Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

“It’s like a homicide investigation.” Jane turned the laptop screen to face them. “Do you recognize this woman?”

As the three filmmakers crowded around the laptop, Jane caught a powerful whiff of stale breath and dirty laundry, a stench that brought her straight back to her brothers’ sleepovers, when every square inch of carpet was covered with sleeping bags and teenage boys.

Amber squinted through her black-framed glasses at the photo. “I don’t remember seeing her, but there were a lot of people. Plus I was kinda weirded out about being in church.”

“Why?” asked Frost.

Amber blinked at him. “I’m always worried I’ll do something wrong and God’ll strike me down with lightning.”

“Hey, I think I remember this woman,” said Ben. He leaned forward, absently stroking the week-old stubble on his chin. “She was sitting across the aisle from us. I gave her a good long look.”

Amber punched his arm. “You would.”

“No, no, it’s ’cause she has an interesting face. I’ve got an eye for who’ll pop on camera, and look at her. Nice cheekbones, great facial architecture, easy to light. And a big head.”

“Is that good or bad?” said Jane. “A big head.”

“Oh, it’s good. A big head fills the screen, calls attention to itself. Gee, I wonder if she can act.”

“We don’t even know who she is,” said Jane. “We were hoping one of you might recognize her.”

“That was the only time I’ve ever seen her,” said Ben. “At Cassie’s funeral.”

“You’re sure you haven’t seen her anywhere else? Did she come by this studio, ever hang out with Cassandra?”

“Nope.” Ben glanced at his colleagues, and they shook their heads.

“Why are you asking about this woman?” said Travis.

“We’re trying to find what her connection is to Cassandra and why she showed up at the church. Cassandra’s stepmother doesn’t know her. None of Cassandra’s neighbors do either.”

“What’s the big deal? It’s not a crime to show up at a stranger’s funeral,” said Amber.

“No. But it’s odd.”

“There were a lot of people at that service. Why are you asking about this woman in particular?”

“Because she showed up somewhere else.” Jane tapped on the keyboard, and the second image of the mystery woman appeared onscreen. It was a harshly lit photo taken in the cold light of a winter morning.

“It’s her again,” said Amber.

“But different background, different light. Different day,” noted Ben.

“Exactly,” confirmed Jane. “This was from a surveillance video at a different memorial service. Notice there’s a man holding hands with our mystery woman. Do you recognize him?”

All three filmmakers shook their heads.

“So what’s the deal with this woman? Does she like to go to random funerals?” asked Ben.

“I don’t think she chooses them at random. This second funeral was for a different homicide victim.”

“Oh, wow. She’s a murder junkie?” Ben looked at his colleagues again. “It’s right out of Kill Her Again, Sam. ”

“What?” asked Frost.

“It’s a movie we worked on a few years ago, produced by a buddy of ours in L.A. About this Goth girl who goes to random funerals. She ends up catching the eye of a killer.”

“Did Cassandra work on that movie as well?”

“We all did, but we were just part of the crew. It’s not like the plot was special or anything. There really are people who go to the funerals of strangers. They feed off the grief. Or they want to be part of a community. Or they have an obsession with death. Maybe that’s what she is. Just some oddball who never even knew Cassandra.”

Jane looked at the young woman captured in the video. Dark-haired, beautiful, nameless. “I wonder what her reasons were for being there.”

“Who knows? That’s why we love making horror films, Detective,” said Travis. “The possibilities are endless.”

Tied to a stake, Saint Polycarp the martyr gazed serenely heavenward as the flames engulfed him, searing his skin and consuming his flesh. The man in this full-color illustration did not plead or shriek as he was burned alive on the pyre; no, he appeared to welcome the agony that would bring him straight to the arms of his Savior. Studying the image of Polycarp’s demise, Jane thought of the time she’d splattered herself with hot grease while frying chicken, and she imagined the pain of that burn magnified a thousandfold, the flames lighting her clothes, her hair. Unlike Saint Polycarp, she wouldn’t be gazing at heaven with a look of rapture. She’d be shrieking her head off.

Enough of this . She turned to the next page in the book, only to confront another martyr, another portrait of agony. The color illustration showed the death of Saint Erasmus of Formiae in all its bloody glory, with Erasmus stretched across a table as his torturers slit his belly open and wrapped his entrails around a windlass.

From her daughter’s bedroom came the sound of Regina giggling as Gabriel read her a bedtime story, jarringly happy sounds that made the images in The Book of Martyrs seem all the more grotesque.

The doorbell buzzed.

Relieved to set aside the relentlessly gruesome illustrations, she left the kitchen to greet the visitor.

Father Daniel Brophy looked thinner and wearier than the last time she’d seen him, only seven months ago. His face reminded her of the martyrs she’d just been studying, a man resigned to his miseries.

“Thank you for coming, Daniel,” said Jane.

“I’m not sure I can offer you much assistance, but I’m happy to try.” As he hung up his coat, childish laughter erupted from Regina’s bedroom.

“Gabriel’s putting her to bed. Let’s go talk in the kitchen.”

“Is Maura joining us?”

“No. It’s just you and me.”

Was that disappointment or relief she saw in his eyes? She led him into the kitchen, where he surveyed the books and papers spread across the table.

“I’ve been reading up on the saints,” she said. “Yeah, I know I should already know all this, but what can I say? Catechism class dropout.”

“I thought you weren’t convinced about Maura’s theory.”

“I’m still not sure I believe it, but I’ve learned it’s not smart to ignore her theories. Because more often than not, she turns out to be right.” Jane nodded at the Cassandra Coyle and Timothy McDougal files on the table. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to find anything that links these victims, except for the mystery woman who attended both their funerals. They had no friends in common; they lived in different neighborhoods, worked in different fields, and attended different colleges. But they were both drugged with ketamine and alcohol, and both were mutilated postmortem. Based on those mutilations, Maura believes the killer is obsessed with Catholic lore. That’s where you come in.”

“Because I’m your expert on saints and martyrs?”

“And you’re also familiar with religious symbols in art. That’s what Maura tells me.”

“I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by sacred art. I’m somewhat familiar with the iconography.”

“Then could you take another look at these crime-scene photos?” Jane slid her laptop across the table to him. “Tell me if anything new jumps out at you. Anything that might give us insight into this killer’s mind.”

“Maura and I have discussed these photos in detail. Shouldn’t she be part of this conversation?”

“No, I’d rather hear from you separately.” She added quietly, “It would be less complicated for you both, don’t you think?”

She saw a flash of pain in his eyes, as stark as if she’d just thrust a blade into his chest. He sagged back in his chair and nodded. “When she called me, I thought I was ready to handle it. I thought we could both move forward as friends.”