“What I call my ’self’ now is hardly a person at all. It’s mainly a meeting place for various natural forces, desires, and fears, etcetera, some of which come from my ancestors, and some from my education, some perhaps from devils. The self you were really intended to be is something that lives not from nature but from God.”

-- C.S. Lewis  

Michael closed the door behind him and secured the lock, two deadbolts, and door chain with a detachment born of repetition. He gave the door knob his customary half turn to verify that it was indeed locked and threw his briefcase onto the sofa where it then proceeded to tumble onto the floor. Michael turned to it for a moment as if considering whether to pick it up and then let it lie in surrender to his fatigue, mood, and quite honestly his general state of being. He knew he should be heading straight for bed but he was confident that if he didn’t do something to unwind first sleep would elude him. The fact was that he had suffered from insomnia for years brought on ironically by an acute lack of sleep. It was one of those dark ironies that made him chuckle inside at the paradoxes of life when he waxed philosophical.

He had turned down an offer of a ride home and taken the subway instead. The three block walk from the subway station to the door of his one bedroom fifth floor walk-up had at least rekindled his appetite and he pushed the button on his answering machine as he moved purposefully towards the refrigerator. He threw open the door and blinked away the glare that assaulted his eyes and illuminated the apartment.

The apartment was clean though not meticulous. In point of fact it’s inhabitant was hardly present enough to accumulate much clutter. The most lived in area of the living room seemed to be the entertainment center where a 50 inch flat screen which sat in mute witness to hours of Giants football. Michael ducked his head into the refrigerator and began rummaging as the flat voice of the digital answering machine informed him he had four new messages.

A neutral bystander would have expected the typical bachelor refrigerator; untidy, unstocked and slightly unsanitary but the truth revealed inside was quite the opposite. Every item was neatly placed and labeled with dates. Early in his career Michael had experienced a bout of food poisoning from a long lingering container of sweet and sour pork, forgotten during a two week double homicide case. Since then he had been meticulous with his food; of all the way’s to buy it he was determined it wasn’t going to be that way.

The machine behind beeped and announced message one before a breathy voice filled the still air of the apartment. “Hey Michael this is Rafa. You missed your appointment again this morning. I know you’re busy but I’m not just your doctor but your friend. We can’t ignore this. You need to take a leave and get this taken care of I’m begging you. Please call me and we’ll reschedule.”

Michael selected a container of mushroom chicken whose label proclaimed it to be only four days old and threw it in the microwave. He then retrieved a beer and shut the door to the refrigerator as the answering machine declared it was time for message two. The voice this time was soft but powerful in it’s way. “Hey Mike this is Gabriel. I saw you on the news today. I went to see Thomas in the hospital today and I was hoping I’d see you there. Please call me if you need to. I’m at the parish in the morning it you get this message and feel like talking. Take care.”

The microwave beeped and the aged mushroom chicken was retrieved as message three began playing. “Hey boss it’s Renee. Your cell was off so I’m leaving this message here. One of the mayor’s aides was here looking for you after you left. They want a meeting the day after tomorrow and the aide is hoping we can put this to bed then. I gave him the look. Sleep tight sunshine.” Murdoch laughed on the digital message before it cut off and Michael mirrored the message with a gruff guffaw of his own.

Message four emerged as Michael sat down in front of his television and began sifting through DVR entries for the latest football game. “Lieutenant this is Sanchez. ME’s office got back to me a moment ago and told me they should have a prelim on our two victims tomorrow afternoon. Toxicology and the like won’t be available for a while though. Evidently the pressure is coming from somewhere in D.C. of all places. Graveyard coroner didn’t want to give specifics but I’m guessing it’s someone from the hill since we haven’t heard anything from the FBI. I’ll keep working it but don’t be surprised if our little corner of the world is famous in a whole new way in the morning. Good night.”

Michael shook his head and went back to the game. One container of mushroom chicken and half a beer later he slipped into sleep, his eyes rolling back into his head as the remote fell limply from his hand. If only darkness had awaited beyond the veil of sleep it would have been just as well, Manning had just thrown a pick six. However, the mind can be more remorseless than anything invented by man.

