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To Kill A Saint

By Michael Andrew Swiger

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Saturday, October 14
Clifton Park, 6 miles west of Cleveland
Lakewood, Ohio
2:04 A.M.
Cuyahoga County Prosecutor, Peter Saul, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand beside his bed.
“Who is this?”
“April Denholm. Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve stumbled onto a gruesome scene a few blocks from your house.”
Peter Saul looked over at his sleeping wife, Marilyn, her red hair draped across her face. He spoke in a hushed whisper. “What’d you find?”
“A woman called the station a few hours ago to report a peeping Tom over at St. Andrew’s Church. We didn’t get here until a few minutes ago.”
“Why the delay?”
“She’s notorious for false alarms, so the local police didn’t take her seriously.”
“Go on.”
“When the patrolmen arrived, the front door was open, so they walked in and found a corpse stabbed to death on the altar. It’s pretty messy.”
“Did you call Jimmy Graham?”
“He’s already here snapping pictures.”
“I'll be right over.”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The pastor is all scratched up, and he isn’t talking.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Saul hung up the phone and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and fished his feet around for his slippers. He shuffled over to the closet and pulled a pair of jeans over his pajama bottoms. He tugged on an Ohio State sweatshirt, a pair of wingtips, and grabbed his tan overcoat. He walked around the other side of the bed, leaned over, and kissed his wife on the cheek.
She opened her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s very late.”
“Where are you going?”
“They found a woman murdered over at St. Andrew’s.”
“That’s just down the street.”
“Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
“Check on Jason before you go.”
“I’m sure he’s okay.”
“Just look in on him.”
“I will. Go back to sleep.”
He kissed her on the forehead; she closed her eyes. He walked down the hall and noticed light reflecting on the hardwood floor under his stepson’s bedroom door.
That kid will be the ruin of me.
He trudged down the arched stairway, across the great room with its vaulted ceiling, and into the attached garage. A few minutes later he parked his black BMW on the street outside St. Andrew’s Church. Yellow police tape, strung from tree to tree, fluttered in the breeze and surrounded the white-sided building. The steeple’s silhouette reached into the moonlit sky. Lights blazed through the windows.
Saul walked up the uneven sidewalk and nodded to the uniformed patrolman standing near the front door.
Lieutenant April Denholm met him inside the vestibule, her bright blue eyes looking surprisingly alert for this time of the night. Wheat-gold ringlets dangled around her oval face and partially covered her milk-white neck and narrow shoulders.
“Give me the scoop,” Saul said.
“The deceased is a blond female approximately thirty years old. No I.D. She was stabbed repeatedly…dozens of times actually.”
“Does the pastor know her?” Saul asked.
“If he does, he’s not saying. You want to talk to him? We’ve got him in the office.”
“Not yet. I want to look around first.”
They walked down the center aisle, the sound of their shoes echoing through the cavernous room and mingling with the rapid clicking of a camera shutter. As they approached the sanctuary, a sickish-sweet scent of blood tinged with sage permeated the air. The victim came into view. She lay with her arms and head hanging off one end of the altar, her blond hair spilling back and brushing the floor. The pink blouse was ripped open and saturated with blood. Her bra was hiked up around her throat. Punctures and slashes riddled a taut abdomen. White lace panties hung from her left ankle. Coagulated blood blanketed the maple altar, ran down the table legs, and puddled on the floor in an irregular, black pool. A gray skirt lay crumpled in a ball on the floor near the table.
Jimmy Graham stopped snapping close-ups and turned toward Saul. “Howdy, Pete. How’s this for a little late-night excitement?”
“I could do without it, Jimmy. What’s your take?”
“Well, it looks to me like one of the first blows must have hit a lung. You see how this fine mist of blood covers everything like red spray paint?”
“Uh huh.”
“If you look close, you can see it emanates from this one diagonal wound here to the right of her sternum—right here…see, between the ribs.” He pointed with his finger. “Blood in the lung must’ve mixed with air and sprayed everywhere.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” Denholm said.
“You got any better explanations?”
“Lose the attitude, people,” Saul said. “We all have a long night ahead of us. Jimmy, I want pictures of everything.”
“I’m on it.”
“Any sign of rape?”
“It’s hard to tell.”
“We’ll probably have to wait on the autopsy for that one.”
Saul turned toward Denholm. “What about this peeping Tom?”
“Detective Myles is talking to the neighbor right now.”
“Good.”
“Also, we found some footprints near that window over there.”
“What?” Saul’s eyes opened wide. “What are you talking about?”
“We found footprints.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“We found them since I called you.”
Saul’s forehead wrinkled. “Let’s go have a look.”
They walked toward the side door to the right of the sanctuary. A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, her doe brown eyes blazing. She stepped aside to let Saul and Lt. Denholm pass. Around the side of the building, two lights mounted on tripods illuminated a large patch of ground.
“What did you find?” Saul asked.
“We’ve got a good set of impressions,” Lt. Denholm said. “They look fresh but a little indistinct.”
“What do you mean, indistinct?”
“Whoever stood here didn’t stand still. It’s almost like he was dancing in place.”
“Can you lift the impressions?”
“I’ll be able to get a couple good casts. There may be more footprints around here. I’m keeping everyone off the grounds until daylight.”
“Good, good.”
“You think the perp staked out the scene before he went in and took care of his business?” Graham asked.
“Maybe.”
“Or a lookout,” Denholm said.
“Or maybe a witness.” Saul patted her on the back. “Take your time. These prints are critical.”
“Now do you want to see the good Reverend?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s time.”
The group walked back around the church. Crickets chirped in the cool air.
“You know,” Saul said, “it’s been my experience that most homicide cases that get cracked are solved within the first forty-eight hours.”
“Why’s that?” Denholm asked.
“Any witnesses who haven’t stepped forward within the first couple days probably won’t appear at all. And usually new clues don’t surface after the initial investigation.”
“That makes sense.”
“So we need to take our time and make these first hours count. Sun Tzu says, ‘That which depends on me, I can do; that which depends on the enemy cannot be certain.’”
“That’s interesting.”
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“Jamison. Reverend Howard Jamison.”
They walked back in the side door, then crossed the front of the church. A uniformed officer tied a plastic bag over the victim’s left hand. Off to the left of the sanctuary two uniformed officers stood with their back against a door; they stepped aside as Saul and Denholm walked in and closed the door behind them. Off in the corner of the small rectangular office sat a chubby, middle-aged man with his face buried in his hands. Thin hair lay plastered to his balding scalp by a layer of sweat, like strands of brown seaweed. He wore a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of pleated, tan Dockers.
“Reverend...Jamison,” Saul said.
The man looked up. Three deep gouges ran from the center of his high forehead and down his left cheek. Dry, crusted blood ringed the nostrils of his beak-like nose. His puckered eyelids quivered as a pair of vacant gray eyes darted around the room.
“Reverend Jamison.” Saul threw a leg over the edge of the desk and bumped a book—a Satanic Bible. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
Jamison started to say something, checked himself, then dropped his head.
“What did you do?”
Silence.
“Reverend Jamison, it would really be helpful if you told us what happened here tonight.”
No response.
“Do you know who that girl is?”
Jamison looked up; his face went white to the lips.
“Reverend, it’s quite late,” Saul said, his voice rising at each word. “And there’s a dead girl on the altar. I want to know how she ended up with a chest full of holes.”
Tears welled in Jamison’s eyes, brimmed over his lashes, and ran down his cheeks. His lips trembled. “I’d like to talk to an attorney.”
Saul didn’t speak for a long moment; then a wolfish smile spread across his face. “In that case, you have the right to remain silent....”

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