Read Online The Lord Is My Shepherd by Debbie Viguié - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Debbie Viguié
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off. Thief kills the guy, robs the till, runs off. This is different. The killer systematically destroyed everything in here and didn't take anything.”
“Except the body,” Paul pointed out.
“Have you found it yet?”
Paul shook his head. “No, just the blood.”
Mark looked up at the wall where the words Get Out! had been written in blood in foot-tall letters.
He took a deep breath. “This is … something else.”
“What?”
Mark continued to stare at the letters. “It's almost like a command or a warning.”
“To whom?”
Mark shook his head slowly. “The panic button was never pushed?”
“No, the guy must not have had time,” Paul said. “There was never any alarm sounded.”
Mark took another look around and then walked outside, needing some fresh air to clear his head. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The call had come in just after midnight from a driver who had been using the parking lot to turn around and had noticed that the doors were hanging off their hinges. He had already been questioned and sent on his way.
The detective walked the parking lot, looking for something, anything that would give him a clue. His thoughts turned back to the blood inside. There had to be a body. Why would the killer have taken it with him, though?
It didn't seem right. The killer must have left the body somewhere; they just hadn't found it yet. He turned to goback inside, and his eyes fell on the building next door. It was a small church with an electric cross glowing on its front. A sick feeling twisted his gut, and he walked slowly toward it.
Something fluttered on the lawn. He approached, and in the light from the electric cross he looked down. A table, a twin to the one that was smashed up in the store, lay flipped upside down. Lying spread-eagled on it was the body he had been looking for. The man's eyes were frozen wide in terror. His throat had been slit. The victim's shirt had been ripped open to expose deep furrows that had been cut into his chest. Bloody dollar bills were clenched tight in each fist.
“Paul!” Mark shouted.
Moments later his partner stood next to him. The other detective whistled low.
“Looks like we found our body,” Mark said grimly. There was something familiar about it all, something he felt he was missing. Paul bent down to take a closer look.
“So, why leave Mr. Moneybags on the church lawn?”
“Good question,” Mark said.
“Wild week. Three murders so far.”
“And the week's only getting started.”
“At this rate imagine how bad it's going to be by Easter,” Paul said. Mark swore to himself. “What is it?”
“Easter week. Someone's recreating Easter week.”
“What do you mean?”
“First, the guy on the donkey—the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. The next thing he did was drive the money changers from the temple.”
“That's what this is?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, think about it. Money changers took advantage of people who didn't have much choice. These check-cashingplaces charge insane fees and prey on people who are down on their luck, those who don't have bank accounts, or need quick loans.”
“Yeah, they make it nearly impossible for people to survive while at the same time earning the gratitude of those who need their services,” Paul said.
“Exactly. The whole driving-the-money-changers-from-the-temple thing. Jesus smashed up their tables and equipment.”
“Just like inside,” Paul noted.
“And he drove them out with a whip.”
“And this guy has certainly been worked over with a whip,” Paul said, indicating the lacerations on the man's chest.
“Sick. Two events of Easter week have already been recreated.”
“What about the guy in the church? What did he represent?” Paul asked. “I mean, aside from the location, there was nothing unusual about that one. Nothing like this or the donkey guy.”
Mark shook his head slowly. “You got me.”
“Maybe we should talk to somebody
“Except the body,” Paul pointed out.
“Have you found it yet?”
Paul shook his head. “No, just the blood.”
Mark looked up at the wall where the words Get Out! had been written in blood in foot-tall letters.
He took a deep breath. “This is … something else.”
“What?”
Mark continued to stare at the letters. “It's almost like a command or a warning.”
“To whom?”
Mark shook his head slowly. “The panic button was never pushed?”
“No, the guy must not have had time,” Paul said. “There was never any alarm sounded.”
Mark took another look around and then walked outside, needing some fresh air to clear his head. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. The call had come in just after midnight from a driver who had been using the parking lot to turn around and had noticed that the doors were hanging off their hinges. He had already been questioned and sent on his way.
The detective walked the parking lot, looking for something, anything that would give him a clue. His thoughts turned back to the blood inside. There had to be a body. Why would the killer have taken it with him, though?
It didn't seem right. The killer must have left the body somewhere; they just hadn't found it yet. He turned to goback inside, and his eyes fell on the building next door. It was a small church with an electric cross glowing on its front. A sick feeling twisted his gut, and he walked slowly toward it.
Something fluttered on the lawn. He approached, and in the light from the electric cross he looked down. A table, a twin to the one that was smashed up in the store, lay flipped upside down. Lying spread-eagled on it was the body he had been looking for. The man's eyes were frozen wide in terror. His throat had been slit. The victim's shirt had been ripped open to expose deep furrows that had been cut into his chest. Bloody dollar bills were clenched tight in each fist.
“Paul!” Mark shouted.
Moments later his partner stood next to him. The other detective whistled low.
“Looks like we found our body,” Mark said grimly. There was something familiar about it all, something he felt he was missing. Paul bent down to take a closer look.
“So, why leave Mr. Moneybags on the church lawn?”
“Good question,” Mark said.
“Wild week. Three murders so far.”
“And the week's only getting started.”
“At this rate imagine how bad it's going to be by Easter,” Paul said. Mark swore to himself. “What is it?”
“Easter week. Someone's recreating Easter week.”
“What do you mean?”
“First, the guy on the donkey—the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. The next thing he did was drive the money changers from the temple.”
“That's what this is?” Paul asked.
“Yeah, think about it. Money changers took advantage of people who didn't have much choice. These check-cashingplaces charge insane fees and prey on people who are down on their luck, those who don't have bank accounts, or need quick loans.”
“Yeah, they make it nearly impossible for people to survive while at the same time earning the gratitude of those who need their services,” Paul said.
“Exactly. The whole driving-the-money-changers-from-the-temple thing. Jesus smashed up their tables and equipment.”
“Just like inside,” Paul noted.
“And he drove them out with a whip.”
“And this guy has certainly been worked over with a whip,” Paul said, indicating the lacerations on the man's chest.
“Sick. Two events of Easter week have already been recreated.”
“What about the guy in the church? What did he represent?” Paul asked. “I mean, aside from the location, there was nothing unusual about that one. Nothing like this or the donkey guy.”
Mark shook his head slowly. “You got me.”
“Maybe we should talk to somebody
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