‘Unfortunately, it’s way too early to label these as Christian murders. I wish that wasn’t the case, but what choice do we have? The fact is that Narayan wasn’t a Christian – he was a Hindu – so this might not be about religion.’
‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
‘Not really. Then again I don’t know what to believe.’
In Dial’s mind the only common thread between the murders was the way that they killed. These men were kidnapped, shipped to a specific location, and then crucified like Jesus Christ. But why? What were the killers trying to say? What did these guys have in common?
Not much, according to Interpol.
Jansen was a devout Catholic who grew up in Finland as the middle child in a middle-class family. He lived a clean life – no drugs, no sexcapades, no legal problems – and knew at a very early age that he wanted to join the priesthood. Dial was still waiting for additional information from Cardinal Rose, but according to preliminary reports, everyone thought very highly of him.
The same could not be said about Narayan, who spent half his time in bars and the other half in bed. He was one of several princes in Nepal, a country that had seen its share of royal tragedies in recent years, the most famous occurring in July 2001, when Crown Prince Dipendra pulled out an M16 and an Uzi at a family party and killed the king, queen, and princess.
Dial shook his head as he pondered the two victims. What did these guys have in common? Different religions. Different homelands. Different lifestyles. Their only connection was their gender and the way they died. Tortured, then nailed to a cross.
Crucified like Jesus Christ.
27
By claiming to be friends of the victim, Payne and Jones were granted immediate access to Il Pozzo di San Patrizio. To guarantee their cooperation a young deputy was assigned to lead them down the 248 steps to the bottom of Saint Patrick’s Well, a sixteenth-century landmark named for its supposed similarities to the Irish cave where Saint Patrick used to pray.
As they began their descent, Payne lagged behind, trying to figure out how they had built it. Two diametrically opposed doors led to separate staircases, each superimposed over the other, which prevented descenders from colliding with ascenders. The original concept was conceived by Leonardo da Vinci, who devised the stairs for an Italian brothel so its patrons could sneak in and out of the whorehouse with their anonymity intact. The customers were so pleased that word spread about the stairs, and the design was implemented in a number of new structures, including the pope’s well. Another stroke of genius was the way the architect took advantage of natural light. The stairs were illuminated by a spiraling series of seventy hand-carved windows that allowed sunlight to flow through the gaps in the roof and filter to the outer circumference of the well, providing travelers with more than enough light to fetch water.
‘Jon?’ Jones called from below. ‘Are you coming?’
Payne picked up his pace until he encountered Jones around the next turn in the stairs.
‘Our escort was worried about you. Barnes died in here an hour ago, and the cops don’t want a repeat performance.’
‘I don’t blame them. This place would be a bitch to clean.’
‘Plus it’s a historic landmark. The cop told me while Pope Clement VII was hiding in Orvieto, he was afraid his enemies would cut off his water supply. To prevent that from happening, he ordered this well to be dug. All told, it’s 43 feet wide and 203 feet deep.’
‘Damn! The pope must’ve been thirsty.’
‘It wasn’t just for him. See how wide the steps are? That’s so pack animals could make it down the slope without falling. They were actually allowed to drink right from the source.’
Payne winced. ‘That’s pretty disgusting. No wonder Barnes had the runs.’
‘Thankfully, the town doesn’t rely on the well anymore. Otherwise I’m sure their water would taste funny for the next few weeks.’
‘Oh yeah, why’s that?’
Instead of speaking, Jones pointed to the violent image that gleamed in the natural spotlight. Donald Barnes lay facedown in the center of the well, his ample body bisecting the wooden bridge that connected the two staircases. Members of the local police poked and prodded him for clues as blood oozed from his ruptured gut, dripping into the water and turning it dark crimson.
The cop in charge of the investigation saw their approach and tried to prevent them from seeing Barnes sprawled in a puddle of his own blood. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said in clear English. ‘I know this must be difficult for you.’