and they’re homicide. Let those two idiots work the case.”
“They are going to work the case, but I need you to solve it. And the quicker the better,” Captain Marx said with a nervous edge to his voice.
Wolf picked up on his superior’s uneasiness. “Captain, what is it about this murder that you aren’t telling me?”
“I fear that the chickens may be coming home to roost,” Captain Marx answered in a defeated tone. Before explaining further, he led Wolf to a quiet corner away from the crime scene. He spared a glance over his shoulder before reaching into his pocket and producing a plastic baggie, which he discretely passed to Wolf.
Wolf examined the strange flower inside. It looked almost like a water lily, only it was as black as night. “What is it?”
“Temporarily misplaced evidence,” Captain Marx said with a sly grin. “It’s a Nelumbo lutea, also known as the American lotus.”
“I’ve seen lotuses before, but never a black one.” Wolf handed the flower back to Captain Marx.
“I have, and I’ve prayed that I’d never see one again. I’ve only seen one up close once in my life before this, and it was at the scene of a multiple homicide, even more fucked up than this one. We were looking for a little girl who had been kidnapped by a Mexican cartel. Thanks to an anonymous tip we were able to track them to a warehouse out near the airport. Now keep in mind that these were highly trained and ruthless killers, so when we go in we’re already expecting the worst, but none of us expected what we encountered when we got inside.”
“Did it get messy?”
Captain Marx laughed. “That’s just it. We were able to put it to bed without firing a single shot, thanks to that little black flower.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did we. When we rushed the warehouse, instead of finding the dozen or so shooters we’d prepared for, we found a warehouse full of corpses. There were eight or nine of them all together, all gutted and hung from the ceiling by chains like cattle. Same as Father Fleming.”
“And the girl?” Wolf asked.
“Physically, she was fine except for the fact that she was covered in blood. Mentally, she was stir-fried. It was days before we could get her to do anything besides mumble incoherently in Spanish. When we were finally able to question her, she had quite a story to tell. She said that the Angel of Death had come and killed the men.”
“So you mean to say that one person came in and took out a room full of armed cartel gunmen?”
“Sounded like a tall tale to me too, until I asked her to describe the Angel of Death, and all she would say was, El Loto Negro.”
“The Black Lotus,” Wolf translated, drawing on his high school Spanish skills. Something about the name sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure why.
“Right,” Captain Marx nodded. “I did some digging and found a few other cases that mentioned a black flower at the scene of the crime. Just about all the victims had been criminals of some sort, or had some black mark on their record. The causes of death were different, but there was a flower at every scene.”
“So, you think we’re dealing with some type of serial killer?” Wolf was growing more interested. He hadn’t officially agreed to help with the case yet, but his brain was processing the information as if he had.
Captain Marx chuckled. “A serial killer would’ve made this too easy. I believe this is way bigger. During my investigation into the Black Lotus I kept getting stonewalled by the department, so I called a buddy of mine who works for the feds. From the way he reacted you’d think I’d just asked him to help me whack the president. Officially, he refused to comment on the Black Lotus killings.”
“But unofficially?”
“Unofficially, he told me that the Black Lotus is an assassin rumored to be tied to the BHOB. You might know them as the Brotherhood of Blood.”
This surprised Wolf. He didn’t have any official information on the Brotherhood, but from what he’d heard they were a secret fraternity of assassins, who were hailed as the best of the best when it came to taking lives. The Brotherhood of Blood was alleged to be connected to some of the most infamous killings in American history, but they moved like ghosts, so law enforcement was never able to put anything other than speculation on paper about them. Their members were said to be composed of men from all walks of life, and none outside of the Brotherhood knew the true identities of its members.
“I’ve always thought tales of the Brotherhood were ghost stories to keep rookies on their toes,” Wolf said.
“Ghost stories don’t leave priests strung up like meat in a slaughterhouse.” Captain Marx glanced over at the murdered man.
Wolf turned his gaze as well to the mess that had been Father Fleming. He reassessed the crime scene, the chains, the worn wooden benches . . . the red baseball cap lying on the floor . . . He hadn’t noticed that cap at first because it was soaked in blood, and almost blended in with the bloody floor. Something about it tugged at his brain, but before he could dwell on it further, the captain broke his concentration.
“So, are you with me or what?”
Wolf weighed it. “Let’s say I go along with the theory that the priest was killed by someone from the Brotherhood. What does it have to do with me? It isn’t drug related, so why should I get involved? You said yourself that the department was stonewalling you and the feds don’t wanna talk about it, so why not just leave it alone? Or better yet, let those two idiots from homicide deal with it. I’m sure the department will be more inclined to lend their support to the donkeys than they would the wolf.” He didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
“If I go to my superiors talking about secret societies and assassins, they’re likely to slap me in a white coat and lock me away somewhere. Brown and Alvarez are good cops, and given enough time I’m sure they’ll piece it together, but by then the shit will already have hit the fan and the Brotherhood will be in the wind. Once they’re called in to do a job, they don’t waste much time.”
“For someone who doesn’t know much about the Brotherhood, you seem pretty well informed as to their tactics,” Wolf said. It was more of an observation than an accusation, but it somehow felt like the latter.
Captain Marx shrugged. “You’re in the streets so you know how it goes. Sometimes you hear things. Listen, James, you know I wouldn’t come to you unless it was a last resort. I need someone I can trust to help me out on this one. I’m not asking as your captain, I’m asking as your friend.”
Wolf took a few minutes to mull over what Captain Marx was asking him. It would be a difficult case, with him having very little to go on, and obviously dangerous, but those were the elements that got Wolf out of bed every morning to put on his badge. “This could get very messy, captain,” he finally said.
“I’m sure it will, but I’ll make it worth your while. You crack this case and I’ll make all that Dutton business go away.”
Detective Richie Dutton had at one time been Wolf’s partner and mentor. They called him the Chameleon because of how fluidly he slipped from one criminal persona to the next. He was so good that sometimes it was hard to tell which