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Michael floated in a gray void, the air neither cool nor warm but disturbingly silent. The silence was deafening if that made sense, so overwhelming he was choking on it in his desperation for a stimulus of any kind.

The faintest light in front of him filled him hope and he willed himself forward. To his surprise he began moving in that direction though he was not sure how he was propelling himself. He had the strongest sensation he was flying but felt no sensation of moving. Instead he had the distinct impression that the world itself was moving around him.

A church surrounded by the cloaked figures of monks emerged from the darkness. It was too dark to see details and though the light inside the church got brighter the closer he got to the church itself the darker his world became. In the distance a bell rang once, twice, a third time and a fence materialized before him.

The fence was wrought iron with what appeared to be spikes dotting it’s apex as far as the eye could see. Upon the gate sat three gargoyles, their twisted faces contorted in churlish poses to frighten would be trespassers. Each face presented itself as a death of some different aspect, but aspects that Michael was easily familiar with.

The first face had the bulging eyes of a strangle victim. The face was so perfect in it’s horrific aspect that Michael could have sworn he saw reticular hemorrhaging on it’s wrought iron face.

The central figure had the swollen tongue so common with poison. As Michael looked more closely he could have sworn the tongue was black and grossly bloated.

The final figure had a deep slash across it’s neck. Though not commonplace, Michael has seen enough of these that he almost overlooked the fine detail. He recoiled in horror as he recognized one of the signatures of the Clockwork. Three tiny vertical cuts transected the killing blow, lining up perfectly with the nose and the center of each eye. Here Michael paused, unsure and unwilling to move past this point. As if sensing his reluctance the gates opened silently of their own accord and the monks turned to face him as one.

Michael fell backward, his arm and legs scrabbling furiously on the invisible ground in a desperate bid to escape this portal and the faceless specters who beckoned him. A relentless pull came from somewhere behind his navel and he felt himself being drawn in against his will. He roared in fury as inch by inch he lost ground to the menacing faces of murder atop the gate. Inch by inch he lost his battle as his futile cries failed to find a sympathetic ear. In despair Michael threw his head back and pleaded tot he heavens, “For the love of God, help me!”

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He awoke on the sofa in a cold sweat, his plain white shirt transparent from his bodies exertions the night before. The television displayed one of the local morning shows and the bottom of the screen informed him that he had managed maybe six hours sleep. Not as much as he would have liked but more than enough to recharge the batteries for the work ahead. He turned up the sound as an image of yesterday’s crime scene came on the screen. “We’re awaiting a press conference later this morning from Senator Morgan Dolomaio in response to the tragic events yesterday in Queens. She is expected to be joined by Mayor James at the dais though her office has not yet hinted as to the nature of her remarks.”

“Uh-oh”, Michael thought to himself as he forced himself to rise. Walking back across the room he took some satisfaction from the fact that his answering machine had no new messages for him. Nothing horrible had occurred in the past few hours at least.

Entering the bedroom he emerged twenty minutes later shaved and showered and immaculate if not resplendent in a fresh charcoal gray suit. He took each of the five flights of stairs slowly, with a measured pace that mirrored the thoughts going through his mind. Mentally he catalogued his goals for the day, the facts he knew and those he wanted to establish, and what tasks he needed members of his team to accomplish if they hadn’t done so already.

He knew from past experience that both Murdoch and Sanchez had probably gone home somewhere between three and four in the morning and he could expect them at work sometime before noon. He emerged onto a moderately busy street in the heart of Queens. The morning sun had risen high enough that the world around him was bathed in it’s light if not it’s heat.

Michael took a deep breath and a let a sigh of satisfaction escape his lips. He loved this neighborhood and it’s people, his people for as long as he could remember. A degree in criminology from Georgetown had taken him away for a time but his heart had never left. Turning to the right Michael began walking past familiar sights. Tandelli’s Pizzeria where he had met his ex-wife, now living in Florida with her new husband and the two children she had deserved but never gotten from him. Xian’s take out, home of the aged mushroom chicken and the infamous sweet and sour pork of years past. Walt’s gym where his father had taught he and his brother to box before dying of cancer when they were ten.

