The Lord Is My Shepherd (19 page)

Now it was over, though, and life could resume as normal. She would go back to her job, and he would go back to his, and they would wave as they passed each other in the parking lots. Somehow that didn't seem quite right, though. He had a feeling that Cindy Preston wasn't done with him just yet, although he couldn't say why.

Was it possible that she had something to teach him? Or maybe Adonai felt he needed to have more friends outside of his faith. Whatever the reason, she seemed destined to stay in his life, at least for a little while longer.

After dropping her off at the church he headed home to change his clothes for the Seder. Once that was done, he picked up the phone and called Marie.

“I heard they caught the guy, and he was one of their own,” she said by way of greeting.

“Yes, Marie, they caught him. Cindy confronted him at his work, he confessed, and the police took him away.”

“A blessing.”

“Absolutely. Ready for another one?”

“What is it?” she asked.

“I invited Cindy to partake of the Seder tonight.”

“I appreciate you inviting people into my home and feeling so free to do so,” Marie said, sarcasm thick in her voice.

“I'm sorry. At least I gave you notice so that you can have the right number of place settings.”

He realized it was the wrong thing to say almost as soon as it left his mouth. He winced, waiting for the backlash, but Marie gave no acknowledgment of it.

“She's your responsibility,” Marie said darkly.

“I understand.”

“It's no sin of mine if she taints the table,” Marie continued.

“Absolutely not.”

“Because I keep an immaculate house.”

“I know you do,” he reassured her. “I promise, she'll be properly attired and thoroughly purified before arrival.”

“All right,” she said grudgingly.

“Thank you, Marie.”

He hung up the phone. The evening would either be a great success or a horrific disaster. All he could do was hope and pray that the two women would get along.

Be honest, it's not Cindy you're worried about, it's Marie.
It was true. Marie was notoriously biased against Christians, and all the time he'd spent with Cindy didn't help.

Jeremiah glanced at the clock. He still had a while to go before he picked up Cindy. He grabbed a book and settled down in the living room to read for a few minutes.

He flipped open a book of Shakespearean sonnets, but couldn't focus. He had found that reading old English remarkably improved his vocabulary skills but was neither easy nor to be engaged in lightly. After rereading the same sonnet four times, he closed the book. He sat quietly for a few minutes before finally giving up and getting ready to leave the house.

He tried to blame his distraction on the earlier excitement or his apprehension about Marie's behavior at the Seder. The truth was, though, that something just wasn't right.

His day off was turning out nothing like he'd expected. He was relieved that the reign of the serial killer had come
to an end, but at the same time something about the whole situation made him uneasy. Oliver didn't seem stupid to him. And the guy who had been able to perpetrate those crimes didn't seem like someone who would turn himself in so easily, confess, and happily go off to prison.

No, he would have tagged the killer as someone who would have gone down fighting, striving with his last breath to be smarter, quicker, deadlier than his opponents. It was hard for him to see Oliver as that type of individual, even without the afternoon's events.

Not everything has to be so complicated,
he told himself.
Sometimes the bad guys do confess.
It happened all the time in his country, only with terrorists as opposed to serial killers. They were always proud to claim their work and would defend it at any cost.

Paranoid, that was what he was. He took a deep breath and decided that maybe it was time to pick up Cindy. He would be early, but the worst case scenario would have him shadowing some of her coworkers for a little while. That was preferable to figuring out ways to set a confessed killer free.

A handcuffed Oliver sat alone in one of the interrogation rooms. He looked tired, deflated, but also somewhat relieved. Paul and Mark had observed him for nearly five minutes through the one-way glass.

“Does it seem odd to you that he would just confess like that?” Mark asked. “After all the games, the elaborate setups? The man managed to keep every crime scene free of DNA evidence, and yet just sings like a bird with a little push from a church secretary?”

“Maybe it was the shock of being confronted with all of his crimes, especially by a church secretary.”

“I don't buy it,” Mark said.

Paul shook his head. “Stranger things have happened. Maybe his conscience is getting the best of him. Or maybe she really knew how to push his buttons.”

“Maybe. Okay, it's showtime,” Mark said. Moments later he entered the room that held Oliver.

Oliver stared at him as though he didn't quite see him. The man didn't look good. For a moment Mark wondered if he was ill.

“Oliver, I'm Detective Mark Walters,” he said as he sat down across from Oliver.

“I know who you are.”

“And now we know who you are,” Mark said pointedly.

“Do you? Do you really?”

It was something in the tone of his voice that gave Mark pause. He stared at the other man, trying to figure out what it was that seemed so off about him, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked ragged, like a man who hadn't slept for a while. Mark could relate.

“Yeah, you're the guy who's been running around town killing people,” he said at last.

Oliver gave a noncommittal grunt.

“You confessed to that a little while ago. You also confessed to murders in several other states.”

“Yes, I did,” Oliver said.

“So, tell me about the murders this week,” Mark said.

Oliver shrugged. “What's to tell? People are dead. I killed them. End of story.”

“So you've said. Unfortunately, I'm going to need a little more than that from you.”

“What do you want to know?” Oliver asked.

“I want to know why. Tell me why.”

“People are basically evil. They need to be taught a lesson.”

“And you think you're just the person to do that?” Mark asked. He had a hard time seeing this guy as a vigilante.

Oliver nodded.

“Tell me about the guy on the donkey.”

“It's a representation of Christ's triumphal entry into Jerusalem just days before his betrayal and execution.”

“No, I got that. Why did you choose Miguel Jesus Olivera?” Mark asked.

What little color was there drained from Oliver's face.

