An update! No, the story's not been abandoned. I do plan to finish this, I promise. Please read and review!


They had a lead. For the first time in months, they had a solid lead. Given the affluence of the area, every inch of the Golden Square had high quality CCTV coverage. The expense of it had just been paid off with dividends. The man that had approached Monsignor Wilkinson to hear his confession was none other than their missing counterfeit clergyman, Robert Haskins. He had grown a beard and his hair was styled differently, but their high definition footage provided proof positive that it was the same man.

The investigator in Chandler wanted nothing more than to question Monsignor Wilkinson, but he knew he couldn't. Wilkinson had refused to even reveal the gender of his penitent, to even ask him to break the seal of the confessional was nothing short of an insult, not to mention a waste of police time.

Chandler instructed Kent to collect all the CCTV footage he could of the area, slowly widening his search as he tracked Haskins' movements. It would be painstaking work, but it could lead them to some kind of fixed address for the man.

It was all wishful thinking, of course. Haskins had gone out of his way not to attract any attention for months, there was no way the man was ignorant of the cameras that would clearly catch him speaking to Monsignor Wilkinson. It was more than likely that he was taunting them; either the former bishop was his next target or Haskins wanted the police to think he was. There was no way of knowing which was the case until Haskins was caught or the next body was found. Chandler hoped it would be the former.

There was no headway in the search for Haskins' true identity. As satisfying as it was to a have a name on the whiteboard, Chandler could not ignore the quotation marks around it. The team worked under the assumption that Haskins was, in fact, American, but his prints had provided no clues. The files sent to them by the American detectives had likewise been of no help, as they had not even gotten as far as to identify a single person of interest. Reilly was thus tasked with essentially working the Arlington case, hoping to find something that the Americans missed. Mansell was trying to track the man's movements since he'd stepped foot in Britain, while Kent was still busy sorting through the CCTV footage from the day Haskins met with Wilkinson.

Much to Miles' chagrin, he and Chandler were ensconced in the basement archives, listening to Buchan perform his biography of Edmund Campion. Miles wasn't sure why they always had to sit through this. Surely Buchan could just give the file to Chandler and be done with it.

"Are there any locations of special significance?" Asked Chandler as Buchan finished his monologue.

"Stonyhurst College would be an obvious location, but that is in Lancashire," said Buchan, looking at Chandler over his glasses. "Encased in glass at Stonyhurst are the ropes that were used in Campion's execution."

"Why would you keep something like that at a school?" Asked Chandler, mildly disgusted by the idea.

"It is a Jesuit college," said Buchan. "And those ropes are considered second class relics. On the feast day of St. Campion, they are placed on the altar for Mass."

"The killer is staying in London, though," Miles interjected. "Where could he be in London?"

"I cannot say with any certainty," Buchan responded. "Like all the martyrs, the Tower, Tyburn – these places hold meaning. Campion did come here in the course of his ministry, but Oxford would certainly be more –"

"So what you're saying is you have nothing," said Miles before turning to Chandler. "Boss, we have some police work that needs seeing to."

Chandler gave Miles a sharp look before turning back to Buchan.

"Keep us informed if you find anything," he said, following Miles toward the stairs.

Miles was already in fine form by the time they reached the first landing.

"The locations haven't been tied specifically to each martyr," Chandler said in defense of Buchan. "St. Mary's had nothing to do with Garnet and Farm Street is relevant only because it is a Jesuit church, but it didn't even exist when Southwell was executed."

Miles continued to grumble unabated, while Chandler brooded over the task that lay ahead of them. The number of churches, memorials, plaques, and windows that had something to do with the martyrs in London alone made it difficult to narrow down the options the killer had before him. Chandler could already feel the panic start to force its way into the edges of his mind. He needed to change his shirt, but settled for irritably dabbing Tiger Balm on his temples. The shirt would have to wait.

Monsignor Edward Wilkinson had a routine. More to the point, he liked having a routine. Where others found monotony and boredom, he found order and peace. After having uprooted both himself and his wife from all they had known upon his conversion, he had just come to settle into his new role as Ordinary.

Now the police were asking him to change everything he did and when he did it. It was a fair request, of course. He had no wish to end up like his departed brother priests. It was his wife he was most worried about, truth be told. She was easily upset and the current situation could distress even the calmest of people. After everything he had put her through with his decision to convert, he wasn't sure she could take any more turmoil and upheaval.

It was good of the detectives to come and speak with them that morning. From the looks of the older man, sleep was a luxury they could not afford. And from the look of his wife, she didn't seem to mind the situation at all now that she'd met DI Chandler.

Chandler pulled Wilkinson aside as a uniformed office went over Mrs. Wilkinson's plans for the day.

"We are almost certain that you have been chosen as the next victim," he said in a low voice.

