toward the wall, he could feel the heat of her anger on the back of his head. He closed his eyes and waited for her rage to pass, to burn itself out…
Afterward it wasn't so bad, though-when she calmed down they would pray together, sometimes for hours at a time.
Pray with me, Samuel. Let God wash clean your spirit.
She would burn incense, and they would kneel together, the Bible spread out on the bed in front of them- though she had it memorized anyway. They would kneel in front of their little makeshift altar, with the figure of the bleeding Christ hanging over the head of the bed, the air thick with the smell of incense. Sometimes she would pray from Genesis, other times from Revelations or Ecclesiastes. After a while he had memorized the passages too, and he would kneel beside his mother until his knees ached… But still he was proud to be sharing her passion for God, proud that he could endure the discomfort and pain-a cleansing pain, to relieve him of the stain of his sinful ways-as long as she could, until his toes were pins and needles and he could no longer feel his legs.
He welcomed the numbness, the release from the shameful feelings of lust. He was grateful to his mother for saving him, and if it was difficult and painful, that was proof to him that he was on the right road. After all, as his mother had told him over and over, nothing worth having is gotten easily.
She had brought him to God, and now he would bring these girls too, offering them as proof of his devotion, his faith, his earnestness. He would save them from their own lustful urges-and from his own.
That Sunday, after the second girl, he sat in the cold, darkened confessional, perched on the hard, narrow bench, until the little door slid open and he could hear Father Neill's thick breathing, smell the spearmint mouthwash, and just beneath it the hint of Scotch whiskey.
'Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.'
The priest stifled a belch. Samuel heard the rustling of his robes as he shifted on his bench, heard his smoker's cough.
'It has been two weeks since my last confession.'
'Yes, my son?'
'I have had unclean thoughts.'
'How many times?'
Samuel paused. It was important to be accurate.
'Three times.'
'Say twelve Hail Marys.'
It never occurred to him to mention the girls whose lives he had taken. That was not sin, because he was acting as the agent of God. He fingered the paper in his jacket pocket, snuggled next to the sharpened blade of his knife. The instructions on it were clear-and tonight he would do the work of his Master.
He left the church slowly, savoring the solemnity and grandness of the house of the Lord. He was at home here-everything was so much simpler, and he knew what was expected of him.
Chapter Sixteen
Lee sat on the hard bench in the back of the courtroom, watching the trial in progress. He had been wandering around downtown, and when he found himself standing on the steps of the criminal court building, he decided to go inside. It was Friday afternoon, and he felt at loose ends, with the weekend looming ahead. Lately he wasn't dealing well with long stretches of unstructured time. He found courtrooms to be comforting places-they reminded him that sometimes criminals really were brought to trial and convicted.
The judge looked down on the proceedings with a weary expression. He had a long, jowly face topped by a brace of bushy black eyebrows so thick that it appeared a pair of caterpillars had attached themselves to his forehead.
This particular trial was a murder case, and the defendant-the victim's husband-sat flanked by his attorneys. He sat quietly, hands folded in his lap, a slight, balding, unremarkable-looking man. Lee knew that a defendant's behavior in court had little bearing on guilt or innocence. The most vicious killers could be brilliant actors once the public eye was on them.
The prosecutor, a slim, dapper Asian man with slicked-down thinning hair, stood and buttoned his jacket.
'We call Dr. Katherine Azarian to the stand, Your Honor.'
The judge nodded and pulled at his extravagant right eyebrow.
A small, compact woman rose from the gallery and walked to the witness box. Something about the quiet, contained way she moved caught Lee's eye. She was dressed in a dark green business suit with a fitted jacket, nothing flashy-but on her somehow it looked glamorous. Her hair was dark and wavy, cut close to her head, emphasizing the curve of her cheekbones and firm, pointed chin.
'…the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?' The bailiff, a fat, red-faced man, finished his recitation in a monotone.
'I do,' Dr. Azarian replied in a clear, firm voice, removing her hand from the Bible held by the bailiff and turning toward the witness box. Lee watched as she sat, her eyes on the prosecutor, waiting for his first question. Her manner was self-assured and yet entirely lacking in arrogance. He found it hard not to look at her.
The prosecutor approached her, smiling. 'Would you please state your profession, Dr. Azarian?'
'I'm a forensic anthropologist.' A tiny dimple danced on the end of her chin when she spoke.
'And what exactly does a forensic anthropologist do?
'I aid in the identification of victims' bodies and the causes of death through examination of their skeletons.'
'So you're a bone specialist?'
'Yes.'
The prosecutor plucked a photograph from the exhibit table and held it aloft.
'Exhibit A, Your Honor. If I may, I'd like to show it to the witness and then to the jury.'
The judge nodded, his eyes heavy under the weight of his prodigious eyebrows. The prosecutor presented the photo to Dr. Azarian.
'Do you recognize this?'
'Yes. It's a photograph of the victim's skull.'
The prosecutor passed the photo on to the jurors, whose reactions were varied. Some stared at it with fascination, others with detachment, and a few were visibly upset by it. The prosecutor retrieved the photo from the jury foreman and turned to his witness.
'Did you also have an opportunity to study the skull itself?'
'I did.'
'And what conclusion did you reach as to cause of death?'
'Blunt force trauma to the head.'
'And could the damage you observed have been caused by a fall?'
'No. The wounds are inconsistent with a fall. For one thing, they occur on both sides of the skull. For another, the shape and size of the indentations indicate the victim was struck by a heavy object-most probably a horseshoe.'
'Like this one?'
There was a murmur from the courtroom as the prosecutor lifted a large horseshoe from the exhibit table.
'Yes. The curve of the indentations in the skull, as well as the peculiar mark made by the knob here'-she pointed to the raised edge at the crest of the U-shaped curve-'are unique.'
'You might even say unmistakable?'
'Yes.'
'Objection!' The defense counsel yelped, leaping to his feet. 'Leading the witness!'
'Very well, Mr. Passiano-your objection is sustained,' the judge replied, but his voice implied what everyone in the courtroom knew: the damage had been done. Kathy Azarian was not just a good witness, she was the
