by Bob Avey
Someone knocked at the door, then opened it slightly. Doctor Meadows waved his hand, indicating his dismay at being disturbed, and the intruder retreated, closing the door once again.
The doctor traced along the first photo with his finger. “With a circle around it, which represents unity and wholeness, it becomes an entirely new symbol, that being a pentacle.”
Elliot leaned forward. “So the pentacle, with a circle around it, like we have here, might indicate that we are dealing with more than one individual, perhaps even a group?”
“Not necessarily. The meaning of unity, as it’s used here, has more to do with the search for divine knowledge, unifying body and spirit. That being said, if your suspect is a true pagan, it’s highly probable that he would be associated with like-minded individuals, a group as you put it. That’s not to say that the group would be responsible for any one individual’s actions.”
“So what you’re telling me is that I shouldn’t consider someone dangerous just by the virtue of their association with a pagan religion?”
The doctor was silent for a moment, giving his answer some thought, a rare quality that Elliot had grown to appreciate. When the doctor finally spoke, however, his expression gave Elliot cause for study, for it was one of slight humor, but tempered with an edge of worry, the same concern Elliot had noticed earlier.
“Ambiguous answers are not always my forte,” he said. “At times, however, the circumstances leave no room for avoidance. Let me put it like this. Ordinarily, one who joins a pagan religious group does so for the purpose of associating with like-minded individuals, those who seek enlightenment and spiritual development in a similar fashion. Inasmuch, they should not be considered evil, simply misguided. On the other hand, alternative religious groups, by their very nature, have a tendency to attract unstable individuals.”
Again, there was a knock at the door, followed by its being opened.
“If there’s something else you need to take care of,” Elliot said, “we can do this another time.”
Doctor Meadows pushed back from his desk and went to the door. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Just give me a moment.”
The doctor left the room. Elliot sat quietly and waited. He was quite impressed with Doctor Meadows.
A short time later the doctor returned. He sat at his desk again and continued. “I wish I could give you a better answer.”
Elliot tapped the photo of Brighid McAlister, or rather a blown-up portion featuring the tattoo on her stomach. “What can you tell me about this?”
After a moment, the doctor said, “It appears to be a depiction of Saint Brighid’s cross.”
“Saint Brighid? So this is not a pagan symbol?”
Doctor Meadows drummed his fingers against the desktop. “Here again, the answer to that question depends upon whom you ask.”
Elliot felt the look of disappointment crawl across his face, and he was powerless to hide it. He suspected the doctor recognized it for what it was.
The doctor grinned. “Let me tell you the story, such as I know it, then you can decide for yourself. There are those who believe that Saint Brighid, the person, never actually existed but was invented as a guise, a cover for pagan worship. However, there is evidence that around AD 451 a daughter was born to Dubthach, the pagan king of Leinster, and Broicsech, his wife and a Christian woman. The father named his daughter Brighid, after the pagan goddess of fire. If indeed she existed, she would have been raised under the influences of both Druidism and Christianity.
“As the story goes, Brighid became associated with Bishop Mel of Ardagh, who later, around AD 468, consecrated her as a nun. Brighid went on to form a monastery at Cill Dara, which means cell of the oak. The area is now known as Kildare. According to legend, Brighid spent her life converting pagans to Christianity, though not in the typical way through sermons, but rather by example, showing God’s love by performing acts of kindness.
“As for Saint Brighid’s cross, depicted here in the tattoo, and by the way its similarity to both the pagan solar cross and fire wheel should not be overlooked, the story goes something like this. At some point, Brighid was called to the deathbed of either her father or a pagan chieftain. To comfort him, she gathered some rushes, remnants of marsh plants, which were scattered on dirt floors for warmth, and wove them into a cross. Having done this, she explained the meaning of the cross, and how Jesus died there to pay for the sins of man. Upon hearing this, the man asked for forgiveness and accepted Christ as his savior before dying.
“It’s a good story, but whether Saint Brighid was a real person who got mixed up with the mythical pagan goddess or she was merely invented as a cover for the goddess, we will never know for sure.”
Doctor Meadows paused and glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to cover the rest rather quickly. I have an appointment I need to keep.” He touched one of the photos. “This, which appears to be three separate women, each facing in a different direction, is an artist’s rendition of Brighid, the pagan goddess of fire, healing, and smithery.”
“The same goddess,” Elliot asked, “that Saint Brighid is confused with?”
“Exactly, and this interesting fellow, with deer antlers sprouting from his head, is Herne the Hunter. Here again, myth is mixed with reality. Herne, an actual person, employed by King Richard the II as his main huntsman, later becomes a god after he’s mortally wounded while protecting the king from a charging deer, only to be brought back to life by a wizard. There’s more to the story, but you get the idea.”
Doctor Meadows rose from his chair. “I hope I’ve been of some help to you.”
“You have,” Elliot said, getting to his feet. “Could I ask you one more question?”
“Of course.”
