“Brynn.” Colm’s voice.
I snapped back from the past. Crackling and popping noises, and red-hot embers erupted from a metal garbage can into the night sky. People gathered around for warmth, rubbing their hands over the heat. Just a campfire. A stupid campfire. Once again, I’d slid down that dark hole and into the abyss of post-trauma anxieties. For how long? I didn’t know. I looked around, taking cues from my surroundings. Riana had moved on, now standing with a group of ladies not too far away, engaging in a lot of hugging and eye wiping. Wilco was still hanging with the girls.
Colm was the only one who seemed to notice my mental absence. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Colm and I had a history, buried in our teen years. Since then, we’d gone very separate ways. Right now, I needed his expertise. I extracted my phone, shaky fingers bringing the screen to life. “I have a few questions.”
I pulled up a photo of a handwritten note the crime scene unit had found lodged under Maura’s body. Pusser had sent the original to the state lab for analysis, but we’d hoped Colm could give us a quicker opinion.
He squinted at the note. “This writing is in Latin.”
“That’s why I thought maybe you could translate.”
“Looks to be a Bible verse about Queen Jezebel.” He looked up. “Her name is usually associated with promiscuity or fallen women. But it could mean something like a false prophet. Or a manipulator.”
“I don’t know that Bible story.”
“Jezebel was married to King Ahab. She was a pagan worshiper. She basically used sex to lure the king into slaughtering thousands of Jews.”
“What would a woman like that have to do with Maura Keene?”
He handed my phone back to me. “I can’t imagine.”
Me either. Maura was nothing like this Jezebel.
“Another thing. I don’t think whoever wrote this actually knew Latin.”
“Why’s that?”
“Too many mistakes. Things that someone trained in Latin wouldn’t make. Words are misspelled, out of order, stuff like that.”
“So . . . ?”
“My guess is that they were copying it from something and were rushed, or whatever, and messed up the sentences.”
“There’s something else.” I scrolled through a few more photos. After the shock had worn off from realizing the dead body belonged to Maura, I snapped a few pictures. I showed them to Colm now. “Do you recognize any of these symbols?”
“Other than the pentagram, no. Looks like they’re”—he glanced up, kept his voice low, turned his back to the others still milling in the yard—“painted in blood?”
“We don’t know for sure yet. But I think so.”
“Maura’s blood?”
“Maybe. It was pretty gruesome.”
“How was she killed? Can you tell me?” His eyes met mine. Dark eyes, intense and piercing. My stomach lurched.
“It’s confidential.”
A small nod. “I’m good at confidential. I’m a priest.”
Yeah. No need to keep reminding me. I hesitated, then decided the information was worth the risk. “She was stabbed. Something double-bladed, judging by the wound.”
“A satanic ritual killing.”
“We’re not sure what we’re looking at yet.”
“Isn’t it obvious? The pentagram. All the other pictures drawn at the scene . . .”
“The killers could have set it up to look that way. I’m not sure how much I buy into all that demonic stuff, anyway.”
“Then you’re already at a disadvantage.”
“How’s that?”
“You can’t fight what you don’t believe exists, Brynn. Evil is real.”
Like I don’t know that evil is real. Maybe I wasn’t schooled on his devil, but for ten years I’d walked through hell on earth and faced down real demons—Al-Qaeda, Hamas, Hezbollah, ISIS—been baptized by the blood they’d left in their wake, mopped up the carnage, and inhaled the incense of the mordant corpses of the soldiers and innocents they’d annihilated. Colm knew nothing of real demons. I’d stared evil in the face, fought valiantly, and survived. Or at least most of me has. I jammed my fingers into my coat pocket and felt the pills I kept hidden in its recesses. I’d always fought demons of one sort or another.
And I could do it again.
CHAPTER 4
I was fifteen minutes late to roll call the next morning, sucking down my second coffee, hoping to burn off the hazy after-fog of too much whiskey and Vicodin. Sleep never came easy for me.
