A Cruel Season for Dying by Harker Moore

more like a businessman than a priest.”
    “I am a businessman, Andrew, for the Church.”
    “But you are God’s priest first.”
    He bowed his head, then looked up. His eyes were clear and shockingly steady. “I know. I came late to my vocation, Father
     Kellog, but I have not forgotten why I entered the priesthood.”
    “Then I won’t have to remind you again.”
    “Good night, Father, in the future I’ll mind the clock more carefully.”

    Despite his best intentions to go home, Sakura, on his second cup of tea, sat skimming the canvass reports for the neighborhood
     surrounding Westlake’s building. The phone buzzed.
    “Jimmy?” Willie’s voice.
    He stopped reading and smiled. “Good evening, Dr. French.”
    “I’m glad I caught you. These damn photos of yours would have had me up half the night…. Is this your case?”
    “Yes.”
    “You could have faxed me the autopsy reports. I can’t even tell how he’s killing them.”
    “I wanted your impressions of the scenes first.”
    “Not fair, Sakura. What he’s doing to the victims is at least as important as how he’s leaving the scenes.”
    “Humor me.”
    Her response was an expressive exhalation. “Where’s this happening?” she asked him.
    “In the victims’ bedrooms. All three were homosexuals. No forced entry. We think they were random pickups. No evidence that
     any of them knew each other.”
    “The level of control is amazing. He’s organized as hell and he’s not hiding the bodies.” She fell silent, and he imagined
     her studying the photographs.
    “The scenes are so structured … ,” she began again.
    “I’ve thought about that a lot,” he said. “The killer could be staging the scenes, trying to make us believe it’s a cult.
     But where’s the blood? If he’s smart enough to pull this off, he’s smart enough to make a better show of it.”
    “I think it’s posing—the structure of the scenes is part of his signature. He’s using the victims as props to convey his message.”
    “But then what’s the message?” he said.
    “Those wings are certainly suggestive.”
    “Swan wings,” he said. “Confirmed through the lab. It seems the birds are plentiful all along the Coast. But we’ve no idea
     how he’s getting them.”
    “The obvious symbolism is angels,” she said, “but he could be operating on a deeper level. Wings could simply indicate that
     he believes he’s liberating the victims in some way. From their homosexuality maybe. The hands placed over the genitals could
     support that.”
    “Liberation could be part of it,” he said, “but the ritual is definitely connected with angels. The letters above the beds
     spell out names of fallen angels.”
    “Fallen angels.”
She echoed his words. “I’ll have to think about that…. What’s the sexual assault?”
    “None that’s apparent.”
    “It’s possible he’s impotent or masturbating later. Is he taking souvenirs?”
    “Not body parts. There’s no mutilation except for the incisions to insert the wings. He could be taking clothes or something
     else, but so far there’s no indication of anything missing.”
    “You need to check carefully on that,” she said, “but my guess is he’s taking pictures. Maybe even video. He’s an artist.
     He’s going to want to record this in some way, to help sustain the fantasy.”
    “I should have thought of that.”
    She fell silent again. Then, “Do we know what the symbol is on the chests?”
    “Not a clue.”
    “You still haven’t told me how he’s killing them, Sakura.”
    “Injection with potassium chloride. He’s stopping their hearts.”
    “God … that’s a new one.”
    “So’s his whole MO,” he said. “I’ve talked to Lawrence at the field office. There’s nothing even close in the computers, and
     that includes all the states that keep records.”
    “I can’t believe he hasn’t killed before,” she said. “Serials this organized take time to get up to speed. Where