The two pastors looked at each other. “We could do that, I suppose,” Schönfeldt said. “In the absence of the district superintendent, I would think two of us would be an adequate substitution for this purpose.”
Gotthilf relaxed a little. “That would be good.”
Byron stirred. “It’s that simple?”
“The churches do not belong to us,” Demcker said, “although some pastors have been known to forget that. They belong to the district, so none of us can claim ownership or priority from that standpoint. As long as we are not destroying anything that belongs to him or removing anything that belongs to him without good cause, I doubt the superintendent will say much.”
“Now?” Byron asked.
Demcker looked at Schönfeldt, who nodded and said, “The sooner we do it, the sooner we either clear our man or we know the truth.”
“Right,” Demcker said. He turned to the detectives. “Let’s be on our way, then.”
Gotthilf led the way out of the church, followed by the pastors with Byron bringing up the rear. He climbed up in the wagon first, then offered a hand to the others. “By the way,” Demcker muttered, “just who are we looking at?”
Gotthilf turned to the driver. “St. Jacob’s Church,” he ordered.
“Oh.” Demcker and Schönfeldt stared at each other for a moment, then they both looked at the detectives. “Are you sure?” Demcker asked.
“No,” Gotthilf answered. “But that’s why we have to look, and that’s why you’re coming along with us.”
It didn’t take long to drive the few blocks to St. Jacob’s Church. It was located in the northeast corner of the Altstadt, the old part of Old Magdeburg, which prior to the Sack of Magdeburg in 1631 had been the poorest quarter of the city. Because of the prevailing winds, that quarter had mostly escaped burning. It had an even more old and run down look now, Gotthilf admitted to himself, than it had before the Sack.
“God must indeed have a sense of irony,” Demcker said quietly.
“How so?” Schönfeldt replied.
“Because humble St. Jacob’s, least of all the churches of Magdeburg, was the only one to survive the Sack and occupation almost unscathed.”
Schönfeldt snorted. “Indeed, and that would be because there was little or nothing in the church to steal.” A reluctant smile crossed his face. “Which proves your point, I fear. As well as reinforcing the many scriptural lessons about not desiring or trusting wealth.”
“Indeed,” Demcker echoed his friend in word and smile.
A moment later the wagon came to a halt before the church in question and detectives and pastors all descended from the wagon, all at that point equally grim-visaged.
They entered through the main door into the rear of the nave. The two pastors looked around, examining every angle, wall and recess, then led the way across the empty floor toward the pulpit and choir.
“He may not be here at the moment,” Demcker said. “It is an hour or so until the evening service, after all.”
Gotthilf finished his own looking around. “I see nothing to remark on here. Is there somewhere else in the church we should look?”
Demcker nodded, and led the way to a small door set to one side. That led to a small room. “Vestry,” the pastor said, looking around. They all spent several minutes looking closely at everything in the room, taking the robes off their hooks, feeling the pockets.
At the end of the exercise, Gotthilf summed it up, “Nothing here.”
“Where does that door go?” Byron asked, nodding toward the corner farthest from the door they had entered through.
Schönfeldt walked over and opened it, and they filed through after him. The room was even smaller than the vestry, dimly lit with a small window high in one wall, with a rickety table and lopsided stool in one corner and another door on the opposite wall.
There was even less in this room than in the vestry. And from the looks of it, it had not been usefully occupied in ages.
Byron opened the other door. “Outside,” he announced, a fact the rest of them had already gathered from the flood of light that had entered the room.
“Wait,” Gotthilf called out as Byron moved to close the door. Something had caught his attention. “Move the table away from the corner.”
Byron and Schönfeldt picked the table up and moved it as Demcker set the stool to one side. “Ah,” Gotthilf muttered, putting on his gloves, “there is something there.”
He went to one knee by the corner and picked up a small wooden box with a lid. Carrying it to the pool of light entering through the open door, he cradled it in one arm and opened the lid. “Aha,” he said softly.
“What?” Byron asked.
