Page 29 of Go Under

“None of them had a daughter named Nora?” Marcus asked, dealing with his frustration by pleading with reality to be different from what it was.

“None of them even had a daughter,” Darnell replied.

Marcus sighed heavily. “Well… shit. There goes that connection.”

“What about Cox?” Darnell asked. “Have you found any connection to Elijah Cox?”

“The killer’s our connection,” Kate said, swallowing the last bite of her sandwich. “Or the killer’s going to prove that this has nothing to do with Cox.”

Marcus looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “I mean, at this point, I’m willing to accept it could be a copycat. The ciphers are simple and lacking theological depth. The crime scenes are highly organized, but there’s strong evidence this is a personal mission rather than a religious one. Cox might be at large, or he might be dead, but either way, he’s definitely burying his head.”

Her voice was rising as she spoke, so she stopped herself by sipping her coffee. Damn, she was frustrated.

Darnell shook his head. “There isn’t strong evidence for a personal motive. Both possible personal motives have led to dead ends. Unless we’re considering the possibility of two killers.”

“Don’t put that out into the universe,” Marcus protested. “This is bad enough as it is.”

“I’m only saying that I don’t believe we should discount the Lawgiver or his teachings as a possible driving force,” Darnell said. “We’ve been investigating this as an ordinary killing spree so far. I suggest we start investigating it as a Commandment Killing.”

Kate frowned at the insinuation, but she was interested in Darnell’s approach. Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes helped, and Kate’s were clouded by frustration right now. “What are you thinking?”

“I believe that Cox takes great care in selecting his victims.”

“Yeah, so do we,” Marcus replied, a touch defensively.

Darnell was unperturbed. “I believe it’s possible, even likely, that the people Cox selects are connected to him in some way. Perhaps past parishioners or confessees of his. Perhaps people who knew him before he turned to murder or people who have information that could be used to catch or stop him. Have you explored this angle with the victims?”

Kate leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “No,” she admitted, “but if that’s the case, then why has no one come forward?”

“I’m not saying that has to be the connection,” Darnell replied, “only that there is some connection. Since we don’t have a traditional lead, perhaps we should explore that.”

Marcus sighed heavily. “Well, we have nothing better to do, I suppose. Let’s—”

The door opened. The same junior agent who alerted them to Donna Frick’s body leaned inside. Marcus took one look at his facial expression and swore.

“One more?” Darnell asked curtly.

The agent nodded. “Yes, sir. An apartment in Trenton.”

Darnell pushed air through his nose, not a scoff so much as a very muted snarl. “Understood. Thank you.”

The agent nodded. “I’ll text you the address, sir.”

He backed out, leaving the three agents to stare at the remnants of their food and coffees.

“Well,” Marcus offered, “I guess we’ll have a fresh scene to start with to look for evidence of Cox.”

Kate couldn’t find the energy to see that as a silver lining.

***

Like Gerald Mace, this victim lived in a working-class neighborhood in one of the more dangerous parts of the city, in this case, Trenton, New Jersey. This neighborhood, in the Southside of the New Jersey state capital, was in even worse shape than Kensington, Philly. Its rowhouses were dilapidated, most of them vacant and left to rot. The three-story brick building in which their victim lived and now died was in slightly better shape, but that only served to emphasize what a low bar that was.

The fading, overcast twilight lent a forbidding air to the property, and the buzz emanating from the halogen light fixtures that illuminated the interior only added to the horror movie imagery.

Then, of course, there was the body. Stabbed through the heart, propped up, this time on the old corduroy easy chair since there was no kitchen table in the compact three-room apartment, mouth sewn shut, blood pooling in front of the door, trailing to the chair, and soaking through Ray’s pants and into the chair.

Yeah, horror was the right way to describe it.