De Profundis: Kate Gardener Mysteries, #2

PROLOGUE

1 November 2011

Church of the Holy Innocents, Peckham

The LP spun around on the turntable, the barest of warps causing a wobble as it turned, the arm rising and falling as the needle gently traced the melodious grooves of the record. Then, the music...

Mark Coyle closed his eyes as the first soft notes of the violins began to play. Gounod’s Ave Maria had been a favorite since he was a child, and now as he prepared for evening prayers, it was the perfect mood music. Uplifting, yet somber. He sighed and opened his eyes. A quick check of his watch told him it was six-fifteen... and that he needed to dress quickly. The ladies of the Altar and Rosary Society would be arriving soon, followed by the seniors from the center and, of course, Lady Wexford, with Joseph and Peter in tow.

Opening the cupboard doors, Coyle looked at the embroidered white satin vestments hanging in front of him. He fingered his black-and-white collar for a moment before picking out an amice and alb; a hemp cincture; and stole and chasuble, also all white but embroidered with gold thread.

He enjoyed dressing for services. It was a time of preparation, of meditation, and the care that must be taken dressing only served to focus his thoughts. He slipped the amice over his head, positioning it to cover his shoulders, then pulled the floor-length alb over his head. The silky robe dropped effortlessly into place, and Coyle quickly tied the hemp cincture around his waist, adjusting it to fit comfortably and make sure the alb was hanging smoothly and evenly.

A new piece of music had begun as Coyle slipped the chasuble off its hanger and prepared to slip it over his head. Stabat Mater Dolorosa. "The sorrowful mother stood..." He pulled the chasuble on and quickly grabbed the stole he had chosen.

Stepping over to the mirror, Coyle kissed the cross at the center of the stole and put it around his neck, checking in the mirror to see that the ends were hanging evenly in the front.

He took a half-step backward and looked at his reflection in the dim light of the sacristy. He pushed up his left sleeve, squinting to see the time again.

Then suddenly there was only... pain. His head ached, a murderous ache that throbbed and shattered the mind. Coyle stumbled forward, the top of his head ramming into the mirror. More pain now, though pale in comparison to the first. He stumbled from side to side before falling forward onto his hands and knees. He struggled to lift his right hand, mentally willing it to raise even as his control over his own muscles and nerves seemed to be disintegrating. He finally reached the back of his neck and gingerly touched his head – and the cavernous depression.

Sweet God, what’s happening? He could feel the waves of nausea washing over him, higher and higher. He swayed and fell to his right, rolling onto his side. A movement, a shadow, out of the corner of his eye, like an evil vapor lying in wait for him. Pray, Mark. Pray! Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee...I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell...

The prayer calmed him, his breathing growing slower. Yes, he was calming down... or perhaps... Coyle rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. Joseph and Peter... they would be here soon... they would come looking for him...

Coyle caught another movement, this one straight above him, and he saw the loveliest of faces, delicate and feminine. Mary. Sweet Blessed Mary. She moved up away from him, her face fading into the darkness.

Then she reappeared, plunging toward him at a breakneck speed. Mother of God! Coyle watched the beautiful face descend toward him. There was no time to pray, no time to plead for mercy. There was only pain... and darkness.

1

1 November 2011

Church of the Holy Innocents, Peckham

Detective Sergeant Richard Pierce glared at the rush of reporters straining the blue-and-white POLICE tape nearly to the breaking point, their cameras lunging forward and upward in hopes of catching a shot, the shot. He took another drag of his cigarette, the smoke he blew out doubling in size on account of the cold. Hagen did not like him smoking at crime scenes, but Hagen wasn’t there yet. And what he didn’t know...

Pierce looked around, taking in the many police officers moving about the scene. Uniformed PCs and Murder Squad sergeants from the Met, local police hovering helplessly just inside the perimeter, scene-of-crime officers going in and out the main door of the church. He blew out another puff of smoke. Detective Constable Paul Owens had just stepped out of the church, mobile to his ear, and he was rushing toward Pierce. That could only mean one thing...

Pierce took a final drag of his cigarette and quickly crushed the butt underfoot seconds before the blue BMW pulled into view.

Owens lowered the phone from his ear as he approached Pierce. Detective Superintendent Hagen —

Is here, Pierce finished, stifling a smile as the young constable frowned and raised his phone back to his ear. He watched Owens move a few steps away before calling, Owens!

Owens whirled around quickly, his face wearing a strange blend of expectation and apprehension.

Pierce allowed the stifled smile to appear briefly, and he nodded at Owens. Thank you, Constable. Owens’ shoulders relaxed a bit, and he nodded in return before continuing back toward the church.

Pierce looked back to the BMW, and the broad-shouldered, middle-aged man walking away from it. Detective Superintendent Douglas Hagen was moving swiftly toward him, pausing only to push his way through the throng of reporters, his irritation evident in the frown visible below the edge of his black fedora.

During the four years that Pierce had been a member of Hagen’s Murder Squad team, he had seen that look several times. Always when reporters were flocking, as they were now, and always when it was a murder like this.

Rick. How bad is it?

