The Diabolist (Dominic Grey 3) (6 page)

“So the House of Lucifer’s not really representative of a religion?”

“Religion is simply veneration of a person, ideal, or thing. Despite lacking a traditional deity, the Church of Scientology is a religion, Confucianism is a religion, Falun Gong is a religion. As we saw in Egypt, the worship of science or an unexplained facet of nature can evolve into a religion. And there are even stranger religions than these.”

Coming from Viktor, Grey had zero doubts as to the veracity of that last statement. “I had no idea that Satanists, well, don’t worship Satan.”

“I said the Church of Satan and the House of Lucifer don’t worship Satan,” Viktor said.

“Implying that there are cults who actually worship the Devil.”

“Oh yes.”

Grey came to an uneasy conclusion. “Which means that fundamentalist Christians are not the only obvious suspects, because to some of the other Satanic cults, the true believers, Matthias Gregory was a heretic as well.”

“Precisely.”

Grey stared into the porcelain bottom of his mug, rubbing his thumbs along the top.

Viktor checked his watch again and pushed away from the table. “It’s time to view the crime scene.”

MISSION DISTRICT, SAN FRANCISCO

G
rey absorbed his surroundings as the taxi passed through Union Square and delved into the chaos along Mission. The rough blocks came first, makeshift produce stands spilling into garbage-strewn alleys, panhandlers and trinket sellers on the corners, thrift shops and massage parlors, throngs of mestizo faces crowding narrow streets. Then came the bubble of gentrification between the BART stops, the hipsters and street artists, stylish restaurants flanked by lofts, townhomes adorned with colorful murals of
Día de los Muertos
. The omnipresent homeless eyed the tourists like prey, the violence lurking on the edges all too apparent to Grey.

They entered an area of the Mission full of tiny chapels, warehouses, and homes in various stages of decline. The taxi dropped them off in front of the House of Lucifer, wedged between an abandoned theater and a line of grimy Victorians. Wires hung low over the street, the sun a smudge of weak light behind layers of fog.

A stocky Hispanic policewoman stood in front of the church, a narrow iron structure with an arched entranceway anchored by spiked columns. Red and orange stained glass windows lent the archway an ominous feel.

The policewoman eyed Grey and Viktor as they approached. She had her back to the entrance, watching the street, but her body language was strained, as if she knew she had to hold that position but was trying to stand as far from the door as possible.

Viktor flashed his Interpol badge and introduced himself and Grey. The officer, long hair tied in a ponytail and skin soft and unlined, struck Grey as either a rookie or someone who had never left her desk.

“Where’s the detective?” Grey asked.

“Couldn’t come,” she said with a smirk. Grey and Viktor exchanged a glance. Her tone implied
you may care who murdered this piece of trash, but we sure don’t
.

“I specifically asked for the investigating detective,” Viktor said.

She snorted. “You’re lucky you got me.” Her eyes slid to the door and she muttered, “
Que suerte.” What luck
.

Viktor folded his arms. “I assume you’re at least familiar with the details of the case?”

“Yeah, I was briefed.” She shrugged. “What’cha wanna know?”

“Why don’t we go inside and discuss?”

She tried to keep a stoic cop face, but Grey saw the slight widening of her eyes, the extra swallow. She unlocked the door, and they stepped inside. Grey whistled as the policewoman crossed herself and muttered in Spanish.

Grey took in the stained glass windows allowing a blood-colored light to filter into the church, the garish red paint, the gargoyles skulking on the walls, the inverted cross that served as the altarpiece. Viktor had once told Grey it was nearly impossible to step out of one’s own religious milieu, that the beliefs and superstitions we know as a child take roots deep inside us. The House of Lucifer bothered Grey on a subconscious level he could attribute only to the whispered nighttime prayers of his mother, to the residue of a childhood faith that had wormed its way into the nooks and crannies of his being.

Viktor didn’t seem put off in the slightest by the interior. While the policewoman waited by the door and tried to avoid looking at anything, Viktor canvassed the church with a practiced eye. They had read the police report, and the first thing Grey did was inspect the pulpit. Nothing but solid wood and a microphone wire.

Viktor moved to join him. “According to the police report,” Viktor boomed from behind the pulpit and in front of the altar, “the figure appeared roughly in this spot.”

The policewoman’s hollow laughter echoed through the chapel. “Yeah, and then flames sprouted from his ass and burned the vic to a crisp, right before the figure disappeared. The only thing solid about that report is the date.”

“What’d the autopsy show?” Grey said.

“Nothing unusual, besides the burns.”

“And the burns?”

“My guess is fuel and a spark,” the officer said.

Viktor’s face clouded, and she said, “What’d you expect? Hellfire? We sent some samples to forensics, it’ll take a few days.”

Grey’s eyes traveled from the blackened floorboards in front of the pulpit to the first row of pews, ten feet of empty space away. “Any suspects?”

Her lips compressed into another smirk. “No suspects in a suicide.”

Viktor’s eyes stopped roaming the church. “Suicide?”

“What the hell you think happened?
Dios
. He soaked himself in lighter fluid and became a living torch in front of his congregation, God knows why. Unless all the witnesses are lying and they conspired to burn him to death. And if that happened, well”—she swept her arms around the chapel in disgust—“if you play with fire, sometimes you get burnt.”

“Did you bring the documents I requested?” Viktor said, no emotion registering on his face.

