for about forty-five minutes.”
“Doing what?” asked Flack.
“Drinking,” said Joshua. “I’m an alcoholic.”
The well-worn wooden floor was decked with numbered red cones, which Aiden Burn had carefully placed around the chair where Joel Besser had been shot, as well as in a semi-regular line along each side of the continuous blood trail that led back to the storage room where the victim lay crucified on a cross drawn in chalk on the floor.
There was a single, creaking overhead fan turning slowly, producing nothing but noise. The smell of blood was warm and thick.
Aiden had taken photographs and blood samples and sprayed for fingerprints, although both she and Stella were reasonably sure the killer had worn gloves, an assumption supported by the fact that Aiden had found no prints on any of the four bolts driven into the dead man’s hands and feet.
Stella leaned close to the body of the young man and used a Sirchie vacuum on his shirt, pants, arms. Back at the lab they would compare the photos of the chalk marks at each of the crucifixion murder scenes. Stella could already see that the marks were a match, but with a difference. These chalk marks were done more evenly, straighter.
The words in Hebrew were printed with much more care than at the earlier crime scene. The killer had taken some time.
As for the finger-thick nails through the dead man’s palms and feet, they were much larger than those that had been used on Asher Glick. But they were driven in deeper. She had no doubt that Sheldon Hawkes would come to the same conclusion: the nails were driven in by someone using his left hand, someone powerful.
Aiden stepped into the storage room and looked around, taking more photographs. They had found no hammer, no extra nails. This time the killer had come prepared, brought his own tools.
Stella stood up and said, “He came through that door and went right up to Besser and shot him twice. Daylight. Windows uncovered. Could have been seen. Then he dragged the body back here. He picked a bad time and place to kill.”
“Killing Glick and crucifying him in a synagogue on a weekday morning took time. That was a bad time and place to kill too, but he got away with it,” said Aiden. “At least for now.”
“He likes to take chances,” said Stella. “Why?”
“Let’s go back to the lab, wait for the ME’s report and see what we’ve got,” said Aiden.
Stella nodded her agreement.
The paramedics were parked on the street. The street was full of people of various colors, sizes and ethnic clothing. Aiden had taken photographs of the crowd. Not likely the killer would be out there, but she would check them against the photographs of the crowd outside the synagogue in which Asher Glick had been murdered.
Aiden knew it was possible that several innocent, curious people in the photographs were at both crime scenes. The murders had taken place only a few blocks from each other.
Aiden signaled to the paramedics, who came in with a body cart. She guided them around the cones to the small back room. One of the paramedics was a woman, black, pretty, no more than twenty-five. Her shoulders, arms and legs were well-muscled. The man was about the same age, white, big, strong.
They looked down at the body, showing no emotion as Stella said, “Leave the nails in the body. Move them as little as possible. Pry them up slowly. It’s going to be a little tough. They’re deep in the floor.”
Both paramedics nodded. They had the tools and the experience and now they had a new story, one of the more interesting ones, something they could tell their family and friends.
“ ‘Sheep follow sheep,’ ” said the man, whose black-on-white plastic nameplate identified him as Abrams. He was looking down at the words written in chalk at the foot of the body.
All three women looked at him.
“That’s what it says,” said the man. “Hebrew. I think it’s from the Talmud. He spelled sheep wrong.”
The phone
“Doing what?” asked Flack.
“Drinking,” said Joshua. “I’m an alcoholic.”
The well-worn wooden floor was decked with numbered red cones, which Aiden Burn had carefully placed around the chair where Joel Besser had been shot, as well as in a semi-regular line along each side of the continuous blood trail that led back to the storage room where the victim lay crucified on a cross drawn in chalk on the floor.
There was a single, creaking overhead fan turning slowly, producing nothing but noise. The smell of blood was warm and thick.
Aiden had taken photographs and blood samples and sprayed for fingerprints, although both she and Stella were reasonably sure the killer had worn gloves, an assumption supported by the fact that Aiden had found no prints on any of the four bolts driven into the dead man’s hands and feet.
Stella leaned close to the body of the young man and used a Sirchie vacuum on his shirt, pants, arms. Back at the lab they would compare the photos of the chalk marks at each of the crucifixion murder scenes. Stella could already see that the marks were a match, but with a difference. These chalk marks were done more evenly, straighter.
The words in Hebrew were printed with much more care than at the earlier crime scene. The killer had taken some time.
As for the finger-thick nails through the dead man’s palms and feet, they were much larger than those that had been used on Asher Glick. But they were driven in deeper. She had no doubt that Sheldon Hawkes would come to the same conclusion: the nails were driven in by someone using his left hand, someone powerful.
Aiden stepped into the storage room and looked around, taking more photographs. They had found no hammer, no extra nails. This time the killer had come prepared, brought his own tools.
Stella stood up and said, “He came through that door and went right up to Besser and shot him twice. Daylight. Windows uncovered. Could have been seen. Then he dragged the body back here. He picked a bad time and place to kill.”
“Killing Glick and crucifying him in a synagogue on a weekday morning took time. That was a bad time and place to kill too, but he got away with it,” said Aiden. “At least for now.”
“He likes to take chances,” said Stella. “Why?”
“Let’s go back to the lab, wait for the ME’s report and see what we’ve got,” said Aiden.
Stella nodded her agreement.
The paramedics were parked on the street. The street was full of people of various colors, sizes and ethnic clothing. Aiden had taken photographs of the crowd. Not likely the killer would be out there, but she would check them against the photographs of the crowd outside the synagogue in which Asher Glick had been murdered.
Aiden knew it was possible that several innocent, curious people in the photographs were at both crime scenes. The murders had taken place only a few blocks from each other.
Aiden signaled to the paramedics, who came in with a body cart. She guided them around the cones to the small back room. One of the paramedics was a woman, black, pretty, no more than twenty-five. Her shoulders, arms and legs were well-muscled. The man was about the same age, white, big, strong.
They looked down at the body, showing no emotion as Stella said, “Leave the nails in the body. Move them as little as possible. Pry them up slowly. It’s going to be a little tough. They’re deep in the floor.”
Both paramedics nodded. They had the tools and the experience and now they had a new story, one of the more interesting ones, something they could tell their family and friends.
“ ‘Sheep follow sheep,’ ” said the man, whose black-on-white plastic nameplate identified him as Abrams. He was looking down at the words written in chalk at the foot of the body.
All three women looked at him.
“That’s what it says,” said the man. “Hebrew. I think it’s from the Talmud. He spelled sheep wrong.”
The phone
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