Lynch disconnected the call as he approached the glut of traffic surrounding the church. He parked near three TV news vans that were positioned along the perimeter, their satellite dishes hoisted high. When he got out of the car, reporters shouted questions, but Lynch ignored them. He was too caught up in the ugliness all around him.

The church’s magnificent edifice was marred by crime scene tape that fluttered in the evening breeze. Officers milled about. Neighbors strained to see. Squad cars lined the street with fire rescue trucks beside them.

The police cars’ dome lights spun slowly. The lights on the rescue trucks were still, primarily because there was no one left to save.

While bystanders looked on worriedly, hoping that their loved ones weren’t inside, Lynch walked to the foot of the church steps. The officers guarding the scene stepped aside to let him through.

A priest with dark brown eyes, a slight frame, and thinning black hair walked down the steps to meet him. “I’m Father Douglas.”

“I’m Commissioner Lynch,” he said, shaking the priest’s hand.

“I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances,” the priest said in an anguished voice as he led Lynch into the sanctuary.

Once inside, the commissioner was struck by the contrast between the holy and the hellish.

A dozen nuns from the convent next door prayed beneath stained-glass windows filled with heavenly images. A crucifix stood at the front of the church, and candles stood behind the altar.

Less than thirty feet from the crucifix, the ethereal images were replaced by terrifying reality. Pools of blood smeared the sanctuary floor. Three bodies—each mutilated by a shotgun blast—slumped against the pews. What was left of their faces was twisted in the horror of their final moments. They looked like they died holding on to each other.

As officers from the crime scene unit dusted for prints and photographed the bodies, Lynch stood back and allowed them to do their work.

“We’ve got the description you gave us and we’ll find the person who did this,” Lynch said to the priest. “Two of my best detectives are on the case.”

Father Douglas looked troubled by Lynch’s assurance. “Is one of them named Michael?” he asked, almost timidly.

“Yes. His name’s Mike Coletti. Why?”

The color drained from the priest’s face. “The killer asked for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I saw the killer he spoke to me in this rough, strange voice. He said he was an angel and this is a war. Then he said he had a message for Prince Michael.”

The black Mercury sped down I-476 with sirens blaring, as Coletti tried to cut the fifty-minute trip from Graterford to Philadelphia down to twenty-five. Knowing that the killer had struck again gave him a sense of urgency, but seeing the priest face-to-face after all these years had sharpened his sense of purpose.