Play with Fire

chapter Six

“I CAN’T SAY I’d be surprised to see somebody from the Civil Rights Division drop by for a look at this case,” Byron Cummings said, “but I don’t see what interest Behavioral Science has in a church burning.”

Cummings was Special Agent in charge of the FBI’s small Duluth field office, and he didn’t much appreciate agents from Washington – or, in this case, Quantico – trying to tell him how to run an investigation. Of course, the FBI hadn’t been called in yet, and neither of his visitors had tried telling him to do anything at all, but Cummings figured it was just a matter of time.

Especially these two – Fenton and O’Donnell (who Cummings, both a racist and sexist, privately thought of as “the black guy and the redhead with the tits”). He’d heard about this mismatched pair before. Rumor was they’d got in some kind of trouble in Idaho or Iowa last year, but nobody in the Bureau’s extensive gossip stream seemed to know what kind of trouble it was, or why these two hadn’t been fired over it.

One story said that they’d been involved in the death of Walter Grobius, a secretive uber-billionaire who’d been killed in a massive fire at his Midwest estate. A variation of the rumor held that Grobius had been some kind of devil worshipper or something, and that Fenton and O’Donnell were trying to hang a bunch of ritualistic child murders on him.

But none of that shit mattered to Cummings. The death of Father Joseph Middleton and subsequent torching of St. Bartholomew’s church might or might not call for federal involvement – the Duluth PD hadn’t put in a request, so far. But if they did, the local field office, led by Byron Cummings, was going to handle it – not a couple of affirmative action poster kids from serial killer central.

“It seems that Father Middleton’s death had certain... ritualistic elements to it.” That was from Fenton, the black guy. He had short hair, a thin mustache, and a suit that probably cost more than Cummings’ last paycheck.

“What gives you that idea?” Cummings asked. “The autopsy report hasn’t been made public yet. Hell, even I haven’t had a look at it.”

“Someone at DUPD sent us a copy,” O’Donnell said. “Thought we might be interested.”

“And who the hell was that?” Cummings wasn’t particularly upset that one of the local cops was leaking info about the case – he was pissed because they hadn’t leaked it to him, first. He noticed that O’Donnell hadn’t even used a pronoun to identify the gender of the leaker.

“It doesn’t matter,” O’Donnell said. “The fact is we’ve seen the report, and we’d like to find out more about the case.” Consistent with the red hair, she had a dusting of freckles across her nose. Cummings wondered if they were also sprinkled across those nicely formed tits of hers.

“It seems likely that whoever torched the church expected to destroy all evidence of how Father Middleton had died,” Fenton said. “This was no nut-job with a five-gallon can of gas and a Bic lighter. The arson squad’s initial report says that professional-level incendiary charges were used, placed strategically around the church.”

“Strategically, huh?” Cummings thought that was a pretty fancy word coming from somebody who looked like every third word out of his mouth should be motherf*cker. Cummings had grown up in a bad part of the Bronx, where he’d learned to hate and fear the black gangs who continually battled for control of the local drug trade. He tended to view every black male he met as either a present, former, or potential gangbanger.

“Even if that’s true,” Cummings went on, “all it means is that somebody went on the internet and did his research. What’s that got to do with those ‘ritualistic elements’ you’re talking about?”

“Because, despite all their elaborate efforts,” O’Donnell said, “the arsonists f*cked up.” Cummings loved it when attractive women talked dirty – possibly because his own wife never said anything nastier than “fudge.”

“A section of the church’s ceiling fell over the altar area before the building was fully engulfed. It partially protected Father Middleton’s corpse from the flames,” Fenton said. “It was still pretty badly burned – but it wasn’t reduced to ashes, which is what we figure the arsonists had in mind.”

“So, there was enough of him left to do a half-decent autopsy, I get you,” Cummings said. “How did the poor guy die, then, if he didn’t burn to death?”

“The killers used a knife.” O’Donnell’s voice, fairly expressive to this point, had become flat and emotionless. “A large one, from all indications.”

“More important was the way the knife was used,” Fenton said.

“You mean multiple stab wounds?” Cummings asked him. “Nothing unusual about that, unfortunately.”

“It was more than that. Several occult symbols were carved into the body, probably ante-mortem,” Fenton said.

“That was before Father Middleton was castrated, eviscerated, and had his heart cut out of his body,” O’Donnell said. “All while he was still alive, most likely.”

Cummings, who was cursed with a vivid imagination, felt his stomach perform a slow somersault. His office dealt with a few bank robberies, the occasional kidnapping, and a parade of terrorist suspects who always turned out to be innocuous – but nothing like this. The cases of real butchery were outside his jurisdiction, and handled by the police. He swallowed a couple of times and said, “Why in the name of God would somebody do that? I mean, what were they trying to achieve?”

“Well, for one thing, it wasn’t in the name of God – at least not the same one you and I worship,” O’Donnell said grimly. “As to their precise motive – I look forward to asking them about that someday – preferably through the bars at a maximum security prison.”

“All right,” Cummings said. “So, what can the field office do to assist you?”

“There’s nothing we need from you right now,” Fenton said. “Bureau procedure says we’re supposed to check in with the local field office, and we always follow proper procedure.” Cummings thought he detected a light touch of irony at the end of that sentence, but wasn’t certain.

“However, we need to talk to some of the detectives at DUPD about the case,” O’Donnell said, “and there’s no way to tell in advance how much cooperation we’re likely to get. If somebody starts digging his heels in, we may ask you to make a phone call or two, to smooth the way.” She stood up then, and her partner followed suit. “I’d like to think we can count on you for that, should the need arise.”

Cummings had a full bottle of Pepto-Bismol in his desk, and he wanted to get these two out of there so he could down about half of it. He could not stop focusing on the mental image of what father Joe Middleton must have looked like, once those crazy f*ckers had finished with him. “Yeah, sure,” he said hastily. “I’ll grease the wheels for you. Whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Agent Cummings,” O’Donnell said.

“We appreciate it,” Fenton chimed in, and then the two of them turned and left.

The door had barely closed behind them when Cummings was reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk.