Sign of the Cross

‘Listen, I’m not ruling out the possibility. It might be an important clue or nothing more than a killer marking his territory. I can’t tell you how many bodies I’ve found that were soaked in somebody else’s piss.’

‘Really?’

Dial was surprised that Tamher had never seen that in Libya. Then again, maybe it was a European thing. ‘We’ll know more once we find the next vic. Patterns will start to emerge.’

‘The next one?’

‘You don’t think they’re done, do you? Not with the Holy Ghost waiting in the wings.’

‘The Holy Ghost?’

‘You know, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? There’s bound to be a victim for him. And after that, who knows? They might start on the Hail Mary.’

Tamher frowned as he took a seat behind the desk. Dial could tell that something was bothering him so he put the crime photos down, waiting for Tamher to fill the silence. It was a tactic that worked on cops and criminals alike.

‘Why did they come here? We’re a Muslim nation not a Christian one. Where do we fit?’

‘Beats me,’ Dial admitted. ‘Then again, maybe the killers were looking for some R amp; R after they dumped the body. I’ve traveled all over the world to every continent on the globe, but I’ve never seen a country like this. Libya is simply gorgeous.’

Tamher beamed with pride, which was what Dial was hoping for. He knew how crucial it was to stay on Tamher’s good side. Without him, his access to the crime scene would disappear.

‘Unfortunately, it’s way too early to label these as Christian murders. I wish that wasn’t the case, but what choice do we have? The fact is that Narayan wasn’t a Christian — he was a Hindu — so this might not be about religion.’

‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’

‘Not really. Then again I don’t know what to believe.’

In Dial’s mind the only common thread between the murders was the way that they killed. These men were kidnapped, shipped to a specific location, and then crucified like Jesus Christ. But why? What were the killers trying to say? What did these guys have in common?

Not much, according to Interpol.

Jansen was a devout Catholic who grew up in Finland as the middle child in a middle-class family. He lived a clean life — no drugs, no sexcapades, no legal problems — and knew at a very early age that he wanted to join the priesthood. Dial was still waiting for additional information from Cardinal Rose, but according to preliminary reports, everyone thought very highly of him.

The same could not be said about Narayan, who spent half his time in bars and the other half in bed. He was one of several princes in Nepal, a country that had seen its share of royal tragedies in recent years, the most famous occurring in July 2001, when Crown Prince Dipendra pulled out an M16 and an Uzi at a family party and killed the king, queen, and princess.

Dial shook his head as he pondered the two victims. What did these guys have in common? Different religions. Different homelands. Different lifestyles. Their only connection was their gender and the way they died. Tortured, then nailed to a cross.

Crucified like Jesus Christ.

27

By claiming to be friends of the victim, Payne and Jones were granted immediate access to Il Pozzo di San Patrizio. To guarantee their cooperation a young deputy was assigned to lead them down the 248 steps to the bottom of Saint Patrick’s Well, a sixteenth-century landmark named for its supposed similarities to the Irish cave where Saint Patrick used to pray.

As they began their descent, Payne lagged behind, trying to figure out how they had built it. Two diametrically opposed doors led to separate staircases, each superimposed over the other, which prevented descenders from colliding with ascenders. The original concept was conceived by Leonardo da Vinci, who devised the stairs for an Italian brothel so its patrons could sneak in and out of the whorehouse with their anonymity intact. The customers were so pleased that word spread about the stairs, and the design was implemented in a number of new structures, including the pope’s well. Another stroke of genius was the way the architect took advantage of natural light. The stairs were illuminated by a spiraling series of seventy hand-carved windows that allowed sunlight to flow through the gaps in the roof and filter to the outer circumference of the well, providing travelers with more than enough light to fetch water.

‘Jon?’ Jones called from below. ‘Are you coming?’

Payne picked up his pace until he encountered Jones around the next turn in the stairs.

‘Our escort was worried about you. Barnes died in here an hour ago, and the cops don’t want a repeat performance.’

‘I don’t blame them. This place would be a bitch to clean.’

‘Plus it’s a historic landmark. The cop told me while Pope Clement VII was hiding in Orvieto, he was afraid his enemies would cut off his water supply. To prevent that from happening, he ordered this well to be dug. All told, it’s 43 feet wide and 203 feet deep.’

‘Damn! The pope must’ve been thirsty.’

‘It wasn’t just for him. See how wide the steps are? That’s so pack animals could make it down the slope without falling. They were actually allowed to drink right from the source.’

Payne winced. ‘That’s pretty disgusting. No wonder Barnes had the runs.’

‘Thankfully, the town doesn’t rely on the well anymore. Otherwise I’m sure their water would taste funny for the next few weeks.’

‘Oh yeah, why’s that?’

Instead of speaking, Jones pointed to the violent image that gleamed in the natural spotlight. Donald Barnes lay facedown in the center of the well, his ample body bisecting the wooden bridge that connected the two staircases. Members of the local police poked and prodded him for clues as blood oozed from his ruptured gut, dripping into the water and turning it dark crimson.

The cop in charge of the investigation saw their approach and tried to prevent them from seeing Barnes sprawled in a puddle of his own blood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said in clear English. ‘I know this must be difficult for you.’

Payne and Jones nodded, not knowing what to say.

The detective pulled out a notebook and pen. ‘We heard his name was Donald.’

‘Yes,’ Payne said, ‘Donald Barnes. He was an American.’

‘As are you,’ the cop said, never lifting his eyes from his pad. He took their names and addresses, then asked, ‘Were you friends with the deceased for long?’

‘Not really. We just met him today at the funeral.’ Payne studied the cop, waiting for some kind of reaction. ‘He willingly gave us assistance when we needed it. Directions, a list of sites to see, and so on. He also described the helicopter crash that killed your colleague on Monday.’

The cop nodded, still not reacting. ‘Any idea where he was from, or where he was staying?’

Payne shrugged. ‘Midwestern U.S., maybe Nebraska. At least that’s what his T-shirt says. And as far as his hotel goes, we’re not sure. We didn’t know him long enough to find out.’

As Payne finished speaking, the young officer who’d led them down the steps approached the detective. He whispered a number of Italian phrases, then held up a single key adorned with the monogram GHR. The detective smiled at the discovery. ‘Gentlemen, are we through here?’

Jones shook his head, then lied. ‘Actually, there’s one more thing. We took a few pictures with Donald in front of the cathedral. Could we possibly have the film as a remembrance?’

The detective glanced at the body and frowned. ‘Camera? We didn’t find any camera. No wallet, film, or anything of value… In my opinion this was just a robbery that went bad.’

Payne and Jones knew that was bullshit. But the last people they were going to tell were the cops. If they did that, all the cops were going to do was get in their way.

Regrettably, that ended up happening anyway.

As they emerged from the well, Jones growled, ‘This wasn’t a robbery. It was an assassination.’