For our boasting is this: the testimony of our conscience, that in holiness and sincerity of God, not in fleshly wisdom but in the grace of God we behaved ourselves in the world, and more abundantly toward you.
For we write no other things to you, than what you read or even acknowledge, and I hope you will acknowledge to the end; as also you acknowledged us in part, that we are your boasting, even as you also are ours, in the day of our Lord Jesus.”
He crossed himself then pulled three rosaries out of his pocket. Gently lifting her head, he passed the colorful strings between the pillow and her neck. Crossing the ends together, he tightened his grip and pulled as hard as he could.
“May you rest in peace. May you rest in peace. May you rest in peace.” His voice had begun with a soft whisper but continued in a crescendo until he watched her life force escape from her eyes.
Remaining immobile for a few seconds, he took in her vacant stare then finally released the pressure around her neck. He watched her body, peaceful and cleansed, for a moment to confirm that her chest was no longer rising and to let his own heart slow down.
Somehow, her cleansing had given him a bigger high than the one he’d done weeks ago.
Was God sending him a sign? Was he being rewarded with a pleasant and powerful sensation because he’d freed another soul from the evil sins she no doubt would have continued committing?
He inhaled deeply, satisfied by his work, then pulled the rosaries away from her neck. Looking at the selection of colors he’d used this time, he settled on orange. Taking her arms away from her side and placing them on her chest in a prayer position, he then wrapped the chosen rosary around her hands.
The Bible she’d given him still lay on the nightstand. He debated which verse would be more appropriate, then settled on the First Epistle to the Corinthians. He placed the ribbon on that page, then left it open at Colossians 3:3 after reading one last passage aloud:
“For you died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, our life, is revealed, then you will also be revealed with him in glory.”
Minutes later, he let himself out after carefully ensuring nobody was coming into the building as he exited.
He lucked out. It was minutes before he encountered anyone. While he did his best to act normal, he concentrated on slowing down his racing heart. He resisted the urge to look around and see if anyone was looking at him for he knew that such behavior could attract unwanted attention. The more distance he placed between the apartment and himself, the closer his pulse got to its regular rhythm.
He thanked the Lord for not crossing anyone’s path for five solid blocks, at which point he ran into a parishioner whose name escaped him.
A smile and a “good afternoon” were enough to look as though he belonged in the neighborhood. He continued his walk and stopped at a coffee shop.
Perfect alibi.
He ordered himself a cup of cappuccino and a slice of lemon pie, then sat down by the window, resting in his glory, reveling in his holy deed.
Chapter Thirty-One
“Shit! I forgot again,” Tod Stephenson muttered as he pulled open the door to the apartment complex.
He retrieved his phone from his pocket, then dialed the landlord’s number only to reach voicemail.
“Hey, Mr. Roberts. It’s Tod from 5B. Could you do something about the broken lock on the building’s front door? I don’t like it. Doesn’t feel safe for me and my girl. Appreciate it!”
Feeling a tad better—and very hungry due to the pizza box he’d brought back with him, its scent having lingered around his car for the past twenty minutes—he headed up the elevator and down the hall to his apartment.
Once again, his keys proved to be useless bits of metal as his daughter had apparently left it unlocked, again. He shook his head then pushed open the door. Muffled music could be heard from her room in the back of the apartment.
“Jess! I got pizza,” he yelled after sliding it onto the kitchen table. “Come and eat while it’s hot!”
He dropped his lunchbox by the sink, then opened the fridge to grab a cold one. The hissing sound of the gas escaping the can was music to his ears. Even though he could only afford budget brew, it tasted like the best thing on earth when he got home from work.
Beer in hand, he proceeded to prepare the table, adding a plate, knife, and fork for Jessica. Then he ripped a piece of paper towel for each of them. For whatever reason, she preferred to ignore his efficient method of folding the pizza and insisted on creating dishes that needed washing. But she took care of the wash, so he had nothing to complain about, really.
He sat down and opened the cardboard box, releasing an even more powerful scent of garlic, tomato, cheese, and bacon. “Jessica! I’m going to start without you!”
Without a peep from her still, he grabbed his first slice and smiled at it. “I’ve given her proper notice,” he muttered before folding the thin wedge and inhaling half of it in one bite. Three more bites and the slice had disappeared.
He grabbed his second slice but paused before biting into it.
Something was odd. Jessica hadn’t even turned off her music or lowered it. Maybe she hadn’t heard him at all?
Slice in hand, he headed down the hall, the muffled music growing slightly louder with each step. He knocked on her door. “Jess!”
He rapped on it again. Louder. “Jessica! Cut that music off now!”
Holding his pizza slice with one hand, he turned the knob of her bedroom door and pushed it open with the other.
“Jessica?”
But what he saw on the bed made him lose more than his appetite.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“And one…” the therapist said in her hypnotically soft voice. “You’re now back to the time when you were thirteen years old on that fateful day. You’re saying goodbye to Luke. Can you see it?”
