Chapter 1

“A thing always starts small. An idea, a painting, a living being, an ending; they are all the same. It is then that it is most vulnerable, for if conditions are wrong then your thing shall shrivel and die. So one searches for a time and a place where you hope conditions are ripe...and then you wait”

--A Voice in the darkness

Detective Michael Domenicalli stared at the remains in front of him and his heart fell through his chest and into his shoes. What he was looking at would surely keep him up this night with endless documentation, press conferences and a futile search for the answers that would be demanded. What he wouldn’t admit to himself now were the years of insomnia ahead that this horror in front of him would birth.

A young woman, her abdomen slightly bulging with what should have been a happy condition, lay in the street. Her angelic blond face looked to the sky with glassy eyes that could no longer see; it’s beauty marred by a single seeping hole in an otherwise perfect forehead. Next to her, lay another body, this one not so pristine. The young lady’s face was covered in welts and cuts, the eyes swollen shut as if the body itself did not want to see what its animus had done to the aforementioned. Though not visible, Michael knew that the rest of the body was surely in the same state as the once beautiful face now marred by murder done and received.

Domenicalli looked around at the circus that a high-profile murder such as this created. The TV crews were the first thing he noticed. Behind each cold glass eye, was a human being far too used to seeing things like this. They were not too dissimilar from him except for the fact that occasions such as these were their financial bread-and-butter. That thought vaguely sickened Domenicalli. Next to each glass eye was a hardened reporter whose job it was to make the reporting of murder look good. Their plastic grins, lying eyes, and plastered hairdos gave nothing away to the world as they began to spin this sordid tale in whatever way they saw fit. This sickened Domenicalli as well. By far the worst though were those people who showed up simply to see what had happened. The gawkers as they were, the admirers of death. Almost every homicide had them, but homicides such as this brought them out in enormous numbers. These were the people he could really do without. They were always there, always listening, always prodding, always getting in the way, always waiting for a chance to look upon death and feel better for it. He and his fellow officers had debated these people’s motives many times, and the theories about them were numerous and varied. Personally, he felt that most of them just liked to see death so they knew that they were alive.

"What in God’s name happened here Sanchez?" Domenicalli asked the woman who was kneeling next to the pregnant lady.

“Leave God out of this one detective, just more ugliness in an increasingly ugly world.” Sanchez covered each of the bodies, her hand unconsciously straying to the womb which has produced two children of its own. She had worked hard to earn promotion in what was still a male dominated profession but scenes like this still tugged on her inner female as she called it. The inner core she covered in the veneer of hardened police officer so that she could do the job. Hoping no one noticed she quietly placed a hand on each forehead and recited a quick prayer before before standing.

Domenicalli noticed, it was his job to notice everything. He gave her a slight nod and motioned with his hand for her to push the death gawkers back a few more feet. The unspoken message was passed, keep it hidden and to yourself. Religion was something the public wanted in their preachers and their homes; not in public and not in their police officers. The last thing he needed was one of the plastic smiles to get a shot of Sanchez praying over the deceased. The resultant expose’s and public hearings would be never ending and, in his mind, disrespectful to the grisly scene before him. Besides, it appeared there was a surfeit of religion in this case already. He reached down and retrieved the small golden cross from the ground. It was caked in blood and the chain it had been attached to had long ago surrendered to the dozens of angry fists and snatching hands which had extracted a mob’s vengeance.

The cross along with the various sundry items collected at scenes like this went into small plastic bags. Their contents fastidiously cataloged and recorded so that the chaos of a crime committed could hopefully become the order of a crime solved. In due time the bodies of the two young woman were taken away for later examination, a task Domenicalli dreaded but knew was necessary. Now this human tragedy was set apart from the world by a border of yellow police tape. Its inhabitants included technicians, numbered plaques, and a collection of blood stains. Michael took a last look at his domain, this crime scene over which he had total control if not yet total knowledge. Then he sighed and went under the tape into the larger world, into the swirling chaotic aftermath whose boundaries he could not even begin to comprehend.