Wilkinson's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"I thought that had already been determined."

"You were one of the potential victims," Chandler explained. "However, the man who asked you to hear his confession was the killer."

The priest's breath came out in a rush, clearly shaken by the knowledge that he'd met the man who was planning his death.

"I assume you remember what he looks like? How his voice sounds?" Chandler continued.

Wilkinson wordlessly nodded.

"That's good," he assured the priest. "If you see him or receive a phone call, get to your detail immediately."

"Yes, yes of course."

Wilkinson quickly straightened up and forced a brightness into his face when he saw his wife eyeing them suspiciously.

"Not a word to her," he said in an undertone to Chandler before moving across the room to join her.

With a stern word to the officers who would be serving as the protection detail for the day, Chandler and Miles were off back to the precinct. They spoke very little in the car, but the tension was palpable. Miles resolved to keep an extra close eye on his boss for the remainder of the day. They'd had their fair share – and maybe a little more besides – of stressful cases, but this one had clearly become personal for Chandler.

The moment they stepped foot in the Incident Room, Reilly stood and ran to the printer.

"Skip!" She called when she'd read the print out she was now holding.

"What do you have?" Chandler asked, quickly overtaking Miles as they met her by the printer.

She handed him the piece of paper.

"Robert Haskins' real name," said Reilly, trying to temper her sense of triumph.

"Luke Dearbourne," Miles read out.

"The Arlington detectives had never gotten hits on his prints in Virginia or in national databases, but they hadn't checked other state databases that had to be done on an individual basis," Reilly explained hurriedly.

"Guess that course on international investigations did some good then, didn't it?" Miles asked. "Where was he from, then?"

"Maryland," answered Reilly. "He'd had a background check done when he started studying at Mount Saint Mary's."

"A background check to go to school?" Chandler asked.

"Not just any school, sir. Seminary."

"Of course," said Chandler, the entire puzzle starting to make a little more sense.

"The school wasn't keen on telling me much, but when I explained the circumstances, they said he'd been dismissed for 'rigidity'," Reilly continued. "I did some more digging and came up with his university studies. He studied history at Loyola University in Maryland and became obsessed with the Reformation. It was years ago, but his academic advisor still remembers him because of the way he reacted every time his reading of events was challenged."

"So he develops an obsession with the history of the period and then tries to become a priest," Chandler summarized. "The dismissal from seminary must have been the trigger."

"He starts blaming other priests for turning the Church against him," said Miles, picking up Chandler's thread.

"The martyrs are just the story he's used to justify the violence," Chandler added. "But that obsession must be how he ended up here."

Chandler looked up at the map that marked out where the bodies had been found.

"And it's why he's staying in London," he said suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Miles asked, looking between his boss and the whiteboard.

"He's American," said Chandler. "He can't drive here and London affords him anonymity."

Reilly studied the map.

"How is he moving the bodies?"

"Could he have an accomplice?" Miles suggested. "Someone with a van. It could also be where he's dismembering them."

Chandler shifted his weight as he considered Miles' theory.

"I don't think so," he concluded at last.

"You got any better ideas, sir?" Miles asked hotly.

"He's a loner, Miles," Chandler argued. "This is his quest and he's not going to want anyone to take credit from him. No, he'll be doing this alone."

"That doesn't explain how he's moving around the whole bloody city with the dead bodies of grown men."

"I know that," said Chandler warily. "But I don't want us fixating on a theory that doesn't fit the facts. We need to consider alternatives. He's obviously not using cabs, buses or trains. How else could he be getting around?"

"He could be impersonating someone else and driving on their license," Miles said, not willing to let go of the thought that Haskins was getting around the city by car.

"How would you propose we prove that?" Asked Chandler with a sigh.

"Glad you asked, sir," Miles responded sarcastically before turning to Reilly. "Reilly, look at the congestion charges that haven't been paid since the murders began. Run anyone who hasn't paid against missing persons and check on the ones that happened close to places where murders have already happened."

Miles turned back to his boss with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Yes, well, we'll see," Chandler muttered. "Mansell, how far have you gotten?"

Haskins had been covering his tracks very well. Mansell had scarcely been able to trace him pass the initial customs check when he entered the country months before. There was no flat, no mobile, no bills, no hotel rooms – nothing. In a moment of what he'd thought might be inspired brilliance, he'd started checking under the names of the martyrs. Mansell had come up with nothing but dead end after dead end.

Kent's report was no more encouraging. Once leaving the Golden Square, Haskins had seemingly vanished into thin air. For a city with as many cameras as London had, it was a feat bordering on the impossible.

