August and Harris were sitting in their blue detective car. It was lunchtime, so the two 
couldn't pass up the chance to eat. As August sat in the driver's seat, he was chomping 
on a foot-long hotdog. "Mmm mmm! God, do I love Nathan's Hotdogs. I could eat a dozen of 
these," August said, taking another huge bite.
	Harris nodded in agreement. He himself was enjoying a corndog. "You said it, August. 
Eating their food is almost better than sex." With one hand, Harris put a full cup of 
coffee on the dashboard.
	"The one silver lining with being on sick leave is that Mac can't bug me about my
pigging out," August said.
	Harris laughed. "How's is he doing anyway?"
	"Well, after that little ordeal with Hatcher and his goons two nights ago, Chase
is still recovering after all that poison that ran through his system. Plus he had those 
knife wounds that needed intense stitching. But all things considered, he's doing ok. Ol' 
Mac's a quick healer."
	"And what about Haley and Billy?"
	"They're doing okay, too. They were just shaken up badly, but otherwise, they weren't 
injured as far as I know."
	"That's great. When are they gonna be released from the hospital?"
	"Tomorrow."
	Just as August was finishing his foot-long, the dispatch radio crackled. "All units, 
we have an APB on a stolen red Kawasaki motorcycle. License plate 843-Adam-5-Niner. 
Heading eastbound in Century City. Anyone copy?"
	August picked up the mike. "Roger, dispatch. 1-William-13 here. We are en route."
	"10-4. Proceed with caution."
	Putting his used napkin in between the front seats, August fastened his seatbelt. 
With a quick motion, he slammed on the gas pedal. The sudden maneuver rocked the whole car 
as they sped forward.
	"Wait--wait, August! No, no!" Harris yelled, but it was too late. His cup of coffee, 
filled to the brim with hot Java, fell off the dashboard and onto his lap. Harris shrieked 
in pain as the scalding liquid splashed onto his pants. "Aaaarggghhh, damn it!"
	August quickly glanced at his buddy. "Oops. You all right there, James?"
	Harris looked back. "Oh, I'm fine. I just burned my nuts and ruined my favorite pair 
of Khakis, but otherwise, I'm cool!" With a disgusted grunt, Harris quickly threw his paper 
plate and the now-empty coffee cup on the floor and grabbed the seatbelt to fasten. All 
August was able to do at the moment was give out a silent chuckle and drive.



(Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild plays)
In Century City, a blur in the form of a red motorcycle sped down the street. A number of 
cars honked at him for his recklessness. Several blue-and-whites chased the bike crook not 
far behind. But the perp moved so fast, dodging other cars, that his pursuers couldn't 
match up with his speed. In an attempt to slam him from the back, one squad car charged 
from the rear, but the perp took a swift maneuver to the right. Instead of nailing the 
bike, the blue-and-white ran headlong with a double-parked Geo. The squad car took a flip 
onto the road, landing on its side with a shower of sparks. The accident caused a gridlock 
on the street, forcing other cars to stop.
	August and James quickly came down the street. As they began to turn left at the 
intersection, a red motorcycle with the velocity of the Roadrunner sped past them. With 
wild eyes, August exclaimed, "There's our man!" He slammed his foot on the gas pedal again, 
and the car went into top speed, its tires screeching loudly.
	The cop car wasn't far behind the perp, which continued down the street. The road 
was fairly empty, so the pursuit was clear from any roadblocks caused by other commuters.
August kept a frighteningly fast pace. James looked at him with a look of fear on his 
face. "Uh, August?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Do we need to go this fast?"
	"Oh, am I going to quick for you, James?"
	"Well, uh, frankly . . . yeah!" James yelled. "Jeez, where the hell did you learn 
how to drive like this? Have you wigged out?"
	August glanced at Harris briefly, and then smiled. "Ha. I think all these years of 
being Chase's partner . . . I've finally caught something that he had."
	"And that is?"
	"Having the thrill of the rush and not caring if death is imminent . . . for the 
moment at least." As he spoke, August kept a good focus on the road.
	Practically frozen in his seat, Harris gripped the handle bar above the passenger 
side. The motorcycle flashed into a public parking lot. He quickly ducked below the 
entrance barricade, barely missing his head from hitting the barrier. The perp revved up 
and proceeded through the dark lot. The car screeched as it entered the lot passageway with 
rushing speed.
	"August, August!" Harris screamed as the car slammed against the entrance barrier. 
August turned around to inspect the wooden barrier, which was severed to pieces from the 
collision.
	"Whoops," he muttered. But within a second, he slammed his foot on the gas pedal, 
and they took off again.
	"All right. You see Evel Knieval anywhere, James?" August asked as he quickly scanned 
the area.
	"No, nothing." Harris grabbed the radio mike. "Dispatch, this is 1-William-9. We are 
in pursuit of the runaway perp on the Kawasaki bike. Requesting backup. Possibly some 
medical assistance as well."
	August snickered at his buddy's sudden paranoia.
	Then suddenly, the roar of a motorcycle's engine echoed through the lot. August and 
James turned to see their man flying down the road leading to an upper level of the 
parking garage. "There he is," August said, and followed him up.
	The motorcycle crook nearly hit a blue Plymouth as it went up the ramp. The cop car 
flew right behind, attempting to tailgate their prey. But, just like with the squad back 
on the street below, the bike crook made a dramatic swerve to the side. Both August and 
James screamed as the car slammed into a parked van, severely denting both vehicles. 
Luckily, the cop car's airbags popped up, saving August and James from hitting their 
heads and getting whiplash.
	August impatiently whipped the airbag out of his way. He tried to start the car, 
but the slight crash had messed up its system.
	"Damn it! I hate to run," August cried, looking at James. "But I guess I have no 
option now!" He opened the door and quickly darted down the lot.
	James looked on with shock. "August, wait a minute!" In a disgusted mood, he smacked 
his airbag. "Well, there goes the last detective car in a week."
	August ran up the lot corridor, which ended with a double pathway going left and 
right. As he checked both sides, he took out his Taurus out of its holster and held it 
with both hands. To his left, he spotted the motorcycle perp making a hard left turn at 
another corridor. Adrenaline pumped in his veins as August took chase on foot. As he made 
it to the next hall, he found nothing but more parked cars. He needed a plan, and fast. 
Then he saw a young man getting into his Sedan. He ran to it.
	"Police business!" August yelled, flashing his badge. "I gotta use your car."
	The man gaped at August. "Hey, man! You can't take my car!" But August didn't hear. 
His only objective now was to nail that hot-rodding criminal. He drove the Sedan back in 
the corridor that he ran from and began scanning the immediate area for his prey. He found 
him, traveling in the south wing of the lot.
	August quickly turned the Sedan right to enter the south wing. As he turned left, 
he picked up speed. Meanwhile, the bike perp turned around to see a luxury car speeding 
up to him. But instead of tailgating, August zoomed the car next to the motorcycle, and 
advanced to the perp's front. In a desperate change of direction, August spun the sedan's 
steering wheel to the right, causing the car to spin in a clockwise position. Thanks to 
this drastic maneuver, the bike perp didn't have a chance to swerve. In rapid pace, the 
perp slammed headlong against the side of the hood of the sedan. He let out a high-pitched 
squeak as he catapulted over the hood, crashing on the concrete of the lot.
	August got out of the car, gun drawn at the crook. "Okay, Easy Rider. Get your hands 
up."
	The perp did as he was told. Holstering his piece, August walked up and lifted the 
criminal by the arm. He pulled off the helmet. What he saw underneath the headpiece made 
him chuckle. The perp was a short, stocky, elderly man with a huge bald spot and horn-
rimmed glasses. He was bleeding from the lip, not to mention having a crack in the left 
lens of his glasses, thanks to his sloppy landing.
	"Jeez. You're the daredevil who's behind this high-speed pursuit?" August laughed. 
He took out the man's wallet, opened it, and read the ID. "Dudley Campbell. God, Dudley, 
you absolutely are not what I imagined to see while I was chasing you. You look more like 
a disgruntled accountant than one of your regular speed demons."
	Dudley sighed as he was handcuffed. "Hey, pal, I am disgruntled," he proclaimed with 
a highly nasal voice. "I have a dead-end job as an insurance claims adjuster, my wife of 
34 years just left me for her hunky aerobics instructor, and I'm allergic to pillows. 
Pillows of all things! For cryin' out loud, wouldn't you be tempted to go crazy if you 
happen to live within a black hole?"
	August laughed. "Oh, don't I know it."
	The two of them walked back. They saw the original cop car, dented from the front 
up, approach. The hood was steaming, and the engine was sputtering. The whole thing was 
in shambles. The car stopped, and Harris climbed out. He had a really agitated face on. 
"Well, if it isn't Chase McDonald, Jr.!"
	August snickered as he replied, "Hey, James."
	"Who's the Poindexter?" James asked, pointing at the perp.
	"Harris, this is Dudley, our little grand theft auto crook."
	Dudley looked at Harris. "Uh, did you have a little accident there, officer?"
	Harris looked down on his pants, remembering that he had an embarrassingly-huge 
coffee stain near the zipper. James quivered with anger, then said, "Let's just get the 
nerd back to headquarters, huh?"
	"Sure thing," August said, laughing.

St. Joseph of Arimathea's Gospel Church was bustling with activity, as it was every Friday 
at six o'clock. Every one of many races and colors in the church was on their feet, 
shouting and proclaiming their faith to the Lord with enthusiastic power. The crowd's 
reason for being fired-up was the energetic prose of the pastor heading tonight's mass, 
Reverend George Perry. Despite his graying-to-white hair and facial wrinkles, Perry had 
the vigor of a football coach. His strong sermons, along with the loud cheers of the 
churchgoers and the equally-loud piano organ, made the mass look more like a high school 
pep rally than a regular meeting in a house of worship.
	"The love we all feel today, as we all know, comes from the great man from high 
above!" shouted Rev. Perry, at the lector's booth. "Our Lord Jesus Christ loves us with a 
tremendous amount of strength, that we can actually taste it, don't we?"
	The crowd agreed with thunderous shouts of "Hallelujah!" and "Amen!"
	Perry pivoted with his hands and raised them. "Because the good Lord cares and 
watches over us, like the good Shepard that he is, we must show our gratitude towards Him! 
My fellow Christians, the only way that we can prove our love to Him is to prove our love 
to His house, our church!"
	Soon, a couple of men got up from their pews, picked up a few heavy porcelain plates, 
and walked towards the edges of the other pews on the aisles. The men passed the plates to 
the people in the pews. From there, the seated churchgoers placed sums of money, from loose 
change to ten and twenty-dollar bills, onto the plates. Once they were finished passing, 
the plates went back to the standing men, who went to the back. There, they all took the 
money and dropped it in a woven wicker basket.
	"Ladies and gentleman," Perry continued. "With our donations to the church and those 
who it represents, the poor and the less fortunate, we can expand our ever-growing love and 
loyalty to Jesus. We can all die happy people, knowing that we have been generous to those 
unlucky souls who can soon feel the same ever-lasting love that God is giving us. Now, say 
it loud, say it clear: Amen! Praise Jesus!"
	"Amen! Praise Jesus!" The crowd repeated.
	"Praise Jesus!"



