A Life Removed

by Jason Parent

  “Twelve.”

  “Want to get some IHOP?”

  “Wow, branching out from Taco Bell, are you?”

  “The Bell closes at midnight on weeknights.”

  Aaron shook his head. “I should have known better. All right, then. I’ll meet you at IHOP at a quarter after. Bye.”

  “Cool. Lat—”

  As Aaron hung up the phone, a yellow Fiero whizzed by at seventy-four miles per hour. Aaron smiled, turned on his siren and lights, and pulled out onto the street.

  Before he could catch up, he heard a loud clunk ahead, followed by the sputtering of a car engine. Aw, shit. I hope that clown didn’t hit someone. An accident wasn’t the kind of action he wanted—too much paperwork.

  A couple of blocks up the road, the Fiero was sitting at a light that had turned green. Gotcha! Aaron smiled. I hope he’s not wearing his seatbelt. “Put your hands on the steering wheel,” he said through his cruiser’s loudspeaker. People didn’t like cops in Fall River, at least not the people joyriding on Plymouth Avenue. He got out and approached the car with his hand on the butt of his pistol. At the driver’s-side window, he twirled his finger.

  As the window lowered, Aaron thought he might get a contact high from the cloud of weed that permeated the interior of the car. Before Aaron could ask for his license and registration, the driver, a kid in his early twenties, exploded into a tirade about how he hadn’t done anything wrong and that the police were out to get him. “What was that sound, Officer? I was just trying to neutral drop at the red light, but I accidentally kicked it into reverse, and now my transmission is fucked.”

  Still smiling, Aaron just nodded then told the driver to step out of the vehicle. The driver’s eyes were bloodshot, and Aaron found a dime bag in his pocket. By the time Aaron finished his report, he had to rush to get to the restaurant to meet Craig.

  He strode in and joined Craig after spotting him at a back table. “So what’s so important that you needed to see me?”

  “Nothing important.” Craig smiled. “I was getting stir-crazy and knew you’d be up for something.”

  Aaron rolled his eyes. “Some of us do have people to get home to.” He shook his head. “Ah, forget it. Arianna’s probably fast asleep already.”

  “Problems?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Damn. That sounds serious. Not getting laid, huh?”

  Aaron glared at him. “I do carry a gun, you know.”

  “Oh, relax. I’m just busting your balls.” Craig shrugged and slouched in the booth, his head resting against the back of it. “Anyway, I do have some fucked-up news.”

  “What?” Aaron asked, expecting something stupid. With Craig, it usually was. Still, pancakes sounded good, so the visit to IHOP wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Craig picked up his menu. “Let’s order first. I’m starving.”

  When the waitress came, Aaron ordered pancakes and coffee. Craig ordered some kind of fancy omelet with extra salsa and sour cream.

  After the waitress left, Craig sat back again. “Well, you know how I do capoeira, karate, aikido, and some other martial arts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know how I like to try out all the other martial arts?”

  Aaron unwrapped his silverware. “Yeah.”

  “And you know how some people even say I could be the next Bruce Lee?”

  “No one says that. Are you coming to a point?”

  The waitress returned with their drinks. Craig grinned and took a long swig from his orange juice. After emptying half the glass, he made that annoying gasping sound that kids and assholes in commercials made when they found a beverage overwhelmingly refreshing.

  Craig wiped his mouth. “I went with Rick to his jiu-jitsu class last night.”

  “So?”

  “So they’re all fucking whacked!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We were going over a leg-lock, and Rick was my partner. Everybody in the class, about six people and me, had gis on. Underneath their gis, most of them were wearing silver chains with crosses around their necks. So I think, ‘Okay, fine, whatever.’ I know they’re religious and whatnot, so no big deal. I said to Rick, ‘Don’t you want to take your chain off so it doesn’t break?’ He told me that he never takes it off. So I said, just joking around, ‘You’d better be careful, or your cheap metal Jesus could turn your neck green.’ Granted, it wasn’t the best joke, but I thought it was at least somewhat amusing. You know how cheap necklaces can—”

  “I get it.” Aaron snorted. “You’re right. It wasn’t the best joke.”

  “Well, I guess Carter, the sensei, heard me. What a freaking attitude he gave me! He started reciting some verse, a passage from the Bible, I guess. While he talked, he just stared at me with this blank face. The others stared, too, like I’d served them up some great insult. Oh no, how horrible. I made fun of their cheap metal Jesuses. Not exactly the end of the world.” Craig laughed. “Anyway, I told them it was just a joke, to lighten up. Then Carter asked me to leave. Do you believe that? I looked at Rick, expecting some support. You know what he did?”

  “What?” Aaron had to admit he was mildly interested.

  “He apologized to Carter for inviting me. I mean, how long have Rick and I known each other? And he’s known Carter for—what? Three weeks?”

  “He’s been going to that class for more than a year now, but I do see your point.”

  “So I left, and I assume Rick got another ride home.” Craig leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The way they all stared at me, it was like those creepy kids from The Village of the Damned.”

