Executives blow thousands of dollars on lap dances, sealing multi-million dollar deals doing so. Wild animals are kept as house pets. Family reunions end in gunfire. Mothers drown, burn, or starve their children. Men stare into their computers, lying about themselves in hopes of meeting underage girls for sex. Every variety of pain, degradation, humiliation, and domination is available to anyone who cares to find it. The world used to make us work so much harder to destroy ourselves.
Ruthless men get richer writing books about how to screw colleagues for profit. Entire investment companies work to wrestle money away from their middle class clientele. See the gory glory of the royal scam.
Politicians toil to reverse environmental laws meant to preserve what little of this planet we have left, rape the Bill of Rights, declare war under false pretenses, drive this once great country into deeper debt than all of its previous history combined, all to secure more power. John Kay was right; there sure is a monster on the loose…
And the news media savors it all. No shame too great, no disaster too horrible, no crime too heinous. They’ll deliver all the depravity, and sell advertising space alongside, promoting virility pills, breast and phallus enhancements, diet plans, and hair restoration treatments. All this deliciously distracting pressure to be beautiful: how we love it so. Because we’re not beautiful; we’re ugly, getting uglier, and completely lost.
Look at them all flocking to the mall, tattooing and piercing themselves, buying the newest fashions, the hottest trends, the latest DVD, MP3,PSP, the best of everything, blind to the truth of how worthless, how fleeting it all is. None of it has the soul our time did, and no one cares. Nations starve while they all willingly succumb to the mind-numbing, omnipotent call of Fame, Beauty, Sex, and Wealth.
All hail the new Four Horsemen.
The lowest common denominators have won. I would never doubt my Lord’s wisdom, but giving you over-stimulated, savagely self-centered cretins the honor of free choice? Some mysteries even I can’t fathom.
Yet, it is exactly this morbidly consistent human failure, this utter lack of moral integrity that keeps me working, isn’t it?
Please to meet you, hope you guess my name.
Amen.
I know you see me as an “alienated loser stuck in the past.” You have no idea of how far back my past actually extends.
I am not the sinner.
I’m the saint.
I’ve surrendered my very soul to the work I am called to do. Can you say the same of yourself?
FORTY-SIX
Gunner rummaged through the deep pockets of his sweats. “It sounds more like he’s judging people, then creating a punishment to fit their sins?”
“Go on.”
He pulled out a folded up set of papers, unfolded them. “According to Dante, that would be the demon Minos, who sits inside the entrance to Hell,” He checked the pages, then nodded. “Says here, ‘All who pass through the gates must stand before Minos’. He is a half-bull, half man demon that sees each doomed soul’s sins. Then this Minos’ tail wraps around his torso. The number of times the tail circles the torso reveals the level of Hell to which that soul is instantly transported.”
“Where’d you get that information?”
“Googled Dante’s Inferno.”
“You go, detective.”
“We gotta start somewhere."
Mallory paced. “Maybe he sees it as a way of doing God’s work; separating the wheat from the chaff. How he interprets that as being a saint…” Mallory shook his head. He stepped into the family room. “Scariest part of this?”
“What?”
Mallory straightened the family portrait. “While reading this batch? I couldn’t help but notice I agree with some of this guy’s points.”
“Maybe you’re the killer.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey, that’s my line.”
Mallory crossed back through the dining room, still restless, went to the bay window, searched the street, knowing he’d see nothing out of the ordinary. “Seriously, haven’t you ever been outraged about all the insane things that go on day after day? Doesn’t it ever get to you?”
Gunner joined him, leaning just far enough forward so he could look Mallory in the eye. “Yeah, pal, I do. Every day. And I know you do too. But the difference between us and him? We get fed up with the woes of the world, we have a beer, read a book, watch a flick, go for a run, play with a kid, turn to a wife or girlfriend for comfort; we don’t go on a killing spree.”
