The Coppersmith Read online

  The Coppersmith

  By

  Michael J. Scott

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  You can unsubscribe at any time, and I’ll never give away your email address, ‘cause I hate spam as much as you do. – Michael J. Scott

  Details can be found at www.MichaelJScottBooks.com

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  ICHABOD on Smashwords

  The Coppersmith

  Copyright © 2011 by Michael J. Scott

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  For Mom and Dad, who never stopped believing in me…

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  “For it is time for judgment to begin with the household of God; and if it begins with us first, what will be the outcome for those who do not obey the gospel of God?”

  — 1 Peter 4:17

  ***

  Prologue

  The 9-1-1 phone call came in to the Wayne County emergency dispatch at 5:23 p.m. on Friday, a little more than thirty minutes before sundown. Nancy Gayle had been talking to her sister on her cell phone while painting her toenails. The moment the monitors flickered to life she dropped the phone and grabbed the headset. Her other hand fumbled with the nail polish jar before finally spilling its contents onto the counter. It dripped crimson onto the carpet. Heedless, she plugged in and blurted, “9-1-1 Emergency.” She forced herself to calm down. “How may I assist you?”

  Silence.

  She swore under her breath. This had better not be another kid making a prank call. Her nails were ruined. That polish cost her twelve dollars. Not to mention having to hang up on her sister.

  She scanned the monitor for the source of the call. 1411 George Street Clyde, New York. St. Paul’s Episcopalian Church. Again, she said, “Hello? 9-1-1 Emergency. Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Still no answer. What was going on? Quickly she tapped out a message on the computer-aided dispatch system, advising the officer who’d respond of the indeterminate emergency. She said, “I have police on the way. Can you speak to me?”

  If this were a prank, the kids would probably hang up. Maybe she could get her sister back on the phone. Instead, she heard two barely audible words in a tone which made her blood cold.

  “Help…me…”

  The line went dead.

  ***

  Officer Glen Chesbro received the dispatch on his onboard computer. Of the twenty-five deputies and eleven part-timers serving the county, he was one of only five on call tonight. The others were scattered toward the north and east. The dispatch was indeterminate, possibly a prank call, but warranted at least a drive by. Setting his coffee cup in its travel container, he shifted the Caprice into gear and headed toward town.

  Turning right at the next intersection, he looked ahead and saw the tall white spire of St. Paul’s Episcopalian Church. Most of the building was built of brick and trimmed in faded white, but the steeple had recently been replaced, and now it was a glowing spike of incandescence in the night sky. Slowing down, he approached the church on the left, passing surreptitiously in front of it. He flicked on his searchlight at some reclusive shadows in the alcove, then off again.

  He pulled into the parking lot. The lot was empty but for scattered leaves matted wet with rain and snow from an early snowstorm, clumped together in whispered huddles across the asphalt surface.

  Swallowing the last of the now cold coffee, he grimaced and crushed the Styrofoam cup before tossing it to the floor of his cruiser. A quick word into his microphone informed dispatch he was on the scene, and he grabbed his baton and climbed out.

  The wind bit from across the parking lot, and he shivered. His footfalls echoed with every step, reverberating off the barren stone and asphalt. He paused and listened, but heard nothing. The front entrance was locked. He worked his way to the side of the building. The side entrance was a plain, gray door with a brass handle and deadbolt mounted above it. It beckoned a few steps down from the sidewalk. He reached for it, and skidded out of control, nearly losing his balance. The drain in the entryway was iced over. Gingerly, he recovered and stepped around it. Pulling his flashlight from his belt, he shone it on the door. Something had gouged the doorjamb in several places, forcing it open. No rust stained the metal peelings.

  He swallowed and called it in. This was more than prank call. Somebody had broken in recently. He bit his lip, knowing he should wait for back up. On the other hand, someone could be hurt.

  The door protested with a groan, echoing in the interior hall and reverberating from the slick concrete block and tile floors. He pulled out his firearm. Stepping inside, he pulled the door shut and shone his light down the hallway.

  Various wooden doors with long, thin windows faced each other on either side of the corridor. He reached out and checked them as he passed, relieved they were secure. Opposite the bathrooms was a large meeting space strewn with tables and chairs. At the far end was the kitchen, separated from the fellowship hall by a door and countertop open on both sides. He crept through the maze of chairs and tables to the counter’s edge. The beam of his Mag Light flashed over the counter. Stainless steel range tops, refrigerators and oven doors diffused and reflected the light back to him.

  A sound caught his ear. His heart skipped a beat. His finger tensed on the trigger of his gun. He aimed the light. Pencil-point green eyes stared him down and darted out of view. He let out a breath. Mice.