Chapter Two

“If you have men who will exclude any of God’s creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who deal likewise with their fellow men”

--St. Francis of Assisi

“What do you have for me Murdoch? Don’t throw me to those vultures with my head in my hands.” Michael was back in his office. The sterile clock opposite the door told him that he had thirty minutes before he had to stand in front of the cameras and tell the gathered masses how his investigation fared. It didn’t matter that the crime was barely four hours old and that this case and the thirty other unsolved cases on his desk had allowed him seven hours sleep in the last three days. It also didn’t matter that his last substantial meal had been a slice of pizza and a couple of wings some twenty hours previous. The public demanded answers.

“Bio on the two vics is on your desk. Forensics won’t be in until morning at the earliest. Preliminary causes of death are with the bios. Security cam footage from the clinic and the restaurant across the street are coming in and will probably be available tomorrow. Eyewitness statements are coming in and we’ve got a couple people lined up for you when your done with this boss. Have fun!” Renee Murdoch flashed her boss her most infuriating smile and secretly thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have to go out there. The jockeying for position had started a little over an hour ago and the summer heat and looming deadlines meant that the talking heads were getting grumpy.

Domenicalli grunted an acknowledgment, a non-commital noise that Murdoch knew to translate as thank you and you’re dismissed. Their long years working together had cemented a bond that bordered on prescient and might have been mistaken for intimacy to the uninitiated. Those that knew them knew that Michael and Renee were good friends and could stand each other outside of work for about an hour before each wanted to strangle the other.

Michael flicked on the TV and sat back to read the information as the screen flickered to life. The yellow tape that flashed on screen looked familiar as did the forced expression of concern on the screen,

“...That’s right Robert, we’re expecting a news conference with lead detective Michael Domenicalli shortly. Details are still sketchy but we do know that a shooting occurred outside the Queens Women’s Medical Clinic earlier today. The clinic was the site of a series of protests by pro-life and pro-choice groups today in response to the governor’s call for greater access and availability of family planning services to include abortion. There are reports that after the shooting, fighting broke out amongst the protestors. Several people were injured and at least two people were killed. Again, we stress that this information is preliminary and the details are not yet known. Back to you Robert.”

The screen shifted to the local anchor as Michael turned the pages on his biographical information. This was turning out to be a disaster.

“Domenicalli as you know is famous for solving the now infamous clockwork serial killer case. His fiery testimony in last years explosive trial led to the conviction of this man, New York socialite Edward Cohen. Before his arrest Cohen, seen here at his charity “Hands and Hearts for Humanity”, was famous for his support of Israel, devout faith and great humanitarian work here and abroad. The country is still reeling from that case as we wait for the news conference from Queens.”

Domenicalli looked up from his reading for a moment to see the smiling face of Edward Cohen. “Bastard”, he thought. He still had trouble getting the images of those crime scenes out of his head. The worst had been the two little girls in the Bronx. “No, don’t think of that now you have work to do” he chided himself and he went back to the pages.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Murdoch returned with a cup of coffee, nicely tanned, and a lit cigarette which she placed on the edge of the overflowing ashtray on his desk. “You know I might just marry you someday if you keep this up” Domenicalli joked as he reached for the cigarette and coffee simultaneously.

“I should be so lucky” Murdoch quipped back with an exaggerated hip shake. “I see they dredged up New York’s finest again. Are they ever going to let that go? The guy fooled everybody, but he was a creep” Murdoch’s lips curled back in a sneer on that last word, she too was haunted by the scenes they encountered on that case. She and Sanchez had taken a month’s vacation after that case and had taken their kids to Disney World. They had needed a little bit of sunshine after that particular piece of hell and their shared vice was theme parks. The thought of that vacation brought a wry smile back to her face and she nodded inwardly, “Good, the medicine is still working.”