Elliot gathered the photos from the desktop leaving the one of the baphomet from the apartment where the John Doe was found on top. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but your reaction to this particular photo seemed apprehensive. I’m curious as to why.”
Doctor Meadows nodded. “You’re very observant. If I had to guess, I’d say you are quite good at what you do.”
Elliot shrugged. “All in a day’s work.”
“Judging from the photograph, this section of the table would face the room and, therefore, would be the point one would approach to make such a carving.”
“That’s correct,” Elliot said. “And based on that, this pentacle is inverted, or upside down when compared to the one found in Brighid McAlister’s bedroom.”
“Yes, and precisely my point of concern.”
“So the positioning or orientation of the symbol is important? What does it mean, being upside down?”
“That depends upon whether the person creating the symbol did it out of understanding or misunderstanding.”
“If you ever consider changing your occupation,” Elliot said, “I’d recommend politics.”
Doctor Meadows smiled. “In pagan terms, the topmost point of the star depicted in an upward fashion represents the triumph of spirit over earthly matters. However, when the symbol is inverted, it could mean several things, the most benign being that the user is on a spiritual journey and has yet to achieve a sufficient level of enlightenment to warrant the symbol’s correct position. On a little more serious note, it could also mean that the user or creator of the symbol considers earthly gratification superior to spiritual development. It is most likely due to this darker faction of paganism that the meaning of the symbol became confused as a representation of evil, and later, during the twentieth century, actually associated with Satanism.”
A feeling of sickness wafted through Elliot’s senses. “So you’re saying I might be dealing with Satan worshipers?”
“Not necessarily. But the official symbol of Satanism is the sigil of Baphomet, a double-circled pentacle superimposed with the head of a goat, like you have here. Taken together with the other pagan symbols, I’m not sure what to make of it.” Again, he checked his watch. “I do need to be g
oing.”
Elliot extended his hand. “Thank you, Doctor Meadows. You’ve been more than helpful, and I appreciate your time.”
In the hallway outside the doctor’s office, Elliot rubbed the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the tension that had settled there. He needed to find Wistrom. If the man had pagan connections, that might explain a few things.
Chapter Fifteen
In the parking lot outside the Brookwood Methodist Church, standing next to his car, Elliot placed a phone call to Patricia Orwell, Douglass Wistrom’s supervisor, and asked her if she’d heard from Douglass. She had not, but he’d been lucky enough to catch her in her office, and she promised to contact him if she did. He asked her if she wouldn’t mind digging up information about Wistrom’s parents, then disconnected.
The temperature had warmed over the last couple of days and the snow was starting to melt, but a cold mist rode the wind, leaving a chill in the air. Elliot climbed inside the car and started the engine. A few minutes later, he answered the phone. It was Orwell. As she relayed the information he’d asked for, he jotted it down in his notes. Howard and Maud Wistrom lived in Montana. A phone call would have to do.
A man answered, and Elliot identified himself and indicated what he was after.
“A Tulsa Police Detective? Why are you calling me?”
“As I said, I need to talk to you about your son, Douglass.”
“What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into?”
“It may be nothing. We just need to ask him some questions. There was a murder. It happened close to his apartment. We’re questioning everyone who lives in the area.”
“I still don’t see why you’re calling me.”
“We can’t locate Douglass. His apartment’s empty. Do you have any idea where we might find him, where he might go if he got scared, perhaps back to Montana?”
“I don’t think he’d do that. We didn’t move up here until he was already out of the house.”
“Are there any brothers or sisters, any other relatives in the area?”
“No. I’ve got a brother in Texas, and Maud has an aunt in West Virginia, but neither of them knew Doug, never met him. And we never had any children.”
“I take it you’re not a close family.”
“Well, I guess you could say that, but mostly they just didn’t agree with our decision.”
“You said you never had children. I guess you meant any other children?”
“No. I meant what I said. Doug wasn’t ours. He was adopted.”
“That sounds a little cold.”
“We loved Doug, like he was our own. There’s no question about that. He just never returned it. He was the cold one. Maybe detached might be a better word.”
“How did Douglass end up in Tulsa?”
“That’s where the adoption occurred. We lived there until Doug got out of college. He stayed in Tulsa. It’s his home, I guess.”
Elliot heard a click, followed by a woman’s voice. Maud Wistrom, he presumed. “Do you know where our Douglass is, Detective?”
“No, Mrs. Wistrom. That’s why I’m calling, hoping to find out.”
“Is he all right? Do we need to come and help him?”
“Only if you know where he is. How about his natural parents? Do you know how I can get in touch with them?”
“We can’t help you there either.” It was Mr. Wistrom again. “We never knew them, never had any contact with them.”
Elliot had one more question, one that loomed at the top of the scale in importance. “Do you know if your son was ever involved with any alternative religious groups, perhaps something with a pagan influence?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Mr. Wistrom said. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Doug never wanted anything to do with church.”