He let the memories roll over him as he walked the eight blocks to St. Gerrard’s church. He bypassed the main doors and made his way to the side of the church and the quaint green door that led to the rectory. The path leading to the doors was lined with white roses, the dew on their petals illuminated by the morning light. The effect was dazzling and gave an otherwordly glow to the simple pathway of meticulously laid brick.

Michael knocked on the door and opened it with a practiced familiarity, greeting the elderly receptionist as he shut the door behind him. “Hi Agnes. Is Gabriel in?”

Agnes stood up and came around the desk to embrace him warmly. “Michael! Vengo qui e lasciami guardo tesoro.” *Come here and let me look at you darling – from Italian* “You don’t look well, are you eating enough? Your mama, rest her soul, would never forgive me if I let one of her baby boys starve to death.”

Gabriel patted his midsection as he smiled , “Xian’s.”

Agnes clucked as she went back around the desk, “No, no, no, take out is no good for a growing boy. You come by this Sunday and we’ll put some meat on those bones eh?”

Michael smiled and held his hands out to his side in surrender, “We’ll see, I’m pretty busy right now. Besides, I’ve quit growing up and knowing how good your food is I’ll only grow out.”

Agnes smiled back and motioned towards the inner door, “Father Gabriel is in his office. He said you might be coming by this morning. He said mass for those poor people yesterday and for the priest from St. Stephens. What a waste. I prayed for those poor girls but why would those animals attack that poor priest like that hmm? So sad, no one has respect for human life anymore. Anyway, he’s waiting for you. Go on in dear.”

Michael excused himself with a final smile, taking care not to comment on the incident at all as training and protocol demanded. It would do no one any good for the press to find out that the lead detective in the case had expressed an opinion of any sort, let alone an opinion shared with the receptionist of a Catholic church. Years of experience had taught him that if their was a shred of scandal to be found the press would usually find it. Better to reserve judgment and do his job as he was required to do.

Michael opened the door and walked into the modestly decorated office of Father Gabriel Domenicalli, who by coincidence could be considered his spiritual father as well as his biological twin. Michael still could not bring himself to address Gabriel as “Father” and he never let Gabriel forget that he was forty-five minutes older than his priestly twin.

Gabriel stood up from behind his desk and his smile lit up the room and his face. “Mike! Come, sit! You look like hell.”

“Language,” Michael reprimanded Gabriel with a teasing smile. “Which one of us is the priest here?”

Gabriel pulled a chair out for Michael and patted him on the shoulder as he sat down. “In my spiritual life I have been forced to visualize that perdition which must be hell and I only expressed that your visage reminded me of that unholy place.” Gabriel smirked and sat back in his chair reaching for a bottle of wine from the desk in front of him. “Vino?”

Michael made an exaggerated motion, miming the action of looking at a watch, and proclaimed, “Still a bit early for that isn’t it or did I get more sleep than I thought? You know that may be the reason your tongue has given voice to your sin.”

Gabriel and Michael both laughed together and the room brightened a little as the noise took them back in time to younger, happier days. Gabriel poured himself a glass of wine and shrugged as Michael made a gesture of polite refusal. “I’ve already said mass twice in the past 12 hours and I did not want to waste this precious bounty and it’s sweet bouquet by letting it sit idly.” Gabriel raised his glass to Michael, “Though I assure you that the rest will be saved for mass this evening.”

Michael looked across at Gabriel and smiled. Though fraternal twins, their features mirrored each other to such an extent that they had often been mistaken for identical. If one looked closely one could see the differences. Where Michael’s face had lines of concentration and stress etched into the down turned edges of his often stern mouth, Gabriel’s mouth showed the laugh lines of a life lived with a happiness that Michael envied. Gabriel’s nose was slightly bent to the right, a souvenir from his brother during one particularly intense boxing lesson. A small scar below Michael’s right eye the souvenir of his days on patrol in the Bronx.

