The Nameless Dead by Paul Johnston Read Free Book Online Page A

Rothmann.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    Peter Sebastian sighed. ‘Look, the M.O.s are not so different. True, Laurie Simpson’s head was removed, but that’s a form of throat cutting, isn’t it? And that poor woman in Boston had a rope put round her neck—again, the throat.’
    ‘What about the postmortem mutilation of the first two victims?’ Bimsdale demanded, holding up his yellow pencil like a teacher questioning a pupil.
    ‘The records suggest that the Antichurch faithful tore apart the victims of human sacrifices.’
    Bimsdale nodded. ‘But there’s nothing about organs being placed in or near the vicinity of toilets.’
    Sebastian groaned. ‘Like all those indoor toilets in nineteenth-century Maine? Come on, Arthur, you’ve heard of metaphors, haven’t you?’
    ‘The victims’ head and tongue put where fecal matter goes? I see the rationale, sir, but it’s hardly an established methodology, even amongst fascists and Satanists.’
    Sebastian was tempted to pull rank on his assistant, but he restrained himself. If his case struck a lowly agent as being flawed, what would the notoriously acerbic Director think of it? Then again, the Director had shown a personal interest in the murders from the start, and he’d been keen on a meeting even before his head of violent crime had been obliged to go to Boston.
    The thing was, whatever the Bureau’s manuals said, investigating murder wasn’t only about collecting and collating evidence. You had to go by your gut as well, and Peter Sebastian’s had been telling him from the moment he saw the swastika above the heaped innards in Greenwich Village that Rothmann was pulling the strings, even though he’d still hedged that conclusion until the house on Lake Huron.
    The question was, what to do? Given the distance between the various scenes and the skills demonstrated by the killer, it would be impossible to predict who and where the next victim would be—and he was sure therewould be more. They could either sit back and let the bastard run with it until they nailed him, or launch a preemptive strike. Convincing the Director to go with the latter would be a hell of a job, he knew. But at least he had a card up his sleeve: the former Rothmann subject Matt Wells.

Five
    B ack in our apartment, Karen was sitting at the table. She looked up at me and laughed. ‘Oh, dear. Was the nasty man a handful?’
    I managed to bite my tongue. ‘What have you got there?’
    ‘A very nice laptop,’ she replied. ‘With full internet access. Julie Simms brought it round. There’s a note from Peter Sebastian, saying it’s time we rejoined the real world.’
    I looked at the screen. Karen was on the Metropolitan Police website, reading emails. ‘Should you be doing that?’
    ‘Officially, as I’ve just discovered, I’m on maternity leave. They haven’t blocked access to my in-box, so I’m contacting my team.’
    I stepped out of range. ‘Will they remember who you are?’
    ‘Ha, ha, Matt.’
    I’d almost forgotten how attached she was to her job. They’d have to fire her to get rid of her, and they’d be reluctant to do that, both on legal grounds and because shewas a highly effective detective. They probably hadn’t bothered to block her correspondence because Sebastian had told them she didn’t have internet access. Which raised an interesting question. Why had he suddenly authorized that, on the same day I’d been given unarmed combat training? Something was changing in the way the U.S. authorities regarded us.
    I had a long shower, which helped the aches and pains a bit. What state would I be in after a week of this? Not that I was going to give Quincy Jerome the satisfaction of scaring me off. I needed to be in the best possible shape in case we were let out. It wouldn’t take Sara long to catch up with us. She had ears and eyes all over the place.
    When I emerged, I found Karen in the kitchen. She was grilling pork chops, though her own regular evening meal consisted