“I know, I know.” Mallory fell silent. He looked through the bay window some more, shook his head, became still, shook his head again, then finally turned to his partner. “Gunner, this guy’s been in my home—”
“Excuse me?” Gina somehow managed a sense of authority, even standing there in a powder blue bathrobe and sparkly flip-flops the boys had given her last Christmas. “Which one of you is going to explain exactly why my husband was acting like Bruce Willis in Die Hard this morning?”
Gunner, who loved when Gina got feisty, let a slow smile of pure admiration light up his face. “Uh, that could take awhile.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’ll put on coffee.” She turned to her husband. “And tea for you. Lots of it.”
“Hon, you don’t—”
“You ran around our home with a gun in your hand. You physically checked each of the boys to make sure they were all right. You commanded me, for the first time ever. I am going to understand why.”
“But the details, they’re horrible—”
“Then let’s get through the worst of them before the boys wake up. Again.” She leaned just a bit toward her husband. “I think they’ve been scared enough, don’t you?”
Mallory felt a weight slide off him; she was right. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Gina listened silently for 40 minutes as Mallory and Gunner talked her through a Reader’s Digest version of the case. Her eyes filled up when they admitted getting shot at but she waved them on. When Mallory explained how the box came to be atop the very table around which they sat, what was inside, then who exactly it was from, she bit her lip and took his hand, but otherwise, she held up like a warrior.
“So,” Mallory sighed, “now you know everything we know.”
Gina spoke with a small crack in her voice. “Does Gunner know about the bulldog and Charlie?”
“That crazy bulldog story I know; who’s Charlie?”
Mallory told him. When he finished, Gunner let out a long low whistle. “Sorry G, this is getting too weird to ignore.” He pulled out his cell phone, started dialing, and walked into the kitchen for some privacy.
Gina turned to Mallory. “This-this-this person came to our house, Frank, where our babies sleep.” She stared off into the distance. “This is why you’ve been so preoccupied.”
“Yeah, hon, but I am sorry about missing the—”
“The photo thing’s not important now,” she waved him off. “Neither is the dog or the cat. This guy knowing where we live… having the nerve to come in…” she trailed off, shaking her head now.
“I know, G., I know,” Mallory hugged her. “We’re going to take care of this.”
“In more ways than one,” Gunner said from the kitchen doorway. “He’ll be here in 20 minutes.”
Mallory gave his partner an exasperated look. “You didn’t.”
“More cops?” Gina seemed less than enthused.
“Damn right I did. Enough’s enough with this.”
“He’s not a morning person.”
Gina did not like either man’s tone. “Wait. Weirdness all around us; you called him, didn’t you?”
“Everybody’s favorite Indian shaman guy,” Gunner smiled.
“He’s not Indi— Native American,” Mallory protested. Defensive bluster gave way to an awkward shrug. “He’s from The Bronx, a steamfitter, a Giants fan … who just happens to be interested in alternative … things.” He glanced at Gina a sheepish little grin.
&n
bsp; Gina smiled. “Ross.” A question crossed her face. “How does that old barbarian fit in here? We haven’t seen him since our wedding, when he hit on all of my bridesmaids.”
“You haven’t, I have. How could I not? He’s one of my oldest friends. Been through everything together,” Mallory said. “He, um, he’s changed over the years. Helps us with cases sometimes. He’s, um, much more spiritual now.”
“Right.” Gina pronounced it in three sarcastic syllables.
“Guy’s a shaman,” Gunner said. “This shit here? Right up his alley.”
“Shh, shh,” Mallory whispered, looking up toward the boys’ room.
Gina looked up as well. “They’re going to be so tired in school today.”
Mallory took Gina by the hand, drew her close. “Listen, after everything — last night, all this — let them have the day off. I want you to call in sick too.”
“I can’t miss work—”
“This guy tracked me here. I can’t take a chance on him following us to the boys’ school or you to work. I’m asking you to go to your parents’ for a few days.”
“Like he can’t follow me there?”
