Page 31 of Go First
Carved into the metal of the desk, in jagged but deliberate strokes, were two stark inscriptions:Zechariah 13:3andEzekiel 7:19.
Kate leaned in, careful not to touch.“They didn’t bother to dress it up this time,” she said quietly.
Marcus crouched beside her.“No cipher.No Hebrew letters.Just straight Bible refs.What do you think, getting impatient?”
“Or confident,” Kate murmured.“Or a different killer?”
“Really?”
“I doubt it.I’m just… y’know… thinking of every possibility.”
She copied the references into her notebook, though she had an idea what they’d refer to.Zechariah spoke of false prophets offering fake comfort.Ezekiel declared silver and gold worthless on the day of wrath.Both judgments.Both condemnations.
A CSI tech approached, pulling down their mask.It was Desiree, who’d been at the last grisly scene.
“Gotta stop meeting like this, Des.”Marcus’s voice had dropped by about an octave and a half.
“MacMarcus,” Desiree flashed a full-on smile at Marcus, then turned to Kate, more formal.“Time of death is pinned around midnight.Same as the last one.”
Kate straightened, eyes narrowing."Midnight again.That's not a chance."
Marcus rubbed his jaw."It's a ritual.Midnight's the hinge of the day.The moment between ending and beginning."
Kate filed it away. “There’s something else.Witches were always executed at midnight.Exorcisms were always performed then, too.And the summoning-up of demons.Their powers were believed to be at their weakest.Perhaps the killer believes them to be beyond ordinary evil, actual demons…”
She shrugged, not sure how much relevance this had.Midnight was a useful time for lots of reasons, not all of them spiritual.Fewer witnesses.Bodies at their lowest ebb…
They met LaRonne Roberts in the glass-walled production office overlooking the studio floor.Roberts had been Harper’s producer for over two decades, a slim, elegant woman in her early fifties, silver hair cropped close, and a face more handsome than pretty.Her expression was shaken, but composed; grief wrapped in professionalism.
Kate noticed the difference immediately.At Pastor Whitfield’s garish palace, his wife and sister-in-law had been close to hysteria.Roberts was upset and yet steady, every word measured.
"He was a workaholic," Roberts said, voice low but steady."Murray lived for this place.He wanted to be involved in everything—scripts, lighting, edits, appeals, even down to the fonts on screen.He didn't trust anyone else to get it right.We used to call him a control freak, but the truth is, he cared.He had to know that what we put out was worthy of the people who sent their dollars, their prayers."
Kate made notes:Ca`omplete workaholic.Control freak.Always alone on Saturdays.
“So people knew,” she said.“That he’d be here last night, working late.”
“Yes,” Roberts confirmed.“Everyone knew.Always the Saturday before a broadcast.”
Kate tapped her pen.“What about security?”
“Tight,” Roberts said.“CCTV everywhere.Entry cards on every door.We pride ourselves on that.”
But Marcus raised a hand, cutting her off.“We’ve got the feed.”
They gathered in the control booth, faces lit by the glow of monitors.One of the CSIs queued up the footage.
At 11:59, a figure appeared at the main entrance.All in black.Helmet obscuring the face.But stocky and short, the same physique, same pumped-up arms they’d seen on the fleeting show at Whitfield’s place.They carried a pizza box.Harper emerged from the stairwell, his gait weary but purposeful, heading for the lobby.
“His regular order,” Roberts whispered.“Meat feast, Swiss cheese, extra jalapeños.Every Saturday night.”
On screen, Harper reached for the box.The figure yanked it back, dropped it deliberately on the floor, and shoved Harper out of sight of the cameras.
Kate’s stomach clenched.Silence followed.Six minutes ticked by, the lobby empty except for the forlorn pizza box on the tiles.Then the helmeted figure returned, bent, picked it up with care, and walked calmly into the night.
The room was still.Even the hum of equipment seemed to dim.
Marcus broke it.“They wanted us to see that.”