The Coppersmith Read online

  ***

  “Don’t call me baby. You lost that right.”

  “When did I call you bab—? Look, it must’ve slipped out. I know we’re not together anymore and I understand that—”

  “Do you?”

  Ron put his palms out. “I don’t know what you want to hear. I guess not, no. It was stupid. Wrong thing to say.”

  The doors opened on the fifth floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building and she walked out ahead of him on the tile floor, grateful he couldn’t see her expression. He continued to follow, doing his best to catch up. He spoke to her in low tones. “Can we just be professional about this, please?” She didn’t answer him as they stepped into Cooper’s office.

  Unit Chief Frank Cooper grimaced as the two agents entered his office and stood at attention in front of his desk. “Special agents Wilson and Becker,” he said. “You’re working up the profile for the UNSUB in New York—”

  “I am, sir, yes,” Janelle broke in. Cooper frowned. Janelle regretted the interruption.

  “Add this to your victims list.” He tossed the folder their way.

  Ron picked it up first, holding it so Janelle couldn’t reach for it without snatching it out of his hand. “Another minister,” he said. “This one was found in Smyrna, New York, Chenango County. What’s this make now, four?” He handed them to Janelle.

  “Five,” she corrected. She turned to the photographs. Again, she saw the long, deep lacerations she’d seen in the victim from Greece. She laid out the photographs on the desk.

  “This isn’t right,” she muttered. She glanced up. Cooper was watching her. “The wounds,” she explained, coming around the desk. “Look at these lacerations. They’re just like the ones on the vic in Greece.” Neither gave a hint of comprehension. She opened the second folder she carried and handed the photographs to the two men. “The victim in Greece was whipped with something, just like this one. But the previous three were all beaten.” She pointed out the bruising.

  “He’s changed his M.O.,” said Ron.

  “Yes, but why? The killer beat the first three with a blunt object, like a pipe or a broom handle. This suggests a disorganized killer. He’s in rage at religious authority. Takes it out on these men. The crime scenes are all near major highways, like he’s trying to get away from what he’s done.

  “But then Greece, way back to the west again. And now Smyrna. South and east, not easy to get to. And these last two killings were done with a kind of whip.” She paused, looking for understanding. “You can kill somebody with a pipe or a stick in a matter of seconds. Bash their brains in and you’re done with it. But to kill with a whip—that takes patience.”

  Ron blanched. “D’you think this is some kind of S and M thing?”

  Janelle shook her head. “He didn’t sodomize them. In fact,” she said, sorting through the photographs, “they’re only stripped down to their underwear, enough to expose skin, but not to suggest sexual dominance. These killings mean something to the UNSUB. It’s a message. Clearly premeditated.”

  Cooper nodded once, seeming satisfied. “The state police have requested our direct assistance in this. I want the two of you on the next flight to Syracuse. You’ll work out of the Syracuse residence.” He rose to his feet and began escorting them to the door. “Wilson, as senior agent, you’ll handle oversight and the media. Becker, you’ve got the best theory on this guy. Run with it. Syracuse will provide whatever support you’ll need.”

  Ron raised a finger. “Why Syracuse? Why not the field office at Albany or Buffalo?”

  “Three rules of real estate.”

  Ron furrowed his brow. Janelle managed a wry grin. “Location, location, location,” she said. Ron nodded as if this made sense, but didn’t quite escape the puzzled look he wore.

  “Syracuse is centrally located in the state,” Cooper explained. “You’ll be within easy reach of the crime scenes.”

  Ron nodded and turned to leave. He paused when Janelle didn’t follow.

  “I—umm—need to speak to Unit Chief Cooper a moment,” she said.

  Cooper smiled pleasantly in Ron’s direction and shut the door.

  With the door closed, Janelle turned to her boss, who faced her with his arms folded. At least he wasn’t frowning. She couldn’t stand it when he frowned. She clasped her hands behind her back. “Sir,” she began, “I would like to be reassigned to a different investigation.”

