The Christmas Killer

  Jake didn’t answer. He just took his coffee and returned to his desk. There was something he needed to be sure of. His mother’s file was in the drawer beneath the photograph. He took it out and began to read it. But everything was wrong. His mother was never five feet nine tall. She never weighed one ninety-five.

  And she was never black.

  Maybe there were two Jeanette Austins, or maybe the files had been tampered with. Maybe it was an honest mistake. Jake had no idea.

  If Jeanette Austin wasn’t his mother, then who was?

  And who the hell am I?

  84

  Sunday, 9.15 a.m.

  He’d had a pleasant night.

  His sense of a destiny being fulfilled, of a circle reaching completion, was getting stronger and stronger. The good Lord had decided it was time for him to reveal himself to the world. And that plan, which scared Father Ken at first, now filled him with joy.

  How perfect that he would be saving souls on the anniversary of Christ’s birth. His only regret was, he couldn’t save them all. But he could manage one more. Of course he could. He would kill the old woman to save her. But first he would have to get the instrument of her sin.

  That is why I need the knife.

  85

  Sunday, 10.45 a.m.

  The drive to the morgue was a lot quicker than the last time. Traffic was light on Christmas Day everywhere in America.

  There was no receptionist working, so Jake let himself in and walked to Ronnie Zatkin’s office. She wasn’t there. Jake found her down in the morgue, surrounded by a couple of twenty-somethings examining the seventeen skeletons.

  She looked up as he walked in. ‘Hi, Detective. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Thanks. Can I get a minute?’

  Dr Zatkin nodded and led the way towards her office.

  ‘I had to call in help,’ she explained to Jake, pointing at her dutiful deputies as they walked past. ‘These guys are final-year students from the Indiana University School of Medicine. There’s no way my staff could cope with seventeen cold case autopsies on top of their normal workload. The only way we can get them done is by calling in the cavalry. Luckily, these kids are all desperate for experience. Looks good on résumés, you know?’

  They got to the door of her office and she was about to open it when Jake stopped her. ‘Do you have another lab we could go to?’ he asked.

  She nodded again and led him into a small room off the morgue and closed the door behind them. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  He placed a plastic bag on the stainless-steel work surface, then removed the old kitchen knife he had recovered from the Chase Asylum.

  ‘I need to know: are those dark stains on the handle human blood?’

  Doctor Zatkin put on plastic gloves, picked up the knife and examined it under a bright light.

  ‘Looks like it. I can see some residue where the blade sinks into the handle. I could take a scraping from there and test that.’ She started towards a microscope in the corner of the room.

  ‘Before you begin, Ronnie,’ said Jake, ‘this has to be between you and me. No one else can know.’

  She looked at him and shook her head slowly. ‘That’s not the way we’re supposed to do things.’

  ‘And I’ll bet working on Christmas Day is not the way you’re supposed to do things either. But you’re here, aren’t you?’

  She looked at him for a long moment. ‘You’re in a bind,’ she said, her voice halfway between question and statement.

  Jake thought about agreeing, maybe even telling her everything, but …

  ‘It’s best I don’t tell you,’ he said.

  He could see she was reluctant but intrigued, and finally she nodded. She opened a drawer and took out a small vial of luminol. Dimming the light, she sprayed the knife handle. After a second or two it began to glow slightly – a very faint blue. It lasted about thirty seconds, then faded away.

  ‘It’s blood,’ she said.

  ‘What type?’

  ‘Hold on – the test doesn’t even tell us if it’s human or animal blood. I need to collect a sample.’

  Briskly she reached for a spatula and scraped it along the edge of the knife where it met the wooden handle. She dropped the black specks that came off into a small test tube. Then she added a clear liquid from one of the bottles on the shelf above the workstation. Within minutes, there was half an inch of pink liquid at the bottom of the test tube.

  She took out a pipette and filled it, depositing some drops on a small card.

  ‘I’ll know blood type in the next two minutes,’ she explained.

