He could tell from the way Brandman kept glancing back at his computer that he’d already determined the theory was a waste of time. Theo wasn’t used to having his ideas so summarily dismissed. On the way to the precinct house, he’d imagined the cops’ gratitude when they realized Theo had solved the case. A call from the commissioner maybe. A thank-you note from the mayor. Instead, Brandman merely demanded, with thinly disguised impatience, “Where are you getting this from?”
“From Helen. I found a note she left for me.” Theo flipped open one of his files and handed Brandman the letter. “She was writing a book on the Eleusinian Mysteries.”
The detective scanned the note. “And this manuscript she talks about—”
“I never got it. Maybe you found it in her office?”
Brandman ignored the question. “So what do you know about this supposed cult?”
“A lot. Also—nothing.”
The cop grimaced, but Theo kept going before he could interrupt. “Some of the rites were public, but most were reserved for initiates only. If you dared to reveal the climax”—he drew a finger across his throat—“ snnnnnnnk. So no one blabbed. Hundreds of thousands of initiates participated over almost two thousand years, even after Christianity took hold. Yet all that time, not a peep.”
The cop dropped the letter into a file folder of his own. “I see.” A young black woman in a suit vest and shoulder holster approached the desk, but Brandman waved her off with a “this will only take a second” gesture. He frowned at Theo. “I’ve got work to do, Mr. Schultz, so I hope you’re about to explain how a ritual you know nothing about is relevant to the Emerson case.”
Despite Brandman’s clear disdain, Theo smiled. He’d made a whole career out of explaining the modern pertinence of long-dead civilizations. “Never underestimate a classicist. Scholars have pieced together an impressive amount from the various sources that allude to the Mysteries.” He pulled a calendar from his files, each day crowded with notes, and pointed to Monday. “Here’s where the cult ritual begins. Day One. Traditionally, this is when the priests carry the cult’s Sacred Objects from Eleusis to Athens.”
“Sacred objects?”
“Yup, the hiera. Can’t have a cult without them. Try to think of them like the saintly relics Catholics keep in cathedrals: holy objects only revealed on special occasions and believed to have supernatural properties. We don’t know what the Eleusinian hiera were exactly, but they might have included a clay model of a vulva.”
“And you think they cut out Helen Emerson’s—”
“Yes, exactly.”
Theo knew the cop was hooked when he deigned to pick up a pen and make a few notes of his own.
“That’s not all,” Theo went on. “The priests need special containers to transport the hiera. On Monday night, I believe the cult members robbed the Met Museum and stole two pieces of ancient pottery for that purpose.” He paused, waiting for Brandman to make the connection.
Instead, the cop just beetled his brows. “We have absolutely no evidence tying the Met robberies to Helen Emerson.”
“Tell me exactly which artifacts were stolen and I’ll prove it to you. I bet anything they were a kiste and a kalathos, but the press reports didn’t specify.”
“A what and a what?”
“A chest and a basket, like the special containers used in the original Mystery.”
“You’d have to speak to the Nineteenth Precinct. It’s not my case.”
“Not your case!” Theo said too loudly. “You think the burglaries of ancient Greek specimens from two major New York museums and the murder of an archeologist in the same week are unrelated?”
Above his mustache, Brandman’s cheeks flushed red. “Two museums? If you’re referring to the Natural History—”
“Day Three,” Theo interrupted, jabbing at his calendar and ignoring the detective’s sour scowl. “They called it ‘Seawards Initiates.’ The Eleusinian initiates bathe in the ocean—like a baptism. That’s when Helen was killed. The cult members didn’t just dump the body in the river, they put it there as part of a ritual seawater purification. The Hudson’s really a tidal estuary. It’s partly salt water.”
Brandman tossed down the pen, rolled his chair back a few inches, and crossed his arms. “A tidal estuary. Huh.”
Theo pressed on. “And here’s the Natural History connection. Last night, someone broke in, and did they steal the Star of India sapphire or a priceless fossil of a feathered dinosaur? Nope. Just an Aesculapian rat snake. That’s preparation for tonight, Day Five of the ritual: the Asklepia, a celebration in honor of the medicine god, Asclepius.”
The young female detective approached once more, this time handing Brandman a piece of paper. While he read the note, she looked pityingly down at Theo, as if she’d sat on that side of the desk before and understood how frustrating it could be.
Brandman read the note, nodding. “Thank you, Detective Freeman. We’re almost done here.” He checked his watch before returning his attention to Theo. “Your friend Everett Halloran’s alibi checked out. He was at the office that night, seen by a few other professors. Where were you two nights ago?”
“In my apartment. Grading papers.”
“Anyone to corroborate that?”
“I live alone.”
The detective raised an eyebrow. “The forensic report comes back tomorrow. Detective Freeman just made contact with one of Miss Emerson’s other colleagues. I need to leave in a few minutes, Professor. But before I do, let me get this right. Has this cult of yours ever been associated with murder?”
“Well, no, not originally,” Theo admitted. “All surviving Greek texts describe severe societal proscriptions against human sacrifice.”
“And how long has it been since this cult’s even existed?”
Theo shifted a little in his seat. “About sixteen hundred years.”