  “Denied.”

  “Then, perhaps Agent Wilson could be—”

  “No.”

  She pressed her lips together and looked away. “May I speak freely, sir?”

  “When haven’t you?” Cooper snorted, waving his hand at her as he sat down. “Go on.”

  She swallowed. “Sir, you should be aware that Agent Wilson and I—”

  “I am aware of your relationship with Special Agent Wilson. I understand you’ve hit a bit of a rough patch—”

  “That’s not exactly how I’d put it.”

  “I expect you to be professional. Don’t let your personal problems—whatever they may be—get in the way of that.”

  “I’m not the one who’s having a problem with that.”

  He said nothing, leaning back in his chair. His fingers pressed against his chin. “Do you care to elaborate?”

  She grew quiet, finally mumbling, “No.”

  “If I have to pull you off this case for any reason it won’t reflect well. On you, or your career. I hope I’m being clear.”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  ***

  Ron caught up with Janelle as she headed for the elevator. He offered her a cup of coffee. “Two creams, no sugar,” he said, “the way you like it.”

  “You remembered.” She rolled her eyes.

  “It’s just coffee. There’s no string attached.”

  “Ron, please stop doing this.” The doors opened and they stepped inside. She took a sip of the brew. The cream did little to hide the bitterness of the overcooked java. She made a face.

  “Doing what? I’m only trying to be nice. We have to trust each other in the field, babe. It ain’t like working behind the desk.”

  “Stop pretending that everything’s fine. It isn’t. It never will be.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  She gave him a steady glare, and in the firmest voice she could muster said, “Yes. It does. It really does.”

  Chapter 2

  A man slipped through the hallway of the First Baptist Church in Branchport, making no sound. Glancing past the counter with sundry flyers announcing the available ministries of the church, he peered into the auditorium, sizing up the pews filling the space and the slender columns supporting the arched ceiling. The auditorium could easily seat two hundred or more.

  He drew away from the door’s window, being careful not to touch the glass, and turned his attention to the hallway running the length of the building, directly opposite the auditorium doors. The hall was dark, but a bright light emanated from the room at the far end. He didn’t need to see the sign on the door to recognize his objective. Stealing down the hall, he stopped by the door and pushed it open with the back of his hand.

  Inside, Pastor Bob Adams sat hunched over his computer, his back to the door. The pale blue sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, the shirttail hanging out in the back. His hair was close cropped to his neck, with fine lines of silver streaking the otherwise blond strands.

  Bob straightened in his chair and spun abruptly to his guest. Their eyes met.

  “Oh,” the pastor said, relaxing. “You must be Alex. I’m sorry, I’ve gotten a little bogged down in my message for Sunday and forgotten the time.”

  The man Bob had called Alex made his best show of a doubtful expression. “Should I come back later?”

  Bob waved him in. “No, no. Come on in. Have a seat.” He rose and ushered his guest to an armchair. The gues
t set his satchel down and eased into his seat, with his legs spaced shoulder-width apart. His hands rested lightly on his knees. He kept his weight over the balls of his feet, ready to spring. Pastor Bob glanced at the clock, then back to his computer screen.

  “Actually,” he said, “if you could give me a moment, I’d like to call my wife—let her know I’ll be a little late.”

  The man smiled, “No problem.” Bob reached for the phone. Alex continued chatting. “I really appreciate you meeting me today. I have a lot of questions.”

  Bob cradled the phone to his ear. He nodded in the man’s direction. The man smiled. “Some of the other pastors I’ve spoken to wouldn’t meet with me. I guess they couldn’t find the time.”

  Bob held up a finger. “Hi Honey,” he said into the phone. “I just wanted you to know my 4:30 appointment showed up a little late…. No, I’m not quite done yet. I should probably stay and finish.”

  “I hope your wife isn’t mad at me.” The man looked directly into the pastor’s eyes. Pastor Bob shook his head, turning away from his guest.

