Free The Man Who Murdered God by John Lawrence Reynolds

writing key phrases in chalk as he reviewed the murders. When he finished, he tossed the chalk in a wastebasket.
    â€œBallistics says the empty shell found at the Surani murder had been in the gun for a couple of days. Which means it was probably the one that killed Lynch. Everything matches. It was a twelve-gauge, plastic wad, ounce and a half of number one buckshot. They’re not a hundred percent sure, but the pin markings seem to fit a Remington 870 pump action. What do you want, Vance?”
    Fat Eddie Vance lowered the yellow pencil he had raised in the air. “Anybody checked the number of Remington 870s registered in the state?”
    â€œIt’s the most popular pump action ever sold, the shotgun,” Lipson answered before McGuire could respond. “They’ve been making them for about twenty years. Hardly changed a thing.”
    â€œBut ballistics says the pin markings look brand new—” Vance continued.
    â€œSo we start checking all the gun shops,” McGuire interrupted. “We’ll put three squads on the street, one detective sergeant and one uniformed officer in each squad.” He looked over at Vance. “Acting Lieutenant Vance will do the geographical break-out and co-ordinate the reports. We get the name of everybody who’s purchased a Remington 870 in the last six months. Then we’ll break out the names later.”
    â€œIt’ll take fuckin’ weeks,” muttered Ralph Innes, one of the sergeants assigned to the task force.
    â€œWe don’t have weeks,” McGuire responded. “He’s killed two priests in three days. But it’s a place to start.”
    Vance’s yellow pencil shot up again. “Actually, I have a computer program we may be able to apply. . . .”
    There was a knock at the squad-room door. A grey-haired man leaned in, scanned the faces looking back at him and smiled when he recognized McGuire. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said, stepping into the room. He was dressed in an expensive grey suit, patterned shirt and plain silk tie. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
    â€œAbout two years,” McGuire replied. “You gave us a profile of that rapist in the Combat Zone, right? This is Dr. Lucas,” he said to the rest of group. “John Lucas, isn’t it?” The doctor nodded, first in agreement with McGuire, then to the rest of the room. “He’s a shrink,” McGuire explained. He turned back to the nattily dressed doctor. “You had a chance to think about what kind of guy might be blasting priests with a shotgun?”
    â€œI have.” The psychiatrist walked over to the group, stroking his trimmed white moustache as though deep in thought.
    He’s a performer, McGuire remembered. Should have been an actor. Likes to stand up here and get dramatic. McGuire withdrew to a corner, leaving the stage to Lucas.
    True to form, the psychiatrist stood for a moment, one arm across his chest, the hand supporting the other elbow. He frowned as he looked down, tilted his head up and raised his eyebrows while his eyes scanned the ceiling, and finally began to speak.
    â€œYou must understand there is very little upon which to base any kind of psychological profile,” he began. His accent was slightly British, his manner superior. “But I believe I can offer a hypothesis or two. Your man—and we can make a pretty clear assumption that the killer is male—has a clear hostility to authority with a total focus on the Catholic church.”
    One of the detectives shifted in his seat and looked around with a slight smile. Anybody here who didn’t figure that out already, the smile said.
    â€œI’m interested in the fact, however, that he chooses to commit his crime with anonymity.” Lucas frowned. When he was certain everyone had absorbed his concerned expression, he continued. “Normally such an imbalanced mind seeks recognition for its deeds.