by Nina Post
"I don't know."
"Tonsure is the practice of shaving the hair on the scalp," the abbot explained. "In medieval Catholicism, it was a sign of religious devotion, a way to show humility. I believe that it's valuable as a sign that one has decided to embrace a new and different way of life." He paused, but Shawn looked at him expectantly, so the abbot continued. "The practice was phased out by papal order in the early nineteen-seventies, but we carry it out at two initiation points, the first for entrance into the novitiate and the second for solemn vows. However, tonsure can also refer to the secular practice of shaving all or part of the scalp to show sympathy or perhaps mourning."
Was Brower showing humility to his old friends? Sympathy? Was he mourning them even as he killed them?
"Okay. Well, you've been very helpful, Abbot. Very helpful. Thank you for taking the time."
"God be with you, Lieutenant Danger," the abbot said, then walked back toward the main building.
It wasn't until he was in his car and the abbot had already gone inside that Shawn noticed the locked garage. But he had asked for, and received, enough from them. He wanted a search warrant. And he wanted to meet this Brother Benedict. For now, he would go back to Presque Isle and see if he could find the geranium.
He called the DCNR Ranger number and spoke briefly to Ed Carson, who agreed to meet him there first thing in the morning. He started to say something then hesitated. Did he want to open up his life a little or not? Did he want to stay in Erie or not? He had Sarah now, which was amazing, and he had Comet. He also had his family, but they didn't exactly enrich his life. It wouldn't be a bad thing to have a friend or two, regardless.
"Say, Ed. Do you, uh, play cards?" His old man played cards at the VFW, but it didn't have to be like that. Or did it? He didn't even like cards.
"Sure, I can play some stuff."
"Actually," Shawn said, "have you ever heard of German-style tabletop games?"
"Not really. What are they?" Ed sounded interested.
"They're strategy-based and don't focus on luck or conflict," Shawn said.
"I like the sound of that! You interested in getting a group together?"
"I was thinking about it," Shawn said, relieved. "We could meet at my house every couple of weeks or so." He had no idea how these things worked.
"Yeah, that'd be great! You want to start it this Friday?" Ed asked. "I know a couple of people who'd be interested."
"To be honest, it's just me right now, so anyone else you know would be good." Sarah would probably want to play unless she was working on something, and maybe Craig Dahl would, too.
"You want me to bring anything?" Ed asked.
"Whatever you think is fine with me. Maybe some drinks? Whatever you like."
"Will do. You want to meet at seven on Friday?"
"Seven's fine," Shawn said. "I'll email you directions to the house."
"See you then! And of course, tomorrow morning, too."
"Sounds good," Shawn said, hung up, and let out a long breath. That was harrowing.
***
He nearly staggered into his kitchen, thinking he must look like someone searching for a train car to sleep in after a hard day of writing hobo signs on poles and benches. He had just enough energy to make a fresh pot of coffee. Comet wound around his ankles.
"Today I successfully navigated the tricky terrain of friendship."
Comet made a somewhat plaintive noise.
"It's not another cat, don't worry."
Shawn poured a cup of his trusty Community Coffee then drank it at the counter. "We have a game Friday night, can you believe that? Weird, huh?"
Comet hopped up on a kitchen chair and sat, blinking sleepily.
"Not impressed? You try calling another male cat and asking him if he wants to start a bird-catching…thing, and see how you feel then."
Chapter 18
"As in the case of wines that improve with age, the oldest friendships ought to be the most delightful."
Marcus Tullius Cicero
***
Wednesday
Shawn waited at the closest fishing spot on Presque Isle to the geranium area. It was still early enough for a layer of vivid pink to top the lake, under a strip of lighter blue. He wasn't wearing his usual suit, because if he were a guy heading to a fishing spot first thing in the morning, he would find it disconcerting to see a man in a suit. Nothing good could come of that. If he were a fisherman who had seen any political thriller movie, he would think either He's here to kill me, or It's a case of mistaken identity, which never turns out well, or He's from the government and won't stop until I'm permanently silenced, or He's a process server or divorce lawyer, or Someone died.