Mass ended an hour later. Reverend Perry stood near the church's doorways and bade his 
churchgoer's goodbye. As soon as the last of the crowd left, Perry walked back to the 
office near the front of the altar. The church was empty, except for Perry and one of the 
church's young altar boys, J.D. Cummings, who stayed behind to help clean things up for 
the night.
	"Good service tonight, father," J.D. said, as he folded his white robe and placed 
it inside a small closet.
	"Yes, that it was, J.D." Perry replied as he wiped the sweat off his brow. He slowly 
approached the wicker basket that contained the donation money. The basket was practically 
filled with greenbacks and coins. "Looks like it has been one successful night, huh, son?" 
Perry picked up a couple of bills and stared at it intently. "I hope the good Lord won't 
mind if I borrow a little of our contributions to him?"
	J.D. looked at the priest with bewilderment. "No, not again, Reverend Perry. That 
money belongs to the church."
	Perry chuckled. "Oh, don't worry, kid. I won't take a lot." But despite that, the 
Reverend took at least half of the night's collections and put them in a black duffel bag.
	"I can't believe you're doing this," J.D. cried. "You're a priest, for God's sake. 
Why are you doing this? Why?"
	Again, Perry made a laugh, a deeply sarcastic one. "Because this church doesn't give 
me my deserved payment for my religious services. I always have to claim how good and 
great God is, but do I ever get any solid credit for it? No! Just a couple of handshakes, 
pats on the back, kisses from elderly women and toddlers, and a meager check. I think I 
merit more than I have now. Besides, who could ever suspect a priest of donation theft? 
No one, that's who."
	J.D. stood there, trembling. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the 
words.
	"And young man, I know you won't tell on me. You've held my cover for long, and I'm 
grateful for you on that. But you're starting to sweat lately, not realizing I need this 
cash." Perry paused, then made a small grin. "No one likes a tattletale, right?" he said 
as he patted J.D.'s left shoulder. The Reverend snickered, then turned around, picked up 
his duffel bag, and walked out the office door.



It was a cold, rainy night in L.A. Reverend Perry had to close his black coat tight. He 
shivered as he walked to his house, about six blocks down from St. Joseph's church. 
Rainwater drizzled down on his face. Perry strolled down the street, clutching his bag of 
money in his left hand. The streets were uncommonly dark, thanks to a few broken 
streetlights. As he passed one streetlight, the thing was dying, flickering weakly, until 
it finally burned out.
	The pastor scoffed. "God, if I didn't need the money this badly, I wouldn't get 
within a mile of this stinking neighborhood."
	He was passing through a public park when a dark, husky voice called out. "Reverend 
Perry?"
	Perry was startled by the sound. He looked around to see who called to him? "Who 
. . . who's there?"
	No one responded. The only noises that could be heard were the rain falling on the
concrete and a few cars driving in the streets ahead. Perry shook his head. "I have to 
stop drinking so much of that damn communion wine," he muttered to himself. He continued 
to walk. Then . . .
	"Our father, who art in heaven . . . " It was the voice again. With a look of fear,
Perry had sworn he heard it for real. It wasn't any sacred liquor that was giving him 
hallucinations. The priest turned again to check if it was behind him. No one was there. 
He turned around again, and what he saw in front of him made him gasp in terror. A man, 
dressed in all black, along with a dark ski mask, stood in front of him. The intruder 
almost looked like a ninja, sans the different mask.
	"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Reverend Perry," the man said, darkly. "And I'm 
doing His holy work for Him, and so far, He's not pleased of how you're pretending to 
spread His word." In the man's right hand was a huge, well-oiled butterfly knife.
	Petrified, Perry ran into the park, losing all sense of logic and direction. Running 
through wet grass, the panicky reverend nearly collided with a park bench. He regained a 
little bit of his subconscious, but before he could regain his balance, he tripped on a 
bush and toppled over it. In the process, he dropped his duffel bag. The priest was soaked 
with rain, not to mention soiled from falling on the dirt. Sputtering, Perry crawled on 
all floors. He looked up to face a white-painted tool shed just in front of him.
	He got up gripping the shed's walls. Wooden splinters pierced his fingertips and 
palms, but he ignored the pain. He placed his back on a wall, and began panting. He took 
a long look around, but there wasn't a soul visible in the dark park. Slowly, Perry paced 
to his left, his back scratching against the shed. But as he turned his head as he passed 
the wall's edge, a strong force slammed into his face. It felt like a gloved fist. Perry 
fell to his side, the pain in his nose searing incredibly.
	The rain poured into his eyes and mouth as he peered into the night. He took sight 
of the same huge, dark-clothed masked man, standing over him. "Please . . . please, don't 
kill me!" Perry stammered. He pleaded for his life, sounding much like a child preparing 
to be horsewhipped.
	The intruder said nothing. His hard, unblinking eyes just stared at the priest.
	"Do--do you want money? I h--h--have a lot of it!"
	"You're offering me money, you pitiful little sinner? The same money you stole from 
your own church?" He clutched the knife hard.
	"Who--who are you?"
	The intruder smiled through the mouth hole of his mask. "I'm the Prophet, and it's 
my sworn duty to send pretending scum like you into eternal damnation!" He raised the 
knife, directed right at Perry's neck. "'Thou shall not steal,'" The Prophet said stonily. 
	Before Perry could even scream, the tip of the sharp knife made rapid contact.



August was at his desk in the station the next morning, reading the Los Angeles Times. 
One headline on the front page read "Rev. Dix to be anointed Bishop today." August was in 
the middle of reading when his train of thought was interrupted by the sounds of a happy 
conversation. He looked up and smiled.
	Chase was walking down the hall, holding Haley Stone's hand in his left, and carrying 
little Billy in his right arm. Cragmeyer and Harris gathered around the small crowd, 
smiling. August got up and joined the party. "Welcome back, partner," August said.
	"Thanks, buddy," Chase replied, grinning. He put Billy down and released his hand 
from Haley as he walked to August. The two partners gave each other a warm, friendly hug, 
while everyone else made "aww" noises. As the buddies finally released each other, the 
two of them laughed.
	"Miss me, August?" Chase asked.
	"Oh, you bet, Mac. To be quite honest, I even missed getting in a car with you,
chasing some scumbag at speeds God knows how fast." Everyone laughed at August's joke, 
even Chase himself. August also hugged Haley, and patted Billy's head. "And how are you 
guys feeling?" August asked.
	"We're great, August, and we're also alive, thanks to you and James," Haley said. 
	August and Harris smiled. "What are friends for, huh?" August said, clasping Chase's 
hand in a small-length high-five.
	"So, ready to get back to work, Chase?" James inquired.
	"You betcha. But what about Haley and Billy?"
	"Oh, I gotta go to work, hon," Haley said. "And Billy doesn't have to go to school. 
Where will he be?"
	"Hey, can I go with you and Uncle August and catch some bad guys?" Billy asked, 
looking up at the grown-ups.
	Chase laughed. "No, big guy, you can't come with us, but you can stay here in the 
station."
	"Hey, Chase," Cragmeyer spoke up. "You want me to take Billy to forensics and
show him how a genius like me cracks cases with science?"
	Chase looked at August, and laughed. "Uh, no, Cragmeyer. I don't think my man Billy 
would care much for your studies on 'the mating rituals of the polar bear' or something 
crazy like that."
	Cragmeyer rolled his eyes and left.
	"I'll give him a tour, Chase," Harris announced.
	"Hey, James, thanks a lot," Chase turned to Haley. "You need a ride to work, babe?"
	"Nah, I'll take a cab. I'll see you tonight, sweetie." Chase and Haley kissed, then 
she left.
	"So, August, anything new happened while I was gone?" Chase asked as Richardson
and the Captain parted away.
	"You can say that, Mac," August said. "Just yesterday, James and I were involved in 
a pursuit of a Bill Gates' wannabe going gonzo on a red Kawasaki. And while we chased him, 
James had a slight . . . accident. Topping it off, I kinda . . . busted the last detective 
car available."
	James sneered. "I think August has inherited your reckless driving skills from you, 
Chase. And August, you owe me a new clean pair of Khakis."
	Chase began to laugh wildly. "August, driving like a maniac? Ha ha ha! God forbid." 
	August blushed and bit his lip while James shook his head disgustedly. He kept an 
annoyed face to Chase and August as he led Billy out of there. Chase continued to laugh as 
he and August went to their desks.
	"Oh, man, August, you driving like a maniac just to nail a perp? You of all people."
	August was about to reply when Jensen called out. "Chase, August? A moment of your 
time, please."



"Hey, Chase, welcome back," the captain said as the two entered his office.
	"Thanks, Cap. What's up?"
	"A homicide."
	August looked at his watch. "Jeez, it's only a quarter after eight in the morning, 
and already somebody's been killed?"
	"That's L.A. for you, August," Jensen replied, scratching his forehead in annoyance.
	"Where's our new stiff found?" Chase asked.
	"Callahan Public Park, in the Watts District. You know the routine, guys. Solve the 
crime, catch the killer, yada yada yada. Oh, Chase, I'm sure you've heard of August's . . . 
newly-found driving techniques?"
	Chase bit his cheek hard to prevent himself from laughing, but he failed. August 
exchanged dirty looks at both his partner and the Captain. "I became everything I always 
feared. I'm you, Mac."
	"Scary, huh?" Chase said, as he playfully punched August's arm.



"So,let me guess this straight, August," Chase said as the two of them walked down to the 
police garage a little while later. "While chasing this crook, you accidentally made a 
cup full of hot java spill onto James' pants, along with wrecking the last available 
detective car?"
	"That's the truth, Mac."
	"And this motorcycle perp happened to be a discontented pencil-neck turned speed
demon?"
	"Uh-huh. What's the point of all this?"
	"Oh, nothing. It's just that I'd really like to see your new driving skills myself."
	August rolled his eyes. "I was afraid of that."
	"Besides, my doctor said I shouldn't do so much driving lately thanks to my recent 
conditions." Chase patted his gut, indicating his injuries from the past few days. "I 
could use a chauffer."
	"Fine, Mac, fine. So where's this new car we're supposed to get?"
	Chase looked at the note that he held in his right hand. "Well, according to this, 
it's should be here in the garage."
	They took a look around. The lot was full of parked cars, but Chase and August 
recognized them as ones already reserved for other cops. Then, at a far-left corner of 
the lot, they spotted one vehicle that they hadn't seen before. It was a bright yellow 
'95 Plymouth Barracuda. Despite being kept in a dim-lit police garage, the 'Cuda 
maintained a bright luster, like a miniature sun thanks to it's yellow color.
	Chase and August approached the car with awe.
	(Nash Bridges theme plays)
	August whistled. "Wow. I've never seen this thing here before. Does that note say 
what the car's license plate is?"
	Chase checked the note. "Yeah. NB1-JD1."
	August took a look at the 'Cuda's plate. "Yep, there it is. NB1-JD1. This here is 
our new baby."
	The two of them got in the car, with Chase in the passenger seat and August in the 
driver's. The 'Cuda roared as August started the ignition. "Whoa, listen to this girl purr! 
Suddenly I feel like I've just stepped onto the set of a Don Johnson show."
	"Huh. You're not the only one . . . Bubba!"



The 'Cuda looked vastly out of place when they arrived near Callahan Public Park. The 
place was surrounded by blue-and-white squad cars, which couldn't compare with the great 
exterior of the 'Cuda. Chase and August got out and walked over to the murder scene, 
which was crowded with patrolmen. Det. Jack Lawson was already there.
	"Hey, Chase. You ready to get back at nailing a few bad guys?" Lawson asked.
	"Always, Jack, always. Now who do we have here?" Chase asked.
	"We got a male Caucasian, in his early 50's. Name's George Perry, a priest who 
served at St. Joseph's of Arimethea down the road."
	"Who found him?" August inquired.
	"One of the park's maintenance men found him when he showed up to perform his 
rounds," Lawson explained.
	"Cause of death?" Chase asked.
	Lawson bent down and pulled over the sheet from the head. "Severe laceration of the 
neck. A couple of inches deeper and his whole head would have been taken off."
	August sighed as he crouched down near Lawson to inspect the corpse. "Damn. Finding 
prostitutes, junkies, and criminals murdered is one thing, but pastors? What kind of 
deranged nut would want to kill a holy man?"
	"There anything else we should know about as far as Father Perry here is concerned, 
Lawson?" Chase asked.
	"Well, there's this black duffel bag that was near his body." Lawson paused, then 
got up. "Officer Schiff, you got the bag?" he asked as he took out a pair of plastic 
gloves and put them on.
	"Yes, sir." Patrolman Schiff walked over, holding a medium-sized black duffel bag 
with gloved hands.
	"We're not sure if this belongs to Perry, or what's in it," Lawson said.
	"Okay, Jack, pack everything," said August. "Corpse, bag and all, and get it back 
to the station so forensics can check them out. In the meantime, Chase and I'll head on 
down to St. Joseph's and grab some info regarding the late reverend."