  The man kept his gaze on the pastor, but thrust his hands in his side pockets, retrieving a pair of gloves and the small flask and handkerchief hidden there. He slipped on the gloves and opened the flask, spilling the liquid onto the handkerchief. Bob continued his conversation. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he said. The man leaned forward, his body tense. “Okay. I love you, too,” Bob said, “Bye baby.”

  Bob hung up and turned around for the counseling session. The man leaped, covering Bob’s face with the handkerchief. Bob reared back, the chair collapsing backward. They fell to the ground.

  Bob struggled to breathe, his hands clutching at the grasp holding him. His arms flailed, then fell to the floor, his eyes losing focus.

  Alex only kept the cloth on the pastor’s face for a few minutes. Too long would mean too late. Experience taught him that. Once the pastor was out, he returned the handkerchief and flask to his pocket and set the chair upright. He grabbed a roll of duct tape from his satchel, pulled a two-foot long strap of tape from roll, and secured the pastor’s arms behind his back, then wrapped several layers around his feet.

  Grunting, he flipped the body over and half-dragged, half-carried the limp form to the desk, where he hefted the pastor up and dropped him in the chair. He caught his breath and turned, racing out of the office, down the darkened hall and to the lobby doors. Peering into the parking lot, he checked for arriving cars before locking the doors. He retreated to the lobby and propped the auditorium doors open. Inside, he found a panel of switches and turned on the house lights. Pleased, he hurried back to the office, where Pastor Bob slumped in the desk chair.

  He emerged from the office with the pastor, wheeling him along. They rolled through the open doors into the auditorium and stopped beside one of the columns. He risked a glance at the windows. Outside, the sun was getting low in the sky, throwing golden rays across the early autumn landscape. He checked his watch again. 5:10. There wasn’t much time.

  He cut the tape holding the pastor’s arms and propped him up against the column. Pastor Bob’s head made a dull sound as it struck the column. A small moan escaped his lips. The man grinned. This would be perfection. He felt it coming. Again with the duct tape, he looped Bob’s arms around the column in a brutal hug and lashed them together. He undid the pastor’s belt, unzipped his pants, and let them fall. With the knife he tore through Bob’s shirt, revealing his back. He stepped back and surveyed his work. All was now ready.

  He withdrew two more items from the satchel. The first he laid out on the ground, out of the pastor’s line of sight. The second was a vial of ammonia. He uncapped it and waved it under Bob’s nose.

  Bob convulsed, smacking his head against the column. His eyes opened, disoriented and bewildered. He tried to pull away from the column, tugging a few times, but stopped when the man stepped into view.

  Their eyes locked. “What is this?” Bob whispered, “What have you done?”

  “That’s the wrong question,” the other said quietly. He sidled up close to him. “The question is: what have you done?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I will explain it.” He walked in front of the pastor, circling him. “Robert Adams,” he said loudly, “You are charged with the high crimes of blasphemy, heresy, and breaking the Sabbath. How do you plead?”

  “I-I don’t know what—what are you talking about?”

  He leaned in as he passed by. “You are on trial,” he whispered. “Are you guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty of what?”

  “Let the defendant have the charges read to him again. Robert Adams, you are charged with the high crimes of blasphemy, heresy, and breaking the Sabbath. How do you plead?”

  “I plead nothing. This is ridiculous. Who do you think you—?”

  At this the man stepped in and backhanded him across the face. “Is that how you speak to your high priest? The defendant will enter a plea before this court!”

  “Not—not guilty then.”

  He managed a thin smile. They never pled guilty. Not ever. With his open hand he struck the pastor’s face. Hard. “Liar!” The sound of his palm smacking the pastor echoed through the auditorium. Bob winced at the impact, his eyes blinking. His cheek reddened, and a trickle of blood ran down his chin.

  “Tell me, Pastor Bob, what time are your services?”

  No answer. He grabbed the pastor’s hair in his fist and forced his head up. “Answer the question, Bob. What time are your services?”

  “Ni-nine o’clock and ten forty five.”

