Sacraments in Scarlet

Chapter 1

Patrick Jane frowned.

He checked the clock on the brick wall above the windows – 9:09 am. He was only 9 minutes late, rather good for his standards, and as far as he knew, there hadn't been a case come in over night, at least he hadn't received a call. He strolled into the office proper, hands clasped behind his back, eyes roving over the activity of the Serious Crimes Unit. It was, as usual, bustling with agents answering phones, conferring over coffee, pouring over computers, a regular hub of energy and activity. But the three desks he was concerned with and their subsequent senior office were empty, and neatly so.

They were gone.

He frowned again.

"Albert," he turned to the middle-aged heavy-set man with tight black curls and big black moustache. "Where's Lisbon?"

"Don't know," said Albert. He hadn't looked up. Hmm. Lying.

He moved on to another desk, a middle-aged heavy-set woman in a dark pantsuit and big blonde hair. "Miranda?"

"Me neither." Also lying.

This was fascinating. "Gabe?"

"Nope."

"Lakeesha?"

"Sorry, Jane. No clue." But Lakeesha did manage to glance up at him, too smoothly. "Maybe talk to Minelli. He might know something."

He smiled at her. At least she had been trying.

The morning sun was high already, streaming through the large windows that flanked the room, and he stood for a long moment there, in the walkway between the desks. It was obvious what had happened, from the moment Albert had lied Jane knew, but that didn't make it easier to swallow. He knew it would happen at some point, was surprised actually that it hadn't already, but finally, after many years as consultant for the California Bureau of Investigations, there had been a case that someone, probably Department Chief Virgil Minelli, had deemed 'un-Janeable.' In other words, a case just too sensitive to involve the particular skills and abilities of Patrick Jane.

He wandered over to Cho's desk. Of all of them, Cho would be the one to leave the clue, the hint, the snitch, but there was nothing. Neat as a pin. Except for a pile of tangled paperclips in the wastebasket. Even Cho. Must be serious.

He should have felt betrayed. If he were a typical consultant he would have, but there had never been anything typical about him, not even as a child, so the insult bounced off him the way a paper airplane bounced off a brick wall. There was no malice here, just politics, but really, he smiled to himself. They ought to have known better.

"Hey Jane," it was Lakeesha. "We're working on a kidnapping. You can help us if you'd like."

"Yeah," sputtered Gabe. He was a beanpole, who liked to wear sloganed T-shirts under his jackets. And hats. Oh yes, he loved to wear porkpie hats. Jane had never understood why people wore porkpie hats. "We could use all the help we can get."

Clichés meant either discomfort or lack of intelligence, and Gabe was no slouch, even with the hat problem. Jane promptly and without response spun on his heel and left the room, the others exchanging glances between them in silence.

They went back to work.

It was a few minutes before they heard the squeaking.

"What the – " Albert, the middle-aged heavy set fellow swung around at his desk. "Hey! That – that's from the lounge!"

"Oh yes, I know," huffed Patrick Jane, returning to the office pushing a large 50 inch screen TV still bolted onto its black melamine console. It rolled half-heartedly on broken wheels, the electrical cord dangling behind like a tail. "It's a long way and this is rather heavy."

"You can't take that," muttered Miranda. She fancied herself a decorator. "You can't do that. Besides, you're scratching the floor."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes you are."

He paused in his quest as he and the TV passed Rigsby's desk, whereupon he stopped pushing and opened the top right hand drawer, removing a plastic baggie filled with peanuts. He slipped those into his pocket and went back to work.

And he pushed and shoved and huffed his load all the way to the big brown couch that was his home. It took him several minutes to set it up the way he preferred, the angle, the distance, all measurements calculated and when it was all said and done, he stood and observed for several more minutes. Then, he carefully removed his jacket, folded it over the back of the couch, flopped his body down, kicked up his feet, pulled out the peanuts and snagged the remote.

He turned on the local news.

He had time to pop only one mouthful of peanuts when he clicked it off, folded the baggie back into his pocket, and sprang off the couch. He grabbed his jacket, slipped it on and ambled out of the office, stopping only once to touch Gabe's shoulder.

"Put that thing back, will you," he smiled. "It's just too big. The feng shui's all wrong. The negative flow of energy is cramping my vibe…" and he disappeared out the door, practically bouncing all the way.

"Crap," sputtered Albert. "How does he do that?"

"He's psychic," said Gabe.

"He's weird," said Miranda. "Hot, but weird."

"I'm calling Lisbon," said Lakeesha. "He's on his way…"

_____________________________

The Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament was stunning. A jaw-dropping piece of Spanish Architecture built in the mid-1800s, it towered above the surrounding community with white limestone domes, stained-glass arches and two bell towers. Columns, marble lintels, and sharp rooflines all spoke grandeur, reverence and history, and drew all eyes upwards to heaven.

There was a minor glitch in the heavenward gaze, however, that being the downward side of things, the squad cars and uniformed officers, the reporters and the yellow tape closing off three large rounded wooden doors. No most holy sacraments today.