“I can’t see him, but I’m there.”
“Good, now what did you do after you parted ways?”
“We raced home, as always.”
“Do you remember what you wore that day?”
“Jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Do you remember the color of your shirt?”
“Bright green.”
“What about your shoes?”
“I wore white Adidas with the green patches at the back, just below the ankles. I had bright red socks on that day.”
“That’s good. You’re doing great, Kate. So, start running back home. And pay attention to your surroundings. Is there anything you see, hear, feel, or smell?”
Kate’s breathing accelerated as though reliving the memory of running back home was somehow part of her current reality. Her chest felt heavier than usual as it heaved up and down. The couch upon which she lay, her eyes closed, no longer seemed comfortable. She adjusted her position.
“Are you okay?” the therapist asked.
Kate nodded. “Yes.”
“What are you seeing on your way back home?”
“It’s hot. Humid. Muggy.”
“Good. What else?”
“I’m worried. I’m running late.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Disappointing my parents. My mom hated it when I arrived late and we ate dinner cold.”
“Okay.”
“And she made turkey that day.”
The therapist stayed silent for a while. A very long while, allowing Kate to focus on her memories, those she’d purposely pushed to the very back of her subconscious. She could smell perspiration mixing in with her deodorant, coming out of her pores. Not the deodorant she wore today. The baby-powder kind her mom had bought for her when teenage hormones had kicked in. She inhaled deeply, as though unwilling to believe she was smelling it, but there it was, reaching her brain as though she were there.
“Are you smelling something?”
“Just a memory.”
“Now try to focus on your sight. When you arrived home, what did you see? Try to use the smells
to trigger images in your mind.”
“Okay,” Kate said, doing her best to force images to come, but they didn’t. “I can’t.”
“Then stick to the smells or any other sensation you may remember.”
Kate’s arms suddenly flayed up in the air, and her breathing stopping for a few seconds before resuming at heart-racing speed.
“What’s going on?” the therapist prompted.
“I saw the house. For a split second, then it disappeared.”
“What did you see?”
“The front door. The white porch door, above the old wooden steps. It was slightly ajar.”
“And?”
“Then nothing. I’m standing outside, worried. I know something’s wrong. Dad always said doors kept the flies out. We never left the door ajar. Ever.”
“Okay, Kate. Now’s the time where you’re going to need to be brave. You know you’re safe here. Luke is here, sitting just a few feet away from you. I’m here, ready to pull you out if it gets too difficult. What you’ll experience are just memories. They can’t hurt you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Kate brought her hands back together over her chest, as though the position could strengthen her mood, prepare her for returning to the raw emotions she’d previously sworn to forget.
“Now remember that while the experience may make you feel powerless, you’re going through this to retrieve important clues. To ultimately take power again. So please focus on that. Focus on the things you’ve forgotten about. Are you ready?”
Kate took one long inhalation then replied in the affirmative.
“Now push open that door and walk into your house. What do you see, hear, or smell?”
Kate could feel her toes moving, even though she didn’t do it on purpose, as though the heebie-jeebies were coming out through her socks. “It’s totally silent. Eerily so.”
“What do you see?”
“I can’t see anything right now, but I remember the house was a mess.”
“Just focus on your current experiences, whatever they are,” the therapist said. “What room are you in?”
“The living room.”
“But that’s not where they were?”
“No.”
“Where did you go after that?”
Kate felt dread building up in her chest. “I walked upstairs to check on my baby brother.”
“Walk upstairs now. Is there anything you notice?”
“There’s something in the air. It’s faint.”
“Can you describe it?”
As much as Kate tried to identify it, she couldn’t. “Maybe it’s just the stench of blood from a distance.”
“Okay, are you in your brother’s room now?”
“Yes.” Kate fought the tears that came up, all the while trying to keep her face straight. An impossible task. She crossed her arms over her chest, as though pressing his body against her now.
Between tears, she mustered enough willpower to speak. “I lifted his… little body… and brought it up to my chest… holding his head… like Mom had shown me how to… but he’s cold… lifeless.”
The pain in her chest was as sharp as that day, the understanding he was gone as troubling as the first time she’d felt it.
“You’re safe, Kate. Take your time. Do you smell something different about him?”
The question took her out of the deepest emotions, and she inhaled deeply, as though the therapist’s room somehow held the sensory answers she needed.
“His baby scent wasn’t as strong. Dissipated somehow. And there’s something else, it’s faint.”
“Do you see anything in his room?”
“No, I don’t see anything. I don’t hear anything either. The mobile is quiet. Complete silence in the house.”
“What did you do with your brother?”
“I took him with me and headed downstairs to tell my parents something was wrong with him.”
“Go downstairs.”
Once again Kate’s breathing increased rapidly. She held on to her chest, feeling her heart pounding within her body.
“Arggghhhh!” she yelled, before being overtaken with a tsunami of angst and sadness. Kate brought her hands up and covered her face.
