Mind of a Fanatic
Chapter 6
Ryan held the phone and waited for someone to pick up. On the fourth ring, his patience was rewarded.
"Hello, this is Bill Richardson, owner and proprietor or Richardson's Tannery. The shop is closed right now due to a buying trip. You can either leave a message or call back late afternoon 12-16. Thank you for your patience and patronage."
"This is Ryan Wolfe from the Miami Dade Crime Lab. I will be calling back later this afternoon regarding any information you can provide for me regarding a Father Peters. I can't elaborate, but your information is critical to an ongoing investigation. Thank you and I look forward to talking with you." Ryan cut the connection and promptly punched the lab table. "Damn, damn, damn!"
"What's wrong?" Natalia asked entering the DNA lab and seeing his frustrated expression.
"I've just tried the tanner; the shop is closed until sometime this afternoon. I've left a message, but I don't have time to play phone tag!" Ryan said irritably. "He's had her all night; I can't stop thinking about the photos from the file. It's making me sick knowing that Calleigh is going through that!"
"Ryan, she's a strong, god-awful stubborn southern woman. I know you're worried; we all are, but we have to be patient and follow the evidence. Didn't you just teach me that? If we rush we might miss something critical and it'll take even longer to find her," Natalia said calmly. In truth, she was anything but.
She was just as worried as the guys were. After it came out that she was the mole, no one wanted anything to do with her. It was Calleigh who stopped to listen to her; to trust what she said. Calleigh was the first person to give her a second chance when no one else would.
"It's taken all morning to track this tanner down and we're still no closer to finding her. We've lost half a day, if we don't get a solid lead in the next 24 hours, we may never find her." Ryan paced the lab, frustration oozing from every pore. He stopped pacing and fixed Natalia with a steady gaze. "If that happens her file will end up on your desk as a cold case."
It was freezing and it hit her hard, startling her awake. She gasped, struggling into a sitting position, pain lancing through her arms, shoulders and chest as her muscles protested the motion. Her midsection ached from the punch Dupree had given her. She raised her hand to wipe the water from her eyes and shivered. That bastard dumped cold water over me.
"What do you want now?" she asked in a tone of complete irritation.
"You have displayed a marked lack of manners and lady-like behavior and have displayed a penchant for foul language. It is far worse than I had thought and now you must learn humility and meekness." Dupree said sadly. His heart really did go out to his penitent. She could be so perfect, such an instrument of God if only she'd stop fighting and learn.
Lack of manners? Lack of proper lady-like behavior? Fondness of foul language? Stop beating me and I'll stop cursing, asshole. Her Southern stubbornness and pride kicked in. She was, if nothing else, a southern lady. "Now I am offended, Father Dupree. You have insulted my upbringing." Such as it was….
"Then your parents must be disappointed in you." Dupree grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her, despite her spirited resistance, to the post in the center of the room, locking her wrists in the rings, trapping her. Avoiding her kicking legs, he unlaced the back of the hair shirt, laying it open. Her skin was red and irritated, looking very much like she had laid in the sun far too long and had given herself a nasty sunburn. "Have you learned anything from wearing the penitents' shirt?"
"Goat skin will never make the Paris fashion scene," she shot back, relieved to have the irritating garment away from her skin. It was rubbing her raw. It had started out as merely annoying, but had rapidly grown to downright painful. It had been constructed in such a way as to be snug enough to have maximum contact with her skin, yet loose enough to rub with every movement, every breath. Her entire body, from neck to knees, felt as if she had the worst sunburn of her life and some idiot kept slapping it, thinking it was funny. How long before this thing makes me bleed from the friction?
Dupree slapped the center of her back and was rewarded with a cry of pain. "Sarcasm tells me that you have learned nothing." He slapped her again." The Way says: "Unless you mortify yourself you'll never be a prayerful soul." It also says: "Where there is no mortification, there is no virtue." Humility is a virtue, Penitent, and one you're lacking; you will learn it." With a final, almost bruising slap, he turned away from her and went to the far wall, contemplating which device would best suit his lesson.
Calleigh's head was reeling from the agony; her vision clouded from the tears she fought to keep from falling. She tried to follow Dupree's movements. What was he doing now? She tested her bonds, but they were far too secure. Her wrists were in metal cuffs. She looked back over at him in time to see him take down a three-tailed rope flagellum. Each rope length varied and the ends were knotted. That doesn't look too bad.
Her hopes were dashed when he took a couple of practice swings and the knots rent the air with a nasty hum. She was reminded of poor Ana Morales and how she had been beaten with a bar of soap tied inside a pillowcase. It hadn't broken her skin, but had given her internal injuries. Calleigh closed her eyes and waited for the first blow.
"There are nine Beatitudes. I will recite them and if you are lacking in that grace, then you shall receive the number of lashes of that grace. Beatitude one: Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven."
Calleigh winced, steeling herself for the blow.
"Your spirit is poor and weak, Penitent. You give in to worldliness. There is no correction. Beatitude two: Blessed are they that mourn, for they will be comforted. I have seen you cry at my last Chapel. Your heart was mourning and for that you will receive no correction. Beatitude three: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. This is where you need to learn," Dupree said, voice ringing with regretful judgment.
Calleigh gasped in shock as the first blow fell; each knot doing a very credible impersonation of a fist. The shortest length fell just to the right of her spine, sending pain shooting down her right leg. The second length punched her in the kidney, making her cry out and the third wrapped around her waist and landed squarely in her stomach, forcing the air out of her. The following two blows each landed in trios of pain, each in different spots. She clenched her jaw, panting, blinking back tears as bright flares of pain erupted with each blow. Alright, I can pass out now. Please?
