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Authors: Heather Graham
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send him right over.â
Jake hunkered down on the balls of his feet to study the body in the position in which it had been found.
He didnât need the medical examiner to tell him that the woman had been dead for some time. She had been exposed to the elements and to the small animals that called the area home. There were places where she was down to no more than bone, and places where flesh clung precariously to the body. It appeared that she had been left without clothing of any kind. A quick look, using his pen to shift fallen foliage for a better view, showed that unfortunately the hands had decomposed almost fully, as had much of the face.
Another murder in the county. It happened. Put millions of people together, and murder happened.
But he knew exactly why Martin had been so tense when he had called him, urging him to reach the scene as quickly as possible.
The face, though maintaining few of the qualities that marked men and women as human, had apparently not taken the same abuse as the hands.
And it was apparent that what had once been the ears had been slashed.
A chill crept through him, along with a bitterness he could actually taste.
Déjà vu.
Peter Bordon, also known as Papa Pierre, had been locked up for a long time now. Five years. But even a seconds-long, cursory inspection of this body was eerily reminiscent of the victims that had been discovered during Bordonâs reign as leader of the bizarre cult called People for Principle.
âYes, heâs still in prison,â Martin said, reading his partnerâs mind.
âYouâre sure?â
âYeah. I called and checked the moment I saw the body, right after I called you,â Martin said. âHeâs in prisonâwhether it really matters or not, thatâs where he is.â
âSorry,â Jake murmured. He couldnât quite help having a tense attitude on this one. Peter Bordon had garnered a group around him as if he had been a true modern-day prophet. He had preached about community, working for the benefit of all mankind and giving up the luxuries of a sinful life. For most of his followers, that had meant donating everything they had ever worked for to Bordonâs own bank account.
Three of his alleged followers had wound up dead. Discovered in fields and canals.
With their ears slashed.
No weapons had ever been found. No real leads had ever been discovered. Bordon had been the only suspect, but there had been nothing whatsoever to prove he might be guilty. The police had managed to obtain a search warrant for his holdings, but nothing had been found except for some illegal financial activity, which in the end had been enough to earn him jail time.
Late one night, an itinerant man had come bursting into one of the small precinct stations, confessing to the murders.
While homicide was being notified of his arrival and confession, the young man had hanged himself with his belt in his cell.
And that should have been it.
But Jake and most of his task force hadnât believed that one crazed man had been responsible for a series of killings that had been so meticulously carried out. The case had never been officially closed, but with the death of the man who had confessed, the imprisonment of Bordon based on what they were able to bring into court, and the fact that no more bodies had been discovered, they had been forced to move on to new investigations.
Jake had never been satisfied, though. For him, it had never ended.
They hadnât gotten Bordon on murder.
Bordon had been involved. He was sure of it. But there was no proof. Jake had never thought that Bordon had physically carried out the crimes; they had been done at his command.
Now he was in prison, but there was no reason in hell why he couldnât be calling the shots from his cell.
Bordon had a power far greater than strength or any material weapon. He had the ability to manipulate men and women. To get into their minds.
He
Jake hunkered down on the balls of his feet to study the body in the position in which it had been found.
He didnât need the medical examiner to tell him that the woman had been dead for some time. She had been exposed to the elements and to the small animals that called the area home. There were places where she was down to no more than bone, and places where flesh clung precariously to the body. It appeared that she had been left without clothing of any kind. A quick look, using his pen to shift fallen foliage for a better view, showed that unfortunately the hands had decomposed almost fully, as had much of the face.
Another murder in the county. It happened. Put millions of people together, and murder happened.
But he knew exactly why Martin had been so tense when he had called him, urging him to reach the scene as quickly as possible.
The face, though maintaining few of the qualities that marked men and women as human, had apparently not taken the same abuse as the hands.
And it was apparent that what had once been the ears had been slashed.
A chill crept through him, along with a bitterness he could actually taste.
Déjà vu.
Peter Bordon, also known as Papa Pierre, had been locked up for a long time now. Five years. But even a seconds-long, cursory inspection of this body was eerily reminiscent of the victims that had been discovered during Bordonâs reign as leader of the bizarre cult called People for Principle.
âYes, heâs still in prison,â Martin said, reading his partnerâs mind.
âYouâre sure?â
âYeah. I called and checked the moment I saw the body, right after I called you,â Martin said. âHeâs in prisonâwhether it really matters or not, thatâs where he is.â
âSorry,â Jake murmured. He couldnât quite help having a tense attitude on this one. Peter Bordon had garnered a group around him as if he had been a true modern-day prophet. He had preached about community, working for the benefit of all mankind and giving up the luxuries of a sinful life. For most of his followers, that had meant donating everything they had ever worked for to Bordonâs own bank account.
Three of his alleged followers had wound up dead. Discovered in fields and canals.
With their ears slashed.
No weapons had ever been found. No real leads had ever been discovered. Bordon had been the only suspect, but there had been nothing whatsoever to prove he might be guilty. The police had managed to obtain a search warrant for his holdings, but nothing had been found except for some illegal financial activity, which in the end had been enough to earn him jail time.
Late one night, an itinerant man had come bursting into one of the small precinct stations, confessing to the murders.
While homicide was being notified of his arrival and confession, the young man had hanged himself with his belt in his cell.
And that should have been it.
But Jake and most of his task force hadnât believed that one crazed man had been responsible for a series of killings that had been so meticulously carried out. The case had never been officially closed, but with the death of the man who had confessed, the imprisonment of Bordon based on what they were able to bring into court, and the fact that no more bodies had been discovered, they had been forced to move on to new investigations.
Jake had never been satisfied, though. For him, it had never ended.
They hadnât gotten Bordon on murder.
Bordon had been involved. He was sure of it. But there was no proof. Jake had never thought that Bordon had physically carried out the crimes; they had been done at his command.
Now he was in prison, but there was no reason in hell why he couldnât be calling the shots from his cell.
Bordon had a power far greater than strength or any material weapon. He had the ability to manipulate men and women. To get into their minds.
He
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