The killer kneeled in prayer towards the porcelain structure of the Crucifixion, which 
hung about 3 feet from the floor. The place looked like a condemned warehouse, with aging 
tile walls and a wooden floor in badly need of some polish. It was dark, except for some 
candlelight and the sun weakly peering through a few grimy windows with holes in the 
corners.
	Despite the cold draft that blew inside the musty, old room, the killer wore 
nothing except a pair of black stonewash jeans, boots, and a gold chain around his neck, 
with a cross on the base. His muscular torso was bare. The upper features were slick, 
with glossy hair that was combed back, along with a neatly trimmed goatee.
	He continued praying silently, with his hands folded and his eyes closed. A few 
candles perched on the floor around the big cross were still flickering in the wind, 
while a few others were already burned out.
	A few hard footsteps made the Prophet divert his attention from the cross. He opened 
his eyes and slowly turned his head to see who it was. Forming a small grin, the Prophet 
acknowledged the visitor. "Reverend Perry has been forever silenced," said the Prophet, as 
he stood up to face the visitor. "He will no longer be sacrilegious to the Lord with his 
crimes of greed. Now the others will face judgment."
	The visitor said nothing, and walked away.

Chase and August sat silently on the couch inside the Cummings home. Opposite them on a 
wooden chair sat young J.D. Cummings, who looked pale and distraught, just like the night 
before. The kid's father stood near him, looking on to his son and at the detectives.
	"J.D.," Chase started quietly, "the janitor at St. Joseph's said that you and Rev. 
Perry were always the last ones in the church at the end of every mass on Friday nights. 
And between the time the six o'clock mass ended and when Perry left last night, you were 
the last one to see him before he died. Right now, we have no leads on who killed the 
reverend and why. And . . . " Chase hesitated. "We think that you somehow are involved 
in all this."
	J.D.'s father spoke up. "What? Are you saying you're suspecting my son, an altar boy 
of four years, of killing a priest?" His voice was understandably firm.
	"Sir, we're not directly accusing your son," said August. "But all the information 
we have obtained so far, I'm afraid, points to J.D."
	Mr. Cummings shook his head. "Detectives, these are outrageous points you're 
bringing up here. If you don't have any solid evidence whether J.D. has done anything, I 
suggest you get the hell out of my house."
	"No, dad, I'll listen to what they have to say," J.D. said. Tears started to well 
in his eyes as he looked at Chase and August again. "Last night, before he left the 
church, I caught Rev. Perry taking some money that was meant for the donations that were 
to go for the local shelters and soup kitchens. He . . . he didn't care that he was being 
seen stealing the money, and he even told me that if I told anyone, no one would believe 
me."
	Chase and August glanced at each other. "J.D., did Perry happen to stuff the money 
into a black duffel bag?" Chase asked.
	"Yes, sir."
	"Was this the first time that Perry has stolen money from your church?" asked August.
	J.D. hesitated before he nodded, yes.
	"How much do you think he would take?" Chase spoke up.
	"Uh, I guess about five to seven hundred dollars worth."
	"Son, why didn't you tell anybody about this?" the kid's father asked.
	"I . . . I just told you. I didn't think anyone would believe me if I said anything."
	"And now look what's happened because you kept quiet, J.D. If you'd have said 
anything, Perry would still be alive!" J.D.'s father was brewing with rage, startling his 
son.
	"Calm down, Mr. Cummings," Chase said sternly. The man was still tense at everyone 
at the room, but he backed down.
	August turned to his partner. "Well, apparently Rev. Perry isn't a completely honest 
holy man, if he's got the nerve to steal from a church's fund collection."
	The two cops got up. "J.D., thanks for your time, but we might have some questions 
for you, so we'll keep in touch," Chase said. He took out his card and gave it to J.D.'s 
father, who kept a firm look at the cops.



	Chase and August were on the road, with August behind the wheel of the 'Cuda and 
Chase riding shotgun. August noticed that Chase was scratching at his arms and ribs 
irritatingly. "You okay, Mac? It looks like you're the main course of a mosquito family 
reunion."
	Chase looked at August with an annoyed expression. "Well, August, I'm itching here 
for two reasons. One, my stitches from the knife wounds Shiv Keyes gave me a couple 
nights ago are irritating the skin around the cuts, and two this whole affair with Rev. 
Perry. Who would have thought that a pastor would be sink so low into stealing funds?"
	"Hey, it would be the perfect cover, partner. No one would suspect a priest 
immediately when a crime like robbery happens in God's house."
	After a few seconds of scratching through his sleeves and shirt, Chase finally 
relaxed, and he sank into his seat. "Well, with that in mind, we can possibly rule out 
robbery as a motive for Perry's murder. Otherwise, that bag Perry supposedly was carrying 
wouldn't have still been there."
	"What are you saying, Mac? That maybe this killer's got another agenda?"
	"Why not? We've faced criminals did that before, right? Guys who claim they're
offing people for the sake of the law, righteousness, and even religion. Remember the 
Reaper and Michael Mills?"
	"Sure. The two killers of murderous redemption, now basking in their own private
purgatories."
	Chase chuckled. "So maybe, just maybe, our new killer is also religiously motivated 
as well."
	August gripped the steering wheel when he heard those words. "Now that's a creepy 
thought."



Chase and August walked through the station office. Little Billy Stone came by, with 
James Harris following.
	"Chase!" Billy shouted as he ran towards his pal. Chase scooped up the kid as if
he were made of thin air.
	"Billy. So what did you see in the palace?" Chase asked.
	"Well, Uncle James took me to see the police lineup and even the shooting range."
	Chase gave Harris a weird look. "You took Billy to see the shooting range?"
	James shrugged. "Yeah. So?"
	"Well, I don't think Billy should be around when guns are being shot, you know?" 
Chase said.
	"It was either that or I'd have taken him some place boring like where we store the 
warrants and traffic tickets. Besides, what difference does it make? He happens to live 
with a cop, doesn't he?"
	Amidst the conversation, August walked back to his desk, laughing quietly at his two 
buddies.
	"Brooks, McDonald! My office!" Jensen called out.
	"Okay, Billy, I gotta go back to work. Why don't you go with Uncle James to . . . 
the cafe down the street," Chase said, putting the kid back down on the floor. "Go have 
a milkshake, have a burger, just be anywhere where bullets don't fly like shooting stars." 
Then, pointing a finger at Harris, he said, "I hope your little 'fieldtrip' didn't give 
him any bad ideas, man!"
	Harris shook his head and lead Billy out of the station.
	"Hey, James. Don't have any more coffee accidents while you're there," August called 
out.
	Harris stalked off in a surly way, yet again.



The two cops walked inside Jensen's office room. A woman with long brunette hair and large 
brown eyes sat in the visitor's chair, her head tilted to see who came in. She must have 
been at least in her early- to mid-50's, but she was pretty in her prime.
	"Guys, this is Elaine Garnett," Jensen said. "She's a representative of the United 
Christian Church Services here in California. Mrs. Garnett, this is Detectives Chase 
McDonald and August Brooks."
	August and Chase exchanged handshakes with the lady. But upon hearing the woman's 
name, August furrowed his brow, as if suddenly intrigued by the presence of the visitor. 
However, he kept silent.
	"What brings you here, ma'am?" Chase asked.
	"I was immediately notified when I heard of Rev. George Perry's murder. And I'm 
very concerned about the outcome out of all this."
	"What do you mean, Mrs. Garnett?" Chase inquired.
	"Perry is . . . um, was, a member of a committee within the United Christian Church
Services of selecting priests who have done good deeds for the community and the church 
beyond reserved duty. The committee will anoint the priest for a higher position in the 
church. This year, we've decided to elect Rev. Spenser Dix to become bishop to represent 
Our Lady of Perpetual Help in the Vatican for the Pentecost celebration in about a day." 
Garnett sighed, but continued on. "But now . . . the whole committee is in shock when we 
heard that Perry was been murdered."
	"Mrs. Garnett, Detective McDonald and I had found some interesting info that might 
gain your attention about Perry," August said.
	"Oh?"
	"An altar boy at St. Joseph's of Armithea told us that Perry might have been 
embezzling donation money from his church," Chase explained.
	Garnett's eyes went wild. "I don't believe it. Do you have proof of that?"
	"Not really. So far it's only the word from an altar boy. But the kid, J.D. Cummings, 
sounded sincere about his story," August said.
	"Either that, or J.D. is one hell of a dramatic actor," Chase said.
	During the conversation, August retained his hard look on Garnett. Chase noticed his 
partner's slightly suspicious gaze, but said nothing.
	Garnett stood up to leave. "Well, gentlemen, I really must go. I hope all of you will 
persevere and find out who killed Perry."
	"You can count on us, ma'am," Chase replied, shaking the lady's hand. August did the 
same, despite his qualms.



A short while later, Chase and August walked into the forensics office. They found 
Cragmeyer studying Perry's black bag. "Ah, Chase and August. Just the two flatfoots I 
wanna talk to now."
	"What do you got for us, Crag man?" August asked.
	"Well, first of all, the only prints found on the bag belong to none other than the 
Rev. George Perry himself. But you would never guess what I found inside."
	"Five to seven hundred dollars, perhaps?" asked Chase.
	Cragmeyer looked at Chase with a surprised look. "How the hell did you know that? 
You didn't open this, did you?"
	"Nope. I've got intuition," Chase replied, tapping his head with his right pointer 
finger.
	August sighed. "Mac, the only intuition that you've got is to simultaneously lose 
all second thought and common sense when you're after a perp like hell on wheels."
	"Uh, isn't this the same intuition that you seemed to have adapted just the other 
day, with Harris?" Cragmeyer cracked.
	Chase had to laugh, while August threw a dirty look at the forensics specialist. 
"Anyway, yes, there was enough money here to pay off my apartment rent for a whole month," 
Cragmeyer continued. "Did this certain priest happen to have a case of kleptomania?"
	"You can say that," August said. "We were told by one of his church's altar boys 
that Perry had allegedly taken that money."
	"So there were no other prints on the bag besides Perry's?" Chase asked.
	"That's right," Cragmeyer responded.
	"Well then, I guess we can rule out robbery as the killer's motive then, August."
	"Sure, but what the hell is his motive?"
	Lawson entered the room. "Anything new, guys?"
	"Other than the fact that Rev. Perry might have had sticky fingers, nothing much, 
Jack," Cragmeyer stated.
	"And we also think our killer is possibly a religious fanatic, if he has the nerve 
to kill a pastor and not rip him off the money he had," Chase said.
	August gave a long hard sigh. With a slight scoff, Chase looked at his partner. "All 
right, August, what is it? For the past fifteen minutes, you're either giving really weird 
looks at certain people or you're sighing like you're retaining hot air. What's the 
problem?"
	"I don't know, Mac. I think I've heard the name Elaine Garnett before, but I just 
can't put my finger on it. I could have sworn I've heard of her somewhere, but it's all a 
blank now."
	"Maybe she was involved in an old case," Lawson said.
	"Could be. Lawson, why don't you take a look at the older files and see if you can 
find anything that's related to Ms. Garnett."
	"Will do, August," Lawson said, and left the forensics room.
	"You think that'll do any good?" Chase asked.
	"You've got any better ideas, Mac?"