  ‘What about DNA?’

  ‘You don’t want to wait – that will take hours. Unless you had something you wanted me to compare the DNA with?’

  Jake didn’t reply.

  They watched as the blood samples on the test card reacted with the enzymes.

  ‘How’s the case going? Any fresh leads?’ Ronnie asked.

  Jake mumbled a non-answer, and Ronnie gave up on the small talk. Both of them just watched: some of the patches of pink remained uniform while others began to form clumps of darker material.

  After a short while, Doctor Zatkin said, ‘The blood is AB negative. I don’t know if that’s what you were expecting, but that’s all I can tell you for now. I’ll run the DNA test, and if you have anything to compare it with, drop it in.’

  Jake, on autopilot, nodded his thanks.

  AB negative – that’s the same blood type as me.

  ‘How common is AB negative?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the rarest blood type of them all. Forensics love it: it’s the best blood type for eliminating suspects. Maybe one in a hundred and sixty people has it.’ Her smile dropped and her eyes widened. ‘Don’t tell me it’s from the Christmas Killer?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  Ronnie shrugged and didn’t push it.

  It went against one of the earliest lessons a detective receives when he is first trained – do not make assumptions. Do not jump to conclusions based on one piece of evidence.

  But, this time, Jake couldn’t help it. The odds were short enough that he was beginning to see it clearly.

  It’s Fred Lumley’s blood.

  Fred Lumley was my father.

  86

  Sunday, 11.30 a.m.

  Jake left the morgue and drove back towards Littleton. The DNA results would tell him for sure, but he didn’t need them to confirm what he already knew.

  He was clear of Indianapolis and driving through rolling countryside when his mobile buzzed. He glanced at the number, thinking it might be Father Ken – actually hoping it was. Instead, he saw the PD’s switchboard number.

  He pulled over and answered.

  ‘Austin, where the fuck are you?’ The voice at the other end was Colonel Asher’s. He was pissed off – likely because he had been called in on Christmas Day.

  ‘On my way back in, boss. I was at the morgue.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck where you were. What were you doing out at the Chase Asylum last night?’

  As the words hit him Jake felt the blood drain from his body. That’s why Asher had gone in. They knew already. He had hoped for a few hours more.

  Jake leaned and rested his forehead on the wheel. It was over. He couldn’t go back to the station now.

  ‘Austin, do you have an explanation?’

  Jake took his head off the wheel. Outside, traffic thundered by, but he didn’t really hear it. ‘I wasn’t at the Chase Asylum,’ he said. It was a shitty lie and wouldn’t buy him time.

  ‘Don’t fuck me around. Two FBI agents saw the ghost of Fred Lumley in the asylum last night. He knocked them over and ran, but they got his licence number and tracked him down. Do you know who the ghost was?’

  Jake didn’t answer. What could he, realistically, say to that? One look at any image of Lumley, and Jake’s mistaken-identity defence would be shredded. But he didn’t need to answer because, from the way he ploughed on, Asher wasn�
��t really looking for one. He had clearly had it with Jake days ago, and getting dragged in on Christmas Day had not done anything to improve his opinion. ‘They want to know what you were doing there,’ he said, ‘and why you were contaminating evidence. I have Special Agent Colin Reader in my office right now. He wants a word.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Jake.

  ‘Detective, you’d better—’ snapped Asher.

  ‘I have to follow up something. I’ll be in later.’

  ‘Austin, get back here now, or I’ll put an APB on you. Every cop in the state will have your picture, they’ll have—’

  Jake ended the call and tossed the phone on to the passenger seat. He fired the engine and pulled on to the road without any idea of where he was going. Things were closing in on him fast. It wasn’t just his career on the line; it was his mother, his family and his whole identity.

  Where the fuck is Father Ken?

  If Jake could track down the priest, he could save his mother. That was the only thing that mattered right now.