Brandman rolled forward and rested his elbows on the desk so he could lean closer to Theo. “So why would they want to kill a nice girl like Helen Emerson?”
“Because the Mysteries weren’t just a random religious festival. They were life-changing. The great philosopher Cicero wrote that among all the divine institutions that Athens contributed to human life, the Eleusinian Mysteries were the best. Considering the accomplishments of the Athenian Golden Age, that’s saying a lot. Supposedly, the secret climax of the ritual answered mankind’s greatest questions: how life began, how to live happily, and how to die well. Those are the same questions we’re still asking today. They’re the fundamental basis of our religion, philosophy, poetry—everything. So if Helen had somehow uncovered what those answers were…”
“Killed over a secret that hasn’t mattered for thousands of years?” Brandman gave him an incredulous look. “Or are you saying some classicist murdered her over academic jealousy?”
“It’s not that simple. They might have thought—”
“You keep saying they.” Brandman said with an angry wave of his hand. “We have no evidence that there’s more than one killer at this time.”
“It’s got to be a ‘they.’ These cults usually have a priest—a hierophant—leading the ritual, but they’re all about group-think. Otherwise it’s like an American Idol where Ryan Seacrest is the only guy in the audience. Cults don’t work if it’s just one initiate.”
“This sounds like a conspiracy theory.” From his tone, Theo could tell the cop suspected he was one more crackpot in a city full of them. “When you walked in here, you told me you knew where to find the killer. So get to the point, Professor.”
“My pleasure.” He smothered his growing frustration and gave Brandman an earnest smile. “Tonight is the feast of Asclepius, when the initiates ask for magical healing dreams. They sleep in a cave with a sacred well, not far from Asclepius’s Temple. That’s where we’ll find them.”
“Mm-hmm.” Brandman gave him a cold smile. “I see. You’re saying we need to find a cave. Near a well. Near a temple.”
�
��Exactly.”
“Fine. Come back when you find one within a fifty-mile radius of New York.”
“But Detective—”
With a grunt of frustration, Brandman pulled a photo from a folder and tossed it onto the desk. Theo’s words died in his mouth. Helen—splayed across a slab of gray rock. A yellow sheet covered her breasts, but the rest of her body lay revealed. He saw only a glimpse of the bloody desecration between her legs before he looked away.
Brandman said nothing for a long moment, but Theo could feel the cop’s small eyes boring into him. “This isn’t some academic exercise, Professor,” he said finally. “It isn’t about philosophical pondering about life and death in another era—it’s about real life. And real death. Today.”
Theo swallowed hard and looked back at the photo. The sheet was pinned on one of Helen’s shoulders. “Was there another pin in the sheet?” he asked. Traditional chitons were secured on both sides of the body.
Brandman guffawed, then shook his head incredulously. “You’re staring at the mutilated body of young woman and that’s your first question?”
“Well?”
“No. There was no other pin.”
Strange, but that didn’t prove anything. “What kind of plants are those?” Theo pointed at the foliage in Helen’s matted hair. Selene DiSilva was right—it did look like a wreath. “Bay leaves?”
“Yes. So?”
“So?” Theo snapped. “Don’t you see?”
“I see that botany is another one of your areas of supposed expertise. What of it?”
“We call them bay leaves, but Greeks call them laurel. The laurel wreath is specifically associated with Apollo. Since Asclepius was Apollo’s son, this only corroborates my Eleusis theory.”
“My turn to teach you something, Professor. Cops call it ‘confirmation bias.’ Once you’ve got a theory in mind, everything you see backs it up. It’s a delusion. So as amusing as I’m finding all this—”
“Late-night comedy is amusing. Cat videos are amusing.” Theo wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he found himself leaning over the desk, close enough for the detective’s cologne to assault his nose. “Bumbling cops who don’t know a good lead when they see one—that, too, might be considered amusing. But the fact that bay laurels only grow in the Mediterranean, so those leaves didn’t just drift into Helen’s hair, they were put there by her killer—that’s deadly serious.”
Brandman stood. His jacket fell open, revealing the leather corner of a shoulder holster. Theo took a step back, instantly regretting his belligerence. The cop’s mustache twitched with a hint of a sneer. “On behalf of the NYPD, I thank you for your academic insight. We’ll pursue every lead, I assure you. We’ll be working on this case to the utmost of our ability and hope to have it resolved shortly.”
Theo wondered what sensitivity training course that line had come out of. He handed Brandman his annotated calendar. “At least take this. You’re going to need it.”
The detective put the calendar in a folder without looking at it further. “I can assure you that if, in the course of the investigation, we happen to find a bunch of guys meditating in some cave with your stolen snake, I’ll let you know.” He started shutting down his computer.
“You’re still missing the point,” Theo said between clenched teeth. He knew it was useless to keep arguing, but what choice did he have? “In the original Mysteries, they would’ve just dreamed and feasted. But if this new cult killed someone for a ritual as innocuous as the seawater purification, think what they might try next. The ritual goes on for ten days, and we’re only on Day Five. Every day the ceremony becomes more intense, until the final climax. We need to catch them now.”
