The Second Coming (2 page)

O
AKLAND
, CA 2002

Nurse Nancy spent her life preparing for the apocalypse. Not physically as much as spiritually. Most people found this little old lady strange, but she was okay with that. She was always secure with her beliefs. That’s why she never married or had children. She devoted herself to God and doing his work helping others. How could she not after what she witnessed that fateful night at the hospital almost forty years prior?

Every night when she got home from the hospital, she would get changed, pour herself a glass of sherry and sit in her living room reading the bible knowing that one night he would come. Tonight was no different than any other night except tonight was the night he would show up on her front porch.

It wasn’t difficult for the killer to find Nurse Nancy. He hacked into the hospital records from the night he was born and found her name. After that it was just a matter of locating where she lived and that was easier than he anticipated. She wasn’t even trying to conceal her identity.

As the killer rang her doorbell, he wondered if she would recognize him. Did she even know what happened that night? He couldn’t wait to see her face.

The ring of the doorbell startled Nurse Nancy from her reading. She wasn’t used to receiving company and she assumed it was one of the neighborhood kids and their parent selling Girl Scout cookies or something of the sort. She laid her bible down on the chair-side table and walked over to the front door. She peered out the peephole and saw a well groomed man dressed
in a black shirt with a white clerical collar and she knew immediately it was him. Her heart sank with regret as she slowly opened the door a crack and peered out.

“Can I help you?” she asked timidly.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a Nancy Wilcox,” the killer said amenably.

“I’m Nancy Wilcox. What’s this all about?”

“Are you the same Nancy Wilcox who was a nurse at Summit hospital on the night of June 5
^th
, 1966?”

That was all she needed to hear for confirmation that it was him. “It’s you,” she said appalled.

“You recognize me?” the killer replied impressed.

“Even in disguise I know the face of evil.”

“How are you so certain I am who you think I am?”

“I knew one day you would come, I just wasn’t sure if you would come for me, but now I can see that it was inevitable.”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

The killer stared at her with his dark eyes and she held the door open for him. He crossed her threshold and she shut the door behind him.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” The killer asked.

Nurse Nancy showed him to the living room. She sat in her chair and he sat on the couch and admired her art work.

“You have an interesting collection of religious paintings,” the killer said impressed.

“What is it that you want from me?” Nurse Nancy asked impatiently.

The killer stared deep into her eyes. “I want to know what happened on the night of June 5
^th
, 1966.”

Nurse Nancy exhaled and then against her better judgment, she told him everything she could remember from that night. It took her about fifteen minutes and when she was done she was exhausted, but relieved.

The killer glared at her with disgust. “You knew what they were going to do to me and you didn’t do anything about it.”

“I wanted to do something, but when I realized what your date of birth was, I knew it was true.”

“What was true?”

“The Satanic Codex.”

The killer stood and began to pace the room as he pulled on surgical gloves. “If you thought the Satanic Codex was real, why didn’t you kill me?”

“Because I am not a murderer and that would have interfered with God’s plan for the apocalypse.”

The killer stood before Nurse Nancy in her chair as she rubbed her rosary beads nervously. “That was a mistake,” the killer said as he reached down with both hands and began to strangle her.

Nurse Nancy knew as soon as the killer put the latex gloves on that he was going to strangle her, but she didn’t mind. She was happy to be playing a role in God’s grand scheme and she knew she would be rewarded in the afterlife. When the killer began to choke her, she didn’t resist. She accepted that it was her time and prayed to God as the pressure in her head began to build until she felt like her face would explode; and then she was gone.

The killer let go of her neck, removed the latex gloves and put them in his front pocket. He didn’t want to kill the kindly old lady, but he didn’t have a choice. She was the only one who could connect him back to that night. With her out of the way, he could plot his revenge.

chapter
3

O
AKLAND
, C
ALIFORNIA
2002

When Detective Mike McCormick pulled his black Ford Interceptor sedan to a stop in front of the crime scene, he didn’t have any idea the homicide he was about to investigate, the first homicide of his career with the Oakland Police Department, would be the link to an investigation that would alter the course his life. He was only thinking about not fucking it up and embarrassing himself or letting his partner down.

Big Pete wasn’t just Mike’s partner. They had been college roommates and played football together at the University of Arizona until Mike suffered a career-ending knee injury his sophomore year. After they graduated, Big Pete was drafted as an offensive lineman for the Oakland Raiders and Mike joined the Navy SEALs. When Mike returned from Afghanistan after 9/11, Big Pete’s pro football career was long over and he was working homicide for the Oakland Police Department. When Mike wasn’t sure what to do with himself, Big Pete convinced him to become a homicide detective and fight the war against crime on the gang infested streets. The Oakland Police Department had rushed Mike through because of his military training. They were desperate to stop the killing on the streets.

“Are you ready?” Big Pete asked in his smooth, deep voice from the passenger seat.

“Fuck yeah,” Mike replied emphatically with a scowl on his stubble covered face.

“Let’s do it,” Big Pete said as he opened the passenger door and pulled himself out of the car with the grace of a water buffalo.

As Mike crossed the street, he could see the yard of the two story, shingled house was cordoned off. There was a white minivan parked in the driveway, a couple of black and white squad cars, a crime scene SUV, a coroner’s van and a TV van parked in front of the house. A small crowd of people, including a news reporter and camera man, gathered outside of the tape hoping to get a look at the body as it was wheeled out. Uniformed officers were standing guard by the front steps to the house. Mike followed Big Pete under the tape and down the cement path to the front door.

“Which one of you guys found the body?” Big Pete asked.

“I found her,” the cop with dark hair and a thick mustache replied.

“What did you see?”

“Just an old woman strangled to death.”