  He took his eyes off the road to pick up his mobile again. He hit Redial to try the priest. He could hear the phone ringing. It seemed to go on and on.

  Finally, Father Ken answered. ‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

  Give me back my mother. And my life – all of it.

  But Jake didn’t say that. This was a negotiation, and the secret of successful negotiation was to keep calm.

  He made a show of taking a deep breath. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …’

  ‘Too late.’

  Jake tried again. ‘I want you to help me,’ he said. ‘I have questions … about me.’

  There was a hiss on the line, and the signal came and went, but Jake managed to hear Father Ken say, ‘Fire away.’

  ‘OK, we’ll start at the beginning. Did you kill Fred Lumley?’ Jake asked.

  The sound of laughter tinkled through the bad connection.

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘Jake, I do the Lord’s work. But I am not the only one who does.’

  ‘What about my mother?’ Jake asked. ‘Is she still safe?’

  ‘Your mother?’ Father Ken was feigning confusion. ‘Do you mean Jeanette?’

  ‘Who else would I mean?’

  ‘Jeanette … Austin?’

  ‘Yes. Jeanette Austin, the woman you kidnapped, you …’ Jake bit back the insult. The negotiation had been taken right out of his control. ‘My mother …’

  ‘That’s funny,’ the priest said and laughed again.

  What was Father Ken up to, making him talk in circles? One last sick power play? A show of ultimate dominance – that he could toy with the younger man because he had all the cards?

  ‘Thing is,’ Father Ken continued, ‘I don’t see much Jamaican ancestry in your features, Detective.’ Father Ken laughed at his own joke, his mirth echoing down the line to Jake.

  Echoing …

  Jake took the phone away from his face so Father Ken wouldn’t hear the thrill of hope in his voice. He knew exactly where the priest was.

  When he spoke again, it was in the same little-boy voice he had not been able to control the night before – only this time it was a con. He was feeding Father Ken’s hunger for power. ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘But you will, Jake,’ said Father Ken. ‘You will.’

  The priest ended the call. Jake could imagine him smirking, laughing to himself, thinking that he was safe – that Jake was completely at his mercy, that there was no way he would ever be found. But there had been something about the call, the connection, that had been poking the nerve synapses in his brain all through the priest’s taunting. There had been an echo on the line, and not only the electronic echo of a faulty connection. It was a physical echo. The priest was in a big enclosed space. But the connection had been poor too – like he was underground …

  Father Ken had not gone on the run at all. He was hiding beneath his beloved church.

  ‘The Lord has many instruments, Father,’ Jake muttered. ‘And one of them is coming to get you.’

  87

  Sunday, 11.45 a.m.

  Jake had to act fast. By now Asher would have put out the APB he’d threatened. Every cop in the city would be on the lookout for his car.

  He was ten minutes from Christ the Redeemer. He floored it and let the siren blare. To hell with drawing attention to himself – he was far beyond worrying about that. He followed the spire of the church and was close within seven minutes.

  A drive past was too risky, so he pulled up short and put his mobile on silent. He rummaged in the glove compartment, taking out his Beretta 92 semi-auto. There were eight rounds in the clip, and one chambered. Nine shots – more than he would need. He slipped the gun into his shoulder holster, then took out a torch. The knife he had recovered from the Chase Asylum was in a plastic bag on the passenger seat. Without really knowing why, Jake took the knife out of the bag and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  He got out of the car and walked up to the church, not even bothering to duck his head against the driving snow. He barely felt it now.

  The scene was becoming depressingly familiar. The little cemetery was blocked off with a temporary hoarding set up by the construction crew, overlaid with black and yellow police tape he himself had helped put up. Jake didn’t expect there to be security cameras, but he wasn’t taking chances. When he got to the church grounds he crossed the grass verge rather than walking on the gravel. He reached the main door. It was closed. It was huge and made of oak, about twelve feet high, but there was an inset door on one side. Jake tried it and it gave. He pushed it open, fingers wrapped tightly around the edge in case he had to brace it against a whine.

