Violets Are Blue

shiny black Bell Jet helicopter that would have done Darth Vader proud. Kyle wouldn’t let the case go. He wouldn’t let me go either.
    Even from the air, the seaport city was stunningly beautiful, with its clusters of mansions, quaint shopping districts, and the Savannah River winding through golden yellow marshes out to the Atlantic. Why were the attacks taking place in crowded, attractive locales? Why these particular cities?
    There had to be a reason this was eluding all of us so far. The killers had to be playing out a complex story / fantasy. What the hell was it?
    An FBI sedan was waiting and it rushed us to the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. The church was on East Harris, in the historic district. Police cruisers were parked everywhere among the antebellum homes. So were EMS vans.
    “The highways around Savannah are completely blockaded,” Kyle told me as we made our way through the heavy traffic near the church. “This is the most bizarre and lurid thing to happen around here since John Berendt’s book. Or, I suppose, the murder that inspired it. Should bring in lots more tourists, though, don’t you think? Maybe the vampire tour will come to rival the one for
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
.”
    “Not the kind of visitors the chamber of commerce, or especially the residents, probably want to see here,” I said. “Kyle, what the hell is going on? The killers are working right in our face. They’re telling us something. They strike in beautiful cities. They murder in public parks, in luxury hotels, even in a cathedral. Do they want to get caught? Or do they believe they
can’t
be caught?”
    Kyle looked at the church spires up ahead. “Maybe it’s a little of both. I agree, though. They are reckless for some reason I don’t quite fathom. That’s why you’re here. You’re the profiler. You’re the one who understands how their sick minds work.”
    I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that these killers wanted to get caught.
Why did they want to get caught
?

Chapter 47

    KYLE AND I got out of the sedan and hurried toward the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. A gold-and-white banner over the main door proclaimed, “One Faith, One Family.”
    The twin spires of the church rose high over the city of Savannah. The style was French Gothic: grand arches and traceries, impressive stained-glass windows, an Italian-marble altar. I was taking everything in — everything. But nothing had clicked yet.
    The murder had been discovered less than two hours ago. Kyle and I were in the air minutes after we heard the news from the Savannah police. The story was already all over TV.
    The sweet smell of incense was in my nose. I could see the victim as we entered the cathedral. I groaned and felt a little sick to my stomach. It was a twenty-one-year-old male, which I had known from the early reports; an art history major at the University of Georgia named Stephen Fenton. The killers had left Fenton’s wallet and money. Nothing had been stolen — except his shirt.
    The cathedral was large and could probably hold as many as a thousand worshipers. The flow of light from the stained-glass windows created a pattern of colored patches on the floor. Even from a distance, I could see that the victim’s neck had been torn open. The shirtless body was toned and sculpted, just like the others. It lay at the foot of a station of the cross, the thirteenth. The floor was stained with blood, but not much liquid remained.
    Did they drink the blood here in the cathedral? Was this about sacrilege? Religion? The stations of the cross?
    Kyle and I approached Stephen Fenton. A body bag was already laid out in the nave. Technicians from the Savannah Police Department stood by. They were restless and angry, anxious to do their work and get out of there. We were holding them up. The local medical examiner was doing his examination of the body.
    Kyle and I knelt over the body together. I pulled on a pair of plastic gloves. Kyle almost never used them. He rarely seemed to touch evidence at a crime scene. I had always wondered why. His instincts were good, though.
    But if we were both so good, why didn’t we have any clue as to where the killers had gone or when they might strike next? That was the question that nagged me more and more at each murder site. What was this gruesome rampage about?
    “They’re so goddamn impulsive,” I muttered to Kyle. “I suspect they’re both under thirty. Maybe early