At that moment, the call was dropped. Elliot had the information he needed, so he didn’t bother trying to reconnect, and as he sat alone in the parking lot, the only sound coming from the car’s engine, a sick feeling formed in his stomach. This case was even more not-right than he’d earlier suspected. He could feel that just as surely as he felt the steering wheel against his hands. He kept going over the question as to why any organized religious group might go out of its way to draw attention to itself, especially in the area of murder. The obvious answer to that question was that they would not.
He slid the car into gear and pressed the accelerator. An image of Brighid McAlister sprawled across the parking lot went through his head, and he wondered if she’d been discarded after she’d served her purpose. Brighid had been involved in the death of the John Doe, of that Elliot was certain, but what kind of role she’d played he wasn’t sure. There were a few McAlisters in the phone book, but none of them had claimed any knowledge of Brighid, let alone being related to her.
As Elliot guided the car through the traffic, he noticed he was heading downtown, toward the department. He called Captain Lundsford and told him he needed to search the latest victim’s house again. A few minutes later, he walked out of Lundsford’s office with the key and drove to the home of Brighid McAlister.
The smell of potpourri greeted Elliot as he entered the house, coupled with a renewed wash of guilt, and it seemed he intruded, entering the house to steal something, to take that which wasn’t his and use it to gain knowledge of an all-too-personal nature, the names of those close to the victim. Elliot walked through the living room and the dining area, paying little attention to the antiques and rugs that decorated that part of the house, and entered the only room that seemed out of place: Brighid McAlister’s bedroom.
Elliot pulled on a pair of latex gloves, well aware that the team hadn’t turned up anything, no address books, no photo albums, nothing that would indicate who the victim’s friends and relatives were. He wondered if someone had intentionally removed these things. It was certainly a possibility, though there had been no prints left behind. Then again, those knowing enough to remove evidence of that nature would also know not to leave evidence of their doing so.
The house was too quiet, and as Elliot began his search, he felt like someone was watching him, standing close by and peering over his shoulder. About ten minutes into the venture, when the sensation had grown unbearable, he swung around, half expecting to catch the voyeur in the act. He saw no one.
Unable to shake the feeling, Elliot went into the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn. He edged near, then yanked it open. Again, nothing. He walked back into the bedroom and checked the closet. Moving the clothes aside, he found only that which should be there. Finally he went back into the main part of the house. The living room was empty and quiet, as were the dining room and the kitchen.
Elliot returned to the bedroom, and in a last-ditch effort he crouched and peered beneath the bed. What he saw there was not a spy or an intruder, though it was equally intriguing. He reached up and pulled an envelope from where it had been pinned to the bottom of the box spring.
Elliot stood and backed away from the bed, wondering what he had found, his curiosity heightened by the knowledge that it had been important to the victim, enough so that she would hide it. He flipped it over a couple of times, then used his small pocketknife to open the envelope.
When Elliot slid the knife back into his pocket, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw someone outside, scurrying away from the window, heading toward the back of the house.
Elliot scrambled from the bedroom and through the kitchen. When he reached the back door, he threw it open and stepped outside, descending the back steps to a small sidewalk. He saw no one. A small dog cowered beside the fence line. Elliot went to the north side where the window was located, but found only an empty driveway. A one-car garage sat at the end of the drive.
The only door to the garage was an overhead, and when he tested it, he found it was locked. He peered through the glass of the door. The garage held no car, only a few boxes, and Elliot could see well enough to determine that no one was inside. He c
rossed the backyard, stopping at the fence, a four-foot decorative barrier that he easily leaned across to check the alley, which ran behind the property. After that he walked to the south side of the house and on to the front yard. Whoever the voyeur had been, he or she was gone now.
Elliot hesitated briefly, watching his breath condensing in the cold air, then went back inside the house, where he noticed the dog door and a couple of empty bowls sitting on the floor near it. He filled one of the bowls with water, then found a bag of food on the bottom shelf of the pantry and filled the other bowl as well.
With that done, Elliot dumped the contents of the envelope he’d found onto the kitchen table: a brass lockbox key and a folded piece of notebook paper with three names written on it. The last name on the list had a large red X beside it.
Chapter Sixteen
After leaving Brighid McAlister’s place, Elliot saw Sergeant Conley’s patrol car sitting at a Quick Trip Store, so he pulled in. He and Conley bought a couple of sandwiches and sat in the sergeant’s Chevy and ate them.
Elliot informed Conley of what he’d found and explained that he wanted to gain access to the lockbox. Conley told him to ask for Judge Miranda Broussard. Her husband had been a police officer. Judge Broussard turned out to be no pushover, but she seemed to understand Elliot’s needs, and the time-sensitive nature of his request.
A few hours later, Elliot walked into the lobby of Arvest Bank. The receptionist smiled. “May I help you, sir?”
Elliot identified himself and showed her the key. “I believe this belongs to one of your lockboxes. I need to look inside it. Could you help me with that?”
The receptionist picked up the phone and spoke into it.
When the assistant manager came out of her office, the flushed look on her face told Elliot he was going to have trouble.