Shawn realized that the fisherman might not think that much of a man in suit at a fishing spot first thing in the morning, but he'd changed into a more business casual look, just in case.
A small red pickup pulled up in a parking spot, tires crunching the gravel. A man in workbooks and a tucked-in plaid shirt got out and went to the back of his truck. He held a white bucket in one hand, had a cooler slung over his shoulder, and a pole in the other hand. When he got settled, Shawn approached him.
"Morning."
"Morning." The man took a travel mug out of the cooler and took a sip.
"I'm with the Erie PD. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? You could be of some help, if this is your regular fishing spot."
"If you don't mind me working my bait." The fisherman set down the coffee and began baiting his hook.
"Have you ever seen a white van near here?" Shawn asked. "It might have been unmarked, or it might have had a magnetic sign with a business name."
"Mm, nope."
Shawn's chest tightened with disappointment.
"But I haven't been coming here long. Just moved from Warren." The fisherman turned his head left and pointed out another fisherman at a much bigger and newer pickup truck who was rummaging through something in the bed. "He'd probably know. I've seen him every time I've been here."
Shawn nodded. "Thanks. I appreciate it." What was the fishing equivalent of tailwinds? He just went with, "Good luck today."
"Thanks," the fisherman said, then cast out his line. Shawn took a step away and heard "Hey, what's this about?" Shawn almost said, stolen flowers. But he answered, "Just looking for a van."
Shawn walked over to the side of the other pickup, closer to the older fisherman, who looked like he enjoyed chopping wood and hunting deer. "Excuse me."
"Yeah." The bulked up fisherman glanced up at him, then looked back in his toolbox.
"While you've been fishing this spot, did you happen to see a white van?"
The fisherman slammed down the top of his metal toolbox. "Who're you?"
He might as well have worn the suit. "Shawn Danger, with the Erie PD."
The fisherman snorted. "You look like a history teacher or something."
Shawn waited.
The fisherman grunted, hauled out a stained white bucket, a folding chair, and his pole, then slammed the door to the truck bed. Shawn thought of how many slammed doors he heard growing up and wondered how many they'd add up to.
"Yep, I've seen a white van a few times."
Shawn's heart fluttered as though the girl he'd asked to the dance said yes. "When was the last time you saw it?"
The fisherman thought for a moment. "Couple days back. Sunday morning."
"What time?"
The fisherman hawked up some spit and directed it on the ground away from Shawn, who thought the guy probably used chewing tobacco, because the spit looked like hawk rangle. "Well, sunrise was at 6:20, so I was here by 5:45. Had a little more time that day."
"You know what time the sun rose?" Shawn asked, surprised.
"I check the chart most every day. Not unusual."
"When did you see the van on Sunday? Was it here when you arrived that morning?"
The fisherman grabbed the bucket and his pole and started walking toward the shore.
Shawn walked with him. "It was here at 5:45 when I got here, and gone by the time I left."
Yes. "When did you leave?" Shawn asked.
"Left by seven. Wasn't much action. I know when to fold."
"Can you describe the vehicle?"
The fisherman set up his camp chair by the lake. "White. Not a new model -- it was at least five years old, probably more. Paint job wasn't new. I think it had a landscaping sign on the side."
"Do you remember the landscape company name?"
"Nah. Had a tree behind the letters, though."
"Any windows?"
"Front ones. Might've had a back window, not sure."
"Tinted?"
"Nah."
"Is there anything else you can think of? The tires, the wheels, the sound the engine made, any exhaust smells, knocking sounds, paint damage, antifreeze leaks?"
The fisherman considered this as he settled into his chair and opened his box. "Mm, maybe a squeaking door. Didn't pay close attention, you know? Sorry, man."
"Did you see anyone use it? Get in or out of it?"
