Lola was studying the in situ photographs of Darlene’s body. She glanced up at Harry. “Implants?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Interesting. A woman so beautiful and still she had to offer herself up to the surgeon’s knife to become even more appealing.” She opened the other file and found an earlier photograph of Darlene in a cheerleader’s costume. “Look here,” she said. “She didn’t have a flat chest as a child. She was perfectly normal, absolutely lovely.” She shook her head. “There was a deep psychological need here. I would bet my license that this woman’s psyche was severely brutalized at a very young age-something that made her obsessive about her looks and her desirability as a woman. She would also want to be desirable to other women,” she added. “I’m not saying she was a lesbian, or bisexual. This was an obsession, and the need to be wanted would not be limited to one sex.” She shook her head again. “But that’s only a guess for now. Give me time and I’ll find more. This was a complex woman, a very disturbed woman. Your case will undoubtedly be solved before I understand her completely… if I ever do.”
“Any initial sense about the killer?” Harry asked.
“Well, here we obviously have obsessive behavior of a different kind. I would guess that our killer is young. No more than late twenties, early thirties. Very religious to the point of obsession. Intelligent, but blinded by his own convictions. Not willing to question those beliefs, or be tolerant of anyone who doesn’t accept them with the fervor that he does. Without question, a true believer in every meaning of that phrase.” She raised her hands and let them fall back to the desk. “This business of carving the word evil on his victim’s forehead, then covering it up with a mask, is so direct it’s a bit unnerving. There is no subtlety in this man. He believes and therefore he acts. His mind is organized and yet it isn’t.” She nodded to herself. “It shows me someone who is not quite as smart as he thinks he is; someone who has convinced himself that other people are so unable to grasp what he sees that he must give them a message that is blatantly simplistic. This is someone who has no respect or tolerance for his fellow man; someone with no feeling of moral responsibility other than to himself, although he believes he has great moral responsibility to everyone, even to the world at large, perhaps even to the point of having a savior complex, if you will… Harry, my friend, you are dealing with a pure sociopath. And he may be very hard to spot, because he is extremely good at hiding. He has practiced that art for years. He has had to.”
“Could he have been the victim of abuse himself?” Harry asked.
“Very possibly. But if so, I think he would believe that he-himself- had sinned. He may believe that he was led into sin by someone even more evil than himself, but he would still carry great guilt for his part in it.”
“And deliver us from evil,” Harry said.
“Exactly.” Lola nodded her head emphatically. “That is exactly how he would now feel.”
“You haven’t gotten to it yet in the file, but we found a gold cross at the murder scene with that quote from the Lord’s Prayer engraved on it.”
“I would be surprised if that cross had not been torn from the killer’s neck,” she said.
“The young boy who was abused by Darlene, he and his family belonged to an evangelical church that shunned them when his family refused to let him testify. The minister also urged the parishioners to do everything they could to bring Darlene to justice.” Harry stared at her. “It was an unqualified statement, as far as I’ve been able to determine, almost an invitation for someone to take the law into his own hands.”
“An invitation our killer would not have needed, but one he would have taken very, very seriously.” She paused and stared into Harry’s eyes. “Did you get anything from the victim… anything about religion?”
“Yes.”
“It was a strong… sensation?”
“Very.”
Lola paused again, considering what Harry had said. Then she nodded to herself. “I would look at this church closely, Harry. Very closely indeed.”
As Harry began to rise from his chair, Lola leaned forward and studied him closely. “What’s new with you, Harry? You seem very tense. Any personal problems you’d like to talk about?”
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. He had talked to Lola in the past about his mother, and whenever they met she inquired without specifically asking about her.
“Nothing?” Lola persisted.
“My mother’s coming up for parole,” Harry finally conceded. “But I don’t need to talk about it.” She smiled up at him. “You probably do. But I won’t press the matter. I will ask you to consider one thing: consider that this case may not be right for you; that perhaps someone else should investigate this woman’s murder.” She waved off any objection before it came and continued, “I don’t mean you won’t be able to do a good job. You’re probably the best homicide detective in the state. I mean this case may not be right for you. ”
“I can’t let it go,” he said.
“I know you can’t.” Lola gave him a long look. “What does your intuition tell you about the killer, Harry? I can sense that you feel something.”
Harry shook his head. “Very little, except that at times he feels very close. Sometimes it’s almost as though he’s standing right next to me. I’ve never felt that before.”
“Maybe it’s your past that’s standing next to you, Harry,” Lola said. “Think about that possibility, Harry. Think about it very seriously.”
The First Assembly of Jesus Christ the Lord was located on Keystone Road, close to the Pinellas-Hillsborough county line. That also placed it only a few miles from the Brooker Creek Preserve. The church was a sprawling complex that included the church itself, an elementary school, a gymnasium, and several smaller buildings, including one clearly marked as a teen center. All the buildings were connected by a covered outdoor walkway. There was also a sizable parking lot, attesting to a large congregation. As a young deputy Harry had occasionally been assigned to Sunday traffic control at various large churches throughout the county. The congestion created by those churches prior to and at the conclusion of services rivaled that of weekday rush hours. Harry called ahead but was told the Reverend John Waldo was in the sacristy “preparing” Sunday’s service. He decided to come early and catch the reverend when those preparations ended.
Harry climbed a wide cement stairway that led to a series of glass doors opening into a reception area. Across a twenty-foot expanse were another set of doors that opened into the church proper. Beyond those interior doors Harry found himself standing beneath an enormous arch that ran the entire length of the sacristy. But the focal point of the church was a vast stage that took up one entire end and faced out to rows of pews that would hold well over five hundred parishioners. There were lights suspended above the stage, and only the pews and the arched ceiling and a large golden cross that hung on the rear wall made him feel he had entered a church. Without them he would have felt he’d just walked into a large theater.
A man stood center stage his body fixed in a spotlight. Above him, to his right and left, his image was projected on two massive television screens, as the words he spoke ran in a scroll beneath. To his left, well off to the side, a group of musicians listened respectfully. Harry noted the instruments-organ, piano, three guitars, a drum set, a conga drum, two saxophones, two trumpets, and a flute. To the man’s right stood a choir of twelve men and women, each appearing equally intent on hearing every word the man spoke. At the front of the church, high above the pews, Harry could see a director’s booth hidden behind darkened glass. He assumed that the projection screens and all the stage lighting were run from there, an assumption that was confirmed when the man standing center stage interrupted his sermon at several points and spoke directly to the booth, asking that the cameras be brought in tight for close-ups at those specific points. As far as church services went, it was beyond anything Harry had ever envisioned, and he realized he was watching a rehearsal worthy of a professional theater.
The man at the crux of that rehearsal, who Harry assumed was Reverend Waldo, was railing against a gay pride parade that would be held in St. Petersburg the following Sunday, terming it a “celebration of sodomy” and urging his flock to join protestors throughout the county to speak out against “this public glorification of sin.”
Harry felt a hand on his shoulder, the pressure light but distinct. He turned and found a man, perhaps in his late twenties, standing behind him. He had blond hair of an unnatural color that fell almost to his shoulders. He was tall and slender, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that bore the logo Jesus Now and Always. He had a square face and a flattened nose that looked as if it had been hit more than once; his eyes were cobalt-blue and despite a wide smile were clearly unfriendly.
“Can I help you?” he said, his tone holding no offer of help in it.
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m looking for Reverend John Waldo. Are you him?”
The smile faded. “Who are you? ”
