Page 9 of Deadly Secrets
“O-kay. I can help you with that if you need it.” Her confusion vanished and she went into business mode once more. “We’ve had another incident, looks like the work of The Rev.”
“Shit.” Roman shook his head, his hand on the steering wheel balling into a fist. “What happened?”
As Polly, obviously from the DTT, relayed the details of a massacre at a small church just outside the city limits, Roman put the Jeep back in gear, his face grim.
“At least thirty dead, half of them children.” Polly said softly. “All were undocumented. One of the victims left a suicide video on his phone, detailing what they were doing. He referred to The Reverend as Pastor Luke.”
Brooke’s stomach churned. Roman punched the steering wheel. “Send the address to me. I’m on my way.”
He disconnected, then turned to Brooke. In the depths of his eyes, she saw the distress at the deaths of thirty-some people, including children, underlined with determination to find their killer. “Have you heard of The Reverend?”
She’d heard of him all right. He was a serial killer targeting those in the area whom he considered ‘unclean.’
Twenty years ago, she’d gotten up close and personal with the same sort of man.
“Just drive,” she said. Whether she wanted to or not, she was about to help the DTT tonight. “I’m going with you.”
Three ambulances pulled away in quick succession as Roman drove up to the blocked off area near the church and parked. None of them had their lights on.
Bodies.
They were too late to save anyone.
Before they’d left the hotel, Roman had insisted Brooke change out of her dress and pick up shoes. He wasn’t taking her to a crime scene with nothing on her feet. She hadn’t said much on the drive over and he could see how deeply disturbed she was at the idea of checking out the multiple suicide-homicide with him.
Yes, the parishioners had all committed suicide, but it was the work of The Reverend who’d brainwashed them into doing it.
The Rev wasn’t the first cult leader to convince his followers to do so. Jim Jones was probably the most remembered, convincing over 900 people to commit “revolutionary suicide” and drink poison. Not many years ago, just outside of San Diego, the Heaven’s Gate members had killed themselves in order to enable their souls to jump on board a spaceship following the Hale-Bopp comet.
But Roman didn’t believe The Reverend was a true cult leader—he didn’t spend time gathering a flock and preaching to them or trying to take their money or possessions to amass his own. His targets had neither. He moved swiftly, from one group to the next, seeming to exact some kind of vengeance or justice. He was a serial killer, pure and simple, trying to rid the area of nonwhites, it seemed.
Polly, standing inside the barricades with her tablet in hand, waved him over. He flashed his badge at the police guard and guided Brooke past a group of law enforcement and crime scene techs.
Frizzy hair flying, Polly met them halfway. Roman made quick introductions, Brooke distractedly shaking Polly’s hand as the DTT’s crime scene expert smiled good-naturedly, not missing a beat that Roman had brought her and welcoming Brooke to the team. Brooke didn’t respond other than to ask if they were sure this was the work of The Reverend.
Behind Polly, the small church, once abandoned, looked shabby and rundown in the glare of the lights.
Polly handed Roman the tablet with the details laid out in bulleted points the way he liked. She recited the details out loud for Brooke’s benefit.
Death toll: 34 and rising.
Survivors: none.
Method used to kill victim(s): lethal dose of cyanide in the sacrament cups of grape juice served to each member present.
“Pastor Luke? That’s what they called him?” Several other points were listed, but Roman’s eyes skipped over them and he handed the tablet back to Polly. “Matthew, Mark, Luke. He’s using the apostles in the New Testament. We should have seen that correlation earlier. Put out an update to the team. We need to find any and all pastors that pop up along the coast with a disciple name.”
“First, middle, or last,” Brooke added. She stared at the front of the church where the double doors were propped open and crime scene techs were going in and out. “He may use the apostle name as any of them. John will be next, and I’m guessing there will be a lot of Pastor Johns to vet.”
Roman rubbed his knuckles across his beard. He needed a shave. “Ifhe continues in biblical order.” After the last few days with only five hours of sleep in sum total, he could use an energy drink to offset the exhaustion humming in his veins. “He may not.”
“He will.” Brooke seemed certain. “But it will be a few weeks before he starts amassing his next group of displaced immigrants and nonwhite flock. You’ll have a hard time finding him because of that very type of population. They stay off the grid and, by virtue of their secrecy, so does he.”
“Right,” Polly said, lifting one covert brow at Roman. “Do you want to go inside?”
As her answer, Brooke marched toward the open doors. Roman fell into step beside her and Polly caught up, walking backward and typing on her tablet as she spoke. “Same scene as the previous two. There are sigils on every victim’s forehead, a burnt offering was made, and of course, it’s a full moon.”
They were at the doors; Brooke pulled up short, gaze going skyward. “Burnt offering? Full moon?”
