Marcus took a thoughtful bite, then cleared his throat.“If our killer really believes this stuff — really believes he’s acting on God’s behalf — then we’re dealing with someone with no brakes.”
Kate nodded.“I used to think only Cox fit that description.But I’ve got a feeling this follower, or whatever he is, might be more dangerous.”
Marcus handed her the remaining donut and stood up.“I’ll be waiting for you in the car.I’m giving you ten.”
“Where are we going?”
“I just might have found our man.”
*
Twenty minutes later, with only a little grumbling from Marcus, they were on the road, with Kate at the wheel, heading for downtown Boston. As they slowed in the inevitable rush-hour snarl-up, Kate glanced across to her partner.
“Gonna share?”
Marcus flipped open his notebook."Martin Shepherd.Elder-care advocate.Aged 48.Runs a non-profit dedicated to fighting elder abandonment."
Kate frowned.“That’s a thing?”
“Oh yeah.And he lives it.I did a bit of digging.His birth parents both died alone in a nursing home — his biological siblings left them there while they went off chasing their respective high-powered careers.Reading between the lines, it seems like he discovered he had this whole other family, and then discovered how badly they’d treated his birth mother, and he just hasn’t been able to get over it.”
Kate winced.“That’s rough.I mean, in terms of an inciting trauma… I can buy that.Imagine growing up, knowing or sensing you’re not with the right flock.Then you find out you’re adopted and it all makes sense.So you go looking for your birth mother, full of hope and joy, only to discover that she’s died a lonely death due to the indifference of your true brothers and sisters.That could knock you spinning.”
"It gets better, by which I mean worse.Shepherd's organization was sponsored by Jennifer's firm until a year ago, after he learned that she hadn't seen or spoken to her father in years.Witnesses said he confronted her at a charity event.Loudly.And tore up the check she'd sent."
Kate rubbed her forehead.“Fond of theatrics.Like whoever left that crime scene.And vocal about his principles, no?I don’t imagine many non-profit organizations would rip up a check.”
“More than vocal.”Marcus flipped another page.“He’s got two priors.One for a violent altercation at a political demonstration — environmental justice something-something.The other involved him physically assaulting a man who was beating his dog.”
Kate froze.“Okay.I can kind of understand the anger where dogs are concerned, but… Violence mixed with righteousness?Never a reassuring combination.”
Marcus nodded.“He’s… the type who takes principles past the speed limit.”
And with that, the lights changed and they pulled into the stream of traffic, sirens distant in the winter morning, while the city woke unaware that someone out there was rearranging Scripture with a knife.
*
The offices ofElder Justice Nowoccupied the third floor of an old red-brick building wedged between a juice bar and a boutique gym.From the street it looked harmless enough.Inside, it felt like stepping into an advocacy campaign that had exploded.
The reception area had been painted a righteous shade of crimson.Every wall was plastered with black-and-white photographs of elderly people in hospital beds or care-home rooms — some smiling faintly, others clearly in distress.Under each was a small metal plaque with the person’s name, age at death, and the damning phrase:No family present.
Kate paused just inside the door.“Subtle,” she murmured.
Marcus shot her a look.“Be nice.”
“I am.This is mynicevoice.”
A young volunteer led them to the inner office.If the reception area was dramatic, Shepherd’s office was a shrine — or, Marcus thought, a moral battlefield.The walls were festooned with giant blow-ups of the same photos as the lobby, except here they were enormous — looming faces, desperate eyes, the scale deliberately overwhelming.
And then there was Martin Shepherd.
He rose as they entered.Mid-forties, lean, intense, wearing loose-fitting beige trousers and an embroidered Guatemalan-style shirt that looked handmade.His hair was tied back, his beard carefully plaited into a little bead.He had a preacher’s posture — tall, straight, chin lifted — and he wore an elastic band around one wrist.
“Agents Valentine and Reid,” he said, extending a hand to each.“How can I assist the FBI?”
Kate sat.Marcus sat.Shepherd did not sit until both of them had.Politeness, Kate wondered, or a small display of moral theater?
“Mr.Shepherd,” Kate began, “we’re here to ask about Jennifer Hayes.”
