Killing Faith (A Gabriel De Sade Thriller)

By Eric Meyer

When dismembered bodies start to appear in New York City, the search for a serial killer begins. Leading the hunt is Gabriel de Sade, a tough Manhattan detective. What should be a straightforward murder investigation escalates when yet more dismembered bodies are found. A very sick, psychotic murderer is loose on the streets of the city. Yet the case is to become more complicated than he could imagine. The nightmare is just beginning for de Sade, a Delta Force veteran of Afghanistan.

The FBI are also hunting for the serial killer and their evidence points to a Russian Mafiya baron, Grigory Gordieva. The pursuit leads Gabriel to Moscow with an FBI partner, Special Agent Faith Ward. They find themselves pitted against political interference from both American and Russian governments. Yet when they ask for help from the Moscow Militia de Sade finds them both corrupt and on the Mafiya payroll.

Their only assistance comes from an unexpected quarter, a Russian Orthodox Bishop. With his help, de Sade reaches the heart of the Gordieva’s Mafiya operations. The Russian retaliates by kidnapping Faith Ward. With only a discredited Militia detective to help him, he takes on the Moscow Mafiya. De Sade adapts his Delta Force tactics to wage a secret war on the Moscow streets. The action builds to a climax that is shattering and extraordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Sep 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781906512880

Eric Meyer

Eric A. Meyer started working on the web in late 1993. Since then, he's been a college webmaster, one of the original CSS Samurai, a standards evangelist at Netscape, the author of many books and online resources, an occasional code artist, the technical lead at Rebecca's Gift, and a cofounder of An Event Apart. He lives with his family in Cleveland.

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KILLING FAITH

By Eric Meyer

PUBLISHED BY:

Swordworks Books

Killing Faith

Copyright © 2011 by Eric Meyer

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Chapter One

'We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chess player's nature.'

Rudolf Spielman

Jennifer Collins caught sight of herself in the store window. She didn’t look too bad, she considered. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and slim, she sure didn’t look like the hookers she’d seen giving her vicious glances, as if she was invading their territory. For a girl from Topeka, Kansas to make it all the way to Manhattan, that was way cool. Even if she did have to break some of the promises she’d made to Mom and Pa. Like being careful about which men she dated. It wasn’t easy making ends meet. The Big Apple was expensive, and her salary as a clerk for a housing charity on Second Street didn’t stretch far enough, not by a long way. Her apartment share, Wanda, had introduced her to these dates, kind of dates, anyway. No, she knew she was fooling herself, and that she was doing it for money. Just because she didn’t stand on a street corner in a micro skirt and six inch heels didn’t make it any different. Wanda’s friend, Miguel, was a New York cab driver, and people knew he was ‘the man’ when it came to finding a girl for the night. They had to give him a percentage, of course, but that was fair enough. He wasn’t a pimp, absolutely not. Miguel was just a middleman, like an agent for actors and actresses. He’d phoned her earlier and told her to meet this guy for a drink in the Village. Was it okay to go back to her apartment afterwards? Sure, Wanda said she’d be out tonight anyway, staying with her boyfriend Eddie at his apartment in the Bronx. Tonight’s fee was great, too, double what she usually got. She could treat herself to some new shoes tomorrow.

Jennifer?

She turned around, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Her first feeling was relief. Some of these guys, well, they weren’t every girl’s dreamboat. But this one, he looked good. He had pale blonde hair, baby-blue eyes, and sported a neat blonde mustache. He sure was a looker, probably in his late thirties. He wouldn’t have had any trouble getting dates. He looked wealthy, too, and his clothes had that high-end look to them. This was a guy who had it all. He was probably married, yeah, that explained it. The good ones always were. These guys liked the excitement, the risk, and the thrill of something different from the same face they saw everyday when they got home.

Yes, I’m Jennifer.

He took her by the arm. It was kind of old-fashioned the way he did it. She liked it.

Shall we go for a drink first? I know a rather nice bar.

That’s fine.

His accent was weird, and he sounded as if he was Russian.

My name’s Greg, by the way. Tell me about yourself, Jennifer. Are you religious at all?

That was an odd question. Maybe he was one of these born-again types or even a minister. She giggled to herself. Those TV evangelists often seemed to wind up doing the mattress tango, even the ones who got up on the God Channel shouting about obeying the Ten Commandments, repent and you’ll be saved. Yeah, right. She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted a new pair of Jimmy Choos. The bar he took her to was expensive, dark and richly furnished. They took a discreet booth at the back, and he spent time listening to her. He seemed genuinely interested and wanted to know all about his ‘date’. That was fine by her. She was happy to chat with this decent looking guy. He made her feel important, wanted, real good. They downed two drinks, and he walked her back to her apartment on Bleecker Street.

