Chris Kuzneski - Sign of the Cross

Yet Dial knew it shouldn’t be that way. There should be a pattern, a logical pattern. But as far as he could tell, the only connection between the victims was their age and gender — two traits that they shared with Christ who also died in his early thirties. Dial wasn’t sure if that was a coincidence or not, but at this point he wasn’t going to rule anything out.

Find the pattern to find the killer . That’s how it was supposed to work. But three different victims killed by three different crews in an identical way? That was unique.

Frustrated, Dial removed the white pushpins — they represented the victim’s hometowns — and tossed them aside. He figured Erik Jansen hadn’t lived in Finland for years, and Orlando Pope had moved from Brazil when he was a child, so the odds were pretty slim that their hometowns had anything to do with this.

Next he examined the blue pins — they represented the victim’s abduction points. One was an apartment in Rome, one was a sex club in Thailand, and one was a luxury high-rise in New York. Two of the three were the victims’ homes, although that wasn’t enough to establish a pattern. To do that he needed something consistent, something that didn’t change. He needed to find a rule. A steady rule. He could study it, crack it, and follow it right to the killer.

But 66 percent? What could he do with that?

In his mind it wasn’t even worth the space on his board, so he pulled the blue pins, too.

That left only the red pins, which represented the murder scenes. One in Denmark, one in Libya, and one in America. Three victims scattered around the globe. None of the murders occurred on the same continent, let alone the same country, so how could there be a link? Then again, how couldn’t there be? There had to be a connection, maybe something so small that he’d overlooked it a hundred times. He just had to have the patience to find it.

‘Give it time,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Just give it time.’

Dial took a deep breath and glanced out the window. People wearing shorts and tennis shoes strolled by at a leisurely pace. It had been so long since Dial had taken a vacation that he almost forgot what it was like. To wake up feeling refreshed, to eat breakfast while reading a newspaper instead of a forensic report, to spend the day at the beach or the museum or a -

Tourist attraction. Somewhere like Disneyland. Or the Grand Canyon. Or the Eiffel Tower.

Or a famous castle. Or a historic arch. Or a storied ballpark.

A place where people go. Lots of people go. Where hundreds and thousands and millions of people go. Every day, every year. Guaranteed…

Holy shit! That was it. Crowds could be the thread. The killers wanted crowds. Big crowds. Massive crowds. But why? Why did they need crowds?

People. The killers needed people. Attention from the people. Of all races. And religions.

Good Lord! That’s why the victims were so different. They represented all types of people.

Dial rushed to his bulletin board, theories flying through his mind. Jansen. A priest. Crucified. In Denmark. IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER. The beginning of a prayer. But what did it mean?

Next case. Narayan. A famous prince. The son of a king. Crucified. In Libya. and of the son. The second part of the prayer. The same damn prayer.

A priest then a prince. The Father then the Son.

Keep going. Keep thinking. Put them together. String them together.

Third case. Pope. The Holy Hitter. Crucified. In Boston. AND OF THE HOLY. The third part of the prayer. Add ’em up. Add ’em all up.

A priest, a prince, and a Pope. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy.

What did it mean? What did the message mean? What were they saying?

A priest = a father.

A prince = a son.

Orlando Pope = the Holy Hitter. No, just Holy. The Pope = Holy.

The Father, Son, and Holy… shit! What’s missing? The Spirit was freakin’ missing!

Where’s the Spirit? Where’s the damn Spirit?

Wait! It hasn’t happened yet. The fourth murder hasn’t happened. Where will it happen? At a tourist spot. It’s gotta be a tourist spot. But where? Think, Nick, think!

The pattern. Follow the pattern. Find the pattern to find the killer. What’s the pattern?

The Spirit. Find the Spirit to find the killer. Wait, who the hell was the Spirit? He didn’t know any goddamn Spirit. How could he find the Spirit? That was ridiculous! He needed to find the spot. Beat the killers to the spot. Don’t worry about the Spirit. Just find the spot.

Dial glanced at the map, frantically searching for the spot. ‘People,’ he mumbled. ‘Millions of people. Where will people be this weekend?’ He ran dozens of events through his mind. ‘Think! Where are the most people? What’s the pattern? What’s the goddamn pattern?’

Denmark. He placed his finger on the red pushpin at Helsingør.

Libya. He drew his finger to the south to the pushpin at Tripoli.

America. He ran his finger across the Atlantic and stopped at Boston.

He held the fourth pushpin in his hand, not sure where to put it.

‘Dammit!’ Dial cursed as he punched the wall in frustration. He knew he was close. He knew he was on the verge of cracking this case wide open. All he had to do was finish the pattern, and the game was over. ‘Think, Nick, think. Where will they strike next?’

Getting agitated, Dial rubbed his eyes, trying to massage away the stress that was building. It was a simple act, one that he did all the time, yet there was something about his hand moving toward his face that made him realize what he was missing. It was the hand movement, the simple gesture that all Christians did.

‘IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER.’ The hand goes up to the forehead.

‘AND OF THE SON.’ The hand goes down to the heart.

‘AND OF THE HOLY.’ The hand goes to left.

‘SPIRIT.’ The hand goes to the right.

Dial looked at the map and suddenly realized that Denmark was near the top. Way up at the top. Just like the Father. Just like his forehead. It was the beginning of the sequence.

The next case was in Libya. Down near the bottom. Just like the prayer. That was the Son.

The third was in Boston. Way over to the left. Following the pattern. It was the Holy.

Which left the Spirit. Way over to the right. Somewhere on the right. But where on the right?

With a burst of energy, he fumbled for a pencil and ruler. Three seconds later he was putting them next to the pin in Denmark and lining them up with the pin in Libya. He was about to draw a line between the two when he realized one existed. A freaking line already existed.

Faintly, very faintly, he saw a thin blue line that stretched from the top of his map to the bottom, a line that arced ever so slightly along its path but went just to the right of Helsingør and Tripoli. Looking closer, he realized it was the longitude mark for 15° E, which meant the first two cities on his list were directly lined up at 12°E.

Thousands of miles apart but in a straight line.

Next he turned his attention to Boston, trying to remain calm, trying to stay focused even though he knew that he had cracked the riddle. He placed his ruler below the pushpin and ran the pencil from left to right, 5° below the 45° N line, near 40°.

He traversed the Atlantic, continued through France and Italy and Bosnia and extended through China and Japan before ending in the Pacific. Then he traced his finger from left to right, searching for major cities on the line, looking for anything that jumped out at him.

Nothing in France. Or Italy. Or the war-torn lands of eastern Europe. But there, just beyond the Gobi Desert, just before he reached the Sea of Japan and the warm waters of the Pacific, he found the spot that he was looking for. The perfect spot. The one that followed the pattern. A city that was directly east of Boston. Far east of Boston yet in a straight line. Right near 40°.