The basement at the Church of the Good Shepard was crowded. Every evening at six the 
church helds their nightly soup kitchen. At the head table, a pretty, middle-aged lady 
was serving the misfortunate their hot meals. A tall Hispanic man was first in line. "Hey, 
Mrs. Kramer, what's on the menu tonight?"
	Mrs. Kramer smiled, flashing a set of shiny pearly-whites. "Tonight's a real treat, 
Enrique. We get hot tomato soup, cinnamon buns, and tender spare ribs."
	"Sounds good, ma'am," one elderly woman in the line called out. She, like others
being served there, looked worn out and depressed, thanks to poverty.
	"Smells good, too." A handsome, middle-aged priest came from behind and wrapped his 
arms around the dinner server. He gave Mrs. Kramer a playful kiss on the cheek. It was 
her husband, Rev. Nathan Kramer.
	"Hey, honey, how was the service?" Mrs. Kramer asked.
	"Oh, just great. More and more people keep coming by to the church to hear our good 
Lord's word," Kramer replied, with a smile. He grabbed an apron and began helping his wife 
in the soup kitchen.
	Then, a pretty teenager with long, golden hair walked from the back door and walked 
to the tables. Rev. Kramer noticed her and grinned. "Sorry I'm late, Rev. Kramer," the 
girl said. "My car wouldn't start, and I--"
	"It's okay, Erica. No explanations necessary. Just as long as you show up to help 
others, it's all right to be late."
	"Thanks, Reverend," Erica replied. Mrs. Kramer smiled as well and handed the young 
assistant an apron.
	As Erica got to work, Rev. Kramer couldn't take his eyes off the hot young teen. 
Even at sixteen, she was blossoming. At her age, it was rare for a girl to become a 
budding fox that early in life.



Later, as everyone ate, Mrs. Kramer couldn't help but notice that her husband was staring 
at Erica all night. Mrs. Kramer always knew that Nathan was a good, faithful man; he was 
a priest, for God's sake. So she shook the thought out of her head. But why was he still 
staring at the young girl?
	The bell above the main door chimed as it opened. Mrs. Kramer looked up to see 
Elaine Garnett enter the place. She got up to greet the latest visitor. "Elaine. How 
wonderful of you to join us."
	Garnett smiled. "It's my pleasure, Stephanie. How's the dinner tonight?"
	"Oh, looks like everyone is enjoying the meal."
	"Yes, you do whip up a mean turkey salad and apple cobbler. Where's Nathan?"
	Stephanie took a look around. She found Nathan's, and Erica's, seats empty.



"Mmm, Rev. Kramer, I don't think we should be . . . uh . . . doing this . . . here." 
Erica squealed as she lay on the table in the darkened back room of the soup kitchen. She 
was only clad in her skirt and her white brassiere. Kramer, in his tank top and pants, 
was right on top of her, shakily groping and kissing the teen.
	"I know. This just adds to the excitement, don't you think?" Kramer cooed. He was 
obviously enjoying the moment of erotic love going on. The girl loved it, too. Their 
provocative and extremely stimulating love affair that the good young volunteer and the 
faithful pastor/husband were having was a turn-on on itself for Erica.
	A few minutes later, their make-out session ended. Erica and Kramer hastily put 
their clothes back on. After buttoning her blouse, Erica looked into Kramer's eyes.
	"What do we do now?"
	"We go back to my place."
	"The rectory?" Erica asked.
	"No, what are you, crazy? I've got a small hotel room on Hollywood Boulevard. We 
can hole up in there for the night. I don't wanna risk getting caught by other members 
of the Clergy while we're at the rectory, you know? Lord knows that'll ruin my reputation 
as a . . . man of the church."
	The two of them quietly got out of the back door of the kitchen. Then, they crept 
into Kramer's Jetta that was parked in the kitchen's lot and drove away, unbeknownst that 
someone was watching them in the darkness.



Except for a few streetlights, Mulholland Falls was completely shrouded in darkness. The 
roads were almost empty as Kramer drove his Jetta slowly. He and Erica were silent during 
the ride. "Um, Reverend Kramer?"
	"Call me Nathan, Erica. Or better yet, call me Nate, because we are starting to
be more than just friends."
	Erica swallowed hard. "Nate, right. Um, I've always wondered. Why did you decide
to cheat on your wife anyhow?"
	Kramer laughed sarcastically. "Because at her age, she couldn't continue to 
physically fulfill her end of our bargain."
	"You're ditching her because she couldn't satisfy you sexually?"
	"Well, if you're gonna put it that way, sure. She's a specialist in the kitchen, but 
when it comes to making love, she could disappoint the Marquis de Sade. That's how bad 
she is."
	Then, the car's engine started to sputter. The motor was dying on them, and they 
were slowing down.
	"Oh, come on, what the hell?" Kramer swore in spite of himself. He slammed his fist 
on the steering wheel as he pulled the car to the side of the road. "Damn it." The priest 
got out of the car and walked towards the hood in a huff. Erica remained in the car, 
hugging herself due to the cold chill of the night air.
	Kramer fiddled with the hood before he got it opened. He noticed that the engine was 
leaking gasoline.
	"Oh, for the love of . . . " Kramer began. He looked back at the road, which shone 
under a streetlight. He noticed a decently long trail of petrol that ranged from the car's 
tailpipe to the backstretch of the road.
	Erica opened her window and stuck her head out. "Everything okay, Nate?"
	Kramer looked back down at the engine and carburetor. He was about to reply when 
swift footsteps moving towards him broke his train of thought. He looked up to see a man 
dressed in black, along with a matching face mask, rush up to him, wielding what looked 
like a big, steel crowbar. Kramer couldn't get a chance to react. The last thing he saw 
was the hook end of the crowbar flying quickly toward him.



Kramer came to a few minutes later, when he felt a leak of blood trickle onto his eye. He 
found himself on the floor, his hands and feet tied with duct tape. His mouth was gagged 
with tape as well. He heard the muffled whimpering of Erica, who was lying on the backseat 
and was tied as well. She had a roll of duct tape on her mouth as a makeshift gag, not to 
mention being covered with thousands of glass shards. She looked at him, revealing a deep 
bruise on her forehead and left cheek. Apparently, his attacker had performed on Kramer's 
mistress, too.
	The reverend desperately tried to get his bonds off, but they were too tight. Then, 
he noticed a shadow that loomed over him from outside the now shattered two passenger-side 
window. He looked up to see the same man in black that gave him the lullaby of steel.
	"So, Rev. Kramer," the stranger said quietly. "You decide to leave behind a good, 
loving wife over a beautiful little Jezebel like her?" He pointed at Erica, who looked at 
the man with tears streaming from her cheeks.
	Kramer tried to talk, but his gag reduced his voice to muffled groans. He was crying 
in spite of himself, for the smell of death was getting stronger and stronger.
	"Consider this . . . your call to judgment. I am the Prophet, and it is my duty to 
spread God's word. Rev. Kramer, for your acts of infidelity, you not only betrayed your 
love for your wife, but also to the Lord Himself. Behold, and ye shall see the light." 
With that, the Prophet flicked open a Zippo lighter and walked down to the back of the 
road. Kramer and Erica screamed. They knew what was going to happen next.
	Down the road, at least ten feet away, the Prophet stopped. A few inches near his 
feet were the car's gasoline trail. He lowered the still-lit lighter. "Thou shall not 
commit adultery." Then, he dropped the lighter.
	He watched as the trinket made contact with the petrol, which transformed into a 
small but fast-moving flame. The fire quickly sped towards the back of the car. It made 
its way to the tailpipe, and within seconds, the Jetta exploded, turning into a cloud of 
orange-yellow flames and dark billowing smoke.

A group of fire marshals and cops were tending to what was left of Rev. Kramer's Jetta, a 
smoldering, charred wreck when Chase and August arrived in their shiny 'Cuda. "Ready to 
go to work, Nash?" August said, sardonically.
	"You betcha, Joe," Chase replied, putting on some shades and smiling at his partner.
	The two of them climbed out and walked up to the crime scene. Jack Lawson was already 
there, surveying the car and the area around it. "How do you like your ribs, guys? Slow-
roasted or flame-broiled?" he asked, looking up at his cohorts.
	"Now's not the time for culinary jokes, Jack," August retorted. "We have any idea who 
the victims are?"
	"Nope. Not if their dental records can help it."



"Glad to see you're not scratching anymore, Mac," August said while driving the 'Cuda.
	"Yeah. Haley prescribed me some special itch ointment that finally got rid of my 
damn skin irritations."
	"Hmm. How can you possibly live without Haley, huh?"
	Chase nodded in agreement.
	"Oh, by the way, Mac. Have you . . . you know, to Haley?"
	"What?"
	"The engagement ring."
	With a combination of surprise and disappointment, Chase's eyes went wild. "Oh God! 
How the hell can I forget about that??"
	"Jeez, McDonald, you were so ecstatic about your proposal to Haley just a couple of 
nights ago, and you completely forgot about it within a span of . . . what, three to four 
days? What the hell were you thinking?"
	"Well, hey, August, we were all involved in a kidnapping... no thanks to that fruit-
loop ex-partner of yours. Since that wasn't exactly a walk in the park, it's pretty much 
understandable that I'd forget, right?" Chase slumped down in his seat, a habit he had 
been doing ever since he let August drive. "Damn, I can't believe I let that happen to my 
soon-to-be family. I mean, I can handle being roughed up by a bunch of killers, but what 
about Haley and Billy? They were an inch away from losing their lives. Something like that 
could ruin a little kid."
	"Point is, you guys came out alive. And I know you, Mac. You're strong enough to 
move on. For Haley's and Billy's sake, you should teach them to carry on with their lives 
as well. As soon as everything goes back to normal, what happened with Hatcher and his 
goons will be . . . " August fluttered his left hand in an effort to support what he was 
trying to say. " . . . water under the bridge. I know it has for me."
	Chase nodded. "August?"
	"Yeah, Mac?"
	"I wanna thank you again for rescuing us. You were there when we really needed you."
	August smiled. "Ah, what are partners . . . no, what are best friends for?"
	"I don't know, but I sure can use your help on something else, since you are my best 
friend."
	August gave Chase a perplexed look. "Oh? And that is?"
	"Can you give me advice on approaching Haley 'bout the ring? I am kind of new at 
this proposal thing."
	The older cop had to laugh. "What? Who do I look like, Cyrano de Bergerac?"
	"Nah, you'd need a bigger nose."



Back at the station a little while later, Chase and August walked inside Jensen's office, 
finding the captain deep in conversation on the phone. He looked up and motioned for the 
detectives to sit down. "Is that a fact? You've got to be kidding me, Lawson. Kramer was 
one, too?" Jensen wiped the sweat off his brow. "All right, Chase and August just showed
up. I'll brief them with the info."
	Jensen exhaled noisily as he hung up the phone. "We just found out who the bodies 
were in that car on Muholland, guys. Lawson just filled me in from the coroner's office."
	"Who were they, captain?" August asked.
	"One was a female, a teenager named Erica Siggins, and her companion was Rev. Nathan 
Kramer. Both were members of Good Shepard's up in Hollywood."
	Chase and August exchanged looks. "Did you say 'Reverend,' Cap?" asked Chase.
	"Yep. Looks like we got another dead priest in our hands."
	"What caused the fire?" August asked.
	"Forensics found a gas trail that apparently leaked for a mile or so, then it 
ignited somehow."
	"What else so far do we know about Kramer? Any next of kin?" Chase brought up.
	"As far as Lawson had informed me before you guys showed up, Kramer had a wife, 
Stephanie, whom he was married for about 15 years."
	A uniformed cop knocked on the office door. "Captain? Ms. Garnett and this other 
woman are here to see you."
	"All right, Tommy, have them wait at the interview table. We'll be right out."
	Jensen got up and gestured for August and Chase to go. August shook his head in a 
sarcastic tone as Chase shrugged. 