  “On what day?”

  Now Bob looked confused. “Sunday.”

  “Do you not worship the Lord your God on His holy Sabbath?”

  Again, Bob looked bewildered. The man said in a quiet voice, “Saturday,” trying to be helpful.

  “No.”

  He smiled and nodded his head as he paced around the pastor. “Next question: When you preach, do you use the epistles of Paul?”

  “Y-yes. Why?”

  “So you admit to being a Paulist?”

  Bob’s voice grew hoarse. “What?”

  “You follow the teachings of the one called Paul. You are a Paulist, sir.”

  “I am a Christian.”

  “And now, you have heard the blasphemy with your own ears. What further need do we have of testimony?”

  He reached behind the pastor and lifted up the item he’d set down earlier. The handle was a stiff bundle of wrapped leather a foot in length. Extruding from its top were nine leather straps, each measuring three feet long. Woven into the straps were shards of metal and glass. He stretched it out and held it loosely in his hand. He walked back in front of the column, where Bob could see him clearly. Bob’s eyes fixed on the flail.

  “Lookey here, heretic,” he said. “This is a cat-o’-nine-tails. Ever seen one?”

  Beads of sweat formed across Bob’s forehead and chin. “What are you going to do with that?” he whispered.

  “Purify your soul. You are afflicted with the Paulist heresy. You will be purged of this. And you will give thanks to God before it is done.”

  He draped the flail over the back of a pew in full view of the pastor and reached back into the satchel. He pulled loose a rolled Hazmat suit and a clear face mask. He put them on, grabbed the hood and covered his head, tying the drawstrings in a neat bow. He stopped and listened.

  A snuffling, whispering sound reached his ears. His shoulders relaxed. The pastor was crying. He turned around and walked back over to him, placing a comforting hand on the pastor’s exposed shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, “It will be over soon.”

  “P-please don’t do this.”

  “I must. God commands it.” He stepped back in front and picked up the cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “Oh God, please don’t let him do this!”

  The man turned abruptly. “Now, now, we’ll have none of that.” He stepped behind him. “Robert A
dams, you have been found guilty of blasphemy, being a member of the Paulist sect, and breaking of the Sabbath day. You are sentenced to receive the forty lashes minus one.”

  He reared back and flicked the cat-o’-nine-tails behind him. He swung it over his head in a wide arc, just like he’d practiced. The lashes struck full on the pastor’s back with a loud smack. He yanked straight back, hard, and the barbs tore loose from Bob’s skin, tearing off pieces of flesh in a spray of blood. “Uno,” he cried.

  Bob screamed.

  He reared back again, and repeated the motion. “Duo!” Bob’s body sagged against the column. His legs spasmed, trying to move away from the blow. “Trio!”

  “Jesus! Help me!”

  “Quatro!”

  Bob screamed again. Alex grinned beneath his mask, ripples of pleasure quaking through his body with every stroke, every scream.

  ***

  Alex locked the doors to the Branchport church and turned to see the sun dip toward the horizon. He sighed. Sabbath was coming. The day of rest and worship of the Lord God and of His Christ. He was glad to see it come, though he still had a lot to do this weekend. He picked up the dark plastic garbage bag by his feet and returned to the truck. Inside the bag was the protective yellow suit he’d worn, along with the gloves and the face mask. He’d donned a second pair of gloves for his exit. It wouldn’t do to leave a trail of blood to mark how he’d left the building. Also inside the bag was the cat-o’-nine-tails. He was sad to see it go. He’d thoroughly enjoyed using it.

  In the pickup bed, he opened a second trash bag. A wave of rotting stench blew into his face. He gasped. Inside, grubs and other insect larvae devoured the rotting meat he’d put in there three days ago. He moved the garbage to one side with his gloved hand and thrust the bag with the yellow suit and flail and other equipment deep inside, covering them with the warm refuse. Lastly, he stripped off the remaining latex gloves and dropped them in as well. He closed and retied the bag.