“I’ve got an idea about that,” Mallory turned to Gunner. “Call the Lieu, fill him in, then see if he’ll dispatch Tizzie and a few others. I need at least two unmarked, non-department cars parked about two blocks from here, on Prospect, ASAP.”
“On it.”
Mallory turned back to Gina. “We better get moving before our Bronx mystic arrives.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Gina saw him first, through the dining room’s bay window. Actually she saw smoke, wafting by in a relaxed, almost sensuous trail that led to a burning, stick-like bundle being waved in slow circles by a meaty hand as it disappeared around the front exterior wall. “Someone’s here.”
Gunner smelled the air coming in the open window. “Yeah, that’s him.”
Ross entered, casually waving the small burning bundle, long strands of sage bound together at one end by thin, white string. About five foot ten, medium build, with the walk of a retired athlete, Ross had an elfin face framed by gray hair and an almost white beard. A bandana covered the top of his head. Bright blue eyes smiled out from under bushy eyebrows. A faded blue flannel shirt hung open over a well-worn T-shirt featuring an eagle flying over a gorgeous mountain. His jeans were loose-fitting, faded. Worn, comfortable moccasins covered his feet. He hugged Mallory, nodded to Gunner, bowed a bit to Gina, those arctic blue eyes glimmering. “Hey Gina, long time,” he smiled.
He continued slowly waving the sage, spreading a cloud of vaguely sweet-smelling smoke wherever he went. “We should open a few windows, let them out,” he spoke quietly.
Gunner followed him around, curious. “Who? Demons?”
“The guy who invaded our home is no demon, he’s a psychopath,” Mallory snapped.
Ross kept waving the smoking bundle of dried leaves casually. “Neither label matters, Bo; the path is the same.”
Gunner stood before Ross, raised his arms level with his shoulders. Ross began to “sage” him, waving smoke all around the large detective. “This guy is striking out at you from whatever darkness he’s immersed himself in; possession, psychosis, whatever.” He did the same to Mallory, then to Gina, who, though confused, mimicked what the detectives had done. “Just cleansing your spirit, Gina, making sure nothing has attached itself,” he whispered to her. “Good to see you again.” His smile seemed to hold delightful secrets. He spoke to the detectives. “Rather than debate the source of his actions, what we need to do is stop him from hurting anyone else.”
Mallory shrugged. “Any ideas about how are we going to do that?”
“Can’t say until I know what you know; tell me everything.”
Gina finally agreed to call in sick for herself and the boys, and decided to let them sleep awhile more. But she could not sit still, appearing occasionally with more coffee and tea, adding toast, eggs and bacon during the second round. Otherwise she stayed out of sight, though Mallory could hear her cleaning incessantly.
Mallory, Gunner and Ross sat around the cards. To the latest batch they added copies of all the material from the earlier crime scenes, now spread across the family dinner table. It was chilling to see murder descriptions lying where the fellas’ birthday cakes usually sat.
Mallory arranged the cards in order, not chronologically, but by using Bryan Joseph’s Dante’s Inferno map. The murders formed a clear, vividly detailed pattern now. “So, he’s playing out Dante’s journey…”
Ross eyed the cards. “Interesting choice. You gotta remember that Dante’s journey was one of personal redemption. He went through Hell to get to heaven.”
Gunner slurped some coffee, put down the I-heart-Mom mug. “Our guy thinks all this will get him into heaven? He’s killing people.”
Ross shrugged. “Maybe he sees this as a cleansing act. Doing wrong for the greater good; ridding the world of sin, symbolically at least.”
“Oh, he’s a hero now?” Gunner quipped.
Mallory tilted his head, made a face. “In his mind he probably is. Have we ever arrested anybody who thought they had done wrong? Not even in history; look at Hitler. But here’s what I’m trying to figure out: is this guy playing Dante’s role or is he acting out as one of the supposed demons?”
Ross patted his hand on the table. “You’re getting way ahead of me here. Let’s start from the first murder and work our way through.”