"Beatitude four: Blessed are those that hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. This is a hard one, Penitent, for I see that hunger in you. You thirst for righteousness enough to trespass into the realm of mens' work. For that you shall only receive half the blows. Thus, I judge you."
Both blows fell swiftly; one to the left, almost identical to the right hand blow and the second to her right shoulder, the longest punching her in the chest, briefly disturbing her heartbeat. It was a long moment before Calleigh could draw enough breath to speak.
"Doesn't the Bible say: "Judge not, lest ye be judged"? What right do you have to judge me and my life?" she gasped painfully, yet with spirit. Come on, guys. It's been nearly an entire day. For Gods' sake, you're CSI's. Where are you? I don't know how much more I can take. Horatio….Eric…somebody.
"Do not quote the Bible to me you heathen!" Dupree roared, bringing the flagellum down over and over, only stopping when he saw she was unconscious.
Ryan checked his watch. 5:08 pm. Figuring that it was late enough and a half an hour later than the last time he tried, he dialed Richardson's again.
"Hello Richardson's. This is Bill speaking."
"Mr. Richardson, this is Ryan Wolfe from the Miami Dade Crime Lab."
"Ah, yes, I just finished listening to your message. How can I help ya?" he drawled.
Ryan cleared his throat. "Mr. Richardson, in the last three months has a Catholic priest named Father Peters made any purchases from you?"
There was a silence and then the sound of papers rustling. "Excuse me, son, I'm checking my receipts. Yeah, here it is! He came in about a month and a half ago."
Finally, they were getting somewhere. The knot of stress in Ryan's stomach loosened a little"Can you tell me what he bought?"
"Yeah; he bought two unprocessed goat hides, a couple of spools of sinew, the real stuff not the synthetic, a leather punch, an extra long length of leather lacing and a leather needle." Mr. Richardson supplied helpfully. "He was real kindly. Has something happened to him?"
"That is part of an ongoing investigation and I can't discuss it," Ryan said. "Did Father Peters say what he was going to do with those supplies?"
Yeah I thought him wantin' the unprocessed skins was a bit weird. That means they ain't been scraped of hair or tanned. Anyways, he said he wanted to tan 'em himself; said he was a teacher of religious history and was trying to experiment with a section on the Inquisition. I told him that he needed to scrape that hair or it was gonna be like sandpaper if he didn't. He said it was ok." Richardson said. There was a sound of a bell in the background and someone calling a greeting. "Hey Sam! I'll be with ya in a minute! Son, I'm the only one in the shop and I just got me a customer. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"No, Mr. Richardson. You've given me something to work with. If I have any questions I'll call you back. Thank you." Ryan said, hanging up. He flipped open his laptop, brought up the internet and began his research based on the new information.
"Horatio, I have something!" Ryan exclaimed, catching up to his boss in the break room.
Horatio looked up from his sixth cup of coffee. The day shift had long gone, save for Horatio and his team, and the night shift had settled in and taken over the lab. "What is it?"
"I finally talked to Mr. Richardson in Ocala." Ryan poured himself a cup and sat down; eyes red and burning from lack of sleep. He laid out the list of supplies that Dupree had bought and what he said he wanted them for. "Remembering what Calleigh said about Dupree calling his vics "Penitents" got me thinking. I did some research on the web. It took me a while, but I finally narrowed it down; he made her a medieval penitent's hair shirt. It's supposed to be worn under the clothing for private atonement or as the only garment for public atonement. The shirt is meant to be irritating to the skin as a constant reminder of the sin; if worn too long, it rubs the skin raw enough to bleed. It's like wearing a sandpaper tunic."
She had been suffering even before we found her clothes. Horatio's gut twisted in another bout of guilt,he rubbed at the red stubble that fuzzed his face. "He's had her in that thing for over 24 hours already; Eric didn't get anything more from her clothing other than her own skin cells and body fluids. Mr. Wolfe, good work. Why don't you go home and try to get some sleep?"
"I won't be able to sleep." Ryan said. "I'll lie on my back, staring at the ceiling and wanting to be here trying to do something constructive."
"Alright, go see if Eric or Natalia need help." Horatio said, understanding what the young man was going through. I can't sleep either, Mr. Wolfe. None of us can.
Calleigh awoke alone in the Chapel. She glanced around. The one high window showed that the sky was dark and for once, she wasn't secured down. Saturday night; I should be curled up on my sofa with a bowl of popcorn and a good movie or maybe out with some friends, not here.
She tried to sit up, but the agony that lanced through her body caused her to flop back down with a sob. She looked up at the window again, so impossibly far away. If she could only get to it, she could push it open or break it and escape. Steeling herself against the effects of her injuries, she slowly dragged herself across the floor toward the window and freedom; heart, mind and will focused solely on escape.
Halfway across the floor she began to shake from the pain wracking her body. She ruthlessly fought the pain and inched forward. Once under the window, she laid on the cool floor to regain some strength to make the climb that could have been the peak of Mount Everest in her weakened state.
Shaking, sobbing, she slowly pulled herself up step by painful step, climbing the table next to the cabinet to reach the window. Finally she stood; supporting herself on the wall and pushed at the window, scraping herself on one of the nails that held it shut. With a sob of despair, she hammered on the window in an attempt to break it, but her blows were too weak. Suddenly, she lost her balance and fell to the floor.
Intense agony exploded through her body. She curled up into a fetal position and wept.