Pierce found himself swallowing a bit hard before he replied. Owens is waiting with suits for us. Make sure you cover your shoes. Hagen grimaced and nodded. The two men walked away from the noise of the police line toward the church.

Pierce looked up at the neo-gothic façade of the Church of the Holy Innocents, noting the clean light gray stone, the tall stained-glass windows, and the rather menacing shadows cast on the building by the large spotlights that the forensics team had set up to illuminate the exterior of the crime scene.  They passed the roses bushes that lined the front steps, some blooms still hanging on, blackened by repeated frosts. He felt an involuntary shiver go up his spine as he hurried by, following Hagen inside.

Owens met them there inside the vestibule, handing them the white protective suits, gloves, and shoe covers they would need to wear to enter the crime scene. They quickly dressed in the gear and followed Owens down the aisle toward the altar.

The victim is in the sacristy, Owens began, keeping his heavily accented voice as low as possible. Scene-of-Crime secured the rear exterior entrance to the room. It appears to be the access point the killer used.

Paul? Why are all these people in the church? Hagen motioned to the pews ahead of them. The first three rows on the left were filled with people, mostly women, all looking in various stages of grief, agitation, and frustration.

The young Scotsman grimaced. "Ah. Yes, sir. They were all in the church when the body was discovered. The elderly couples were here early for the evening services. The ladies are members of the Altar and Rosary Society. They were here to deliver fresh linens for the altar. The one in the gray coat is Lady Amelia Wexford. She found the body, sir. And the taciturn man in the Roman collar is Deacon Joseph Lucas. He phoned 999 and secured the scene before we arrived."

Hagen stopped walking. Secured the scene?

Yes, sir. He locked the sacristy up tight and let no one in until we arrived.

Hagen’s eyebrows shot up. Smart man. Very good. He started walking again, mounting the steps onto the altar. Who’s here from Lambeth?

Pierce answered this time. Doctor Monaghan is caught up with a double homicide in Greenwich, so she’s sent Zielinski. He should be joining us soon. He paused. And Miss Gardener is here.

Hagen smiled for the first time since his arrival. Is she now?

She was here when we arrived, sir, Owens chimed in. She had a bit of a go-around with Mr. Lucas, insisting that she needed to get into the sacristy to photograph the room before anyone, and I quote, ‘trampled through like fucking wildebeests’.

Hagen chuckled. Fucking wildebeests?

Yes, sir. I think she may have been referring to us. Meaning the police, in general. Not us, in particular.

Hagen stifled a full-blown laugh at that. No, I’m sure that’s what she meant, Paul. He sighed, his amusement quickly fading as he looked at the door before them. Rather, at the opaque forensic drapery forming a curtain around the door. It’s been a long time since I’ve opened a curtained door.

Pierce leaned toward him, his voice barely a whisper. We asked them to do it. What with all the people in the church.

Hagen nodded. Right, then. Let’s see what we’ve got. He motioned to Owens to do the honors. Owens opened the sacristy door and stood to the side, allowing the other two detectives to step inside.

The room was small, an odd mixture of angles filling the space behind the main altar. It almost seemed like the sacristy had been an afterthought of the construction process, the architect’s reluctant concession to the needs of the clergy for a private place to dress for services. Hagen glanced around, taking in the doorway to the left; the hallway leading off to the right punctuated by an exterior door; the tall, thin lead glass windows, covered halfway to the top with iron bars. His eyes dropped down to the floor, and the body.

The victim was a tall man, broad-shouldered and clearly fit underneath his vestments.  Those same vestments were heavily splattered with blood, and blood pooled on the floor below his head. The entire right side of the victim’s head and face were crushed in, the right eye sunken into the head and the nose shoved nearly perpendicular to the left side of his face. His graying hair was matted with blood and brain matter, and a portion of the skull on the right side was literally hanging loose.

Father Mark Coyle, age forty-two. Pierce glanced down at the notes he had typed into his phablet. He’s been part of the clergy of the Church of the Holy Innocents for the past six years, and has been the pastor for the past four.

Hagen carefully stepped around to the right side of the body, crouched down carefully, and squinted at the head wound. Massive head trauma. Any sign of a weapon?

Pierce shook his head. No, sir. Based on the amount of spatter on the walls, and the damage to the head and face, we’re looking for something large and quite heavy. Our killer must have had considerable upper-body strength.

Indeed. Hagen stood again, taking a moment to glance around the area near the body. Father Coyle had apparently been getting dressed for services and the vestment cupboard, door ajar, was spattered with blood. The nearby walls were splattered as well, and on the pale gray marble tile floor were smears and spatters, drips and drops, of blood. There was also a large gouge, as if something had hit the floor with some force. Hagen crouched again, pointing toward the gouge as he spoke to Pierce. Rick, did you see this?

Pierce quickly crouched beside the body, taking out his phablet and taking several quick shots of the floor, and the gouge, from different angles. I’m sure Kate already got this, but...

Hagen nodded. Better safe than sorry. Notice the blood on the floor over here? He pointed to an area just in front of the small sink near the side chapel entrance. "It looks as if our killer may have tried to clean up. Have forensics pull