  “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit? I’m sure I’ll hear Rick’s side of the story tomorrow, and it will go a lot differently… except for the part where you ditched him at the dojo with no ride home.”

  “Whatever, man. Mark my words: Rick and his Jesus-freak friends aren’t right.”

  “Rick’s harmless. Doug is a pretty good guy, too. That whole Bible class stuff isn’t my thing, either, but I get along with both of them just fine. I’ve never met Carter, but they speak highly of him.”

  “I bet they do. Anyway, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Next time you hang out with them, be sure to steer clear of the red Kool-Aid.”

  “I prefer Tang anyway.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Bruce studied his partner as she studied her notes. He could almost see her mind cranking out cold, precise logic. That wasn’t something he could teach her. She’d brought that to the table herself. And yet, unlike him, she could turn it off and be a mother, a spouse…

  Jocelyn sat back. “GMC, Chevrolet, and Dodge each made a model of white van with a sliding side door at one time or another.” She sighed. “There are over four thousand currently registered in the Commonwealth alone, and who knows how many come in and out of Massachusetts on a daily basis? Many are registered for commercial use, but we have no way of knowing whether they’re marked or not. Just driving here from the station, I saw four on the road.”

  “Well, that doesn’t help us much,” Bruce said. “We could cross-reference all registered owners with our criminal database, isolating those who live in or near Fall River and have a history of violence. Also, we should double-check if any vans have been stolen recently.” He watched her frown grow and reached over to pat her hand. “We’ll get him, Jocelyn. This guy is getting cocky.”

  She scowled. “More like rubbing our faces in it.”

  “He’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later.”

  “True. But that doesn’t mean he won’t get a few more kills in first. And knowing the motive here might not be much help, either. Let’s face it: if the motive is to kill all sinners, most of the world’s population is at risk. I know I’m a target, and no offense, Bruce, but you sure as hell are, too.”


  “Gee, that’s a comforting thought. Well, we still can’t be certain that we have multiple killers or that he, she, or they are using a white van. But it does seem to be the most probable theory, especially since it would be hard to lug around someone Robillard’s or Reinhart’s size alone. A group could have hung up Reinhart or carried Robillard to his front door quickly and easily enough. The other three victims could just as easily have been solo jobs. Fernald was probably thrown overboard from a boat or dumped off a pier. Ramirez was so petite, I could have chucked her into that dumpster. And from the markings on Huntley, he was apparently thrown from a moving vehicle, left to rot naked in the middle of Route 6.”

  Jocelyn scratched the side of her head. “God, it’s like they’re showing off.” Her phone rang. “Sorry, Bruce. I’ll just be a second.” She moved a few feet away to answer.

  Bruce figured it was her husband. He tried not to listen, but she suddenly raised her voice.

  “What? Slow down… a reaction? You’re not sure?” After a short pause, she said, “Okay, calm down. If you’re not even sure there’s swelling, there’s no reason to panic. Keep an eye on her, and if it gets any worse, text me, and I’ll meet you at the doctor’s. How is she taking it?” Pause. “Wait, Steven. I’m in the middle of a meeting. Don’t put her—”

  Bruce chuckled.

  “Hi, baby. Mommy will be home soon. I love you.” She made kissy noises into the phone. “Okay, Steven, I really have to go. Keep an eye on her—and text me.” She hung up and walked back over to Bruce. “Sorry about that.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Steven’s just overprotective. I swear he wants to call in the National Guard every time Caitlyn so much as farts.”

  “Wait until she’s old enough to date.”

  “Oh God. Let’s not rush that.” She ran her hand through her hair and plopped into her chair. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

  Bruce cleared his throat. “One thing’s certain: the killers may have been secretive at first, but now they want to be noticed.”

  “Not so gung-ho on my cult theory anymore?”

  “Assuming they do have a religious motive, why the stuffed cat? Someone is enjoying his work. And there’s still the question of why they’re mutilating the bodies. The wrist slits may signify stigmata, but that doesn’t explain the removal of the heart. If we’re correct in believing that the victims were chosen for their anti-Christian conduct, then why give their bodies the markings of a saint? Why take their hearts? I can’t think of anything remotely Christian about that.”

  “No.” She shuddered. “This is more like human sacrifice. If the victims are meant to be seen, then they serve a purpose. The missing hearts, or maybe the holes in their chests, are symbolic, but of what? Or do you think the killers are doing something with the hearts themselves?”

  Hot acid burned in his chest. “Using the hearts? For what?” Bruce had no idea, and he surely didn’t want to think about it. But it was his job to think about it. “Maybe they’re selling the hearts on the black market. Someone’s always willing to pay top dollar to move up the transplant list. The wrist slits and theatrics may be a diversionary tactic.” He shook his head. “In any event, we should keep our speculation quiet. If the media gets wind that a cult may be at work here, their attention to the murders will only fuel the fire.”

  She ran a finger across her mouth. “These lips are sealed. Are you ready for our crash course in Christianity?”

  “As ready as I’m ever gonna be.”