Don’t look at the mess, she smiled, I share it with my girlfriend, and she hasn’t learned to put things away yet.

She’s not here at present?

No, she’s gone for the night, and she won’t be back until breakfast. She's staying with her boyfriend.

That’s nice.

Would you like a drink, Greg? I’ve got cold beer.

Thank you.

She brought two cans of beer. He’d sat down on the couch, so she sat next to him. He sipped his beer, then put it down, and placed his arm around her neck, pulling her near him. She turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was firm, very passionate, and she could already feel the heat inside him. He was very aroused.

Shall we go through to the bedroom? she asked him.

Yes.

She lay on her back, spread-eagled on the bed. He knelt over her, and then put his hands around her neck. She closed her eyes, ready for him to lean down and kiss her again. But he didn’t, and the pressure on her neck started to increase. Jesus, it hurt.

Would you ease up? You’re hurting my neck.

I know, he replied.

Her eyes flew open. The pleasant, good-looking guy had gone, and what stared down at her was the face of a monster. The eyes gleamed, and the pupils looked like red-hot coals. His face was stretched, white, as if he was in the throes of some kind of religious ecstasy, half pleasure and half pain. He removed one of his hands, but he was still strong enough to hold her and squeeze. His free hand appeared with a knife, and it looked razor sharp. Oh God, no, not this. Oh please, no, Mom, someone, help me!

Help! she screamed, a long, desperate cry, but it was strangled by her lack of oxygen. She began to see stars in her eyes, and everything was going black. She was only half conscious when she felt herself being carried into the bathroom.

When she opened her eyes again, she was lying in the bathtub. She felt dazed, weak, and her neck hurt, too. Christ, he’d cut her, and she was bleeding badly. The blood loss made her so weak that when he started to cut off her right arm, she had little strength left to fight with. Jennifer lapsed into merciful oblivion just as she saw her arm completely removed. She didn’t see him cut off the left one. By the time he started cutting the legs, she was dead from a massive heart attack, brought on by the extraordinary trauma and blood loss. The guy, named Greg, carried the severed limbs through to her bedroom and started on his next grisly task, the most important. Jennifer had to be displayed properly, so that it was clear for all eternity why she had been killed and dismembered. He arranged the limbs on the bed cover. When he was satisfied, he went back to the bathroom. The blood had drained away. He laid the torso on the floor and started on the last part of the ritual. He bent down to cut the mark into her breast. She was his, the anointed victim to his special desires. Greg knew that no one would understand why he did it, but he didn’t care. He was powerful, wealthy, and influential. It was enough for him that he enjoyed doing it. It filled a need, which made it reason enough. He checked his clothes and noticed his shirt was bloodstained. That was no problem. He always made certain the clothes he wore for these ‘occasions’ were consigned to the furnace as soon as he got back to his house. He went around the apartment and cleaned away any traces of fingerprints. He’d been careful to only put his hands in a few places. It was a simple system, so afterwards he knew exactly what and where he needed to wipe clean. He let himself out of the apartment and walked along the street, looking for his driver. He felt as if he was floating on air, as he always did. Nobody could ever know that special experience. It was like taking a powerful drug, but a thousand times better.

* * *

He knew he was going to be murdered. The Russian was too good for him. Veteran of a thousand battles, the man had a reputation for being ruthless. De Sade knew he would get no second chances. He had to take a gamble. It was the only way, and a huge gamble that could finish him. But what else could he do? He was as good as dead anyway, and no one was coming to help him, to bail him out of this situation. This wasn’t Afghanistan where you were part of an elite Delta Team, probing behind enemy lines, pursuing your target, and then destroying it. Where a mistake could put your life on the line, unless your Team arrived in time to save your ass. They always had, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now. The Taliban didn’t take too many prisoners. Three times he’d been helped out of situations when he’d been trapped in bandit country, pinned down under heavy fire. They’d come in hard and fast, two teams, his Team Bravo together with Team Charlie. He remembered the last time, and the terrorists had managed to get within fifty yards of his position. He was sheltering in some rocks a few klicks outside of Jalalabad. Returning from a mission, he’d taken a bullet in the leg that forced him to take cover and call in the cavalry. De Sade had been rescued that time. They’d bundled him into a Chinook and airlifted him back to base. It had been a near thing. This time it was anything but a near thing, and he made his move. It was a sacrifice, but it was useless. He was finished, and it was over. The other man carried out the coup de grace.

Checkmate.

