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Cuyahoga County Prosecutor, Peter Saul, fumbled for the phone on the nightstand beside his bed. “Who is this?” “April Denholm. Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve stumbled onto a pretty gruesome scene a few blocks from your house.” Peter Saul looked over at his sleeping wife, Marilyn, her red hair draped across her face. He spoke in a hushed whisper. “What’d you find?” “A women called the station a few hours ago to report a peeping Tom over at St. Andrew’s Church. We didn’t get here until a few minutes ago.” “Why the delay?” “She’s notorious for false alarms, so the local police didn’t take her seriously.” “Go on.” “When the patrolmen arrived, the front door was open, so they walked in and found a corpse stabbed to death on the altar. It’s pretty messy.” “Did you call Jimmy Graham?” “He’s already here snapping pictures.” “I'll be right over.” “There’s more.” “What?” “The pastor is all scratched up, and he isn’t talking.” “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Saul hung up the phone then turned on the lamp on the nightstand. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and fished his feet around for his slippers. He shuffled over to the closet and pulled a pair of jeans over his pajama bottoms. He tugged on an Ohio State sweatshirt, a pair of wingtips, and grabbed his tan overcoat. He walked around the other side of the bed, leaned over, then kissed his wife on the cheek. She opened her eyes. “What time is it?” “It’s very late.” “Where are you going?” “They found someone murdered over at St. Andrew’s.” “That’s just down the street.” “Don’t worry, everything is fine.” “Check on Jason before you go.” “I’m sure he’s okay.” “Just look in on him.” “I will. Go back to sleep.” He kissed her on the forehead; she closed her eyes. He walked down the hall and noticed light reflecting on the hardwood floor under his stepson’s bedroom door. That kid will be the ruin of me. He trudged down the arched stairway, across the great room with its vaulted ceiling, and into the attached garage. A few minutes later he parked his black BMW on the street outside St. Andrew’s Church. Yellow police tape, strung from tree to tree, fluttered in the breeze and surrounded the white-sided building. The steeple’s silhouette reached into the moonlit sky. Lights blazed through the windows. Saul walked up the uneven sidewalk and nodded to the uniformed patrolman standing near the front door. Lieutenant April Denholm met him inside the vestibule, her bright blue eyes looking surprisingly alert for this time of the night. Wheat-gold ringlets dangled around her oval face and partially covered her milk-white neck and narrow shoulders. “Give me the scoop,” Saul said. “The deceased is a blonde female approximately 25 years old. No ID. She was stabbed repeatedly, dozens of times actually.” “Does the pastor know her?” Saul asked. “If he does, he’s not saying. You want to talk to him? We’ve got him in the office.” “Not yet, I want to look around first.” They walked down the center aisle; the sound of their shoes echoed through the cavernous room and mingled with the rapid clicking of a camera shutter. As they approached the sanctuary, a sickish-sweet scent of blood mingled with a tinge of sage permeated the air. The victim came into full view, tied to the altar. She lay with her arms and head hanging off one end of the altar, her blonde hair spilling back toward the floor. The pink blouse was ripped open and saturated with blood. Her bra was hiked up around her throat. Ample breasts were cut to ribbons. Punctures and slashes riddled a taut abdomen. White lace panties hung from her left ankle. Coagulated blood blanketed the stone altar, and puddled on the floor in an irregular, black pool. A gray skirt lay crumpled on the floor. Jimmy Graham stopped snapping close-ups and turned toward Saul. “Howdy, Pete. How’s this for a little late-night excitement?”