Finding the man's real identity was a big break, Chandler knew. The lack of progress in finding him in their own city, however, was beginning to drive him up the wall. The information and theories they could draw out of the given evidence was beginning to wear thin. Chandler had heard detectives before grudgingly admit that they would need the perpetrator to commit another crime in order to catch them. But more evidence is not what Chandler and his team needed. They needed luck. And that was something that always seemed to be in short supply in Whitechapel.

Monsignor Wilkinson had tried to go through his day as normally as possible. It hadn't helped that his wife was calling him every hour on the hour, sounding more frantic as the day wore on. He had himself started to calm some once he'd gotten to the office. The police presence, while it seemed to put his colleagues on edge, was reassuring. Everywhere he looked, he saw the distinctive custodian helmet of the Metropolitan Police.

As the afternoon wore on, he had been able to settle somewhat into his normal rhythm and get some real work done. That was, until a loud banging on his door startled him so badly he dumped tea over his computer keyboard. It would have to wait. The knocking was as insistent as it was loud.

"Come in," Wilkinson called, doing what he could to mop up the tea with a tissue.

"Monsignor," the policeman said upon entering. He wasn't one of the officers he'd met that morning, but they had said there would be a shift change. This one had blond hair and a thick Yorkshire accent.

"What is it?" Wilkinson asked, the man seemed to be on edge.

"It's your wife," he got out before Wilkinson stood and was already on his way out the door.

"This way," the policeman said, pointing toward the back staircase. "Better to keep you out of the square, too many points of entry out the front."

The policeman's voice was troublingly familiar. As if he knew the tone of it, but not the accent. Then he thought back to what Chandler had told him just that morning. He remembered the voice. But just as that moment of realization dawned, his world went black.

Chandler had gotten the call during the height of rush hour. Police siren or no, it had taken him longer than he'd liked to make it across the city. Monsignor Wilkinson had disappeared and here he was, trying to edge around a double decker that was blocking an intersection. Miles urging him to try to breathe normally was not helping things.

By the time they'd finally reached Golden Square, Chandler had developed an anger he was sure he'd never felt before. They had assigned a level of protection that was rivaled only by royalty, how had Wilkinson been allowed to simply vanish?

It seemed the answers from those serving on the protection detail were no more forthcoming than those from Chandler's own team. The officer who'd been posted outside Wilkinson's office had been hit so hard in the head that he hardly remembered his own name, much less recall what had precipitated the blow.

Despite the lack of answers, Chandler insisted that he and Miles be the ones to inform Wilkinson's wife that he'd disappeared. Having already tried to phone her husband numerous times, the woman was already in a state the moment they arrived.

"Where is he! Where is my husband?" She asked shrilly before the detectives had even crossed the threshold.

"Mrs. Wilkinson, we are doing our best to find out where your husband's been taken –"

Chandler winced as the woman gasped loudly at his choice of words.

"You know he's been taken?" She asked immediately.

"Given the circumstances under which he disappeared, we are forced to conclude that, yes, he was taken by force," Chandler admitted.

Miles saw it coming, but Chandler had been caught completely unaware. Mrs. Wilkinson hit him hard enough that the red handprint was still visible as they drove back to the precinct.

There was a flurry of activity when they arrived. All available screens had various CCTV loops running on them, with anxious detectives hoping to catch a glimpse of the priest or the killer. Chandler and Miles spent their afternoon and evening interrogating every member of the protection detail who could be spared from Mrs. Wilkinson's side. No one had seen anything amiss.

Chandler did not go home that night. Most of his team had tried to insist on keeping vigil with him, but he issued an order that they go home for the night. They had families to see to – most of them did, at any rate. While he, he had his work. In order to keep the panic at bay, he spent the small hours re-watching CCTV footage and drinking green tea. It wasn't productive, but with so many unknowns hanging over his head, there wasn't a chance he would try to sleep.

At nearly five in the morning, Chandler decided to ready himself for the day. Pulling out a fresh shirt and a freshly laundered suit he'd took to keeping in his office, Chandler shaved and washed. The phone rang just as he straightened his tie.

"DI Chandler," he answered, his voice slightly raspy.

The voice on the other end was matter of fact, simply relaying the message that had been given to them. The blood drained out of Chandler's face as he listened. Managing to thank the desk sergeant for the information in a steady voice, he slammed the phone down and raced down the stairs to his car.

Miles was already dressed when Chandler arrived.

"What's happened?" He asked when he opened the door to find his boss already rushing him out the door.

"Wilkinson," was the only answer he got. He nodded decisively, kissed his wife, and strode quickly to Chandler's car.

They made uncharacteristically quick time to Southwark, Miles calling the rest of the team as Chandler weaved his way across the river on the Tower Bridge. Neither could ignore the symbolism. Uniformed police had already cordoned off the area when they arrived.

