Paul Johnson - The nameless dead

Arthur Bimsdale looked unconvinced. ‘Yes, sir, I’ve looked at the archive material, such as it is. I have to say, I don’t find it hugely convincing.’ His manner was that of a nitpicking student in a philosophy seminar.

‘Oh, really?’ Sebastian said, giving him an icy look. ‘One of the core rites of the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was human sacrifice. The chosen ones were suspended from an inverted cross before their throats were cut. Then their eyes were put out. Does that sound at all familiar?’

Bimsdale was unaffected by his boss’s sarcasm. ‘First of all, the Antichurch only operated in the state of Maine-none of these killings took place there. The records also show it was eradicated in the 1850s. I don’t understand why an obscure and highly localized cult should be relevant, especially considering that there was no direct reference to it at the scenes.’

Peter Sebastian turned away and looked at the lights in the center of the capital. In a few minutes he would be in the executive elevator that led to the Director’s office. He didn’t need a debate about the killings right now. Then again, honing his case on a callow subordinate might be beneficial.

‘As I’ve told you more than once, Arthur,’ he said, using the young agent’s first name to induce a bogus sense of camaraderie, ‘the Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant was recently revived by Heinz Rothmann and his sister to give their Nazi movement a religious component. They calculated, quite correctly in my view, that Americans had to be engaged on the spiritual dimension before they would accept a political agenda.’

‘But human sacrifice?’ Bimsdale was unable to conceal his horror.

‘Is that so strange? Millions of our fellow citizens believe that Armageddon is almost upon us, you know, the battle in which scores of people are going to die horribly.’

‘Really, sir, that’s nothing more than a myth,’ the young agent said dismissively.

‘Is that right?’ Peter Sebastian caught his assistant’s eye. ‘Tell me, Arthur, what’s your faith?’

‘I’m an Episcopalian.’

‘From Philadelphia, as I remember. And you studied sociology and criminology at Yale?’

‘Among other subjects, yes.’

‘Have you spent much time in the Bible Belt? Or the deep South?’

The young man shook his head. ‘My family has a holiday place in Vermont.’

‘But you came across fundamentalist Christians in Montana, I’m guessing. Fundamentalist Christians with some worrying political beliefs.’

Bimsdale nodded, looking uncomfortable.

‘That’s what I mean. There are enough frightening people with beliefs related to human sacrifice even before you go anywhere near cults like the Antichurch, never mind Nazis.’

‘All right, sir, I can accept that. But what about the differences in the M.O. s? Victim one was decapitated and disemboweled. Victim two was hung upside down-but then his eyes were removed, unlike the previous victim’s. And number three was stabbed before being hung from a window.’

Sebastian had turned away, his eyes fixed on the Washington Monument. ‘You’re forgetting several significant points.’

‘With respect, sir, I’m not. Nazi slogans and/or insignia were found at every scene, and all the victims were engaged in activities that could be construed as anti-Nazi-or at least pro-minorities and liberal. But there’s been no specific reference to these Rothmann people, nor to the Antichurch. It’s all very circumstantial.’

Sebastian looked round. ‘What, your detective skills require that Rothmann leaves his fingerprints at every scene?’

‘No, sir,’ Bimsdale said, less deferentially. ‘In any case, the lack of trace evidence suggests that an experienced professional carried out the murders.’

‘An experienced professional hired by Rothmann.’

‘Maybe.’

Peter Sebastian sighed. ‘Look, the M.O. s are not so different. True, Laurie Simpson’s head was removed, but that’s a form of throat cutting, isn’t it? And that poor woman in Boston had a rope put round her neck-again, the throat.’

‘What about the postmortem mutilation of the first two victims?’ Bimsdale demanded, holding up his yellow pencil like a teacher questioning a pupil.

‘The records suggest that the Antichurch faithful tore apart the victims of human sacrifices.’

Bimsdale nodded. ‘But there’s nothing about organs being placed in or near the vicinity of toilets.’

Sebastian groaned. ‘Like all those indoor toilets in nineteenth-century Maine? Come on, Arthur, you’ve heard of metaphors, haven’t you?’

‘The victims’ head and tongue put where fecal matter goes? I see the rationale, sir, but it’s hardly an established methodology, even amongst fascists and Satanists.’

Sebastian was tempted to pull rank on his assistant, but he restrained himself. If his case struck a lowly agent as being flawed, what would the notoriously acerbic Director think of it? Then again, the Director had shown a personal interest in the murders from the start, and he’d been keen on a meeting even before his head of violent crime had been obliged to go to Boston.

The thing was, whatever the Bureau’s manuals said, investigating murder wasn’t only about collecting and collating evidence. You had to go by your gut as well, and Peter Sebastian’s had been telling him from the moment he saw the swastika above the heaped innards in Greenwich Village that Rothmann was pulling the strings, even though he’d still hedged that conclusion until the house on Lake Huron.

The question was, what to do? Given the distance between the various scenes and the skills demonstrated by the killer, it would be impossible to predict who and where the next victim would be-and he was sure there would be more. They could either sit back and let the bastard run with it until they nailed him, or launch a preemptive strike. Convincing the Director to go with the latter would be a hell of a job, he knew. But at least he had a card up his sleeve: the former Rothmann subject Matt Wells.

Back in our apartment, Karen was sitting at the table. She looked up at me and laughed. ‘Oh, dear. Was the nasty man a handful?’

I managed to bite my tongue. ‘What have you got there?’

‘A very nice laptop,’ she replied. ‘With full internet access. Julie Simms brought it round. There’s a note from Peter Sebastian, saying it’s time we rejoined the real world.’

I looked at the screen. Karen was on the Metropolitan Police website, reading emails. ‘Should you be doing that?’

‘Officially, as I’ve just discovered, I’m on maternity leave. They haven’t blocked access to my in-box, so I’m contacting my team.’

I stepped out of range. ‘Will they remember who you are?’

‘Ha, ha, Matt.’

I’d almost forgotten how attached she was to her job. They’d have to fire her to get rid of her, and they’d be reluctant to do that, both on legal grounds and because she was a highly effective detective. They probably hadn’t bothered to block her correspondence because Sebastian had told them she didn’t have internet access. Which raised an interesting question. Why had he suddenly authorized that, on the same day I’d been given unarmed combat training? Something was changing in the way the U.S. authorities regarded us.

I had a long shower, which helped the aches and pains a bit. What state would I be in after a week of this? Not that I was going to give Quincy Jerome the satisfaction of scaring me off. I needed to be in the best possible shape in case we were let out. It wouldn’t take Sara long to catch up with us. She had ears and eyes all over the place.

When I emerged, I found Karen in the kitchen. She was grilling pork chops, though her own regular evening meal consisted of peanut butter on brown bread.