A three-shift department, the Investigative Unit, which was basically me and a couple other officers and whoever else Pusser assigned to each case, reported at 8:00 A.M. with the other day shifters: patrol officers, clerks, parking enforcement, and dispatchers. Pusser pointed me out. “Glad you could join us, Callahan.”
“My pleasure, boss.” Smart-ass remark, but Pusser would let me slide. He always did. I had no idea why. I slinked past the others, Wilco at my heel, and slid into the only open chair, which, lucky me, was front and center. Wilco sauntered past me, looked up at Pusser, and circled a few times before plunking down at his feet. Pusser cracked a smile. Probably his first of the day. Harris occupied the seat next to me. He eyed me with a smug smirk and leaned in close, cupping his hand over his mouth as he spoke. “You smell like a distillery.”
I smiled, did my own hand cupping, and whispered back, “You smell like a sweaty butt. Oh”—I touched my neck and smiled sweetly—“I’m sorry. Guess you can’t help it, since you’re . . . well, you know . . . an asshole.”
The old guy in the chair next to him chuckled. I craned my neck and returned the chuckle. Back at ya, buddy, whoever you are. Must’ve been a new guy—it was Sunday, not my usual workday. At least he had a sense of humor. More than I could say for Harris. He’d flushed a deep purple. I’m not sure why. He’d started it and should’ve expected I’d fight back. We exchanged insults on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis.
I turned back to the front of the room, tuning into Pusser’s shift update: a briefing on current cases, a couple alerts, a new department procedure . . . blah, blah, blah. My brain was blurry. Not enough caffeine yet, or too much booze still circulating in my system. Not good, Brynn. Likely, Harris had a point—I knew all too well that pores can keep gassing off fumes even after a morning shower. I’d brought it on myself. As soon as my head hit the pillow the night before, the day’s events flooded back on me: dead chickens, Maura’s body, Ona’s anguish, Eddie’s impaled eyeball. It all meshed together and raced through my mind like an R-rated horror film, tormenting me until I gave up and sought comfort with my two favorite boys: Wilco and Johnnie Walker.
Good, faithful friends.
Pusser stopped talking and motioned to the guy on the other side of Harris. The guy stood and made his way up front, cowboy boots clicking. He was tall, thin, and hairless, with pasty skin and beetle-like eyes that glinted with confidence. Or fierceness. Both, I thought.
I was alert now. I gave him my full attention. So did the rest of the room.
Joe Grabowski was his name, an FBI criminal profiler, Pusser explained. “He’ll be in-house for a while, assisting on Maura Keene’s case, and will receive our full cooperation on all matters.” Pusser then concluded roll call and dismissed everyone except Harris, Parks, and me.
Parks moved from the back of the room and settled in the seat next to me. “I read the case report late last night,” she said. “I hardly slept. Scary stuff, huh?” Deputy Nan Parks, middle-aged mother of two teens, straightforward and hardworking, had earned my respect over the last year.
“Yeah. Not exactly bedtime reading.” My eyes caught on a gold glint at the top of her uniform. “New necklace?”
She fingered the gold cross. “No. Old. I just dug it out last night.”
“Didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not.”
Pusser cleared his throat. “We have an update on Maura Keene’s case. Patrol located Ma
ura’s vehicle late last night parked on a road off Old Highway 2.” Pusser pinned up a photograph of the car, a late-model green Ford Explorer, on the front board. “Looks like she pulled off the main road and parked on a forestry service road, partially hidden from view.” He pointed to the front of the car. “Notice the damage to the front. Markings are consistent with a baseball bat.”
“Someone smashed her headlights?” Harris asked.
“Looks that way. The vehicle’s being processed now. I’m also waiting for the crime scene report.” Pusser leafed through some papers strewn over the table in front of him. “We called the mother first thing this morning. She wasn’t aware of any previous damage to the vehicle.”
I pulled out my notebook to jot down notes, dropped my pen, and watched it roll under Harris’s desk. I bent over and started to reach for it, but my head shrieked in protest. I shrank back, squeezed my eyes shut against the throbbing. Damn. More questions fired back and forth. I glanced over. Parks was getting everything down. I’d copy her notes later. The pen could wait. For now, it was more important to keep my head from splitting wide open.