Mike scanned the surroundings looking for anything or anyone suspicious. It was a bright, warm day and the elm leaves rustled in the breeze. Next door, a middle aged lady sat on her front porch steps in white shorts and a red tank top. Her gangly knees knocked together as she fidgeted with her hands. She wore a look of distress on her angular face. Maybe she was the one who found the victim?

Big Pete glanced at Mike. “Are you ready?”

“Let’s go,” Mike replied as he walked up the steps to the landing. The front door was open and Big Pete stopped and stood to the side as he looked at Mike with a wide, prideful grin.

“You go first,” Big Pete encouraged him.

Mike squinted at him with appreciation. Big Pete was letting him lead the investigation. Mike slapped him on the arm.

It was gloomy inside as Mike inspected the door and frame for any signs of forced entry. There was nothing there. He stepped into the front foyer. To his left, in the dining room, was a small table surrounded by five chairs that barely fit into the pale room. The chair at the head of the table was missing. To his right, the living room was shrouded in darkness. Mike heard rustling from around the wall. The flash of a camera flickered. Mike slowly approached.

He found an average-sized man with the words Crime Scene Investigator printed on the back of his dark shirt. The wood chair from the head of the dining room table was in the middle of the room facing the corner. What the fuck was it doing there? Mike cleared his throat so as not to startle the CSI.

“Who are you?” the sandy, bushy haired man asked.

“Detective Mike McCormick,” Mike replied matter-of-factly. “Who the fuck are you?”

Big Pete appeared like a ship from behind Mike. “Take it easy, Mikey,” he said calmly. “This is Scotty. He’s good people.”

“Hey, Big Smoothie,” Scotty said. “Who’s the Russell Crowe wannabe?”

Mike examined the chair and the carpet as he cautiously stepped around it. He peered over Scotty’s shoulder and saw the corpse sitting upright in the armchair. She looked like a wax mannequin of a grandmother with short, curly, silver hair. Her face was frozen with bulging eyes and a half open mouth with her tongue sticking out between her lips. The pungent stench of death and mothballs loomed in the air. Mike raised the crux of his arm to his mouth as he gagged.

“Maybe you’re in the wrong line of business,” Scotty said.

“I’ve smelled worse death than you can image,” Mike replied. “I’ll never get used to it.”

“Mike just got back from Afghanistan,” Big Pete chimed in. “Special Ops.”

“Oh yeah, I heard about you,” Scotty said reflectively. “A real bad ass, Rambo motherfucker.” He feigned being impressed as he glared at Mike. “I smoke guys like you for lunch.”

Mike grinned. That was clever. He liked Scotty. Fucking pothead.

“What do we have?” Mike asked.

“71 year old female,” Scotty replied. “Strangled to death.”

“How long has she been dead?” Mike asked as he moved closer to inspect her neck.

“Judging from the rigor mortis, I would estimate her time of death at approximately 7:00 pm last night.”

“What did the killer strangle her with?”

“His hands. He was wearing latex gloves.”

“How do you know?”

“There are traces of latex residue on her neck where his hands crushed her larynx.”

Mike grimaced and held his breath as he leaned down to inspect the residue. He squinted in the darkness and could see tiny specks of white powder on the bruised choke mark. He stepped back and stared at the old lady’s
corpse. Her hands were in her lap holding a strand of rosary beads as if she hadn’t even put up a fight. It was like she sat there and let the killer strangle her.

“Are there any biologicals under her fingernails?”

“Negative. There are no signs of a struggle.”

Mike rubbed the stubble on his thick jaw. Why would anyone want to kill a little old lady?

The window shades to the street were closed and the olive-colored walls cast an ominous shadow over the brown carpeted room. Hanging on the walls were framed prints depicting the birth of Jesus. Mike peered at them with intrigue. One was of Mary and Joseph looking at baby Jesus in the manger. Another was of Jesus surrounded by Mary and Joseph as well as the three wise men, all looking at Jesus in wonderment. One was of baby Jesus with an illuminating face in the manger. All of them were of the nativity scene. Why did she decorate her living room with paintings of the birth of Jesus? There were small wooden crosses nailed on the wall between the paintings

“Have you found any hairs or fibers?” Mike asked.

“Nothing yet,” Scotty replied. “But I will. I always do.”

Mike turned and shuffled out of the living room, lost in contemplation. Who would want to strangle a religious old lady? What was the killer’s motive? The heels of Mike’s boots echoed vacantly on the parquet floor of the foyer. Did the victim know the killer? Did they sit and talk before he wrapped his hands around her neck and choked her to death? Why didn’t she put up a fight?

The first thing that caught his eyes in the dining room was a framed print of DaVinci’s
Last Supper
over a buffet table. What the fuck? The dining room table and chairs and the buffet were all simply designed and made of wood. There were no elegant carvings or elaborate designs. Mike inspected the window locks and the glass French doors for any sign of forced entry. They were all locked.

He pushed his way through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was cold and empty. The wood cabinets and drawers were neatly painted white with polished brass handles and knobs. The off-white tile counter and metallic dual sink were wiped spotless. The room smelled of disinfectant cleanser. The refrigerator droned in the background. Mike checked the windows and side door that led to the driveway. Neither was tampered with. Mike was
starting to get the distinct feeling that the victim knew the killer and let him into the house. Everything was too neat and orderly for this to be a break-in or an attempted robbery.

On the cream-colored wall of the stairway were four small framed paintings of Jesus that ascended the stairs in sequence. The first was of Judas betraying Jesus with a kiss. The next was Jesus being arrested by the Jewish authorities. The next one was the trial of Jesus by Pontius Pilate, then finally Jesus carrying the cross over his shoulder wearing a crown of thorns. This lady really enjoyed her biblical art. Come to think of it, Mike hadn’t seen any photos of the victim or her family and friends; only artwork from the New Testament. What a fucking spooky place to live.