Stephanie Kramer tried to wipe the streaming tears from her cheeks, but an emotional wave 
was still engulfing her. Elaine Garnett sat next to her, patting her friend's hand in a 
comforting gesture. Chase and August sat opposite them, while Jensen stood nearby. The 
cops decided to wait awhile before the questioning session started, just to help the 
newly made widow gain composure.
	"Mrs. Kramer," Chase began. "You have our deepest condolences for your loss." Chase 
paused. He tried to keep his eyes lowered. For him, looking straight into the eyes of a 
victim's kin was a hard task to accomplish. "In order for us to get to the bottom of this, 
we have to ask you a few questions."
	"And we'll try to make this as simple as possible, ma'am," August said gently.
	Kramer nodded sadly. She sniffled quite loudly before replying. "Whatever you say."
	"Have you and Rev. Kramer have had any marital trouble as of late?" Chase asked.
	"Uh, somewhat. I had this feeling that Nathan had been neglecting me." Kramer paused, 
to wipe away more tears. "He hadn't been coming home earlier than usual for the past 
couple of weeks. I figured maybe he had some late business to attend to back at the Good 
Shepard. But . . . but it never occurred that he might have been having an--an affair."
	"What makes you think that Nathan was having an affair?" Jensen asked.
	"It was just a gut feeling, sir," Garnett spoke up. "I'm sure Stephanie had trusted 
her husband, so she never questioned it. But when she told me about Nathan's late-night 
arrivals, I came to grasp that perhaps Nathan might be involved with another party."
	"And this is just a 'gut feeling,' Ms. Garnett?" Jensen inquired cynically.
	"Well, would it help if I said that I saw Erica take rides from Rev. Kramer?"
	A confused look swept Chase's face. "Isn't she a volunteer in your church's soup 
kitchen? Maybe she just needed a ride home."
	"Yes, but why is it that Nathan would always offer to give rides to Erica 
continuously, late at night, and come home at an unreasonable time?" Garnett stated.
	"All right, let's say for the sake of argument that Rev. Kramer was cheating, but 
was that the reason why he was killed?" August asked. "We don't even know if it is murder 
at all. Maybe his Jetta's engine had problems he never bothered looking into."
	"But what about the fact that he shares the same occupation as George Perry, August? 
Don't you think that it's coincidental that two priests both died mysteriously?"
	"Perry was stabbed, Mac. I wouldn't call that mysterious."
	Chase nodded, an annoyed looking gracing his face. "Well, we don't know who killed 
Perry. If that's not mysterious, I don't know what is."
	"Well, we might have an even bigger problem at hand, detectives," Garnett announced 
grimly.
	"And that is?" Jensen asked.
	"Just like Perry, Kramer was a member of the committee for the christening of Rev. 
Spenser Dix as Bishop. Now, there is only one more member left."
	"And who's that?" Chase inquired.
	Garnett hesitated before replying quietly, "Me."
	Chase, August, and the Captain exchanged worried glances. "It looks like someone is 
trying pick off the committee that elected Rev. Dix," Jensen said.
	"So what should we do?" Chase asked.
	Jensen sighed. "We can place Ms. Garnett under police protection. There's no telling 
that possibly this same killer might be after her, too."
	"Captain," August spoke up, "do you think that maybe we can question Rev. Dix 
himself, just for the sake of argument?"
	"Uh, don't you mean Bishop Dix, partner?" Chase asked. "He was anointed Bishop today, 
you know."
	"Er, I mean Bishop Dix. Excuse me, Mr. Politically Correct," August replied 
sardonically.
	Captain Jensen shook his head in amusement. "Ms. Garnett, you should head on to your 
business, and I'll have officers in tow in case of any trouble."
	Garnett nodded in abridgement. She looked at Kramer and gave her a friendly gesture. 
But as soon as the detectives left, Garnett's smile slowly evolved into a grim frown as 
she turned away from her friend.



Chase and August were walking out of the precinct when Lawson called out, "Guys! Where 
are you running off to?"
	"We're going to meet Rever--I mean, Bishop Dix," August stated, giving Chase an 
annoyed look. "Didn't the Captain tell you?"
	"Naw, not yet. But I got some interesting news for you."
	"We're all ears, Jack," Chase said, crossing his arms.
	"Well, I took the liberty of doing some research. You remember the tip you gave me 
about our killer possibly being religiously motivated? Well, I called up several mental 
institutions in the area and asked for the list of patients who might have had delusions 
with the Catholic faith. None of them had any patients suffering that kind of mental 
trauma, except one. A psychiatrist at the Max Weber Foundation informed me of a former 
client of his named Marc Valen. This guy apparently had too much God on the brain."
	"You can never have too much God in the brain, Jack," August said with a hint of 
disgust in his tone at Lawson's near-atheistic attitude.
	"Oh, not with this guy, August. Valen had an obsession with Christ and God that he 
literally lived his life on it, with a vengeance."
	"What's that supposed to mean?" Chase asked, with a perplexed look.
	"Valen's doctor told me that Valen would do outrageous stuff on himself, like take 
his meal fork and grind his forehead and palms with the teeth until they bled. Probably 
to make himself look like Christ during his crucifixation, with the crown of thorns and 
that other jive."
	"Sounds a lot like that movie Stigmata," Chase said.
	"But since Valen was a former patient, that would mean he's not anymore and that 
he's out of the institution, right?" August asked.
	"Right. The doctor said that after about five years of rehabilitation, Valen was 
diagnosed sane and he was let free."
	"All right. How about Elaine Garnett? Did you dig anything up about her?" August 
asked.
	"No, nothing yet. It might be a dead-end, August. But in the meantime, I can give 
you Valen's address." Lawson pulled a small scrap of paper from his pants pocket, looked 
at it briefly, and handed it to August. "Shelgrove Apts. on Thomas Street, near the Santa 
Monica Boulevard Freeway."
	August folded the paper and placed it inside his coat. "Okay, here's the plan. 
Lawson, you head on over to the residence and wait for us. Chase and I will have our 
little meeting with Bishop Dix in the meantime."
	"And oh, Lawson?" Chase said. "You might wanna get some backup. It's always a great 
argument when one comes up against a guy who likes to cut himself up with a fork."
	August snickered. "Makes sense."



Chase and August walked up the steps of Los Angeles' biggest cathedral. They opened the 
door and entered the church, finding them in a vast structure filled with beautiful 
objects. Stained glass windows graced the walls, containing scenes from Biblical events, 
while finely carved wooden pews lined up on the floor. A choir stationed near the altar 
was practicing Handel's Messiah, while an elderly woman stood in front of them waving her 
arms to the music. She was obviously the conductor. Apart from the choir, the church was 
empty.
	The two cops waited awhile before moving on. Chase noticed the holy water bowl next 
to him. With two fingers, he dabbed the water and tapped his wet fingers on his forehead. 
With that, he made the sign of the cross. They looked to see an elderly nun walk up to 
them from a door to the hallway on their right.
	"May I help you, gentlemen?" the nun asked.
	"Yes. I'm Detective McDonald; this is my partner Detective Brooks." Chase showed 
his badge to prove his statement. "We'd like to speak with Bishop Dix."
	"He is in his study at the Rectory. I'll show you the way."
	"Thank you, Sister," August said.



Bishop Spenser Dix, a silver-haired man in his early 60's and wearing a black bishop's 
alb, was seated in his desk, reading the Bible when a knock came on his office door. 
"Come," he said in a quiet voice.
	Chase opened the door and walked in, followed by August. "Bishop Dix? My name is 
Chase McDonald, and this is my partner, August Brooks. We're with the Los Angeles Police 
Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
	"Indeed. Have a seat," Dix replied, gesturing for the two cops two sit down in the 
two guest chairs. "How can I help you, officers?"
	"We are investigating the murders of two clergymen that you were acquainted with," 
August said, in full detective mode.
	"Ah, yes, Reverend Perry and Reverend Kramer. They were friends of mine, and I'm 
still in shock as to what has happened," Dix said grimly. He removed his eyeglasses to 
massage his eyes, which looked drawn and tired.
	"Sir, we have reason to believe that since Kramer and Perry were members of the 
committee that elected you as Bishop to visit the Vatican, that that might have lead to 
their killings," Chase said. "We also think that Elaine Garnett might be in danger as 
well."
	Dix's eyes grew. "Are you serious? What what about Elaine? Is she--?"
	"She's all right. We've placed her in protective custody," August said.
	"That's good. As long as she is safe." The old priest breathed a sigh of relief. "Do 
you have any idea who this killer is?"
	Chase shook his head. "Not exactly. We might have one possible suspect, but we don't 
have solid proof if he really is our killer."
	"But why is this man killing everyone in the group that anointed me as Bishop? What 
have they done?"
	"We don't have a motive yet, either, Bishop Dix. But we're trying our best to find 
the killer and to prevent any more killings regarding this matter," August said.
	Dix nodded. "All right, gentlemen. I hope you persevere in your work and to find 
this individual. My prayers are with you."
	"Thank you for your time, sir," Chase said, as he and August stood up. They 
approached the door when Dix's quiet voice spoke up.
	"Detectives? If you so ever capture this man alive, please let him know that my 
forgiveness, and more importantly the Lord's, will be his."
	August glanced at Chase, as they nodded in agreement. As they left, Dix shifted his 
gaze from his office door to a framed photograph on the front edge of his desk. It was an 
old photo, of vintage dating back at least twenty or so years. It featured younger 
versions of himself and Elaine Garnett. Next to Elaine was a young man who looked like he 
had just turned nineteen. He was wearing a priest's garb, not unlike Dix, and had a 
striking resemblance to Elaine. Dix kept a long, hard look on the images of both Garnett 
and the young priest,but remained quiet.



