by Skye Knizley
“It was a school tradition,” Klien said. “Each of the clubs does a fundraiser during the first half of the year and gets to go on a trip during the second half. That year the freshman archaeology club raised a record amount and were able to plan a trip to Mexico.”
“Did something happen?” Kole asked.
Klien sat back behind his desk. “A lot happened, enough to cause school trips to places not easily reached by bus to be disallowed to this day. The club went on a dig to a Mayan city. Two were killed by an ancient booby trap and the rest ended up spending two days locked in an underground vault where two more were killed. They had to be freed with explosives. When they came out, they were thirsty and terrified. Whatever happened, they were never quite the same.”
“I can’t imagine such a terrible experience,” Kole said. “Do you know what happened?”
Klien shook his head. “I couldn’t afford to go, I was just a student myself. Professor Appleyard went as their advisor, with a few of their parents. All I know is they kept together afterward even more than they had before the incident. Even Ronen wouldn’t tell me anything and we’d been close.”
“Can we speak with Professor Appleyard?” Raven asked. “Maybe he knows more.”
Klien shook his head. “I’m sorry, no. He passed away last year.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Kole asked.
“I don’t think so. Like I said, they came back from the trip different. Some even changed their courses of study. Almost all of them gave up archaeology and began studying religion. Not just required courses, but every elective available.”
“But no one ever said why. That doesn’t make sense, doctor,” Raven said. “People don’t change their minds like that. Where did they go in Mexico?”
Klien stood and moved to the collection of maps. “Not Mexico. They took a bus from Mexico to Guatemala, which is why trips like this were ended. Nobody even knew they’d gone until lunch roll call.”
He shuffled through the maps and pulled out an old one that depicted Mexico and Guatemala. He placed it on one of the desks and scanned it until he found what he was looking for.
“Here. A place called Tonina that is now technically part of Mexico. It’s one of the larger Mayan sites and the last to use the Mayan calendar.”
“So a busload of kids goes to Tonina, something happens and they all join the priesthood,” Raven said. “Does that make sense to anyone?”
“If it was really bad, I could see turning to prayer in an effort to understand and find relief,” Kole said.
Raven turned to look at Kole, who blushed. “It’s what I did, after.”
“Did it help?” Raven asked.
“The vote is still out.”
Raven stared at her a beat longer. “Let me know.”
“Not all of them,” Klien said.
“What?”
“Not all of them joined the priesthood,” Klien repeated. “Maria and Lorne continued their original course of study, archaeology was just their hobby. Maria died a few years ago, some sort of police incident and Lorne, sadly, is living his last days out at the Worcester State Hospital.”
“That’s an old mental hospital, isn’t it?” Kole asked. “I thought it was closed.”
Klien nodded. “Lorne Givens suffered a mental break after participating in a research dig in Guatemala. He killed two interns while on the dig. He’s doing better, but I don’t think he will ever be the man he was.”
“Do you think we would be allowed to see him?” Kole asked.
Klien shrugged. “I have no idea. You can speak with his wife, Carole. She lives here in the city. Let me get you her address.”
Klien hurried back to his desk and Raven turned to Kole. “We need to track down the rest of these people. It can’t be a coincidence that so many of them have died in the same way.”
“Agreed,” Kole said. “I’ll take the list and make the calls, you interview Mrs. Givens?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Raven replied. “If you find them, get them under protective surveillance today.”
Klien returned carrying a card and an eleven by seventeen photograph. He handed the card to Raven and unfolded the photograph.
“That’s Mrs. Givens’ address here in Boston.”
“What’s the photo?” Raven asked.
“It’s a picture taken in Mexico the day before the incident. I thought it might help.”
The photo showed the eighteen students as well as five adults. One was the bus driver, a small man clutching his cap in his hands. Of the others, Raven recognized only one: Rocco “Rocky” Riscassi.
“That’s Rocky Riscassi,” she said, pointing him out in the back row.
