to Hatley, as soon as the call came in, and I figured you two needed to see this, too.”

  “We’re not really on the case. It’s a task force problem,” said Channing, still staring up at the tower.

  “It’s a police problem,” said Harris. “And you two are still the police.” Harris glanced up at the tower as the ladder from the truck swung into place.

  Channing watched the ladder make its final approach. He knew the ladder truck was a precaution. If officers went out on the tower’s ledge and cut the body down, there was a possibility of the corpse falling to the sidewalk one hundred and fift
y feet below. Behind crime scene tape, photographers and camera crews were already clicking and recording furiously as reporters jabbered frantically into microphones.

  “I know Hatley and the task force will officially be taking this one,” said the sergeant. “But I believe in the NASA method when it comes to major investigations. You build in as many redundancies as possible. That way, if one mechanism fails, another one is there to carry the load. You two,” he said while extending an index finger from his coffee cup, “are the fail safe if that buffoon drops the ball.”

  Lambert and Channing did not need clarification as to whom Harris was referring.

  “Assuming we can get a quick ID on this victim, and it turns out to be another city employee, everybody who thinks they are anybody is going to be screaming for protection. How are we supposed to do that? We can’t park a patrol car in front of the houses of thousands of city employees.”

  Channing lowered his eyes to his supervisor and said, “Hatley set up a tip line for the public to call, right?”

  Harris confirmed he had.

  Channing asked, “Who is collecting the call data?”

  Harris thought for a moment and answered, “Sullivan and Janey have been manning the phones, and Gustavo and Belton have been following up on anything that sounds legitimate. They go into a database and mark off the false leads as they go.”

  Lambert asked, “How many calls have come in so far?”

  “A couple hundred,” Harris guessed. “But, after today, that number will double.”

  “Only two detectives for all those calls?” asked Lambert.

  Harris looked slightly annoyed at the question, as he was ultimately responsible for allocating manpower and resources on the case. “Yeah, that’s all we have available, unless you two want to start running around talking to every paranoid schizophrenic in the metro area.”

  Channing interrupted, “We just want to see the spreadsheet. Sullivan and Janey…their desks are over in Narcotics, right?”

  Harris said, “Yeah. They’re on loan to us until this is over. Why? What are you looking for in those calls?”

  “I’m looking to find religion, Ken. I’m looking to find religion.”

  Mayton stood in the crowd of would-be churchgoers concealing his hands in his pockets. The scratching fibers of the ropes had managed to find their way around his gloves and put a series of marks on his wrists. There was sure to be some of his DNA on the ropes, but since there would be no reason as of yet for the police to collect a sample from—or even speak with—him, he was unconcerned. However, knowing that he had left physical evidence at the crime scene forced him to reconsider his plans. He anticipated that he would eventually have to move out of his—his and Cindy’s—home. Now, he would accelerate his timetable.

  He had not expected to be here. After he dropped Culligan off that bridge, he went straight home to clean up. He surveyed the scene at the Incline because he wanted to see if his message was getting through. But this time, he was not sure why he stayed. He told himself it was for the same reason he watched the chaos around the discovery of Abdella’s lifeless form, but he knew that was not true. Now it was something else. Something sadistic. He wanted—needed—to see the city’s pain. He wanted to bathe in the fear of the people. He wanted closure from the kill.

  “You can’t get away with something like this.”

  He jolted at the voice coming from beside him. A small woman who looked to be in her seventies was looking up at Mayton.

  “A person can’t do something like this and not be punished. Killing someone and desecrating a church…whoever did this will pay for it in this life or the next.”

  Desecrating? Mayton thought. Mayton squinted at the woman. She had no idea what she was talking about. He was not desecrating anything. He was preaching. He was…prophesizing. He was punishing and enlightening, both at the same time. This woman did not understand—at least not yet.

  Large, wet flakes started to fall as the flurry turned into a heavy snow. Heads tilted down and people pulled collars up. Some people in the front of the onlookers started to head to their cars, assuming there would be no service in the church until the afternoon. The woman ignored the weather and persisted with the one-sided conversation.

  “It’s blasphemy. That’s what it is. It’s pure blasphemy.” She shielded her eyes from the snow, and glanced at the firefighters and police pulling the body onto the extended ladder.

  The civil servants were trying to cover the body with a sheet to hide Mayton’s work. “You can’t hide this,” he said to himself.

  “No, you can’t hide this from the eyes of God,” said the woman while taking a scarf out of an oversized purse, and wrapping it around her thin neck.

  Mayton’s eyes widened. He had not meant to say that aloud. He was exhausted and not thinking straight. He could not remember the last time he had eaten. That had been happening to him lately—forgetting to eat. If he were to finish this mission, he would have to be more attentive to his health.

  “I’ll pray for the person responsible, but I don’t know if God can forgive this. This is soulless. Simply soulless.”

