She felt, above all else, confused.The killing confirmed thatsomeonewas continuing the work begun by Cox: punishing people perceived to have broken each of the Ten Commandments, in a ritualized, performative series of crime scenes.But beyond that lay a series of unknowns.Was Cox himself the killer?Was it the work of a disciple, being tutored by Cox, or perhaps even acting on instructions left by Cox on his death-bed?She had no way of knowing.She had only her instincts and right now, her instincts weren’t telling her anything at all.
She could only hope for the sun to rise, and that with it, came some answers.
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday morning broke dull and low, the sky the colour of tin.
Kate had woken to the thin light that seeps in at the very cusp of dawn, unsure for a moment where she was — the strange smell of herbs and detergent, the hum of a refrigerator somewhere beyond the door.
Then she’d remembered: Torres’s mother’s apartment, Astoria, Monday.She couldn’t recall her dreams at all, and that thought gave her enough hope to stand up, stretch, and pad over to the little bathroom which, to her great surprise, Marcus had left in a state verging on bearable.
By the time she’d showered and dressed, Marcus was already in the kitchen, barefoot, leaning over a mug of coffee.The radio was muttering an old blues song through static.He gave her a look that said he’d slept as badly as she had.
Torres arrived at half past seven sharp, looking improbably neat for someone who’d had maybe three hours of sleep.She had soft rolls with her, courtesy of her invisible mother, and coffee that was so good Kate almost thought she was dreaming.
They loaded into her car, the rain from the night before still glistening on the asphalt.The streets were clogged with the slow pulse of Monday commuters, but Torres drove with the precision of someone who knew every light’s rhythm by heart.
“Alright,” she said, once they’d merged onto Queens Boulevard.“We got a little something from the uniforms last night.Stairwell between the eleventh and twelfth floors of Brennan’s building.They found a bloodstain — large, single location, about 12, 13 centimetres across.No drag marks, no smears leading up or down.Just one neat patch, like someone had set down a bag that leaked.”
Marcus looked up from his coffee.“Leaked?”
“That’s what it looked like.Cops took samples and photos.My guess?Our guy was wearing protective gear during the kill — a coverall, poncho, something.Then, heading down, he stopped, took it off, rolled it, carried it out.That’s what the stain is.Residual seepage.”
“Slapdash,” Marcus said.“For a man who carves Hebrew verses into mahogany.”
Kate shook her head.“Not slapdash.Calculated.If he wanted to avoid leaving blood, he could have.He doesn’t mind us finding Brennan’s blood — maybe he even wants us to.But…” She trailed off, staring through the window.
Torres caught the hesitation.“But what?”
Kate turned.“What if it isn’t Brennan’s?”
Torres frowned.
“What if it’s the killer’s blood?Or a mix.His and Brennan’s.He could’ve cut himself — ritualistically, deliberately.If he’s continuing the pattern, he’ll be weaving the old covenant with the new.Blood in exchange for revelation.”
Marcus made a face.“So he slashes throats and dabbles in theology.Great.”
Torres exhaled.“You think he’s hurt?”
“If he’s the sort of extremist I think he is,” Kate said softly, “then he’s not afraid of pain.He uses it.Makes it part of the sermon.”
Torres nodded grimly.“Alright.I’ll get it to the lab for DNA.See what comes back.”
“Thanks.”
“Meanwhile,” Torres went on, turning into a narrower street lined with brick and graffiti, “I’ve got something to show you once we get to the precinct.It came in overnight.”
Kate glanced sideways at her.“What is it?”
“You’ll see.One of those ‘you’re not gonna believe this’ kind of things.”
The rest of the ride passed in silence.Outside, the city thickened — glass and scaffolding, yellow cabs, a thousand lives moving too fast to see.Kate watched a woman in a business suit cross the street with a child still half-asleep on her shoulder.The sight, so ordinary, made her chest ache.
The Fifteenth Precinct was a slab of stone and history — a building that looked like it had been dragged through several wars and come out more stubborn than before.Inside, it smelled comfortingly familiar: burnt coffee, printer toner, bad breath.Torres led them past a bullpen full of barely-woken detectives, up a flight of stairs to a row of smaller offices.
“Base of operations,” she said.“Try not to mind the décor.We call it ‘late-stage bureaucratic despair.’”
Marcus smiled faintly.“My favourite period.”
