23.
It was midday now, which meant roughly 30 hours since Barb had disappeared. Of course Stan didn’t know when exactly they had nailed Barb on the cross, or even if they had yet, or were waiting to see if their manifesto was being released, though that was a slim hope to hang her life on. Even if they had not yet nailed her up, had they whipped her, like they had done to the others? He tried to imagine her naked body, writhing in horrible pain. “Stop it!” he told himself, “You have to focus on finding her.”
Desperate for some reassurance, Stan called Charlie Yang. “Charlie, you said you thought a fit young person could last 48 hours on the cross, is that right?”
“Stan, that’s what I’ve gleaned from on-line sources, but who knows how reliable they are? It’s not like there are clinical studies in the literature. And I don’t think there will be either, though maybe I should write a case report.”
“Shit, Charlie, this is Barb we’re talking about now, not a case!”
“Sorry, Stan. I’ve heard you two were very close.”
“So the rumors had made it to the ME’s office within 24 hours?” Stan thought. “This goddamn department is like fuckin’ Payton Place,” Stan said.
“And that surprises you?” Charlie asked.
“Not really,” Stan sighed.
“Look, Stan, all I can tell you is that the sooner you find her the better. I don’t want to give you false hope, but I don’t want to give you cause to be more afraid than you already are.”
“I understand, Charlie, and I didn’t mean to take your head off. This case is just making me feel useless. Why would anyone crucify someone?”
“I’m just a pathologist. I work on dead bodies and tissue samples. Maybe you should talk to a shrink.” Stan had dealt with psychological profilers of perps before and never found them all that helpful. And time was of the essence here. He was going to concentrate his efforts on finding the white van. His gut told him that even though the kid who’d IDed it wasn’t the world’s most solid citizen that he’d gotten that right.
As he put the phone down, Stan saw Reggie’s towering figure coming towards him. “What’s up chief?” he asked.
“The brass has decided to release that manifesto.” Stan was relieved, though he didn’t show it. “It may not stop them,” Reggie continued, “In fact, we have to assume it won’t and devote everything we have to finding her, but I don’t think anyone could live with the possibility that it might have prevented them from crucifying her. What you got for me Stan?”
“I sent the manifesto to Professor Donnelly and Father Gerhart, but I haven’t heard anything back from them yet. I’m going to call them right now.”
“That’s good, Stan. Let me know what they say.”
As soon as Reggie went back to his office, Stan phoned Donnelly. This time the professor answered. “Ah, I was just about to call you, Detective. I have looked at that manifesto.”
“That’s good, Professor. What can you tell me?”
“Well, they are correct that the role of women in Roman society was far more circumscribed than that of women in today’s society, though that would have been true of all ancient societies. But that’s hardly a justification for crucifying young women in today’s New York, I should think.”
“No kidding,” Stan replied. “These academics had a way of saying things,” he thought. “What about the thing about Barbarians from the East? Would that be China? You know the second victim was Chinese and the first was studying to go there.”
He heard the professor take a breath. “The Romans knew vaguely about China, though it’s hard to know always whether the references in their documents are actually to China or to other places in the East, like India. The Han Chinese had some contacts with the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire and there was trade, at least through intermediaries. Roman coins have been found in China. But the reference in the manifesto could be to anyone-Islamists, Russians, who knows? After all the Chinese considered Westerners barbarians.”
“So, I can’t take this manifesto as implying a Chinese link to the crimes?” Stan asked, trying to cut through the academic fog.
“No, I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t rule it out either.”
“At least that was clear,” Stan thought. “Does this ‘Latter Day Roman Gladiators’ mean anything to you?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid. I have to put in a defense of the Romans, Detective, because I have been studying them for many years. They have been portrayed rather unfairly I think. Their law was harsh and they did crucify people, but there was generally, unless in wartime, a process of some kind under their laws, whether we would agree with those laws or not. But they most certainly didn’t go kidnapping people off the street and crucifying them without giving them a proper trial.”
“So you don’t really have any insight into this, Professor?”