"DI Chandler, this is DS Miles," Chandler said quickly to gain entrance to the cathedral.

Though the exterior had a sort of dingy appearance, which Chandler suspected had much more to do with London smog than it did neglect, the soaring stone columns that lined the central aisle toward the altar were magnificent. Not that he paid those columns or the beautiful stained glass that surrounded him much mind. He steeled himself before making his way down the aisle toward the altar.

The body had been crudely reconstructed in the chair directly behind the altar. A handwritten note was pinned to the torso. Trying to ignore the gaping hole in the gut, out of which the man's entrails had been pulled, Chandler leaned forward to read:

The expense is reckoned,

the enterprise is begun.

It is of God.

It cannot be withstood.

So the faith was planted

so it must be restored.

Chandler swallowed thickly and straightened.

"What does it mean?" Miles asked, having appeared silently at Chandler's elbow.

He started before regaining his composure.

"I don't know," he said. "But I think we know who might."

Before his sergeant could answer him, Chandler was already pulling out his mobile phone and retreating to the vestibule. Chandler had not forgotten that he had promised to keep Emma in the loop, however inadvisable it was to be called her before the deceased's wife.

"What's happened?" Came her first, urgent words the moment she answered the phone. That she had echoed Miles so exactly would have been funny in any other circumstance.

"Monsignor Wilkinson," he said, stopping as he heard the quick exhalation of breath on the other end of the line.

"Where?" Emma asked, clearly sounding like she was making an effort to pull herself together long enough to offer what help she could.

"St. George's Cathedral," he answered.

"Southwark," she said to herself. "In the churchyard again?"

"No, he was left in a chair near the altar," said Chandler, no need to go into specifics as to how that looked.

"In a chair?" She repeated. "Directly behind the altar? Does it have a coat of arms on it?"

"Yes," said Chandler carefully, knowing it was significant but not yet why.

"That's the seat of the bishop," she said with a sigh. "The word 'cathedral' comes from 'cathedra.' It means 'seat' or 'chair'. That chair represents the authority of the bishop."

"Why this cathedral, though? Why not Westminster?" He asked, thinking it would make far more sense to make a political statement like this closer to the seat of secular power.

"Southwark was the first cathedral since the Reformation. He may also be making comment on the multiplicity of styles of liturgy celebrated there. The lack of uniformity is probably an issue for him."

It was an issue for Emma as well, but she had no intention of revealing that she shared ideology with a murderer. She'd already been accused of it once before and had no interest in spending another second in a cell.

"There was a note…with the body," Chandler said while making note of everything Emma had said.

"What did it say?"

Chandler, having written the text in his notebook, read it back to her.

"Jesus," she said in a low, harsh whisper. "Well, you have a precedent, of sorts. And it would also give some reason for his choosing Southwark. That text is part of Campion's Brag."

"Edmund Campion?"

"Yes, it was addressed to the Privy Council in an effort to assure them that Campion was not in England for political reasons, just as a missionary," Emma explained. "He says explicitly in the note that he didn't mean it as a brag or challenge, but he also wrote that they would persist while they had a man left to enjoy Tyburn. That particular line is followed by what was in the note."

"What has it to do with Southwark?"

"That connection is more tenuous. It also suggests that he knows the history very well," said Emma. "Thomas Pounde, who is said to have convinced Campion to put his intentions in writing, was imprisoned, among other various places, at Marshalsea."

As impressed as Chandler was with Emma's instant recall of the history, the past was not helping them solve the crimes of the present.

"Placing that note on the seat of a bishop is very telling," Emma continued, unaware of Chandler's frustration and equally unaware that she was about to calm it. "He is saying that this is what they should be teaching. I think he sees himself as issuing a teaching ex cathedra. You need to make sure all bishops in London – Southwark and Westminster – are protected, especially the cardinal and the archbishop."

"Cardinal?" Chandler asked. "I thought he wasn't –"

"There was a consistory," said Emma shortly. "Hang on a second."

Chandler could hear papers being shuffled, followed by a crash of what sounded like quite heavy books.

"Shit," came Emma's voice, further away from the receiver than it had been. More shuffling followed, as well as the sound of the phone being juggled from hand to hand.

"Is everything –"

"Fine, fine," she said quickly, though sounding agitated. She heaved a sigh. "I've had to drag out all of my research on the martyrs to try and keep up with this. It's made a mess of my office."

"Keep up?"

"You didn't think I just…knew it all. Did you?" Emma asked. Despite the circumstances, there was a note of humor in her voice.

"Well, when you – that is to say –" Chandler stumbled over his words.

"Not that I'm offended, of course," she interrupted, the sound of papers in the background once more. The shuffling stopped. She spoke again. Her voice was serious and held an urgency that almost scared him: "Protect the cardinal."