Gotthilf tilted the box so that the others could see.
“It’s a book,” Byron said. “Is that good?”
“It’s not just a book,” Demcker said faintly. “It’s a Bible, and I believe it’s mine. I recognize that scrape on the cover.” He reached for it, but Gotthilf moved the box away from his hands.
“Byron,” Gotthilf said, “gloves.”
Within a moment Byron had his gloves on and Gotthilf tilted the Bible into his waiting grasp.
“Open it up,” Gotthilf said, “and turn to Job. Chapter 3, wasn’t it?” he asked the pastors. They both nodded, eyes lighting in understanding but faces grim with the expectation of what might be found.
Byron opened the Bible in the middle. It fell open to Psalms, so he leafed pages backwards. “Job,” he muttered as he turned the pages, “Chapter 15, chapter 12, chapter 9…” He slowed down, turning the pages with care. “Chapter 7, Chapter 6, Chapter 5, Chapter…”
He stopped, then slowly lifted a half page. Gotthilf hissed. Archidiakon Demcker closed his eyes. Archidiakon Schönfeldt looked furious.
Byron carefully closed the Bible, then placed it back in the box. Gotthilf closed the lid with equal care.
“You two,” Byron said to the pastors, “are our witnesses that we found this here. You are the official ecclesiastical representatives that allowed us access to this church in the momentary absence of the serving pastor. You will be asked to sign affidavits to that effect, and very likely testify in court.”
Archidiakon Demcker’s eyes were now open, and the hard light in them was rather at odds with his usual temperament. Gotthilf was rather glad that the he was not the soon-to-be recipient of the wrath that had been brewed up in the young pastor’s heart and soul.
“I think I saw a sack in the vestry,” Archidiakon Schönfeldt volunteered.
“Would you get it for me, please?” Gotthilf asked, and a moment later he carefully placed the first major piece of evidence they had collected in this case other than bodies in the sack, then took custody of that from the pastor.
“Now,” Byron announced, “we will head for the police station, then find the nearest magistrate after that and get a search warrant for the person and residence of Pastor Timotheus Agricola.”
Byron had an edge of implacability to his voice. Gotthilf was fine with that. He was feeling just a bit implacable himself.
When their wagon pulled up in front of the police station, Archidiakon Demcker said, “How long will this take? I must do the evening service, since Dr. de Spaignart is in Rudolstadt.”
Gotthilf looked to his partner. Byron nodded and headed for the door.
“Do you need to leave as well?” Gotthilf asked Schönfeldt.
“Well, I should be at the church to support Dr. Nicolai for the evening mass, but I think I can explain that I had been called upon by you officers of the law to assist with an issue that touched on clergy.” Schönfeldt gave a half smile.
“And we will indeed back you on that,” Gotthilf grinned back. “Do you know where Agricola lives?” Schönfeldt nodded. Gotthilf turned to the driver. “Take Archidiakon Demcker back to St. Ulrich’s church, then return here. If we’re not ready when you get here, wait for us. You are our driver for the rest of the day. Got it? No one else’s.”
The driver nodded as Demcker climbed back into the wagon. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said, then shook his reins and clucked to the horse. Gotthilf headed into the station followed by Archidiakon Schönfeldt as the wagon headed back to Old Magdeburg at the trot.
Byron was standing in front of the station sergeant’s desk talking to Captain Reilly. He broke off and turned to Gotthilf. “Send that to the evidence guys now, so they can try to get fingerprints off of it.” He turned back to the captain. “We’ve got this case, Captain. We got three solid pieces of evidence this afternoon that come close to nailing our suspect to the wall. We need search warrants for his residence, and we need, what, three…” he looked back to Gotthilf, who nodded. “…three patrolmen to go with us.”
Gotthilf grabbed Martin the mail clerk and handed him the bag. “Get this to the evidence room now, and tell them I want fingerprints from the contents by the time we get back. Don’t drop it, don’t break it, and by all that’s holy, don’t touch it! Got that?” He must have had a snarl in his voice, because Martin gave him a wide-eyed look and a short jerk of a nod before he took off almost at a run.