Teresa Lisbon wondered if it was normal to feel guilty when one pulled up into the parking lot of a church, especially a church like this. It was as if that was part and parcel of the faith - the sin, the conviction, the penance, the atonement – all bound together, eternal and inseparable, like marble, limestone and stained glass. She had always felt some measure of guilt, even as a child, going through the rituals of communion, confirmation, confession. But this time was different, for there were two SUV's and only four agents, and the guilt was not spiritual, just personal. She had sinned, to be sure, but she was simply following orders. Somehow, she didn't believe that absolution would come any easier because of it.

Her cell phone rang as she got out of the car.

"Yeah, Lakeesha, what's up? He's what? How the hell – never mind. I don't want to know. Call Minelli. Tell him you tried. Thanks."

She swung around as the rest of her team filed out. "Cho, did you call him like I told you to?"

Cho met her stare. He never wavered. "No."

"You were supposed to tell him we had the day off."

"He wouldn't have believed me."

She grit her teeth, poked a finger into his chest. "Well, he's on his way. You will take the responsibility if he ends up getting the entire State of California excommunicated, understand?"

"Yes, boss."

And she stomped up the high cathedral steps, flashing her badge to pass the cops at the door.

Cho followed, Rigsby and Van Pelt falling in beside.

"How did he find out?" asked Rigsby. "We left nothing. Lisbon made sure of it. She even took off the code you left in paper clips on your keyboard."

"That was a good code."

"He's psychic, honestly," answered Van Pelt.

"Genetically superior," said Cho. "He's a mutant."

That seemed about right and together they headed into the deep interior of the Cathedral of the Most Holy Sacrament.

________________________________________

"Wow," murmered Van Pelt, as they stepped into the cathedral and out of the sunlight. "This is so…so..."

"Old," said Rigsby.

"Well yeah, but, but look at it. It's beautiful. It's like you're in another time, another place. Like Rome or France or something…"

If Jane had been there, he would have complimented Grace Van Pelt on the accuracy of her observations. While the outside of the cathedral was distinctly Spanish, the inside was a different matter entirely. Marble floors spliced with wood, high columned ceilings with ivory arches that spanned 12 feet apiece, scrolled wooden pews that could easily hold a thousand worshippers, multiple balconies and a towering curved ceiling that was painted, etched and carved like a Renaissance painting. The colours themselves whispered history, Egyptian golds, burnt oranges, sky blues, mossy greens, and white, the old antique historical white of the saints. Pillars and stained glass and doorways and rooms, the building went on and on. It was huge, and multi-layered and at its heart was a massive golden crucifix suspended from the ceiling, directly over an alabaster altar and baptismal bowl.

At the foot of the baptismal, directly under the golden feet of the Saviour, lay a priest in white robes, face down, most completely dead.

Lisbon was talking with Ted from Forensics, while two more white robed men stood nearby.

"Rev. Father Timothy Andreacci. 62 years old. Found this morning at approximately 5:45am by Fr. Meeks over there. Cause of death either cerebral ischemia or asphyxia, due to ligature strangulation. Just like the last one," said Ted, after the rest of Lisbon's team straggled up to meet her. He reached down with a white-gloved hand and rolled the body over. A balding man, barrel-chested and bearded, eyes bulging, face purple, neck constricted and raw, throat almost garroted with force, and dried blood congealed around his ears –

"Oh! His ears are gone," murmured Van Pelt.

"Yeah, cut off with a scalpel or something else small and very sharp. Post mortal, most likely, but we'll confirm when we get him back to the lab. The last one lost his eyes. Now that was fierce."

Lisbon pulled on her own latex gloves, pulling back the folds around the man's throat. She frowned. "Odd marks…"

"Yeah," said Ted. "He's used some sort of textured wire. There are poly-coated resin traces in the wound, very similar to the first one, but we haven't finished running the tests."

"Any signs of sexual assault?"

"Haven't checked yet." Ted lowered his voice. "Thought I'd wait until I got him to the lab…"

"Hmm."

"Let me know when you're done. I want to swab the area under him…" And Ted moved away, leaving her to her team. She turned to bring them up to speed.

"So, this is the second priest from this parish in two weeks. Looks like the same MO. Father Angelino Ricci was found back over there in the Apse. His body was discovered 4 days ago at 6:30 in the morning by an altar boy. He'd been dead for 6 hours, and from the looks of Father Tim here, it's likely the same."

"Sacramento PD do the prelims on the first one?" Cho asked.

"Yeah, but when the call for this one came in, they called the DoJ. That's why we're here. Minelli want this wrapped up ASAP."

Rigsby shuffled his feet. "Should we wait for Jane? I mean, if he's on his way and all…"

Lisbon swung around on him. Even though she was much smaller, he took a step back. "Have you forgotten how to do your job? No? Good. Then I suggest you and Van Pelt take one of those priests, Cho and I will take the other, and if Jane shows up, we'll make sure he leaves. There's no way I'm crossing Minelli on this one, got it?"

"Um, boss?" It was Cho.

"What?"

He nodded his head. The two priests were walking together towards the cathedral entrance where another priest had just entered. The newcomer was all dressed in black, black suit, black shirt, black pinstriped waist-coat, and white collar. He was carrying an overnight bag over his shoulder, and when he reached out to shake the hands of the two approaching men, he smiled.

Teresa Lisbon closed her eyes.

Patrick Jane was in the building.

End of Chapter 1