I waited for an opening in the discussion and inserted my own information. “My cousin Meg Callahan worked with Maura at the McCreary Diner. I talked to her last night. She had something interesting to say.” Another reason I was late this morning. I’d stopped by the diner right before closing last night to inform Meg of Maura’s death. She’d taken it hard.
“Enlighten us, please,” Harris said.
“A while ago, cash went missing from the register. Only a few of the waitresses handle the money, Maura was one of them.”
“When? And how much?” Parks asked.
“About a month ago. Twenties, here and there, then one night a hundred bucks went missing.”
Pusser’s toothpick moved to the other side of his mouth. “Interesting. Let’s figure out where the money’s gone. Parks. Check with the mother, see if any new things have ‘shown up’ at home—clothes, jewelry, whatever.”
Parks made a note. The conversation lulled. I looked up to see Grabowski studying me. “You’re Deputy Callahan?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I need your help building a victim profile of Maura Keene.”
I looked to Pusser. “Grabowski and I have already discussed it,” he said.
Grabowski went on. “Maura was a Traveller. You’re a Traveller. I need your insight.”
Traveller, not gypsy, or one of them. He’d done his research. I respected that. “I’ll help with what I can.”
“We’ll start with the autopsy.” He looked at his watch. “She’s on the table now. Let’s go to the morgue.”
* * *
The morgue was located in the basement of the McCreary County Hospital, about a five-minute drive from the sheriff’s department. We rode there in Grabowski’s newer-model Crown Vic, Wilco sprawled over the back seat, the car vibrating with banjo-heavy hillbilly music. Real upbeat stuff.
A stark contrast to the morbid task ahead of us.
Anxiety coursed through me on the way down the hospital elevator. I should’ve been used to this type of thing, right? Morbidity was nothing new to me. I’d spent years retrieving bodies of fallen soldiers. Still, the idea of seeing Maura’s body on a metal table . . . I ran my fingers under the wool scarf tied around my neck, my fingertips brushing up against puckered skin, and tried to loosen the tension in my neck. I’d only worn the scarf because it was cold today, but I used to wear a scarf full-time, winter and summer, to cover my war scars. I’d worked through that now. A small victory that I refused to relinquish.
Grabowski eyed me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“Frank speaks highly of you. You’re a vet.”
Frank, not Sheriff Pusser or even Pusser. Grabowski knew my boss on a personal level. “Yeah. Marine.”
“And Wilco is a human-remains-detection dog.”
“That’s right.” My fingers itched for Wilco’s leash, but Doc Patterson didn’t allow animals in his morgue. I’d had to leave him in the car.
“Tough line of work.”
I punched the elevator button and watched the numbers flash above the door.
The door opened. We descended with a young black man in blue scrubs and a woman with thick-soled shoes. They were both busy looking at their phones.
The elevator opened onto a long linoleum-tiled, white-walled hallway, reminiscent of my months in a veterans hospital, and my anxiety kicked up another notch. I reached into the pocket of my parka and fingered one of my pills. Slowing my pace, I let Grabowski get a few steps ahead before popping it into my mouth.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You know the vic well?”
I swallowed. “Well enough.”
He raised his chin as if he’d come to an important conclusion about something in his mind. I could only imagine about what. I tried not to think too hard about it, and continued to the clerk’s desk, where we signed in before making our way through a second set of doors, down a short hallway, and to an office door marked MCCREARY COUNTY OME. Doc looked up as I entered. He was hunched over his desk, wearing light blue scrubs and a surgical cap over close-shaven black hair. On his desktop sat a half-eaten bagel and an open travel magazine. He’d been reading an article on the Bahamas. A midwinter trip, I wondered, or retirement plans?
His big paw engulfed mine. “Brynn!” The deep marionette lines along either side of his mouth turned upward and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened against his black skin. Doc’s old. And wise.