Klien nodded. “Yes, that’s his daughter Maria in the front row. Did you know Rocky?”
Raven shook her head. “He was before my time. I knew his daughter well enough, though.”
Klien smiled. “It’s a small world. She was a little spoiled but a good kid. How did you know her, if I may ask?”
Raven raised her eyes. “I was the police incident that killed her.”
OLD TOWN
CHICAGO, IL. 9:00A.M.
LEVAC’S CONVERSATION WITH OLD MAN MacLeod at Isle of Night had involved much swearing, tossing of salt and drinking of Scotch, but had resulted in two very good meat and potato pies and some information.
MacLeod hadn’t seen anyone that morning, but the previous night five men had eaten together at Isle of Night. What had made this strange, Macleod said, was that the men all spoke with “a dark accent, sor, dark it was. I’d ha’ thrown them out if they weren’t eatin’ and drinkin’ the good stuff.”
They had also ordered only the more exotic dishes with two favorites being the blood pudding and blood sausage, items usually only eaten by locals on a dare and vampires pretending to be human. MacLeod was certain the men were not vampires, though “they ate like’em, lad, all teeth and the manners of a goat, but they wasn’t suck heads, no sor.”
Levac had left with a bad photocopy of an Arkansas driver’s license and a name: Maciej Smith. It only took five minutes for Pocock to confirm that the name and the license that went with it were both fake. Levac had put an APB in the system for Smith and returned to his Metropolitan. He knew that Smith would again use his fake identification and eventually show up on police radar, it was only a matter of time.
But five guys with “dirty” accents having dinner didn’t murderers make, and it didn’t really fit. People who were getting away with murder didn’t give themselves away at a restaurant a few blocks from the crime scene. The men might have been lowlifes, but they weren’t the ones he was looking for.
He put the Nash into gear and rattled off into morning traffic. He was halfway to the district house when his radio squawked his call-sign.
“Go ahead,” he said into the microphone.
“We got a hit on your APB,” the dispatcher said. “The desk clerk at the old DeWitt hotel reported a disturbance. Her complaint matches the description you gave and it’s not far from Old Town.”
“I’ll take it,” Levac said. “Have someone back me up.”
“What about Storm?”
“She’s still on loan to the Feds, it’s just me,” Levac said.
“Roger, detective. I’ll dispatch two squad cars. Do you want me to send SWAT?”
“I think we can handle it,” Levac chuckled. “But thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Good luck, sir.”
The radio call ended and Levac turned his Nash down a side street and headed back toward old town.
The old DeWitt hotel sat at the very edge of Old Town. It had been constructed in 1924 and had served as both a speakeasy and hotel during prohibition. Everyone from Mossy Enright to Al Capone had stayed there at one time or another.
The hotel had fallen into decline over the last twenty years and was now frequented by desperate travelers and those wanting to keep a low profile at the lowest prices. A conglomera
te had recently purchased the hotel and promised to clean it up, but that had yet to come to fruition.
Levac parked across from the hotel’s simple double door entrance. The doors were made of heavy wood seated inside an archway with a stained-glass window just above the doors. A hundred years ago the entrance would have been clean and polished, but years of neglect had left it yellow, the letters faded. No one stayed here because they wanted to.
Levac stepped through and climbed the short steps into the lobby. Here, too were the signs of age, on the simple stone walls, once-polished tile floor and battered registration desk. Everything was filthy, scarred and badly in need of paint.
A young woman with black hair, black eyes and enough black lipstick to be in a Glam rock band sat behind the desk, her oversized combat boots resting on the counter. She was filing her claw-like nails when Levac flipped open his badge and placed it on the desk.
“Hello, I’m Detective Levac, you called in a disturbance?” Levac asked.
The girl glanced at the badge and kept filing her nails. “Yeah. Second floor, room nine. Weird noises and a funny smell coming from the room.”
“Did you check with the occupant?” Levac asked.
