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photography could reduce a crime scene to, he took his time taking each
one in. This early case wasn′t as violent as Bloch′s later rampage, though
brownish bloodstains marked every image. The woman wasn′t nearly
as old as Lorraine Hartwell, though well beyond her prime and any
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hope of fending off an attack by an adult male. Bite marks riddled
her body as in the final massacre, but these were bruises, tooth marks,
not gaping holes of cannibalism.
The woman, Carole Slack, lived alone on Colby Street, just this
side of the Oakland border in the shadow of St. Augustine′s bell
tower. He went through the file, finding nothing much of value.
Replacing the folders, he brought out the next set. This one he
remembered as he canvassed the North Oakland neighborhood following
the discovery of Ellen Lyle′s body in her apartment off Alcatraz Avenue,
only a mile from Carole Slack′s house. During his canvass, he began
to develop his hunch about the predator priest. Several of Lyle′s
neighbors said they saw a tall, thin priest in an old-fashioned cassock in
the neighborhood on the night of her death. He found his own notes in
the folders, photocopies of the reports he filed. Running over the copy
with his index finger, he was amazed to see that he hadn′t written down
anything about the priest.
Photos showed what the FBI experts called escalation, an increase in
violence from the first victim. Ellen had been partially dismembered, the
bite marks looked deep and bloody on her pale flesh. Something
Bradford didn′t know, or perhaps suppressed, was the fact that the
cause of death was hemorrhaging due to rape with a foreign object—
an object the perpetrator didn′t leave behind.
Bradford put the files back, going into the kitchen for a beer. Full
dark outside, now, Sam felt secure with all the lights on. He had conceded
to the onslaught of nyctophobia, or scotophobia, or achluophobia,
depending on what shrink he visited, following his encounter with
Father Bloch. The coming of night, the darkness surrounding the
house—without the lights on, Bradford would sweat, pulse racing,
breath coming hard until he experienced a frightening panic attack. He
managed as best he could.
His garage was attached to the house, so he could easily get to
his car. He drove with the dome light on, which made passengers
crazy, for some reason. The garage outside HQ was lit, though not well
enough for his liking. And, while he could work and otherwise function
effectively outside after sunset, he absolutely could not sleep. Not by
self-medicating with alcohol or sleeping pills, or prescription sleeping
pills, or meditation or anything prescribed by the department shrinks.
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Bradford supposed it was partially because he couldn′t accept the
psychiatrists’ assurances that his fear was irrational. He knew there
was definitely something worth fearing in the dark.
Pulling out files from the second box, he opened the folder with
the crime scene photos. Susan Peters of Howe Street in Oakland, victim
number three, had been dismembered manually, according to the
autopsy report. He read that a detective made a notation that ″manual
dismemberment″ meant the woman was forcefully pulled, rather than
cut, apart. While the victim showed no bite marks, her left leg had left
with the perpetrator. The seventy-nine-year-old died quickly when the
wine bottle she was sodomized with broke, allowing her to bleed out
and avoid further suffering. In displeasure, Father Bloch carved four-
letter words in her skin with a broken edge of the bottle.
Bradford wasn′t learning anything new. Mark Bloch was a brutal
killer, his imagination limitless, it seemed, when it came to horrifying,
torturous death. Bradford sipped his beer and found it warm. He went
to the kitchen, dumping the contents in the sink, and took a fresh one
from the fridge. According to the kitchen clock, it was just after two a.m.
Long neck in hand, Sam returned to the final files in the living room.
The fourth murder seemed the epitome of sexual-sadism; no more
violent case had ever been recorded by Oakland police.
The victim′s upper arms and legs had been broken while she was
still alive; the coroner′s office reported this was done with a small
sledgehammer. While tied face-down on her bed in her house on
Ivanhoe Road near Highway 24, she had been raped and sodomized
over a period of days. Her death was the result of bleeding out from
numerous bites and from a compound fracture of her right humerus.
Lower legs had been hacked off perimortem with a garden spade. A cut
of meat found on the stove turned out to be the victim′s calf. The
remainder of the lower limbs were never recovered. A final insult to the
sixty-four-year-old was the gouging out of her eyes. Dana Scarpetti…
Bradford recalled that at this point, he′d taken six days off—his
entire vacation—and planted himself outside Bloch′s door day and
night in spite of Mary′s protests. Even so, he was too late. Mark Bloch
had already murdered Lorraine Hartwell and was making regular
visits to mutilate and defile her body.
Bradford shuddered, still, at the memory of Hartwell′s house.
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The phone rang, and Bradford leapt to his feet in surprise, scattering
the contents of two heavy files all over the living room. Breathing a little
hard, he hurried to the kitchen extension.
″Bradford,″ he said, hearing a little crack in his voice.