  “What do you know?” Mayton snapped loudly. “Get away from me!”

  The heads of the remaining dozen or so people in the crowd turned his way. Mayton swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the unwanted attention. His eyes darted from face to face as he took a step back from the group. Then, beyond the crowd, he saw a flash of something familiar. The sun was peaking around a corner of the church and the whiteness of the snow hurt his eyes, but he knew what he had seen. It was the face of that detective—Channing. He was only twenty yards away and the detective was staring straight ahead. The man looked directly at Mayton, mouthed something to someone Mayton could not see, and took one long stride in his direction.

  – – –

  Harris popped the lid off his coffee and poured the now cold contents onto the ground.

  “Looking for religion, huh?” Harris shook the cup, flinging the last drops into the air. “Whatever. Just do what you two do and find this guy. My guess is our new friend up on the tower is going to have a couple of holes in his chest and a big cut across the throat. Whatever this thing is, it’s not going to stop on its own.”

  Channing stopped listening and turned toward the crowd of bystanders across the street. Lambert was turned the same direction, trying to zero in on whoever had yelled. Their gazes followed those of the crowd members, all of which seemed to have their heads turned away from the detectives as they watched someone in the back of the group. Lambert, being several inches shorter than Channing, bobbed her head back and forth, trying to see through all the people. Channing, however, caught sight of the man who seemed to be drawing so much attention. The tall detective blinked away melting snowflakes and locked eyes with the man. In an instant, all of Channing’s instincts told him something that only an experienced cop truly understands. The guy is all wrong.

  The man seemed to be examining Channing as he slowly edged away from the others. Quietly, Channing said, “Tina, you got him?”

  Lambert finally found a clear line of sight between the shoulders of two people and said, “I got him. What do you think?”

  Both detectives stepped into the street, heading toward the crowd. Before Channing could respond to his partner, the man he was watching bolted down Smallman Street. Channing and Lambert followed, running through a strip of crime scene tape intended to keep the public at a distance, and then plowing through the stunned crowd. Harris, taken aback by the sudden actions of his detectives, reflexively took off after the other two, who already had a significant head start.

  As Lambert and Channing emerged from the crowd, the younger of the cops said, “What are we chasing him for?”

  Her partner replied, “General shadiness!”

  Even while accelerating down the street of broken asphalt, Lambert shot Channing a sharp sideways glance. This street in the old commercial section of the city widened into a
portion of the district lined with brick industrial-era warehouses and concrete loading docks.

  In response to training and habit more than actual hope, Channing loudly identified himself as a police officer and commanded the man to stop. The man continued tearing down the street, occasionally looking to the side for some alley of escape. Seeing how the long warehouse structures continuously covered several blocks, the man darted to the left and climbed onto a waist-high platform. Within seconds, the detectives saw the man—who was wearing black work pants, a bulky gray coat, and brown work gloves—disappear into blackness through a gap between gigantic sliding doors.

  With the widening of the street and the thinning out of pedestrians, Lambert’s speed advantage over Channing became evident. By the time the fleeing man slid into the warehouse, the former track star was well ahead of the ill-trained distance runner. Harris, the last to begin the pursuit, was just emerging from the crowd.

  Under heavy breaths, Channing tried to get his partner’s attention. Feebly, he said, “Wait!” as he tried to close the distance. Lambert, however, either did not hear him or ignored the call. Channing could only watch as she effortlessly bounded onto the loading dock, drew her sidearm, and vanished into the cavernous building. In a near panic at seeing his partner—another partner—go into a building without him, Channing summoned every ounce of energy he could to sprint to the entrance. Upon arriving at the dock, Channing leapt up and placed his hands and one foot in position to propel his body onto the platform. His foot hit a patch of ice on the edge of the concrete and he slipped off, smashing his knee in the process. Wide-eyed and becoming frantic, Channing screamed his partner’s first name and made a second attempt to catch up to her. Feeling blood trickling down his left leg, he managed to get himself onto the loading dock and through the open doors.

  Channing’s eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness of the warehouse. Only a sliver of light peered through a large painted-over window with a broken panel. Periodically, a puff of windblown snow would make it through the hole. Channing unsnapped his holster, the sound of metal pulling away from metal seeming to be unreasonably loud. Now, with his GLOCK in front of him, he listened carefully. It was faint, but he heard what sounded like the scuffing of a shoe in the distance to his right. There was just enough light that he could see he was standing in an immense room that had three exits into what he assumed were other sizable rooms. The giant warehouse was divided into several work areas. Openings appeared to his left, his right, and one several yards in front of him. Flashing back to the sight of Alex’s shoe sitting on that basement floor and re-living that feeling of knowing something was very wrong, Channing hesitated and felt dizzy. He steadied himself and made the decision to charge toward the noise to his right. Not again, he thought. Never again.