However, any onlooker would have noticed the differences between them based solely on the aura they gave off. Michael seemed wan and pale while Gabriel shone with light and vibrance. A light and vibrance that appeared to be reinvigorating

Michael even in the few moments he had been with his “younger” brother.

Michael raised a quizzical eyebrow as he pointed to the now corked bottle, “Special vintage then?”

Gabriel raised his glass in salute, “Thomas Jenkins and I were in the seminary together. He’s a good man, a gentle man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him but then who does? Lord willing he’ll make a full recovery.”

Gabriel took a drink and looked hard at Michael, “Then there are those two girls. What an awful tragedy. The whole thing seems like some kind of cruel farce.”

They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, catching up on the events of their lives before Gabriel paused and set down the glass, “Are you okay?”

Michael looked at the ceiling and let out a long breath, the smile disappearing from his face. “I’m tired Gabriel. I’m just tired. Lately I just feel heavy inside, empty and barren. Each crime takes a little bit more and I don’t know why.” Michael looked down and locked eyes with his brother, “I think God has abandoned us.”

Gabriel considered grabbing the purple stole from his desk and offering reconciliation to his brother but the look on Michael’s face gave him pause. Confession was spiritual healing for those who sinned but here was a soul, his brother’s soul, searching for answers. Was he the one to provide them? “Have you talked to someone, a therapist?”

Michael sat back with a short grunt, “I thought I was talking to someone.”

Gabriel raised his hands in mock surrender, “You know what I mean. You sound depressed. It can happen, even to hardened homicide detectives. You see some of the worst that humanity has to offer and you’re asked to make sense of it for the rest of us. Every crime is a world you enter, internalize, and rationalize in order to have a successful conclusion. Given what happened yesterday”, Gabriel paused and considered his words for a moment, “and with the Clockwork Killer I would be surprised if you weren’t having trouble dealing with it. You ARE only human.”

Michael nodded to himself, “I hate clocks now. I mean regular clocks not the digital kind. Every time I see the hands I see the bodies posed that way. Taunting....grotesque....evil”

Gabriel folded his hands as he listened. As Michel finished he said softly, “Now we get to it. Now you need a priest. Ask the question.”

Michael clenched his hand together tightly as if in prayer. In his minds eye he saw a single red hole amongst a mass of blond hair and the broken and bruised body of her killer. In a flash they were replaced by images of children found in a clockwise pattern across the Bronx, Queens and Manhattan. Their bodies laid out with hands indicating the hour. Michael’s mind eye lingered on nine, noon and three. Their bodies mutilated as none of the others had been. A mystery never truly solved, their faces had been unrecognizable and unavailable for the grieving families he notified with grim earnestness.

Michael sat in silence for several long moments and finally he spoke, “Why does he let it happen? Where is he amongst all of this?”

Gabriel shook his head in sadness, the corners of his mouth turning downward for the first time. “Mike, you know the answer, you just don’t like it. If I knew the complete truth I’d tell you but you know as well as I do that we have only the tiniest sliver of that truth. That’s faith.”

Michael mirrored Gabriel’s actions, his head shaking slowly back and forth as his gaze lingered on his hands, “Then maybe I’ve lost my faith.”

Gabriel reached across and took his brothers hands in his own, “I’m afraid you haven’t, that’s why it hurts. If you didn’t care, didn’t believe, you wouldn’t be here. Sometimes when a child is learning to walk their parent must stand back and let them walk on their own. Eventually the child falls and skins his knee. He cries in pain but also cries in frustration and anger, looking for his father to pick him up and make it better. Early on the father helps the child but eventually he must let the child pick himself up as the child cries in anger. However, the child learns to walk on their own and pick themselves up when they fall.”

“I don’t need parables damn it!” Michael retorted in anger, snatching his hands furiously away from Gabriel.

Gabriel looked profoundly sad and sat back again in anticipation of his brother’s departure, “I know that Michael, but I can’t give you what you need. You know where you need to go for that. Please talk to him and find what you need again.”

Michael stood and waved in farewell and apology, “If you talk to Father Jenkins can you let him know we have some questions for him. I’ve got to get to work.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 6