"The very one.There's a discussion in it—beautiful, troubling, extreme—about the commandment to honor one's parents.You know, those old rabbis were obsessed with clarifying the most extreme extent to which the law should be applied.The 14th-century was kind of a rabbinical shouting match.Anyway…”
He cleared his throat and read aloud:
‘To what extent is their fear?If the son were dressed in fine garments and seated at the head of the community, and his father or mother came and tore his clothes, struck him, or spat before him—he must not shame them, but remain silent, and fear the King of kings of kings, who commanded him so.’
The words settled over the office like dust, fine and choking.
Kate sat back.A phone rang somewhere in the corridor; a desk sergeant barked an order about evidence handling.
“That’s…” she exhaled.“It’s obscure.But it fits.The absolutism.Submission not to parents but to a commandment.A divine hierarchy.”
“Exactly,” Gabe said.“It goes beyond filial duty.It becomes worship.Reverence through humiliation.It wouldn’t surprise me if your killer finds that deeply… inspiring.”
Kate looked down at the drawings again.“It doesn’t feel like Cox.”
“Nor should it.Elijah Cox always preferred austere symbolism.Controlled.Academic.This is almost… exuberant.”
“That’s what’s bothering me.”Kate tapped a pen in agitation.“This guy feels theatrical.Showy.Definitely under Cox’s ideological umbrella, but he’s got his own agenda.”
“And your meeting with Cox?”Gabe asked.“Any clarity?”
Kate snorted softly.“The usual mystical bullshit.Storms on horizons.Divine action.Prophetic burden.And a few strategically timed references to my personal life, because he can’t help himself.”
Gabe’s sigh came through the line like warm static.“He’s still doing that?The this-is-all-about-you number?”
“He never stopped.”Kate pinched the bridge of her nose.
“And is there any sign of that in this killer’s repertoire?”
She blinked, surprised she hadn’t noticed before.“Do you know what?No.I can’t detect any references to me or my family.Not so far.”
“Maybe that ended on that rooftop when you told Cox you didn’t care.”
She sighed.“I’d like to think so. But I get the sense this—this killer—he’s not just parroting Cox’s commandments.He’s interpreting them.Embellishing.He’s enjoying himself.”
“Well that,” Gabe said gently, “might be far more dangerous than a zealot who simply obeys.But you’ll have realized that already.”
Kate didn’t reply.A couple of detectives passed her open doorway, arguing about witness statements.Someone dropped a stapler.Someone else swore creatively.
“You’ll figure it out,” Gabe said.“You always do.”
“I hope so,” she whispered.
“You will,” he corrected.“But Kate—don’t let this one crawl under your skin.”
“Too late.”
He chuckled.“Then at least don’t let it build a nest.”
They said their goodbyes.Kate hung up.
For a moment she sat in the stale precinct air, the fluorescent hum drilling behind her eyes, and stared down at the drawings spread across her desk like an invitation.
Outside, Boston kept pulsing—sirens, engines, boots on linoleum.
Somewhere in that vast grid of streets and windows, the killer was already preparing his next tableau.
And Kate still sensed—deep in her chest, in that quiet place she tried not to visit—that he was doing it for an audience.
