C. Lawrence: Silent Screams

"Look at the positioning of the body-he wants to shock us. And then there's the carving."

"Well, yeah, I can see that," the detective said irritably. "I'm not saying this perp isn't a creep. You should see some of the things I seen these guys do to their girlfriends."

"And leave her in a church?"

Butts sniffed at the body like a bird dog. "She wasn't killed here-she was brought here."

"Exactly my point."

"These days you got a lotta weirdos out there. You never know what they'll do."

"Who ID'd the body?"

"Chapel priest. Same one who discovered her. Said he came in for early prayers and found her here." The detective lowered his voice as though he was afraid someone might overhear. "You know, I had a guy once who killed his mother, then dressed her up for church."

"Someone who kills like this is displacing his rage onto a stranger. This is a ritualistic display of the body-it's impersonal."

Butts plucked the cigar from his mouth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. "Okay, Doc-you're the one with the degree." He turned to the forensics team. "You boys 'bout done there? I'm gettin' hungry." He turned back to Lee. "Wanna go for some eggs? I know a great little place on Arthur Avenue."

Lee did his best not to be irritated at this homely little detective for his casual attitude toward death. "Thanks-another time, maybe."

The detective didn't appear to take the rejection personally. He shuffled across the smooth floor toward the side exit, scratching his chin. "Okay, Doc, catch you later."

"I'll be out in a minute," Lee called after him. It was only then he noticed the young priest huddled in the corner, his arms wrapped around his body, a mournful expression on his face.

He walked over to the man, who looked even younger close up, with his smooth pink skin and sleek black hair. There was no stubble on his face-he looked almost too young to have any.

"You knew the victim, Father…?" Lee asked.

The priest's eyes were dark and pleading, like a puppy's. "Michael. Father Michael Flaherty."

"You were able to ID the body?"

"As I told him, I knew her because she was one of my-"

"Flock?"

"One of my comparative religion students." His voice was thin and ragged; he looked away, perhaps suppressing tears.

"I see."

"As I told the detective, she wasn't a regular in church. She attends another one, I believe." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Ralph is going to be so devastated when he hears about this."

"Ralph?"

"Her boyfriend. Nice kid, a science major." Father Flaherty let his hands fall to his sides, a gesture of surrender. "I, uh…I just came in to pray and tidy up the altar." He glanced at the vases of drooping and withered lilies to one side of the altar. A CSI worker was bent over them, dusting for fingerprints.

The priest swallowed hard. "And…there she was." He gave Lee a searching look. It was clear he was studying Lee to see how his explanation was being received. The priest was obviously concerned about establishing his own innocence, but that didn't necessarily mean he had anything to hide. Lee knew that even innocent people are often nervous in the presence of the police.

"Okay, thank you, Father Michael," he said, handing him a business card. "Here's my card if you think of anything else."

The priest looked at the card. "The detective already gave me one of his. Aren't you working together?"

"Yes, we are, except that-well, we sometimes work on cases from…different angles." He hoped that was enough to satisfy the priest. He had no wish to discuss the tension between criminal profilers and traditional law enforcement.

The priest fished a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it a swipe across his nose. "All right. He already asked me the usual questions-could I think of anyone who would want to hurt her, and all that. I couldn't think of anyone."

Lee wasn't surprised. He was beginning to believe that no one would be able to think of anyone who wanted to hurt this unfortunate girl-except, of course, her killer. He shuddered as the team from the ME's office loaded poor Marie into a shiny black body bag. Marie. He forced himself to recite her name, to think of her as a person, not as "the vic," as precinct detectives often referred to their crime victims. It was more painful to keep a sense of her as a person, but it helped to motivate him. Lee held his breath as they zipped up the body bag. He hated the sound of the metal teeth as they caught one another-so cold, so final, a young life reduced to that terrible, sad sound of metal on metal.

He approached one of the techs from the ME's office, the thin young Asian woman who had been taking the photographs earlier. Her skin was as uncreased and pristine as Marie's-he thought she might be Korean, or possibly Chinese. Her shiny black hair was looped back in a ponytail, and her jumpsuit looked two sizes too big for her slender body.

"Can you tell me if the wounds were postmortem or-" Lee began.

She replied quickly, as if wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. "Most likely postmortem. There wasn't much bleeding."

"Most likely? Is there any chance-?"

She shook her head, her black ponytail slicing the air. "It can be difficult to tell, but here you can see where the blood trickle ends. I can't say for sure, but my best guess is that these wounds were postmortem…I hope to God," she added in a low voice. Lee thought he saw her shiver inside her oversized jumpsuit.

"And the weapon?"

She frowned. "Hard to say for sure, but nothing fancy-possibly an ordinary knife, the kind you could get anywhere."

"Thank you," he said, turning away.

As he left the chapel, a wicked wind whipped up around Lee's ankles, flipping his coattails skyward, scattering a few wisps of dead leaves up into a spiral swirl, like a miniature tornado. The sharp, dry gust took his breath away. He shivered and shoved his hands into the pockets of his green tweed overcoat. A thin, pale dawn began to bloom in the eastern sky as he gazed down at the southern end of Manhattan, where a smoldering gash in the earth was all that was left of the once-proud towers. It was barely five months ago that the planes dropped from the sky like some mythic beasts, their tongues dripping with fire and destruction…and despair…

He forced his mind back to the present.

Hearing footsteps, he turned to see a man standing next to a blue van parked at the back of the church. He was dressed in a workman's jumpsuit and carried a tool case.

"Who's that?" he asked Butts, who had stopped by the side exit to speak to one of the crime scene technicians.

"I dunno," the detective answered, walking over to converse with the man.

"Locksmith," he said, returning to where Lee stood. "Got a call from the college administration that there was a broken lock in the basement. I told him to come back tomorrow."

Lee turned to Father Michael, who had wandered out of the church. The priest looked lost, and had the glazed look of someone in shock. "Were you aware of a broken lock in the basement?"

Father Michael shook his head. "No. But the maintenance staff might have put the call in. You'd have to ask them."

"Right," Butts said, writing it in his notebook. "Do you think there's a connection?" he asked Lee.

"I don't see one, really-I mean, the killer came right in through the unlocked side door, and presumably left the same way."

"I'll check it out anyway," Butts said.

"He took something," Lee murmured to himself, "but what?"

"Whaddya mean, he took somethin'?" Butts asked.

Lee gazed over the wounded landscape of the city, soaking in its stark and terrible beauty. "A souvenir, a memento."

"Jeez. What for?"

Lee turned to face him. "What was the last trip you took?"

Butts pushed back his battered fedora and scratched his head. He reminded Lee of a character out of a 1940s screwball comedy.