She took a folded piece of paper from her shirt pocket. “Witness list and a copy of the membership records. Knock yourself out.”

“Have you started talking to witnesses?” Grey asked.

“Yeah, I made a few phone calls,” she said.

Grey rolled his eyes. He knew from experience that police reports did not capture looks, body language, human emotion. Phone calls meant no real investigation had occurred.

“They repeated the same bullshit’s in the police report,” she continued. “Some figure appeared out of nowhere in a Harry Potter costume, Matthias Gregory burst into flame, and the figure disappeared.”

“Doesn’t sound much like much of a suicide,” Grey said, “if everyone saw another figure. Any of the witnesses have a record? Arsonists?”

“Of course there were records, with this crowd. Nothing major from the ones we know about, no arson. And although I find it hard to believe, plenty of normal citizens were here that night. Doctors, lawyers, a few local politicians.” Her eyes slid to the cross. “No, forget that
mierda
. No one’s normal who comes in here and does whatever it is they do in front of this twisted
basura
.” She crossed herself again and started speaking rapidly, her Spanish accent more pronounced. “I jus’ don’t get it, I’ve seen plenty of lowlifes on the job, but this? There’s rules, you know, like making sure the child molesters don’t live long in the joint.
Hijo de tu puta madre.
You just don’t
do
this.”

Viktor said, “Did Matthias have any enemies of which you’re aware?”

“You mean, besides the whole city?”

“I mean concrete enemies, verified threats.”

“It’s been months since the last threat,” she said. “Besides, it makes no sense. The Bible thumpers and these people hate each other, so no way an entire building full of devil worshippers is gonna lie and cover for one of them.”

“Not unless someone was undercover,” Grey said, “pretending to be a believer to get close to Matthias.”

“And then what? Someone incinerated Gregory from across the room without anyone noticing? I think they got together and decided to tell the world a fish story. Or maybe they all took drugs that night. I don’t know, and you want the truth, I don’t give a shit.”

Grey’s eyes swept the chapel again. Even if someone was working from the inside, the greater mystery was how Matthias had burned to death, and who or what had been seen by all the witnesses. He supposed the other people in the room could have been working in concert, there was no mysterious figure, and Matthias Gregory had been burned alive by his own congregation.
Yet somehow he couldn’t see an entire roomful of people in modern-day San Francisco, even Satanists, all coming to the conclusion that their spiritual leader was on the wrong path and burning him alive for it.

Then again, stranger things had happened.

“So I hear you’re some kind of cult expert,” the policewoman said to Viktor. “You sure look like you’ve seen this stuff before. How do you deal with it, poking your nose into devil worship all the time? What’s it they say about staring into the abyss too long?”

“The House of Lucifer does not practice devil worship,” Viktor said as he walked down one side of the room and inspected one of the gargoyles. “And, no,” he said to the policewoman, “I don’t believe even the author of that statement would want to spend much time observing those congregations that do.”

The policewoman shuffled her feet and didn’t ask any more questions.

Grey and Viktor ran through a couple of mundane offices in the back of the building. Gregory’s study was lined with bookshelves full of tomes on philosophy and the occult. While Viktor pored over the titles, Grey inspected the room. Thirty minutes later they left the House of Lucifer and walked to the waiting taxi with no further information. The policewoman hurried to her car with a relieved bounce in her step.

Viktor turned to Grey. “We need to talk to an actual witness.”

“That,” Grey said, “and it’s time I heard about the other murder.”

Grey and Viktor returned to the hotel for a late lunch, ordering room service. While Viktor prepared his absinthe, Grey took in the view outside the window of Viktor’s suite. Throngs of tourists filled the streets as the late afternoon sun cast Nob Hill into shadow.

San Francisco spoke to him, the draping of the hills over the night-blue Pacific, the mellow sky, the grungy bars and cafés. A city that would rather be interesting than boast of having the highest skyscraper. Still, he preferred the gritty realities of the five boroughs.

“L’église de la Bête,” Viktor said. “The Church of the Beast.”

Grey turned to face Viktor, hand cupping the back of his neck as he leaned against the window. “Pleasant name for a church. The other victim, I assume?”

“It happened the same night Matthias died,” Viktor said. “His name was Xavier Marcel, and he was called the Black Cleric, the chief priest of L’église de la Bête. The church is shrouded in secrecy and, unlike Matthias, Xavier wasn’t a public figure.”

Grey waited as Viktor swirled his absinthe. He seemed distracted, but he shook off whatever was absorbing his attention and focused on Grey. “Xavier was wanted in France for two kidnappings, teenage twin girls from middle-class Parisian homes. Neither was ever seen again.” Viktor crossed his legs, smoothing his tie over his shirt. “It’s rumored that entrance to L’église de la Bête is restricted to those who take part in ritual sacrifice.”

“We’re not talking animals, are we?” Grey said.

Viktor gave a slow shake of his head.

“Jesus.” He had not really believed Viktor when they had first met in Harare, and sat around a conference table while Viktor coolly informed Grey and his superior that there were cults around the world that still partook in human sacrifice.

Had not really believed him until Grey saw it with his own eyes in the caves beneath Great Zimbabwe, after Grey’s view of reality had been deconstructed forever.

“Unlike the House of Lucifer,” Viktor said, “L’église de la Bête practices actual devil worship. The practitioners worship Satan and deny God, believing that through the veneration of the Devil they will be granted worldly power.”