She looked down at the scowling visage of her boss’s face. The cigarette hung loosely from the side of his mouth and the coffee was perched precariously in a forgotten hand as he poured over the information. She’d scanned the information before she handed it to him, it didn’t look good. This case was going to be another media circus. They would be lucky if that’s all it turned into. If someone in power wanted to make a mess out of this case the whole thing could turn into a real shit storm.

Murdoch returned her gaze to Domenicalli, “I wish he had some sort of feel good place he’d go to. Maybe he’ll go see Brother Gabriel after this. Couldn’t hurt”

Five minutes to go, showtime.

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Michael fidgeted with the tie again. He never seemed to be able to get them straight and though he did his best to look presentable the fact is he looked a mess. Harried and harassed, Domenicalli knew he took this job too personally and it was wearing on him. How that affected the vertical nature of his tie he wasn’t sure but a helpful mirror from the television assistant reflected the dark bags under his eyes and the sparse beard that covered much of his face. Stress and time had grayed his temples and put streaks in his beard. It left him with a gravity and seriousness that should have been beyond his forty years. He scowled as the dark bags were camoflaged under some arcane substance applied liberally by the fluttering television assistant. Smirking to herself the assistant declared him ready to go and halogen lamps flared to life around a simple podium emblazoned with the crest of the New York Police Department. The lamps were stifling. The heat they produced was capable of cooking a frozen burrito, it had been tried, and he worried briefly about the thermal qualities of the arcane substance that had been caked to his face. The public relations officer had stepped to the podium and Domenicalli was dimly aware of the brief words of introduction as he collected his thoughts and shuffled the notes and papers he held. The talking had ceased and the PR man was holding an outstretched hand towards him, it was time.

He walked out in front of the cameras and did his best not to squint as the lights bathed him in their unrelenting heat. He grasped the edges of the podium and the gathered journalists settled in. He knew that they were dying to ask questions but they would have to wait, he had questions of his own to answer first. The room was dingy and the roof stained with cigarette smoke from an age gone by. The walls were covered in faux wood paneling that suggested elegance but reflected institutional backdrop. The reporters were seated in uneven rows upon aging chairs who only appeared for events like this and Domenicalli had grown to hate them over the years. He set his papers down in front of him and manipulated the laptop ion the lectern. An eight foot display screen behind him flickered to life. He appreciated the technological help and made a mental note to thank Murdoch for getting it together. The face on the laptop screen was young, much to young. In a moment it would be on the display screen behind him and he would be introducing her to the world.

“Good evening ladies and gentleman. I am Lieutenant Michael Domenicalli. Today at approximately 11:30 local time a series of events happened outside the Queens Women’s Medical Center that resulted in 27 wounded individuals, four of them hospitalized, and the death of two young women. The families of the two young women have been notified and I will be giving you some preliminary information about them shortly. At this time no arrests have been made. I have to stress that we have not established the exact details of what happened in Queens this afternoon and I will not be commenting on those events at this time.”

It was a lie, he was pretty sure of what had happened but he preferred to keep his information close at the moment. There was still a lot of work to do and he hoped he would find the answers. He touched a key on the computer in front of him and the young face flashed on the screen behind him. She was pretty. Her face was rounded with a slight dimple in her right cheek as she smiled brightly for the camera. Her blond hair was back in a ponytail, a single streak of red marking the rich honey color as it fell behind her neck. Her eyes blue flecked with green seperated by a pert nose that could only be described as cute. She was dead and it took all of Michael’s willpower not to imagine a single red hole in the middle of her wrinkle free forehead.

“Victim one is seventeen year old Natalie Fossbender. She was pronounced dead at the scene. Preliminary cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head. She was a native of New York and lived with her parents and two brothers in the borough of Queens. Natalie was a senior at Saint Stephens High School and it is unclear at this time why she was at the scene. With the permission of the family and Saint Stephens her school activities and relevant academic information have been made available and that information is in your press briefings. I will say that she was a good student, an athlete, and a member of several student organizations. There is no evidence at this time that the attack was personally motivated.”