Samuel Aaronssen was a lean, elderly gray-haired Jew. A long gray beard that gave the appearance of a biblical prophet complimented his face. He looked at de Sade with a deadpan expression. You should practice more, Gabriel. You spend too much time running around this city, chasing shadows.

They were enjoying the sunshine in Washington Square Park in the shadow of the famous arch. Samuel was just too good a chess player for him. In fact Samuel was too good for most opponents he played against. He was a Russian immigrant and a fugitive from the pogroms. De Sade had gravitated toward him because of their shared knowledge of the Russian language. Taught to him by his Russian mother, she’d been determined that he would speak the mother tongue.

Those shadows you’re talking about, Samuel, they kill people. That’s why I chase them.

As long as you find time for the occasional game of chess, I suppose it’s all right, he grumbled as he wiped his thick glasses, We Russians have a reputation as fine chess players, and you should remember that. Do you have time for another game, Gabriel?

De Sade was about to reply when his cellphone rang. He checked the display, excused himself, and walked away to find out what the Precinct wanted him for.

De Sade, where are you now?

He told the Precinct Captain where he was. I’m due back in an hour, Captain.

Don’t come here. We’ve got another one.

The day seemed to chill. Another one could mean only one thing, another victim of the serial killer who was on the loose in New York City.

Where is the crime scene?

Hector is there now. It’s an apartment in Bleecker Street.

He gave him the address and hung up. Gabriel looked up from the chessboard.

We’ll have to take a rain check on that game, Samuel. And by the way, I’m an American. I was born here. The Russian part of my ancestry was a long, long time ago.

Aaronssen smiled. It’s always there, my friend. You still belong to the Russian Orthodox Church?

That was a long time ago, too. I’m a confirmed atheist these days.

Perhaps that will change. Religion is good for a man. Where are you going now, more shadows to chase?

Yeah, it’s a bad one, so they say. I’ll catch you again.

Hector Lopez was in the victim’s apartment, a third floor walk-up next to a Korean grocery. His face was grim, but that was not unusual for de Sade’s Latino partner, whose face was permanently set in a dour expression. Maybe with a lawyer wife and three kids at home, it wasn’t conducive to a bright outlook on life.

Bad one, Hector?

It’s worse than the last two. Do you want to look?

De Sade nodded, and Hector showed him the bathroom. The crime scene techs were still taking the photos, and a tech stood waiting to begin collecting forensic samples. The woman was lying on the white ceramic floor tiles. Like the others, she’d been killed in the bathtub and her blood left to drain. Her torso bore the familiar knife wounds. The killer had hacked off her limbs, both arms and legs. The last time he’d arranged them in the bedroom in a macabre representation of a Russian Orthodox Patriarchal Cross. De Sade doubted this time it would be any different. What was left of the woman lay on the floor in front of them, just the bloody torso. She had a Patriarchal Cross tattooed on her right breast. They had determined it was the killer’s trademark. A series of bloodied ropes lay on the floor.

What about the limbs? Exactly the same as before?

Hector nodded. The MO is identical. The killer copied his previous kills exactly.

It was hard to fathom what lay in the mind of the homicidal lunatic. Was it some kind of a ritual sacrifice? One thing was for sure; the perp was a bad one, the worst, a one hundred percent certifiable sicko and a candidate for the lethal injection. First, they had to find him.

What about the ring finger?

Hector closed his eyes briefly and nodded. You’d better take a look in the bedroom, but yeah, it looks the same to me.

His fleshy face looked more mournful that ever. Gabriel had noticed lately the big Latino was slowly putting on extra weight. Married life, probably.

Do we know who she is?

Yeah, her purse and ID were lying on a coffee table in the living room. She’s Jennifer Collins, no criminal record, worked for a housing charity at an office on Second Street.

They walked out into the living room, crowded with cops, crime scene techs, and two newcomers, a man and a woman. Smart suits, polished shoes, and polished faces. He wondered what the FBI wanted here. They could introduce themselves when they were ready. He ignored them for now. They went into the bedroom and de Sade fought down the impulse to vomit. The impulse struck him the second he looked at the ghastly scene. Four limbs lay on the bedcover, arranged like the Russian Cross. One of the hands was missing the ring finger, just like the other two victims. Hector crossed himself, probably force of habit. De Sade knew he wasn’t a devout Catholic. Baptisms, First Communions, marriages, and funerals, anything else was strictly for the religious nuts.

Was she cut like last ones?

The same butchery, throat slashed, Hector replied, No sign of the knife.

Anything you can tell us about this one? a voice said from the doorway.

De Sade turned. One of the smart suits stood there, the guy.

And you’d want to know because, why? Who the hell are you?

