The Ritualist: A Vince Tanaka Thriller Series by Adam Roach

Author:Adam Roach [Roach, Adam]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2025-06-10T00:00:00+00:00

29

Sloane briefed us as we donned booties and gloves. “I’d say good to see you, but you know. Same as yesterday—symbols on each arm, pentagram carved into his chest. Eyes enucleated, silver coins in their place, and a cross smeared in blood on his forehead. This time, the victim is early twenties, Asian male.”

“Do we have any identification?” I asked, stepping into the church. Like the last time the Ritualist struck, three years earlier, my heart broke. I hated seeing this environment in a church. Whether someone was a believer in God or religion, death on display in a house of worship wasn’t something you ever wanted to see.

“Not yet. We’re running his prints through AFIS. I’ll let you know as soon as we have something,” Sloane said.

Several individuals, all wearing white coveralls, were moving around the body like a group of bees swarming a flower. A few were taking pictures, others were placing yellow markers, and a couple more were using tweezers and searching the ground.

“TOD is somewhere between midnight and 4 a.m. Like with the others, our suspect killed him elsewhere and brought him here. I’ll be able to get a more exact time once I get him back and do a more thorough examination,” Sloane informed me. She changed gears, lowering her voice. “Hey, about yesterday and the whole FBI thing. I’m sorry. I know why; it sucks not to see you regularly and have to deal with Sergeant Stick-Up-His-Ass.”

A laugh escaped, and I immediately felt terrible as a few people turned to look. This was certainly not a laughing matter.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble. And I know, thank you. Everyone has questioned me about it, so to hear it coming from you, of all people, just hit a little too close.”

We walked up the center aisle, and the various techs parted as I approached the body. Just as Sloane had said, the victim was an Asian man in his early twenties, wearing jeans and a cut-away T-shirt.

“Did we do the cutting?” I asked.

Sloane shook her head. “They found him like that.”

“Who found him?”

“Three ladies coming for early morning prayers,” Leo said, approaching from behind. “They’re with patrol outside. They come at the same time every morning, and as soon as they saw him, one ran out screaming, one stood there in shock, and the third fainted on the spot.”

I moved around the body, looking for clues. The forensics team had already tagged and bagged anything relevant.

“Are they saying anything? Did they see anything?” I asked, focusing on the eyes of the victim.

Why the eyes? Where were the eyes? The phrase kept coming back up: The eyes are the window to the soul.

“All about the same thing. They came in for prayers, talking about the priests’ message from Sunday, and made it about halfway down the aisle before they saw him. They didn’t see anything else. No one was coming in or out, and they didn’t see anyone on their way down the street either.”

I looked around the church, glancing at the central pulpit then focusing on the chancel.

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