“I bet it does,” Simmons said, giving him a slack smile. “Speaking of demons, you ever hear of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant?”
“Jeez, it’s cold out here. The Antichurch of what? No, man, doesn’t ring any bells.” He shuffled his feet.
Clem Simmons held his gaze on him, then glanced at his partner. “He hasn’t heard of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, Vers.”
“No. No, he hasn’t.”
The newspaperman took out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “Look, guys, I got to go,” he said, avoiding their eyes. “See you around.”
Pinker waited till Lister was out of earshot. “What do you reckon?”
“Obviously he was lying about the Antichurch. The question is why. Is that the Star Reporter’s next big story?”
They started to walk back to the MPDC building. They hadn’t gone more than twenty paces when both their phones rang.
Peter Sebastian stood on the west bank of the Anacostia River, below the National Arboretum. To his left, a tent had been erected by the CSIs around the body of the middle-aged male Caucasian that had been found in the river. People had gathered at the barrier tape behind him and he could hear their voices. There wasn’t much sense of shock-people in northeast D.C. were used to violent death-but they were still curious.
The FBI man’s curiosity had also been piqued, and not just by the murder. He watched as Dana Maltravers showed ID, ducked under the tape and came toward him, her expression as resolute as ever.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, points of red on her cheeks.
Peter Sebastian gave her an icy look. “I’ve told you before that I need to be able to reach you at all times, Special Agent.”
Maltravers recoiled. “I was over at Hate Crimes, sir.”
“Really? And what took you there?”
“Those threats that were found in Professor Singer’s e-mail program? It turns out Hate Crimes has logged the group that made them.”
Peter Sebastian’s face changed. “The Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant? What do Hate Crimes know?”
“Very little, unfortunately. It was founded over a hundred and fifty years ago, up in Maine. But it only lasted a few years, till it was violently put down by the locals. There was no sign of it until the threats against Professor Singer late last year.”
“So could they be the killers we’re looking for?”
Maltravers raised her shoulders. “Apparently they used to perform human sacrifices.”
“Shit.” Sebastian looked at his subordinate. “Good work, Dana. I presume Hate Crimes is collating information.”
“I asked them to. You may have to make a formal request. You know what they’re like. They guard their data, even from us.”
Sebastian watched as Detectives Simmons and Pinker arrived at the barrier tape. “Here come the soon-to- be-relieved investigating officers,” he said in a low voice.
Dana Maltravers turned toward the tent.
Peter Sebastian put a hand on her arm. “Just a moment, Special Agent. Do not engage in any more flippant conversation with Pinker. He and his partner are about to become the enemy.”
Maltravers nodded uncertainly, then followed her boss to the tent where the latest victim lay.
“Son of a bitch,” Gerard Pinker said, standing by his Crown Victoria outside the barrier tape. “Who does ol’ Dickhead think he is?”
“Someone who has more pull with the commissioner than you and me,” Clem Simmons said.
“Not to mention Chief Owen.”
Simmons shrugged.
Pinker scowled. “Shit, I’ve never been taken off an investigation in my life.”
Simmons smiled softly. “Me, neither. Then again, we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory here, have we, Vers?”
“You really think this is one of them?”
“I’m not sure.”
Simmons thought about the male corpse in the tent. He’d been naked when he was found, so the pair of knives in his chest had looked like the obvious cause of death. It hadn’t been until Dr. Gilbert had examined the skull beneath the dead man’s hair that other wounds had been found. The M.E. reckoned that the larger of the two skull fractures would have been lethal. Although it was hard to tell because of the body’s waterlogged condition, she thought that the knives had been inserted postmortem. The time of death was hard to calculate, but Marion Gilbert reckoned the victim had been in the water for at least twenty-four hours, and he had certainly been dead before he went into the river. Her initial evaluation was that the man was in his early forties, in good physical condition and in a profession that demanded substantial exposure to the elements-his hands and face had weathered, probably over the course of many years. The only distinguishing feature on the body was a tattoo on the upper right arm. It showed the Marine Corps insignia and the words Semper Fi.
“Let’s get out of here,” Pinker said, opening the car door. “I’ll tell you what I think.”
“Oh, yeah?” Simmons said, getting in the passenger side.
“Oh, yeah,” his partner mimicked, reversing out onto the road. “That guy wasn’t killed by the occult killer.”
“And your reasoning is?”
“For a start, knives were used instead of skewers. Plus, he hasn’t got a drawing pinned to him.”
Clem Simmons nodded. “True enough. Even if it had been pulled off by the flow of water, there would have been puncture marks.”
“Right. And we kept those collections of shapes out of the public eye. So whoever killed the floater didn’t know about them.”
“Mmm. You could be right. Or maybe the killer just ran out of time.”
“Yeah, sure,” Pinker said, shaking his head. “I’ll tell you something else, Clem. The murderer of the first three is a class act. He didn’t just toss his victims in the river. Why take the risk of being spotted when you’re smart enough to leave no traces?”
The daylight had almost gone. Simmons eyed the lights of central Washington ahead. “You’re forgetting the fingerprints at Monsieur Hexie’s place.”
“Matt Wells’s? They’re a ruse and you know it, man. The Brit isn’t even in the city.”
The big man closed his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, rolling his head on the rest. “But who gives a shit, Vers? We’re off the cases, remember?”
“Screw that,” his partner said, spittle flying from his lips. “Those Bureau assholes will come begging for our help in a day or two.”
Clem Simmons laughed. “Assholes? There was me thinking that you had a soft spot for Princess Maltravers.”
“Kiss my ass, big man. You know brunettes don’t do it for me.”
“I saw the way you’ve been scoping her.”
“Unfortunately it takes two to do the horizontal tango, Clem. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye back there.”
Simmons swallowed a laugh. He reckoned Dana Maltravers might have been warned off by her boss. Not that it mattered anymore. He didn’t trust either agent one little bit.
“Shame about Dr. Gilbert, though,” Pinker said, starting the engine.
“How’s that?”
“We won’t be seeing so much of her. Now, there’s a woman I could go for in a big way.”
This time Simmons didn’t hold back on laughing. “Jesus, Vers. You think you stand any chance with the M.E.? She’s way out of your league, man.”
Pinker shook his head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Clem. I’ve always had a good feeling about her.” He