A short while later, Chase and August arrived near the front of the Shelgrove Apartment 
complex. Lawson, along with uniformed cops Dan and Tommy, were waiting outside his car. 
"So guys, what did the new bishop say?" Lawson asked when he saw the other detectives 
approaching.
	"Good luck on our case, my prayers are with you, and all that," August said.
	"Nothing like a little moral support, huh, partner?" Chase asked.
	The cops walked ever so slightly up to Valen's seventh floor apartment. Chase 
noticed the grimy floors and the cobweb-cloaked walls and scoffed, "Jeez, what a dump."
	"Fits the proportions of a nutcase, don't you think?" Lawson said.
	They reached Valen's apartment room. Instinctively, all five cops unsheathed their 
guns from the holsters. Lawson rapped on the old wooden door. "Marc Valen? Open up. LAPD!" 
Only silence came as a reply. Lawson rapped even harder. "Marc Valen! This is the police!"
	What the cops didn't know was that behind the door, under the support of string and 
a foot-high wooden box, laid a western-style scattergun. The apparatus was simple: part 
of the string was tied to the doorknob, while the other end was connected to the gun's 
trigger. The three foot-long double barrel was facing menacingly towards the door.
	Lawson was starting to get impatient. Realizing that knocking was useless, he 
gestured for patrolman Dan to barge the door in. The rest of the group took a step back 
as Dan positioned himself for a kick. But as soon as his foot made contact on the door, 
the string released the scattergun's trigger, and the weapon fired.
	The door exploded in a shower of smoke, plaster, and wood chips. August, Chase, 
Lawson, and Tommy jumped back upon hearing the ear-splitting bang, but patrolman Dan 
wasn't so lucky. A barrage of bullets made full contact with his midsection. He screamed 
as he was catapulted off his feet and against the wall behind him. He crumpled into a 
smoking heap.
	"Jesus, Dan!" Lawson yelled out as he and the others rushed to the fallen cop's 
side. As they expected the worst, Lawson ripped open Dan's shirt, and to their relief, 
found him wearing a Kevlar vest.
	The sound of glass shattering from inside the apartment caught August's attention. 
"Lawson, stay put with the uniforms! Chase, come on!"
	August and Chase sprung to their feet. They both kicked over what was left of the 
smoldering door, in the process knocking over the rifle. With their guns drawn, they ran 
into the bedroom just in time to see a man wearing all black with hair and a beard 
matching his garb crawling into a window and onto a fire escape. After quickly stuffing 
his gun back in his holster, August climbed onto the scaffolding and looked up. Valen was 
two levels above him. "Mac, will ya hurry up??" August yelled out as he ran up.
	"Oh, give me a break, partner! Did you forget I was on sick leave for awhile?!" 
Chase shouted back as he struggled to get out of the window.
	But August didn't hear. He was already about a foot away from the runaway suspect 
who was up the ladder to the roof. But as Valen touched the surface with his knee, he 
turned around and slammed his right foot into August's mouth. The kick almost made him 
lose his grip on the ladder's handlebar, but August maintained his hold. After shaking 
off the blow, August grabbed hold onto the ledge and looked up in time to see Valen dash 
across the roof. August climbed up and ran after the killer.
	As he ran with rushing speed, Valen saw the edge of the building. Another apartment 
complex was about five feet away, a space dividing the two structures with a small 
alleyway down below. Killer's incentive and the need to escape gave Valen the motivation 
to try the option to jump. At the speed he was in, the Prophet bounded from the edge of 
the building and leaped to the next. He stumbled as he landed, but he immediately got up 
and continued running. Valen found the access entrance to the apartment and dashed in.
	Without a second's thought, August doubled his speed and jumped to the next building. 
He landed with a roll and looked back at that slightly wide gap. "God almighty," he gasped. 
"I did not just jump that far." He got up and headed towards the access entrance.
	Chase made it to the top of the building. Rubbing his sore ribs, he caught sight of 
August opening the roof access door on the building next door. "August, wait for me!" he 
yelled out, but again his partner didn't hear.
	Running to the edge of the building, he noticed the gap between the apartments with 
wide eyes. "Ahh, not today." He turned around and ran to the access entrance on the 
building he was on.
	As if running the triathlon, the Prophet sped around a corner in the apartment and 
bolted down a hallway, knocking over a man carrying a big potted plant. August turned the 
corner seconds later, only to see Valen entering an elevator with the doors closing. He 
spotted the door to the stairs and nearly crashed threw it as he ran down the steps.
	The elevator stopped at the bottom floor parking lot of the building, and as the 
doors opened, Valen ran out briskly. He quickly ran to a black motorcycle, revved up the 
engine, and cruised through the lot. Chase ran out of the first apartment and sprinted to 
the second with his gun drawn. As he came within an inch of the building's parking lot 
entrance, a black motorcycle roared past him with blinding speed, making contact with his 
body. Though the impact was light, the bike's velocity made it strong enough to knock him 
off his feet.
	August got out of the building's threshold and found Chase on one knee, shaking his 
head.
	"Mac! You okay?" August shouted as he ran to his partner's side.
	"Yeah, yeah, I'm all right. Valen's getting away."
	They both ran to the 'Cuda and got in. As August started the car, he glanced at his 
buddy. "Mac, remember what everyone said back at the station, about my so-called 'new 
driving skills'?"
	"Uh, yeah?"
	"Well, brace yourself, 'cause here's your chance to see 'em up close!"
	Chase pushed himself back into his seat and muttered, "Oh, God."
	(3 Doors Down's The Better Life plays)
	Valen raced through the street like a black thunderbolt. Then a blare of a police 
siren from behind made him turn his head. He looked in time to see a yellow convertible 
about fifteen feet away, with the intent of nailing him. The Prophet made a swift right 
turn on a nearby intersection, nearly hitting a woman walking a baby carriage crossing 
the street.
	In the 'Cuda, August drastically turned to the perp's direction. "August--August, 
look out!" Chase shouted.
	As they passed, the car collided with the woman's carriage. "Oh God! Oh my God, I 
just hit that baby carriage!" August yelled out in horror.
	Chase turned back to see the damage, and what he saw made him laugh. "Haha! August, 
don't worry! You didn't hit a baby, just a carriage full of cans." Behind them, the woman 
was screaming, miffed that her carriage of soup cans were now spilling all over the street.
	August turned back to the wheel and attemped to regain the speed he had been slowing 
off on. "Who keeps their cans in a baby carriage?" he shouted in frustration, then turned 
his head slightly as if to scream at the woman and added, "Carry your cans in a bag!"
	They continued after Valen, who took a sharp left on a busy street. They followed 
close behind, the 'Cuda's tires screeching like a Banshee. Just to toy with his pursuers, 
the Prophet turned onto the sidewalk. Pedestrians scrambled to get out of the lunatic's 
way. Back on the street, August kept a good pace behind. Chase grabbed the walkie-talkie. 
"Dispatch, this is 1-William-6, in pursuit of a perp on a black Harley, on Warren St., 
heading northbound to the Santa Monica Freeway. Requesting backup now."
	"Roger, 1-William-6, black-and-whites are on their way."
	"10-4, and tell them to make it fast. It doesn't look like the perp wants to be 
taken alive," Chase replied.
	Like a black lightning bolt, Valen surged his bike down the sidewalk and onto an 
empty street. Without thinking, August slammed onto the gas pedal, as if to match the 
cycle's speed.
	Chase looked at his partner anxiously. "August, what is with you and motorcycles 
lately?" August ignored him, keeping his focus trained on the pursuit.
	Valen sped across the empty street, which lead into an off-ramp onto the freeway. 
The big gap gave the perp an idea. At least twenty feet away from the ramp, Valen suddenly 
turned his bike into a 360-degree angle, and began going in reverse.
	"What the hell is he doing?" the detectives asked simlutaneously.
	August's question was soon answered, in the form of Valen's Berretta that he 
unsheathed from a shoulder holster. The barrel was aimed in their direction. Chase and 
August ducked as Valen nearly emptied his gun's clip. Bullets shredded the windshield of 
the 'Cuda. The Prophet ceased firing as he turned his bike right back to front and went 
up the off-ramp.
	August slammed on the gas pedal once more and charged the 'Cuda up the ramp. He 
glanced at his partner. "I'll have you know, Mac, this is all your fault!"
	"Wait a minute, how is this my fault?!"
	"Your damn need for speed. It's friggin' contagious!"
	The Santa Monica freeway was busy with traffic, but that didn't hinder the Prophet's 
escape plan. He surged through rows of honking cars, while the 'Cuda switched lane after 
lane to keep up. An empty yellow school bus moved ahead of Valen. The perp speeded up ahead 
of the bus. He took out his gun and fired the clip's last few bullets at the bus's right 
tires. The bus lost control and flipped over, barrel-rolling across the freeway in a storm 
of sparks, glass and auto parts.
	"Holy sh--!" Chase screamed.
	"Hang on, partner!" August yelled, and he slammed on the breaks. Other cars ahead 
tried to stop, but some crashed alongside the bus. The 'Cuda nearly collided with a 
pickup that had suddenly stopped, but the cop car halted just in time. On-coming traffic 
from behind also stopped without causing any more collisions.
	August and Chase got out of the car. They ran past the now-severely wrecked bus just 
to see Valen speeding down the freeway and disappearing around a bend. August stamped his 
foot in understandable frustration. He looked at his partner.
	"Welcome to my world, August."

Chase, Lawson, and August watched silently near the front door of Valen's apartment as 
paramedics wheeled patrolman Dan from the building and into an ambulance. Fortunately, 
the uniform was alive, but in one painful state.
	"We walked into an obvious trap," August said, shaking his head.
	Chase nodded. "Like a fish on bait. Hook, line, and sinker."
	"What I'd like to know is, how did Valen know we were coming?" Lawson asked.
	"Someone must've tipped him off," Chase replied. "Otherwise, Valen couldn't have 
anticipated our moves."
	As Chase and August walked towards the 'Cuda moments later, the older cop shuddered 
as he spotted the once new car's bullet-hole-studded windshield. It now looked like a 
piece of transparent Swiss cheese. "God, we are in so much trouble," August muttered 
worriedly.
	Chase glanced at his partner with a confused look. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, 
'we'? You're the one who was driving."
	August glared at Chase. "Mac, I haven't had really good luck with cars lately, no 
thanks to you." Placing his hands on his hips, August released his usual sighs of 
disappointment and despair.
	"Well, August, it could be worse. You might have wrecked the car completely, instead 
of just ruining the windshield."
	"You know something, Mac?" August said as he got into the car. "I really hate your 
warped sense of optimism. Somehow it tends to make the situation worse than to make it 
better."
	"Well, excuse me, Mr. Pessimist. It's not my fault you're a wet blanket."



Bishop Spenser Dix walked over to one of the confessional booths of the church with his 
hands folded. He went in and closed the door behind him. As he sat down in the booth, 
he nonchalantly opened the confessional door.
	"Bless me father, for I have sinned," a cold, hard voice said from the other side 
of the confessional.
	"The Lord God grants forgiveness to all, my son," Dix responded. "What sort of sins 
do you want to be absolved?"
	"Actually, my sins are not the focus of today, Bishop Dix," the voice said. "Your 
sins, however, are."
	The little peep door that separated the priest and the churchgoer snapped open from 
the confessor's side. Marc Valen sat there, pointing the muzzle of his Baretta aligning 
towards Bishop Dix's forehead. The priest twitched with fear, his eyes darting from the 
barrel of the gun to the gunman's stony gaze.



Chase was sitting at his desk, his feet up, and holding a small box in his hand. It 
contained the engagement ring meant for his new love, Haley Stone. He looked at it with 
quiet distinction.
	"Ah, how's it going, my modern-day Romeo?" August said as he walked to his desk.
	"What do you think? I just can't get a grasp on the concept of love, August."
	His partner just snickered as he sat down.
	"I mean, I could barely say 'I love you' to Jodi in front of you that one time, 
remember? Who am I kidding, I'll never get this stuff right." With a frustrated grunt, he 
tossed the box on top of his desk.
	"Ha. And you have the nerve to call me a pessimist?"
	"Well, like I said before, can you show me pointers on how to approach her with it? 
God knows I won't be able to do this myself."
	"Oh, I don't know, Chase."
	"Please, August? Pretty please?" Chase cooed. He made a cutesy, puppy-dog look at 
his partner.
	August shook his head. "Oh, all right, Mac, if it'll make you feel any better."
	Chase smiled. His sad-assed puppy look always proved effective on getting August's 
goat.
	Sighing, August got up, walked over to Chase's desk and took the small box. He took 
a step back and gestured Chase to stand in front of him. "All right, partner, here's the 
first step." August went down on one knee. "Then . . . " He opened the box and looked up 
at Chase.
	Right at that moment, James Harris walked by, and what he saw made him freeze in
his tracks. He caught sight of August on one knee, holding an open engagement ring box, 
and looking right up at Chase. It was the picture-book false impression.
	Chase and August noticed someone was staring at them. Harris just said, "I don't 
even want to know, I don't even want to know," and walked away.
	Chase gave August a weird look. "Uh, let's just do this later, okay?"
	"Good idea, Mac."



Jack Lawson was in the records room, swimming in deep thought as he sat in front of a 
Microfilm projector. For the past hour, he had been scrolling through issues of the Los 
Angeles Times from the past three decades, trying to dig up anything regarding an old 
case August worked on, and/or Elaine Garnett. But he couldn't find a thing. Lawson sighed 
as he felt his eyes straining from behind his reading glasses.
	But, right as he hovered on the idea of giving up, he stumbled onto an issue dating 
back twenty-four years, on July 26, 1978. The headline read, "St. Thomas Moore's Church 
burns down, one dead in blaze." Intrigued by his discovery, Lawson looked closer at the 
screen.
	The article began by announcing that a major cathedral in north L.A. went ablaze, 
leaving one person dead, a young priest by the name of Henry Garnett. Upon seeing that 
name gave Lawson a slight jolt of shock, but he knew it was just the tip of the iceberg, 
so he continued reading. The following week, the article said, Garnett was in the hopes 
of becoming a deacon to St. Thomas Moore's head clergymen, Father Paul O'Malley. But in 
light of the tragedy, the position of deacon would be given to the second hopeful, an 
older-priest in training, named Spenser Dix.
	Lawson still couldn't believe what lay before him, but the article wasn't finished 
yet. Halfway through the middle was a quote by one of the police detectives assigned to 
the case. "So far, we haven't gained any leads in the case. In fact, we aren't sure if 
the fire was caused by accident, or maybe even foul play." The quote was from rookie 
detective August Brooks.
	Lawson knew he had hit the final jackpot. He quickly punched the Print button on 
the projector, grabbed the article once it was done, and ran upstairs.