″Help me, Sam.″
It took a second for him to recognize Bill Tarter; his voice was so
quiet, so weak. ″What′s the matter, Bill? Are you hurt?″
″Yeah…″ A staticky silence followed. ″Please hurry.″
″You want me to call 911?″
The line went dead.
Grabbing his service pistol from the end table, Sam stuffed it in
his coat pocket, hearing it clink against the crucifix and the Rosary. He
considered leaving them then thought the better of it. Five minutes later,
with the help of the red gumball light on his dashboard, he rolled across
the Park Street Bridge, heading for Lake Merritt.
He knew something was wrong as he pulled up. The church doors
were hanging wide open, candle lights flickering from inside. In a
jog, he made his way up the steps and into the vestibule. The font for
the holy water lay in dozens of wet pieces on the floor. Weapon drawn,
eyes darting from side to side, Bradford sidled carefully up the aisle.
The statues on each side of the altar were covered in reflective red, the
thick fluid dripping on and into the carpet. Each stained glass window
had a round hole broken through the exact center. A few candles in
glass holders had been smashed against the floor. He turned, seeing one
of the doors of the confessional broken, hanging by a single hinge.
″Sir.″
Bradford turned quickly, found his sights on the bent-framed
monsignor. He lowered the weapon. ″What happened here? Where′s Bill?″
″In the rectory,″ the ancient man beckoned.
Sam Bradford quickly overtook the monsignor, racing into the
rectory ahead of him. Like the church and confessional doors, the
rectory doors looked like someone kicked them in.
″Bill!″
Without waiting for an answer, Bradford slipped into the priest’s
house, eyes sweeping. He found himself breathing with difficulty,
sweating, jacket feeling too tight. Shrugging his shoulders, he found
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the nearest light switch. He flicked it, but the house remained dark.
Shit. ″Bill!″
Sam had been in the rectory three or four times, never much farther
than the dining room. He found a staircase, and wiping the sweat from
his brow, started up. At the top, he flicked another switch. Nothing.
Hands trembling too badly to hold the gun, he put it in his waistband.
Down a hallway, he found another door, this one obviously smashed
open. As he reached it, all the lights came on, flickering weirdly. It
startled Sam as much as comforted him.
″You in here, Bill?″ Bradford moved inside and saw his friend on
the bed.
Rotund body face down, wearing only briefs, the priest lay
uncovered. Sam saw restraints around one of Bill′s wrists and both
ankles; he recognized them as surplices. The phone lay on the floor,
the cord pulled from the wall.
″Oh, God, Sam,″ Bill sobbed, voice breaking.
Bradford coughed at the scent of fresh excrement mixed with
coppery blood. Rounding the bed, the breath stopped in his chest.
Slashed in bleeding letters across the priest′s back were two words:
Stay away
And worse, Sam saw that Bill Tarter′s drawers had been pulled
halfway to his knees. Protruding from Father William′s rectum was a
crucifix, the wood two inches square, at least, crosspieces just above the
crease of the priest′s knees. Blood seeped into the mattress, painting the
priest′s thighs and underlying sheets crimson.
Sam pulled out his phone.
″Don′t, please, Sam″ Bill pleaded. ″I don′t want anyone to see—″
the priest broke down in sobs that shook his pale, meaty shoulders.
″Bill, you′re hurt.″
″I′m beyond hurt, Goddamn it!″ Bill wailed. ″I′m… I′m defiled!″
Capelli finally entered the room, moving with deliberate steps.
″All right, Father, we′ll do as you ask,″ he said in soothing tones. The
monsignor looked up at Bill, eyes lost in the shadow of his sockets.
″Help me, please. Untie him.″
Sam undid the knots in the silk surplices, carefully avoiding the
sight of Capelli′s ministrations. As he freed Father William′s hand, he
saw Capelli slowly striding away with the crucifix. Bill covered his face
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with his freed hands, shaking silently. Bradford placed a comforting
hand on his shoulder, and averted his eyes from the wound. Bradford
untied the ankles, and Father Bill rolled into a fetal position. Sam found
blankets in a linen closet down the hall. Capelli passed him, carrying a
bowl and some towels.
″You know more about this than he does,″ Capelli said, pinning
Bradford with a gaze. ″I′m sure of it.″
Sam followed the diminutive man, not saying a word. He sat at
the head of the bed as Capelli inspected the injury, carefully cleaning
the wound. ″You′re hurt badly, Father. You need stitches, but not a
doctor. I saw a lot worse than this in the war, believe me. Rest easy, and
stay still. This may sting.″
Sam put his hand again on Bill′s shoulder, not knowing what else
to do. ″You′ll be okay, Bill. Everything′s okay.″
As he leaned over, the crucifix and Rosary fell from his coat pocket,
landing on the bed. Capelli caught it immediately, locking eyes with the
lieutenant. With a crooked finger, he pointed at the cuts in Father
William′s back, then at Sam. He pointed at the cruel words again, then
pointed to himself, nodding.