  Satisfied the room was empty, he returned through the fellowship hall and climbed the stairs to the first floor. At the top a pair of doors loomed before him, open just a crack. He swung them inward to reveal a spacious auditorium filled with rows of velvet and oak pews. Farther up sat an altar bedecked with a linen cloth, a pair of brass candlesticks with white tapers, and a polished brass cross in the center. Above this, a round stained-glass window shone with the pallid glow of the streetlight outside.

  Buried in the shadows, a huddled mass crouched low upon the floor, to the left of the altar. He shone his light on the figure and watched in alarm as the man heaved in a ragged breath. He swore.

  “Dispatch, I need EMTs now,” he yelled into the microphone, “1411 George Street Clyde!” Rushing to the man, he holstered his weapon and grabbed the shoulder. He pulled his hand away, startled by the wet and sticky warmth clinging to his fingers. He turned him over, staring into the remains of his face. The man wore the garb of a priest, but something had shredded the black vestments to the point where they barely held together. Deep lacerations gashed his torso, and the wounds across his face rendered
him unrecognizable. Glen stared in amazement as the man struggled to breathe.

  “Hang in there,” he whispered. “Help is on its way.”

  The man grabbed Glen’s hand with a shaky grip and opened his eyes, trying to raise his head. He opened and closed his mouth.

  “Easy now. Just relax,” Glen said.

  A brief shake of his head, and the man forced out the word he’d been struggling to form. “A-alex.” His head fell back to the carpet. A long, ragged breath escaped his lips. All was silent.

  Glen dropped the flashlight and started CPR, crouching before the body of the priest. With each compression, blood pooled in the wounds across the priest’s chest, making a small sucking sound as Glen pushed. In the distance, he heard the ambulance as it neared. It was too late to do any good.

  Chapter 1

  Special Agent Janelle Becker slipped the leather computer case off her shoulder and let it sag to the floor. She locked the door behind her with the dead bolt and chain and leaned back against it, swallowing against the lump in her throat. Today had been busy, and she was exhausted. She had so little energy left to deal with this. Tendrils of desire crept up unbidden. She closed her eyes, gritting her teeth against the craving.

  Tearing off her suit jacket, she tossed it at the La-Z-Boy, then undid the elastic band holding her hair in a ponytail, letting the sable strands fall around her olive-skinned face.

  The unfamiliarity of the room struck her once again, like a punch to her gut. Her pulse quickened. Two months of living here, she ought to be used to it by now. She glanced at the jacket. The left pocket. She shook her head. “No,” she told herself. “You’ve already had one today.”

  Irrationality probed her conscious mind, finding reasons why she’d need another. She always felt a little less afraid after taking one—more able to concentrate, and wasn’t that important now?

  “Come on, Janelle,” she ordered, “get over it.”

  Pulling her Glock 23 from her side holster, she inspected the living room, bedroom, bath and lastly the kitchen from one end to the other.

  Nothing was out of place. The craving subsided. Everything was okay. She arched her back and stretched, glancing at the windows. Last month there had been two muggings less than a block away. A week before that, someone up the street reported a home invasion. She shook her head. Her door was locked. The drawn blinds shielded her apartment from what curious eyes may have passed on the street below. And she was armed.

  And she fully intended to keep it that way. She could wean herself off the prescription, tapering it, just like last time. If the bureau found out about her little problem, it’d mean the end of her career. At the very least, they’d ask for her weapon, and if it came down to a choice between the drugs and the Glock, she’d prefer the gun.

  She forced herself to relax, moving around the apartment with a practiced ease, trying to get used to the new environment. Her Monet prints hugged the wall behind the La-Z-Boy. Her books and knick-knacks waited on the shelf under the double hung windows overlooking the street below, and in the far corner hunkered her television set and stereo system, both dusty. Her leather couch and the small, antique coffee table her aunt and uncle gave her separated the living room from the kitchen area, forming a sort of hallway leading to the back bedrooms and bath.

  This was her stuff. Her place.

  Janelle started when an orange cat jumped up on the counter. “Hey Nutmeg,” she breathed. She rubbed the cat’s ears and head, ignoring the feline’s demand for food. Nutmeg resigned herself to not getting a treat that evening and made her way to her food dish, an auto-feeder with a substantial quantity of dry cat food.

  From the fridge, Janelle pulled out an orange plastic tray of frozen jambalaya and a bottle of Guinness, throwing the first in the microwave and opening the second to take a long draught from its neck. On the countertop, she spied the remote control. She picked it up and took aim at the stereo system. The radio came alive in the middle of a Nora Jones album. Janelle sighed, holding the beer bottle against her forehead, enjoying the cool against her skin. The radio always made the apartment feel safer. More lived in. Less alone.