“Agreed. He might kill again. Which is why you need to leave.”
“Maybe I could look through the stuff you took from Helen’s office? See if her manuscript is—”
“Time to go, Mr. Schultz. If we need an expert in dead languages and dead snakes, we’ll know where to find you.”
Selene DiSilva warned me the cops might not be up to the task, Theo thought as he watched Brandman and Detective Freeman get into a black sedan and pull away. Now he realized the extent of her understatement. But if he had to find Helen’s killer on his own, he would.
Across the street from the precinct house, the banner of a public library flapped in the wind. Mothers toting young children, old men with canes, and teenagers with suspiciously thin backpacks all made their way up the concrete steps and into the nondescript beige building, seeking knowledge… or at least Internet access.
Libraries… Theo mused. Nothing in that building would help his quest, but he knew a librarian whose assistance might be invaluable. As he started toward the subway that would take him back to Columbia, he called the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Greek and Roman Collection.
“Come on, you’re saying you can’t tell me what happened over there?” he begged Steve Atwood, a staff researcher who worked in the museum’s Onassis Library for Hellenic and Roman Art. Over the years, Steve and Theo had worked together many times, building a friendship based as much on their shared fondness for eighties science fiction as on Theo’s invaluable assistance translating the collection’s manuscripts. “Was there any weird evidence of cult ritual during the robbery? Laurel leaves left behind maybe?”
“Sorry, Theo. We’re all under a strict code of silence about the details of the burglary. They’re afraid of copycats.”
“At least tell me what kind of pottery they took.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Wait a sec. You’re the one who once ‘borrowed’ a third-century Greek terracotta of a satyr head to use as a prop in your latest webisode, and you’re telling me you can’t bend a few rules?”
“It was only a Roman copy of a Greek terracotta. But I see your point.” Steve lowered his voice. “The stolen items weren’t on display, I’ll tell you that. Whoever broke into the storerooms knew how to get through some pretty tight security—or they had a connection on the inside. The whole thing’s a huge embarrassment, that’s really why they’re being so hush-hush. Afraid to stain our ‘institutional reputation.’”
“And?”
“And what? I’m not supposed to tell you anything, remember?”
“I’ll make you a deal. Give me the details and I’ll help on your next film.”
“Really? I’m doing an homage to Land of the Lost next and I need a Tyrannosaurus rex.”
“I’m your man.”
“Let me hear it.”
“What?”
“Your dinosaur, of course.”
“You are such an asshole,” Theo grumbled. He attempted his best screeching roar.
“More like a dying housecat, but you’ll get better once you’ve got the costume on.”
“No doubt. So the artifacts…”
Steve’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One was a bell-krater, pretty valuable.” Theo felt a twinge of disappointment. A large, two-handled vase shaped like an upside-down bell was nothing like a kiste or a kalathos.
Steve went on. “I’m not sure about the other one, but I get the impression it wasn’t very interesting. I swear I don’t know anything else.”
“Then who does?”
Steve gave an exasperated groan. “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to the curator and see if I can get you photos. Since you’ve helped us out before, they might make an exception. I’ll have to do some major sucking up on your behalf first, so you’re just going to have to be patient. It might take until tomorrow. If they relent, I’ll messenger the pictures over to your office.”
“Messenger? Talk about Land of the Lost. What sort of prehistoric operation are you all running over there? Can’t you just e-mail me a scan?”
“Don’t look at me. They don’t want any traceable Internet chatter about the details because they’re worried about hackers selling the information to the black market. And I’m putting my ass on the line for you here, so your T. rex better be good.”
> “I’m working on waving my midget forearms right now.”
Chapter 11
THE OLYMPIAN
At the 168th Street subway station, a few blocks from the hospital, Selene leaned back against a steel girder and closed her eyes, trying to steady herself after the encounter with her family. Seeking to wipe away the memory of her mother’s frailty, she willed herself to remember her sacred grove instead: the forest at Ephesus. The tops of the tall cypress trees whispered in the wind, creating a natural wall around the spring-fed pool, their scent banishing the odor of hospital antiseptic that clung to her clothes. The soft swish of willow fronds dabbling their leaves in the water replaced the memory of beeping heart monitors. The image of her sleek hounds rolling in the grass brought a smile to her face where before there had been only sadness.
But she couldn’t keep the sacred grove before her eyes. One memory supplanted another. The waving cypresses gave way to the marble halls of her home on Olympus, where she’d spent her childhood in her mother Leto’s loving embrace. It was there that mother and daughter had fought for the first and final time.
I push open the high wooden doors of our home with a strength that belies my childish frame. Skipping with joy, I rush to find my mother where she sits in the courtyard, a sunbeam illuminating the distaff in her hands. As she turns to greet me, her dark veil slides askew. Her hair, a thick river of burnished chestnut, catches the sun’s glow before she tugs the veil back into place.
“I have been with Father,” I announce proudly. A shadow crosses my mother’s face, but her smile never falters.
“He has granted me six wishes. His love for me knows no bounds.”
“Indeed?” she asks calmly, turning her attention to the golden thread wound around her spindle. “And what has mighty Zeus promised you?”
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