Sam Bradford looked out the windows into the night and broke
out in a fresh sweat.
CHAPTER 17
THE EXPANSE of tombstone-covered hills seemed to stretch
interminably away from the cluster of black-clad mourners beneath slick
black umbrellas. Mara stood with Ben, gazing at the circle of people
around the coffin. Margarít Sanchez stood flanked by three boys and two
girls, all with the open, round features of their father, but George′s usual
expression of good cheer had been replaced by sorrow reflected over
and over in their deep brown eyes, so much like her friend′s. All of
George′s children were older than Mara, she realized, which may have
made George seem so grandfatherly to her all these years. Ben put his
arm around her, but she barely felt it. Jerry stood with his wife, Janet,
looking at the sodden grass, holding her hand. Corinne stood to the
right of George′s family, tears running freely over her high cheekbones.
Next to her stood Cherry Malloy, stone-faced as always, but her eyes
were rimmed red.
The funeral service was all in Spanish, the priest looking as sad
as the Sanchez family. With the final amen, the circle broke. Jerry left
his wife′s side and put his hand on the shining metal casket.
″So long, buddy. I′m going to miss—″ He choked, shoulders
shaking. Janet came to his side and took his hand, and Jerry allowed
himself to be led away.
The mortal remains of Jorge Jesus Maria Sanchez sank below the
rectangular-cut earth with a slow permanence. Mara viewed it with
stunned disbelief. One by one, Margarít, George Jr., Jesus, Roberto,
Maria and Claudia dropped a silent fistful of clammy soil into the
grave, the sound echoing metallically.
Mara walked up to Margarít, head down. ″I′m so sorry, Margarít. If
I hadn′t asked George to come out with us on so many nights—″
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″Shh, shh.″ The thin woman with a hooked nose and movie star
eyebrows grabbed Mara in a tight hug. ″My Jorge, he always said the
happiest time in his life, next to the birth of his children, was working
with you and Jerry—″
She stopped, and Mara felt the sobs wracking her body. Mara
couldn′t speak herself.
After the shudders died down, Mrs. Sanchez said, ″He was always
so proud to work with you, to be in your books. He said he never
expected no one to write about—about him.″
Mara felt a pang at this, wondering if she′d hurt George′s feelings
by making him out to be a buffoon from time to time. But his clown-like
nature was as much a part of him as Jerry′s bitter sarcasm was to Jerry.
″You′re like family to us,″ Margarít said, but looking at the Sanchez
siblings, the words only cut deeply into Mara, leaving a dull ache.
Finally, Margarít Sanchez let go, pulled away by the oldest boys,
George and Roberto, who were in turn followed by twin boys in somber
blazers. They walked away across the cemetery toward the waiting
black car.
Jerry, for all his curmudgeonly act, stood head down, still crying,
inconsolable. His wife, the butt of constant meatloaf and marriage
jokes, remained by his side, holding his hand, speaking softly, her
white-blonde hair billowing out from beneath her black pillbox hat.
Flanked by Cori and Ben, Mara made her way to the cemetery road, the
Sanchez′ car just leaving. They′d driven to the cemetery in the company
cars, Jerry saying George would′ve wanted it that way. Rain and wind
whipped at them, and Mara adjusted the scarf she wore to cover the
finger-shaped bruises on her throat. Police were investigating the attack,
and Mara showed them the autograph with the strange note on the
back. Probably a stalker, the officers said, though the name Dana
Scarpetti sounded familiar to them. Mara tried to put it all out of her
mind as she opened the door of the Jeep.
″You′d better let me drive,″ Cherry said, softly. Mara gave her
the keys.
″Hey, Mar?″ Jerry came up behind her. ″We′re still doing the
investigation, right? For your friends?″
″Oh, Jerry, I don′t know if I′m up to it,″ Mara said.
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Jerry blew his nose loudly in his hanky. ″Well, I don′t want to speak
for George, but if that was me in the ground now, I′d want you to
carry on—especially when it′s helping out a friend. I mean, that′s
what it′s all about, you know?″
Mara looked at Cori for help.
″Maybe he′s right, Mara. Sometimes it′s better to keep busy when
something like this happens.″
″Okay, let′s do it. For George,″ Mara agreed. ″I′ll load up the
gear when we get back to the office.″
″Are you serious?″ Ben asked, astonished. ″I think all of you need a
few day′s rest, some time to take it slow. I mean, you′ve got this whack-
job stalker lady, Mar, and all of you are pretty damn upset right now.″
″Ben, please,″ Mara said. ″I think Jerry′s right. George would′ve
wanted it.″
Ben put his hands on her shoulders. ″You′re all stressed out,
emotionally exhausted. Let′s all get some sleep tonight, get a fresh start.″
″We′ll be fine, Ben,″ Mara said firmly. ″I want to do this. We should