  A manila folder tucked under his arm, Bruce followed Jocelyn out of the precinct office. They got into his car and drove the few blocks to their meeting. Jocelyn had arranged for them to meet with Father Cedric Shanahan at the Church of Saint Francis of Assisi. The church had been built in another time. Its exterior was all stone, with pillars at each corner and a green dome at its center.

  Bruce had done his homework. After the diocese had passed around vermin like Father Porter, he’d found it hard to trust the local white collars. He’d searched for dirt on Father Shanahan but found none. Shanahan had a Master of Divinity degree from Notre Dame and had been fast-tracked for Cardinal-ship, but he’d turned down many opportunities for advancement, apparently preferring his Fall River diocese to the grander stage. A favorite among the flock, Father Shanahan was well suited to his job and seemed eager to help the detectives catch a killer, particularly one using the Christian faith to justify his twisted hobby.

  As he got out of the car and ascended the steps to the tall doors artfully carved to depict various verses of the Bible, Bruce felt as if the air itself weighed heavier on his shoulders. He held the door open for Jocelyn then followed her inside.

  “Good morning, Detectives,” Father Shanahan said as he met them in the hallway. The slender man carried two large books beneath one arm. Both looked centuries old, but so did the priest. “We can chat in my office.” He turned and strode toward an open door on the right.

  Bruce marveled at the simplicity of the room. While the church was adorned with fine candelabras, ornate sculptures, and beautiful stained-glass windows, the priest’s office was as dull and drab as the priest himself. A simple wooden desk, its surface bare, sat in front of two rickety wooden chairs that seemed to grow out of the hardwood floor. Bookshelves in need of a good dusting lined the walls. The room’s only source of light poured in through a small window unadorned with any shade or curtain. The holding cells back at the precinct are more cheerful.

  The priest cleared his throat as he sat behind his desk. “I know you’re busy, so rather than waste your time with an unnecessary lecture, I’ll try to answer your questions directly. Jocelyn told me little about why you’re here, but I can put two and two together. Your names are all over the news. Everyone knows what case you’re investigating. So the two of you coming here leads me to only one conclusion: you think our fine city’s serial killer is acting in the name of God. Either that, or I am a suspect.” He smiled cordially.

  No use in denying it. “Very perceptive of you, Father.”

  “With that in mind, I’ve anticipated some of your questions.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Jocelyn said.

  Bruce shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, happy the door was nearby so he could make a break for it in case God got angry at his presence. He felt awkward just acknowledging the priest’s title. His only reasons for going into a church were weddings and funerals. He guessed he could add investigating serial killers to that list. “Let’s start with something basic,” he said. “Did any of your parishioners confide in you about the murders?”

  “Detective, you know I couldn’t tell you if they had. But if it helps ease your mind, I can tell you that nobody has. Many have talked with me about what they’ve seen on the news, parishioners scared for their own lives or the lives of their loved ones. These are good, God-loving people who come here. They all want you to succeed in your investigation.” Shanahan sighed. “Of course, our first concern is for the lives of those this murderer selects, but your coming here worries me about his impact on this church. We’ve had our fair share of dirtiness to make amends for. We don’t need this piled on top. And believe me, whatever the killer is doing, it’s not Christian in any sense of the word. At best, it can be construed as a fanatical denomination, like Islamist is to Islamic, certainly not recognized by Rome or any other Christian authority.”

  “Has there ever been a situation where someone has killed in the name of God?” Bruce mentally smacked his forehead, but it was too late to take back the stupid question. Any history class in any language in any country was loaded with examples: the Crusades, the Inquisition, 9/11, and so on. All you have to do is turn on the evening news to see someone blowing somebody else up in the name of their god. “Let me rephrase that. Assuming our killers are Christian, is there any instance in the Bible that lends support to their actions, where
God instructs his disciples to kill somebody?”

  “Bruce, come on.” Jocelyn shook her head. “I’m Catholic, you know. God is merciful.”

  “That’s correct, Detective Beaudette, but Detective Marklin asks a valid question. In King James’s Bible, the New Testament preaches God’s benevolence. But the God of the Old Testament takes on an altogether different quality. Some see him as vengeful or destructive, but others, like myself, believe that what we mistake as vengeance and wrath is God’s divine plan, making order out of chaos, employing methods beyond mortal comprehension. For example, people read the Book of Job and see the hardships placed on Job as cruel and unnecessary, ignoring the fact that Job failed to heed God’s word. And when all was said and done, Job made out quite well, not that the ends necessarily justify the means. Who are we to question the Lord’s devices?”

  Father Shanahan paused, stroking his close white beard. “To answer your question more precisely, yes, God has instructed his followers to kill. The first one that comes to mind is Joshua.”

  The name rang no bells. “Who?”

  “The Book of Joshua is the story of Moses’s replacement, so to speak.” Father Shanahan opened one of the two volumes he’d been holding. He flipped through it for a second, then putting his finger on one page, he read aloud: “Be strong and of a good courage: for unto this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the land, which I swear unto their fathers to give them. Only be thou strong and very courageous, that thou mayest observe to do according to all the law, which Moses my servant commanded thee: turn not from it to the right hand or to the left, that thou mayest prosper whithersoever thou goest. This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein: for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success. Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”