By including the Daily News photo of Will’s parents, the detectives were able to reconstruct their suspect’s version of Dante’s first five levels of Hell.
“If we go by Dante structure of Hell, this explains why Will wasn’t assigned a Roman numeral,” Mallory offered. “He didn’t even merit a level, according to this. Our guy wrote on the first set of cards that Will was ‘pre-level,’ which could be interpreted as…” he scanned Bryan’s notes a moment, then continued, “‘…uncommitted, willing to pursue whatever looks good at the moment.’ That fits Will’s bottle toss well enough. From our suspect’s point-of-view Will betrayed The Who, chasing momentary glory. For that he got thrown not into Hell proper but into the ‘vestibule’ of Hell.”
Gunner chuckled. “Is there a foyer of Hell, too? A breakfast nook of Hell?”
“Dante’s term, not our guy’s. But you know what? The vestibule was where opportunists are punished, in the dark, never getting anywhere, stung by insects, running after a red flag through blood, puss, maggots, all outside the gates of Hell. Remember that first murder scene?”
Gunner nodded, turned to Ross. “We found the victim outside a gated subway entrance way uptown.”
Mallory nodded. “I checked; it’s the northern-most subway entrance in Manhattan. That gate, if it was open, would’ve serviced the downtown train, which could be viewed as a descent through the underworld. Also, there were vermin all over Will, and the bloody T-shirt blown by the subway breeze was a red flag of sorts waving overhead. All of that matches the description of the vestibule of Hell given in Bryan’s notes. Our guy must’ve been paying attention when Bryan described it to him.”
“Or our guy actually is Bryan,” Gunner countered, “or our friendly neighborhood priest. Come on, Mal, are you telling me this wackado gave our guy a packet of Dante information like he did for us? What’s he do, carry spare copies around?”
“Hold on a minute,” Mallory reached for Bryan’s reconstructed notes, the thicker package that had been tacked up in his bedroom. “Bryan had more information on his talk with the guy next to him in this set, anyone could have heard him. Here it is. He writes that his new friend didn’t understand, so he explained the vestibule of Hell: look, he’s got vermin, the red flag, everything.”
Ross raised his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “Your boy Bryan gave this guy his first scenario. Impressive that he was able to use it so quickly.”
Gunner nodded. “Or he gave a potential witness a description of his first planned murder, set himself up
as the fall guy, acted all Rain Man at the station, building his alibi. We’ll wrestle with that later. What about Will’s parents?”
Mallory read the notes for Level One, looked at the news photo, returned to the notes. After a minute, out came a familiar “hnnh.”
“What?” Gunner asked.
“A stretch, but I see what he means. Level One is Limbo, where the ‘virtuous pagans’ — good people who are not given salvation because they worshipped the wrong gods — exist in longing, waiting to be freed from their meaningless existence.”
Gunner leaned back, frowned. “Will’s parents are virtuous pagans?”
“Your guy is expressing sympathy for them,” Ross said.
Gunner shook his head. “If he feels so bad for them, why put them into Limbo?”
Mallory hesitated. “That’s where I’d be if anyone murdered a child of mine.”
Gunner’s eyes immediately swung across the dining room, to framed black-and-white photos of the kids, including his favorite, a close-up of Max at about a year old, climbing up his knee, hair wild from the August heat, eyes enormous, smiling directly into the camera. “I’d be right there witcha, brother. Right there.”
“Level Two—”
Ross grunted a deep, humorless chuckle. “The lustful. Probably wasn’t hard to find potential victims for this one. We’ve all spent time there.”
Gunner spread crime scene photos onto the table. “Mr. and Mrs. Carnal Knowledge found in the freezing hotel room; fairly easy one there, even though I don’t understand all the positioning.”
“Symbolism,” Mallory said.
Ross leaned over the cards. “What symbolism?”
Mallory showed him the cards, then handed him a police report describing the arrangements of the bodies, the glued fingers, tattered clothes flapping in the air conditioner-produced winds.
City of Woe Page 19