“I’m afraid not. I wish I could be of more help. I hope you catch these people as soon as possible. They are tarnishing the good name of the Romans.”
Stan knew that was the least of their crimes. “I’m doing my best,” he said, hanging up the phone.
“Might as well try the priest,” he said to himself, as he dialed Father Gerhart.
“I was just going to call you,” Gerhart said, after Stan introduced himself.
“That seemed to be the theme of the day,” Stan thought. “Does this manifesto have anything to do with Church policy?” Stan asked.
“Goodness, no!” the Father exclaimed. “We do consider homosexuality a sin, but to portray the Church as anti-woman is grossly unfair. Everything is open to women except the priesthood and that is because the disciples were men. As for barbarians from the East, the Holy Father meets frequently with leaders of Islam, Hinduism, the Chinese government and many others. We will protest where Catholics are oppressed, but we bear no animus towards other religions. And, most importantly, we always respect the sanctity of life above all else. So we could never condone the taking of innocent life.”
“That’s very good, Father,” Stan said. “And the name of that group, ‘Latter Day Roman Gladiators’, does that ring a bell?”
“No, sorry,” Gerhart said, “The Mormons are ‘Latter Day Saints’, but I don’t see a connection to them, I’m afraid. Though I do appreciate a good pun.”
“A pun?” Stan asked.
”Oh, you know, Detective, ‘ring a bell’, like a Church bell.”
“I didn’t notice that, Father. I guess I’m smarter than I think I am,” Stan said, though he didn’t feel that way. “Anyway, thank you for your time.”
“No trouble at all, Detective. I hope you catch them very soon.”
“So do I, Father, so do I.”
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Every white van registered in the entire New York metro area had to be looked into and Stan had to co-ordinate between three states and more cities and towns than he could shake a stick at. He could only hope that the van wasn’t registered somewhere outside the area where they had decided to concentrate. The search could always be widened once they had ruled the local ones out, but Barb would be a lifeless corpse, like the other two, by then.
Then there were the tips called in by citizens, most sincerely trying to help, though their information would turn out to be unrelated to the case. Others were less well-intentioned, someone trying to get back at an ex or a family member they had quarreled with or the sickos pranking the police for their own entertainment. There were times Stan wondered if the world wouldn’t be better off if humanity disappeared.
As the afternoon drew to a close, Stan knew that it was now 36 hours since Barb had disappeared. Every second that ticked by on the clock on the wall of the squad room was like a drop in a Chinese water torture.
But, shortly after 7 PM, came the first glimmer of hope. The Hempstead Police, out on Long Island went to check out a white van owned by a Jacob Masters. Neither the van nor Masters were home, nor was the other vehicle registered to him, a three year old blue Toyota Camry. Stan called up the driver’s license photo from the DMV-Masters had a full head of hair and the kid at the building supply store had been confident that the guy had a shaved head. But he did have a nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice.
Stan thought for a moment then called the Hempstead cops. “Do me a favor,” he told his liaison there, “Have them ask the neighbors if he recently shaved his head.” Ten minutes later, the call came. About a month ago, Masters had shaved his head. One of the neighbors remembered asking him and he had said it was to keep cool in summer. They showed them the picture the State Police artist had drawn based on Rich Miller’s description. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked like more or less like him in his current incarnation.
They patched Stan through to the officers on the scene. Yeah, Masters was a bit weird, the neighbors said. He liked to talk a lot about how the world was going to hell. Yes, he seemed not to like women. He came and went at odd hours, often disappearing for a few days. No one had seen him in a couple of days.
Stan brought the news to Reggie. “I’m putting this out, as an urgent bulletin, his name and the Toyota. As soon as the Graphics people modify his license photo to give him a shaved head, I’ll add that.”
“Good work, Stan. You da man. If we find him, he’ll lead us to Moore. It could happen fast. Let’s be optimistic.”
Stan wasn’t sure which of those old writers had said it, but he remembered the quote he had seen somewhere on line once, “The basis of optimism is sheer terror”.