Bram’s face was a study in stoicism. Without speaking, he walked over to the wall crucifix. He genuflected, then said a silent prayer. A minute later, still in the kneeling position, he deftly removed a piece of paneling. The broken seams had blended so smoothly with the wall, Decker hadn’t noticed them on visual inspection. Inside the open space was a floor safe.

Decker climbed off the chair and donned a pair of gloves. “You want to open the safe for me?”

Bram hesitated, then started turning the combination lock. Several minutes passed.

“C’mon,” Decker said. “Stop stalling. I’ll blast the thing open if I have to.”

Red-faced, Bram looked up. Perspiration was pouring off his forehead. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m nervous. My hands are shaking. If you want, I’ll give you the combination and you can open it.”

Decker spoke quietly. “You do it. I’ll be patient.”

“Thank you.”

It must have taken another couple of minutes. Bram continued to maneuver the lock until there was an audible click. The priest pulled down on the handle and the safe door popped open. He stood, went over to the couch and sat, hands folded in his lap, eyes resting on the wall crucifix. As Decker knelt, an acrid odor tickled his nose. With gloved hands, he pulled out a folded pile of clothing. Gave them a sniff. Sweat-soaked with the distinct sweet, metallic scent of blood. He examined the cloth briefly. Splotches of fresh blood on the knee and cuff areas of the pants, on the sleeves of the shirt. Bits of reddish brown scattered throughout the rest of the fabric. Good news for Forensics. Lots of samples from which to work.

Bagging the clothing, Decker continued searching in the darkened safe. Farther back was a pair of sneakers, the soles reddened with blood, sparkling with splinters of glass. Decker distinctly remembered Martinez pointing out bloody shoe prints to Forensics at Decameron’s house. Nice to have shoes, especially sneakers with their distinct rubber-sole swirls and whirls.

Decker pressed on, looking for weapons. No guns or knives. But tucked into the back, previously hidden by the clothes, was a pile of magazines. About a dozen periodicals. He pulled them out, thumbed through the first one.

A case of “seen one, seen ’em all.” Still, there was something particularly disturbing about the pornography. Not because it was gay, but because it looked like it hurt. The bondage seemed benign enough. It was the body-piercing that caused Decker’s stomach to churn. Needles, pins, and hypodermics cutting through flesh—through noses, through lips, through eyelids and tongues, and through nipples, penises, and scrotums. Decker tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard to remain indifferent.