The man smiled and produced his badge. FBI Special Agent Davies, New York Field Office. It looks like we’re hunting a serial killer here.

We? De Sade knew he was on shaky ground if it came to a jurisdictional fight. Serial killings often became the province of the FBI. Davies understood the situation, too.

Look, Detective, I don’t want a pissing contest with you over this.

That was encouraging, de Sade thought. So what did they really want? The second victim, Emily Johannsen, had pointed them in the direction of a Russian connection. He’d been assigned the case with Hector, and they had already put together a sizable murder book, as well as a suspect board with eight names. They were closing in, and the last thing they needed was to have their work trampled on by the Feds so that the investigation went back to the beginning.

So what are you doing here?

We want to help, that’s all. The Director has assigned us to this case. Any FBI resources you need, we can give them to you. We need to work this together, de Sade. It’s a bad one.

If his previous experience of the FBI hadn’t been so negative, he might have believed him.

That’s fine. Give me your card, and I’ll give you a ring when I think of something.

Davies sighed. I’m trying to play it fair, de Sade. If you don’t like it, we can take the case off you, just like that. He clicked his fingers.

Yeah, right. How many more women would you allow to be killed before you manage to solve it, Davies? What would your Director say about you screwing with my investigation and getting more women killed? What would the New York Times have to say?

Davies glared at him. Fuck you, de Sade. We’re only here to help. He stormed away. De Sade turned back to his partner.

What have we got, Hector? Is anything at all different about this one?

Not really. You know about the timescale, four weeks between each of the first two vics, but only two weeks since the last one. He needs his murder fix much quicker. But there are no clues, nothing. Crime scene will go over the apartment with a magnifying glass, but this guy doesn’t leave clues. It’s almost as if he understands our forensic procedures.

De Sade looked up sharply. Could he be a cop?

Could be, but Christ, I hope not.

He may not be a serving officer. He could be an ex-cop.

A woman’s voice, she’d come into the bedroom. The two detectives looked at her appreciatively.

I’m FBI, and you met my partner. I’m Special Agent Ward.

She had one heck of an advantage over her partner. A petite, slim, elfin-faced brunette, and her dark brown hair was cut in a razor-sharp pageboy cut, framing her glistening brown eyes. She had clear, smooth, creamy skin and full red lips. They were just made for kissing, de Sade thought to himself. Her expression was intelligent and knowing. She wore a smart, two-piece dark gray suit over a crisp, white cotton blouse with plenty inside it. What a women, a very classy, very shapely lady.

This is Detective Hector Lopez, de Sade introduced his partner.

She shook hands with both of them. Her handshake was firm and cool. Everything about her was firm and cool.

Why do you think it could be an ex-cop? he asked her.

He was prepared to give this agent more latitude than her partner. A face and figure like hers would open a lot of doors, and neither of the two men could argue with that.

Because I’ve looked at the NYPD files for the last two murders. This guy is able to kill these women in a particularly gruesome and messy way and yet leave no traces. It could be someone with experience in law enforcement.

De Sade was immediately concerned. Who gave the FBI authorization to look at NYPD files?

Captain James Kruger, your commander. He’s anxious for the NYPD to cooperate with the FBI and solve this one before any more women get killed.

He decided to talk to Kruger about that later. He could have mentioned it and saved any misunderstandings.

Look, Agent Ward, we’ve been all through this. We came up with the possibility of it being someone in law enforcement before, but we’ve run it through every database we have, and there are no hits. There’s no indication that it’s a cop.

What about foreign databases? It could be an immigrant, someone that worked in law enforcement before they came here. Maybe even a foreign intelligence agency.

Hector looked angry. Look, Miss, we’ve been over that, too, and all of our searches came up with nothing, zero, zilch, okay? If you think you can do better, why don’t you go back to Federal Plaza and play with your fancy computers, and leave us to do some real police work here?

She looked angry, but she couldn’t snap out a sharp retort. They were both from minorities and always had to tread carefully not to upset government anti-discrimination guidelines. She nodded curtly. Contact me if you need anything. Then she walked out.

You were a bit heavy on her, Hector. Have you had a bad day?

When I see something like this, I always have a bad day. I want to get on with the job and find the killer, not play games with the Feds. Do you have any theories, Gabriel?

Nothing new, only what we’ve discussed already, but I’m still running it all down.

Captain Kruger says that we have to follow the Russian connection. It’s the only thing that makes sense. That’s what that Fed was trying to tell us, too.

It was why de Sade had been called in at the start. The only thing they had to go on was the Russian Orthodox cross, the Patriarchal Cross. It was sensible to have someone who understood the culture and language to work the case, but if they thought he had any direct contacts with the Orthodox Church, they