of lamplight inside was inviting. But behind even the most inviting glow of lamplight there could live a killer, plotting his next act of rage against society. Lee jogged a half block to the west to look for a cab at the intersection where the Bowery bifurcated into Third Avenue to the east and Fourth Avenue to the west.
As he stepped out from the curb to hail a cab, he heard the sound of a car backfiring. It wasn't an unusual sound to hear on Third Avenue, but an instant later something whizzed by his head, embedding itself with a tinny thud in the lamppost behind him. He turned to look at the lamppost, but just then a cab pulled up in front of him. He looked around Third Avenue, but there was no sign of the shooter. No one on the street seemed to notice that anything unusual had happened. He searched the crowd, but no one was running away-even the sound of the gun firing had been swallowed up by the blare of car horns and traffic noise.
He glanced at the lamppost. Whatever the object was, it had cut deeply into the metal. He took a step toward it, but the cabbie honked his horn impatiently.
'Hey mister-do you wanna go somewhere or not?'
Lee looked down Third Avenue. A light rain had begun to fall, and this was the only free cab in sight.
'Yeah, thanks,' he said, climbing in and closing the door.
There was no doubt in his mind that the dent in the lamppost was made by a bullet. What he wasn't sure of was whether or not he was the intended victim.
The pursuer becomes the pursued, he thought grimly as the cab rattled up Third Avenue.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saint Francis Xavier was a graceful granite and limestone structure smiling down over the low buildings of Park Slope like a kindly uncle. The stone looked as though it had recently been cleaned; even in the feeble February sun, Lee had to squint against the glare. The elegant vaulted ceiling loomed above him as he walked past tall stained-glass windows of unusual beauty. The light cascaded onto the stone floor, magnified as it sliced through cut-glass figures of saints and apostles, sinners and deities, in their flowing vermillion and sapphire robes. In happier times, he would have stopped to study them, but he continued walking, his footsteps clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.
The heavy marble altar was magnificent, its splendor only serving to heighten the gloom he felt as he approached it. The CSI team was already there, moving about the church with their usual efficiency, dusting for prints, scanning the pews for any stray scrap of evidence. He approached the little group around the pulpit. Chuck Morton was there, still wearing his overcoat, which was cream colored and looked pricey. Chuck's wife, Susan, had a knack for buying clothes that weren't expensive but looked like they were.
When Chuck heard Lee approach, he looked up.
'Thanks for coming out on such short notice.'
Lee looked at the body draped over the altar.
The victim in this attack was eerily similar to the one at Fordham-young, with dark curly hair and a decidedly Irish look about her. This time, however, the crime scene showed evidence of a frenzied attack. Several hymnals had been ripped from their racks in the front choir loft surrounding the altar and lay scattered about, their pages ripped and spattered with blood. A large blue and white flower vase lay a few feet from the victim's body, broken in two, its contents strewn over the thick carpet covering the floor of the altar. Yellow roses-ironic, Lee thought, since they were the symbol for friendship.
But what he couldn't take his eyes off were the words carved into her chest.
Hallowed be thy name.
The cuts were deeper than last time, the slashes cruder-the e in Hallowed bisecting her right nipple so deeply that it had almost come off. There was more blood, too-a lot more blood. He thought about what the pathologist at the morgue had said about postmortem injuries-and these injuries did not appear to be postmortem. He turned away, sickened.
Hallowed be thy name.
The phrase circled his brain rhythmically, mockingly. Hal-low-ed be thy na…
'Jesus,' Lee muttered. He had another horrifying thought. The Slasher was only two lines into the prayer-not even a quarter of the way through it.
'It's him-it's the same guy,' Chuck sighed, coming up to stand next to him. 'You were right about one thing: he isn't going to stop.'
'And there was less than a week between these two killings,' Lee pointed out. 'The last time he waited a month, but this time-well, he's either more driven, more confident, or both. What do you have on the victim so far?'
Chuck looked down at the girl. 'Poor kid. Name's Annie O'Donnell.' He indicated a nearby detective interviewing a middle-aged Hispanic man in a drab green uniform, who appeared to be distraught. 'Even the janitor recognized her-said she attended this church. Apparently she's fairly quiet, but he says he has an eye for pretty girls.' Chuck glanced over at the man. 'He's not…is he?' he asked.
'Too old, wrong race. The Slasher is younger, and probably white. Interracial sex crimes aren't unknown, but they're rare, and this guy seems to be a preferential killer.'
'Meaning-?'
'He targets a specific kind of victim.'
'Yeah, okay,' Chuck said, with a glance at the technicians quietly dusting for prints, gathering and bagging evidence. 'The CSI team is doing what it can, but I wouldn't expect much.'
'No,' Lee agreed. 'If he covered his tracks last time, he will this time too. He knows what he's doing. On the other hand, this time there is evidence of a struggle, so it's always possible-'
'Lee,' said Chuck, 'do you think that John Nelson would consider…'
'What?'
'Well, you guys are pretty close, right? So I thought maybe you could ask him if he would-if he would like to consult?'
'Yeah, sure.'
'I mean, no offense, but we could really use all the help we can get, right?'
'Sure,' Lee said. 'When it comes to criminal psychology, he's the guy. There isn't anyone better outside of Quantico.'
The detective who had been talking to the janitor had finished with him, and walked over to where Lee and Chuck stood. He carried a small notebook, an essential tool for any detective, and was dressed in the usual 'uniform': a tan raincoat over a somber suit, black shoes, dark socks. Lee wondered why the man was dressed this way on a Saturday afternoon. It seemed a little out of the ordinary on a weekend, but maybe he was already on duty when the call came in.
Chuck made the introductions. 'Detective Florette, this is Lee Campbell. Lee, this is Detective Clyde Florette, Brooklyn SVU.' SVU was short for Special Victims Unit, which dealt exclusively with sex crimes.
'How do you do?' Clyde Florette reached for Lee's hand. His grip was firm and assertive without being aggressive. He was the physical opposite of Detective Butts: a tall black man, slim and elegant, with slicked-back graying hair. His features were too aquiline to be conventionally handsome, with thin lips and a long nose, but with his neatly trimmed graying beard and luminous eyes, Lee guessed that women went for him, especially the ones who liked the professorial type. His voice was low and cultured, with a hint of an island lilt-from Haiti, perhaps, or Barbados.
'Captain Morton tells me that you're working on a multiple, and that this is his second victim,' Florette said. 'Multiple' was police shorthand for 'multiple homicides,' and like a lot of cop jargon, it fell stiffly on Lee's ears. It seemed to him the lingo itself was an attempt to distance cops from the things they encountered in the line of duty.
'That's right,' Lee answered, 'except that it's his third victim.'
Detective Florette raised an eyebrow and looked at Morton.
'We haven't yet determined that,' Chuck said, an edge of irritation in his voice.
'Well, whether this is his second or third,' Florette went on, 'he somehow managed to get in and out of here
