The Paradise Prophecy by Robert Browne

burn mark in the middle of the linoleum floor.
    It was hard to miss. Impossible, in fact. And the moment Callahan saw it, she thought she understood the reason for Martinez’s mood.
    The mark hadn’t, however, been among the dossier photos. What was left of Gabriela’s body had apparently been covering it. Yet it was the only real sign that anything unusual had taken place in the room, which was empty except for a few stacked boxes full of toilet paper, paper towels, seat covers and a mop and bucket tucked into a corner.
    Callahan gestured. “Why wasn’t this photographed?”
    Martinez didn’t seem to want to look directly at it. “I think that’s obvious.”
    “It’s potential evidence. All evidence needs to be photographed and catalogued. It wasn’t even mentioned in the crime-scene summary.”
    “Our photographer was gone by the time the body was removed, and I saw no reason to call her back. There are certain . . . sensitivities involved.”
    “Sensitivities?”
    “You saw the crowd outside. If something like this were to be released, there’s no telling how they’d react. And if there are no photographs, there’s no chance for a leak.”
    Callahan couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Did you actually work your way up through the ranks, or are you some kind of political appointee?”
    Martinez’s eyes went cold. “You’re here to help us investigate, Agent Callahan, not impugn my integrity.”
    “Then investigate , for Christ’s sake. Evidence is evidence, and you seem more concerned about public relations than solving a crime.”
    Martinez opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he said, “If you’re trying to make me look foolish . . .”
    “I just want to figure out what happened here. And this is a sign of possible foul play.”
    “Foul play?” he said. “I think it’s much more than that.”
    Ignoring him, Callahan pulled out her smartphone, took several quick shots of the floor and added them to Gabriela’s dossier. She stared soberly at the mark, which was quite small but looked as if it had been seared into the linoleum with a blow torch:

     
    Callahan was no expert, but she knew this was an occult symbol. The kind you often found spray-painted on high school lockers by rebellious teenagers. If she remembered correctly, the A stood for “Anarchy.”
    But this was no high school prank. Far from it.
    And the question was, who had put it here?
    Gabriela?
    Was she some kind of secret Devil worshipper who had burned the mark into the floor before setting herself on fire? And, if so, how exactly did she do it?
    Considering the lack of tools, she’d have to be a magician to pull it off. And while Gabriela may have been a talented entertainer, it was doubtful she knew sleight of hand.
    Which brought Callahan back to scenario number three.
    Murder.
    Despite the pop star sheen, Gabriela had managed to become a vaunted religious icon here in São Paulo and around the world. A phoenix who rose from the ashes, an inspiration to those who felt their lives were hopeless, especially amidst the turmoil they’d been witness to these last several months. So it was only natural that people flock to the one thing that gave them any sense of calm.
    Faith.
    Was it possible that someone had done this to Gabriela in retaliation for her rising popularity and influence? Some wack job who somehow saw her as a threat to his existence? Who wanted to show the world that no one is immune to the final call, no matter how devout she may be?
    Was this his signature? His mark? His fuck you ?
    A sudden uneasiness stirred inside Callahan, and she once again wondered why Section had sent her here.
    What had they expected her to find?
    This?
    She could contact Section and ask, of course, but she doubted she’d be given an answer. She wasn’t sure they even had one.
    She turned to Martinez, who had wandered back out into the hallway, as if he were afraid to be in close proximity to the mark.