After Byron and Captain Reilly finished their conversation, the captain looked around at the handful of patrolmen who were hovering nearby trying to hear what had Lieutenant Chieske so worked up. “You, you, and you,” he pointed to the three toughest looking of the eavesdroppers, “you’re with Chieske and Hoch. Georg,” he said to the desk sergeant, “adjust the schedule and rota until they get back, and get word out to the patrol sergeants.” He looked back at the detectives as the delegated watchmen gathered behind them. “Are you guys still here? Go catch this guy before he kills someone else!”
The crowd of them blew out the door of the station and coalesced at the just-returned wagon. “Load ’em up,” Byron ordered with a sweep of his arm. Everyone scrambled into the wagon and found a seat on the benches that faced each other. Gotthilf found himself sitting between Daniel Kierstede and Archidiakon Schönfeldt, with Byron sitting across from him.
“Head for the mayor’s hall,” Byron shouted, “and make it fast.”
Everyone grabbed for a handhold as the wagon jerked into motion. Gotthilf leaned over to Kierstede, and said, “Glad you’re with us.”
“Are we after the guy who killed those women, Sergeant?”
“That we are, Daniel, that we are.”
The patrolman got a very hard, very focused look on his face. “Good. I want to see that man hanged.”
“Well, I think the list of people who would volunteer to pull the lever to release the gallows trapdoor is pretty long by this point,” Gotthilf said, “but you might be able to bump most of the line since you found the first body.”
“Who do I see?” was the patrolman’s response.
Byron gave a short hard bark of a laugh. “I like your attitude, Patrolman Kierstede.”
“Why is the pastor with us?” Kierstede asked. The other patrolmen perked up at that question.
“He knows the man we’re going to be dealing with,” Gotthilf said. It was the truth, he thought to himself as the patrolmen made their own assumptions about that statement. It just wasn’t the whole truth. That would come out soon enough, but it would be distracting for it to be public at the moment.
It didn’t take long for the police wagon to arrive at the mayor’s hall. The building was large enough to accommodate all the functions that Otto Gericke had to oversee, between the reconstruction of the old city, the planning and construction of the new city, and all the affairs of government for the province of the Imperial City of Magdeburg. It wasn’t very ornate—yet—but Gotthilf assumed that would come with time and money.
The wagon pulled to a stop. Byron and Gotthilf jumped out. “Archidiakon, you’re with us,” Byron said. “The rest of you wait here.”
Byron led the way as Gotthilf and Archidiakon Schönfeldt followed. “What are we doing here?” Schönfeldt whispered.
“We need a magistrate to sign a search warrant anyway,” Gotthilf muttered back, “and this case has so much notoriety that we need to give Mayor Gericke a quick report that we’ve found a suspect, so he’ll know to hold everyone at bay for a little while longer. Since the mayor is also a magistrate, this allows us to kill two birds with one stone, as the Grantvillers would put it.”
They marched down the hall and into the mayor’s offices like a storm front, people scattering out of their way. “Albrecht,” Byron said to the mayor’s secretary, “we need to see Mayor Gericke now.”
“The mayor is occupied…” Albrecht began.
The door behind him to the mayor’s personal office opened. “Send them in, Albrecht,” Mayor Gericke’s voice came through the open door.
The three of them filed past Albrecht’s desk and into the mayor’s office. Gotthilf closed the door behind them.
“Lieutenant Chieske, Sergeant Hoch, and…” the mayor’s eyebrows rose, “Archidiakon Schönfeldt, is it not? Why are you here?”
“We have a suspect for the murders and mutilations of the three women,” Byron reported. “We need search warrants signed for the residence of the suspect.” He offered two folded papers to the mayor.
Gericke took the papers, opened them, and began to read. Gotthilf could tell when he got to the name of the suspect, as his eyes widened and he glanced at them sharply before returning to the documents. He read through them all with obvious care. At the end, he looked back up to the men standing before his desk.