Domenicalli paused for a moment before pressing the key on the keyboard again. Natalie’s picture disappeared and a second picture took it’s place. The face on the screen was of a young woman, older than the previous girl though still deserving of the moniker young lady. She was pretty as well though something about the eyes suggested an inner sadness. The picture had obviously been taken at some unknown park as she lounged under what looked like an oak tree. Her smile was thin but pleasant as she stroked the hair of a golden retriever whose head lay in her lap. Brown hair cut short and bobbed at the back hid delicate ears that had the barest hint of sunburn on them. It was hard to tell eye color from the picture but Domenicalli knew that they were a chocolate brown, liquid and deep. He paused to look at the picture, so different from the beaten form he had seen just a few hours ago.

“Victim two is twenty-two year old Rita Jameson. Miss Jameson was a native of Deer Meadow, Indiana and was enrolled as a junior at Fordham University. Rita was majoring in biological sciences and transferred to Fordham from Deer Meadow Community College 6 months ago. Authorities in Deer Meadow have informed me that the family would like protect their daughters privacy as much as possible and we have complied. It has been confirmed that Miss Jameson was at the medical center as part of a pro-life protest organized by Golden Apple Evangelical Church and Saint Stephens Parish; both of Queens. Miss Jameson was an active member of the Golden Apple congregation and spent much of her free time volunteering in clothing donation and the soup kitchen run by the church. Her preliminary cause of death was blunt force trauma and she was pronounced dead at the scene. Rita is survived by her parents and 3 brothers and two sisters.”

Domenicalli pressed the button to turn off the monitor. Calmly he folded his notes and placed them in the folder which contained the bulk of the investigation so far. “I’m sure you will understand that we wish to keep the majority of our preliminary data confidential at the moment as we piece together this tragedy and prepare any possible criminal case for the district attorney. I’ll now take questions”

Hands shot in the air as if from a cannon and a reporter from the front row immediately launched into a question, “Is it true that Miss Fossbender was pregnant and had an appointment with the Queen’s Women’s Center to obtain an abortion?” Domenicalli knew that the reporter already knew the answer to the question. Someone was bound to have leaked the info for one reason or another and the reporter, one Frank Sanderson, was especially adept at weasling out the slightest crumb of information in a sea of confusion. He probably would have been a good detective. As it was Michael was not overly fond of Sanderson because he tended to make his job harder. He didn’t like him but he did respect him. Sanderson stared up at him, notebook in hand and pencil poised as Domenicalli prepared to answer.

“We have no defenitive information on that at this time. The medical examiner’s post-mortem will be able to clarify Miss Fossbender’s medical condition and we are interviewing witnesses from the scene as we speak. We are not prepared to release any details at this time.”

Michael pointedly looked to other side of the room but not before Sanderson’s reedy voice rang out again, “Follow up...was Miss Fossbender’s murder religiously motivated and can we label this a ’domestic terrorist act?’”

There it was, it was clear what Sanderson wanted him to say. His news organization would love to be able to use this as a political football for their own particular causes. To be fair, the whole lot of them would. He wouldn’t allow that today, not yet. “I think it’s way too early to jump to those types of conclusions Frank. Let’s let the investigation proceed and we’ll see where that leads us.”

Michael answered a few more questions, a few more probes for reasons or further data and one reporter who asked him if this was another sign of the country’s declining morals. He had nearly tripped up on that question and had caught himself in time. He answered the question in some non-committal way but had wanted to ask her what the hell was wrong with her. If two kids being murdered wasn’t enough for you now you want to throw the country’s morals into the mix. The press conference was halted after that, it had run it’s course. Out of the glaring lights Michael shed the restrictions of his coat and loosened his tie as he proceeded down the mercifully cool hallway towards the elevator and eventually his office. He had at least another six hours of work in front of him before he could think of turning this over to others and slip into the oblivion of sleep. He took a long drag on a cigarette staring blankly at the “No Smoking” sign on the wall and then extinguished it on the bottom of his shoe. Sighing he entered the elevator and began to rise into the heart of the hurricane he found himself in.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3