“Because, because his … middle name … was Jesus,” Oliver stammered.

“And where did you get the donkey?”

“I, uh, stole it.”

“What color was the donkey?” Mark asked.

“What?” Oliver asked.

“I want you to tell me what color the donkey was,” Mark insisted, leaning forward.

“Brown, no grey. It was grey.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, I think. It was dark.”

It took all of Mark's self-control not to swear.

“Okay, let's talk about the money changer.”

“Christ drove them from the temple.”

“Yeah, I got that too. That's why you chose a check-cashing place that was next to a church, so you could make your point painfully obvious. What I don't get is why there was a sheep tied up in the back of the shop with blood poured over him.”

“The sheep means …” “Yes?”

“Uh, the sheep is significant because one of the things the money changers did was overcharge for sacrifices.”

“Sacrifices?” Mark asked.

“Yes, to help atone for sin.”

“So why did you leave the sheep alive instead of sacrificing it?”

“Because I'm not looking for forgiveness,” Oliver said vehemently.

This wasn't good. The donkey had been ivory, and he was making up answers about a sheep that didn't exist. Either the guy was completely insane, or he was lying about being the killer.

Mark leaned back. “Tell me about the dead guy in the church.”

“His name was Ryan. Ryan Bellig. He was from Raleigh. We were friends once.”

“Really? What you did to him didn't look very friendly to me,” Mark noted.

Tears sprang to Oliver's eyes. “He blamed me for the death of his wife and daughter. Somehow he found me. He demanded to meet with me in private before going to the police. I was hoping I'd have a chance to explain.”

“Explain what?” Mark pressed.

“That I …” Oliver paused, thought quickening in his eyes. “That I never wanted to hurt them. And I certainly didn't want to hurt Ryan.”

“So, why did you bring a knife with you then?”

“It wasn't mine. It was his. Turns out he didn't want an explanation. He wanted revenge.”

“Can you blame him?”

“No,” Oliver said, the tears now coursing down his cheeks. “He came after me. I grabbed for the knife. We scuffled. I got it away from him. I still hoped to talk. But he lunged at me, and the knife—”

He buried his face in his hands, and Mark watched him for a moment. “How did you get into the sanctuary?”

“I stole Harold's key at the Shepherd's meeting on Saturday.”

“Tell me about the cross.”

“I think the chain must have broken in the scuffle. I didn't realize I had lost it until the next day, but I'm still not sure where or how. There aren't many of those crosses, you know? They're special. They mean something. I went back to check the church, but police were everywhere. I learned that Cindy found the body, so I went over to her house, but I didn't see it. Then I went back later and broke into her house to see if she had it.”

“How did you break into her house?”

“When I first moved to the area I rented a house from Harold. He always leaves a spare key hidden just in case. I found Cindy's and went through the front door.”

“And then you left it open when you left,” Mark said, trying to trip up Oliver's story.

“No! I relocked it. I was afraid a real thief might take advantage, and I didn't want that to happen.”

“Okay, then what about the woman and the man?”

“What about them?” Oliver asked.

“Why them?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“No, but what is obvious is that you're lying to me. What, are you in need of attention or something? Having a little dinner with Cindy, breaking into her house to be close to
her, trying to flirt with her, get her attention? Then maybe confess to crimes you didn't commit just so she'll notice? That's stupid, because let me tell you, there are a lot more effective ways to get a woman's attention.”

“But I
am
the killer!” Oliver protested.

“I don't buy it. Maybe you killed Ryan Bellig just like you said, but not the others.”

The door opened, and Mark glanced up at Paul. His face was grim, but he didn't say a word, and he didn't look at Oliver. He handed Mark a sheet of paper before exiting the room.

Mark glanced at the paper. “So, I was right. You didn't kill all those people.”

“But I did. They're dead because of me.”

Mark shook his head. “No, because when the man and the woman were killed yesterday morning, you were already at work. In fact, you were in a meeting with your boss for over an hour. He's verified it.”

“Maybe I have an accomplice,” Oliver said.

“Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm glad it's not mine.”

Mark stood up and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Oliver asked, his voice laced with panic.

“To find the real killer,” Mark said.

He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Cut him loose?” Paul asked.

Mark nodded.

“What about the Bellig murder?”

“It's possible he's responsible for that one. If so, though, it sounds like it was self-defense.”

“You don't want to hold him on it?”

“No, I want to put him back out there and see what our killer makes of that. Too many signs point to Oliver. I'm starting to think it's because someone wanted them to.”

“I'll set up a team to follow him, see what we can flush out,” Paul said.

“Just what I was thinking,” Mark agreed.

“You know, I've been a cop for fifteen years, and I still don't get why some people confess to crimes they didn't commit.”

“Guilt, fear, or gain. Those are the only three reasons anyone does anything.”

“Nice,” Paul answered with a roll of his eyes.

Mark shrugged. “It's not my fault it's the truth.”

“No, but I can blame you for spreading your gospel of truth. I, for one, don't want to hear it.”

“The question is,” Mark said, “which one is motivating Oliver?”

“I rule out gain since I can't see anything he could possibly get from confessing.”

“Then let's hope it's fear. Maybe the killer is targeting him and he knows it.”

“If that's the case, isn't it risky putting him back out there where the killer can find him?”

“Yes, but it's Thursday, and right now it's a risk I'm willing to take,” Mark said.

“Fair enough.”

Mark headed for the door. There was still a killer on the loose, and the clock was ticking. Thanks to Oliver's little stunt he had lost a couple of hours when he might have been searching for the real killer. Hopefully, Oliver would still be of some use, and the day wouldn't be a total loss.