The girl looked at Levac like he’d asked her to eat roadkill. “That’s not my job, that’s why I called the cops. Are you going to check it out or not?”
“Of course.”
Levac picked up his badge and turned toward the elevator. He pressed the call button and the clerk said, “It’s broken. Take the stairs.”
Levac looked at her. “Miss, you might want to tell guests that before they try it.”
“Nah. I like watching them push the button with vain hope. The stairs are to your right, Columbo.”
Levac made a face at the girl and took the stairs, doing his best to ignore the strange smells emanating from the basement.
Threadbare red carpet and torn wallpaper decorated the second floor, along with the dull, smell scent of stale booze and cigarettes. Levac could also detect the faint hint of a dead body emanating from somewhere down the hall. He drew his Sig Sauer pistol and crept down the hallway with his back to the wall. When he reached room nine he knocked.
“Chicago Police, open up!”
There was no answer. He leaned back and kicked the door just above the lock. The hundred year old wood splintered beneath his sneaker and he followed through into the room.
The room consisted of two rooms, a large sleeping area and a small bathroom. Inside were two double beds, a desk, a table, a cheap television and five bodies, all with bullet holes to the chest and head, execution style. Only one had managed to pull a weapon. He lay on the floor, eyes wide and staring, beside a Glock 19.
“I’m with Raven,” Levac muttered. “I really hate the weird ones.”
80 COMMONWEALTH AVE.
BOSTON, MA. 11:00 A.M.
RAVEN HAD DROPPED KOLE OFF at the coroner’s office to follow up on the autopsy and track down the remaining members of the archaeology club while she drove across town to meet with Mrs. Givens. She arrived at the four-story house at just after eleven in the morning and parked on the street in front of the house. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, an older woman walking her two dogs stopped her.
“You can’t park that here, Miss,” the woman said.
“Why not?” Raven asked.
“Look at it, it’s falling apart. That thing is an eyesore!”
Raven looked at the car then back at the woman. “That car is evidence. If you touch it or cause it to be moved, you’ll be guilty of felony obstruction and pissing off a Federal agent. I’ll arrest you myself and throw away the key.”
The woman’s mouth fell open and she spluttered at Raven, who simply said, “Have a nice day” and continued up the front steps to the Givens residence. She rang the bell and watched the old woman continue down the street, half dragging her dogs behind her. She turned back and a man dressed in a black suit and half-apron opened the door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Raven flipped open her badge. “Special Agent Raven Storm, FBI. Is Mrs. Givens available?”
The butler looked Raven up and down and opened his mouth.
“If you say I don’t look like any agent you ever saw, I swear I will arrest you. Let me speak with Mrs. Givens, please,” Raven growled.
The butler paused, then said, “Of course, right this way.”
Raven followed him down a beautiful main hall decorated in a variety of antique woods and prints to a sitting room that looked as if it had fallen right out of a 1940s Better Homes and Gardens.
“You can wait here, Agent Storm. I will fetch Mrs. Givens for you.”
Raven watched him go, then paced around the room looking at the variety of books on the shelves. She wasn’t surprised to find a variety of books on witchcraft mixed with first edition novels and encyclopedias. It was getting to be par for the course in the weird cases.
“Agent Storm?” the butler asked.
The butler stood in the doorway with a handsome woman dressed in a black skirt and cream blouse. She had grey hair pulled into a bun and wore her glasses on a chain.
“May I introduce Mrs. Carole Givens.”
Raven smiled and extended a hand. “Mrs. Givens, thank you for seeing me.”
Givens shook Raven’s hand with gentle fingers. “Of course, Agent Storm. Mark, please bring some coffee.”
“At once, ma’am.”
The butler left and Givens took a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas, motioning for Raven to sit opposite.
Raven sat and tucked her legs up against the sofa. “Thank you. Mrs. Givens, I’m investigating the murder of Monsignor Quinn—”
“Oh, that poor man! He was friends with my husband when they were young, did you know that?”