"August, I found something," Lawson said as he sprinted to August's desk.
	"What is it, Lawson?"
	"Does July 26, 1978 ring a bell?"
	August darted his eyes from Lawson to Chase to the ceiling, as an expression of 
utter confusion. "Um, no, Lawson, my memory doesn't rely on mostly dates. You mind indulge 
me a little?"
	Lawson laid the news article on August's desk for the other two to see. August took 
it and gave it a quick look-over. "Oh God, I remember this," he said. "It was one of my 
first cases as a detective here."
	"'St. Thomas Moore's Church burns down?'" Chase read.
	"Yeah. Do you happen to remember the name of the victim who died in the fire?" 
Lawson asked.
	August peered into the article, and when he found the name, his eyes went wild. 
"Henry Garnett."
	"Henry Garnett? As in Elaine Garnett?" Chase asked.
	"Her younger brother, a priest in training," August replied.
	"And it says here," Lawson interrupted, "that Henry was a hopeful in becoming the 
church's deacon, along with . . . "
	"Spenser Dix," August finished. He looked up at his partners solemnly. "I think it's 
time we pay a visit to Ms. Garnett."



A hard, painful force woke Spenser Dix back to consciousness, but only slightly. It felt 
like a gloved hand. Then another impact slammed his face, this time waking him up fully. 
Dix tried to move his arms, but found himself bound from behind, and seated on a chair. 
He peered upward through blurry vision and saw the image of a man in black, with dark 
hair and a bushy black beard. Dix could have sworn he was looking at a cross between 
Blackbeard the Pirate and the Grim Reaper.
	"Wake up, sinner," the man said. "Your eternal judgment awaits."
	"Wh-what . . . what is going on? Who ar--are you?" Dix asked weakly.
	The man just smiled. A wicked smile. "Who I am is unimportant, but if it makes any 
difference to you, you can call me the Prophet."
	"Are . . . are you the one who murdered Kramer and Perry?"
	"Of course. I'm the one who silenced them forever."
	"But why? Why are you doing this?" Dix asked incredulously.
	"Because hypocrites like yourself and your two dead colleagues deserve that fate," 
a voice said from the shadows.
	The bound priest peered through the darkness. He discovered, in horror, who that new 
voice belonged to. "Elaine??"
	"That's correct, Spencer," Elaine replied, in an eerily casual tone.
	"You're behind all this?"
	"Yes. I knew all along of the sins George and Nathan had committed, and they had to 
be punished. That's where my new friend here comes in." Elaine looked at the Prophet with 
an evil smile. "George had the gall to embezzle funds from his own church, and Nathan's 
love-life went astray, consequently cheating on his loving, trusting wife. 'Beware of 
false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly, they are ravenous 
wolves." Matthew 6:15."
	Garnett paused, her smile morphing into the glare of a demon. "But the sin you 
committed, Spenser, was the most unthinkable."
	Dix shook his head in utter confusion. "I--I don't have the slightest idea what you 
are talking about, Elaine!"
	"Liar!" Garnett screamed. She walked towards the prisoner and slapped him hard 
across the face. "You know full well what I'm talking about. I do, because the pain I had 
to endure for the past twenty-four years still burns inside me, the pain you had given me 
and to my brother."
	Dix was still reeling from the cold hard strike that he just received, but Elaine's 
words had managed to sink in. The memory of that night glimmered in his mind . . .




July 25, 1978. St. Thomas Moore rectory, 7PM.
"Ah, Spenser? Henry? My mind is made up," Father Paul O'Malley said. "The two of you have 
done very distinguishable work for our church. Anointing the sick, tending to the 
misfortunate, and the like. But among the two of you, I have decided who will become head 
priest of our church upon my retirement not long from now. Henry, my boy, you've done 
myself, and our church proud. Congratulations, you are now head priest of St. Thomas 
Moore."
	Young Henry Garnett smiled proudly, delighting in the news. But, next to him, 
Spenser Dix gloomed silently. His face was stony, though his two companions with him did 
not notice.
	"As for you, Spenser, you're an exceptional clergyman, but I felt that Henry here 
had performed more contributions than he was suggested to. Besides, holy orders is not a 
competition or a contest. It's a sacrament to perform for the goodness of the Lord."
	"I understand, Father," Dix lied. He turned to Henry. "Congratulations, Hank." He 
shook the younger man's hand, then turned and walked away. Unbeknownst to O'Malley and 
Garnett, Dix retained a stone-hard gaze.



Later that night, the church was empty, except for Garnett, who was kneeling across the 
tabernacle, praying. In the silence of the Church, he never noticed the smoke that 
billowed out of the rectory, which was connected directly from the east side of the 
church. Inside the small rectory, in the kitchen, the gas line of the stove had been cut, 
releasing the invisible, and flammable, gas with a hiss.
	After making the Sign of the Cross, Garnett then smelled smoke for the first time. 
He turned to inspect the source of the unpleasant fume and saw a small gray plume seeping 
through beneath the doors of the east entrance. Garnett sprinted to the doors when, all 
of a sudden, the entranceway exploded in a huge ball of flame.
	Within just a few moments, St. Thomas Moore's had become an inferno. As the whole 
church smoldered in flames, a figure stood in the street, looking on. It was Rev. Spenser 
Dix, watching in silence. Clutched in his left hand was a box of stick matches. He turned 
around, and walked away from the terrible scene.





Dix finally opened his eyes, the memory of the burning sanctuary still in his subconscious.
"Elaine, please, I was only a kid then," he pleaded. "You must understand, I was jealous 
at not being anointed as head priest. And I couldn't accept being beaten by a younger man."
	Both Elaine and Valen looked at each other. Frankly, their latest victim's plea for 
mercy was not at all convincing. "And because of your envy, you murdered an innocent, 
young priest, my baby brother, in cold blood," Garnett said, coldly. "Envy is a sin, in 
case you didn't know, Bishop. And so is murder. You have to be punished, Spenser."
	Dix could only watch helplessly as the Prophet loomed towards him, slowly. "Thou 
shalt not kill..."



"Dammit," Chase said as he turned his cell off.
	"Nothing?" August asked, his eyes on the road as he drove the 'Cuda.
	"Nope. No one's answering at Elaine Garnett's place."
	"That's weird. At least one of the uniforms stationed there would at least answer."
	They finally arrived near Garnett's two-story bungalow, with Lawson following in 
his car. The three of them strode to one of the patrol cars parked outside the house. 
Chase looked inside and found one uniform slumped over the wheel, his neck stained with 
seeped blood.
	"August, he's dead," Chase said. Slowly, they took out their guns and ran to the
door.
	They kicked it down, yelling, "L.A.P.D.!", but found only a dark room connecting to 
the entrance foyer.
	As they advanced in, Lawson stumbled on something on the floor. "What the hell...?" 
he began.
	August fiddled around the wall, searching for a light switch. He found it, turned 
it on, and discovered what Lawson had tripped on. It was the corpse of yet another 
patrolman. Lawson gave a yelp of surprise and fright when he saw what it was he had bumped 
into and jumped back.
	"Oh, jeez," August said, gravely.
	The poor man was lying on his stomach, with his head pointing to his side and his 
eyes partially open. The only things that made the scene a bit more gruesome was the 
knife protruding from the cop's back, and the small scrap of paper pierced through the 
blade.
	With a handkerchief in hand, Chase gently pulled the knife out from the uniform's 
back and read the note out loud. "'Detectives, prepare to face the wrath of the Lord. St. 
Mary's By the Sea, midnight tonight. The Prophet.'"
	"St. Mary's By the Sea, the soon-to-be condemned church?" Lawson asked.
	August nodded. "The son of a bitch did it again. He knew we were coming."