  Then Jake stepped into the darkness.

  The church was little more than a vast cavern, with nothing at all inside. All the pews had been removed and sold through junk shops and antique outlets down in Indianapolis. There were blank patches on the walls where the Stations of the Cross had been taken down. The only things left in place were the ornate stained-glass windows, dappling the interior in an eerie orange, green and blue gloom. At the far end Jake could see the altar, a plain limestone plinth with a cross embossed on the front and a marble top. The altar was as empty as the church, and the tabernacle door was open behind it, like God himself had deserted Christ the Redeemer.

  Sticking to the walls, Jake slowly made his way around the church. It was eerily peaceful. He could hear the rustle of wind through the bare winter branches outside, and in the distance the rumble of holiday traffic. Inside, all was silent, but as he neared the altar he became aware of another sound, faint at first. It was a moan or a chant, seeming to rise up out of the depths of the darkness. The moan rose and rose in volume, seeming to coil and spiral in the air, before crashing down into a long drawn-out single note that cannoned off the walls of the church.

  The moan faded and died, but Jake was moving now, moving fast towards the sound. He crossed to the altar. There were two doors, one on either side of the tabernacle. He tried the one on the left. It opened into the sacristy, the little room where the priest dressed for Mass. Empty. He tried the other door and was immediately hit by a musty smell crawling out of the open doorway. Squinting into the darkness, Jake could see stone steps spiralling down.

  Now the sound was unmistakable. That was his mother’s voice, chanting and moaning. He could make out words: she was praying, or begging, for forgiveness. He recognized the formula from his childhood: the ritual of confession.

  ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …’

  ‘That’s right – beg the Lord for forgiveness, sinner.’ The voice of Father Ken rose in a crescendo.

  Jake saw the next five seconds play out in his head, clearly – triumphantly. He would take the stairs two at a time, charging down into the basement below. He would take the butt of his gun to Father Ken’s head. Not the skull, because he was an old man who probably couldn’t survive such a blow, and Jake wan
ted him to spend whatever time he had left rotting in jail. He would whip him across the jaw. At least it would stop him talking.

  Let’s see how you like losing your teeth, Padre.

  But Jake did not follow his own script. He couldn’t – his cop’s training overrode his emotions. This was an unknown environment, and he didn’t know the layout; he had not observed the target or the victim so he had no idea how the players were arranged. Any action would be slowed by the half-second Jake would need to get orientated once he was in there. And he knew from experience it was hard to be adaptable when your heart was in your mouth.

  So he took the steps slowly, making sure to place his whole foot on each step, heel and toes touching the stone simultaneously to reduce the noise of creaking shoe leather or gently cracking metatarsal bones. He stopped before the final turn, the feeble light from the basement just catching the tops of his shoes. He listened.

  His mother was still pleading for forgiveness. Her voice was low and weak, tired.

  ‘Please, Christ, forgive me my sins,’ she rasped. Her words were coming in short bursts that seemed forced from her throat. ‘Mother of mercy, forgive me.’

  ‘Real penitence only comes when you admit your sins,’ said Father Ken. ‘Admit your sins, and his divine grace will set you free, my child.’

  His mother’s voice was shrill, shrieking, and felt like a dagger in Jake’s ears. ‘I admit my sins! I admit them.’

  Jake was itching to storm into the crypt and open fire. But he couldn’t. He had to hold back and make sure he had a clean run at the priest. He also knew that Father Ken – for all his years – had to be considered a dangerous man. Jake did not want to think about how this thing would play out if he charged in and missed.

  ‘I haven’t heard you say it yet.’ Father Ken was bellowing now. ‘Your greatest, most grave and foul sin. Confess to what you did … Confess to the murder of Fred Lumley.’

  A wave of shock flowed through Jake at that. His gun arm momentarily lowered. His mother wouldn’t have killed anyone, not in a million years. She couldn’t have killed Fred Lumley.