“Where are you now, Kate?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Is it where you found them?”
“Yes. I saw another flash, but not much. Not enough to know for sure.”
“Are there sounds? Smells?”
“Blood. A thick stench. There’s also roasted turkey. And garlic.”
“Now, this is going to be difficult, but try to walk up to your parents. See if you can trigger another visual flash. Start with your dad.”
Kate inhaled deeply while nodding. Her face was wet with tears, her nose snotty, her heart unsure what to feel.
She concentrated, focusing on the stench of blood, trying to see something. Anything. One flash came back and disappeared.
“What did you see?”
“The blood pattern on the wall, his throat was slit while his heart was still beating. The pressure of the blood made it reach the wall.”
“Anything else? His clothing?”
Kate shook her head.
“Try to have a look at your mom.”
Kate began shaking. As though her body had uncontrollably taken a life of its own. Or perhaps her subconscious was doing its best to distract her. But she focused. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to remember the smells. As she moved closer to her mother, the scent of her perfume grew stronger. She tried to connect other memories to it. Then another scene flashed on her mental screen. Her mother’s ripped dress, soaked with blood. The kitchen table had been set, the turkey left out in the middle of the table. One point puzzled her, though. Her ankles weren’t bound to the chair like her dad had been. Like she’d remembered in her nightmares. And there hadn’t been splashing on the wall around her.
Doing her very best to dissociate from her identity as the victim’s daughter, she pushed away the tears and tried to see what her detective mind noticed.
Having seen so many crime scenes since that fateful day, she didn’t doubt her mom had been raped by the killer. The ripped dress and torn panties tossed to the floor were clear indicators.
“My mom. Her throat was slit after her heart had stopped beating.”
“What makes you say that?” the therapist asked. “Do you see other wounds?”
One last effort, Kate told herself. One last push. Then it would all be over. She’d return to the now.
Focusing on the scent of her mom’s perfume again, she squeezed her jaw and willed her mind to see something. Anything.
But nothing came. The case file photos would have to refresh her memories there. Then her nose twitched. She remembered something else.
“Cologne!” Kate exclaimed as a faint ringing sound reached her ears.
As agreed prior to the session, the hypnotherapist snapped her fingers and brought Kate back.
By the time Kate reopened her eyes, the therapist had grabbed her phone and brought it to her.
Fuller was calling, which only meant one thing: bad news.
“And then there were two,” Murphy said, shaking her head as she stepped into the bedroom where Jessica Stephenson lay. The sight was too familiar: a blonde woman in her early twenties, hair in a braid—this time tied with a proper hair band. She was dressed in a faded green gown, her hands in prayer position with an orange rosary, and a Bible resting on her chest.
For better or worse, this murder was recent. The stench of death had yet to emerge. Her skin had lost its pigmentation, the blood having begun to settle away from the surface, but no signs of decomposition yet. They’d, hopefully, be able to collect more evidence this time.
But that also meant they had a serial killer roaming the streets of Boston. A killer targeting innocent young women. They had to up their game and fast.
Her latest breakthrough with the therapist, as exciting, promisi
ng, and unsettling as it had been, would have to wait. She had to focus on the current cases and ignore her family’s cold case for now.
But maybe they’d luck out now. With a new victim came new clues. Possible errors made by the killer. Possible leads for them to follow.
“Has she entered rigor already?” Kate asked the medical examiner who’d managed to once again make it to the scene before her.
“Yes, it’s beginning with the smaller body parts: eyelids, neck, jaw. This one’s really recent,” Dr. Cooper stated, his gloved hands and eyes still on the victim. “A few hours at most.”
“Strangulation again, right?”
“That would be my guess. I’ll confirm tomorrow during the autopsy.”
Murphy bent down to have a closer look at the vic’s hands and nails. Their varnish impeccable, they showed no signs of struggle.
“What about the pupils and irises? Same as last time?”
George shone a light into the victim’s lifeless eyes. “Afraid so.”
“And we still don’t have a match with anything from the toxicology report. If we could at least pinpoint what the killer used to drug them, it might give us a clue toward his or her identity.”
“I’m here,” Rosebud said behind her. “Another, eh?”
Kate inhaled deeply while shaking her head and turning to meet her partner.
“Three weeks apart,” she said. “Our killer’s acting fast. We have to catch this guy before he kills ag—”
“Got that right, Murphy!” Fuller barked. “This is not what I wanted to see today. What leads do you have?”
“Well, sir…” Kate exhaled loudly, fighting off her temptation to bark back and yell that she’d only arrived minutes ago. What does he expect? She was no psychic or miracle worker. “Not much. But connections between the two vics could prove helpful.”
“Suspects?”
“The father is the one who found her. No boyfriend that he was aware of. He couldn’t think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt his daughter. But he did say something about the building’s front door having been broken for days. We’ll look into all of this, but we’ll prioritize any connections. This has to be the same killer. We never released the details. No way the two identical murders aren’t connected.”
The Last Amen Page 12