We nodded. The rain fell heavier, pelting the windows. In the garden, trees rattled as a sudden wind gusted. The smell of damp seeped into the room.
Evan went on. “Mass murder, on the other hand, is about victimhood and ideology. Think about the messages on Donovan’s body. Words like righteous rage and God being unjust. ‘Vengeance is ours, we will repay.’ They are explaining themselves. For them, murder is self-defense. Based on what Michael shared with me, your first victim was accused of betrayal. In the eyes of his killers, a betrayal would have justified—even demanded—his death.”
“If Noah was murdered for committing some form of treachery,” I said, “what did Donovan do to anger his killers?”
Bandoni grabbed a slice of cheese. “Right. The killer wrote nothing on his body about betrayal.”
“But he wrote the words payback is hell. And—” I looked at my notes. “The owner of the comics store where Noah taught said that Noah told her the work he was doing was going to bring payback. She said whatever it was, he was scared.”
We considered that for a moment, while the flames hissed and shadows rustled in the corners of the room.
Evan stirred. “We have to consider not only the words, but the significance of where the killer wrote those words.”
“On Donovan’s castrated groin,” I said. “Are we back to the sexual angle?”
Cohen leaned forward, fisting his hands. “Noah was feminized. The rape. The dress. But Donovan had his manhood taken away. Which suggests that while both of them angered the killers, it was in different ways.”
Bandoni grunted. “Well, other than treating our victims like writing pads, nothing I can see connects the two of them except Noah’s brother. Todd Asher’s a member of the church where Donovan was killed. And he and Donovan maybe ran into each other playing tennis.”
“Fratricide is biblical,” Cohen said. “God rejected Cain’s sacrifice but accepted Abel’s. You could argue that Cain killed his brother as a form of jealous self-defense.”
“But if either brother had a reason to be jealous, it was Noah.” I skimmed through my notes from our interview with the Ashers. “The father mentioned they raised the sons as if they were both theirs, although Noah was adopted. In the eyes of Hal Asher, Todd was the favored son. And depending on how you measure things, Todd also won the roll of the genetic die. He’s good looking, extroverted, apparently successful. Based on his oh-da—” I looked at Bandoni.
“Audemars Piguet,” he filled in. “Kid’s got money.”
“And he’s tall, I imagine,” Evan said.
“Just like Donovan.” Bandoni tossed a fistful of nuts into his mouth. “Doesn’t explain the sex angle.”
“Who is God being unjust to?” Cohen murmured.
“We also have the subversive Riley Lynch,” I said.
Bandoni glared. “Who is also missing.”
Evan turned his bright-green gaze on me. “Tell me about Riley.”
“Noah’s high school friend. He and Noah were members of a group of pickup artists who called themselves the Superior Gentlemen. Four men. Maybe five with the photographer. But Noah had gotten interested in social causes and started dating someone. A couple of months ago, he dropped out.”
Bandoni brushed crumbs off his suit coat. “That’s a betrayal.”
Cohen looked pensive. “What I know about pickup artists is their groups are fluid. Men join and drop out all the time.”
At my feet, Clyde raised his head and cupped his ears. Curious about something, but not alarmed. An animal somewhere nearby. Or something blown by the wind.
I let my gaze rest on Cohen. A late-day beard shadowed his jawline, and his expensive suit was rumpled. A man who insisted on cutting his own hair, he’d obviously taken scissors to his thick locks since the last time I’d paid attention. Now, his gaze had turned inward, and I knew his mind was out ahead of ours, following unknown paths like a bloodhound on the scent.
He set down his drink, and my eyes caught on his forearms where he’d rolled his sleeves.
I sat up. “Noah’s tattoo. The one his killers carved.”
In an instant, Cohen was back. “The symbol of man placed over that of woman. It’s not on Donovan’s body. It’s yet another suggestion that he wasn’t killed for the same reasons.”
“The clues don’t add up because we’re missing their ideology,” Evan said. “Mass murderers have a system of belief, and their choice of targets will line up with that dogma. We have to look at all the components—how the men were killed, what was done to them, where their bodies were placed.”
“A train and a church,” Bandoni said.
“A rape and a dress,” I added. “Against Donovan’s castration.”
“And all the religious elements,” Evan said. “The biblical language. The body on an altar.”
“What about them chopping off his right hand?” Bandoni glowered. “The hell does that mean? Ideology, my ass. I’m starting to feel like we ain’t even dealing with the same killers.” He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “It’s the lieutenant. Probably wanting to know when we’re bringing the killers in.”
He stalked out of the room.
Clyde’s ears swiveled. A moment later, a great boom reverberated from somewhere in the house, the sound ricocheting through the library. We all jumped, and Clyde scrambled to his feet.
A bomb, I thought, reaching for my gun.
Cohen touched my shoulder as he stood. “Just the front door slamming shut. Bandoni must have gone outside.”
Trust a Marine to go straight to the dark place. I relaxed my hand.
Cohen headed toward the hall. “We’d be drowning in sirens now if I’d set the alarm. But he will have locked himself out. I’ll be right back.”
He vanished into the gloom.
Evan turned to me. “Tell me about the tattoo.”
I kept my eyes for a moment on the hallway where Cohen had disappeared. Unease stirred in my gut. Talking about mass