Raven smiled. “Yes, ma’am. That’s why I’m here. Did your husband ever talk about him? Or their time at Bridgewater?”
Givens shook her head. “No, not really. I knew they were friends, of course, but they didn’t talk anymore. The Monsignor gave up his passion and joined the clergy while Lorne continued with archaeology. He lived for digging up history.”
“So I’ve heard,” Raven said. “Something happened to him on a dig, is that right?”
Givens nodded. “He got sick and did some, some terrible things. He’s in treatment up in Worcester, now. The doctors say he might make a full recovery one day. I pray that is so.”
Raven caught Givens’ sidelong glance at the books of witchcraft when she said that last.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I’m sure every little bit helps. Is it possible that I could see your husband out at the hospital? The school said I would need your permission.”
“Well, it is okay with me, but it will depend on his condition,” Given said. “The doctors will let you know if he is able to speak with you. If you like, I can go with you, it might make him more agreeable.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Raven said. “I would appreciate it if you would give them a call and let them know I’m coming, though. It might make things go smoother with the hospital. The FBI tends to make everyone a little nervous.”
“Of course,” Givens said.
Mark the butler entered with a tray of coffee and Raven accepted a cup of the warm brew while watching Givens. Something about her was off, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. She sipped her coffee and looked around the room again, hoping something would kick her instincts into gear. Not much stood out to her from the antique bookcases, wide desk and grandfather clock, but after a moment her eyes fell on an antique mask shaped like a skull. It was on the top shelf next to a photograph of Carole and an older man she assumed was Carole’s husband, Lorne.
Raven moved to the bookcase to get a better look, doing her best to make it look like casual interest.
“Is this Lorne?” she asked.
Givens smiled. “Yes, it was taken just outside Nakbe in Guatemala. It was the first dig he ever took
me on. We had so much fun and success, he took me on dozens afterwards.”
“You look happy,” Raven said.
“Oh, Agent Storm we were. I was always happiest with him, I would do anything to bring him back to me.”
Raven nodded and turned her attention to the yellowing mask next to the photo. It was as big as a man’s head and depicted a stylized skull with black eye-sockets and cracked teeth.
“And the mask? Did that come from the same dig?” she asked.
“Oh no, he had that when we first married,” Givens said. “He found it on a high school trip to Guatemala, I believe. It was an obsession of his to find out where it really came from. His life’s work on Mayan culture was all just to find one ancient city lost in the jungle.”
Raven ran a finger over the mask then turned back. “Did he ever find it?”
Givens shook her head. “I don’t think so. His last dig was at a site he’d been to before and he was there looking for clues to the lost city.”
“Thank you. Would you be willing to make that phone call for me now? I have a long drive ahead.”
“Certainly. Mark, may I have a phone?” Givens said.
Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out a late-model portable house phone. “I anticipated your request, ma’am.”
Raven turned away to give Givens some privacy and again her eyes fell on the photograph. How did a person go from happy, successful archaeologist to murder? It didn’t make sense and she doubted a visit to him would help. But there was always a chance.
After the call ended, Raven thanked Mrs. Givens and made her way back to the parked Challenger. She used the car’s hands-free system to make a call and headed out of the city toward Worcester.
“Hey,” she said when the call was answered. “How soon can you be on a plane to Boston? I could use a little help.”
OLD TOWN
CHICAGO, 10:30 A.M.
IT HAD TAKEN POCOCK AN hour to tag and photograph the bodies and another fifteen minutes to have them removed. His initial review was that the men had all been shot at close range sometime between two and three in the morning based on liver temperature and the ambient temperature in the room, which was on the cold side. Whatever weapon was used, it had been suppressed to lessen the noise. Even so, if anyone else had been on the floor, they’d have heard the shots, which had passed through the victims and left holes in the walls, floors and bedding. Levac had already labeled the work as ‘sloppy.’