“I suspect I know now why Archidiakon Schönfeldt is with you. Are you certain about this, Lieutenant?”
“Very certain,” Byron replied. “I believe we have enough information now to arrest him on suspicion of murder, and certainly enough to support the search warrant. And if we find anything at all in his rooms, we will have enough to charge him with premeditated murder.”
“But a pastor,” Gericke said. “I have seen them heated enough to have an apoplexy, and God knows that Martin Luther is probably not the only pastor who has thrown an inkwell or a book or something similar at an opponent. But this just simply isn’t the kind of thing I can see a pastor doing.”
Schönfeldt stirred. “With respect, Mayor, I have heard much of the evidence they have gathered, and I and Archidiakon Demcker were present when the most damning piece they have yet was found. No matter how my heart wants to agree with you, in this I must stand with these men.”
“But why would a pastor do something like this?” Gericke almost sounded plaintive. “Feuds with kings, feuds with other pastors, feuds with professors and guild masters and even mayors I could understand. But this…this…”
“Cold-blooded murder,” Gotthilf interjected. The mayor nodded sharply. Gotthilf continued, “We may never understand, Mayor Gericke. These are the acts of a deranged mind. We can eventually prove the circumstantial case: the who, the what, the when, the where, the how. Grasping and proving the motivation—the why of it all—is often the hardest thing to do, and sometimes we never accomplish that.”
The mayor stared at them for a moment longer, then sighed, picked up a pen, and signed the warrants. He pushed them back across the desk to Byron when he was done, and said, “It is a matter of great grief when a man of God goes so far astray. Do it quietly and with as much respect as possible.”
Byron picked up the warrants and passed them to Gotthilf, who tucked them into his jacket. “To the extent that he allows it,” the up-timer said. “But all bets are off if he threatens someone else.”
After a moment, the mayor nodded. He waved toward the door. “Go do what you must.”
They filed out of the office in silence. Gotthilf could feel the brooding gaze of the mayor on his back even as he closed the door behind them.
* * *
The detectives, the pastor, and the attending patrolmen finally arrived at a rather new rooming house in the northern part of Old Magdeburg called the Neustadt. Much of that part of the old town had been destroyed in a fire in the 1620s, and had not been rebuilt before
the Sack. Since then, however, building had practically filled the space between the walls, and it had become one of the more prestigious areas for newly affluent members of the capitol’s society to dwell in.
Byron’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Kind of up-town place for an assistant pastor,” he said.
Archidiakon Schönfeldt shrugged. “His family is well off,” was all he said.
Byron looked back at the patrolmen. “Any of you know who’s in charge here?”
“Old pensioner named Röloffse,” one of them responded. “Last door on the left.”
“Ready?” Byron looked to Gotthilf, who gave a firm nod in reply. “Everyone with us, then.”
The up-timer led the way through the front door, followed by a host of clomping feet. He arrived at the identified door, and rapped on it sharply as Gotthilf arrayed himself at his partner’s side. It was opened in a moment by an old man of middling height, iron gray hair, and deep furrows on his face. “Who are you, and what do you want?” he barked.
“Lieutenant Chieske of the Magdeburg Polizei, Herr Röloffse,” Byron responded curtly, holding out his badge, “and my partner Sergeant Hoch.” Gotthilf flashed his own badge. “We have a warrant to search the residence of one Timotheus Agricola.”
Gotthilf took one of the search warrants from his pocket and handed it to the old man. Röloffse took the paper in his right hand and shook it open with a sharp motion. It was only then that Gotthilf noticed that he was missing his left arm from above the elbow. The sleeve for that arm was pinned up so it wouldn’t flop around.
Herr Röloffse peered at the warrant closely, spending some time in reading it through. When he was through, he handed it to Gotthilf, who returned it to his pocket.
“The man’s a pastor,” the old man said. “What right have you to be pawing through his things?”
Gotthilf stepped to one side and motioned Schönfeldt forward.