"I did not. Wish I could be more helpful. Though according to my exes, I'm not exactly the most helpful person in the world."
"I can't say I agree with your exes."
"We've got that in common."
***
Shawn went the short distance from the fishing spot to the Ranger office.
"Ohhh, that geranium," Ed said. Shawn had shown him the sample he took from the monastery.
"You're telling me monks have been breaking into the geranium area?"
"What I'm telling you is, I took this sample at the monastery," Shawn said. "One of their other monks brought them some petals to use in their soaps, but they didn't know he had a plant growing there." Shawn paused a beat. "You're right. I am telling you that a monk has been breaking into the geranium area."
Ed chuckled and pantomimed hitting himself in the face with a board, pausing a moment, then doing it again.
"The Holy Grail, right?" Shawn said.
"Yeah!" Carson grinned. "Hey, can I see one of the plants you have here?"
Ed looked around them like someone could be listening, then leaned in closer. "These flowers…their location is a secret."
"That's what I've heard."
"No one's supposed to know where they are."
"I'm a police detective." Shawn's tone was dry.
Ed grinned and nodded like Shawn said something very clever. "C'mon, I'll show you. Just, you know, don't tell anyone."
"I'll keep the location confidential unless it's necessary to our investigation."
This reassured Ed enough that he led him to the fenced-in area where the park grew the geraniums. Shawn kneeled and held his sample next to one of the plants. It was a match.
"May I take a small sample?" Shawn asked, looking up over his shoulder at Ed.
Ed shrugged and smiled. "I'd hate to be accused of obstruction of justice, so go right ahead."
"Do you mind if I take some prints?"
"Fingerprints? Off a flower?" Ed's voice went up an octave.
Shawn didn't want to disappoint him, but said, "Prints off the fence entrance."
"Oh." Ed's face fell.
"And off the flower," Shawn added, and Ed grinned.
On the way back to the car, Shawn got a call from the pathologist, who cheerfully told him, "I noticed your geranium sample when I came in this morning and I took a look at it myself. Don't worry, the lab will still analyze it, but I can already tell you that it's the same one. Geranium bicknelli."
"The same plant in the autopsy report I showed you, and the one you found on Paul Harmon?" Shawn wanted to be certain.
"The very same."
***
Shawn left the geranium sample and the moss and soil sample at the crime lab. Then he found a pensive Dahl in front of one of the vending machines.
"Dahl," Shawn said. "You have a good weekend?"
"Strikes and gutters. My wife and I attended the Annual All-Breed Cat Show. We like to show our Siamese. But it didn't go as well as we hoped. You, uh, like cats?"
Shawn drew a corner of his mouth up in a smile. "I like my cat."
"I hear you," Dahl said, and then with the anxious deliberation normally reserved for the purchase of a car, selected a lemon-flavored iced tea.
"I need to update the profile for the Stowe and Harmon investigations," Shawn said. "Can we release that today?"
Dahl unscrewed the top and drank a quarter of the tea. "We can get it out before the six o'clock news tonight. Does that work?"
"Works for me. Thanks, Craig." He would never use the phrase, 'Thanks, Dahl," because that sounded like he was a Sam Spade type talking to a femme fatale.
Back at his desk, Shawn pulled up the file with the most recent profile. He added the artists's drawing, modified slightly with the former bank teller's input -- sharper around the eyes, with a thinner nose and a broader brow. He also added the detail 'May have an interest in horticulture.' He didn't want to be specific about the geraniums or mosaiculture yet. Dahl confirmed he received it and told Shawn he would release it ASAP, which would be early enough for the local evening news, and would hopefully get some radio airtime, too.
***
Shawn watched some of the footage he got from the manager at the Downs, the same footage he had given Daly to watch. Daly was careful, but not as careful as he was, and could have looked away for a minute, or not recognized something. He needed to watch it himself, and this time, he cross-checked it with the horarium, remembering his conversation with the abbot. When "Brother Benedict" wasn't in the abbey to observe a service he would still observe the regular hours. It was possible, anyway. So Shawn looked for someone worshipping God in the smoky babylon of the Downs, open 24/7, not just someone praying to win.