  At the microwave’s chime, she took her dinner into the living room, where she retrieved her satchel and sat down on her couch. She reached into the bag and pulled out a sealed, manila envelope and a laptop computer. She turned on the computer and ate her dinner in large spoonfuls. The manila envelope sat ignored on the edge of the table, unwanted. After the third bite, she marinated the jambalaya with the hot sauce, grinning as the spices worked their magic on her sinuses. The radio switched to commercials, and she turned it down.

  From the corner of her eye, the manila envelope beckoned. She’d have to open it sooner or later. She took another swig of beer and steeled herself for the inevitable. At last, she picked up the folder and displayed its contents on the coffee table.

  Several blown-up photographs strewn among the various reports assailed her eyes. She scanned the reports, picking up the photos to study them, trying to keep her distance. Each photo revealed, in lurid detail, the bruised and mutilated corpse of a man. The first three showed little difference between them. Each man suffered deep contusions. Ugly purple and red lines gouged the surface of their skin in long stripes. The coroners’ reports said most of their bones were shattered into fragments, with little left holding them together.

  Her stomach churned. She dropped the reports and grabbed her jacket, scrambling for the pocket. The pill bottle dropped to the floor, rolling under the couch. Swearing, she thrust her hand after it, seized it, and dragged it out. Ripping the lid free, she dropped a pill onto her palm and popped it into her mouth, chasing it down with the beer. After a moment, the panic subsided.

  How on earth was she supposed to do this?

  She swore at her weakness, tossing the pill bottle across the carpet. “Distance, girl,” she muttered. “Get some distance. Get some perspective. You can do this.”

  She restacked the reports and started again, studying the photographs, seeking the pattern. Earlier that day she’d assessed this killer as a disorganized type—driven by a strong, internal rage against authority, projected onto these hapless souls.

  The fourth report was different. His bones weren’t broken, but severe wounds lacerated his back and sides, as though something had torn the flesh from his body in long, ripping gashes. The coroner listed cause of death as exsanguination. He bled to death. She shuddered, put the photographs down, and returned to her dinner. This time, she barely tasted the hot sauce.

  Instead, she stared at the windows and door again. Only steel bars would’ve made them more secure, and those, she knew, were a fire hazard. She swallowed and looked again at the pictures.

  Had she studied the photos independently she’d have correlated the first three, but the fourth looked like the work of a separate killer. If it weren’t for the obvious similarities between the victims, she’d have even defended the notion they were unrelated.

  All four victims were men, ranging in age from their mid thirties to early sixties. All four had been bound with duct tape and stripped down to their underwear before being tortured to death. Their occupations cinched the pattern. All four were Protestant ministers brutalized in their own churches. Different titles, different denominations, different towns.

  The same vocation. Essentially, the same location.

  The cat jumped up onto the coffee table and padded across her paperwork to sniff the jambalaya. Janelle picked her up and set her down in her lap. She knew the cat wasn’t as interested in the affection she now received as the smells emanating from Janelle’s dinner, but she was purring anyway.

  The phone rang. The cat startled, dug in her claws, and leaped from Janelle’s lap. Janelle yelped in pain and glared first at the spooked feline and then at the phone. She considered answering it. With another two rings, the answering machine picked up for her. The voice echoing from the speakerphone made her wince.

  “Janelle, it’s R
on. If you’re there, pick up…. Okay, either you’re not at home or you’re sitting there with your cat on your lap too stubborn to answer.”

  She wished she’d left the volume off.

  “I know you’re mad,” Ron continued, “and you think I’ve injected myself into this investigation—”

  At this she sat bolt upright, spilling her food. What did he just say?

  “Believe me, it’s not what you think. I really didn’t have anything to do with the decision. You can even ask Cooper. But anyway, it looks like we’re going to be partners in this, and—and I’m just asking you don’t let what’s come between us come between—that is—I know we have a history, and, well things are different now and I know that, and I want you to know I know that, and I’m not trying to make things go back to how they were—even though they were good, I thought anyway. They were good, weren’t they? Uh—”

  There was a long pause. She began to wonder if he’d finally given up.

  “Janelle, if you’re there, please pick up. I hate talking to this thing, and I know you screen your calls, and I know you’re screening me now…. This thing’s probably gonna beep on me and cut me off. I just want to say I know you’ll be professional about this, baby, and I just want to assure you I will, too. Okay. Um, call me, or, I guess I’ll see you at the shop tomorrow. All right, bye.”

  Janelle leaned back into the sofa and pressed the bottle of Guinness hard against her forehead. Why, Cooper? Her head swimming, she collected the photos and reports and stuffed them back into the manila envelope, then carried her beer to bed, leaving Nutmeg to enjoy what remained of dinner. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.