At midnight, the cops arrived in front of the church. They climbed out of their cars and 
approached each other. "Okay, we got a plan?" Lawson asked anxiously.
	"Yeah," August replied. "I'll go in, and you guys cover the back."
	"Wait, August. Let me go in this time," Chase said.
	"What, in your condition? You're crazy, Mac."
	"Oh, don't worry. I'm okay, now," Chase said, winking to his partner.
	August sighed. "All right, go ahead. Be careful, though. You got a future family 
that wants you back safe and sound." He watched as Chase sprinted towards the front doors. 
"So help me, if that fool lands himself in the hospital again, I'll pull the plug myself."
	Chase entered the old church with his gun poised. The place was dark, except for a 
line of candles positioned on the main altar. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked 
slowly through the middle aisle in between rows of pews. As he advanced toward the front, 
he caught sight of a table with someone lying on top. It was Bishop Dix. His arms were 
placed in a parallel position and bound by heavy ropes tied to the legs of the platform. 
The priest's legs were strapped, too, in a vertical fashion. His mouth was covered with 
a strip of duct tape.
	But that wasn't the end of it. Chase looked up and saw a thin metal version of the 
Holy Cross suspended on wires suspended from the ceiling. To the right side of the wire 
was the same type of heavy rope that secured Dix. At the bottom of the rope was another 
candle. Its flame was already smoldering the cord. But the rope's tough fibers prevented 
it from igniting completely. If it were to burn entirely, the rope would break, and the 
cross's main beam would impale Dix.
	To Chase, what lay before him was an elaborate sacrifice to God. He advanced toward 
to the candle, but a cold voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
	"'Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to 
destruction, and there are many who go in by it,' Matthew 7:13".
	Chase turned around, his gun trained to where the voice came from. "The Prophet, I 
presume?"
	"Correct, Detective." The killer raised his gun toward him. "Do not meddle in my 
affair. You have nothing to do with this." With the Beretta, he pointed at Dix, who was 
watching the scene helplessly with tear-filled eyes.
	"Spencer Dix has sinned greatly, and his sins have proved himself to be an enemy of 
the Lord. Therefore, he must be punished."
	The Prophet took a step forward, his gun aligning directly at Chase's forehead. 
"'You have heard that it was said, you shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy,' 
Matthew 5:43".
	"'But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those 
who hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you,' Matthew 5:44," 
Chase recited, quietly.
	"Ah, a religious man, aren't you, Detective? And are you familiar with Ezekiel 25:17?"
	"Yes . . . "
	The Prophet smiled, pleased that his foe had a good knowledge of religion.
	" . . . I've seen Pulp Fiction. Great movie."
	That wasn't the answer Valen had hoped for. He thumbed the safety off his big gun. 
"And are you prepared to meet your heavenly judgment, Detective?"
	"The real question is, are you?"
	In a sudden move, Chase turned around and fired a single shot, hitting the candle 
that slowly burned the rope. The candle disintegrated and toppled over, preventing it 
from burning the cord even more.
	With an outraged scream, Valen fired in Chase's direction, but the cop took a leap 
behind a front pew, missing the onslaught by just a hair. The Prophet continued shooting 
as he too ducked behind a pew. He caught sight of Bishop Dix struggling on the makeshift 
sacrifice altar. A change of tactics would be good, Valen thought.
	He took aim at the hapless priest, but a barrage of bullets chopped up pieces of 
his pew shield, causing him to bolt from his place. Sensing that the momentum was in his 
ballpark, Chase bounded from one of the pews. As he flew in the air, he fired at Valen, 
just missing the killer.
	Chase landed with a roll on the floor, but the maneuver caused a slight abrasion to 
his ribs. He grunted in pain as he massaged his recovering injury. Scooting over to the 
front of the west-end row of pews, Chase called out, "Give it up, Valen! It's all over!" 
He hastily replaced his gun's clip as he spoke.
	"For you and Dix it is!" Valen yelled back. He, too, was reloading his gun, hiding 
behind a pillar near the front entrance.
	Clutching the Glock with both hands, Chase sprung up to fire, but Valen got the 
momentum first. The detective ducked, and Valen's bullets made contact with the candles 
in the main altar instead. The candles fell, spilling their wax and their fire. Soon 
enough, a small flame had spread all over the altar area, causing other candles to 
ignite.
	At the sacrifice table, Dix was panicking in his place. He tried in vain to loosen 
his bounds, but the ropes were too strong. The heat surrounding the area was almost too 
unbearable as sweat began to film on the Bishop's forehead. But the two duelists didn't 
seem to notice the impending fiery danger. They were too caught up in the moment.
	Chase ran down the west end row while firing towards his enemy. Valen was doing the 
same from his end. Staccato gunfire splintered the pews in front of them, but miraculously 
neither Chase nor the Prophet was hit. Chase bounded on one pew and fired the Glock with 
both hands. Valen fired before ducking behind another bench. Then simultaneously, both cop 
and killer jumped onto the middle row, their guns at each other's faces in perfect 
standoff form. At the same time, they pulled their triggers, but instead were met with 
loud, discomforting clicks.
	Chase tossed his gun to the side and reached for his ankle-gun, but as he soon as 
he took it out of the holster, Valen tackled him, knocking the small piece off in the 
process. He slammed Chase to the back wall, but the cop recoiled and smashed Valen against 
a pillar. Valen quickly rebounded and shoved Chase back into the wall. With one hand, the 
Prophet grabbed Chase by the neck, and with his other, he switched open his butterfly knife.
	"Oh God, not another knife," Chase muttered. Valen was about to jam the blade into 
the detective's eye when Chase grabbed the killer's wrist. The two struggled to out-muscle 
the other, both realizing the intensity his opponent possessed.
	As Valen inched the knife closer and closer to Chase's face, the cop managed to 
smash his left knee into the Prophet's gut. Valen's eyes bulged out, and he released his 
hold, giving Chase the opportunity to jam his right fist onto Valen's nose.
	The impact caused the killer to reel backwards, but he regained his equilibrium. 
With the knife still in his hand, Valen readied himself for hand-to-hand combat. Chase 
pivoted the killer in a fighting stance, with both fists in front of him. Swiftly, the 
Prophet darted his weapon like a striking cobra, aiming to slice the cop into ribbons. 
But Chase managed to dodge the attacks with equally-quick precision, ducking and using 
his hands to counter the moves.
	As Valen continued to dangle his knife towards his enemy, Chase snarled, "Come on, 
Valen, come on."
	With that, the Prophet did a straight forward jab, but Chase managed to duck, which 
made the blade stick onto the wooden church wall. As fast as lightning, Chase delivered a 
one-two punch into the Prophet's midsection, followed by a right hook to his face, causing 
Valen to spin around. But within mid-circle, he back-fisted Chase hard across the nose. 
The cop stumbled back, knocking over an old table with a holy water bowl on top. The bowl 
shattered as it landed. Chase was stunned by the strike, but he managed to bring himself 
right back up. He faced his enemy once more.
	Meanwhile, August was searching through one of the back hallways of St. Mary's By 
the Sea. Smoke was seeping through the air, so he tried to make it quick. He was about to 
open a door in front of another hallway connecting to the one he was in when he heard the 
noise of a safety hammer clicking back from behind.
	"Don't move, Detective Brooks."
	August recognized the voice. "Ms. Garnett."
	"Drop the gun, Detective." In the woman's hand was a small six-shooter.
	Slowly, August turned around, but he kept a hard grip on his Taurus. "Not a chance."
	"You know, Brooks, I hold you responsible for not solving my dear brother's murder. 
If you only had managed to catch the killer, none of all this useless bloodshed would 
have happened in the first place."
	"That was twenty-four years ago. It's in the past."
	"No!" Garnett yelled. "As long as Dix still breathes, the memory of my brother's 
death will linger on forever. It's time to punish the infidel, and for your incompetence, 
you deserve the same fate!"
	Just as she was about to squeeze the trigger, the muzzle of another gun kissed her 
from behind.
	"Not on my watch, lady." It was Lawson.
	August breathed a sigh of relief as his comrade relinquished Garnett of his piece 
and cuffed her.
	"Beautiful timing, huh, Brooks?" Lawson said with a smile.
	August nodded. "Yeah, real beautiful. Now get her to the car. I'm gonna help Mac."



Back in the main worship area, Chase and Valen were still at it. They danced and counter-
danced around the middle aisle of the church as the fire raged on in the main altar. The 
cord that held the suspended crucifix was slowly burning thanks to a small wave of flame 
that licked its fibers. Dix, still lying on the makeshift altar, could only watch in 
horror.
	After nailing Valen with a left cross, Chase attempted to give the killer another 
when he sidestepped the attack. Quickly, he wrapped his left arm around Chase's neck and 
nearly jammed the knife into his eye when Chase grabbed hold of his wrist. They continued 
to struggle when they both caught sight of someone running out of one of the side doors.
	"Mac!?" August yelled. He tried to shield himself from the cracking flames.
	"August!" Chase gasped. "Get Dix out of here!"
	August nodded and ran to the small altar table. He quickly undid Dix's bounds, 
lifted him off the table, and carried him to the side entrance fireman-style.
	Enraged at what he saw, Valen yelled out, "No!"
	Sensing the distraction, Chase slammed an elbow onto Valen's gut, releasing his hold 
on the cop's neck. Chase grabbed him by the arm and flung him over his own shoulder, 
causing the Prophet to tumble over and roll near the makeshift altar.
	Disoriented at first, Valen regained his momentum and stood up. He held the knife 
for a downward stab position and charged forward with a scream. Chase ran foward as well, 
and the two met in a near-collision. Valen lunged his arm downward, intending to bury the 
blade into his enemy's heart. But Chase grabbed his knife hand once again, locking his 
other hand with Valen's own. Their eyes locked in a surge of fury.
	"How very ironic, Detective. A sinner like yourself is so very familiar with the 
faith of the Lord. Do you know any more psalms to add to your hypocrisy?"
	"Yes. 'Ye who is without sin shall cast the first stone.'" Suddenly, Chase let 
Valen's knife hand go, but as it went down it slashed nothing but open air. He grabbed 
the wrist with both hands and smashed it onto his knee, the knife falling out. Valen 
screeched in pain as he hugged his injured hand, allowing Chase to throw a hard uppercut 
towards his face. Valen's head snapped back, and in a dizzy haze he stumbled backwards. 
	Chase then gave a powerful kick towards Valen's stomach, knocking him back into the 
sacrifice table. The very moment he laid his back on the platform, the connecting cord 
finally burned through, causing the suspended cross to plunge down.
	Chase could only stare, and Valen could only scream as the steel crucifix fell 
bottom beam first, impaling the Prophet through the stomach. Valen gagged as he stared 
into the once-holy obstruction that imbedded his body. Chase winced at the sight. He 
couldn't help but think of the gruesome death scene from the horror classic The Omen 
in which a hapless priest had encountered the same fate.



Outside, Lawson had put Garnett into his car and saw August come out a side entrance 
carrying Dix.
	"Lawson, did Chase make it out?"
	"No." The two of them watched as flames licked the walls of the church from the 
inside. Smoke seeped out of the windows as the fire made its way to the roof. After 
putting the weak Dix gently on the ground, August was ready to run back to the church when 
he saw someone dashing out of the front door.
	"Mac!"
	Chase ran to his comrades, panting and coughing from the smoke. "I'm okay, guys."
	"And Valen?"
	Chase was about to reply when a piercing cry rang out from the church. They all 
turned to see the Prophet standing from the front entrance, bloody from the waist up, and 
on fire. He was shooting wildly and aimlessly with Chase's ankle gun. "Sinners!" he was 
yelling out.
	August dropped to one knee, drawing his Taurus and firing a single shot, hitting 
Valen. The killer fell backwards as a wave of fire scorched out of the doorway. August 
returned his gun to its holster they stood there watching the sanctuary burn to the 
ground. Calmly, Chase did the sign of the Cross, and said quietly, "God forgive us."

"Mm-hmm. Okay, thank you, doctor." Capt. Jensen sighed as he hung up his phone the very 
next day.
	"Well, guys, here's the run-down. Marc Valen's doctor told me he had hired a scholar 
of the Christian faith to help rehabilitate our little killer from his psychosis using the 
love of God. And guess who was that scholar?"
	Chase gave August a casual glance. "Um, is the answer Elaine Garnett, Regis?"
	Jensen snickered. "That's right, McDonald. Because Valen had a very dangerous history 
and was completely immersed in the faith, Ms. Garnett had found her very own 'guardian 
angel' in 'The Prophet.' Proves just how sick and twisted some people are."
	"Yeah, and it was one of the folks we least expected to be involved with blood-
thirsty maniacs, too," August quipped.
	"So, August," Jensen said. "I heard you nearly demolished the 'Cuda while trying to 
chase Valen on the freeway."
	August shook his head as Chase bit hard on his cheek to prevent himself from 
laughing. "Well, I wouldn't say demolished, Captain. The windshield took the brunt of the 
beating, but otherwise, the 'Cuda's fine."
	"Hey, someone's got to tell you this is not a Nash Bridges episode, August," 
Chase said, laughing.
	August gave him a mock-angry look as Jensen chuckled.
	"Well, good job on solving this one, guys," Jensen proclaimed.
	As the two detectives got up from their seats, Chase suddenly stopped. "Hey, wait 
a minute. With Valen dead and Garnett in prison, what's going to happen with Dix? Wasn't 
he the one who killed Henry Garnett?"
	"Oh, let's see." Jensen took a look at his watch. "Lawson should be at the Cathedral 
taking care of that right now."



The mass at Los Angeles Cathedral was just ending. Bishop Dix, dressed in his holy garb, 
walked into the main vestibule followed by his altar boys and holy Eucharist ministers. 
As he greeted his churchgoers, he saw a familiar face in the crowd.
	"Ah, Detective Lawson, what a pleasant surprise." Dix, with a broad smile on his 
face, placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "My brothers and sisters, this is Jack Lawson, 
one of my rescuers on that terrible, terrible night." Turning back to Lawson, Dix said, 
"So, Detective, what can I do for you on this beautiful Sunday morning?"
	"Well, Bishop," Lawson said, casually, "I'm not here for a social call." To prove 
his point, he took out a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. "Spenser Dix, you are under 
arrest for the burning down of St. Thomas Moore's Cathedral, and for the murder of Henry 
Garnett."
	An uproar rose out of the crowd as churchgoers witnessed the arrest of their own 
beloved Bishop Dix. All that the "good priest" could do was look at Lawson silently . . . 
and coldly.



That night, Chase stood on the balcony of his beach house with Haley and Billy. He was 
sitting on a love seat with Haley as Billy played with his Tonka trucks on the deck. The 
two adults held each other tight as they stared into a star-studded night. In his right 
pocket, Chase was fiddling with the engagement ring box.
	"Um, Haley?"
	"Yes, Chase?"
	"There's . . . there's something I gotta ask you."
	"Yeah, babe?" Haley looked up.
	"Um, can . . . can you . . . " Chase stammered. He tried hard to find the words, 
but all that came out were disjointed gibberish.
	"Uh, can you excuse me for a minute?"
	"Sure, go ahead."
	Chase quickly got up and scurried back inside to the bathroom, leaving a confused 
Haley wondering what that whole scene was about. Chase entered the bathroom and pushed 
the door. He turned on the light and stared at the mirror. In his hand he held the little 
black box. Embarrassed at not being able to propose to Haley once again, Chase began to 
hit himself with the palm of his hand.
	"Stupid, stupid. You're never gonna get this right, bonehead."