When he got to the Friday before Jasper's murder, as he did with the previous days, Shawn looked especially carefully around the time of Vigils at 5:20 a.m., Lauds at 6:30 a.m., and then the Holy Eucharist at 8:00 a.m. At noon, during the Midday Prayer, Shawn got a jolt: by the concessions, a man in in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up stealthily moved behind a wall, still in view of one of the cameras, paused briefly at a forty-five degree angle, and then kneeled.
Shawn rewound to see if he could track the figure from earlier, but that was the first appearance. There was no way he would have noticed that if he weren't looking specifically for the prayer times. He returned to that time stamp and watched closely from the point where he stopped. The person lingered by the concession area. A few minutes later, in a sliver of footage, he saw a woman -- 36 and 5'5" according to her driver's license -- with riotous springs of white blonde hair.
Darcy.
She recoiled, then they argued like George and Martha in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Shawn watched it three more times. So, Darcy and Brower met at the Downs. What were they arguing about just two days before Jasper was killed? Why did Darcy seem so defensive? He remembered how the couple who ran the bakery had spotted Darcy arguing with Paul. And Darcy took Jasper to the fundraising gala for Battles. Which one of those arguments led to her going missing? And which one of his old friends brought the particle of Tapeta Footings into Jasper's house?
Despite his bewilderment, and his ever-increasing uncertainty that he was in the right profession, Shawn knocked on the captain's door. The captain gestured for him to come in, then held up a finger to indicate he'd be off the phone in a minute. "Go right ahead," the captain said on the phone, "but no matter how you try to fill the hole at the center of your life, it's never going to be enough." When the captain hung up, Shawn wanted to ask how the person on the phone was trying to fill a hole, but it was none of his business.
"What can I do for you this fine morning, Detective?" Shawn detected a trace of irony. He set down the autopsy report Wodarski gave him and folded it over to the right page, which he tapped. "I found something that ties the murders together."
"Whi
ch murders?"
"In two of three unsolved murders of veterans in western Pennsylvania, the victims were killed in the same way that Jasper Stowe and Paul Harmon were, with a similar weapon -- "
"Which we don't have."
"And a similar, highly unusual violent puncture pattern."
The captain rubbed his temples with one hand spread across his forehead. "That would be useful if we had someone in custody for them."
"I've updated the profile. Dahl is releasing it now."
"I want to take another look at the book today," the captain said.
Shawn knew the captain wanted to check the book to make sure it hadn't descended into 'All work and no play makes Shawn a dull boy,' and so he headed back to his desk to make sure the murder book wasn't some horribly disorganized quagmire that belied everything good the captain ever thought of him. And to read through it again, for what would seem like the hundredth time.
***
"Hello, um…Detective Shawn Danger?" The thin voice sounded familiar.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"I called before, through the tip line," the caller said in a rush. "You were at the abbot's table for supper yesterday and gave Abbot Thomas your card." Shawn remembered the tentative, nervous voice from the tip line, and waited, hoping they would keep talking and answer his question.
"I followed him," the caller said with a trace of fear. "I haven't left the grounds in five -- in five years. But I followed him when he left, and -- "
"Followed who?"
"Brother Benedict. I don't think the abbot or the brothers noticed. I would be in trouble if they did."
Shawn's heart sped up. "Did you see a white van?"
"I -- "
"Did you see a white van."
"Yes."
"You saw Brother Benedict get into a white van?"
"Yes." A strangled whisper.
"Tell me where you saw it."
"I have to go."
"No, wait -- " Shawn closed his eyes and hung up the phone. "Shit." He should have waited, asked him where he followed Brother Benedict. He left his hand on the phone then called the lab.
"Let me check, Detective," the tech said. "It's been all of a half an hour since I last looked, so who knows."