He sized up my partner. I made introductions and we progressed to the prep room, where we shimmied into biohazard protection. Inside the lab, the smell of formalin and death climbed up my nose and settled in my nostrils. I let out a small cough and rubbed down goosebumps on my arms. The room was purposely kept cold, but my shiver had nothing to do with external temperatures.
My eyes were immediately drawn to a metal table and a body covered in a light blue sheet. We gathered around the gurney, Grabowski to my right, Doc Patterson on the other side. He flipped on a stark overhead fluorescent light and adjusted the swinging head lower. Behind him a large computer monitor was mounted on the wall. He flipped it on, too.
Then he lowered the sheet.
My jaw tightened. I inhaled sharply and blew out my breath, stealing a moment to try to reconcile the contrast between the beautiful, dark-haired Maura I knew and the body on the table. I forced myself to survey the length of her: grayish-blue flesh; a massive Y-incision that dissected her chest and ran between two smallish breasts, which were upright and perky despite the supine position of her body; an elongated navel pierced with a smallish metal arrow; sharp hip bones jutting out over long legs, ending with brightly painted toenails . . . Oh, Maura. Tears threatened my eyes. I crossed my arms and stepped back from the table.
Grabowski eyeballed me.
Doc cleared his throat and traced his gloved finger along the outer edge of the wound. “This was made by a double-bladed knife, recently sharpened. I could tell by the formation of the wound. A six-inch blade, or pretty close to it. A sticking knife probably.”
I looked up, forced myself to discuss this body as a victim, not as my young neighbor. “Sticking knife?”
Doc turned to a small laptop on the nearby counter and hit a couple keys. Several pictures of knives appeared on the wall-mounted monitor. “Like these,” he said. “They’re usually dagger-shaped, with a simple wood handle. They were mostly used in slaughtering farm animals. The farmer rams the blade behind the ear of the animal for the initial kill. Or he might use it later in the process to bleed out the animal. You don’t see them around much anymore.”
“Why’s that?” Grabowski asked.
“Too much room for error. Miss a vital artery and the animal suffers.”
I swallowed. “Did Maura suffer?”
Doc’s features tightened. “I believe she died shortly after the wound was inflicted. The blow was delivered from above the ch
est, and severed the left anterior descending coronary artery. The pericardial sac filled, the resulting pressure restricted normal heart functioning, referred to as pericardial tamponade, and led to cardiac arrest. Further evident, you can see here that the jugular vein is disten—”
“In other words, the killer hit the target,” Grabowski said.
“That’s right.” Doc looked at me. “You asked if she suffered. I don’t think she suffered after she was stabbed. But up to that point, I don’t know.” He lifted one of her arms. “Note the ligature marks. They’re on her ankles, too. I found traces of jute cording embedded in her skin. At some point, she was bound.”
I didn’t remember seeing jute cord on the evidence recovery list. I’d have to call CSU and double-check. Doc turned and entered something into the laptop. I looked toward the screen again and flinched when a picture of Maura’s body appeared. Her skin looked like moldy blue cheese.
“These were taken before we started working on her. He pointed at the screen, calling our attention to several dark areas. “You can see where blood pooled in the dependent areas, back of the legs and arms and”—he called up another picture taken of her backside—“along her shoulder blades and her buttocks. The body wasn’t moved after she was killed. ” He zoomed in on her arm. “Note the discoloring of her hands. The purplish tips of her fingers.”
Grabowski shifted, squinting to take in the details. “Is that because her hand was lower than the rest of her body?”
Patterson’s face lit up like a teacher who’d just gotten through to a slow student. “That’s correct. But that doesn’t dismiss bindings at the time of the stabbing. In fact, constraints might have increased the amount of pooling in areas distal to the binding.”
Grabowski was an eager student, taking it all in, nodding enthusiastically.
I forced my next question. “Was she raped?”
“I didn’t find any tearing or bruising of tissues, or sexual fluids. Although, I found something else.” His eyes darted between Grabowski and me. “My examination of her reproductive organs showed that she was approximately eight weeks pregnant.”
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